After I finished reading The Book Thief by the Australian novelist Markus Zusak in the bathtub one cold winter afternoon, I lay there and absorbed the depth of his story as the water got colder and colder. My peepers were a’leakin and I was in awe of the perfection of the whole book.

I ordered I Am The Messenger and Getting The Girl from Amazon post haste. I loved Getting The Girl and sent it as a gift to my friend Zavier whom I thought might love it too. I was loathe to start I Am The Messenger after I read the first twenty-three pages aloud to my husband one night after dinner for the same reason I own but have not read You Shall Know Our Velocity by Dave Eggers. It takes years for an author to lovingly craft a book length story, and mere hours for me to devour it. I try to extend my pleasure with anticipation.

Sitting at my kitchen table with a glass of wine, I wandered along with Ed Kennedy, an underage taxi driver and his argumentative friend Marv as they get drawn into a hilariously snarky quarrel about the use and abuse of Marv’s ancient blue Falcon. The car in question is illegally parked outside the same bank where Ed and Marv, and Ed’s best friend (with whom he is hopelessly in love) Audrey are lying face down on the floor. The robber is pretty small time: “useless” is, I believe the word that Ed uses in the first sentence, and that turns out to be his doom.

Ed Kennedy, no matter what he thinks of himself, is orders of magnitude more useful than than this bank robber. The author spends the rest of this charming book proving that to both the reader and to Ed himself.

Some days later, an envelope containing three addresses written on the back of a playing card is delivered. No instructions. Just three addresses and the Ace of Diamonds. What would you do if this happened to you? Right-oh, that’s what Ed did too. He didn’t sleep at all that night, and after a lot of thinking about it no one he knew seemed a likely suspect. In the morning he got up and went out on foot with The Doorman and a street map to find the addresses on the card.

Favorite Character: The Doorman What’s not to love about a bleary-eyed, coffee drinking, ice cream begging, hound dog well and comfortably settled into his retirement? They have a special charm that you can smell a mile away, and if you have ever lived with such a creature yourself, you will love The Doorman too.

I’ll leave the rest of the copies on the shelf at your local book seller just in case you want one too. Suffice it to say that by the end of the story, Ed is carrying four aces and plenty to think about.

Favorite Sentence:

I’ll give you ten bucks for the dog and the card.

I loved the pure Ed-ness of this sentence. He is a scrappy problem-solver and he is stubborn. Two admirable qualities in a man.

Favorite Assignment: The Barefoot Girl This is only the second of Ed’s twelve assignments, but it is the one where I began to see the outlines of The Real Ed. The one even he doesn’t know exists.

As for the ending? At first, I found it satisfying if a bit fuzzy. After I thought about it awhile though, I began to see Ed Kennedy and his assignments as forerunner. I thought it was the perfect ending for the book an author might write, before he settles in to write a story as full of grace as The Book Thief. There, I imagine Ed Kennedy was working on his thirteenth assignment; encouraging Markus Zusak from behind the scenes.

All in all - two thumbs up, five stars and I’ll read it again someday.

I’ve finally figured out what is so depressing and exhausting about reading blogs. I never learn anything new. I do, very often, read good stuff that I already know. It irritates and bores me that I knew most of it fifteen years ago too when the internet was a baby, and having partaken of it’s temptations to the fullest, I was busy learning to live outside of my culture, to conduct my life in a language I had never heard before.

I didn’t have the energy to speak up in a public forum then and now I am willing, but find a million someones have stolen my tongue. The revelation: I lived through the revolution. Now what?

On the night before my tenth birthday, my dad came to tuck me in to bed last. I got to choose to be last by virtue of being the first to pass tooth-inspection and, although as my littlest sister reminded me just recently, last was not always the most advantageous choice if “Daddy-time” was what you craved, last was super if you had a good book going.

The next day would be my birthday; fat chance I wouldn’t get plenty of talking-time with Dad that night, last was the only choice for me. I was reading Little Women again, trying to get it through my thick head that, as the oldest of three girls it was my lot, like Meg’s, to be pretty and to long to be fashionable, to marry a nice man and settle down, to learn to cook, make jellies, keep house, and be content.

Lordy, lordy I wanted to be Jo. I wanted to write stories in the attic, to keep a pet rat, direct and act the dramatic parts in plays, and have Laurie Lawrence fall in love with me because I was wildly courageous and unconventional.

I had to be honest though about the fact that I was probably much to shy and afraid of everything to give a convincing Jo.

Maybe that is what we talked about that night when Dad came to tuck me in. I don’t remember. I’m sure he gave me the Birthday Lecture. He gave us the Birthday Lecture every year, and every year I was surprised that he remembered - I didn’t. It started like this:

“Daughter dear, tomorrow you will be ten years old. This is a milestone in your life and those are always good for looking back and assessing. Was there something you always wanted to do when you were nine? If so, and you haven’t done it, you have missed your chance forever. Tonight is the last night of your ninth year, and you will never, ever be nine again.”

You may think this sounds depressing, but it wasn’t. Daddy delivered the birthday lecture with such a philosophical face that you couldn’t help but consider the actuality of it, and should there have been even a hint of regret, we would have all resolved to pay more attention and do right by our next year.

