Monday, July 07, 2008

Heard this one before...

It was a dark and stormy night. As the lightning crashed above their heads and bare tree branches clawed at the casements, the book group huddled closer around the dining room table. The electricity long extinguished, the members strained to see the text of the novel each was clutching in the light of the few stubby candles in the tarnished candelabra. Another crash illuminated the darkly paneled room, and a few of the female members shrieked in terror.
“It was just too freaky,” said one of the braver readers, raising her voice over the lashings of rain now sheeting the windows. “Really, I’m sitting in my living room, reading The Thirteenth Tale for the meeting this weekend, and my husband comes in talking about this absolutely bizarre story that he just heard on the news. Something about how that old mansion up out in the country—you know, that one that you can just barely see from the highway, way up on the bluffs west of town—had suddenly burned to the ground. And I swear, all the hairs on my neck just prickled up, that story happening just as I was reading this story. Uncanny, I tell you.”
An involuntary shiver went around the table, as each member briefly considered their situation. Invited to the mysterious group, they none of them had met prior to this meeting, when a letter written in a spindly hand suddenly appeared, summoning them to the remote house on this unseasonably frigid autumn night. Still, at the appearance at the door of the apparently normal (if chilly) housekeeper, they had each inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps their hostess was simply what she claimed to be: a wealthy housebound woman, a voracious reader interested in gathering the opinions of astute readers. At any rate, the allure of a weekend at the posh but remote mansion, simply for the price of some conversation with an eccentric old lady was an offer that none of the invitees felt compelled to refuse.
But as a sudden gust of wind from the direction of the kitchen flickered the candles, the readers were beginning to doubt their decision. One man, a tall, bulky fellow with a touch of gentleness about his eyes, leaned slightly to his neighbor. “When did Clothilde leave?” he asked in low tones. “About twenty minutes ago. She was convinced there were more candles in the woodshed, but I can’t imagine why it’s taking so long,” whispered the woman, a petite redhead with blood red painted nails.
“Brave woman,” the man muttered, “going out into this weather. Make you think we’re on the wild moors rather than—“
“Rather than isolated in the middle of these dense woods?” the woman interrupted impatiently. “I’m not sure this is altogether better, thank you. Especially when the housekeeper off and disappears on us. And not a word about when our hostess will appear. Why do you think she invited us here, when she’s not even going to bestow her august presence upon us?”
“Odd, yes,” the man nodded, reaching for his cup and saucer. “Perhaps Clothilde couldn’t remember where the candles were in the shed.” He lowered his voice as he brought the tea to his lips. “Or maybe she stumbled across something…unexpected… in the woodshed.”
The redhead’s eyes widened as her thin lips pressed into an impossibly tight frown.
“Well, I know one thing,” suddenly announced the tall blond sitting at the head of the table. As if on a string, all the heads on either side of the table swiveled towards the voice. There was enough of the commanding, teacher-like air to the straight-backed woman that none of the members could have ignored, although each had secretly come to loath her. “Whomever was playing their music so loudly last night was beyond rude. Mandolin music, of all things! And the goings on in the garden, right under my window. Whomever was darting around the topiaries has no respect for people’s privacy. Really, I could hardly get to sleep without thinking about it.”
An older woman, attempting to salvage something of a peaceful gathering, gently patted the blond’s bony hand. “There now, perhaps it was only something you imagined. Maybe last night you dreamed of mandolins.”
The blond glared at her.
The man opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly thought better of it. He, too, had seen shadows in the garden, indistinct shapes flitting about the tortured shapes of sculpted scrubs. But for one moment as the cloud revealed a full moon, he imagined he briefly saw identical features on two faces.
Before he could further consider the meaning of it all, the door from the kitchen suddenly flew open, blowing a slight figure into the darkened room. As a few frightened hands sought to relight the candles, others supported Clothilde as she found her way to an empty chair. The relit candlelight found her face, terror written over every wrinkle. No one could tear their eyes from her unblinking stare, her claw-like hands clutching at the chair arms as if to splinter them.
“I know.” She rasped as another lightning flash dazzled the room. “God help me. I know the secret.”

Pithy Verdict: For good or bad, every Gothic cliché in the book, and your book group has already decided to read it.

Tuesday, July 01, 2008

That mighty heart lying still.

One of the arguments leveled against book reviewing bloggers is the tendency of some to let their own personal experiences play into their reviews, rendering any pretense of objectivity suspect. I can see the validity of such an argument, although I think it makes too much of an assumption that Internet commentary ought to be answerable to the same standards as traditional media--and that's an argument that I'm not about to wade into. Still, I wanted to make the point that my strong reaction Chris Faust's lovely Nocturnes wasn't due as much to the artistic quality of the photos (formidable, by any estimation), but to the sense of being reminded of images so closely associated with the landscapes that I grew up with.

Faust in a Saint Paul based photographer, and the majority of the images here are from Minnesota, Ontario and Wisconsin. He also ranges as far afield as Tennessee, Arizona and Oregon. But as the title implies, the common thread is panoramic night scenes, capturing the landscapes with classic photographic techniques. He uses no digital manipulation of the images, instead relying on very long exposures, careful composition, and considerable darkroom tweeking.




The results are extraordinarily startling. The surface of Lake Superior becomes a burnished mirror, the familiar Duluth breakwater errily suspended above its own reflection. Ice encased freighters moored for the winter have a monumental potency about them. One image of the Duluth docks looks more like a vista along the ancient Nile than the gritty Iron Range. Especially for me, the photos of downtown Minneapolis capture the sense of crackling energy frozen in one vital moment. It's not so much a piece of artwork as a sensation, captured and preserved.

The book includes an essay by former Walker Art Center curator Joan Rothfuss, and most photographs have brief commentaries included in an appendix. Published by the University of Minnesota Press, the images do have a little unevenness of quality in a few--not surprising for a collection of tritones. Presented with a minimum of commentary in the actual collection, the artwork speaks brilliantly for itself.




Pithy Verdict: Extraordinary art that capture more than just the image.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Searching for that magical world.


