A Summer Bird-Cage by Margaret Drabble

Margaret Drabble, one of Britian's more respected authors, wrote her first novel, A Summer Bird-Cage, in 1962 -- a time when the world and the role of women were starting to change too slowly for some, too quickly for others.

Too often, perhaps even more then than today, single and married women tended to judge each other, much as moms outside the workforce and stay-at-home moms do today. Such judgment divides two sisters in Drabble's novel. One, Sarah, is a recent graduate of Oxford University. She's smart and knows it. She has an out-of-the-way boyfriend whom we never really meet. The other is Louise, "a knock-out beauty" who marries a boring but wealthy writer named Stephen, though she loves another man. Only near the book's end, does Sarah realize how much the sister she thought looked down upon her, really trusts her. The key is no great revelation, for the book is one of character, not plot, development. Rather, the key is the kinds of thing that only sisters who truly trust each other might tell the other one.

If you have a truly close friend or a close sister as well as a sex life (or the lack of one), an innocuous but embarrassing habit or fondness, then you know the kind of thing you might share with one of them but absolutely no one else, not even your therapist. And that's exactly what happens in Drabble's intelligent but rather slow-paced book.

It's a creative work with themes which I suspect run in most people's lives whether they acknowledge them or not.

When I was young -- 18, even 35 -- I was Sarah. When I was in my mid 40s, I was Louise. And now that I'm a regular recipient of AARP solicitations, I'm honestly not sure who I am or what I believe in some cases. I have begun to question values I have long believed (or thought I did) and even pontificated. Maybe I need to live to be 100 to have all the answers. Maybe I'll never have them. Or maybe, just maybe there are different answers, different rules and even rules that should be broken.

Is a mother wrong to steal milk for a starving baby? Is a soldier wrong to kill his enemy in war even though his country has lied to him and does NOT have God on its side? Am I right even to begin to second-guess either of those people, especially when I've never lived through what they have endured? That's not situation ethics; that's reality.

The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje

At 269 pages, Michael Ondaatje's newest novel, The Cat's Table, is reasonably short. As a result, Ondaatje leaves the reader wanting to know more about different characters and plotlines. Isn't that what a good book should do?

So many authors today write what they apparently perceive to be epics and leave no room for a reader's imagination. In 500, 700, 950 pages and more, they share every detail -- past, present and future -- with the reader, leaving little, if anything, to the imagination.

The imagination is what allows intelligent people to disagree at times about parts of a book's plot, to wonder what happens to the characters after the work's final page, to have differing interpretations of an ending.

The imagination is what allows a child to read C.S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia solely as fantasy. It is what allows that same person, once an adult, to read the same series for biblical themes as well as fantasy. Imagination is what left me grasping for more information, searching the Internet for clues to the meaning of the ending of Audrey Niffenegger's wonderful novel, Her Fearful Symmetry, and to wonder even more about the symbolism, if any, in her adult graphic novel, The Night Bookmobile.

A long book is not necessarily bad anymore than a short one is necessarily good. I've read excellent long books. But I've also read some that could and should have been shorter. I liked Stephen King's 11/22/63, for instance. But I also thought it was excessively long and repetitious. Just as a good reporter is not necessarily a good writer, an author who excels at plot is not necessarily a good writer.

The Cat's Table is not a book I expected to like but ended up thoroughly enjoying. A man named Michael and nicknamed Mynah narrates the story. He recalls a three-week voyage from Sri Lanka to London that he took as an 11-year-old boy along with two other young boys. Aboard the ship, the youngsters were relegated to eat, not at the captain's table, but at the less-desirable "cat's table." While at sea, the youngsters did as many unsupervised little boys might do -- they snooped around, got into trouble and played in places that were off-limits to them -- the ship's upper-class swimming pool, for example.

Along the way, the boys encountered a bizarre group of passengers: a woman who stashed pigeons in her pockets; a botanist; a prisoner escorted in chains; a pretty cousin who sparked Mynah's sexual desires at a time when he likely was entering puberty; a murder at sea; a savvy thief who uses the little boy to crawl through small spaces to steal expensive items from the rooms of first-class guests.

