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Two thousand and twelve wasn’t a particularly good year for the literary novel, and I’m not sure what it says that so much of this year’s good read- ing centered on crime fiction. Never- theless, there is little doubt that right now the crime genre is fiction’s most exciting and has, in many ways, re- placed the social novel for telling us who we are. This 10-best list reflects that shift. Still, there are plenty of other good- ies here that should satisfy almost any palate, from a Hollywood satire to a rock memoir, and even a book of photo- graphs — a genre that this list has ig- nored for too long. As ever, my hope is that you will find a title or two here that you hadn’t heard of before and, taking a chance, delve in- to a book that otherwise you might not have come across. And maybe even be moved. Happy holidays. “Dead Stars” Hollywood’s foremost satirist takes on the TMZ generation. Nearly the same length as Tom Wolfe’s satiric door-stop- per “Back to Blood,” Bruce Wagner’s book is meaner, funnier, and more ur- gent. The risk of this kind of satire, of course, is that you can end up deaden- ing the reader, and admittedly after 656 pages you may be left wondering who is the abuser, and who is the abused. But the message is an important one: What happens to a generation obsessed with bullshit? “Rod: The Autobiography” A candid, self-deprecating, and oc- casionally hilarious memoir by a rock- er who saw and did it all. Rod Stew- art’s story is more fun than Pete Townsend’s ponderous recent memoir, and more self-aware than Keith Richards’s “Life.” While Keith’s book seemed to have a no-apologies rule (even for turning his preteen son into his caretaker during the heroin years), it’s refreshing to see Rod take himself to task for three divorces and various parental lapses. But of course “Rod” is mostly about fun: the limos, the girls, the substances, the parties, the endless laughs. Yes, you’ve heard it all before, but like the man, it never seems to grow old. “Five Noir Novels of the 1940s & ’50s” For those who thought the 1950s were all white picket fences. . . . David Goodis’s novels are populated with lon- ers and frustrated artists who become embroiled in the pestilence of a nasty postwar hangover. There’s more alcohol than guns in these novels, but the vio- lence — when it does appear — carries an emotional wallop. Goodis’s writing leans on a strong psychological compo- nent of torment and despair, so it’s best taken with a belt from that Scotch San- ta put in your stocking. “The Oath” Though a book about the Supreme Court may not be everyone’s idea of a good time, Jeffrey Toobin comes close to making it so. The book chronicles the politicization of the Supreme Court un- der Chief Justice John Roberts, begin- ning with his botched swearing-in of President Obama in 2008. That this par- tisan court is a microcosm of our polar- ized political landscape is probably not news, but Mr. Toobin’s portrait of its members can be revelatory (his report- ing on Clarence Thomas, for example, is nothing short of scathing). Also sur- prising is how much the story of Mr. Roberts’s surprise vote on “Obamacare” reads like a thriller. “Banksy: You Are an Acceptable Level of Threat” Who is Banksy? In this definitive col- lection of his work, he is described as “an anonymous street artist from Bristol who rose to fame in the late 1990s and the present day chiefly by illegally spray-painting stencil designs across the major cities of the U.K. and North America.” Banksy is a kind of art world Thomas Pynchon (there may be more than one Banksy) whose work has a heavy political element and who was a secret hero of the Occupy Movement. Banksy, however, is never ideological, and at his best his images make us ask tough questions about the militarization The East Hampton Star, December 27, 2012 C4 Last Week’s Solution “It’s a promise. Seriously. This year . . .” Across 1. Scratch 5. She said “Play it, Sam” 9. 15 across and others 14. Hand cream ingredient 15. Smallest of 9 across 16. “. . . __ of golden daffodils”: Wordsworth 17. Turnpike fee 18. Hankering 19. Rankle 20. We will . . . 23. Policeman Plod’s shoe meas- urement 24. It follows April in Paris 25. Crimson or claret 27. Third largest city in Spain 32. Verve 33. Latin 101 verb 34. Emperor after Nero 36. Cavalry weapon 39. Slugger Sammy 41. They’re thrown during a fight 43. Common dog tag 44. Rapunzel feature 46. Small pies 48. Urban ride 49. “Come again?” 51. Initiations 53. Hunks’ trunks 56. Actor McKellen 57. 1051 58. We will say . . . 64. Many a quarter back? 66. Stress, for one 67. Blood line 68. Flu symptoms 69. Bandy words 70. Feminine suffix 71. Baltic natives 72. “A Treatise of Human Na- ture” author 73. Small, agile deer Down 1. Long-running Broadway mu- sical 2. Scads STARWORDS . . . SHERIDAN SANSEGUNDO 1 14 17 20 27 33 39 44 53 57 64 68 71 2 28 54 3 29 49 4 24 40 65 21 34 45 58 5 15 18 41 50 6 30 46 55 66 69 72 7 31 51 59 8 25 35 60 22 32 42 56 9 16 19 36 47 10 26 43 52 67 70 73 11 23 48 61 12 37 62 13 38 63 3. Millennium Falcon pilot 4. Cry of distress 5. Not sympathetic 6. Mother of Artemis and Apollo 7. Ravage 8. Sap-sucking insect 9. Graffiti artists 10. Her, in Hamburg 11. We will . . . 