things mean a lot

Strong Poison by Dorothy L. Sayers

2009-11-05T17:35:00.002Z

There were crimson roses on the bench; they looked like splashes of blood.

Isn’t that a great opening line? I love how symbolic it turns out to be, and I love the fact that it’s echoed near the end of the book. Strong Poison, published in 1930, is the first book in the Lord Peter Wimsey series of mysteries to feature Harriet Vane. For this reason, several of you recommended it as an introduction to Sayers’ work back when I asked you about mysteries.

Harriet Vane, a mystery writer, has been accused of poisoning her ex-lover, Philip Boyes, with arsenic. The case against her is strong: not only did she appeared to have a motive, as she and Philip had quarrelled, but he also visited her the night he died. Furthermore, Harriet has been proven to have purchased arsenic in the months before Philip’s death. The reason, she says, is that she’s writing a mystery novel that features a case of murder by arsenic, but will the jury believe her? The only one who seems fully convinced of Harriet Vane’s innocence is Lord Peter Wimsey. But he doesn’t have long to prove it beyond doubt and thus save her from hanging. And the only way to do that, it seems, is to find the real murderer.

Ah, a mystery from the 30’s – why haven’t I been reading these for years? Part of what makes Strong Poison such a joy to read is the language, specifically the way Peter Wimsey speaks. His speech is full of expressions like “dash it all” or “old horse” or random “what?”s at the end of sentences, among other old-fashioned British touches—it was such a delight to read.

But it takes more than an interesting way of speaking for me to love a character, and Peter Wimsey has what it takes. He’s so funny! And also very perceptive, and not given to underestimating people for reasons like their class or gender, which I imagine to be unusual for an aristocrat of his time. Plus, his chemistry with Harriet Vane is simply amazing. I loved the scenes where the two of them were together, and even though I suspect what this will all lead to, I’m very glad indeed I’m reading these books in order.

As you can probably tell by now, I was more taken with the 30’s setting and the characterization than with the mystery itself, but this isn’t to say it wasn’t a good one. If I were to point out a flaw, I’d say that Strong Poison was perhaps too short for the suspense to truly build up. I was able to guess whodunit, but I couldn’t tell you exactly at what point because I was paying more attention to the characters’ interactions. And anyway, more interesting than the “who” was the “how”, which I most certainly did not guess and found very satisfying.

I loved the fact that the most crucial steps in the investigation where not taken by Lord Peter Wimsey himself, but by two women he went to for help, Miss Murchinson and Miss Climpson. Both are daring and intelligent women, and inconspicuous by definition because those who surrounded them constantly underestimate them. I have to wonder how much of Dorothy L. Sayers’ experience with underestimation—she who was a very intelligent woman living in the early 20th century, and one of the first women to graduate from Oxford—made its way into these characters’ sections. Anyway, it was immensely satisfying to see those who patronized them pay a price for doing so. Go Miss Murchinson! Go Miss Climpson!

I’ll leave you with a great quote about Dorothy L. Sayers’ work from the introduction by Elizabeth George:

She saw the crime and its ensuing investigation as merely the framework for a much larger story, the skeleton – if you will – upon which she could hang the muscles, organs, blood vessels and physical features of a much larger tale. She wrote what I like to call the tapestry novel, a book in which the setting is realised (from Oxford, to the dramatic coast of Devon, to the flat bleakness of the Fens), in which throughout both the plot and the subplots the characters serve functions surpassing that of mere actors on the stage of the criminal investigation, in which themes are explored, in which life and literary symbols are used, in which allusions to other literature abound.

PS: Because Philip Boyes was poisoned, his final meal is described in quite a bit of detail, and for dessert he had a sweet omelette with hot jam. It had never occurred to me before that omelettes could be had sweet instead of salty, but after reading Strong Poison I made myself one with warm homemade apple sauce and a sprinkle of cinnamon and ginger, and it was delicious. I suppose it’s a bit odd that a book about arsenic poisoning would make me want to cook, especially something that involves sugar, but there you go.

One passage I especially liked:

He had been trained to a great pitch of dexterity in the preparation of crumpets, and if he was somewhat lavish in the matter of butter, that hurt nobody except Mr Urquhart. It was natural that the conversation should turn to the subject of murder. Nothing goes so well with a hit fire and buttered crumpets as a wet day without and a good dose of comfortable horrors within. The heavier the lashing of the rain and the ghastlier the details, the better the flavour seems to be.

Reviewed at:
Jenny’s Books
The Curious Reader

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Jar of Fools by Jason Lutes

2009-11-04T09:00:00.003Z

Jar of Fools, subtitled A Picture Story, is the tale of two stage magicians: Ernie Weiss is obsessed with the death of his brother, an escape artist whose last trick went very wrong. Al Flosso, his ageing mentor, is struggling with senility, and losing a little more of himself with each passing day. Then there’s also Esther, Ernie’s ex-girlfriend, an intelligent woman trapped in a dead-end job. And finally we have Nathan Lender, a con-man, who comes to Ernie and Al hoping they can teach his daughter Claire a few magic tricks that will allow her to make a living. When these characters’ lives come together, the result is both poignant and unforgettable.

Jar of Fools was a completely random bookstore find. (Note: no book buying ban was broken, as comics are allowed!) I have to say that one of the reasons why I got it was the very enthusiastic introduction by Sherman Alexie. He not only calls it his favourite graphic novel, but he also compares it to, among others, the work of John Cheever and Alice Munro. And he’s spot on.

Make no mistake: this is not a happy story. I suspected as much all along, but Jar of Fools was still grittier than I thought it’d be. But the misery and despair are never pointless: they’re honest and perceptive portraits of the many ways in which human lives can and often do go wrong. And despite all the sadness, Jar of Fools manages not to be bleak. What saves it, what saves these characters, are the human ties they establish; the gestures of kindness, the love that unites them.

Which isn't to say that Jar of Fools builds up to some trite or overdone conclusion about how love can save you from homelessness and ruin, senility and memory loss, or personal grief. But there are many honest and moving moments in the story in which we see the comfort that connections can bring. We see these characters do the best they can to cope, to feel better, to live through another day. There’s no erasing the past, but there’s learning to live with it, or to let go of it.

Jar of Fools ends with one final sacrifice, one final loss, that left me with tears in my eyes. From beginning to end, this is a story full of broken-hearted people, but until and beyond the very end we hope that they will be okay.

A few words on the art: I love how Jason Lutes captures emotions with just a few lines. His style (and indeed the tone and content) reminded me a little of Will Eisner, and that is high praise indeed.

Other Reviews:
Nothing of Importance

(Did I miss yours?)

Magic for Beginners by Kelly Link

2009-11-03T11:22:00.000Z

It only took the very first paragraph for me to fall in love with Magic for Beginners. Let me show you why:

I used to go to thrift stores with my friends. We’d take the train into Boston, and go to the Garment District, which is this huge vintage clothing warehouse. Everything is arranged by color, and somehow that makes all of the clothes beautiful. It’s kind of like f you went through the wardrobe in the Narnia books, only instead of finding Aslan and the White Witch and horrible Eustace, you found this magical clothing world—instead of talking animals, there were feather boas and wedding dresses and bowling shoes, and paisley shirts and Doc Martens and everything hung up on racks so that first you have black dresses, all together, like the world’s largest indoor funeral, and then blue dresses—all the blues you can imagine—and then red dresses and so on. Pink-reds and orangey-reds and exit-light reds and candy reds. Sometimes I would close my eyes and Natasha and Natalie and Jake would drag me over to a rack, and rub a dress against my hand. 'Guess what color this is'.

Is that not a marvellous description? Doesn’t it make you want to read on? It’s the opening paragraph of “The Faery Handbag”, the first of the nine stories in Magic for Beginners and almost my favourite—“almost” because I can’t quite decide; they’re all so good.

