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Masterful storytellers know to hook their audiences quickly, going right to the heart of things. And so goes novelist Isabel Allende (House of the Spirits) in her new memoir, The Sum of Our Days, whose first sentence roundly states: "There is no lack of drama in my life, I have more than enough three-ring-circus material for writing . . ." No paucity indeed; what ensues is an exuberant, unpredictable, melancholic and loving narrative that spans the 13 years after the death of her daughter, Paula. The book was conceived as an intimate letter to Paula, and is largely drawn from the long daily correspondence with Allende's own mother. "I will begin by telling you what has happened since . . . you left us, and will limit myself to the family, which is what interests you," Allende writes.

This story of family and extended family is certain to interest any reader; who doesn't enjoy a good dish of familial drama? The Sum of Our Days, however, may be especially delectable to writers and fans of Allende's fiction, as Allende generously reveals her creative inner world – the genesis of her many books, her fears and superstitions about writing (she must begin a new book only on January 8 of every new year), and the ways in which a diverse, eccentric pack of family, friends and experiences find their ways into her wondrous tales.

Allende does not hold back in recounting her grief over the loss of a daughter, and The Sum of Our Days is tinged with profound sadness in places. It is also a moving, often humorous, recollection not only of family, but also of essential friends, including exotic, warmhearted Tabra and the wittily wise Sisters of Disorder. Finally, this memoir is a lustrous meditation on placing the complexities of love and relationship, spirituality and suffering into a greater context. As Allende writes, "you have to forget facts and concentrate on the truth. . . . Gently, the waters will settle, the mud will sink to the bottom, and there will be transparency."

Alison Hood writes from Marin County, California.

Masterful storytellers know to hook their audiences quickly, going right to the heart of things. And so goes novelist Isabel Allende (House of the Spirits) in her new memoir, The Sum of Our Days, whose first sentence roundly states: "There is no lack of drama in my life, I have more than enough three-ring-circus material […]
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Who got himself in a bit of a fix recently for describing Jeopardy! host Alex Trebek as a robot ? The answer, in case you’re not up on trivia, is Ken Jennings, who earned a burst of celebrity in 2004 when he won a record 74 straight competitions on television’s longest-running trivia show.

A self-described nerd, Jennings was a software engineer, a devout Mormon and a quiet family man who suddenly found himself talking to David Letterman and Barbara Walters about his game show prowess. A national watercooler phenomenon, he appeared on television so often that his one-year-old son began calling him Ken Jennings! instead of Daddy.

Jennings recounts the whole roller-coaster experience, and more, in Brainiac: Adventures in the Curious, Competitive, Compulsive World of Trivia Buffs. Though he includes snippets of his trivia-crazed youth, his college quiz bowl triumphs and his success on Jeopardy! Brainiac isn’t really a memoir but a broader look at the culture of trivia competitions.

We’ll take software engineers for $200, Alex. Despite the fact that he made a living programming computers, what engineer managed to write a funny and engaging book? The answer, of course, is Jennings himself, who shows a pleasantly nerdy sense of humor throughout (he describes the contestants on the 1960s televised G.E. College Bowl as four heavily Brylcreemed white people with big ears ). Woven into the narrative are 170 trivia questions, with solutions at the end of each chapter. And, just like watching Jeopardy! you don’t have to know all the answers to be entertained.

Now, what’s all this about a feud with Trebek? As it turns out, Jennings saw very little of the host during the show’s tapings, but found him a little chilly, with a tendency toward saltine-dry impartiality. Jennings says a post on his blog implying that Trebek had died and been replaced by a robot was a misunderstood bit of satire. And a good piece of publicity for a smart new author.

