This book is proof that a good editor can make all the difference. This might have been a great guide, but unfortunately its editor let it wander off in the wrong direction.

There's no question that Robert Greskovic knows what he's talking about. He is a talented writer with charm and all manner of neat little anecdotes. But the problem with this book is how he spends his time.

The book is 600 pages long, but regrettably half of it is composed of cheesy "let-me-walk-you-through-it-and-tell-you-what-you're-seeing" descriptions of twelve famous ballets available for home viewing on videotape. Some 300 endless pages of that stuff. Message to Bob and his editor--if I had wanted a ballet video I would have gotten a ballet video, not your book. Dig?

The remaining 300 pages, though, are interesting. In fact, in reading that first half of the book, you will get a very good idea of the history of ballet, and the names of its major shapers, stars, and proponents. Also, the glossary at the end of the book is both clear and generous.

All in all, this book doesn't really come through on its promise. It's sort of an encyclopedia article on the history of ballet worldwide glued onto "Leonard Maltin Goes to the Ballet." And the whole notion of teaching readers how to go to the ballet and appreciate it sort of gets left in the wings.

Writing the perfect book on the massive bombing raids against Dresden on February 13-14, 1945, is an impossible task. First of all, the two people in my mind most responsible for it--Winston Churchill and Air Marshal Arthur Harris--are long dead and neither of them was forthcoming when alive about his true motives for the attack. So, that avenue is closed forever.

Next, there is the eternal question of "Was this raid militarily justified?" There are two ways to look at this: with 20/20 hindsight (the easy way out) as either a hawk or a dove, or else in gathering as much written and spoken testimony as possible, material that dates both before February 13, 1945, and then data from immediately afterwards, and then finally (and viewed with great caution) material that dates from decades after the raids. In this respect I give Frederick Taylor a good but not superior grade. I find that he and other historians could have taken this examination further. None of them has seemed interested in putting in the necessary and arduous legwork. Admittedly, 60 years after the fact it might well be impossible to find the true answers about the military justifiability of this raid.

Then, there is the second eternal question of "Was this raid morally defensible?" Here I think Taylor drops the ball. He refuses to take up the debate in depth, leaving it to the reader. As author, such a choice is his right, but for me the examination of this question would have been the most appropriate and most urgent one for us 60 years after the bombing.

But Taylor does some very worthwhile stuff in his book. He puts the city of Dresden in the spotlight, starting from its very founding (great work!), and he underscores the fact--in a chilling point that I never thought of in more than 10 years of reading about this subject--that Dresden was neither more nor less Nazi, neither more nor less guilty, than any other major city in Germany. His ample fresh interviews, too, give a sense of place and urgency to his portrait of Dresden in 1945. This is, I believe, the finest part of this study.

Taylor does an oustanding job of describing the actual act of getting hundreds of RAF bombers up in the air and then sending some of that aerial flotilla to the true target while marshalling part of the airborne fleet elsewhere over Germany as feints. There's a real "you-are-there" feel to the book at that point.

I'm disappointed in a few things. First, at times I detect an inappropriately breezy, casual, know-it-all tone in Taylor's narrative style. Also, at times he goes heavy on the footnoting and documentation (which I commend), and at times (at least in my assessment) he does the opposite, as major points are made with little or no accompanying references. Sometimes he cites precise details, other times he ushers forth soft generalities.

An example: Taylor claims that on the eve of the Dresden raid, the Allies did not know when the war in Europe would end. I simply can't accept that. It was more complicated, I suspect. By that date everyone on all sides knew that Germany was going to lose the war. They just didn't know if defeat was three months out, six months out, or perhaps a full year. The question for the Allied leaders then became: at what cost (human, monetary, political, cultural, public-relations) should the war be sped up, or, conversely, allowed to drag on? This question is admittedly a highly complex and troubling one. But Taylor, in my judgment, doesn't treat this question with the gravity and parsing it cries out for. I suggest that if you're writing a scholarly study about the pulverization of 13 square miles of a city dating from the Middle Ages as well as the loss of tens of thousands of lives, it would have been worth developing this issue far more fully.