“The Faery Handbag” is the story of a young woman whose grandmother, Zofia Swink, emigrated long ago from an Eastern European country that no longer exists. How exactly that country ceased to exist involves a handbag and more than a little bit of magic. It’s also a story about longing and loss, about the people who walk away from our lives, and about saying goodbye.

“Catskin” is a sort of fairy tale that begins with the death of a feared Witch, and with her younger son having to learn to look after himself (even though, the narrator tells us, this “younger son” is not as young as we would think). Like the hero of “Puss in Boots”, he has the help of a feline companion, but his path doesn’t quite lead him to princesses or ogre’s fortunes.

I suppose that if pressed, I would hesitatingly say that “Cat Skin” was probably my favourite story in the collection. There was much I loved about it: the fairy tale tropes, the darkness, the sheer strangeness. But what set it apart was the narrative voice and its occasional asides, such as this:

The dollhouse chimney had broken off and fallen on the ground. One of the cats picked it up and carried it away, like a souvenir. The cat carried the chimney into the woods and ate it, a mouthful at a time, and passed out of this story and into another one. It’s no concern of ours.

If “Cat Skin” was the most enjoyable, then “Stone Animals” was the creepiest—but in the best possible way. It’s the story of a family that moves to upstate New York, to a country house with two strange stone animals by the gates. Shortly after they move in, they realize that there’s a large group of rabbits that comes to stand in their lawn and stare at the house. Strange, no? But that’s not the strangest thing that happens. I loved “Stone Animals” for the sheer originality of the premise and the deliciously eerie mood, but most of all for the characterization and family dynamics

I also want to highlight the title story, “Magic for Beginners”, which is about a teen named Jeremy Mars and his friends, all of whom are obsessed with a TV show called the The Library. The Library is not like other shows: nobody quite knows when or where it’s going to be on. The identity of the show’s writers is a mystery, and the cast rotates the roles they play every episode.

The story isn’t just about the show, of course: it’s also about Jeremy’s life, about the quiet girl he loves and the girls who love him, about his parents’ marriage and what is making it fall apart, about a book that Jeremy’s father, a horror writer, recently wrote… I could tell you more, but I’ll leave you with one tip: when you’re done with the story, read the first paragraph again, because it’s possible that the first time around what you read there won’t quite sink in. And you want to let it sink in, because it puts a twist on the whole story.

I could easily go on about each of the other stories in Magic for Beginners, but I’ll stop here. As you might have guessed by now, I love them all. They’re all strange, yes, and they leave questions unanswered, but that only makes them more memorable. They’re dark, but occasionally funny too, and a complete joy to read. The tone and mood are always spot on, as is the characterization, which is something I imagine is not easy to do this well in short stories.

The good new is that Magic for Beginners is available as a free e-book. Sadly, the web version is missing “The Faery Handbag” and “Magic for Beginners”, but you can read “Cat Skin”! If you're anything like me, that story alone will make you want to get the book.

More bits I liked:

Batu had spent a lot of time reorganizing the candy aisle according to chewiness and meltiness. The week before, he had arranged it so that if you took the first letter of every candy, reading across from left to right and then down, it had spelled out the first sentence of To Kill a Mockingbird, and then also a line of Turkish poetry. Something about the moon. (From “The Hortlak”)

The Witch vomits up mud, fur, glass buttons, tin soldiers, trowels, hat pins, thumbtacks, love letters (mislabelled or sent without the appropriate amount of postage and never read) and a dozen regiments of red ants, each ant as long and wide as a kidney bean. The ants swim across the perilous stinking basin, clamber up the sides of the basin, and go marching across the floor in a shiny ribbon. They are carrying pieces of Time in their mandibles. Time is heavy, even in such small pieces, but the ants have strong jaws, strong legs. (From “Catskin”)

Jeremy comes home from school, feeling as if he has passed the math test, after all. Jeremy is an optimist. Maybe there’s something good on TV. He settles down with the remote control on one of his father’s pet couches: oversized and reupholstered in an orange-juice-colored corduroy that makes it appear as if the couch has just escaped from a maximum security prison for criminally insane furniture. This couch looks as if its hobby is devouring interior decorators. Jeremy’s father is a horror writer, so no one should be surprised if some of the couches he reupholsters are hideous and eldritch.
(From “Magic for Beginners”)

(Okay, so these are a bit long. Can you tell I’m in love with her writing?)

Other Opinions:
A Book a Week
An Adventure in Reading
Boston Bibliophile
Bookshelves of Doom

(Let me know if I missed yours.)

Two in One: The Haunting and Chiggers ( & Secret Santa)

2009-11-02T11:45:00.000Z

I’m making an effort to catch up on, well, everything, and since I have two short books to tell you about, I thought I’d do a two in one and tell you about them in one go. They’re The Haunting by Margaret Mahy and Chiggers by Hope Larson.

Don't let the cover of The Haunting deceive you: it’s not nearly as creepy as it seems. However, this is not at all a bad thing. The story begins when Barney, the youngest of three siblings, has a vision: he sees a young boy in old-fashioned blue velvet who tells him, “Barnabas is dead! I’m going to be very lonely.” Barnabas is Barney’s own name, and so he understandably assumes that the apparition is announcing his own death, and the fright is such that he faints. When he comes to, he’s told that his great-uncle Barnabas has passed away.

I can’t tell you more about what this ghostly vision means, but believe me, it’s not what you're thinking. As I was saying, I was expecting The Haunting to be more of a traditional ghost story, but I couldn’t be happier with what I got instead. I really can’t say much more about the plot, but it involves magic and ordinary lives and family dynamics and secrets. It reminded me a lot of Diana Wynne Jones, actually, which is a very good thing.

The Haunting is as much Barney’s story as it is the story of his sisters Tabitha and Troy. It’s also the story of their families, both nuclear and extended. The children’s mother passed away when Barney was born, and they now have a stepmother, Claire, who is herself expecting a child. This is a source of some anxieties, but not of the kind you’d think. The children love Claire wholeheartedly; she’s the heart and soul of the family. How wonderful to read a fantasy in which a stepmother is a completely positive figure!

There’s a bit of a mystery at the heart of this story, and while its solution was quite easy for me to guess, I was still thrilled with it – it challenges assumptions about…well, I can’t tell you what they’re about, but they’re of a kind that is near and dear to my heart. I’ll leave you with a quote from the afterword by Stephanie Nettell:

While she brings warmth to the everyday routine of families, she lays bare their predicaments – of the grown-ups as much as the children. None of her characters exists simply to manipulate the plot: each trails his or her own history, their own reason for being the way they are. By the end of the book you realize there are, in truth, no evil villains, only confused, despairing people.

The Haunting is another Carnegie Medal winner who gets two very enthusiastic thumbs up from me.

Hope Larson’s Chiggers is a quiet and bittersweet story set during its protagonist's, Abby, last summer at summer camp. Abby is anxious to meet the friends she made in previous years, but she’s disappointed to realize that everyone has changed: Rose is now a cabin assistant and has little time to spend with her, and Beth seems to have become too cool for Abby. She befriends a new girl, Shasta, who was hit by lightening a few months before and who everyone finds a little strange. And she also begins to spend time with Teal, one of the nerds, and realizes that she feels more at home with him than she ever did with the “cool” people.

I’m afraid I let too much time pass between reading Chiggers and writing this post to be able to do it justice, which is the reason why this will be short. But I hope that doesn't give you the impression I didn't enjoy it. The story is what you’d expect from the synopsis: a story about a teen struggling with belonging, identity and social pressure, and a story about friendship and first crushes. Perhaps in another medium it would be ordinary, but Hope Larson’s art really sets it apart.

