Bookish NYC

Object of Desire

I have a weakness for Christmas ornaments, and always end up adding to my collection annually, despite having almost run out of storage space in my apartment.  I think that this beauty from Simon Pearce will end up being this year's acquisition (not only is it lovely crystal, but pears also happen to be my favorite fruit):  

Monday, Monday . . .

I'm back from Thanksgiving upstate, and hope American visitors to this site had a great holiday.  I did not subject myself to the retail hell of "Black Friday," and in fact haven't yet purchased a single Christmas gift.  *twinge of anxiety*  I'll remedy that soon enough, but will end up doing most of it online.  

Over the past few days I finished Bill Bryson's At Home: A Short History of Private Life.  Not as laugh-out-funny as his travelogues, this was nonetheless an amusing collection of long essays, organized (albeit very loosely) around a tour of the former rectory in Norfolk in which he now lives.  He covers topics as disparate as Eli Whitney's invention of the cotton gin, the discovery of an Ice Age man in a glacier in the Italian Alps, the mice infesting his (Bryson's, not the ice age man's) study, Thomas Jefferson's construction of Monticello, and the intermarriage of the Darwin and Wedgewood families.    

I am now deep into An Impartial Witness, the second of Charles Todd's books featuring WW I-era nurse Bess Crawford.  A light but satisfying read.  I enjoyed Todd's previous series featuring a shell-shocked Inspector Rutledge, but these are a good change of pace.  ("Charles Todd" is actually the nom-de-plume of a mother-son writing team, and they seem to have worked out a winning formula....)  

Abraham Lincoln's Thanksgiving Proclamation

I imagine there are few American readers of this blog who didn't learn in kindergarten all about the Pilgrim Fathers and the "first Thanksgiving" at Plymouth Rock in the 1620s.  However, Thanksgiving wasn't actually established until 1863, when, in the midst of the Civil War (the same year that saw the Union victory at the Battle of Gettysburg), Abraham Lincoln make the following proclamation: 

"We have been the recipients of the choicest bounties of heaven; we have been preserved these many years in peace and prosperity; we have grown in numbers, wealth and power as no other nation has ever grown. But we have forgotten God. We have forgotten the gracious hand which preserved us in peace and multiplied and enriched and strengthened us, and we have vainly imagined, in the deceitfulness of our hearts, that all these blessings were produced by some superior wisdom and virtue of our own. Intoxicated with unbroken success, we have become too self-sufficient to feel the necessity of redeeming and preserving grace, too proud to pray to the God that made us.

It has seemed to me fit and proper that [the gifts of God] should be solemnly, reverently, and gratefully acknowledged with one heart and one voice by the whole American people. I do, therefore, invite my fellow citizens . . . to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next as a day of thanksgiving and praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the heavens."

Enjoy Thanksgiving, everyone.  I've got a tough few days at work this week, and then plan to get in some relaxation over the holiday.  I'll be resuming posts on Monday the 29th.  

Seen on the Subway

A girl in her late teens was reading Islamic Fundamentalism and the Doctrine of Jihad by A.J. Abraham.  

A thirty-something woman with a taxicab-yellow handbag was reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery.  

A tired man in his 50s -- a manual laborer, to judge by his clothing -- was reading The Imitation of Christ, by Thomas a Kempis.  

Park Avenue Divorce Tales

Last Thursday I remarked that there are only five basic divorce stories, and one commenter inquired as to what they are.  So, here is my wildly unscientific summary, based on my observations after 24 years in the divorce trenches:  

1.  Infidelity.  By a VAST margin the most, uh, "popular" of the basic fact patterns, easily comprising 75% or more of my caseload.  Ranges from garden-variety adultery (husband has one night stand on a business trip, or wife rekindles flame with senior prom date at her 25th high school reunion) to sort of mid-level cheating (husband has long-term liaison) to really epic infidelity (husband keeps string of exotic dancers/porn stars on the side).  The last variety is available only to hedge fund managers and other potentates due to extraordinary expense thereof.  

2.  Brief marriage; no kids; all a horrible mistake from the get-go.  What were they thinking in the first place?  A "starter marriage," if you will.   After a year or two of misery they split the wedding gifts and go their separate ways.  No harm, no foul.  

3.  One or both of them is an addict:  alcohol/pills/gambling/food/internet porn.  Complications ensue.  

4.  Already wobbly marriage implodes when they have kids; horrifying custody battle ensues that sometimes lasts longer than the marriage did.  These are by far the WORST kind of cases, and show people in their least flattering light.  I'm getting a stomach ache just thinking about it.  

5.  Long term marriage, with or without children, fizzles.  No big dramatic reason; they just wake up one day and "Eh.  Don't want to be married anymore."  

6.  (OK, OK, there are six, not five):  One spouse is a control freak and/or mentally cruel.  

