Rebecca Henderson

“Conversation has not been a magical solution to bring us to one-mindedness or to solve all our conflicts. Today, we still do not agree on all the questions that we have asked over the years, but we do agree on more things and have a much deeper sense of trust that God is guiding us and will continue to work in our midst.” (p. 13, The Virtue of Dialogue)

Over the past year, I’ve had the opportunity to review a few titles for both the print and online versions of The Englewood Review of Books. Today I’m posting a review here on my own site as part of a blog tour for Englewood’s editor C. Christopher Smith’s new e-book The Virtue of Dialogue (Patheos Press), which is available for purchase for your Kindle or Nook.

A substantial portion of the book is the telling of the story of Englewood Christian Church in Indiana, where Smith and his family are members. I love a good story, and this one is well told. Smith traces the history of the church from its beginnings in the late 19th century to present day, weaving in the ups and downs of the congregation’s past, including how it went from a mega-church to less than 200 in attendance within a few decades. The main focus of the story is how both the church and the Englewood neighborhood itself have begun to flourish again and how the church’s “Sunday Night Conversations” played an important role in the recent neighborhood changes.

From the title of the book, I wasn’t convinced before reading it that this wouldn’t be yet another call for churches to have small groups where people can interact with one another and be participants rather than consumers. An important message, but one I’ve heard many times in recent years. That’s not what this book is about.

Through the story’s narrative, Smith tells how the members of Englewood Christian Church as a whole began meeting every Sunday night to talk to one another about their core beliefs and how healing and growth came as they worked at listening to one another instead of tearing one another down. Those same principles of talking and listening (which is what a dialogue or conversation is, right?) soon transferred to how they interacted with their neighbors, and the church became an active participant and leader in the community to keep gentrification from changing Englewood. And lest you think that all they do at Englewood is sit around and talk, I was excited to read about all the things the church is doing in (or rather, with) their community through business and gardening and sustainable food initiatives and real estate.

The Virtue of Dialogue doesn’t give a program or outline for how your church can have the kinds of conversation that Englewood has. It isn’t a prescriptive method with a list of discussion questions that will guarantee your congregation has productive dialogue both within the walls of its building and with others in its community. Smith makes a point of saying more than once that what works for Englewood won’t necessarily work for every church in the same way and that each congregation needs to go through the messy process of stumbling through the early stages of growing in dialogue. That messy process is part of the whole point. We have to get beyond the mindset of efficiency and productivity and realize that not everything in our lives that is good and beneficial for growth can be measured in charts and graphs. Conversation takes time, it can’t be rushed or defined, it doesn’t always have a tangible outcome at the end of every gathering — and that is OK.

I haven’t mentioned it on the blog since, oh, let’s see, it looks like it was last June, but 2011 was the year I started trying to read a poem a day. To recap, I’ve always been a bit intimidated by poetry and haven’t made the time to read much in the past, but when I do read poetry, my mind and thoughts slow down to a pace that is much healthier for my heart and soul. So, I wanted to take time each day for a year to read a poem, preferably out loud.

You might have guessed from the fact that I didn’t mention it again in the second half of the year, but I didn’t exactly read 365 poems in 2011. I did read a couple hundred more than I read in 2010 or any preceding year, though. I started the year off right with Wendell Berry and A Timbered Choir, then read a couple of not-so-memorable books by people whose names I won’t mention (because they’re not memorable), then got bogged down in Emily Dickinson in the summer. Her poems aren’t boggy, but the large “collected poems” volume of hers is quite boggy if you don’t take a break from it. Somewhere around July I found myself reading a poem every other day, then every couple of days. Soon after that, I was reading only poems I came across in literary journals or posted as poem-of-the-day by a few people I follow on Twitter or Facebook.

Honestly, I’m ok with that. Mostly because in 2010 I would skip over a poem in a magazine or newsfeed. Now, I stop and read them. It’s not the same (i.e. not as good, as beneficial, as dedicated) as reading through an entire set of poems by one person, but it has helped expose me to a great many more poets than I’ve ever read before, including some writers who are my contemporaries.

