Fans of Like Water for Chocolate and Joanne Harris may enjoyLa Cucina by Lily Prior.

There were a couple of things that really struck me about Lysistrata. First of all, the various translations of this play (and, presumably all of the ancient Greek plays) differ greatly in terms of language. I read two versions: one was a personal copy translated by Benjamin Bickley Rogers from 1955 and the other was a KCLS copy from 1991 translated by Nicholas Rudall. The gist of the material is the same in both versions but on a line-by-line basis they differed greatly. For laughs, some of my friends did a reading of a few pages from the play, using at least three different translations. Though there was great variation in the verbage used, the meaning and the humor came through all the same. Here's the moral: if you don't like one translation, try another.

Another interesting facet of Lysistrata is, well, it's steaminess. Believe-you-me, those Greeks weren't all contemplating the ideal plane and that comes through loud-and-clear in this play. There are numerous instances of double-entendres, course language, and sexual explicitness. Clearly, Aristophanes wasn't an elitist; he was obviously aiming his work at "the masses" and he succeeded gloriously, for I found myself able to relate to the general tenor of this play in a way that I could not with other "classic" works. In a word, Lysistrata is universal.

So if you're in the mood for some burlesque that really makes you think, don't be afraid to check out Lysistrata!

Differences aside, Otto and his sister decide to embark on a road trip from New York to North Dakota to settle their parents' estate. His flakey sister bails out and sends her friend, Volya Rinpoche, a Buddhist monk, in her place.

Initially, Otto finds himself being irritated and impatient with his new Zen passenger. Otto is conflicted between his comfortable existence and the potential reality of the universe. He's somewhat embarrassed by monk's outfits and habits, yet he finds himself being drawn into Rinpoche's simple teachings.

Throughout simple philosophical discourse, an unlikely friendship develops. This story is whimsical, quirky and made me smile. Breakfast with Buddha is reminiscent of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, with parallels on morals, life purpose and the wonderlust of the road trip. I found Breakfast to be more accessible and easier to digest. Uplifting and charming, this book puts a positive spin on the human race.

Arturo Pérez-Reverte is one of my favorite authors, ever since I stumbled across The Fencing Master.  Although he has a number of excellent stand-alone titles, Pérez-Reverte is best known for his musketeer-like Captain Alatriste series.  One of Spain's (and Europe's) most popular authors, he writes in what I think of as a deliciously old world European style - hard to describe - patient and eloquent, but not at all slow.  I find his writing similar to Gabriel Garcia Marquez (without the magical realism).

Diego Alatriste, an inveterate gentleman soldier and veteran of the Flemish Wars (17th century), is willing to fight for God, country and gold, but mainly for gold.  In Captain Alatriste, the first book in the series, he has been hired to assassinate two British visitors.  Always reluctant to shed needless blood, he spares their lives, opening a hornet's nest and infuriating the Holy Inquisition.  Not good.

Pérez-Reverte's works are excellent historical fiction picks for adults and (I think) older teens. If swashbuckling isn't to your fancy, Pérez-Reverte writes some other dynamite thrillers and even a narco-saga that is surprisingly entertaining given the rough subject matter.

The Civil War is a good example--new books on Abraham Lincoln and the war seem to come out every month and still make the Best Sellers list.  The sinking of the Titanic is another event that still fascinates readers. One event about which I've read voraciously is the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire in 1911.

One hundred forty six workers died in a fire that was under control in less than an hour. Situated on the 8th, 9th and 10th floors of a new "skyscraper" in New York City, the Triangle Factory made ladies' shirtwaists which were all the rage at the time. Like the Titanic tragedy, there are many "if onlys" in the Triangle story that would have meant many lives being spared: proper fire escapes, doors that were not locked by factory bosses, fire hoses that actually worked, enforcement of the non-smoking rule.

In Margaret Peterson Haddix's book Uprising, she brings to life not only the facts of the story, but three young girls who lived them. Yetta from Russia and Bella from Italy both came to the US looking for a better life and hoping to save enough money to bring their families from their homelands.

