Among Flowers: A Walk in the Himalaya

“Years ago, a I read a much-lauded book about a walk through the Himalayas described as a spiritual masterpiece that was mostly a masterpiece of selfishness. The author's wife died of cancer so he went on an epic, dangerous trip to look for leopards and process his big feelings. Fine, fine, fine, but—he left behind their two young children. As I read about his struggles, the yaks, his guilt, the Sherpas, his inner conflicts, these children, little children who had just lost their mother, hovered over everything. Because of this, I found pretty much everything he had to say—no matter how sublime—suspect. I could not understand why this evidence of pure ass-hattery was not a more salient point for other readers.  I much prefer the awareness and astringent honesty of Jamaica Kincaid. In this book, she chronicles a seed-gathering expedition in the Himalayan foothills, and through her relentless noticing, the reader sees all sorts of things more sharply: the quantity of human labor is required to support the pleasure of tourists, how easily self-justification comes for whatever one wants to do, the peculiar greed that propels people from one place to another, the need to purchase and acquire and take. There are also rhododendron forests, encounters with leeches, and Maoist insurrection, all described in twining, barbed sentences. Sharper still is MY GARDEN BOOK, a collection of essays on making (and understanding) gardens that explores notions of home and homemaking, and excavates the tangled, troubling roots (whiteness, racism, colonialism) lurking beneath the cheery world of seed catalogs and specimen plants. Her sentences, with their twists and sharps, are a particular pleasure.”