On January 1st of this year, I found myself sitting under a group of trees on the banks of the Columbia, looking back on a few of my favorite poems from last year, trying to take Wendell Berry’s advice about how to read his poetry. My desire to keep reading poems on a regular basis is renewed. As I read back over some of my posts on poetry from last year, I was reminded of my quest to read more poets who aren’t white and from the eastern part of the U.S. My friend Erin left a comment suggesting Rabindranath Tagore, a Bengali poet from the previous century. I remember at the time she left the comment, the library here in the Tri-Cities didn’t have anything by him, and I never got around to finding his work anywhere else. This year, however, the library has a brand new copy of an anthology of his — which makes me wonder if he’s suddenly under demand by others in the Tri-Cities or if the librarians can see a list of search terms and ordered this book after I looked for it. Helpful, but sort of creepy (although, who am I to complain, with my fascination for looking at search terms?).

To sum up, if my goal had been to check a poem a day off a list in my 2011 calendar, I failed. But since I wanted to develop a greater appreciation for poetry, one that I hope lasts a lifetime, I’m calling the year a success.

Here it is, the not-so-clever introduction to my list of favorite books from the year. Last year was the first time for me to post such a list, and I really enjoy thinking through these types of things at year end, so here I am again.

On 2010’s list were two novels and three nonfiction books. This year I’m including two novels, three nonfiction books, and one book of poetry (hey! I read a whole book of poetry this year!). And just a note for anyone who cares about this sort of thing — this isn’t a list of books from 2011, but a list of favorites that I read this year. I’m not always so up on things that I actually read books the year they come out.

Notes from the Tilt-a-Whirl: Wide Eyed Wonder in God’s Spoken World by N.D. Wilson — I wrote an Other People’s Thoughts post about this one in May and how affected I was both by the truths Wilson presents and by the masterful and artistic way that he presents them. I recently started rereading the book, again in an airport of all places. I guess I really need the poetic and the divine when I’m in transit.

Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry — I sort of am in love with Jayber Crow. The character and the book. It was my first Berry novel to read, followed later this year by Hannah Coulter. Berry has a lot to say about love, and I like what he says about it in both novels, but Jayber Crow did a better job of completely stealing my heart. (Goodness, am I making Berry sound like a romance novelist? He’s quite the opposite.)

A Timbered Choir: the Sabbath Poems 1979-1997 by Wendell Berry — My poetry year started off with this book of Berry’s poems and changed the way I approach poetry: namely, I actually do approach poetry now. Before, it always made me feel nervous and intimidated. I learned so much from reading through this book of Sabbath poems and am thinking about starting off 2012 with it as well. (See posts on this book here, here, and here)

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot — Crazy that I’m including a book with so much info on cellular biology and medical ethics, but somehow it works. The story was riveting, partly because it’s true and partly because Skloot does a terrific job of putting all the pieces together. I learned a lot about writing creative nonfiction from reading this one.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte — I wrote a lengthy post about why this is an all-time favorite. Read it to find out.

Country Driving by Peter Hessler — Another wonderful piece of creative nonfiction. I love reading Hessler’s writing on China in the last 10 or so years (Oracle Bones is another favorite), and I also enjoy seeing how he frames a story and brings it all together. Country Driving was of particular interest to me this year, as I’m working on my own book about a road trip, though mine will be through West Texas instead of China.

Honorable Mention: A Praying Life by Paul Miller — I’ll be honest, the writing in this one wasn’t spectacular — it’s not bad, though, it just doesn’t stand out. But what Miller has to say in the book has impacted my life and thinking more than just about anything I read this year. He completely pinned me down on his descriptions of cynicism and how it affects our faith. I’m still struggling with how to live in what he calls the desert that lies between hope and reality and how my being in that desert for a few years now is affecting my prayers. This book is another one that I’ve picked up to reread sections at the close of the year.

What have you enjoyed reading this year?

Someone (you know who you are) asked me a couple of years back what my favorite book is. When I replied Jane Eyre, that someone told me Jane Eyre sounds as exciting as “eating paste.” At the time, I resisted getting defensive over that statement and instead just quietly let it pass, partly because it’s been so long since I’ve actually read the book and I was afraid of getting into an argument over something I was no longer certain of. The topic has since come up enough other times that I decided I must take time from my busy reading schedule to revisit the novel that once captured my teenage and early 20s imagination.

A warning before going much further in this essay: this post will be longish, and it contains spoilers. But, honestly, can you still talk “spoilers” about a book that’s been around for 160 years? If you haven’t read Jane Eyre — and I’m talking to any of you, not just that unnamed someone — don’t be so close-minded as to dismiss it outright. Read it. Then talk to me about eating paste.