Caught up in the workers' strike that predated the fire, Yetta and Bella befriend Jane, a lonely society girl who becomes involved in their crusade. Their friendship is a big part of the story, as is the plight of many other girls newly arrived in the States and held at the mercy of greedy factory owners.

Haddix, who is the author of the popular Shadow Children  series for kids and teens, has a talent for mixing history and fiction and the ability to write about tragedies like the Triangle fire without making them maudlin. Even though we know how these sad stories end, in the hands of a skilled author, they are worth the read.

O.E. Rölvaag's novel Giants in the Earth is a sobering look at life on the American frontier. He takes us out to the Hansas' fields during the 18 hour work days of summer and into their sod hut in the depths of the Dakota winter. The isolation of living out on the wide plains, days away from the nearest town, years away from their homeland, weighed heavily on Beret. Empathizing with the Hansas' unrelenting struggle for survival is a frightening departure from more romanticized depictions of pioneer life.

Rölvaag wrote Giants in the Earth so that the people of Norway would know what their relatives undertook settling in the American Midwest. He also left Americans a moving testimony to the hard work, innovation and endurance required for nineteenth century life on the plains of the Dakota Territory.

Many of us will find Her Majesty's behavior familiar.  She pleads a cold so that she can finish her book.  She begins to question others about their reading habits.  Her walks with the corgis become shorter.  After a lifetime of duty, she begins to read for the simple enjoyment of it.  The reaction of her family, staff, and subjects is less than enthusiastic. 

This portrayal of Queen Elizabeth is light and fun, and the peek into her life, whether accurate or not, is fascinating to consider.  At 120 pages, the novella is easy to slip into a pocket. The audio version is narrated by the author, who portrays the characters with great skill and humor.  In either version, you'll enjoy the impact of books on The Uncommon Reader.

As you read this book, you get to hear from all the characters, including the animals (Rae has another dog and a cat). But again, this is not done in a cutesy way. Dante quotes Buddha and Lao-tzu, and is truly wise. His mission (this time around) is to teach Rae that it is alright to hope, and to find her a human who will love her after he is gone. Rae and Dante have a deep effect on everyone around them, and each has a chance to speak. All of this takes place for the most part on Rae's Colorado ranch, a beautiful setting that changes with the tide of the story and the emotions of the characters.

Cheney is conflicted between her desire to be with Wright, and societal expectations placed upon her. Critics of their relationship were open in their distaste for her ethical decisions. Because she was the other woman, Cheney was vehemently accused of homewrecking, more so than Wright. Her narration reflects her guilt and eventual acceptance of her choices

This novel is part historical fiction, part biography, and reflects a dedication on Horan's part to research a relatively unknown part of Wright's romantic past. Beautifully written, Loving Frank exudes a graceful flow, introducing the reader to the beauty and complexity of their illicit affair.

Roseanne McNulty is 100 years old and has spent over half of her of life in the Roscommon Regional Mental Hospital when she begins the secret journal.  But the voice recalling many years full of turmoil and sorrow does not sound mad.   Her language is at once precise and lyrical, full of poetry, yet firmly grounded.  Her personal tragedy is gradually depicted against the backdrop of sectarian violence and a whole country in upheaval.

Roseanne's journal is interspersed with the commonplace book of Dr. Green, manager of the mental hospital. The institution is being downsized, and he must determine who should be given the freedom to return to the community. Though well meaning he is absorbed in his own sorrow, mourning first the failure of his marriage, then the death of his wife.    There are few records to help him evaluate Roseanne, and she is not particularly helpful to him.  

Dr. Green's search for clues as to why Roseanne was institutionalized finds a somewhat different history than the one the revealed in her journal raising many questions for the reader.  Was her father a member of the hated Irish police, or merely a grave digger?  How did he die?  If she was married, why did she tell Dr. Green he should address herby her maiden name?  Did she kill her only child at birth?  If not what happened to him?  And the big one - is she mad?

The quality of Barry's language and the vividness of Roseanne's story more than compensate for the occasionally awkward device of the two journals and slightly too pat ending.  The people in Roseanne's past; the stifling life of a small town contrasted to the wild openness of the sea; the eternal Irish rain all come alive on the page.  Curl up with this book before a toasty fire on a wet evening and you might not be sure whether the misty rain outside your window is coming in off Puget Sound or Sligo Bay.