A few final ideas: this book does NOT set out to invalidate all previous scholarship on the bombing or to definitively "solve" once and for all this episode in the history of warfare, but rather to recreate the event in the reader's eyes and to clarify what Taylor believes are some long-standing exaggerations and inaccuracies. I think this distinction is important.

In the end this is a good, thought-provoking, information-rich, and occasionally brilliant book, but not one that will be (nor should be nor was intended to be) the final examination of this aerial raid. Its lack of Draconian rigor and precision make it not quite embraceable as definitive history, but there's certainly a lot of good, fresh material here, and it will properly keep the debate concerning the military bombing of civilian populations in the spotlight.

As another reviewer has mentioned, this book is best read in the company of other works on the subject of the Allied bombing of Germany during World War II. The best is "Wings of Judgment" by Ronald Shaffer. Surprisingly, I did not find it in Taylor's bibliography. (It would have helped him.) Also worth a look are Hermann Knell's "To Destroy a City," W. G. Sebald's "On the Natural History of Destruction," and, imperatively if you read German, "Der Brand" by Joerg Friedrich.

There are bad novels, average novels, good novels, great novels, and then once in a while a novel comes along that rattles the cage of what, optimally, this literary form can and should achieve when approached by a fresh pen loaded with new and unique ideas. Adam Langer's "Crossing California" fits into the last category.

Many other reviewers have sung the praises of this work and given a synopsis of its plot and characters. I would like, therefore, to limit myself to ticking off what I think are the work's most innovative aspects.

First of all, this is a text that reminds me of what happens when a jeweler pops off the back of a Swiss pocket watch: you can see all the different gears and levers and wheels that work separately but ultimately coordinate themselves to produce a single mechanical movement. In much the same way, Langer's use of language creates a vast, dense, energetic panorama of people and events, but all of these diverse elements come together to form a clear, linear narrative. "Crossing California" boasts a crowded cast of characters--each of whom is well-drawn and distinct from the others. Even the tertiary personages who pop up only for a few lines add to the text's tone and motion. Simultaneously, each of the main characters has his or her own agenda, and pursues it in the deliciously detailed topography of the Rogers Park section of Chicago.

Langer's sense of humor must be described as a cornucopia. There's subtle humor, make-you-blush humor, laugh-right-away funny stuff, and laugh-the-next-day-when-you-finally-get-it funny stuff. All mixed together. In addition, Langer makes the narrator funny, but also succeeds at making the characters themselves funny independent of the narrator, on their own and when they interact with other characters. (Hopefully that explanation makes sense. If not, just read the book and you'll know what I mean.)

Lastly, this is a really clever and bittersweet salute to the fizzling out of the 1970's and the jolting start of the 1980's. To Langer's credit, I don't think this book could be moved out of the Rogers Park neighborhood or moved ahead or back in time and still keep its integrity: the work is the perfect harmonization of a unique time, a unique place, a unique national and local mood, and a fascinating gaggle of characters.

All in all, a very rewarding read from a dynamic new voice.

The other reviewers have done an excellent job of describing the plot of "The Iliad," so I'll just pass on some tips that have helped me enjoy this amazingly enriching work.

The challenge of reading "The Iliad" is reading it as it was meant to be read. That means you have to let go of our modern notion of accessing literature. This text is not a "book" or a "novel," and was never meant to be. (The notion of printed books and private reading of novels came along more than twenty centuries after Homer finished his poem!)

So you'll have to pretend, as you hold your copy of "The Iliad" in your hand, that you're actually back in Ancient Greece sitting in a small crowd of people on a hillside listening to an orator recite the poem. The reading would have been spread out over several days (or perhaps several nights) and the orator would have been a professional, sort of like a one-man theatre troupe. His performance (perhaps recalled from memory, perhaps read from a parchment script--no one knows for sure) would have had the timing, fire, and precision that the great Shakespearean actors would perfect two millenia later.