The premise of Justine Larbalestier’s first book in her Magic or Madness trilogy is basic enough: Reason, a fifteen-year-old whose existence has taken place largely in the Australian bush, is sent to live with her grandmother, a woman whom Reason’s mother has always regarded as the worst type of evil on the face of the planet. When her mother, Sarafina, lands in a mental institution, Reason uncovers enough signs that her mother wasn’t entirely lying: the remnants of a cat skeleton buried in the cellar, talismans hidden in picture frames of family members, and most intriguingly of all, a large antique key that seems to fit the lock of door that Grandma Esmeralda doesn’t want used.

Well, we can see where this is heading. And sure enough, as soon as Reason steps through that door, odd things begin to happen. Or at least that’s the promise. In spite of a solid, if somewhat uninventive setup, Magic or Madness is seriously lacking in either magical moments or scary instances of madness. On the other side of the door, Reason lands in a deep snowdrift—at the very heart of New York City’s East Village. This is enough to convince her of the existence of magic, and the sudden arrival of a ‘friend’—the magically savvy Jay Tee—suggests that her appearance was somehow expected. But by whom? Why does the door open onto this particular street? And what is the purpose of Reason’s own magic—a particularly astute sense of numbers and mathematics—in this world where magic is so close at hand?

The fact that Larbalestier’s book is the first in a trilogy following Reason points to revelations to come. But there are some serious holes in the first book that aren’t explained and were enough to drive me to distraction. Sarafina is left in the mental hospital, her story largely dropped. The relationship between Reason and Esmeralda changes, but without much justification why this is the case. With the exception of Tom, the neighbor boy who befriends Reason and displays some surprising magical qualities of his own, none of the characters feels fully developed. Finally, Larbalestier tends to hand the narrative off to various characters. One chapter we’re in Jay-Tee’s mind, the next we see things from Reason’s point of view, and after that from Tom’s. The effect is hard enough to do in a solid plot; here, it only serves to annoy. Perhaps in the remainder of the trilogy, Reason and her predicament are whipped into a fabulous tale of secrets and exhilarating danger. But with such a lackluster beginning, it’s hard to imagine any teens willing to extend their attention for another few hundred pages.


Pithy Verdict: A little magic, less madness. Mostly mundane.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

The royal reader.

This is a wickedly funny little novella. It's a simple conceit: the Queen, out exercising the corgis, stumbles on a municipal bookmobile. In the name of good PR, she picks out a title, and obliging reads it. And the floodgates are opened. Soon HM is blowing through Trollope, putting the French president on the spot with her questions on obscure playwrights and drilling her subjects on their current reading during receiving lines. Needless to say, the Establishment is in an uproar. Even the corgis retaliate, chewing the library copy of the McEwan to a pulp. This passage, when the Queen is on her way to the opening of Parliament with a contraband novel, is particularly genius, and worth quoting at length:


Still, it is an ill-tempered royal couple that is driven down the Mall, the duke waving viciously from his side, the Queen listlessly from hers, and at some speed, too, as the procession tries to pick up the two minutes that have been lost.


When they got to Westminster she popped the offending book behind a cushion in the carriage, ready for the journey back, mindful as she sat on the throne and embarked on her speech of how tedious was the twaddle she was called on to deliver and that this was actually the only occasion when she got to read aloud to the nation. 'My government will do this...my government will do that.' It was so barbarously phrased and wholly devoid of style or interest that she felt it demeaned the very act of reading itself, with this year's performance even more garbled than usual as she, too, tried to pick up the missing couple of minutes.


It was with somer elief that she got back into the coach and reached behind the cusion for her book. It was not there. Steadfastly waving as they rumbled along she surreptitiously felt behind the other cushions.


'You're not sitting on it?'


'Sitting on what?'


'My book.'


'No, I am not. Some British Legion people here, and wheelchairs. Wave, for God's sake.'


When they arrived at the palace she had a word with Grant, the young footman in charge, who said it was security and that while ma'am had been in the Lords the sniffer dogs had been round and security had confiscated the book. He thought it had probably been exploded.


'Exploded?' said the Queen. 'But it was Anita Brookner.'


The young man, who seemed remarkably undeferential, said security may have thought it was a device.


The Queen said: 'Yes. That is exactly what it is. A book is a device to ignite the imagination.'


The footman said: 'Yes, ma'am.'


It was as if he were talking to his grandmother, and not for the first time the Queen was made unpleasantly aware of the hostility her reading seemed to arouse.


'Very well,' she said. 'Then you should inform security that I shall expect to find another copy of the same book, veted and explosive-free, waiting on my desk tomorrow morning. And another thing. The carriage cushions are filthy. Look at my gloves.' Her Majesty departed.


'Fuck,' said the footman, fishing out the book from where he had been told to hide it down the front of his breeches.


Brilliant. The reviews have quibbled that the story is slight, and that Bennett uses too snobby a tone. Well, there's not a whole lot to it, but the whole point of the snobby tone is to mimic that stiff upper lip the Establishment is so apt toward. Bottom line: a fun, quirky read, perfect for a lazy Sunday morning.

Pithy Verdict: We are very amused.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Where have we been, where are we going?

Well, it's been ever since I've posted anything on my humble blog here. Mostly this is due to sheer laziness on my part, but I like to tell myself that because it's finally sunny out in this stretch of the woods, I'm entirely justified in laying off the laptop and absconding to the nearest park to loll around in the shade with the book du jour.

But another idea has been playing around in the back of my mind. This reader's year has been up for quite a while, and I'm wondering if it's time to take the blog in another direction. There will still be reviews of the books I'm reading (I'm pretty sure, at least), but maybe there'll be some more musings on reading, library life, publishing or culture in general. Perhaps some linking to whatever strikes me as especially amusing--or particularly galling. Which will probably make it just like every other blog out there, but as it's my blog, it will be that much more special. I feel the need to do something different. God knows, if it wasn't this, it would probably be rearranging the furniture in the living room. I'm a little frightened of what I might find under the sofa, so this seems like a better choice for all involved.

So, stay tuned. The address won't change, the old posts will remain accessible in the archive (Blogger willing), and I might change my mind in a few days anyway. Stay tuned and check back.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

A broken plate, an almighty bang.

