"The Name of War," Jill Lepore's first book, is excellent. It prompts you to ponder colonial American history from a different perspective, but without forcing postmodern analysis or thought on you. It won the Bancroft Prize, one of the three most prestigious annual awards for historical works. It probably ranks as the best book I read through all of Swarthmore.
So, then why do I have so much trouble enjoying Lepore's writing in the New Yorker, which she, apparently and impressively, writes in her free time from teaching at Harvard? Each one, whether a historical essay or book review, has interesting nuggets (such as this: "Stages of life are artifacts. Adolescence is a useful contrivance, midlife is a moving target, senior citizens are an interest group, and tweenhood is just plain made up"), but, as a whole, fails to capture me. The most recent one, reviewing two books about parenting, put me to sleep a couple of times. I really want to like everything she writes. I'm mad at myself for not loving them. To end on a higher note, this blog post of hers is elegant.
Thanks to LCD Soundsystem for inspiring the post's title.
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