He is one of my favorite contemporary novelists -- writing books that strive for literary heights, unlike the schlock mill run by his fellow lawyer-writer John Grisham. There is a reason why readers often refer to him as F. Scott Turow.
Ironically, I was introduced to his writing by the Hollywood adaptation of his first novel -- Presumed Innocent. The movie was so compelling, I stopped by WaldenBooks and purchased the book. I have not looked back.
In nine novels, he has created a literary milieu of his fictional Kindle County (easily mistaken for Chicago's Cook County) written as rich as Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County. Grisham writes page-turners. Turow writes thought-provokers.
At least, I thought it was nine novels. And I thought it was odd that Turow had not written anything since 2013's Identical.
But, I was wrong. Somehow I had missed the publication of Testimony last year.
I regret nothing in life. What's the point? It is just wasted energy. But I do miss the library I spent five decades collecting. 98% of it went to Goodwill when I sold the Salem house.
Bit by bit, I intend to build a new collection in the house with no name. So, I ordered a hard copy of Testimony from Amazon.
Who else writing today can provide such simple sentences larded with significance? Like this one.
"Life, of course, is full of people you like a lot and then never see again. It's one of the tragedies of going around only once."
Or this.
The central character has been hired as a prosecutor for the International Court of Justice in The Hague. After a couple of months in The Netherlands, he returns to Kindle County.
"Being back made me recognize how persistent my sense of foreignness had been in The Hague, where I knew from waking to sleeping that layers of meaning lay in virtually every word and gesture that were simply beyond me. The contrasting realization that I no longer lived in the Tri-Cities left me feeling off balance at all times."
Any expatriate knows that feeling. I know I do. Especially during my first eight years of living here permanently. Ironically, even though I often still feel wrong-footed here, I feel even more that way when I fly north to visit my friends and family. I am a stranger in a strange land.
There may be an essay in there somewhere. But not today.
Yesterday, I was sitting by the pool (just starting chapter 3 of Testimony) when the pool man, Antonio, arrived. With his assistant. After retrieving a glass of ice water for each of them, I returned to my novel.
Antonio's assistant, who I know well from past conversations, but not well enough to recall his name, kept staring at my book. He has seen me reading before, but usually with my Kindle in hand.
I could tell he wanted to ask me something, so I put down the book.
"How many books do you read?"
I was pleased with the question. I do not think anyone here has ever mentioned a book to me. With one exception. When Omar moved in, he was not only astounded I had a room in my house called the library, but that the room was partially-populated with books.
"One or two a week," I gushed.
He looked astonished. "Each year?"
"No. Each week. I also read two newspapers each day and two magazines each week."
He stood there looking at me as if fairies were dancing on my head.
I asked him about his reading habits. It turns out he graduated from high school and enjoys working with computers, but he has never read a book. He is probably in his mid-20s.
"Even in school?"
"No. Just workbooks."
That answer is consistent with what I hear from Omar, who has never read a full book. Teachers here read from textbooks to the students. The students take notes and then work out problems in their workbooks. It is an ancient teaching tradition, but one that has fallen into great disfavor around the world.
But it does help to explain Mexico's abysmal scores on the international PISA (Program for International Student Assessment) test (taking AMLO to school). At least, this part of Mexico.
I cannot recall seeing anyone (young or old) sitting in our local jardin reading a book. That is not true of all Mexico. I regularly see readers in Guadalajara and Guanajuato and San Miguel de Allende and Mexico City. Places that even have book stores. So, some Mexicans do seem to enjoy recreational reading.
Not here. Most of my young friends look at me the same way Antonio's assistant did when I tell them I am going to spend the afternoon reading. If I add I am also going to use a couple of hours writing an essay, I may as well tell them I am going to sprout wings and fly to the moon in my bedclothes.
Now, I know that reading is not some social talisman. But, it is an indication of a sense of curiosity -- a desire to know something outside of ourselves and our experience. Without that tool, a gift from my mother and grandmother when I was 4, there is a lot of what I now know of the world that would have remained a stranger to me without books. And there is still so much to experience.
If there is one thing I do miss in this area, it is having a group of friends gathering to share some of the interesting things they have read recently. I get a bit of that from my Bible study group, but there is nothing like sharing a pot of jamaica tea with people you know well enough to discuss the vagaries and musings of Wittgenstein or Turow.
For now, I will be happy to stretch out in the sun reading about the intricacies of the International Court of Justice while sharing a pot of tea with myself.
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