It's a good thing that I'm a sound sleeper. I wasn't roused when an earthquake in southern Illinois apparently sent tremors as far north as this region, but had I been I would have given up reading for good. I happened to be deep into Simon Winchester's Krakatoa at the time, and the possibility that perhaps I'm getting a bit too involved in my reading material immediately crossed my mind. Life imitating literature would, in this case at least, be a bit too much, even for me.

My edginess stemmed from the depiction Winchester gives the catastrophic eruption of the Indonesian island of Krakatoa in 1883. At the time that it occurred, the islands of modern day Indonesia were under the colonial rule of the Dutch, centered at Batavia (today's Jakarta), on the island of Java. At the very center of the Dutch holdings was Krakatoa, straddling the very busy shipping lanes between the west coast of Java and the eastern point of Sumatra. Unbeknownst to the Dutch masters or the Javanese population, Krakatoa was also at the very center of a tectonic plate boundary, and a very active one at that. The volcano had belched minor eruptions in the past, but on the morning of August 23, 1883, an eruption occurred that vaporized Krakatoa, triggered an immense tsunami, chilled world temperatures for years and was directly responsible for the deaths of at least 30,000 people, as well as coining a new word for a cataclysm.

As Winchester would have it, the eruption also had a lasting impact on global communications, and possibly sparked the growing global Islamic fundamentalist movement. To be certain, Krakatoa's spectacular demise did have global implications (the declining world temperatures on the negative side, the fantastic sunsets that inspired poets and artists to create some fabulous artwork). But even though Krakatoa's eruption occurred at the dawn of the communication age, and Indonesia experienced a surge in sectarian violence, the connection seems more than a little tenuous to me. The lack of much in the way of sources in this portion of the book is telling.

But, thankfully, most of the book focuses on Winchester's strength: the depiction of why and how Krakatoa so completely blew its top. A trained geologist, Winchester describes in loving detail the science behind plate tectonics, as well as the different biological and geological boundaries that led to the acceptance of the theory--too late for the 1883 explosion, but oh so beneficial in predicting upcoming events. The geological details are couched in the history of the region, culminating in a vivid depiction of Java and Batavia in the days leading up to and during Krakatoa's final days.

When I say details, I do really mean details: Winchester is fond of footnotes explaining perhaps too much about certain points, and they're almost all tangential to the main narrative and in some cases, reiterates points made earlier in the text. He's also prone to polysyllabic indulgences, a trait perhaps not so surprising for a man who wrote two histories of the Oxford English Dictionary, but do we really need to say 'ambuscade' when 'ambush' would do? And some readers may find Winchester's humorous asides to be too glib, detracting from an otherwise straightforward narrative.

For all its faults, Krakatoa not only makes some difficult concepts accessible, but entertaining. Illustrated with historical and contemporary images, the book never fails to give a vivid image of the horrendous toll that the volcano wrought on the entire planet. Written in 2003, Krakatoa was published before the massive earthquake and tsunami originating on the northern coast of Sumatra (occurring along the same plate boundary that Krakatoa rests on), but reading it in retrospect it only continues to underscore how interconnected we are when it comes to the Earth's life cycles.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Sour notes.

Bel Canto is one of those novels that just seem to keep popping up in reviews, 'best' lists and conversations about literary fiction. Since its publication in 2001, the winner of the PEN/Faulkner, Orange and National Book Critics Circle awards kept reappearing on my list of books that I needed to read, so transcendent was its beauty, its themes haunting and its story meaningful on so many levels. Plus, there was the added benefit of opera as one of its subjects--a topic near to my heart.

So I've read it, and try as I might, I cannot say that I especially liked the book. I agree that Patchett's writing is beautiful: her exploration of art and its bonding essence in a microcosm that has all the beauty and fragility of the sheen on a bubble. But the centerpiece of all this beauty, the catalyst really, never struck me as genuine. Maybe it's something of a disingenuous argument to say that this art is built on sometime that can only be called an artifice. But when the entire premise of the book is to suggest that art, the creation of human beings, can suspend and overcome the divisions so pervascent in humanity, to build the entire plot on a rather unbelievable human character undermines the whole endeavor.

The central character that I'm talking about is Roxanne Coss, world-renowned soprano. She is at the vice presidental mansion of a nameless South American nation for the lavish party of a Mr. Hosokawa, opera lover and wealthy businessman. Wooed to the country in hopes that he will help jumpstart the economy, the wealthy and powerful gather to celebrate the man who almost no one knows, or, aside from his money, particularly cares for. When a radical group storms the house and takes the guests captive, both captors and hostages alike are entranced by Coss' ethereal voice. Soon, the vice president is tending to the cleaning of the house, the rebel generals are meeting for chess in the study, and more than one hostage is getting to know their captors quite well.



There's only one possible ending to all of this, and when it comes, it's still a remarkable moment. But it would be more so if I could really connect with the characters. Patchett is a great writer, but I think Bel Canto could really have been masterpiece with more attention paid to the main character. In the end, Bel Canto had its moments (the story of Mr. Hosokawa's translator being the best), but I couldn't help but feel some disappointment in its closing passages.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Love for the ages.

A shortish post today, fitting for its subject: The Professor's Daughter, at a scant 64 pages, is slender even by graphic novel standards. I think it took me all of half an hour to breeze through it, and that included a trip to the kitchen to toast a bagel. It's a simple enough story of forbidden love, two people from alien cultures struggling to overcoming thousands of years of history and the bonds of society to somehow start a life together.

It sounds melodramatic, and I think it's fair to say it's over the top. But Joann Sfar's story has the nice twist that the particular culture gap is more like a culture canyon--our Romeo is the dashing mummy Imhotep IV, his paramor, Lillian Bowell, the daughter of Britian's leading Egyptologist. Together, they wander through a sepia London curiously comfortable with daily sightings of active mummies. Still, the world is fraught with danger for the two lovers, from a cup of tea which has nearly devestating effects on Imhotep, to the fathers of the lovers, both of whom will go to (or in Imhotep's case, resist) the grave to in order to keep the lovers apart. A little kooky, but whatever. The real reason for the story is to give artist Emmanuel Guibert an opportunity to show off his brilliant depiction of nineteenth century London and its penchant for antiquities. Working mostly in watercolors, the panels have the muted warmth of old photographs. Interior scenes, especially, glow with the flickering of gaslight or a solitary candle. The damp gloom of the Tower of London or the London docks is immediately established by a blue cast or an eerie green. Guibert mostly sticks to a standard six panel page, but when he opts for larger scenes (too rarely, in my opinion), the perspectives are creative and expansive.