---------- 

Where, do you ask, are all the horrible physical abuse cases?  Well, remember, this is a portrait of MY practice, of which such cases are not really a significant feature.  I'm not saying that none of my clients have ever been hit, or for that matter administered a slap/punch/kick, but it's almost always in the context of their epic final marital argument, often when they've already been discussing divorce and things get a little heated.   It's been nearly fifteen years since I had a client who was really a victim of chronic domestic violence.  

So, there you have it:  the six basic fact patterns into which my entire caseload can be categorized.   

 

Too crazed to post...

Sorry all, but at the moment the press of my litigation practice is too much for me to have any time to read, much less BLOG about matters bookish today.  Amuse yourselves by trolling through my archives (scroll down on the left column somewhere).   Talk among yourselves.  

Object of Desire

I am always on the lookout for the perfect boots, and I think I may have found them in this style from Cole Haan:  

Monday. Sigh.

Well, here we are again.  Monday morning.  I was in the office both days this weekend working on an appellate brief, so I'm feeling all rested and refreshed and raring to go for the four days of depositions I have this week.  [insert hollow laughter here]

The weekend was not a total loss, however.  On Saturday night I attended the New York Philharmonic's performance of Mendelssohn's oratorio, Elijah.  It was a superb performance all-round, but the real stand-out was Canadian bass-baritone Gerald Finley.  After the concert, we (as in my concert buddy Susan and I, not me and Mr. Finley) had a late dinner at Nougatine.  When I hopped in a cab to head back to the East Side, I found an empty Smirnoff bottle on the seat.  A quick reconnoiter revealed that no one had vomited in said back seat nor did the driver seem drunk, so I continued on home.  A classic evening in the Big Apple.  

When I trudged home from the office late Sunday afternoon, I sank into a light comfort read, The True Memoirs of Little K: A Novel, by Adrienne Sharp.   "Little K," a Russian prima ballerina assoluta in the waning days of the 19th century, becomes the mistress of the last tsar before his marriage to Alexandra, granddaughter of Queen Victoria and carrier of the hemophiliac gene that plays its part in bringing the imperial family to its doom.  Good for ballet lovers, Romanov aficionados, mentally exhausted lawyers, etc.  

Sunday Quote

"Delicious autumn!  My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking successive autumns." 

-- George Eliot

Seen on the Subway

My friend F spotted a bespectacled "lawyer-type" reading Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar.  This one is described on Amazon as "a brilliant psychological novel and meditation on history," originally published in 1951.  

I saw a woman in her 30s with a scruffy PBS tote bag reading John Grisham's latest, The Confession.  

A guy in his 40s with a holster on his belt for a blackberry, was reading No Man Is an Island, by Thomas Merton.  

Park Avenue Divorce Tales

Lest you think that my job is glamorous -- life amongst the rich and occasionally famous, as it were -- think again.  It's not all titillating anecdotes about excessive spending and mildly scandalous extramarital relationships.  Most of it is just a long slog, and truth be told, there are only about five basic stories.  This is not to minimize the very individual agony through which each person goes when their marriage crumbles, but seriously:  the number of basic fact patterns are surprisingly limited.

In any event, there are quite a few dark moments, including the time I had to go to court to obtain an order of protection for a client whose husband had shoved her down a flight of stairs.  There was the former professor of history at a prestigious university, a Ph.D. tragically rendered child-like by a massive brain tumor, whose clever M.B.A. wife finessed his signature on a separation agreement in which he gave up his rights to property or support. (We overturned the agreement after a two-year litigation.)  There was the mother of newborn handicapped twins whose husband walked out of the marriage before she was even released from the hospital after her C-section. 

So . . . glamour?   Not so much. 

Reading Now . . .

I'm reading the Persephone edition of Farewell Leicester Square by Betty Miller, a novel of anti-Semitism in Britain between-the-wars.   The protagonist is a young man who leaves behind his Jewish upbringing in Brighton, marries a Gentile woman, and becomes a successful film-maker.  The anti-Semitism he experiences is all the more chilling for being so casual and ingrained.  

I've just started Portobello by Ruth Rendell.  I prefer her stand-alone suspense novels (such as this one) to her Inspector Wexford series.  The fifty-year old central character, a resident of London's Notting Hill neighborhood, finds an envelope stuffed with cash one day on his way to the shops, and embarks on an ill-considered plan to find whomever lost it.  

Finally, I'm not so much reading as salivating over The Gourmet Cookie Book: The Single Best Recipe from Each Year 1941-2009.   I do miss Gourmet magazine (which folded in November 2009), so this is a wonderful resource.  Coconut macadamia shortbread, anyone?  Or how about Chocolate Peppermint Bar Cookies?  

 

Object of Desire

These goblets from William Yeoward (pattern: "Fern") are perfection:

 

Project Proust

As regular readers know, I have been grappling with the first volume of Remembrance of Things Past, and while I have actually enjoyed being carried away on Proust's great sea of words, I have at times been near to drowning.  But, to stick with my labored metaphor, a lifeboat has just arrived in the shape of the Proust Society, which meets at the Center for Fiction at the Mercantile Library in midtown Manhattan -- just a few blocks from my office!  Two "group reads" have just begin -- one a sort of "speed-read" lasting just ten months, and the other a four-year cycle in which the work is discussed in greater depth.  (This all makes me feel better about the snail-like pace of my own reading of Swann's Way . . . !)  I will be attending the November meeting of the latter group.