As I said in my earlier post, when I started reading the book again this fall, I was worried that I might not still enjoy the book and might need to recant years’ worth of answers to the “favorite book” question. I’ll be honest: though there are plenty of beautifully written passages such as the one I quoted in that earlier post, there are also pages and pages of descriptions of scenery and details and people’s appearance that very understandably could give a less patient reader cause for boredom. I struggled not to skim in sections. But you have to give credit to Charlotte Bronte for doing a good job at what she was setting out to do. She wrote the novel in a time when reading was the main method of consuming entertainment. She wasn’t competing with TV or movies or someone’s photo album on Facebook. What else did people have to occupy their attention in 1847 if they didn’t sit and read long passages in novels?

We don’t value that same kind of writing today, and that’s ok. The novel has evolved, and descriptions are shorter. But it’s still worth the effort to get beyond the differences in form in order to mull over the genius of Bronte’s story and her characters.

Story and Characters

Other books I’ve read in recent years (like Gilead or Jayber Crow) have touched me just as deeply, but Jane Eyre’s story still has a lasting effect. It gets weird at times, but what novel from that time period doesn’t delve into the weird (Frankenstein, anyone?). I was honestly creeped out once or twice, and the creep-out genre isn’t usually my favorite.

In the end, however, I still love the book because Mr. Rochester chooses Jane over Blanche and Jane chooses Mr. Rochester over St. John. Jane chooses not the religious man, the man who blindly and coldly follows all the rules, but the man who stirs her heart and challenges her mind and doesn’t try to motivate her through guilt. Rochester chooses not the woman who is beautiful and connected and appropriate for him socially, but the woman of low social class who is talented, has a deep spirit, stands up to him with conviction while at the same time loving him passionately and without condition, even in the midst of devastating circumstances. The reason I like the book probably boils down to the fact that I hope against hope to be that kind of woman and find that kind of man — this cynic wants to believe that these kinds of stories can happen in the same way in real life 2011 as they do in novels from 19th century England. It is possible today to make the same kind of choices as Jane, to take a stand about the sanctity of marriage and the importance of keeping vows, even when that choice leads to suffering. Jane fears God more than the opinion of man, even the man she loves greatly.

Theology

My worldview and my theology inform how I read novels, and both of those have changed greatly in the past 15 or so years. Ten years in China will change you, as will years of earnestly seeking to be a Christ-follower, something I couldn’t honestly claim in high school and college when I became such a fan of Jane Eyre. I can see things in the story so clearly now that weren’t at all evident to me then, even though Bronte is rather explicit.

I’m not at all a fan of romance novels or even ones that don’t necessarily fall into the romance genre but are still a typical love story. Nor am I super interested in romantic movies, unless it’s a cleverly written romantic comedy — but I digress. My point in saying this is that the 2011 version of Rebecca tends to approach those types of stories rather cynically. I can’t help but identify all the characters’ messed up motives and false ways of relating to each other in the name of love. Everyone in those stories seems so selfish and/or co-dependent. One or the other of a romantic couple tends to set up someone as an idol (something or someone you worship instead of God) or as a functional savior (something or someone other than Jesus who you expect to save your messed up soul and fix your messed up life) — though authors wouldn’t admit this and often times don’t see it as wrong.

When I read Jane Eyre this fall, I was blown away by Bronte’s forthrightness about how warped Jane and Mr. Rochester’s relationship is in its initial stage. Rochester sees Jane as his functional savior — her goodness, sweetness, innocence will save him from the demons of his past. He actually says out-loud to her, “Jane, save me.” He thinks he needs her goodness to redeem himself. Jane, being the good, sweet, innocent young thing that she is, starts off their relationship by falling headfirst into idolatry — and that word isn’t of my own choosing, it is Bronte’s. Jane says of Mr. Rochester, “I could not, in those days, see God for his creature: of whom I had made an idol.” End of chapter, emphasis noted, cue the part in the story where everything begins to fall apart.