All I’d read by Larson before was Salamander Dream, which I loved, but which is more dreamy and less…narrative than Chiggers is. Even though she used a more traditional form of storytelling this time, Larson’s narrative is still extremely visual. I think that if I were a less experienced reader of comics, I might have felt a little lost. A lot of what happens, and much of the expressiveness and emotional tone, is simply implied in the artwork. (And let me take this chance to share this wonderful article about comics literacy from the First Second Books blog.) But if you read it slowly and allow yourself to mind the details, this will make for a wonderful reading experience.

A few panels which will give you an idea of what to expect from the art:

For more opinions, visit She Reads and Reads, Maw Books, Bookworm Readers, In the Tower and Welcome to my Tweendom. And as always, let me know if I missed your post.

One last thing: I edited yesterday's post to include this info, but because I want to make sure nobody misses it, here it is again: The Book Bloggers Holiday Swap (a Secret Santa gift exchange; click the link for more info) is back, and you have until the 12th of November to sign up.

Why should you join? Well, it's fun! And more importantly, you might make new friends and discover new blogs to enjoy. Last year, my "santee" was Tarie, whose blog was at the time unknown to me. I have been reading it faithfully and very much enjoying it for a year now. And my Santa, Gaskella, is smart and talented and lovely, and made me the most amazing Christmas ornaments. I hope you'll join the fun! And if you could help out by spreading the word on your blog, we'd be very grateful!

A little bit of this, a little bit of that

2009-11-01T17:05:00.001Z

(Alas, I don't think this post will be bookish enough to merit an inclusion in the Sunday Salon - sorry!)

I've just returned from a lovely weekend in the north of Spain; a trip whose main goal was to see Emmy the Great play on Friday night. I'd probably bore you to tears if I went on at length about my musical obsessions (because believe me, once I start it's hard to make me shut up), but let me just say that I had forgotten just how much a concert could make me feel. It was wonderful, and I fell in love with her music all over again.

Of course, this weekend trip meant that I had no chance of catching up with anything. I want to apologize for having been such a poor commenter, and responder to comments, in recent times. I know that in all likelihood nobody much notices, and that we all have busy lives, but I always worry about making people feel personally neglected. Paranoid, me?!

What happened is that I started working full-time two weeks ago, which is wonderful for many reasons. But it also means that I have to find a new rhythm, develop new habits, and come up with a new way of managing my time. Hopefully I'll be able to do this - last year I was both in school and working part time and I managed just fine - but it'll probably take me some time.

On an unrelated note, Aarti, Care and Eva are hosting the Women Unbound challenge, which is devoted to non-fiction and fiction with a feminist slant. Can you hear me go hooray? I've decided not to officially join any new challenges before the end of the year, but I can't resist doing the introduction meme now:

1. What does feminism mean to you? Does it have to do with the work sphere? The social sphere? How you dress? How you act?
I think it has to do with all of that and more. I've always loved the famous Cheris Kramarae and Paula Treichler quote that goes Feminism is the radical notion that women are people too. Anything that affects women can be seen as a feminist issue - anything that involves the interaction of gender and power, really. And there's very little that doesn't. Feminism is much wider than people tend to give it credit for.

2. Do you consider yourself a feminist? Why or why not?
Yes. Because, as I said above, I believe that women are as fully human as men. And also that the reality we live in still doesn't reflect this fact.

3. What do you consider the biggest obstacle women face in the world today? Has that obstacle changed over time, or does it basically remain the same?
Gah, where to even start. Some things have improved, of course, but how much will really depend on which part of the world we're talking about. Even things that most of the Western world has come to think of as basic rights, like the right to vote or to have an education, are by no means rights that every woman enjoys. I think that what makes things so difficult today is that sexism has become more subtle - so much so that people often feel its effects without identifying it as a cause.

But let me focus on something that particularly bothers me: sexual double-standards. Whenever I look back on the Victorians, for example, which I do quite a bit in my reading, what surprises me is how much has stayed the same, to be honest. Female sexuality is still demonized. A woman's character, respectability and worth as a human being are still irrevocably linked to how she handles her sexual life in the minds of many. Women are still held to standards of "modesty", whatever that means, that are never applied to men. And there are countless problems that can be traced back to this.

And finally, a few people have asked me if I'm going to host the book bloggers Secret Santa swap I hosted the past two years again. Well, a group of wonderfully helpful and dedicated elves has been working behind the scenes ever since the read-a-thon ended, and we should have news for you either tonight or early tomorrow. Meanwhile, as a teaser, here's the lovely button Lenore's very talented husband Daniel designed for us.

Edit to add: And we're live! Join the Book Bloggers Holiday Swap:D

I hope those of you who celebrate it had a wonderful Halloween. And to those who are starting NaNoWriMo today - good luck!!

Come Closer by Sara Gran

2009-10-30T11:33:00.002Z

Thirty-four-year old Amanda is a happily married and successful New York architect. She and her husband Ed recently bought and renewed a house, and she’s finally living the kind of life she always wanted to live. Until, that is, the changes begin: it all starts with a tapping noise in the house at night, a tapping that seems to cease when Amanda is not around. And after that come the disturbing thoughts, the out-of-character impulses, and the dreams about a beautiful woman who seems to resemble an imaginary friend Amanda had as a child…

When I picked up Come Closer, I was convinced it was going to be a little out of my comfort zone. This is because… you know what, I can’t really tell you why. I knew beforehand what the story was going to be about, but this is such a short book that I’m just going to let you find out for yourselves. And “about” is entirely the wrong word anyway: the supernatural aspect of this story is one I can’t remember ever reading about before, but what truly mattered to me, what made me love this book, was the human and psychological side.

I wouldn’t quite say that Come Closer is ambiguous in the same sense that The Turn of the Screw is. In this case, the supernatural is clearly identified, even named. But at the same time, the story is told by Amanda, and as it progresses it becomes increasingly clear that we have reasons not to trust her. So yes, it’s entirely possible to see Come Closer as a story about madness. But regardless of what readers decide to make of its cause, the process Amanda goes through is absolutely terrifying.

We see from the beginning that Amanda is someone who’s slightly obsessed with neatness and control; with limits, with plans. And over two hundred pages, we watch her life explode out of the limits she set for it; we watch her relationship with Ed fall apart; we watch her lose herself, let go of everything she’s always believed about the universe, and drown under the weight of a new reality.

The scene that terrified me the most was one where Amanda and Ed are home watching TV, and she suddenly has the impulse to burn him with the cigarette she’s smoking. The scene worked as well as it did because I’m willing to bet we’ve all had images like that cross our minds. They aren’t necessarily impulses to do these things—they're just images. But they’re still horrifying, because what could be more disturbing than the thought of intentionally hurting someone we love? And what could be more frightening than imagining, just for a moment, that we want to?

I’m personally a bit wary of ever using the words “I’m incapable of”, because no matter how kind a person is, circumstances just might push them further than they ever thought they’d go. And being aware of this is probably part of what being a kind and compassionate person is all about anyway. What happens to Amanda, though, is that she loses—or gives up—the part of her that says no. And after a while, there is no going back.

The lovely person who sent me this book via Bookmooch also included a Bloomsbury Review interview with Sara Gran, and I was not surprised when she mentioned Shirley Jackson as one of her greatest influences. Like Jackson, Gran writes disturbing and suffocating psychological horror at its best.

Reviewed at:
Bibliolatry
Chasing Ray

The Amnesiac by Sam Taylor

2009-10-29T14:00:00.003Z

It all begins one summer when James Purdew is climbing the stairs of the apartment he shares with his girlfriend in Amsterdam. He falls and breaks his ankle, but more worrisome than the accident is the fact that for a moment, just before it happens, he cannot remember who he is at all. Trapped in the apartment during a heat wave, James becomes obsessed with his past - specifically with three years of his life, the years he spent at university in the city of H., about which he can remember nothing. James has kept diaries for years, but unfortunately the diaries of those years are locked inside a box, and James has lost a key.