 

Who got himself in a bit of a fix recently for describing Jeopardy! host Alex Trebek as a robot ? The answer, in case you’re not up on trivia, is Ken Jennings, who earned a burst of celebrity in 2004 when he won a record 74 straight competitions on television’s longest-running trivia show. A self-described […]
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Pat Summerall was playing catch-up from the day he was born. Summerall: On and Off the Air is the veteran broadcaster’s almost painfully honest look at a life full of ups and downs. Summerall’s parents split while his mother was pregnant, leading him to bounce from family member to family member during his childhood in Florida. His career in sports couldn’t have been more unlikely, as he was born with a right foot so twisted that doctors had to break the bones to point it in the right direction. Told he might not be able to run normally, he nevertheless played football and became, of all things, a kicker. Summerall played in the NFL just as the league was starting to bloom. After a decade in the pros, he almost stumbled into a second career as a football broadcaster in the early 1960s just as television’s association with the NFL was about to explode. He became one of the best in the business: His minimalist style of play-by-play was the perfect complement to John Madden’s expressiveness, and two covered eight Super Bowls over 20 years. Summerall tells many stories about his glory days with CBS, and some of them have alcohol as a component. He paid the price, becoming an alcoholic and ruining his liver, before finding sobriety and faith relatively late in life. I entered this world a little twisted, he writes, and it took a while longer than anticipated to get me completely straightened out.

Pat Summerall was playing catch-up from the day he was born. Summerall: On and Off the Air is the veteran broadcaster’s almost painfully honest look at a life full of ups and downs. Summerall’s parents split while his mother was pregnant, leading him to bounce from family member to family member during his childhood in […]
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The grand Western Alliance that won the Cold War now seems inevitable, but it was a chancy thing indeed in the early days after World War II. As diplomatic historian Robert L. Beisner notes, France and Britain could have rejected cooperation with the hated Germans. France could have turned to the Soviet Union for protection from Germany. Italy could have gone communist. Greece and Turkey could have gone to war. All were real possibilities. The fact that NATO instead became the reality was due in no small measure to the skills of Dean Acheson, President Truman’s secretary of state from 1949 to 1952 and the subject of Beisner’s triumphantly authoritative new biography, Dean Acheson: A Life in the Cold War. Beisner, the author of previous books on 19th-century American diplomacy, focuses in his 800-plus pages on Acheson’s State Department career, though he includes a brief introduction and coda on his earlier and later years. Throughout, he emphasizes Acheson’s close relationship with Truman, the odd but genuine friendship between the cerebral son of the Yale establishment and the feisty Midwestern populist. Acheson believed the Soviet Union would ultimately have to cave before such a military-economic force, and he was right. Along with his integration of Japan into what was then called the Free World, this was Acheson’s most stunning achievement. But Beisner also highlights Acheson’s considerably more checkered record everywhere except Europe. Bored by and scornful of non-European cultures, he saw everything through a European prism, often with flawed results. With the benefit of hindsight, Acheson’s most obvious error was his failure to end support for France in Indochina, a consequence of his focus on wooing French participation in European integration. The policy ultimately led his successors to the Vietnam War. And we are still feeling the fallout of his similar weakness for British colonial intransigence in Iran and Egypt today. Although Beisner contends that Acheson was our best secretary of state, he takes the time to describe and answer the arguments of his critics. The bottom line for Beisner is the nature of Acheson’s enemies. He may not have handled Mao, Gen. Douglas MacArthur, or the McCarthyites terribly well, Beisner says, but it’s unlikely anyone else could have done better. As for the Soviet Union, Beisner agrees with Acheson that attempting serious negotiations with Stalin would have been a dangerous waste of time.

The fact is, Beisner writes, Acheson’s personality was so glaring, it is nearly impossible to imagine his being appointed to high office in our own times.” Beisner’s impressive work convinces his readers that it’s our loss. Anne Bartlett is a journalist in Washington, D.C.

 

The grand Western Alliance that won the Cold War now seems inevitable, but it was a chancy thing indeed in the early days after World War II. As diplomatic historian Robert L. Beisner notes, France and Britain could have rejected cooperation with the hated Germans. France could have turned to the Soviet Union for protection […]
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<b>John Brown’s civil disobedience</b> In a hearing before a special committee of the U.S. Senate in 1860, George Luther Stearns said he believed John Brown to be the representative man of this century, as Washington was of the last. Stearns, a Massachusetts millionaire, had been the principal source of funds and arms for Brown’s failed raid on the U.S. armory at Harpers Ferry, Virginia, several months before, the avowed purpose of which was to rally slaves to freedom and also to bring about a radical change in the way Americans thought and acted about slavery. In a public lecture shortly after the seriously flawed mission, Henry David Thoreau declared the raid the best news that America has yet heard, because, among other things, it was an idealistic act of civil disobedience that focused attention on an evil American citizens might now be prodded to actively oppose.