God, I love New York.  

Sunday Quote

"Like many intellectuals,  he was incapable of saying a simple thing in a simple way." 

-- Marcel Proust

Seen on the Subway

A tall young guy in business attire and Gucci loafers was absorbed in The Warrior Elite: The Forging of Seal Class 228 by Dick Couch.  Living vicariously, I guess . . . 

An elderly woman sporting an elaborately-coiffed wig and wearing a trim trench coat was reading Cleopatra: A Life, by Stacy Schiff.  

A 30-ish woman wearing black leggings, a bulky fleece jacket, and yoga shoes, and carrying a huge Tory Burch tote bag was reading John Grisham's latest, The Confession.  

 

Park Avenue Divorce Tales

One question I am asked often is "do you represent more women or men?"  The answer is: "it's about 50/50."  Many women, in my experience, initially express a strong preference for having female counsel, reasoning, "she will understand what I've been through!"   Not necessarily.  Just because an attorney is a woman, doesn't mean she's going to be warm, nurturing, and sympathetic to the wife's cause.  On the flip side, relatively few male attorneys are misogynistic jerks.  If you're in the market for a divorce lawyer (I'm so sorry), you should interview a wide range of attorneys, including both men and women, until you find one in whom you have confidence.  

One (much older) male lawyer of my acquaintance who shall remain nameless expressed his opinion on this point:  "Women shouldn't really want to be represented by female attorneys who have to haul themselves out of bed every morning, go to the office, and make a living in a competitive profession.  They aren't going to be sympathetic to the hedge fund managers' wives with full household staffs who spend their days shopping and getting manicures and pretending to be feminists.  What those women really need is to be represented by a chauvinistic a**hole like ME, someone who thinks women are ignorant and naive and need to be protected."  While this largely self-serving view is, admittedly, equally offensive to female lawyers, hedge fund managers' wives, and womankind in general, the really sad thing is:  he's not that wrong.  

Moonlight Mile

I have long been a fan of Dennis Lehane, so today when his latest novel, Moonlight Mile, was published, I bought it on my Kindle.  Featuring detective couple Patrick Kenzie and Angie Gennaro, this is a sequel of sorts to Lehane's Gone, Baby, Gone -- twelve years have passed, and the now 16-year-old Amanda McCready has gone missing again.  The investigation of her disappearance gives Patrick plenty of time to re-visit his decision to rescue four-year-old Angie from her loving kidnappers and return her to her neglectful mother.  

I can't wait to delve into this one.  

Object of Desire

The BookishNYC living room is already laden with decorative pillows, but I think there may be room for one more, from Pillow Folly:  

Sunday at the Met

I had family in town this weekend, and we took in an exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, "Man, Myth, and Sensual Pleasures:  Jan Gossart's Renaissance."  I had never heard of Gossart, a "Burdundian Netherlandish" artist (1478 - 1532), but a good friend had told me not to miss this show, and I was not disappointed.  From the exhibition notes:  "Most often credited with successfully assimilating Italian Renaissance style into northern European art of the early sixteen century, [Gossart] is the pivotal Old Master who changed the course of Flemish art from the Medieval craft tradition of its founder, Jan van Eyck, and charted new territory that eventually led to the great age of Peter Paul Rubens."  

Let me share some of the beautiful and fascinating images we saw today: 

First of all, Virgin and Child: 

 . . . Adam and Eve:  

  . . . Portrait of a Man: 

 . . . and A Young Princess (Dorothea of Denmark):  

After a happy hour spent at the Gossart exhibition, we were contemplating lunch and wending our way back to the Great Hall when we stumbled upon a small gallery (an anteroom, really) that contained a jewel of an exhibit -- the sort of thing the Met presents with little fanfare but in any other setting would be a blockbuster:  "Vienna Circa 1780:  An Imperial Silver Service Rediscovered."  The display cases contained dozens of solid silver plates, candelabra, wine coolers, tureens, etc. etc., as well as porcelain-handled sterling flatware, and stiffly-starched napkins elaborately folded into fantastical shapes.  This magnificent silver was made for Duke Albert Casimir of Sachsen-Teschen and his bride, Archduchess Marie Christine, daughter of the Empress Maria Theresa, and the only one of that formidable monarch's children who was allowed to marry for love rather than dynastic concerns (unlike her more famous sibling, Marie Antoinette).  Worth a return visit when I have more time, but in the meanwhile, I treated myself to the catalogue:

We had planned to continue to the Neue Gallerie (the museum of late 19th/early 20th century Austrian/German art) a few blocks away after lunch, but as we were already afflicted with severe cases of "Museum Feet" we fell into a cab and headed home!  ("Museum Feet" is the strange condition whereby every 100 feet traversed inside a museum = one mile run in the N.Y. Marathon.)