In short, pretend you're hearing the text, rather than eye-balling it. As you read each line in this top-notch modern English translation, enjoy it and gnaw on it and savor it as though it were from a short verse poem. If you've got the guts, read each line aloud, and listen to the echo. Don't let the work's complexity intimidate you: "The Iliad" gets better as you go along, as the work itself slowly tutors you how to read it. Understand that Homer meant it to be a challenging, marathon event, so don't be discouraged.

As you advance (take your time!) in your reading, the beauty of the vocabulary, the drama of the situation, and the baseness or nobility of the various characters will slowly emerge. The grandeur of the courage and humanness of the characters builds progressively, and in the end your reading of this masterpiece will leave you exhausted yet enlightened. You will never forget it.

AUDENTES FORTUNA JUVAT!

This is a tough book to review, and I hope you will be patient in reading my input. I'll start with what I perceive to be the book's problems, and then move on to what I admire most about it.

First of all, Hermann Knell is not a very talented crafter of prose. His style is frequently clunky, and the book is far from eloquent. Unwisely, Knell decides to synopsize the entire history of aerial bombardment, and this is a mistake. Others have done it better and more thoroughly.

But when Knell finally gets to discussing the RAF bombardment of the city of Wuerzburg, Germany, in 1945, this text comes into its own in a very touching way. You will not find a nonfiction book with a bigger heart. Knell survived the bombing of his hometown of Wuerzburg, and then nobly devoted years and years of his life as an amateur historian trying to understand why, militarily, the attack took place. (At the time of the bombing, leaders on all sides already knew that the German state was doomed, collapsing, and on the verge of surrender.) I won't tell you the outcome of that quest, but it might well bring tears to your eyes. Knell's levelheadedness and openmindedness are to be commended.

"To Destroy a City" is the heartfelt rumination of a young German man who lived through the entire experience (pre-bombing; the attack; the immediate post-attack period; and the rebuilding of the city). In this soulful journey that probes the guilt and innocence of both the attackers and the attacked, Knell's personal experience and anguish bring a feeling and a voice that no dispassionate professional historian could match. And this voice makes the book a must-read for those interested in military history and ethics.

Anyone who asks himself/herself questions about the proper use of military power against unarmed civilians in times of war will find food for thought here. Given the current U. S. presence in Iraq and Afghanistan, "To Destroy a City" is mightily relevant book.

This book succeeds both as an idea and as a text. Let me explain. The author's idea before he began was to put together a one-volume, easily-readable work that would allow a curious adult beginner to enter into, and then to understand and enjoy, the world of classical music. This was a lofty plan. Happily, the book is a triumph.

Phil Goulding is one of these people who are smart and charming, but not too show-offy smart and not too adorably cute. So the writing at all times is clear, compact, and interesting. It's an easy and fun read.

The book begins by justifying itself: Goulding explains why the format of the book is to discuss, in sequence, who he ranks as the 50 greatest composers of all time. After a few pages of music theory (not too boring, actually), we move on to the composers' profiles. These are great. Introduced by a black-and-white illustration of each master, we get a few paragraphs of biography, then a discussion of the particular artist's genius, some anecdotes, and finally a VERY handy list of what works we might want to listen to from that composer's pen. There are actually three lists: a beginner's list, an intermediate list, and then a be-all, end-all list for completists.

That's the long and short of this clever 600-page book. It's definitely not a college textbook, nor treatise on classical music. It is, however, a light, interesting, juicy look at classical music, brimming with fascinating observations and behind-the-scenes factoids. A bit gimmicky, but very enjoyable and useful.

This fascinating fourteenth-century text is as complex as it is misunderstood. The premise is simple enough: the author creates a fictional set-up where, over ten days, seven female and three male characters who are cooped up in a country estate tell one another a total of 100 stories. The title, "The Decameron," literally means "ten day's work."

But this framing technique of ten narrators is hardly the point. The star of this work are the tales told by these sequestered characters. These 100 stories are chillingly sneaky in how they will mess with your mind. At first the tales will appear shocking, overtly sexual, or even knee-slappingly funny. (Think "Monty Python.") But in fact, like Aesop, the great Italian prose author Boccaccio tucks an ambiguous, gnawing moral into each tale. You will laugh at first, and then the bittersweet truth of each story's lesson will zap you.