When his relationship falls apart, James decides to return to England, to the city of H., so that he can find out the truth about his past. There, he finds a job restoring an old house that seems vaguely familiar, and when he uncovers the manuscript of an incomplete Victorian mystery, that story, too, seems more familiar than it has any right to be...

One thing is certain: The Amnesiac is one of the most original books I've read in a very long time. It's a murder mystery that isn't quite a murder mystery; it's a psychological thriller; it's a Gothic story complete with creepy mansion; it's a story about a man's search for his identity; it's a reflection on memory, its loss, and the extent to which what we remember makes us who we are; and it's a surreal tale with a sci-fi twist. I was hooked from the very start, and I had trouble putting it down. At the same time, however, I'm not sure how satisfying a story it is. I'll let you know why, but it will take some explaining, so please bear with me.

The Amnesiac reminded me quite a bit of authors like Haruki Murakami or Jonathan Carroll (and also of movies like Memento and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind). Those of you who are fans of these authors will know that it's best not to expect definitive answers at the end of their books. Likewise, it's probably best not to expect them from The Amnesiac. I think I do know exactly what happens in this book - I think I have the answers. But another reader might think exactly the same and have come up with an entirely different set of answers. So yes, the solution to the mystery is ambiguous, and it's presented obliquely. I didn't find this frustrating, but I'm not sure it worked either. I realize that the ambiguity, the fact that the story isn't neat or satisfying, is very much a part of what The Amnesiac is trying to do. But the thing is, sometimes the story almost tried to be too clever and self-conscious for its own good.

There was something else that rubbed me the wrong way. In some of the book's most surreal moments, there were - ah, little sneering speeches about those foolish, arrogant people who believe in things like "science" or "logic" or "reason"; those silly and arrogant skpetics, ha ha ha. Some of the characters who say these things are unreliable to say the least, so it's not necessarily true that the book is endorsing what they say. And needless to say, everyone's entitled to their worldview, but there was something about the mocking tone that really got to me. But this is a bit of a sore spot for me, so it's possible that other readers wouldn't notice it at all.

I wasn't surprised to see that Sam Taylor thanks Oliver Sacks at the end of the book, as there were parts that reminded me quite a bit of him. The thing about Sacks, thought, the reason why I love him so, is that he loves science. His books are full of respect and appreciation for it, as well as of warmth and humanity. He realizes that dehumanizing people is in no way an intrinsic characteristic of the scientific method (and why must people keep forgetting that science is a method?), and that doing what he does, which is look at each of his patients as a person, does not mean that he has to dissociate himself from science. But this is probably not the place for me to channel Ben Goldacre, so I'll shut up about it now.

Moving on to the things I loved: I loved The Amnesiac's noir, nightmareish mood, as well as the occasional dark humour. I loved all the references to literature and music - The Go-Betweens! Also, Jorge Luís Borges and Philip Larkin play an important role in the story. I also loved that it was thoughtful and philosophical while still having a very exciting plot. One of the cleverest things about The Amnesiac is the narration, and sadly I can't say too much about that without spoilers. But after a certain point you begin to notice that what we're dealing with here isn't an ordinary third person narrator, thanks to passages such as this:

You may wonder how I can possibly know all this; how I can see the quicksilver, gossamer visions that flicker inside James Purdew’s mind, how I can feel every heart-swell an nerve-twitch in his body. But that, for the moment, must remain my little secret.

These passages become more and more frequent as the story progresses, and they're quite alarming, as I'm sure they're meant to be. This little extra mystery adds a new dimension to the story, which I thought was very well done.

In the end, I suspect that The Amnesiac is a love it or hate it sort of book. It's a bit funny that I'm saying this, considering that I neither loved it nor hated it, but I hope you're forgive me: it's just one of those odd books that I'm not quite sure how I feel about. But I'm definitely glad to have read it, and I'm looking forward to reading more of Sam Taylor's work in the future.

Interesting bits:

The boxes contained his diaries. These were his most valuable possessions, not because they held any astonishing secrets, but because without them he feared he would cease to be the same person. James did not trust his memory. He relied on the diaries to do much the remembering for him. They were the ropes that moored him to himself.

But hope, I can tell you, is an exhausting emotion; perhaps, along with fear, the most exhausting of all. It is like juggling eggs: the hope is the shell, and inside is despair. A single crack and the despair might spill everywhere, stain everything.

Someone should write a true-to-life detective story, James thought bleakly; an existential mystery in which the answer is not to be found, clear and logical, at the book’s end, but only to be glimpsed, of half-grasped, at various moments during its narrative; to be sensed throughout, like a nagging tune that you cannot quite remember, but ever defined, never seen whole; to shift its shape and position and meaning with each passing day; to be sometimes forgotten completely, other times obsessed over, but never truly understood; not to be something walked towards but endlessly around.

(Which is actually a pretty good way of describing The Amnesiac.)

Other Opinions:
Bookgirl’s Nightstand (Thank you again for sending me this book, Iliana!)
Book-a-rama
Cheryl’s Book Nook

(Did I miss yours?)

Unseen Academicals by Terry Pratchett

2009-10-28T11:21:00.002Z

Most Discworld books have complex plots that are notoriously difficult to summarize, and Unseen Academicals is no exception. This is the story of the revival of football in the city of Ankh-Mopork, which begins when Unseen University creates its very own team. It’s also the story of Mr Nutt, who thinks he’s a goblin but isn’t quite sure, and of Glenda, a smart and determined young woman who runs the University’s night kitchen. And it’s also a Romeo and Juliet-esque (albeit much less dramatic) love story between supports of two rival football teams.

In case you’re wondering, yes, football does play a big role in the plot of Unseen Academicals, but the story is not about football, not really. What is it about, then? Well, conflicts and immigration, dehumanizing others and stereotypes and urban violence; the fashion world, people being judgemental while telling themselves everything they’re doing is for The Greater Good, acceptance, belonging, success, passion and enthusiasm; being who you are, other people letting you be who you are, remembering history while not letting it define you, the fact that there are always several sides to one story, and…well, you get the point. As the rest of the Discworld series, it’s really about life.

Unseen Academicals is full of humour, wisdom, and passion. Terry Pratchett excels at showing people both at their most glorious and at their most ridiculous, and he does this without ever ridiculing them. I’ve never been a sports fan myself, but I have always respected other people’s enthusiasm for it, and I see no point in pretending that some passions or interests are intrinsically more valuable or valid than others. This book, too, is filled with nothing but respect for that kind of passion, and there are scenes that capture it so well that I was moved. You most certainly don’t need to care about football to take the characters’ emotions seriously.

I think I'd pair Unseen Academicals with other very Ankh-Morpork books in my head: Going Postal and Making Money, for example, or The Truth. They may not be my favourite Discworld books, but they’re still…well, I can’t tell you what they’re like because I used my cheesecake analogy recently on Nick Hornby, but you get the point, which is that I still like them a whole lot

As my poor attempt at a synopsis might have indicated, there's a lot going on at the same time here, which is not at all an uncommon in Discworld books. I don't want you to think this means the plot is confusing, though, because it absolutely isn't. But Unseen Academicals was exceptional in that I actually cared about all subplots more or less equally—with Mr Nutt’s story having only a slight lead. Mr Nuts is... well, I can't tell you much about who or what Mr Nutt is without giving too much away, but trust me, he's an unforgettable character. And so is Glenda. By the end of the book I cared as much about them as about the old favourites who made appearances, like Angua or Vimes or the Patrician.

