There are two kinds of summer reading. One kind is that enjoyed on vacation, where the reader chooses books that are light, almost mindless, or ones in which the reader has an acute interest and never enough time during the rest of the year to indulge it. The other is the bane of high school students. It hangs like a thunder cloud over the entire summer and is usually suffered through in the final days of August, an assigned tome that the reader is predisposed to find boring and useless. My summer reading was of both kinds, with an interesting outcome.

I started the summer with a novel called "The Summer We Read Gatsby" (Danielle Ganek). The central relationship is that of two sisters, very different in personality and values, brought together to sort out the household of their deceased parent. It's interesting—and predictable—to watch them conflict over various issues and work out resolutions. Men from the past provide the requisite love interests, and a cast of quirky minor characters lends humor and an attempt at mystery. I was disappointed to find that the book has nothing to do with the Fitzgerald novel, other than that "The Great Gatsby" is lying on the living room table, presumably as example of a lifestyle to emulate.

A step up from this fairly one-dimensional plotline and characters were two books which have similar back stories: "Sarah's Key" (Tatiana de Rosnay) and "A Vintage Affair" (Isabel Wolff). In both books, set in Paris and London respectively, a young woman uncovers a mystery from the past. The stories both involve a young Jewish girl rounded up, separated from her family, and taken to a concentration camp. The juggling of a contemporary plotline and a story from 70 years ago lends a layer of context, and in both books the protagonist is a likeable, intelligent, compassionate young woman. One is an American journalist; the other owns a vintage clothing store. (Even if one lives in jeans, the merchandise is fun to picture.) Both books tie things up a little too neatly to be wholly believable, but a certain satisfaction comes with this sacrifice of realism.

Another book with a tragic secret in the past is "Maine" (J. Courtney Sullivan). For me, the best thing about the book is its setting. A widowed matriarch, contemplating selling the family summer home on the coast of Maine, is visited by her children and granddaughter. Through the shifting points of view, we learn about the misunderstandings, hurt feelings, and losses that have taken place over the years. While I guess there are lessons to be learned from this dysfunctional family, I wasn't compelled to care that much about most of the characters.

Having loved "Bel Canto," I looked forward to Ann Patchett's "A State of Wonder." From the opening page it is clear we are in the hands of a talented writer. The complex characters and relationships, exotic setting, and twists of plot make the book interesting. While I admired the skill of the writer, for some reason, I didn't engage emotionally with the book.

Could anyone capture the largeness of Ernest Hemingway within the pages of a novel? Paula McLain tries, but I don't think she succeeds. "The Paris Wife" is the story of Hemingway's first wife and their life as expatriates in the Paris of the 1920s. We see Hemingway struggle as a writer; we see his temper jeopardize some important friendships; and we see his love for another woman destroy his marriage. But I didn't feel I really understood the man – or the wife either – and how they lost what they had. Reading this novel was sort of like reading one of Hemingway's actual works, "The Sun also Rises," to be exact. We watch it all happen and have to fill in most of the emotion and motivation for ourselves. (If you read it, be sure to see Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris" – a delightful film with the same set of characters.)

Finally, at the end of August, I got to the other summer reading. I had decided in June that I would read – actually reread – "Cry, the Beloved Country," Alan Paton's 1948 novel about the racial divide of South Africa. I first read the book when I was in high school, so many years ago and yet I still had a strong, though vague, impression of the book. What was immediately apparent about this novel, in contrast to the other summer reading, is that this is a work of art and a story for all time. The first page creates a strong sense of place. The language is rich in detail and imagery and the sentences have a lyrical, somewhat epic, tone. The story is at once both personal and universal.

Two men, one black the other white, have lost their sons and go in search of them. Their stories overlap and each grows in understanding not only of his own son but of the generational and cultural differences that have separated them. The emotions the men experience are understated, often conveyed through images and are thereby real and intense. Kumala leaves his rural village to go to Johannesburg, where he is overcome with fear that he will never find his boy: where the buildings are tall and grow closer and closer in on him, where it is dangerous to cross a street and yet one must cross, and where if one gets on the wrong bus, one may be lost forever. All this is set within a complex historical context and a love of country and fear for its future. It is the story of the joys and tragedies of human life, of the capacity for love, courage, forgiveness, justice, and hope that gives dignity to man.

I don't know how high school seniors liked their summer reading book, but this senior found it compelling. Its unforgettable characters, rich context, poetic style, and universal themes are what were lacking in the rest of my summer reads.