I read The Professor's Daughter in First Second's fine 'collector's edition,' which includes some sketches Guibert made in researching the book. His images of the British Museum and London scenes are beautiful in their own right, considerably different from the panels. Judging by the other works by Guibert, The Professor's Daughter might be a bit of a departure. Originally published in France in 1997, the translation here by Alexis Siegel only just appeared last year. Enjoy the pictures, don't expect too much from the story, and hope that Guibert does more of this type of graphic novel in the future.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

Don't be a cow.

In general, I don't read (or 'read' depending on your definition of reading) books on CD, mostly because I have an attention span that can be measured in nanoseconds, but also because audiobooks are most effective on long-distance hauls, and I tend to use those occasions to sing/shriek along to Joni Mitchell and Neko Case. But I stuck with Catherine Gilbert Murdock's young adult novel Dairy Queen, and I don't regret a moment of lost belting time. As read by actress Natalie Moore, Murdock's fresh coming of age novel sparkles with earthy humor and a genuinely believable protagonist in D. J. Schwenk.

At first glance, D. J.'s story may seem a bit of a stretch: she's a high school sophomore who practically runs her family's Wisconsin dairy farm on her own after her father is laid up with a hip injury. The only daughter in a football mad family, she also struggles in a family with serious communication issues: her younger brother hardly speaks, her father is a demanding figure short on sympathy for his overextended daughter, and her mother fiercely maintains a facade of normalcy over all the damage underneath. D. J.'s also struggling through school, and constantly has to tend to her one (and only) friend Amber. And that's only the status quo at the start of the book. The action actually begins when D. J. is recruited to help get a rival football team's quarterback into shape over the summer. Incredulous, D. J. puts Brian to work hauling hay bays and running sprints, all the while seething over his privileged background and wimpy attitude. But as she starts to work out with him, she finds out that she's slowly falling in love--with football.

Well, there's other stuff going on with Brian, but D. J. is such a well realized character that some formulaic touches are forgivable. Even though she has so much going wrong in her life (and there's more major issues than the ones I've discussed here), D. J. comes across as a thoroughly normal sort of teenager--she handles her responsibility as best as she can, she doesn't get hung up on herself and she doesn't react to the changes in her life with over-the-top actions. She's the right mix of child on the cusp of adulthood, a character that you can imagine meeting at the local high school. And after a year schlepping manure and rising at dawn to milk, D. J. has decided she doesn't want to go through life blindly obedient like a cow.

D. J. decides to try out for the high school (male) football team as a running back, which brings the expected tension of solitary girl in a male dominated sphere--not to mention playing against Brian. My complaint here is that Murdock does tend to fall into the expected scenario of the two facing off against each other on the field. But she doesn't tie up some of the other loose ends as well, for D. J.'s experiences will continue in The Off Season. D. J. is a character worth rooting for, both on and off the football field.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Moonlighting in murder.

Irish author John Banville may very well deserve a break. His work has twice been short-listed for the Booker Prize (his 2005 novel The Sea took top honors), he is a long time contributor to The New York Review of Books, and formerly edited the literary section of The Irish Times. He's earned the respect of literary critics and his work seems bound for the Everyman's Library or Penguin Modern Classics treatment and literary survey courses.

But Banville is taking a different tack, perhaps a little surprising for an author so estabilished in literary circles. The Silver Swan marks Banville's second foray into mystery/suspense/noir fiction, under the pseudonym Benjamin Black. His first novel, Christine Falls, introduced Quirke, a pathologist obscurely laboring (and drinking) away in post-war Dublin. In that novel, Quirke stumbled into a mystery when a particular young woman turned up on his autopsy table, and he reluctantly pursued the cause of her death to the very core of his own haunted story. That novel was marked by Banville's masterful depiction of a brooding Dublin, matched by the delicate shifting family relationships. I actually wound up buying my own copy of Christine Falls, probably the highest recommendation my cheapsake self could give to a book.

The Silver Swan picks up a few years after the events of Christine Falls. Quirke is on the wagon, and he's making an effort to mend his relationship with his newly acknowledged daughter, Phoebe. He wants nothing more to do with detective work. But another young woman, this time an apparent suicide, piques his interest--especially after her grieving husband requests that Quirke forego the autopsy. He discovers that Deirde Hunt died by another's hand, but this time, Quirke isn't sure he wants to see justice done--something tells him Deirdre would rest better as a suicide. But when one of Deirdre's secrets, a con man who's beginning to dabble in more serious crimes. He's also pursuing Phoebe, leaving Quirke with no choice but to follow the clues of Deirdre's death to the answer.

Or rather, I should say, until Banville reveals the answer. Quirke isn't a typical private eye who follows the clues. Rather, most of the story is told in alternating perspectives, with the mystery unfolding alongside Quirke's deepening involvement. As such, traditional P.I. fans might not find Quirke to their liking. But Banville captures the noirish, suspenseful feel of the 1950s, so much so that I was partly expecting Lauren Bacall to sidle into some of the scenes. I did think a fault was the stereotyping of some characters. And I'm bothered by the terrible victimization of women both in Christine Falls and Silver Swan. Perhaps Banville is being true to the period, but in both books, women (albeit well developed as characters) are treated appallingly by the men in their lives. It bears watching if Banville does more with his women in future books.

It's sometimes tough to pigeonhole particular books, and Banville proves that it's getting harder to classify authors. But maybe we just need to get over putting books (and authors) into tidy catagories. Banville mixes the best of literary description and atmosphere with the mystery plotting to create a memorable character.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Princess, scholar, schemer, sleuth.