12. First name in cosmetics 13. Knight transport 21. Ratted on 22. Cornhusker st. 26. “The Little Sparrow” 27. Huge 28. Latin love 29. We will . . . 30. “__ it get to me!” 31. Brit sitcom of the 1990s 35. Gillette brand 37. It’s round and red 38. Purloins 40. Tennis great Arthur 42. French island south of New- foundland 45. Melancholy 47. Attempt 50. As well 52. __ one’s head 53. Feminist Eleanor 54. Come in second at the track 55. Destroy 59. K.G.B. predecessor 60. 500 sheets 61. Wine prefix 62. Fan mag 63. Chemical suffixes 65. Allow MI S T L E T O EPRADA ID L E R E D D L A D E N NE O N R A ES AVA N T TA P S AR R E S T P S I ER N L A ER TE S VE N D ET T A T S E EC O A L A S T S A R I AHA P P Y C H R I S T M A S LO M A T E EN A I M A SA G N E A T N E S S MA R T I N I P E A AD E R U S S I A I T A L DE N I M L A R NLORE ALA N A A M O I U N T O ME L O N M I N C E P I E S Noir, Noise, and Rod B Y K URT W ENZEL of Western nations and the building up of police states in the name of “securi- ty.” “Gone Girl” A wife disappears on the day of her fifth wedding anniversary: Is she truly missing or has she just had enough? This is the conceit of Gillian Flynn’s new thriller, which is as much a medi- tation on marriage as it is a mystery. The author stretches her talent here by telling the story in a variety of different voices, and mostly pulls it off. “Hitch- cockian” in the best sense, it also sports a jaw-dropping ending. It’s just too bad Sir Alfred isn’t around to film it. “The Signal and the Noise: Why Most Predictions Fail but Some Don’t” When, in leading up the 2012 presi- dential election, Nate Silver said that Barack Obama would win handily, he was excoriated by the far right for dis- pensing liberal “disinformation.” Then it turned out he predicted 50 out of 50 states correctly; in 2008 he got 49 of out 50 right. Maybe it’s time to start listen- ing. In “The Signal and the Noise,” he tells us how to sift through the infor- mation glut to get to the true data, and as a result has come up with something close to what one might call a “predic- tive science.” It’s not a book simply for strategic ways to win the lottery — al- though there’s that too — but also about basic logic, decision-making, and future planning. “The Black Box” When you do roughly a novel a year for 20 years, it’s nearly impossible to hit the bull’s-eye every time, and indeed Michael Connelly’s last few novels have been uneven. But culminating with his 20-year anniversary, Mr. Connelly has put together a humdinger. Detective Harry Bosch tries to un- ravel a cold case from 1992 about the murder of a Danish journalist during the L.A. riots. Harry meets the usual polit- ical impediments from the L.A.P.D. (should a white cop solve the murder of a white woman during the riots?), and though his lonely, ex-alcoholic cop is a cliché, Mr. Connelly somehow, even af- ter 20 years, manages to make it all feel fresh. “Vengeance” Benjamin Black is the pen name for the Man Booker Prize-winning Irish novelist John Banville, who writes these “Dubliners”-meets-Raymond Chandler mysteries as a “hobby.” Lucky for us he doesn’t like to fish. His hero is Quirke, a pathologist who sometimes spends more time in the pub than near the op- erating table, and finds himself em- I t started as a brisk cold morning, a dreary December day as predictable as any almanac forecast. The win- ter solstice clearly upon us, any warmth from the sun had abated throughout the cloudy afternoon. The sun was now setting in the darkness, adding a raw bite to the night’s air. I exited my car onto the slippery driveway. There was a rustling in the evening’s breeze, almost a crackling sound as the fallen leaves were whisking along the pavement. The house on Brick Kiln Road remains our family home, still occupied by my paternal grandmother. I go there to have dinner at least once a week; I walk past the car-less garage, my shoes the only sound tapping the bricks as I approach the back door. As I enter I am greeted by the savory smell of a hearty beef stew cooking on the stovetop. I cannot resist lifting the lid and taking a sample, and it is always as yummy tasting as the aroma filling the kitchen. Then I peer around the doorway into the dining room, announcing my arrival, so as not to startle my Nana. Be- ing 94, she is the only remaining occupant in the rambling, shingled tomb. Yet there is warmth that still envelops me within these walls. My grandmother keeps the sense of family alive. This house had been the family gathering place for many decades and a flood of memories fills the now-empty rooms. In these rooms my memory gets a click, a flash, a pic- ture from the past; a table carefully set with Rosenthal chi- na and good silver. There would be holiday decorations of leafy greens, bunches of crimson and sparkling silver dan- gling from the arches. Classic renditions of “Deck the Halls,” “Little Drummer Boy,” and “White Christmas” playing in the background, along with the flicker of danc- ing candles lighting the festive table filled with home- cooked meals of our favorite foods. In the center foyer all were greeted with the Christmas