Beautiful. Inside Out and Back Again intrigued me before I opened the cover because I knew it was written in verse. I tend to admire pithy writing; a novel in verse promised efficient use of words. It delivered, and it also delivered the compelling story of a compelling hero that remains as relevant today as in 1975. Ten-year-old Ha journeys from familiar childhood to refugee in a strange land (Alabama) in the year of the cat, the year Saigon fell.

Ms. Thanhha Lai, whose story is largely autobiographical, packs more power in a single stanza than most accomplished authors can pour into a page. Beautiful.

As a librarian, I (unfairly) approached This Book is Overdue! like it was an assignment--a title that professional blogs and networks have pointed me to since its publication, so one I had better read. And as a procrastinator, of course I put off reading it for years. However, once I started, Ms. Johnson pulled me in immediately. This is not some ass-kissing eulogy by an undercover ally designed to show the world why librarians and libraries still matter—well, maybe it is a little, but it includes some librarian foibles, too. It also will make anyone who has ever worked in a library (or in public service, for that matter) chuckle and think, “I’m glad she mentioned that; so true.” It also contains some practical information for researchers and librarians on interesting sources and where to find them (though this clearly is not the focus of the book), and her rather lengthy section on Second Life engaged me despite the fact that I have no interest in delving into Second Life (even after reading this book).

Perhaps my recommendation of This Book is Overdue! is just camouflaged self-aggrandizement, but I think it is a well-written, engaging, and fun exploration of “the greatest profession on earth.”

Another Charlie Huston work that I can’t exactly recommend, because I don’t know why I like it so much. Must be the despicable, foul-mouthed characters; seedy business transactions and locales; and extreme violence and gore. Not usual pluses for me, but something about Huston’s writing and story compels me to keep reading.

Web is the prince of prickish slackers—prince only because we find out his father is king. But he’s also broke and about to drain the last of the good will of his patient roommate. He lands a job as a technician who cleans up the scene after death’s arrival (in whatever form that arrival takes). Working through the literal mess helps him work through the metaphorical mess his life has become. For me, Web’s ersatz therapy succeeds in a frustratingly satisfying way; yes, somehow Huston makes “frustratingly satisfying” possible.

Mr. Bacigalupi’s description of a future Gulf Coast region ravaged by a once oil-addicted society provides the base for the compelling story centered on Nailer, a teenage boy on the “have not” side of an abysmal economic divide. Nailer scrapes a living together as part of a crew that scavenges copper wire and other scrap within the rusting husks of ships from the oil-hungry past. It’s deadly work for little pay, but Nailer worries about this livelihood disappearing as soon as he grows too big to navigate the narrow ducts and passageways where he finds “scavenge”. Yet even in this wasteland, friendship and trust, and some good luck, make way for hope.

Ship Breaker presents several challenging and, I would say, timely themes in a way that may be provocative, but is not pedantic.

A few reviewers of The Haunted Bookshop have found the protagonist's discussion of books--many of them contemporaries of this 1918 novel--and book selling boring and off-point. For me, they made the story. I thoroughly enjoyed Roger Mifflin’s musings on literature and the art of bookselling as well as his interactions with other characters, especially his wife and his enthusiastic mentee, the daughter of a friend. The plot's mystery, though engaging at the outset, proved rather hokey and not very compelling. However, the mystery never pretends to be the draw of this title (in my opinion), so its hokey-ness doesn't really disappoint. 

Bud (not Buddy), at age ten, is already well aware of life's lack of fairness. His mother has died, and he suffers one horrible experience after another in foster homes in Great Depression-era Flint, Michigan. After having a pencil shoved up his nose and spending a sleepless night locked in a shed, Bud decides it's time to try to escape this abusive cycle, but where to? He believes his mother meant to tell him who his father is before she died, but she waited too long. All he has are a few clues that he knows will lead to his father, or at least he hopes they will. So Bud sets out on a journey to the other side of the state and meets some interesting characters, and situations, along the way. He faces his adventure with honesty (even though he's a master liar), courage, and wit. An engaging story for fifth-graders on up.

Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet does not demonstrate brilliant writing style, and one can find in it a few anachronisms. Nevertheless, this debut novel has me looking forward to more from Mr. Ford. I think he will only get better, because he already knows how to craft a satisfying (if slightly saccharine) story.

The friendship between Henry and Keiko, adolescents in WWII-era Seattle, blossoms against a backdrop colored by fear, prejudice, and an inability by many to try to understand each other. Their ordinary coming-of-age struggles are made extraordinary by circumstances that are still relevant 40 years later. But along with the bitterness is plenty of sweetness (and some good music, good friends, courage, resilience, and wisdom).

I think this is a good title for teen readers, too, offering a glimpse of what the Japanese internment camps really meant, from the perspective of those directly impacted by them.

Ms. Zuravleff weaves together D.C. destinations, interesting characters (whom she treats with kindness, so you can't help but like them), Asian art, philosophy, and what I suspect is a frighteningly accurate portrayal of museum politics and players to create what I found a fresh (i.e., original) and refreshing story. Zuravleff, with poignancy and humor (thank goodness), demonstrates that we all have our "stuff" to get through: Promise Whittaker has become the acting director of the Museum of Asian Art, which is in danger of becoming a fast food court for tourists; her mentor, the previous director who resigned abruptly, is missing in China's Taklamakan Desert; one of her curators has embezzled museum money, and another has dropped a "priceless" porcelain bowl; and, oh yes, she's dealing with an unplanned pregnancy at age 43, and her husband has decided now is a good time for their family to get a puppy. I cheered for Promise.


Though I enjoyed this book, it could have used more editing. For example, detailed descriptions of the trying situations Promise's children pose strayed into one-liners that didn't enhance--and often had nothing to do with--the narrative. To me, more than a few passages seemed like bits of clever writing to which the author, rather than the story, was attached.

The Bluest Eye is a tragic story about Pecola Breedlove's yearning for acceptance in a world that rejects and ultimately destroys her, but not really. It's more about all the angles from which Pecola is viewed. The plot is secondary, a frame on which Ms. Morrison drapes a quilt depicting the devastating consequences when perceptions, including identity and self-worth, are perverted by racism, greed, ignorance, shame. It is a painful book to read, but I couldn't stop reading it. It is filled with ugliness, but its writing is beautiful. It reveals things about us that are very difficult to love, but I loved it.