Messed up theology leads to a messed up relationship. Bronte is honest about that. This is not a fairy tale romance. Jane suffers true heartbreak, part of it due to circumstances, but she admits that part of it is due to her own messed up worship of Mr. Rochester. Once she “remembers God” (her words) and takes action not to let her life head into a downward spiral, she suffers even more. And that, folks, is real life. Don’t make me list out names and details to prove to you that it still happens in relationships today. Making the right choice doesn’t always lead to what the world calls happiness, but that makes it no less right.

Jane knows without a doubt that this kind of relationship with Rochester will only have temporary benefit for her — and I don’t just mean temporal benefit as opposed to eternal. Jane knows that even in this present life, Rochester cannot bring her the same happiness as God. Only when she acts in faith on that knowledge, without any guarantee of a happy ending, is she able to come to a point of true, unconditional love for a man.

Missiology

It’s impossible for me to read Jane Eyre after 10 years in China and not comment on the whole should-I-go-to-India-as-a-missionary section. Admittedly, the entire section reeks of old school, paternalistic, colonialist ideology, with the missionaries going off to civilize the barbarians, but there are still some attitudes and heart issues within the story that are worth pausing to consider.

St. John has always irked me and even more so in this latest reading. He is religious, and I don’t mean that in the good sense of the word. He painstakingly follows the rules of his faith, but he has no passion, no joy, no zest for life. He thinks that a life lived in service of God means making yourself (and everyone around you) miserable and not enjoying any “selfish” pleasures in life. You know, those selfish pleasures like falling in love and getting married or spending an entire week making a feast to welcome home your loved ones. He is absolutely missing the point of following Christ and leading others into following Him as well.

He tries to guilt Jane into a life of service overseas, and I cringe at this recruitment tactic whenever I see it. Moving overseas as a missionary is pointless if your reasoning is that it’s “noble” or more worthwhile than a life lived at home. I disagree with Jane’s argument that it is a waste of a life and talent to go as a missionary to a far away country (would she have only talentless, useless people serve overseas?), but I appreciate that she is careful to question whether she is more suited for serving God at home or in another country. It’s a legitimate question, if you approach it honestly and prayerfully, not looking to use the answer as an excuse.

Anyone who knows me knows that I disagree with the St. Johns of this world (and I’ve made my point repeatedly on this blog: see “What to do with our talents” and “Thoughts on ‘Love Tells the Story’”). Yes, there is an element of sacrifice in serving Jesus wholeheartedly, but the overflowing joy of a life lived in love of the Savior makes anything you give up not truly a sacrifice in the end. If someone is following Jesus as He intends, he will not be a sour, non-smiling, wet blanket, stick-in-the-mud, name-your-cliche like St. John. Jane knows this. She seeks a passion and a joie de vivre that St. John will not admit is permissible. More than permissible, this type of joy is evidence of real relationship with Christ.

And so, in conclusion…

Jane’s is not an easy path. But, as Sandra McCracken says in the song I’m fond of quoting, “I’d rather have the mystery and the madness and the rains, ‘cause hell’s the only place you can be free of all love’s pains.” There are times when we blister from the loss and the coldness and the bitterness of comparing now to what once was and what could have been. But like Jane did at Moor House after leaving Thornfield, if we continue walking the path of obedience we know to be right, it will be worth it in the end, and we can be happy in the meantime. Cynical as I am, I really believe happiness is a choice. And so when Jane, rather than feeling sorry for herself, throws herself into making a Christmas feast for her cousins, purely so that the three of them can enjoy a festive holiday, I see a glimpse of what I want my life to look like. I want to enjoy making applesauce with lots of cinnamon, to enjoy my new scarf made while chatting with a friend, enjoy time spent on the roads of the Northwest, the mountains around me, the sun warming me through the windshield. I enjoy Sunday morning and the gathering of my church family, I enjoy eating a meal with them every Thursday night — I am happy.

Just as Jane eventually sees her love for Mr. Rochester redeemed, I throw aside cynicism and try to pray for redemption in every area of my own life. I do believe it’s possible. And that is why I love Jane Eyre.

I wrote in January that I wanted to read Jane Eyre at some point this year. It’s October, and I’m finally getting around to it. For years I’ve said that it’s my favorite book, but I had lately started to worry that if I reread it now I wouldn’t enjoy it as much as I did when I was younger. Look for a post in the next couple of weeks about whether or not I’m finding that the book lives up to my memories.