Well, okay, maybe not as much as I care about the Patrician, but that's because Lord Vetinari. is just something else. I'd explain why, but Aarti put it so well on her recent post on why she would marry him that I'll just send you her way. Needless to say, I was thrilled that we get to see lots of him in this book.

Reading a new Discworld novel always feels like coming home. May there be many more of them.

Favourite bits:

‘Well, yes, but it’s not about the football.’
‘You’re saying that football is not about football?’
Glenda wished she’d had a proper education, or, failing that, any real education at all. But she was not going to back off now. ‘It’s the sharing,’ she said. ‘It’s being part of the crowd. It’s chanting together. It’s all of it. The whole thing.’

‘It’s a kind of medicine with words,’ said Nutt, carefully. ‘Sometimes people fool themselves into believing things that aren’t true. Sometimes that can be quite dangerous for the person. They see the world in a wrong way. They won’t let themselves see that what they believe is wrong. But often there is a part of the mind that does know, and the right words can let it out.’ He gave them a worried look.

‘…The Shove makes up the chants. They just happen. They just, like, come out of the air. And the pies are pretty awful, that’s true, but when you’re in the Shove, and it’s mucky weather, and the water’s coming through your coat, and your shoes are leaking, and then you bite into your pie, and you know that everyone else is biting into their pie, and the grease slides down your sleeve, well, sir, I don’t have the words for it, sir, I really don’t, sir. There’s a feeling I can’t describe, but it’s a bit like being a kid at Hogswatch, and you can’t just buy it, sir, you can’t write it down or organize it or make it shiny or make it tame.”

Other Opinions:
Ooh Books
Paperback Reader
I’m Booking It
Graeme’s Fantasy Book Review
Booklust
(Did I miss yours?)

Kit’s Wilderness by David Almond

2009-10-27T11:36:00.001Z

After his grandmother dies, Kit and his family move to Stoneygate, an old mining town, so they can be with his grandfather. There, Kit becomes drawn to the wilderness, the empty space between the houses and the spot of the ancient coal pit. He also almost-befriends a boy named Askew, who everyone believes to be trouble. But as is often the case, there are secrets behind his troublemaking. Kit has to adapt to a new school, a new town, and a new reality. And soon after the move, he realizes that he also has to deal with something much more difficult: his grandfather’s serious illness.

I had no idea how much Kit’s Wilderness was affecting me until, in the last few chapters, I suddenly found myself crying. It’s not uncommon for books to make me cry, but this time it was unexpected – it really crept up on me. How does David Almond do it?

I noticed quite a few parallels between this book and The Savage, which I read and loved earlier this year: both focus on storytelling quite a bit, and both blur the line between stories and reality. Both emphasize the healing power of stories as well as human connections, and both are about young boys dealing with loss – or imminent loss. But it’s not that reading The Savage first made Kit’s Wilderness feel redundant; not at all. It’s just that these are very David Almond-ish themes. And I love him for that.

As the previous Almond books I’ve read, Kit’s Wilderness was very tender and very human in a subtle sort of way. Also, a lot of what I said about River Boy last week is true of this book too – I really meant it when I said Bowler and Almond reminded me of each other. I loved the sympathy with which John Askew, a working class boy with a difficult family background, was treated—a sympathy that never brushes pity or condescension. In a way, this is a story about class, and about the all too real ways in which dire economic circumstances affect people. But it’s also about seeing beyond appearances, believing in people, truly respecting them, giving them a chance.

And also as with River Boy, I loved the protagonist’s relationship with his grandfather. Kit’s grandfather tells him stories about his days as a miner, about how the town used to be, about the group of boys who died in the pit in one of the much too common mining accidents, about how much he's seen the world change in his lifetime. And then, when due to his illness his memory starts to go (which is absolutely heartbreaking to see), Kit keeps his stories.

Another thing I loved was the book’s sense of place: I’ve never been to the part of England where the story is set, but Bart, who knows it well, says the landscape is spot on. Even though the wilderness is described in a magical, almost surreal sort of way, it still feels very much grounded in reality, and very much alive.

I worry a bit that I’m making it sound like any David Almond book is just like any other David Almond book, which is really not the case. They do seem to have a similar tone, as well as thematic similarities, but they also each have their own very specific mood. Kit’s Wilderness’s is like that moment when the sun suddenly breaks through in a very overcast day. David Almond is lovely and perceptive and I want to read all his books.

Favourite passages:

Some days it was worse, long periods when he just sat on the sofa or at the table with his body slumped and the blankness in his eyes. One day I saw with Mum after school in the living room and we watched him: two minutes, three minutes, four minutes, and he went on with his eyes just dead and blank, staring, but like he was seeing nothing inside and nothing outside.
‘Oh, dear,’ Mum whispered. ‘Poor soul.’
‘Maybe he’s just remembering,’ I told her. ‘Like he always did.’
‘No, son,’ she whispered. ‘What he’s doing is forgetting.’

‘The earth endlessly reforms itself,’ he said. ‘The continents shift, the surface cracks, fire bursts out from below. The hills are simply blown away. The sea swells and shrinks. The world tilts on its axis and brings us fiery heat or icy cold. Deserts or the ice cap creep across us. All we see and all we know is engulfed, swallowed up, regurgitated.’
He smiled.
‘We are puny little things,’ he said. ‘The beast called Time is our great predator, and there is no escape from it.’ He smiled again. ‘However. That is not to say there is no need to do our homework.’

They read it too:
The Written World & Bart’s Bookshelf (joint review)
Inkweaver
Fiddle-de-dee’s not English
Biblio File

(Let me know if I missed yours.)

Time for Comics - a Read-a-thon Mini-Challenge

2009-10-24T21:38:00.003+01:00

ETA: The mini-challenge is now closed, and the winner has been announced at the read-a-thon site. You'll all welcome to still do it just for fun, though!

Welcome, Read-a-thon participants! My mini-challenge is simple: what I suggest is that you take a break from your book and spend at least 10 minutes reading a webcomic. You can catch up with an old favourite, discover new webcomics, or explore this storytelling medium for the very first time. Warning: some webcomics are so good that you just might get sucked in and suddenly realize that a whole hour has passed. But that's okay, and I think that each page should definitely count for your read-a-thon totals!

When you're done, write a short post about the webcomic you read and what you thought of it, and come back here and leave me a link to your post. I'll randomly draw a name from the comments and the winner will get a comic or graphic novel of their choice up to $15.

This mini-challenge will be open for the next 3 hours, and both readers and cheerleaders are welcome to participate.

If you're new to webcomics, here are a few suggestions of what you could read:

No Rest for the Wicked: One of my favourite webcomic. Fairy tales!
Bayou: Another one of my favourites. A dark story of a little girl trying to rescue her father, set in the Deep South in the 1930's.
Gunnerkrigg Court: An awesome-sounding mystery/adventure story, recommended by Darla D!
High Moon: Another one I haven't yet read myself, but it's a fantastic sounding historical western-ish horror-ish story.
Questionable Content: Set in a world similar to ours, except that it has cute walking talking and thinking computers. Lots of references to music, humour and very likeable and unique characters.
Penny Arcade: Geeky humour to the max, especially, but not only, videogame related.

xkcd: More geeky humour! Don't miss the alt text!
Dork Tower: You guessed it - more geekiness!
Unshelved: Dewey recommended this one to me when I first hosted this mini-challenge in June 2008. It's set in a library, and the protagonist is a deliciously sarcastic comic book and fantasy loving YA librarian. What's not to love?
Unshelved Bookclub: Basically mini book reviews in webcomic format. Here are a few: Coraline, The Colour of Magic, Ender's Game, Little Brother, Jpod, Mouse Guard, A Wizard of Earthsea.
Goblins: A humorous fantasy setting, a good story, and interesting characters.
Nice Hair: Ever wondered what would happen if Neil Gaiman, Tim Burton and Robert Smith were to share a house? Now you can find out!

