’ War And Peace, ’ Leo Tolstoy, October : The coincidence of two new translations was more than we could ignore. Andrew Bromfield has translated—for the first time in English—the original 1866 version of Tolstoy’s novel, which the author later rewrote at least twice. The celebrated husband-and-wife team of Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky have translated the 1868 edition, a much longer, more complex version in which Tolstoy inserted all manner of philosophical and historical digressions and radically reworked important characters and plotlines. Henry James called this novel a “loose, baggy monster.” He didn’t know the half of it.
’ Musicophilia, ’ Oliver Sacks, October: Music affects people in strange ways. In some, it induces seizures (sometimes only by a particular style of music—one woman seized every time she heard Neapolitan music played or sung, live or on record). Others see colors associated with particular tones. Music has been known to animate otherwise immobile Parkinson’s victims. Then there was a man who, after having been struck by lightning, developed an insatiable desire to hear and then play and then compose piano music. A gifted writer and a neurologist, Sacks spins one fascinating tale after another to show what happens when music and the brain mix it up.
’ Giving, ’ Bill Clinton, September : HIS ace in the hole as a politician was his ability to sound idealistic without seeming superior. This book is a plea to change the world through giving. His examples range from Bill and Melinda Gates to Dr. Paul Farmer—who started clinics to help the poor in Haiti and lately Rwanda—to a 6-year-old girl in California who organized her community to clean up the local beaches. This time Clinton left the policy-wonk part of his personality at home. This book-length sermon is all heart.
’ The Almost Moon, ’ Alice Sebold, October : First sentence: “When all is said and done, killing my mother came easily.” The rest of the novel isn’t this shocking, but the author of “The Lovely Bones” does know how to maintain intensity. The narrator’s always-difficult mother has been sliding into dementia; then one day, everything really goes wrong. In the 24 hours after an impulsive killing, there’s tragedy and comedy all over the place, and sometimes it’s hard to know the difference. Book clubs, take notice: practically every paragraph is a talking point.
’ The Coldest Winter, ’ David Halberstam, September : The late author made his reputation as a historian with “The Best and the Brightest,” about the Vietnam War. In what would be his last book, Halberstam writes about the quagmire before the quagmire: the Korean War. Here he alternates between descriptions of the politics back home and the battles on the front lines. One is a tale of cynical double-dealing, the other of bravery and zeal. This is a fine last testament.
’ The Quiet Girl, ’ Peter Hoeg, November : This is a tough sell. The hero, Kaspar Krone, is a clown. OK, a clown with mystical powers. And he’s a musical prodigy. Still there? Then how about this? Hoeg, the author of “Smilla’s Sense of Snow,” is one of those authors with a wretchedly colorful résumé (“dancer, actor, sailor, fencer and mountaineer”). Now that should be the deal breaker. But Hoeg has one ace left: he can tell a story. When Krone, anxious to beat a tax-evasion rap and escape deportation, agrees to help protect a group of children with whom he’s, um, telepathically empathetic, things kick into gear so successfully that you forget for pages at a time that the hero is a clown.
’ Blue Skies, No Fences, ’ Lynne Cheney, October :In this upbeat “Memoir of Childhood and Family,” conservative icon (and VP spouse) Cheney tells about coming of age during the 1950s, and pays tribute to her pioneer ancestors, who “pinned their hopes on America and kept heading west.” Laura Ingalls Wilder meets Dr. Laura.