I've never been much of a football fan, and I'm even less interested in football players--until just recently, when I've been inexplicably drawn to several books in which the main character is a football player.  That just goes to show how books can enlarge your horizons.

John Grisham has written a short book, Playing for Pizza, which is completely unlike his legal thrillers and can only be described as "cute"--okay, "charming" would work, too.

Rick Dockery was a football hero in high school in Davenport, Iowa, and a promising quarterback in college, but his NFL career has never quite taken off.  As the story opens, Rick has just failed so spectacularly on national television in front of all the football fans in the United States that it is clear to everyone but him that his career is over. His agent likes him, though, so he tries valiantly to find a team who will take him, eventually finding a spot for him as starting quarterback for the Parma Panthers. Yes, that's Parma, Italy, as in parmesan cheese. We know that "football" means "soccer" in most of Europe, but who knew that there was American football in Italy? In fact, there really are a few such teams in Italy, comprised mostly of local men who play for the fun of it and also for the postgame pizza. Then on each team there are two or three salaried players from America to lend authenticity.

Rick Dockery is a pretty unsophisticated young man who doesn't even know enough about Italy to be excited about the prospect of visiting there. Naturally he knows no Italian and hated history in college. Can the appeal of Italian food and women ease Rick over his culture shock so that he can lead the Panthers to victory in the Italian Super Bowl? To find out, read Playing for Pizza by John Grisham.

Beautifully read by Alexander Spence

Sometimes the oldies really are the best, or at least what you're exactly in the mood for.  That's how I felt listening to Jeeves Takes Charge, a collection of lovely, humorous, short stories, the first of which was published in 1915.  If you're unfamiliar with the series, Jeeves is an incredibly intelligent and efficient British man-servant, the epitome of the prefect valet.  He is in service to Bertram Wooster, a British gentleman, and himself the epitome of the privileged upper classes in early 20th century England.  Bertie is a sweet, well-meaning, and foppish young man who cares equally for his friends and for his leisure time.  He pops into and out of matrimonial engagements with alarming regularity, attempts to dress in a fashion distressingly modern to Jeeves, and lives in perpetual fear of his stern and ever disapproving Aunt Agatha.  Bertie's own lack of brainpower and addle pated friends seem to land him in one spot of bother after another, with Jeeves always ready and willing to help his master out of a jam, be it with a resorative drink or a clever plan.

Wodehouse wrote quite a bit about the adventures of Jeeves and Wooster and at least one fantastic television series was made from the books, starring Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie. (I used the photo from that series in this post.)  The stories are lighthearted and clever, and a perfect escape.

The power of this book lies in its ability to evoke incredibly complex emotions and reactions in the reader and this is due to the author's mastery of language. Cormac McCarthy has the amazing ability to make even the most dire experiences sound like poetry. Here's an example: "He'd had this feeling before, beyond the numbness and dull despair. The world shrinking down around a raw core of parsible entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds. Things to eat. Finally the names of things one believed to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How much was gone already? The sacred idiom shorn of its referents and so of its reality. Drawing down like something trying to preserve heat. In time to wink out forever."

Yet despite the bleak reality of their existence, the dominant emotion expressed in The Road is love...specifically, the love of a father for his child...and with this comes hope, the key to survival. All of this is expressed in dialogue which, unlike the prose, is simple and to the point, yet powerful in its ability to encapsulate the feelings and implications beneath the words: "This is what the good guys do. They keep trying. They don't give up." The man is so patient, so reassuring, so outwardly together even when he's inwardly despairing, that he imparts the will to survive and to thrive within the boy as well as himself. Both he and the boy "carry the fire."

The Road is soon to be released as a movie starring Viggo Mortenson, Charlize Theron, Guy Pearce, and Robert Duvall. I know I'm going to see it. Maybe I'll even like it; I loved the film version of McCarthy's other latter-day masterpiece, No Country For Old Men. But there's no substitute for a good book and a healthy imagination. So do yourself a favor: before you buy the movie tickets, check out and read a copy of The Road. You won't be sorry!