And you can find many, many more webcomic suggestions at this Wikipedia list.

(The art in the banner, in case anyone's wondering, is from No Rest of the Wicked, Questionable Content, Goblins and Penny Arcade. And yes, I used it back in 2008 and am totally plagiarizing myself.)

Read-a-thon tomorrow

2009-10-23T19:07:00.004+01:00

To those of you participating in Dewey's 24-hour Read-a-thon tomorrow, good luck! And if you're on the fence, remember, it's still not too late to sign up. You can participate for any amount of time - there's absolutely no pressure to stay up for the whole 24 hours, promise!

As I only have co-hosting duties for 6 hours, I briefly considered signing up as a reader. But I always have trouble balancing computer time and reading time, and since I'll also be cheerleading and hosting a mini-challenge, I thought it'd be wiser not to. Besides, I don't have Eva's superhero powers! Who knows, though, maybe I'll also be able to get some reading done.

Care, Chris, Debi and Eva took the words off my mouth about why the Read-a-thon is now always a bit bittersweet. Soon it will be a year that Dewey, its founder, passed away. She was an amazing person and a great friend, and I miss her terribly. But it makes me happy that she inspired so many people to devote 24 hours to reading and to geeking out together online. I think she'd be proud that we're doing this, and I know she'd want us to have fun.

Have a great time tomorrow, everyone!

*(LOLcat meant to illustrate what those of us awake at the end will be typing.)

River Boy by Tim Bowler

2009-10-22T13:02:00.002+01:00

Jess’ grandfather, a slightly eccentric painter, is dying. It all begins while he's watching her swim one morning, and suddenly clutches his hand over his heart and crashes into the pool. He stays at the hospital for three days, after which he stubbornly refuses to be kept any longer. Jess' family had previously made plans to go on holidays to the place where Grandfather grew up, a place he hadn't visited in many decades, and he still insists on going. He's hoping that the peace and quiet will allow him to finish one last painting. The painting, a river scene, is called "River Boy", but as much as she looks, Jess sees no boy. Until, that is, when swimming in the river near the cottage where they're staying, she begins to feel a presence watching her...

River Boy is such a lovely book - even more so than I was expecting. I have to agree with Jenny, who said earlier this year that Tim Bowler reminded her slightly of David Almond. Part of it is the seamless interweaving of magic and reality. The book has some fantasy elements, but they're just barely present, either just beyond our reach or hiding in plain view. The setting itself feels magic - it's an unspecified location somewhere in England, and all we know about it is that it's isolated and there are cottages and hills and a river. But the way Tim Bowler describes the surrounding nature makes it feel alive.

The main thing that reminded me of Almond, however, was the subdued but very tender tone. This could have easily been a saccharine or pseudo-inspirational story, but it's really not. And the reason why not is because the tone is just right. So instead, what it is is a very gentle and lovely and bittersweet story about accepting death and coming to terms with loss.

Another thing Bowler gets just right is Jess’s relationship with her grandfather, which is portrayed very movingly. Jess' Grandfather is a very brisk and at times even unpleasant man. But he and Jess have a special connection, and thanks to this connection he is able to be vulnerable enough in front of her to accept help with he needs it. I can't specify this more because it's better if you find out exactly what happens for yourselves, but there are some very touching scenes.

Grandparents in literature fascinate me, specially close connections between a grandparent and a child. Possibly this is because I never really got to know any of mine. They either lived far away or passed when I was still very young. Do you have any grandparent books you'd recommend? I've read The Summer Book by Tove Jansson, which was lovely, and just recently I finished Kit's Wilderness by David Almond, which would also qualify (and which reminded me of this book, ha. I don't think Bowler is trying to be Almond or anything, and they both definitely have their own distinctive voice. It's probably more of a case of great minds thinking alike).

The reason why I picked up River Boy (other than Bart's recommendation, that is) is because I'm unofficially reading through the Carnegie Medal winners. I've been doing it for the same reason why I read through any award winners, really: I tend to like them. Anyway, I said "unofficially", but I've been meaning to start an official project to read them for months now. I even told my friend Susan we could join efforts, since she has her own Secret Project in the works, and then completely failed to follow through (I'm so sorry, Susan! I seem to volunteer to do more stuff than I can possibly handle while still remaining sane).

Would anyone be interested in this? It'd be a relaxed thing - if you don't like one of the winners, by all means move on to the next - and with no time limit, of course. At this point it might take me until the end of the year to put things together, but I thought I'd throw the idea out there and see if there's any interest. And back to River Boy: Read it. It's short, but it'll stay with you.

My favourite bit:

Yes, she was going to be OK. She wasn’t OK yet; she wouldn’t be OK for some time; but she would be OK one day. She would grieve, just like Mum and Dad, especially Dad, and her grief would be deep, and it would hurt her.
But she wanted that grief; she knew it was natural and right, just as the passing of this strange and wonderful man was natural and right, just as her own death would one day be natural and right. But there was much living to do first, much living, much growing.

Other opinions: Bart’s Bookshelf

(Did I miss yours?)

Aarti at Booklust has a weekly feature called Rosie’s Riveters, in which she asks bloggers to pick one of the most memorable female characters they’ve come across and tell readers about her. I volunteered to contribute, and my post is up this week. My riveter (I wonder what she’d say about being called a riveter, ha) is Granny Weatherwax from Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series. Please click over to Aarti’s blog if you’re interested in finding out why I love her! And then stick around, because Aarti is awesome.

Virginity or Death! by Katha Pollitt

2009-10-21T11:15:00.003+01:00

Virginity or Death! And Other Social and Political Issues of Our Time is another collection of political essays which Katha Pollitt originally wrote for The Nation – this time dating from 2001 to 2005. I decided to pick up this book because I absolutely loved Pollitt’s earlier essay collection, Reasonable Creatures. It wouldn’t be quite fair to say I didn’t enjoy this one as much, but it’s true that I didn’t get as much out of it, for one simple reason: it’s even more specifically American than her earlier work, and as a result I sometimes didn’t quite know what she was talking about. These essays were originally published as a weekly column, and so it's only natural that some of them comment on very specific happenings in American internal politics. Pollitt does give the reader references, but sometimes I simply lacked the cultural context.

However, I very much enjoy learning about other countries and cultures, and I’m in fact going to count this book for the World Citizen challenge. Also, the essays that felt a bit alien to me were very much in the minority – quite a few of them deal with worldwide issues, or with issues that, while American, are relevant for the rest of the world too. Such was the case with my favourite essay, “Cold comfort.” It’s about women who were forced into prostitution in Japanese-occupied areas during WW2, a situation that despite all my WW2 reading I had no idea about.. Pollitt recommends the book Comfort Women: Sexual Slavery in the Japanese Military During World War II by Yoshimi Yoshiaka, which I’ll be sure to seek out.

Katha Pollit is often sarcastic, unapologetic, and even a bit confrontational. I love her, though: her style, her irony, her sense of humour. I don’t think that her being so outspoken is at all a bad thing, but I do suspect that because of her tone, these essays, sensible and grounded though they are in my view, are not likely to appeal to anyone whose position is not at least somewhat similar to hers (which is to say, quite liberal). I’m okay with that, though – as someone who tends to be too apologetic, I admire people like Pollitt, who are not in the least afraid to speak their minds.

Katha Pollitt always writes from a feminist perspective, but not just about specific women’s issues. Of course, the rationale behind her approach is that a feminist perspective is always relevant because any human issue will also affect women. Virginity or Death! covers topics like 9/11, the wars in Afghanistan and Iran, social justice, the 2004 American presidential elections, AIDS, childcare, reproductive rights, women’s rights in the Middle East, lbgtq rights, and the debunking of flawed studies that try to naturalize social differences between men and women – and let me just say I love how she manages to do this and still show an appreciation for science.