Today’s “Other People’s Thoughts” is taken from a scene early in the novel, in the lead-up to Jane meeting Mr. Rochester for the first time — such lovely, picturesque description of the countryside:

“I was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in autumn, and even now possessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of the path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle now browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally in the hedge, looked like single russet leaves that had forgotten to drop.”

I remember now why I loved and identified so much with Jane all those years ago — she can sit on the roadside and ponder a field and linger from 3:00 “till the sun went down amongst the trees, and sank crimson and clear behind them.” My favorite time of day, my favorite way to while away a few hours.

In general, I love libraries. But since moving to Kennewick, I’ve come to love my branch of the Mid-Columbia Libraries in particular. It is my office away from my home office, the place I most enjoy taking my laptop for a quiet morning or afternoon or evening of writing or research (I’m typing this at the library now). In complete abandonment of my once proclaimed determination not to post blogs that are bulleted lists, here are the main reasons for my library love:

* The Kennewick branch has multiple places to sit, depending on my mood. If I need to focus, I head for the cubicles in the back. If I just want to read or brainstorm or do something light, I sit in an area where I can people watch or stare out the window.

* Next to the periodicals section is a free-standing gas fireplace with seating 360 degrees around it. This is my absolute favorite place to work or read during winter. It’s a writer/reader’s dream come true — coziness, surrounded by books.

* Back to staring out the window — one set of windows looks out on a demonstration garden. I love that the community has a green place that encourages people to learn about planting flowers and vegetables.

* The library is within walking/running distance of my apartment. My favorite quick-break run (not my favorite long run, that would be at Howard Amon Park on the Columbia River) starts at my front door, goes up the road to the library, loops around a walking path, garden, and park, then heads home. I can adjust this loop for 25-35 minutes of running.

* I can reserve books online, have the librarian hunt them down for me on the shelves or find them at other branches, and then I just come in, look for my name on the reserve shelf, check out my books, and go. This is old news for most library patrons, but I haven’t been able to regularly use libraries since the late 90s. It’s new to me, and I love doing it. (It would take another blog post to talk about whether all the modern changes in libraries are completely good, about how you don’t have to do your own searching of the shelves and experience the rows of books, about how you never have to talk to a librarian to check out a book, but…that’s another blog post, not this one.)

* I can also request books to be ordered. As in, the library buys what I want and lets me read it. A couple of weeks back, I searched at the library for a young adult novel that was published this April. It wasn’t in the catalog, so I suggested the title to the librarian. A few days ago I checked online to find that the book is being held under my name — the system will email me when the ordered book arrives. AND the librarian apparently thought it was a good enough suggestion that they ordered a second copy for the Pasco branch. Nice.

* The quiet, the stillness, and the atmosphere of books are good inspiration for a reader/writer like me, who survives on daily work inspiration. If I need to look at a magazine for an article, I go find it. If I need a book, I go find it. If I need to remember why I even want to write, I look at the shelves and think, “Maybe one day my stuff will be there.”

I’ve been meaning to write this post for a few weeks, but it’s hard to get motivated for a summer reading post when it still doesn’t seem like summer here in the Tri-Cities. Last weekend was nice and sunny, but the weather could only be classified as warm, not hot. I guess I need to continue refining my definition of the seasons.

Nevertheless, here it is, my summer reading list. I liked the categories I used in my “Reading List for 2011, the first half,” so I’ll go with some of those again and give a bit of follow-up to what I’ve read so far this year. As always, you can check out my shelves on Goodreads for more titles.

Poetry — My poem-a-day goal for 2011 is going well. I finished (and loved) A Timbered Choir by Wendell Berry. I read a short book of poems by Gary Soto, and now I’m working on Emily Dickinson for a while.

Writing — I started Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg but lost motivation to finish it. I hope to pick it up and read a few essays here and there to wrap it up over the next couple of months. I also still need to read Creative Nonfiction magazine’s Keep it Real — I’m working on a couple of articles and a new book idea that would benefit from these essays on writing nonfiction.

Nonfiction — Not much change from my previous list, I’m sad to say, so I’m going to make a more reachable goal: I want to read The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks as soon as I can get it off the waiting list at the library.

Fiction — I did read (and loved) the novel Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry, so now I just need to revisit Jane Eyre. I’ve been looking forward to that for months, but somehow other books keep sneaking their way in ahead of it. What better time than summer to indulge in an old favorite?