tree piled waist-high with gifts, each wrapped in crisp gold and silver paper adorned with giant red velvet ribbons. Every inch of the tree was lighted by the twinkle of care- fully placed tiny white lights. These are some of my favorite memories that come back to me as a snapshot in time as I pass through the hall. And then I hear Nana’s melodic voice call “ M. J.,” as she calls me now. “I am here in the den.” Once again I am comforted. She is okay; she’s waiting for me to come so we can have our weekly dinner. I feel relieved, knowing that for at least this visit, I’m home again. We have shared so many happy memories here and often on these visits we will reminisce and recall special moments. One of my earliest memories is of a Christmas Eve when all of the other guests had gone for the night. We were tucked into our beds by about 8 p.m., filled with excite- ment at the anticipation of Christmas and the magic of the next morning. Surely, the elves would be needed to help Santa de- liver the packages and treats piled under the tree, each to be stacked with our names clearly tagged. I knew that I had been really good that year, and I was betting I would be rewarded for my best behavior. It was easier to keep us together on Christmas Eve, so my younger sister Kaye and I would be put to bed in the end bedroom, the only room in the house with twin beds. There we would qui- etly thrill each other by sharing visions of the morning’s loot. But this Christmas Eve, I remember my Nana coming into our bedroom and gently waking Kaye and me from our sleep, “Children, wake up. I have a surprise for you; come with me,” she said softly. Rubbing our eyes, still sleepy and dazed, we searched for our slippers, then, scuffling down the hall, we entered the master bedroom. There, nestled under the covers, was our grandfather. Gramps was rolled over facing the wall and still fast asleep. I knew he was still sleeping as we could hear a whis- per of a snore coming from his side of the bed. Nana had the bed propped with five or more pillows and the over- stuffed comforter rolled down so we could tuck our little feet under to keep warm. Once we were nestled in this comfy bed, Nana turned the television on, then slid onto the bed next to us, her finger to her lips, “Shhh,” she said. “Now children, this is a Christmas morning treat.” She seemed excited, pulling the covers up. Then all three of us watched as the movie started, hearing the song, “Babes in Toyland.” It was Oliver and Hardy’s “The March of the Wooden Soldiers.” This movie had our favorite storybook charac- ters coming alive: oversized six-foot wooden soldiers, the old lady in the shoe, the three little pigs, Tom-Tom — all there in Toyland, and Santa too. We were thrilled with every minute and each character, delighted with the idea that there was a Santa, and sure now that he would soon be coming to our house. So as the movie ended we scurried out of the bed and, racing down the hall, jumped into our beds with the “Babes in Toy- land” music dancing in our heads. There’s magic in these memories and of being a child and dreams of Toyland. Toyland: “Once you cross its bor- ders you can never return again.” I will be having dinner tonight with Nana, and I am home again one more time. — Ryan Matthews, a Bridgehampton resident, is semire- tired from a mortgage banking career. “Home Again,” a Memoir by Ryan Matthews broiled in various whodunits in 1950s Dublin. “Vengeance” concerns a possible sui- cide on a sailboat — or was it murder? Action fans be warned: There is always more atmosphere than violence in these novels. And though the plots of the Black books usually lead to the same place — the nefarious underbelly of Dublin’s “elite” families — line by line there are no better-written mysteries published today. “Bring Up the Bodies” The second book in Hilary Mantel’s planned trilogy on the ruthlessness of Tudor England under Henry the VIII won the U.K.’s Man Booker Prize for fiction, as did the first volume in the series (titled “Wolf Hall”). No mean feat! “Bring Up the Bodies” focuses on Thomas Cromwell and the downfall of Anne Boleyn, so you may already know how this ends. But while the story is both fast-moving and cinematically told, fans of the television series “The Tu- dors” may be disappointed: The soft- porn element is replaced here by his- torical fact, political machinations, and a superlative prose style that makes his- tory read like fiction. — Kurt Wenzel is the author of the nov- els “Lit Life,” “Gotham Tragic,” and “Exposure.” He lives in Springs. In celebration of our maritime heritage plan to visit the Claus Hoie Gallery of Whaling and Town Marine Museum during the holidays Free admission Thursday, December 27, through Sunday, December 30 10 a.m – 5 p.m. East Hampton Town Marine Museum 301 Bluff Road, Amagansett Claus Hoie, Whale Tail and Harpoonist , w/c, ca. 1988-1990 Breakfast * Lunch * Dinner 66 Newtown Lane • East Hampton, NY • (631) 329-5377 Open Every Day for the Holiday Season D&D Harvey - architects 631 537 7640 WWW.DDHARVEYARCH.COM David Clark Harvey - Dawn Williams Harvey “If You Don’t Know Carpets... Know Your Carpet Man!” 283-0885 633 County Road 39A, Southampton
