Silk Parachute

John McPhee, in my opinion, has for some 25 years been America's greatest non-fiction writer. Whether it has been his epic, four volume series of geology, or esoterica like The Deltoid Pumpkin Seed, or his best work, Coming into the Country, McPhee writes on an extraordinary range of subjects by finding and writing about the amazing people he has encountered, who give us insights into the subjects McPhee has selected. But not this time. This time the personality is John McPhee, writing about things that have happened to him. Whether it is the delightful title essay, "Silk Parachute," which is worth the price of the book itself, or his lyrical exploration of The Chalk, from England and through France, for the most part these are stories about McPhee, or jokes McPhee tells on himself. And, just occasionally, a glimpse of a truly extraordinary writer, doing what he does best. I own every published book from McPhee. I have read and re-read them all. This small collection ranks in the top 10%. Highly recommended.

In what may be Mr. McPhee's final book, we are treated to some insights that reveal the origins of some of his other writing. Thoughtful and well written as always, but likely most appreciated by those familiar with his work. While so many marvel at his ability to make otherwise mundane topics interesting, the quality of his writing and the simple ease of reading it never fail in any way. While it would be unfortunate for his readers, if this is his last, it is greatly appreciated.

As always, McPhee can make ANY topic fascinating! There were several in this book that I would never have thought I'd be interested enough in to do any research myself.

In many ways this collection of essays is a complete aberration for John McPhee. In many ways it's not at all. There are several essays that fit the typical McPhee template, ie a copiously studied exposition on a seemingly arcane subject presented in a structurally unique and engaging way. The two essays that jump out of this collection are on the chalk region of northern Europe (England, France, and the Netherlands) and another on Lacrosse. Both of these are flat-out superb, welcome territory for those of us who know and relish McPhee's oeuvre. At the far end of the spectrum are the one and two page personal essays, which may be unfamiliar to those who do not assiduously read the New Yorker. No longer being an assiduos reader of the New Yorker, I found them quite pleasurable to read on first encounter, in part for what they revealed about their author. Lastly there are what I would call hybrid essays - a bit longer than the personal essays, somewhat shorter than the first two I mentioned. Interestingly, these essays draw heavily on from McPhee's earlier writings, including Coming Into the Country and the Headmaster, and are valuable in their examination of McPhee's writing process. Overall, I always recommend McPhee's writing simply because it is so damn good. There is plenty damn good writing on display here: copiously researched material, crafted with a master artisan's skill with particular attention to clarity without the dilution of detail. That being said, there are plenty of McPhee books that are better; this collection would not do justice to someone first encountering his work; but for those already converted, go out and enjoy this collection.

"The New Yorker" was one of my first magazine subscriptions after I moved to New York City, and in the first [complimentary] issue there was a short piece about oranges. In those days, "The New Yorker" had no table of contents -- a friend said you were supposed to read everything -- the editors thought everything in the magazine was good -- and no names or bios of the authors, but it didn't take me long to figure out that the piece was written by a fellow from Princeton named John McPhee. I started to collect all of his books -- I'm still looking for an excellent copy of "The Survival of the Bark Canoe" -- that cover made from birch bark does not hold up very well -- and it's been a great joy over the years to read his essays first in "The New Yorker" and later in his collections of essays. This collection of nine essays is very personal, revealing many of the major influences in his life. His mother was certainly one of the most important, as is demonstrated in the title piece which appeared first in "Shouts and Murmers" in May, 1997. Extracts show not only her importance in his development but provide an example of the writing style which has enchanted me for four decades and more: "When your mother is ninety-nine years old, you have so many memories of her that they tend to overlap, intermingle, and blur. ... It has been alleged that when I was in college she heard that I had stayed up all night playing poker and she wrote me a letter that used the word "shame" forty-two times. I do not recall this. ... "There was the case of the missing Cracker Jack at Lindel's corner store. Flimsy evidence pointed to Mrs. McPhee's smallest child. It has been averred that she laid the guilt on with the following words: "'Like mother like son' is a saying so true, the world will judge largely of mother by you." ...and also recited it on other occasions too numerous to count. "We have now covered everything even faintly unsavory that has been reported about this person in ninety-nine years, and even those items are a collection of rumors, half-truths, prevarications, false allegations, inaccuracies, innuendoes, and canards. ... "At LaGuardia, she accompanied me to the observation deck and stood there in the icy wind for at least an hour, maybe two, while I, spellbound, watched the DC-3s coming in. ... Wwe went downstairs into the terminal, where she bought me what appeared to be a black rubber ball but on closer inspection was a pair of hollow hemispheres hinged on one side and folded together. "They contained a silk parachute. ...If you threw it high into the air, the string unwound and the parachute blossomed. If you sent it up with a tennis racquet, you could put it into the clouds. Not until the development of the ten-megabyte hard disk would the world ever know such a fabulous toy. Folded just so, the parachute never failed. Always, it floated back to you -- silkily, beautifully ... Even if you abused it, whacked it really hard -- gracefully, lig