What are your reading plans for the summer?

So, remember how I mailed all my boxes of books from Texas to Washington earlier this month?

I was so proud that I mailed the boxes as media mail and spent a lot (A LOT) less than I was expecting. As long as the box only contains books, cds, dvds — nothing that qualifies as first class mail — you get a special super cheap rate.

And as I’ve found out, your boxes may or may not actually arrive at their destination. Only 9 out of my 11 made it. My mom has received notices in the mail that one of the boxes ended up at the dead letter office in Dallas, one in Seattle. Somehow the paper with my address became separated from the box, and I didn’t put another paper with the address inside the box. (Do people actually do that? I guess I’ve proven that they should.) So these two sad boxes of books are sitting there, dead, unidentified, possibly lost forever.

The box in Dallas, I have no idea at this point which books are in it. The one in Seattle, I can remember a few. I’m hoping I remember enough of them to fill out a claim form — and I’m hoping that I wrote my name inside the flyleaf of a few of them as proof of identification.

One of the books I know is in the Seattle box is Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose. When I first read it a few years back, it challenged me to savor the words, sentences, paragraphs I read. Read good writers as a form of study, as a way to hone my craft. Read to absorb what is lovely, what is powerful, what is effective about great writers’ use of the English language.

When I was working on difficult passages in my manuscript about Lydia, I would pick up the novel Sold by Patricia McCormick. Her subject matter is different from mine, but I’m inspired by her insight into the mind and heart of a young girl who left her village. She helps me know how to show, not tell, the choicest details.

Sometimes when I’m working on an essay, I’ll look at something by Donald Miller or Annie Dillard. Lately the poetry of Wendell Berry gets my creative wheels turning, even if I’m not working on poetry. Just mulling over the words, their sounds, their meanings helps me think more like I am truly a great writer myself.

Hopefully my books aren’t really dead, either in Dallas or Seattle.

Postscript: After writing this, I sorted through a few of the boxes in my living room and found Reading Like a Writer. Which is good news for that book — it’s not dead. But bad news for my memory — am I going to be able to list correctly any of the other books for the claim form?

This past week, on a quick trip to Texas for my cousin’s wedding, I packed up all my books from my parents’ house to ship back to Washington. It’s been over a decade since I lived in the same place as my books. I’ve become pretty militant about decluttering in recent years, so I own fewer books than I did at one point in my life, but there were still several boxes to pack on this trip.

I decided one box needs to go to North Carolina to my niece. In it are books that I’ve kept since childhood, but realize now that Patience will get more use out of them than me. An almost complete set of Anne of Green Gables (what happened to #6 Anne of Ingleside?). A few Nancy Drew books, some passed down to me by my own aunts. Charlotte’s Web, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Secret Garden. Several Ramona books by Beverly Cleary.

Several didn’t go in Patience’s box, but will go with me to Washington. I bought her a set of the Little House books a few years back, and she’s reading them aloud with her mother now, so I’ll take mine with me. And my Chronicles of Narnia — well, I’ll buy her a set of those because I just can’t part with mine, not after I read them so many times as a child and again in a literature class at Baylor.

And one Beverly Cleary book will find a place on the shelf in Kennewick. Ribsy, printed in 1982 and purchased at a book fair at David K. Sellars Elementary in Fort Worth. My teacher wrote in clear letters inside the front cover: Becky, Room 2. I very distinctly remember buying this book. It cost $2.25 and was the first book I picked out and bought on my own. I was very proud that day to be old enough to buy my own book, and even though it’s just paper, just a thing, it makes me happy that I still have it with me. Because even though it’s just paper, it’s something much more than just paper. It’s a tangible reminder of a day almost 30 years ago, when I started down a path that shaped the me of today.

My review of Erika Dreifus’ new book of short stories, Quiet Americans, is now available to read online at Englewood Review of Books.

“The real and lasting effects of war and genocide are more vividly portrayed in the personal stories of individual lives than in the timelines and statistics of history books. In Quiet Americans, her first book of fiction, Erika Dreifus explores the continuing impact of the Holocaust on survivors and their families, while delving into her characters’ relationships with both their loved ones and their aggressors. Quiet Americans is a book of historical detail combined with the intimacy and emotion of everyday happenings in the days, years, and decades after tragedy.”

For the full review, please read more here. Thanks for reading!