Three Years in Mississippi

James Meredith had two goals when he attempted to register at the University of Mississippi in 1962: to get an education and to break down the system of white supramacy in his home state and perhaps the nation. An education was secured, but the second goal remains elusive 60 years later. Meredith's memoir shows him to be iron-willed, brave and strategic. His relationship with the civil rights establishment, including the NAACP, was not particularly warm, although his admiration for Medgar Evers was immense. Constance Motley's work as Meredith's lawyer was tenacious. Above all, the feeling that lingers after finishing Three Years in Mississippi is hope – the civil rights bills that Meredith thought were essential in giving Blacks their due were passed a few years later – mixed with sadness that the poison of white supremacy that Meredith sought to purge from America is perhaps as strong as ever.

The Pigeon

The Pigeon by German writer Patrick Süskind is a short novel (115 pages) that punches above its weight. In the style of Thomas Bernhard (but with paragraph and typographical breaks), it tells the story of a middle aged man set in his routines whose life is upended by the appearance of a pigeon in the corridor outside his apartment door. This one seemingly small but odd event sends him into a spiral that makes him question everything he's ever known. Süskind effectively shows that the veneer of civilization, and the mental layer that protects an individual's sanity, is very thin.

The Netanyahus

I had marked this novel in February to be read, never got around to it, and picked it up after it won the Pulitzer Prize last week. It is the kind of book that can be admired but never really loved, and its subject matter is awfully slight. "Cold porridge" passing as "hot stuff," to repurpose a Saul Bellow blurb, comes to mind. Still, although authors who wear their erudition loudly have never impressed me, Joshua Cohen may be the exception that proves the rule.

A Time to be Born

Dawn Powell's 1942 novel is in many ways the typical high-low story: high society, low stakes. After reading Native Son from only two years earlier, it seems almost obscene that someone would write a story that spoofs Clare Boothe Luce and the nonexistent problems of New York society types. But, to Powell's credit, the style is crisp, the scenes are well-observed, and there is a good amount of perceptive social commentary. Powell gets up on her high horse for an opening section and once again deep in the novel, but for the most part she constructs a narrative that is compelling and gathers pace as it rolls to a conclusion.

A High Wind in Jamaica

Reading this 1929 novel by Richard Hughes reminded me again of the vast differences between American English and British English, and of the hoary saying that the two countries are separated by a common language. There is much to enjoy here – an adventure story, an examination of how children think, some attractive set-pieces – but the overall effect is of a slog through the typical hyper-reserved and oh-so-clever English mind.