Commonwealth, by Ann Patchett, is a beautifully drawn portrait of a family, particularly the bonding of children of divorced parents who come together as allies. One can see that it was not altogether easy for them, but the love they shared becomes evident in the telling of the tale.
My next reading venture is to follow Jodi Picoult, with her latest novel, small great things. This started out really fantastically, but then I found myself in murky waters in the second chapter, because of a really aggravating character trait that I hope she will be investigating peacefully. In any case, I'll be reading it at home, with earmuffs and a scarf, maybe some fuzzy socks. I've decided to go on ahead with the journey, normally shying away from intense subject matter, and I'm really excited to see how Ms. Picoult will work this out. I feel very hopeful for her talent, and for the strength of art to heal.
Increasingly I find that my reading is oriented toward this subject, of healing. It's nice to have an actual story, but the self-help books are nice, too. In any case, I can find no other course of action for living in this world, except to promote hope for the future. Pretty much everybody is acquainted by a yucky past, and that must be why humans invented art. To see, but not see, or at least to decide where one is looking.