How to use this Page

I am frustrated by a life that leaves me far too little time to read. Frustrated. Determined, though, I have carried Julian Barnes' Nothing to be Frightened of with me from client to client. I've sat with it in the dentist chair. I've read it while on hold for conference calls. I've stood there stirring a pot, the book in hand. You'd have thought I'd have finished it by now.

And why am I fighting so hard to find the time to read a book that is, indeed, a meditation on death and dying—on how people die (which is of course bound up with how people live) and on what people think along the way? Fear or acceptance? Defeat or glory? Ungainly irony or something worse? Well, to begin with, this is Julian Barnes, and he's riotously talented—stewing memoir and wit and philosophy and literary biography and fine vocabulary into a chapterless not-outright diatribe, not-clinical exploration, perhaps controlled rant is the term, that is nothing if not (and you know this matters to me) brilliantly choreographed. He's assaulting you. He's appeasing you. He's on your side and then he's all caught up with himself, as if he may be the only one facing ultimate extinction. No such luck, Barnes.

If I were reading that paragraph above I'd think, about myself, Someone should tell Kephart that it's Christmas, the season of birth and winter wonder. That right about now is when a poor fool like her should be curling up with some light holiday fare. But the thing is this: It's a privilege to watch a mind like Barnes' work over, around, and through the inexplicableness of death. It's exhilarating, as a matter of fact. Intelligence is never overrated.

I buy books en masse each year for Christmas, and this year was no different. And because no one for whom I buy my books actually reads this blog, I feel safe in divulging some of my now-wrapped presents.

Here we go:

For a certain dancer with a talent in the kitchen: Clean Food: A Seasonal Guide to Eating Close to the Source. For a southern California writer: Lit: A Memoir. For a nephew who isn't just an extraordinary swimmer, but also one heck of a fisherman, the gorgeously illustrated FISH: 77 Great Fish of North America. For a niece who is off to college in a year or so, pursuing her passion in science (and likely physics): The Age of Wonder: How the Romantic Generation Discovered the Beauty and Terror of Science. For my dad, a former chief executive and still active consultant who yesterday brought me the loveliest planted gift (but more on that later): Lords of Finance: The Bankers Who Broke the World. For my artist husband now working in new media: ZBrush Character Creation, Mastering Maya, and Ghostly Ruins. For my son, firmly ensconced in the advertising world: Read Me: A Century of Classic American Book Advertisements and Creative Advertising.

Finally, should my schedule afford me reading time, I've got Nothing to be Frightened of (Julian Barnes), Half Broke Horses (Jeannette Walls), The Piano Teacher (Janice Y.K. Lee), Something Must Happen (Ned Balbo), Eiffel's Tower (Jill Jonnes), The Perfect Square (Nancy M. Heinzen), and my own great-grandfather's Smoky Mountain Magic (Horace Kephart) stacked up near.