Ondaatje, who also wrote The English Patient, has said he took a similar voyage when he was a lad. Yet, his book includes a disclaimer saying it is not autobiographical. With his own memories for inspiration and his talent for story-telling and writing, Ondaatje has created a book that is believable yet incredible and also restrained. With the last, he has allowed the reader to wonder about his story's unanswered questions and to wish the novel had not ended.

Year of the Hare by Arto Paasilinna

Arto Paasilinna's short, entertaining novel, Year of the Hare, was written in 1975. But what better year to read it than 2011, the Year of the Hare in much of the Asian world? It need not matter that this charming novel was translated from the Finnish, not Chinese, Japanese or Korean, and that it all takes place in Finland, except for the main character's accidental trek across the border into Soviet-controlled Siberia.

The story opens with the main character, a journalist named Vatanen, riding in a car with a photographer through the Finnish countryside. I don't recall what story the two were pursuing. It's irrelevant to the story line anyway and, as it turns out, also irrelevant to Vatanen's life. Suddenly -- yes, suddenly -- the car strikes a hare (not those little rabbits hopping about many of our back yards, but a hare, mind you).

The not fully grown, injured creature flees, hopping into the forest. Vatanen, being the gentle soul that he is, gets out of the vehicle to check on the animal, eventually finds it and proceeds to nurse it -- leaving the impatient photographer wondering why his colleague is spending so much time with a hare.

Alas, the photographer gives up and leaves. He calls Vatanen's wife to tell her that her spouse -- indeed, her "better" half -- has apparently become lost in the woods with an injured hare. It's the middle of the night when she takes that call, and she's a bit perturbed, understandably wondering if the photographer is drunk. She hangs up on him and gives the reader an early glimpse into her and Vatanen's marital relationship (not the most romantic on the block).

Meantime, back in the forest, Vatanen realizes his photographer has left and he has no way to town other than walking or hitchhiking. So, with the little hare in his pocket, Vatanen begins a journey that ultimately takes him across Finland and into the lives of one quirky character after another. Suffice it to say, a hare in your pocket is usually a good conversation starter.

Ultimately, Vatanen decides he's fed up with his job, his wife and his general life and flees all -- with hare gently tucked in pocket, of course. The adventures of Vatanen and the hare yield a funny yet symbolic storyline, with the twosome's adventures ranging from a jail stint to near-death experiences with an animal sacrificer not to mention a mighty ferocious bear.

If you've ever thought, I'm sick of my life and I want to start over -- whether with a hare, your dog, a secret lover or just yourself -- (And who hasn't?), this novel will find a place in your heart. It's the kind of book you read and recommend to others. And now, I want to read more books by Arto Paasilinna.

The Cookbook Collector by Allegra Goodman

Allegra Goodman's novel, The Cookbook Collector, has been on bookshelves since 2010. Some of you many have already read it. Others may look at the title, think it's about cookbooks and skip it. Please don't. The novel, which takes place between the fall of 1999 and October 2001, is about people, life and loves -- whether tangible or not.

The cookbook aspect is one small portion of the novel, and it comes late. I would have liked to have seen it explored more thoroughly and earlier. But when Goodman does deal with it, she does so expertly and, to some degree, symbolically.

Rather than cookbooks, the novel is about people with imbalanced lives, about two very different sisters. Both are smart. The younger one, Jessamine Bach, is a doctoral student studying philosophy. She is content to work as an assistant in a used bookstore, doesn't worry about money or fashion, and for a time is controlled by a man with his own political agenda. Emily Bach is older, practical, a financially successful businesswoman in a fledgling Internet business. She, too, is in love with a colleague, Jonathan. Like her, work, decor and the stock market are paramount for him.

As different as the sisters are, I see parts of myself in both, as well as in other characters Goodman has created.

Like Tom McClintock, I collect cookbooks but don't cook much. When I do, I most enjoy stirring in the unexpected -- the herb, the spice, the Peruvian sea salt or the Syrian pepper flakes nowhere to be found on the recipe. I like to make it my own recipe.

Like the philosophical and tree-hugging Jessamine Bach, I hunger for books, old and new, even when I am surrounded by them. I have little money but find enough to plant trees and shrubs for the birds, gangly milkweed for the monarchs and bee balm for the honey bees and hummingbirds.