For me, reading Katha Pollitt is like talking to that one friend you always go to when you want to figure out how you feel about certain issues – even when you don’t completely agree, you know that the conversation will leave you feeling more enlightened.

Passages I liked:

Despite the onslaught of negative media, and large audiences receptive to it, and despite the real-life opprobrium that can befall a woman perceived as uppity, promiscuous, or insufficiently shaven of leg, feminism persists because it fits the actual conditions in which women live. If women are educated, if they choose their own husbands (or choose to have none) and determine the size of their families, if they can support themselves or know that they could do so if they had to, then they are going to feel that they deserve the rights and privileges and respect society accords adult human beings, This is so, whether or not they call themselves feminists and even if they stay home taking care of children.

How many children have these now-gray gentlemen produced in a lifetime of strenuous heterosexuality? None. But because they are men, nobody’s writing books about how they blew their lives, missed the brass ring, find life a downward spiral of serial girlfriends and work that’s lost its savor. We understand, when we think about men, that people often say they want one thing while making choices that over time show that they care more about something else, that circumstances get in the way of many of our wishes and that for many “have kids” occupies a place on the to-do list between “learn Italian” and “exercise”.
Change the sexes, though, and the same story gets a different slant.

Belkin’s idea of feminism is a caricature of the actual women’s movement. “The women’s movement was largely about grabbing a fair share of power—making equal money, standing at the helm in the macho realms of business and government and law,” she writes. But feminism was never about shoulder pads and power suits, or taking “only the shortest of maternity leaves,” or “becoming a man.” Feminism is about changing the ground rules, not just entering the game. Feminists, in fact, are the ones who first put forward the idea of balance between work and family—for both sexes—of a more humane and flexible and less hierarchical work place, of childcare as a task for both parents and for society as a whole. Belkin puts these ideas forward as the antidote to feminism, when they are, in fact, what feminism is.

Reviewed at:
Any Good Books/Mixed Reviews
The Imponderabilia of Actual Life
Echidine of the Snakes

(Did I miss yours?)

And here’s an interview with Katha Pollitt about this book.

Howards End by E.M. Forster

2009-10-20T13:50:00.003+01:00

The plot of Howards End is difficult to summarize, but here's an attempt: the Schlegel sisters, Margaret and Helen, meet the Wilcoxes by chance when both families are on holidays. Helen is later invited to spend some time at Howards End, the Wilcox family’s home, and ends up getting briefly involved with their younger son Paul – with tragicomic results. This is only the first of many interactions between these two very different families. And let’s not forget Leonard Bast, a clerk who’s hanging on for dear life to the very lower ladder of the middle class, and who meets the sisters when Helen accidentally steals his umbrella at a concert…

These are just the basics of the plot – but the basics of the plot probably make Howards End sound a lot less interesting than it actually is. And it’s of course no coincidence that the last book I said this about was the lovely On Beauty.

Let me start by telling you a little about the characters: I loved the Schlegel sisters (who were apparently modelled on the Bloomsbury group). They are idealistic, but not in a naïve, uninformed way. They care about music, literature, philosophy, the suffragist movement, all the social questions they come across, really. But at the same time, they’re not… ah, let Margaret speak for herself: More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it.

The Wilcoxes are different – keener to maintain social rules and divisions, which is a nicer way of saying that they are very prejudiced indeed. But what makes Howards End so extraordinary is the fact that all these characters are presented as fully human. Nothing is oversimplified; nobody is reduced to a stereotype. At its core, this novel is about treating people as people, always as people, regardless of the arbitrary social divisions most of us ilve by. It’s about connecting, of course; about seeing beyond differences and barriers, and about reaching out.

The tone of the narration very much reinforces this theme – there’s such warmth to it; it’s so gentle and inclusive and humane. E.M Forster is a Modernist who reads like a Victorian. He often comments on the plot – and though he does this self-consciously, the effect is still very nineteenth-century. The main difference is that he never sounds authoritative. There’s humour in his asides, and he writes with such obvious sympathy and even tenderness for his characters that the commentary never feels intrusive. And importantly, the reader never feels that it closes the possibilities of the story – it might nudge you in a direction or another, but it never actually pushes you.

The humour works better than the more reflective moments, and the writing (and even some of the plot) is occasionally, by today’s standards, nearly over the top. But I only loved Howards End more for it – I regarded even the most melodramatic passages with the same tenderness with which I regard D.H. Lawrence’s constant repetitions, for example. I loved the voice of the story so much that I was predisposed to forgive it anything.

A (spoilers-free) note of the ending: it surprised me, and I think it was the only instance in which the story became almost too idealistic. But this is perhaps my inner cynic getting the better of me. Maybe the two family’s final arrangements would work. And doubts aside, I want to give Forster a hug for ending things on such a hopeful note – especially after making me believe that they could not possibly end well.

I read Zadie Smith’s On Beauty last year, and though I knew it was based on Howards End, reading it I was surprised that so many scenes were familiar. This doesn’t make me appreciate Smith’s novel any less, though – it’s a lovely tribute to a lovely classic. Both are books I wholeheartedly recommend: they offer social commentary that is humorous and never heavy-handed, they have memorable casts of characters, and they’re both about how what connects us outweighs what divides us, much more than we realize.

A few bits I loved (and the first in particular is an example of what I mean by almost over the top, but endearingly so):

That was "how it happened," or, rather, how Helen described it to her sister, using words even more unsympathetic than my own. But the poetry of that kiss, the wonder of it, the magic that there was in life for hours after it--who can describe that? It is so easy for an Englishman to sneer at these chance collisions of human beings. To the insular cynic and the insular moralist they offer an equal opportunity. It is so easy to talk of "passing emotion," and how to forget how vivid the emotion was ere it passed. Our impulse to sneer, to forget, is at root a good one. We recognize that emotion is not enough, and that men and women are personalities capable of sustained relations, not mere opportunities for an electrical discharge. Yet we rate the impulse too highly. We do not admit that by collisions of this trivial sort the doors of heaven may be shaken open.

And the voice in the gondola rolled on, piping melodiously of Effort and Self-Sacrifice, full of high purpose, full of beauty, full even of sympathy and the love of men, yet somehow eluding all that was actual and insistent in Leonard's life. For it was the voice of one who had never been dirty or hungry, and had not guessed successfully what dirt and hunger are.

On a perfect day, when the sky seemed blue porcelain, and the waves of the discreet little bay beat gentlest of tattoos upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through the rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness of Death. One death may explain itself, but it throws no light upon another: the groping inquiry must begin anew. Preachers or scientists may generalize, but we know that no generality is possible about those whom we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion.

Other opinions:
Trish’s Reading Nook, Ticket to Anywhere, A Striped Armchair, and a lovely post at Tales from the Reading Room about Forster and his work.

(Let me know if I missed yours!)

The Suspicions of Mr Whicher by Kate Summerscale

2009-10-19T13:05:00.003+01:00

I’m not – or at least I don’t think I am – usually drawn to true crime, but so many of you went on about how good The Suspicions of Mr Whicher was that I had to cave and give it a try. And plus, it’s Victorian true crime. How could I not be interested? This book is about a murder case that took place on 30th June 1860 in a quiet country road in Road, Kent. Like in a typical country house mystery, the house was locked from the inside, which automatically meant that all of its inhabitants—an upper class family and their servants—were suspects.