If there was ever a period in English history more conducive to committing murder without the prospect of getting caught, few can match the reign of Queen Mary. And if you're looking for a prospective victim whose death would be greeted by more approval than dismay by the people in power, then Princess Elizabeth Tudor would be a prime target. Elizabeth knows she's a target, she can trust few, if any, of her surrounding courtiers, and dreads the arrival of every messenger, who might come bearing word of her ascension to the throne--or her death summons. When word comes from her aunt Mary Boleyn, Elizabeth is overjoyed to see someone from the her disgraced mother's family. But an attack on a Boleyn cousin and her aunt's painful death from poison suggests a larger plot to remove all of Queen Anne's relations out of the picture.

Karen Harper's series centered on Elizabeth I adds a little twist to the typical historical mystery, starting out with The Poyson Garden. She's covering familiar ground here: Elizabeth's precarious position during her half-sister Queen Mary's reign is well-covered ground. Where Harper's take on establish historical fact includes vivid reimaging of real people and a pretty good realization of English life at the time. Elizabeth herself is lively and engaging. Less convincing is the inclusion of commoners into Elizabeth's household--it's hard to imagine the young princess taking in (and trusting) an actor from a travelling troupe. But suspending disbelief over that point, the inclusion of Ned Thompson, and the knowledgeable herbalist Meg (who's conveniently a dead ringer for Elizabeth) adds some color and offers all sorts of possibilities to move the action forward.

As far as plot goes, The Poyson Garden moves quickly like any good pleasure read should, but there's little in the way of actual mystery--the only real question of the book is who the poisoner should turn out to be, and that gets resolved about two-thirds of the way through. From then on, it's more a suspense novel, and I can't say that I entirely bought the characterization at the end--but then I don't want to give too much away. It's not a plot spoiler to say that the book concludes with Queen Mary's death and Elizabeth's ascension to the throne. There are at least eight more books to the series, but I'm not entirely sure I'll continue on with it. Respectable mysteries, Harper's Elizabeth whodunits would make a good alternative to readers of Phillipa Gregory's Tudor novels.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

The lady herself; or Jane fix part III

More than any other author in English literature, it seems, Jane Austen stymies her biographers.* There really shouldn't be any reason for this: we have letters and some manuscripts in her hand, numerous family recollections have been passed down, and she lived in a family and an age with an almost obsessive need to record their experiences for posterity. Yet it's always so tempting to ascribe the experiences of her heroines to the author. It's hard to imagine someone who wrote so convincingly about relationship battles having nothing in her own life that came close. Claire Tomalin's 1997 bio of Austen avoids the temptation to depict Austen as a real life version of her various characters, but she does do an excellent job portraying how Austen's life, both the tragic and comic phases, constantly influenced her writing. Jane Austen: A Life may not be revolutionary in its conclusions, but I can honestly say that it read as easily as any of Austen's novels, and with more than a few figures that could be directly drawn from Emma, Persuasion or any of the other novels.

Austen herself is always at the center of the bio, obviously, but Tomalin gives considerable attention to the figures surrounding Austen (and, mercifully, a complete family tree to keep all of the similarly named Austens straight). Other than Cassandra, Austen's sister and confidante, no one gets more attention than her colorful cousin, Eliza. Born in India of indeterminate parentage, Eliza married a supposed French count, only to see him go to the guillotine. Eliza later married Austen's brother, the charming but flighty Henry. Another brother, Edward, was adopted into a wealthy landowning family, not unlike many of Austen's heroes. The eldest of the Austen brood, James, and his pushy wife are portrayed as an inspiration for Emma's Mr. Elton and the odious Augusta Elton.

This oblique portrait of Austen only underscores how little is actually known about her, in spite of her letters. Much of what has been assumed about Austen is due to memoirs left behind by her family, flavored by their Victorian-era censorship. There are hints, here and there, of Austen's alienation from the social scene (Tomalin notes the sharp satire of Austen's letters regarding Edward's Kentish relations, whom she considered snobs and only found companionship there with the governess). And there is the undercurrent sense that many of Austen's contemporaries didn't quite know what to make of the author. Austen's obvious cleverness sometimes rankled friends and relations, especially if that barbed wit were directed towards them. We can only assume that sharp wit was the reason Austen's niece, Fanny, burned many of her aunt's surviving letters.


Tomalin doesn't go into great detail in critizing each of the novels, which was my only complaint about the book. She must assume that her audience is more familiar with the films (which do not receive much comment, and that limited to notes) than the books, as she provides plot summaries for Mansfield Park and Persuasion. Coupled with the fluid writing, the well-written endnotes and generous images, Jane Austen: A Life is a good starting point for those interested in the author but aren't ready to delve into more scholarly works.

*With the exception of Shakespeare, of course. At least there's no debate over who wrote Austen's novels.

Saturday, March 08, 2008

The tourney is on.

Not a review per se this time, but something much more entertaining. The online Morning News is currently in the throes of its fourth annual Tournament of Books and like previous years, this year promises to be a bloody battle to the end. In round 1, Denis Johnson's Tree of Smoke smoked Ovenman by Jeff Parker to take the first victory. Personally, I see the final pairing as Tree of Smoke versus wonderkid Junot Diaz's Oscar Wao, but it's anyone's guess what the zombie round will do this year's brackets. Will What the Dead Know carry the banner for honest-to-goodness genre fiction? Or will the witty Then We Came to the End take on its stiff competition to emerge victorious and claim the (real live) Rooster? Obviously, I'm probably getting more excited about this than it actually warrants, but it's still a highly recommended diversion from the workday grind.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

The Buddhist and his AK-47.


I saw this odd little collection of portraits when it came across the desk recently. Not surprisingly, its arresting cover stuck in my mind. In a sense, it's an ingenious idea: take a massively decisive issue and actually go into people's houses and talk to them. Photographer Kyle Cassidy did just that for Armed America: Portraits of Gun Owners in Their Homes. In addition to the portraits, Cassidy includes each gun owner's answer to the question, 'Why do you own a gun?'

I have to admit, I'm conflicted about the whole gun control issue. On the one hand, I can understand people's appreciation of guns for recreation--I have, and still do, go target shooting on occassion. But I've also seen the damage these same firearms can do when in the hands of even the most careful marksman. Cassidy, to his credit, does a pretty good job of portraying people neutrally (and as an aside, I loved the humorous touch of including the family pets in the family portraits). There are plenty of people here who own guns for the pleasures that hunting and target practice bring to them. There are some surprising gun owners (a chef who wanted to shoot a wild turkey to get a sense of where food really comes from, the artist who needed a shotgun for a bronze casting, the collector with his 12 lb cannon) and some that make a lot of sense (law enforcement officers, fomer military and engineers of all sorts intrigued by a gun's mechanics). But when I read phrases like 'since the bad guys had guns, I should have one, too' or 'I refuse to become prey,' I can't help but wonder how much gun proliferation has turned into a circular argument: since most everyone can have a gun, I should have one too to protect myself from all those people with guns.