Like Jess, I'm not always practical. I write and sometimes reveal major financial problems at a public institution and wonder how could the bankers and the accountants not have recognized them before I did. After all, I've not balanced my checkbook since hippies were in style.

Like Jess' older sister, Emily Bach, I focused the first 25 years of my adult life on my career. Relationships came second, third, often not at all. I was single in the big city, Chicago. I lived a couple blocks from the Magnificent Mile and cabbed it to The Art Institute. So many opportunities, so many people. Yet, I could look out my high-rise apartment window and see my real home -- a tall, gorgeous black-and-gold building that housed The Associated Press offices where I worked.

Goodman's book has other subplots that will interest different readers. The sisters' mother, who died when they were young, was Jewish, a religion and culture they begin to explore during the book. The growth of Internet businesses and the speculation that went with them form another subplot as do the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks and their impact on people's lives and the economy.

Finally, readers may want to visit Allegra Goodman's website -- allegragoodman.com -- and look at the first question she poses for reading groups: "Who is the cookbook collector in this novel?" Maybe I'll talk about that another time.

The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors by Michele Young-Stone

If lightning strikes you, your first and correct impulse probably would be to call 911 -- or have someone call for you. And if you're a character in Michele Young-Stone's debut novel, The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors, your next impulse might be 1.) learning how to avoid another strike and 2.) how to live with life after lightning.

In Young-Stone's novel, two children of the South -- Becca Burke, who is stricken twice and who also witnesses a beloved dog's death by lightning, and Buckley Pitank, a boy who loses the only person who really loves him, his mother, to a bolt of lightning -- are forever changed emotionally by their experiences. Becca becomes an artist, leaves North Carolina for New York where her artworks reflect her encounters with lightning. Buckley, who grows up in a small, rural community of northwest Arkansas, ultimately flees his selfish grandmother and money-grubbing, preaching step-dad.

Like Becca, Buckley becomes obsessed with lightning, so much so that he tries to set himself up for a non-fatal strike. He writes a book, a manual to help lightning-strike survivors and, through it, has his first contact with Becca. It's not giving away much to say the two characters, who lead separate but similar and lonely lives, will eventually meet. What makes the book so interesting is the paths that lead them together and the paths they take afterward.

The novel is more about loneliness and dysfunctional families than lightning, which ultimately is just the medium that brings their despair to the forefront and that unites the book's main protagonists.

The book is fast-paced and an easy read. It's occasionally sad and full of good, bad and even clueless characters. Check it out; it's a different and enjoyable read.

Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog

Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog is both a thought-provoking and moving book, one with a bittersweet ending. I confess that I found the first half or so of the novel, translated from the French, a bit tedious. But it's one of those books I've learned to stick with, for the reward lies just ahead. I also had some trouble at times following who the narrator was and more importantly keeping up with who's who among the supporting characters.

The book deals with two self-taught, closet intellectuals, one a middle-aged concierge and the other a 12-year-old girl who lives in the hotel where the concierge works and also lives. The concierge works hard to maintain the stereotype that concierges are boring non-intellectuals. The child, from the start of the book, reveals her intention to commit suicide on June 16. (James Joyce fans, is it a coincidence that's Bloomsbury Day?)

One passage in the book brought back memories, both fond and sad, of my own. Near the end of the novel, Renee, the concierge, is preparing to get dressed for the wonderful Japanese man whose own life has a profound impact on both her life and the child's. "I smeared my lips with 1 layer of 'Deep Carmine' lipstick that I had bought 20 years ago for a cousin's wedding," Renee says. "The longevity of such a useless item when valiant lives are lost every day, will never cease to confound me."

That passage reminded me of a small, inexpensive perfume stick my paternal grandmother, Mammaw, had. At some point, she either gave it to me, or I found it among her possessions after she died. I held on to it and its fading scent for years and years. I may even still have it somewhere. I don't recall discarding it. I know I couldn't seem to throw it away. It was a memory, a smell, of a loved one long gone, and I didn't want to give up that memory.

Read the book; it's not a cookie-cutter creation. It's just that, a creation and a thoughtful one.