The debate about John Brown’s state of mind continues to this day. In historian Evan Carton’s engrossing <b>Patriotic Treason: John Brown and the Soul of America</b>, we follow the life of a man who took his Christian faith and his hatred of slavers seriously enough that he was willing to give up his own life and the lives of others to advance the abolitionist cause. For the Calvinist John Brown, Carton writes, the Old Testament stories were living guides to understanding and conduct in the present. . . . As it was for many black but few white Americans in the 1840s, Christianity for Brown was a liberation theology. Brown believed in both the Golden Rule and the Declaration of Independence; for him they were the same thing.

Carton demonstrates how Brown, virtually alone among nineteenth-century white Americans, was able to develop personal relationships with black people that were sustained, intimate, trusting, and egalitarian. Of particular interest is Brown’s long friendship with Frederick Douglass. Despite the latter’s refusal to be part of Brown’s Harpers Ferry raid, and his advice against it, six months after Brown was hanged, Douglass said, To have been acquainted with John Brown, shared his counsels, enjoyed his confidence, sympathized with the great objects of his life and death, I esteem as among the highest privileges of my life. The John Brown that emerges from these pages is a religious and patriotic revolutionary, a flawed individual, who sees no other way for God’s will to be done than the path he takes. Carton gives us a rich portrait of a man of vision. <i>Roger Bishop is a retired Nashville bookseller and a frequent contributor to BookPage.</i>

<b>John Brown’s civil disobedience</b> In a hearing before a special committee of the U.S. Senate in 1860, George Luther Stearns said he believed John Brown to be the representative man of this century, as Washington was of the last. Stearns, a Massachusetts millionaire, had been the principal source of funds and arms for Brown’s failed […]
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When a young Muslim of Moroccan descent slaughtered Theo van Gogh in 2004 as punishment for the Dutch filmmaker’s perceived offenses against Islam, it propelled the people of Holland into a state of national soul-searching. How could such a tolerant and generous society could spark such lethal and self-righteous rage? In Murder in Amsterdam, Ian Buruma, a native of the Netherlands who teaches at Bard College, attempts to answer this question, first of all by de-mythologizing both the victim and the killer.

For all his acknowledged talents, van Gogh was a monstrously annoying figure, even to his friends: uncouth, quick to insult and uncanny in pricking his adversary’s soft spots. Mohammed Bouyeri, despite his contempt for all things Western, wore Nike sneakers under his black jellaba at his murder trial and had a history of getting high on hashish and flirting with Dutch girls.

Buruma speculates that Holland’s zeal for multiculturalism which nurtured the rise of militant Islam within its borders was, in part, a reaction to the country’s shameful failure to protect its Jewish citizens against the Nazis during World War II. Welcoming and supporting immigrants became a way of lessening this stain. But the European model of welfare, which demands little from its recipients, ensures neither contentment nor gratitude, Buruma argues. Immigrants appear to fare better in the harsher system of the United States, where there is less temptation to milk the state. The necessity to fend for oneself encourages a kind of rough integration. Rather than using van Gogh’s murder as an occasion to pillory Dutch tolerance or radical Muslim intolerance, Buruma probes the psychological world of unassimilated outsiders who are caught between a homeland that couldn’t sustain them and a new one that can’t fully embrace them. What happened in Holland, he concludes, could happen anywhere as long as men and women feel that death is their only way home. Edward Morris is a writer in Nashville.

When a young Muslim of Moroccan descent slaughtered Theo van Gogh in 2004 as punishment for the Dutch filmmaker’s perceived offenses against Islam, it propelled the people of Holland into a state of national soul-searching. How could such a tolerant and generous society could spark such lethal and self-righteous rage? In Murder in Amsterdam, Ian […]

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