The argument has often been made that many nations (especially in Europe) with stringent gun laws have nowhere near as many instances of accidental shootings or the type of rampages that occurred at Virginia Tech or the Omaha mall. On the other hand, the lawlessness following Hurricane Katrina is cited repeatedly as an example of government breaking down, and citizens needing to defend themselves. Perhaps. With the right to bear arms so deeply entrenched in culture (and the Constitution), it's hard to see where (or if) the line should be drawn. As Cassidy's portraits demonstrate, the distinction between who own a gun and why is nowhere near black and white.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Who are these tacky people?


I confess, I'm entirely transfixed by the idea of royalty. I'm most interested in what went on with powerful families of the past, especially when it came to their penchant for turning against each other, but the current incarnation of the reigning elite does hold a certain fascination. Jeremy Paxman, journalist with the BBC, has something of a royal hang up too. A familiar with some of the swankier circles of society, Paxman uses his access to navigate through the mystique to figure out just who these people are in his 'polite inquiry' On Royalty--and more importantly, whether the modern world really needs them.

Although he considers other nations' royal families (including the recently hired-yes, hired-royal family of Albania), Paxman, not surprisingly, pretty much sticks to The Royal Family: the Windors. The central premise about royalty is something of an oxymoron: how to appear constantly in the public eye, yet maintain enough of an exclusive aura so as not to clue the hoi polloi into the fact that really, there isn't that much that is terribly extraordinary about these people. To be sure, there have been some sovereigns who were gifted in statecraft or scholarship, but the relentless pursuit of hunting is a more accurate picture of a royal pasttime. In fact, they are terribly mundane in many ways (Paxman notes the heavily creased copies of Fredrick Forsyth novels in the Queen's library). But in describing Prince Charles, Paxman gets to the central tragedy of today's royalty: "The prince had consistently misunderstood or ignored a basic truth at the heart of the relationship between royalty and the people. He seemed to believe that his significance lay in what he believed and did. The truth was simply that his significance lay in who he was."

I use the word tragedy as that's the tone that finally emerges. It's perhaps odd to refer to a massively wealthy and priviledged group of people as tragic, but the added pressures of public scrutiny on an already disfunctional (and therefore normal) family, coupled with the expectation that they go through life without expressing the opinions that everyone else is entitled to makes for something of a tragic tale. On the public side, is the magic of royalty really worth the funds spent on maintaining their lifestyles? Paxman makes a well researched, readable argument, regardless of whether you agree with him or not.

Of course, the whole discussion of whether royalty is relevant today owes much of its origin to Princess Diana, possibly the most documented person of the latter twentieth century. Tina Brown, former editor of Tatler, The New Yorker and various other high brow glossys, adds her take to an already crowded field of Diana bios. I found The Diana Chronicles to be a tremendously frustrating book, although I stuck with it to the bitter end. Brown's journalistic take on Diana's life not surprisingly focuses primarily on the princess's manipulation of the press in manipulating her image--an obsession so vital to her that the Wales's marriage was less a menage a trois but a duel between Camilla et al versus Di and the entire press corps. All the well-known details are here, but Brown's portrayal of Diana suggests a much more desperate woman who used downright mean tactics to achieve the sort of stable life that she had always been denied. A convincing argument? Brown bases some of her conclusions on her own conjectures and disclosures which may never be proven definitively, but with a subject like Diana, such sources are the norm. It's as good an argument as any of the other Diana bios out there, at least for now.

But for a book based on one of the most photographed woman in the world, the almost total lack of images or plates is an especially frustrating one. Brown bases much of her argument on the manner Diana manipulated her image on specific photos, yet only a few black and white photos are given in endpages. I have a hard time understanding why Brown and Doubleday opted not to include a set of plates (price couldn't have been an issue, given the sure bestseller status). It's an inexplicable omission and one that ought to be corrected in future editions. Also, The Diana Chronicles is very long, and I was never allowed to forget in the course of 400+ pages that Tina Brown is a fabulous person who lives a fabulous life. Luncheons at the Four Seasons with the princess and reminiscences of state dinners are all very well and good to Brown's research, but I think she wouldn't have hurt her argument by cutting out the name-dropping.

Maybe I've proven part of Paxman's argument about needing the magic of royalty--after all, I've just slogged through 800 pages about them. Will the Royal Family ever lose their status? Judging by the popularity of Diana and her story, it's a fair guess that they'll remain an object of fascination for generations to come.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

One day, Death met a thief...

Of the books that I've read lately, Markus Zusak's unconventional 2005 novel The Book Thief has stood out for a couple of reasons. It's the only book that I've read twice in the same year, both being for book groups. I liked it the first time around, and the second go through didn't diminish my regard for it (a rare occurance, believe me). Secondly, I noticed that between the two groups, opinion was decidely divided. In the first group, all pretty much agreed that it was excellent. The second was considerably cooler, most choosing to skim parts that annoyed, and most weren't willing to pass it on to another reader.

Why the divide? On the surface, The Book Thief is something of a hard sell. It's a 500+ page teen novel about Germans during WWII, narrated by Death, relies on images to tells stories within the story, and oh, yes, you'll know from page one how everything is going to turn out. It seems a perfect recipe for a dark and depressing slog in the hands of a lesser writer, but Zusak, on the whole, makes it work. The story centers on Liesel, a gangly, neglected girl on the cusp of adolescence. She is on the way to her foster parents in a Munich suburb when our narrator first meets her, catching her stealing an abandoned book at the freshly dug gravesite of her brother. Her thievery continues as she grows up in the home of Rosa and Hans Hubermann, loving, if unconventional, parents who foster her love of reading. Liesel and her best friend, the Jesse Owens obsessed Rudy, seem to have as usual a childhood as most other kids, but the casual mention of Hitler youth meetings gives way to the images of Jews forced to march through town, pushing Liesel and those close to her to make a potentially life threatening choice between right and wrong.

