The Group

One of the biggest problems faced by members of a book club a group of us formed in November, 1990, was what to name it. Unlike groups that are all-women, all-history-buffs or have some other defining trait, there was nothing homogeneous about the eight or nine people gathered together to talk about Oscar Hijuelos’ “The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love.”

None of us had been in a book group before, so we made up the rules as we went along. We decided to meet monthly, in each other’s homes in a rotating order. The host would choose the book, which would be announced a month in advance, and cook a meal that would preferably have some connection to what we were reading. (The dinner, that first night, was a wonderful Cuban chicken dish and fried plantains.) Talk would come first, then dinner. That way, even if the book is a dud, we all still have something to look forward to. Significant others, offspring and visiting friends could join in for the meals, but with rare exception the book discussions were limited to group members.

It was at about the third or fourth meeting that one of the group’s members suggested we name the club, but we had nothing in common except that everyone fit into at least one of three categories. So, we became “The Sportswriters, Moms and Gay Guys Book Group.” Not the most graceful of names, but we got a good laugh out of it and it showed off the diversity of the group that is, I think, its strength.

With each of us bringing along our own tastes, the choice of books has been wildly varied, embracing classics, little-known contemporary novels and popular fiction. Because of the club, I have read books I had never even heard of but that now mean a great deal to me, such as Cynthia Ozick’s “The Messiah of Stockholm” and James Salter’s “A Sport and a Pastime.”

At the very best meetings, everyone comes to the table with a somewhat different take on a book as multifaceted as John Cheever’s novel “Falconer” (my favorite of the 43 books we have read) or John Casey’s “Spartina.” It’s as if everyone has a different piece of the puzzle, and as we talk, these pieces begin fitting together, forming a far richer tableau of themes than any we could have come up with on our own.

Over the years, there have of course been changes in the club. Members have dropped out or moved away (although one woman, who moved to Fresno, still makes it down for most meetings), and new members have taken their place. One person in the group got a divorce and another had a baby (thus becoming a mom, although we no longer limit ourselves to the initial three categories). We celebrated the publication of one member’s book, and offered comfort to another who lost a home to the Calabasas fire. Sometimes, when we meet, it almost seems that it’s more to catch up on each other’s lives than to talk about a book. But it is indeed the books that bind us together.

At that very first meeting, one of the sportswriter members suggested that the novel about the musical “Mambo Kings” brothers had a structure akin to that of a long-playing record (they still existed, back then), spiraling ever downward as the tragic tale is played out. That comment, as redolent as the novel itself, convinced me that a book club should always be a part of my life.

In addition to the aforementioned books my personal book club favorites have been: Umberto Eco’s “Foucault’s Pendulum” (a particularly spirited discussion), E.M. Forster’s “Howards End,” Jane Smiley’s “A Thousand Acres,” James Baldwin’s “Another Country” and Paul Bowles’ “Let It Come Down.”

Three notable duds have been: Susan Sontag’s “The Volcano Lover” (unanimously hated), Vikram Seth’s gigantic “A Suitable Boy” (everyone liked it, but not enough to finish it in the two months allowed) and Terry Kay’s “To Dance With the White Dog” (too lightweight).

The Book Review invites readers to send us a few paragraphs about your book group, and particularly to send in lists of the books that have made for the best (and worst) discussions.