“But, eldest daughter of mine,” he would continue, “tomorrow you will be ten years old! Think of it: Double Digits! Nearly a teenager! And you will have an entire year, three hundred sixty-five days, to make your dreams come true. Everything you have dreamed — all your life — of doing when you are finally ten will be within your grasp when you wake up in the morning. Reach for your dreams.”

Is it any wonder that I was still calling him on the telephone the night before I turned thirty-eight? He did his best, but the time difference meant that he was delivering a late-night lecture before his breakfast, and if he couldn’t seem to muster the grandness and enthusiasm I remembered from those birthdays long ago, who could blame him - he had delivered the birthday lecture by then at least one hundred and one times. My dream of becoming Jo instead of Meg felt very far away when I hung up the phone.

I didn’t make it that year. Or the next year, or the next five years. Maybe, though forty-six to forty-seven is my lucky number. I’m still shy and afraid of pretty much everything - but these days I’m more afraid of being afraid and running out of time before I experience my Jo-hood.

*My Cold and Flu Tip for the Year:* Take one of those little packages of travel “Nosenex” (as my mother always called Kleenex when we were kids). Be sure you use the good thick ones for this. Open the package, and pour some cold water into it. Let the tissues soak it all up, then squeeze as much water out as you can. Take ‘em out of the package and set ‘em beside your cranberry tea, snuggle on the couch with a warm blanket and a good book.

You’ll understand what’s so great about this trick the first time you sneeze. These Nosenex are cool, and don’t hurt. You feel clean after using them, unlike the expensive ones with creams and aloe embedded in them that only leave you feeling a still slimy about the nostrils.

What do you suppose moved the marketing department to think that “slimy” is a feeling consumers relish when we have a cold?

The last German national soccer game of 2008 was so boring that even Jürgen noticed the advertising around the field. “Hey, we use that company at work.” he said.

In the first half England made a goal. In the second half Germany did. The announcer said “One should always leave open the possibility of a stupid mistake on the part of the English goalie.” I thought that was a fresh statement and said so, but the guys assured me that was pretty much the way Germany wins against England %mdash; when Germany wins against England — which they don’t when the game is in Berlin like it is tonight.

Returning from the halftime dishing up of dinner in the kitchen (curry with chickie, cauliflower, and yummy little baby melanzane), Oliver Kahn is standing on Gunther Netzer’s chalked in footprints to the right side of my television screen. What is he doing there? He is wearing a silver-gray suit and a striped tie and I want to scream. “Ollie? What are you doing? Get back outside where you belong. For heavens sake, stop talking and be useful!”

At the seventy-sixth minute marker Jürgen is bemused - “Hey, they are playing better.”

“Yeah”, I said. “It takes fifteen minutes for the half-time drugs to kick in.”

“Mmhmn, maybe. I don’t know.” he mutters.

He’s not listening to me. I can tell.

England makes a second goal. They need it in order to beat us 2-1. At the precise moment the ball passes into net on the right side, the German goalie is standing at the left post. waving his hand in the air as if to say “No, over here!”

The goalie has an exasperating job.

In England tonight the fans are happy. I hope they are as happy as the German fans were the last time the teams met in England. Germany wins at Wembley, England wins in Berlin. It’s tradition and let’s be honest, don’t we love to see a winning streak continue as much as we love to see it broken? Maybe those nice young men listened when their mothers said “It’s not polite to invite guests over to play at your house and then trounce them roundly, dear.” Bravo!

They are gone now
those mythical beasts
known as stepsons.
And they have taken with them
entire landscapes of my heart.

©2008 Nancy Carroll

The truth is, I don’t believe that any existence is arbitrary. You aren’t any accident. How could that be? If I read the signs right, you are the product of a moment of intense heat (wow.) and you came into being through a specific act that was a conscious decision your parents made.

Ok, maybe they did not decide to “make a baby” (I’m reasonably sure my folks didn’t) but they knew the risk they were taking. And will you just lookee here: skulking around behind *their* risk, was *your* chance!

And you took it! You grabbed it and ran!

Now, here you are! Triumphant! Brilliantly individually yourself and perfectly evolved to suit the world you live in for the time you are here. You are a wry combination of Mother Nature and the nature of your parents; propelled out of that very specific moment when one single egg, just hanging around whistled all sassy-like to the sweet little sperm swimming happily by. He turned his head to have a look-see and BAM! You, my dear were the one who had the tenacity to reach out and grab a hold of Life.

Good work, Dude.

und unter diese headline schrieb der Stuttgarter Zeitung von 25 July, 2008: “Weil das Urkilo in Paris langsam Masse verliert…”

Ich glaube das ist schlechte Nachrichten für meine Diet.

%p We are the echo of the future

%p
On the door it says what to do to survive

But we were not born to survive

Only to live

Each man’s life represents a road towards himself, an attempt at such a road, the intimidation of a path. No man has ever been entirely and completely himself. Yet each one strives to become that - one in an awkward, the other in a more intelligent way, each as best as he can.”