With Death continually interrupting the story, there's little doubt as to the ending for at least some of the characters. Zusak, rightly, gives Death a wearily ironic tone (could he have any other?) and the narrator's constant interruption of the story can be grating for some. More jarring is Zusak's occassionally ungrammatical writing ('the horizon was beginning to charcoal') and his tendency towards forced descriptions ('cluttered breath', 'shrouded in his uniform as the graying light armwrestled the sky'). This strikes me as contrived, and it's hard to imagine any middle or high schooler keeping themselves from snickering at that florid stuff. But I kept thinking as I read that the effect of such language gives The Book Thief a cinematic sheen; like film, it requires a certain suspension of disbelief to make it work. Then it's not too hard to conjure not just the images Zusak is portraying, but to feel what it would be like to live on Himmel Street with Liesel. It's an ambitious novel, and even if it sometimes it doesn't quite live up to its own expectations, I'd fall into the group that would pass it along. What other novel mixes the mundane and the magical, the worst of human nature with humorous moments, and appeals to both teens and adults?

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Not so fantastic.

So there I was, at the library and absolutely thrilled to be holding a copy of the new Doctor Who Encyclopedia. I'm not a huge Whovian--those legions of fans who dissect every episode of the BBC's long running sci-fi series. But having fallen big time for the new series, I was eager to see if the Encyclopedia would help fill me in on all the lore and oddities of the original series going back to 1963, as well as give me some insight into the making of the show.

Alas, it was not to be. I got it home and soon realized, to my disappointment, that rather than being a history of the series, or even a guide to the individual episodes, the Encyclopedia was simply a collection of the most minute factoids of each episode--essentially a massive collection of trivia. Annoyingly, the book only covers the new series, from 2005 onward. Its arrangement of subjects in alphabetical order is helpful if memories need refreshing while watching episodes (in cases, I suppose, when one can't rest until the question of the Face of Boe's age is finally settled). But for the novice, it's t00 much information. To author Gary Russell's credit, each definition is exhaustively dealt with (Russell is involved with the show's script writing). The Encyclopedia is lavishly illustrated with stills from the series, some of which are better in quality than others. Each definition cites pertinent episode(s), and where applicable, which actor portrayed a character.

Still, it feels like a missed opportunity. It's really hard to imagine anyone other than the most diehard Whovians taking an interest in this particular format. Looking at Amazon, I see that there is a Doctor Who: The Inside Guide, which is probably more what I had in mind when I picked up the Encyclopedia. But that book also ignores the earlier series. Apparently it has to fall to some other entity or fan to write the definitive history of the show, as the BBC doesn't seem to be interested in doing it.

Thursday, February 07, 2008

Regency lite, or Jane fix part II

It's not a secret that I've got a thing for Jane Austen's books (witness the links at right, or previous posts), but I haven't really gotten into reading any other Regency-era influenced social comedies. One name that kept popping up as a tolerable readalike author is Georgette Heyer, the historical novelist whose works usually end up in the romance section along with the ripped bodice covers of Christina Dodd, Kathleen Woodiwiss and the like. But since I've often mentioned Heyer's name when pressed for books like Austen's, I thought I might determine if her books leaned more towards the heaving bosoms of the romance novel, or if she captured the same battle of social customs as Austen.

Happily, Heyer gets the point behind Austen's novels: namely, her social satire. On the flip side, however, she has none of the subtlety that makes Austen's six novels so great. I randomly chose Cotillion from 1953, roughly from the middle of Heyer's writing career (she died in 1974). The elements of the story are fairly simple: a heroine of reduced circumstances stands to inherit a fortune from a querulous adopted grandfather--with the stipulation that she marry one of said grandfather's nephews in order to receive the money. The plucky heroine here is Kitty Charing, raised in general isolation by a governess overly fond of the romantic poets. Kitty is not in any mood to marry any of her potential suitors, except one: the rakish Jack. But when Jack doesn't show to claim Kitty's hand, she latches onto a plan: enter a sham betrothal with Freddy, the least objectionable of her choices, and get to London to work her charms on Jack. Once in London, a series of misunderstandings, pompous characters and secret engagements ensures that everyone gets exactly what they deserve.

There are scenes in ballrooms, social gaffes, clandestine meetings in shrubberies--basically everything that a Janeite would be familiar with. Heyer lampoons much of the musty social pretentiousness of the day (a Mr. Collins type would find many kindred spirits here). But here it all comes over very heavy handed. Part of this is due to the clumsy dialogue. The men use so much jargon are so preoccupied with their own preening, that it's hard to appreciate even the hero of the story. With the exception of Kitty, all the characters come across as very flat--and Kitty can't be called very deep either. The plot also takes awhile to get going, which makes the lack of well-drawn characters problematic at the beginning. I had to push to get through the first 50 pages.

Heyer has been praised for her attention to historical detail, and she does create a believeable world (Kitty and Freddy's reluctant tour of London? Classic). And I was grinning at various points throughout the story, as Heyer heightened the absurdity. By the end, I was enjoying myself, even if I had to skim over some of the more annoying bluster from some of the more unfortunate characters. Die-hard romantics might not be satisfied--there's no Darcy in a wet shirt moment or swoony letters from Wentworth. (In all honesty, the mental image I was getting of the hero was not so much Colin Firth but more Bertie Wooster). Would I recommend Heyer again? Yes, I think I would, in spite of the clunky dialogue. It's not quite on the same footing as Austen, but at least it's in the same orbit.

Thursday, January 31, 2008

What would Jane say?, or Jane fix part I

Let's first off say what Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict is not. It is not serious literature. It is not for those readers who cannot abide serious holes in a plot, or even a plot thicker than a razor's edge. It will not appeal to anyone with a deep aversion to ballroom scenes, clandestine meetings in shrubberies, and polite conversation complimented by meaningful glances over tea and scones. It will make little sense if you haven't read Jane Austen's novels.

