What I expected to read based on the title, tagline, and blurb, and what I did read, didn't quite match up. I'm not quite sure what to make of it either.
The narrative is something of a mess. The structure is lopsided, the pacing off. I kept thinking, a journalist who has led on so much big reporting should know a bit better. 250 pages of anecdotes and recollections traded between the authors (mostly of their own lives, a bit of when their lives intersected), and then the book barrels into the final 50 pages mostly leaving Mr K aside to give Lipman room to share the various travails she survived between quiet revisits to Melanie and her various losses.
I don't mean to diminish them. I'm just not quite sure where it all fits, how I'm supposed to feel as things jumble in to culminate, even for the askance tie-in of 9/11 and Mr K tied together by another erstwhile student's op-ed.
And with that, buried in that final 50-some page avalanche, revelations about Mr K's past (held off too long in the narrative), what happened to Stephanie (Mr K's other daughter who went missing--necessary to recount but both loomed hugely from the first page and then sort of diminished), illnesses and deaths and memorials and last-hurrah get togethers ... all get muddied. So much was crammed in that none were given space to breathe and make much of an impact or come to a focus point or culmination of "lessons." All of that deserved more room.
At least a cogent chapter each.
While, I think it can be argued, the teenage angst and growing pain years and later-in-life, life choices, could have been shortened considerably.
I really feel as if what Mr K endured to get to and then succeed in America, plus the string of losses and traumas at the end, and then the upswell of nostalgia at the very end gives it a bigger, and some false, sense of profundity that isn't actually grounded in the text, as-is. There in the wider story or granular parts? I think so. But it's not quite, therein.
The impression of Mr K is vivid, but he is only an impression. This isn't his story even though it's about him, and for him. It's the story of him through others' eyes. At least the last few pages pivots us into what made him a lasting and effective teacher for so many.
There's a mash-up of lessons too. Bootstraps, tough love, whiffs of 'political correctness now gone too far,' achieving dreams because of determination and grit, perseverance. None bad, none resonant for me. I dunno, I felt a bit like the fifth-wheel, nodding along with interest but no connection to stories cherished and important to those telling them without fully being able to draw me in.
I didn't warm to Lipman (she doesn't owe me that). I felt for Melanie and wanted more of her story--more of her father. It's a tribute and hazy memories shared around a dinner table and diary entries and a narrow slice of being the detective of someone's life -- although neither woman does the sleuthing. It didn't quite uplift or coalesce or teach its lesson to me.