The true brillance of "The Decameron" is that it is kaleidoscopic in nature: while all the tales are somewhat similar to one another, each story is truly unique in how it aligns its characters, its structure, its action, and its moral. The basic ingredients are similar in dozens of stories, and yet their outcomes prove to be wholly different. So instead of getting "re-runs," you the reader wind up in a quicksand-like universe where some good-hearted characters are punished, others rewarded, and some scoundrely characters are quashed while other soar.

It is Boccaccio's humorous (yet ultimately grim) portrait of our herky-jerky, you-never-know world, where a person can never be sure of his destiny despite his conduct, that makes this work brilliant. Behind the ribaldry and the chuckles, this late-medieval author proves that our world (sometimes benevolent, sometimes cruel, but always inscrutable) is, indeed, nothing but a human comedy.

"Classical Music 101" is a great book, but there are a few caveats, which I will get to at the end of my review.

First off, this book examines--culturally and commercially--the place that classical music holds in today's world. Next, it breaks down classical music into its constitutive elements: how individual instruments produce sound; how the individual sounds of instruments come together in various orchestral formats; what role the conductor plays; and how the elusive art of active listening can be perfected. There is specific scrutiny of several representative musical works, a discography of recommended recordings, and an appendix listing concert venues all over the world.

The best aspect of the work is how it attacks, frequently and energetically, the question of why classical music matters. Plotkin has some great answers, and they are heartfelt rather than pat. The whole work is suffused with Plotkin's great knowledge and attention to detail. There are all manner of fascinating "insider" details--such as why the number of classical recordings continues to wither while record-company profits go up--that are the icing on this detail-rich cake.

There are some warnings, however. First, the typeface is troublingly small. People who have a hard time reading fine print should avoid this book. Second, this is a book is NOT a quick, breezy read (think "Classical Music for Dummies"), so if you don't want to work a little, skip it. Plotkin asks you to think and reflect, which is great--but there are less challenging classical-music guides on the market.

In the end, I believe the attentive reader of this book will be richly rewarded. Ploktin might easily make you into a lifelong classical music fan.

This is one of those movies that, for some reason, the critics decided to gang up on. I'm not sure why. Maybe because for some "Mona Lisa Smile" was too feminist, and for others not feminist enough. But let me try to make you understand why this film, while not perfect, is definitely worth a look.

First of all, in terms of politics, mentalities, clothes, and music, it does a great job of recapturing the early 1950s. Second, while the story might be just a little bit hokey (a brilliant young female professor heads to an elite women's college to shake things up), the movie has quite a group of legitimate issues to raise and then examine. And this is all done with some of the finest young actresses working today.

Many critics say that because the sexual revolution is over (and that's debatable--just watch "The Apprentice" on NBC!), the lessons of "Mona Lisa Smile" don't matter any more. I think that's dead wrong.

In addition, the film is not nagging and is not preachy, as some have suggested. It's an enjoyable mental journey back in time, a careful look at a few lives of a half-century ago. It is a well-told, revealing look, and, I suspect, well worth your attention.

There are many ways to look at this bouquet of a film. There is the city of Tokyo in its shiny, immeasurable brilliance. There is the advent of a star being born, Scarlett Johansson. There is the loopy, loose script that--while imperfect--hardly impedes on the breathtaking, panoramic view of the Japanese capital and the two tiny foreigners who run around in it.

But most of all there is Bill Murray, smoldering and chuckling in what must be the pinnacle of his far-too-long-overlooked career. One of the strengths (counterintuitively) of this film is that there's too little of him on screen. We wonder about this fascinating character Murray creates, wanting to dig deeper, to understand more and better. And yet the film resists, cleverly leaving Murray's washed-up-but-still-crackling fading movie star as one of the most enigmatic screen personages to come out of Hollywood in the last quarter-century.

A sequel might well be a travesty (you'll understand once you see the film), but audiences worldwide would certainly cheer for another slice of this compelling if relunctant character.