Wanting something to read over my own version of tea and scones, I picked up Laurie Viera Rigler's chick lit homage to Jane Austen. Given the current mania for anything Austen, Rigler's slight novel joins a crowded field, and other than is gimmicky plot device, there's really not a whole lot to set it apart from the pack. The premise, in short, consists of dropping current day Angelino and self-described Austen addict Courtney Stone into the realm of one Jane Mansfield, spinster, and inhabitant of 1813 Regency England. Or rather, Courtney is dropped into the body of Jane, automatically taking on some of Jane's memories and abilities. Courtney, not surprisingly, objects to the situation, as much due to the rather lax standards in bodily cleanliness as to the pushy mother who decides Courtney/Jane must marry the local catch. But something in a previous life tells her that this Mr. Edgeworth is not to be trusted. And some portions of Jane's exisance seem beyond Courtney's grasp--such as the odd behavior towards her of a young footman.

For anyone who has read an Austen novel (or likelier, seen a movie), the ending probably won't come as a surprise. But the whole plot comes off as preposterous--it is never explained why Courtney ended up where she did or how, or even more intriguing, what became of the original Jane Mansfield. There are some many places where Rigler could have added more tension to the plot, but she entirely foregoes any deviation from bland formula (even down to the obligatory mention of Colin Firth in knee breeches). Rigler does take a stab at deeper meaning by bringing up the tensions between serving class and ruling class (something never brought up in the novels and largely glossed over in the films). But even this promising lead is dropped.

Or maybe I'm reading too much into it. Bottom line, Confessions is meant to be fun for dedicated Janeites. It's not too hard convince the addict to indulge in more of their favored drug, but there won't be much to remember after this particular little binge.

Friday, January 25, 2008

Devils among us.

In some ways, The Devil in the White City seemed an unlikely bestseller. Granted, the subtitle (Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America) promises a virtual trifecta of qualities most Americans can't deny. But in addition to the three M's is a reoccuring theme of...architecture and landscape design?

As far as true crime goes, Larson's 2003 book hits the major points: a well-researched account of an almost unbelievably bold murderer whose total body count will probably never be known. In the person of Henry Holmes, Larson has found a character stranger than fiction. A man of purportedly prodigious charm, Holmes had an early fascination with human anatomy and death that led to many of his victims' being turned into lessons--often as skeletons sold to area teaching hospitals. But the manner and the galling ease by which he killed his victims terrified a nation at the cusp of a new century, once his crimes finally came to light.

But the book isn't really about a crime. Rather, Holmes' activities form a perfect foil to the goings on at the nearby Chicago's World Fair of 1893. In direct contrast to the horrors in Holmes' dark building, the White City of the fair seemed to promise a bright future for America and especially the host city Chicago. But the struggle to get the fair going proved to be almost as dramatic as the murder mystery, which Larson recounts with a dramatic flair. Intrigues, squabbles, sudden deaths, and the prospect of building a magnificent city on a swamp makes for unlikely nailbiters, but Larsen pulls it off. He does tend to get occassionally bogged down in detail and the lack of pictures makes the White City a little harder to visualize, but Larsen's ability make historical figures come across in such vivid characterization generally makes up for such deficiences.

One can't help but have Larsen's successful work in mind when considering Harold Schechter's The Devil's Gentleman: Priviledge, Poison and The Trial That Ushered in the Twentieth Century. Like the earlier work, Schechter mixes a charming young man, a bustling, glamourous city, sex and deviously plotted murders. Here, the story surrounds that of one Roland Molineaux, celebrated amateur athlete and rising businessman, who had recently married a young woman after patiently courting her. Or so it first appears. After one of Blanche's former suitors receives a vial of cyanide of mercury in the mail (and unwittingly gives it to his aunt, killing her), the yellow press pounced on the story. Playing up the sensation aspects of sex, society and power (Molineaux's father was an esteemed Civil War general), the media attention assured that Molineaux's trial would command the entire attention of the nation for years--and gave birth to the phenomenon of media circus trials.

Alas, keeping my attention fixated was more difficult. Unlike Larsen, who focused primarily on the crimes of Holmes, Schechter wades into tremendous detail with Molineaux's trial. There are some high points (especially Blanche Molineaux's spectualarly purple prosed memoirs), but even those points became bogged down in the minutae that characterized the trial. I pushed on through to the end, which held a twist worth waiting for, but I nearly gave it up at several times, in spite of reading more than halfway through. For the legally inclined, it might be worthwhile, but for true crime in a historical perspective, it doesn't quite make an enthralling read.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

Sunbleached and bland.

In general, I try to avoid this type of book. I get enough of the librarian/role of books in public life sort of stuff at work, so there’s really no need to take it home with me. But it was the current pick of the local book group, so I picked it up for a quick read so I could get to my preferred obscure reads.

Well, it wasn’t terrible, but the overall feel was disappointing. The Camel Bookmobile tells the story of Brooklyn-based librarian Fiona Sweeney as she heads into remote northeastern Kenya to help jump start a program delivering books via camel to isolated tribes. Trouble arises when an outcast from the tribe, the aptly named Scar Boy, withholds his library books, threatening future visits from the bookmobile. There’s also the related drama of a woman contemplating leaving her devoted husband and taking up with a man who has been deeply in love with her for years.

Hamilton tells the story from multiple viewpoints as each character considers the ramifications of Scar Boy’s actions in a society on the cusp of massive change. It’s a little hard to imagine how the book would have worked without the multiple perspectives, as I couldn’t warm up to any of the characters entirely. In fact, I couldn’t shake the feeling of looking at characters through some other medium, lacking any real connection. Fiona, especially, emerges as particularly bland. The various relationships between the characters struck me as bordering on soap opera, and I really didn't feel like I cared terribly where people would finally come to a rest. About the only character I found myself warming to was the curmudgeony African librarian who accompanies Fiona on her trips. But once Hamilton had him talking to one of the camels, he lost his appeal as well.

Hamilton does deserve kudos for taking a tough issue and resisting the urge to resolve it with a nice, tidy ending. Her depiction of the African countryside creates a vivid sense of place (is it possible to read this book without feeling the blinding light of the sun on a dry plain?), by far the best aspect of the novel. If she had similar success with her characters, The Camel Bookmobile would be much more memorable; as it is, the story fades out of mind.