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.

The perfect cure for a rotten day at work.

One dose Shakin' Bacon, add The Funky Trunky.

Tired out? Fill up on a hotdog.

(via Omnivoracious.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.