I’m not exactly squeamish, but I have to say that the first few chapters of the book, where the murder is described, were hard to read. This is because the victim, Saville, is only three years old. He’s removed from his cot at night and killed—I won’t tell you how, but it’s quite horrifying. The way Kate Summerscale describes the violence is very clinical, but it was hard not to feel queasy. Still, I want to clarify that The Suspicions of Mr Whicher doesn’t feel exploitative or gratuitously scandalous in the least. It’s always respectful and humane, and that was one of the reasons why I loved it so much.

The Suspicions of Mr Whicher reads like a mystery novel—we follow the case from the beginning; we’re only given answers as those investigating it come to them. As the title indicates, there’s a particular focus on Jack Whicher, a renowned Victorian detective who inspired Sergeant Cuff in Wilkie Collin’s The Moonstone. Which brings me to my next point—not only does this book read like a mystery, but it’s also about mysteries. It goes beyond this specific murder case to focus in the impact it had on Victorian culture, particularly on the emerging detective novel. It also focuses on how the image of the detective evolved, both in literature and in reality.

Kate Summerscale establishes parallels with books such as The Moonstone, The Woman in White and The Turn of the Screw. Having read all of these recently, I was of course extremely interested. I can especially see the traces of Road Hill House murder in The Moonstone—the crime is a lot tamer, but the basic elements are mostly the same. The downside of all these literary allusions is that there were spoilers for all of the aforementioned books, and also for Lady Audley’s Secret, I assume. I skipped ahead as soon as Summerscale began to discuss it, because I’m planning to read it soon and didn’t want to have it spoiled.

But as I was saying, the cultural and literary analysis of the impact this murder case had on Victorian sensibilities is what makes The Suspicions of Mr Whicher so interesting. This brutal murder didn’t take place in a gritty alley, but in an upper-class house in the country, which forced the Victorians to rethink assumptions about class, gender, money, respectability, and how all of these relate to violence and crime. These were the very same issues—the cracks in Victorian ideology—that made all those Gothic classics I’ve been reading so interesting to me.

If The Suspicions of Mr Whicher has a flaw, it’s the fact that sometimes it could have gone further—it could have asked more questions; explored the contradictions a bit more. But this is really a minor quibble—the book is on the long side as it is, and I understand why Summerscale couldn’t discuss everything in detail. Now that I got my quibble out of the way, I can wholeheartedly recommend this book, even to those who aren’t normally the biggest fans of non-fiction. Like the best mysteries, it’s impossible to put down.

Interesting passages:

The word ‘clue’ derives from ‘clew’, meaning a ball of thread or yarn. It had come to mean ‘that which points the way’ because of the Greek myth in which Theseus uses a ball of yearn, given to him by Ariadne, to find his way out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth. The writers of the mid-nineteenth century still had this imagine in mind when they used the word. ‘There is always a pleasure in unravelling a mystery, in catching the gossamer clue which will guide to certainly,’ observed Elizabeth Gaskell in 1848.

To get at the inner thoughts and feelings of the Kent household was more a matter of instinct than logic, what Charlotte Brontë described as ‘sensitiveness – that peculiar, apprehensive, detective faculty’. A vocabulary was emerging to capture the elusive new detective methods. In 1840 the word ‘hunch’ was first used to mean a push or nudge towards a solution. In the 1850s ‘lead’ gained the meaning of a guiding indication or a clue.

The mid-Victorians were transfixed by the idea that faces and bodies could be ‘read’, that the inner life was imprinted on the shapes or features and the flutter of the fingers. Perhaps the fascination stemmed from a premium placed on privacy: it was terrifying and thrilling that thoughts were visible, that the inner life, so jealously guarded, could be instantly exposed. People’s bodies might betray them, like the heartbeats of the killer in Poe’s ‘The Tell-Tale Heart (1843), which seemed to pound out his guilt.

Perhaps this is the purpose of detective investigations, real and fictional – to transform sensational, horror and grief into a puzzle, to make it go away. ‘The detective story,’ observed Raymond Chandler in 1949, ‘is a tragedy with a happy ending.’ A storybook detective starts by confronting us with a murder and ends by absolving us of it. He clears us of guilt. He relieves us of uncertainty. He removes us from the presence of death.

Other opinions: My Cozy Book Nook, A Book a Week, Caribousmom, Farm Lane Books, Medieval Bookworm, Stuck in a Book, Semicolon, You’re GOTTA Read This, Passionate Booklover, As Usual, I Need More Bookshelves, Cynical Optimism, Raging Bibliomania, You Can Never Have Too Many Books, Jenny's Books, BooksPlease

(Did I miss yours?)

The Sunday Salon - In Which I Lose My Mind

2009-10-18T12:12:00.002+01:00

So, recording a vlog was way up there on my mental list of Things I'll Try My Best To Avoid, just a few spots below "getting hit by lightening". But then I made a deal with my friend Debi: I'd vlog if she vlogged. Because she's just as shy as I am, I thought I was pretty safe, but I should have known better. Debi made a vlog with the explicit purpose of getting me to make one too. Now, isn't that cruel?

As you're all about to see, I'm much better at communicating through writing than by speaking, so no, this will not become a regular feature here. And if I sound nervous, well, that's because I was. The camera shakes sometimes because the laptop was on my knees, and my legs started shaking. I kid you not.

(Before Chris, Debi or Amanda ask, yes, I did mispronounce my own name. I blame nerves, and also the fact that I suck. Sorry guys! But seriously, this ought to show you how much I don't mind it being pronounced the American way. I do it myself occasionally!)

Books (briefly) mentioned:

The Suspicions of Mr Whicher by Kate Summerscale
Howards End by E.M. Forster
River Boy by Tim Bowler
Chiggers by Hope Larson
Virginity or Death! by Katha Pollitt
Magic for Beginners by Kelly Link

The Turn of the Screw by Henry James

2009-10-16T10:58:00.005+01:00

The Turn of the Screw is the story of a governess who is hired to look after two orphans, Miles and Flora, in a country house in Essex. The children's uncle lives in London, and he expressly tells the governess that he doesn't wish to be disturbed. She is free to make any decisions concerning the children, and she is not to waste his time by communicating them to him. At first, the young woman is quite taken by her charges. But when she begins to see the spectres of two people who were close to the children and died before she was hired, she starts to suspect that there's more to them than meets the eye.

I'm going to have to go on on about framing yet again, because the way this story is presented is very interesting: the story of the governess is a manuscript that an unnamed narrator hears a friend read out loud. The governess is dead, we are told, and the story took place some time ago. The context is that of an exchange of chilly tales. The governess's story, then, is framed as a ghost story, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that this doesn't necessarily provide any clues to solve the ambiguity at the heart of this novella.

Both possibilities are disturbing, and perhaps the ambiguity makes it even more effective as a horror story. We don't know if this is a tale of madness or one of supernatural occurrences, and this might encourage each reader to go for the possibility that unsettles them the most (guess what mine is?). The children do feel sinister, but then of course they would, as we only see them through their governess's eyes. And we have no way of knowing how much she's not telling us. There are many questions that remain unanswered, but fortunately this didn't prove as frustrating as I feared it would be.

Another thing that surprised me was how much The Turn of the Screw unsettled me. It wasn't necessarily the Gothic elements, or the atmosphere, or the lonely country mansion (and the loneliness of the governess). It wasn't the apparitions, or the seamless mingling of domesticity and sinister elements, though those do add up. What unsettled me the most were the social dynamics - the power dynamics, really - that are just under the surface of the story. Even though the governess is given free reign by her employer, who has the upper hand? She, the children's uncle, or the children themselves? We are of course seeing things through the eyes of someone who is not necessarily reliable, but all along the governess' positions feel... precarious. One word from her charges could send her away - or could it? Are the children vulnerable, or is she? Uncertainty aside, there's something about the whole arrangement that feels very oppressive - and very Victorian, of course.

A brief note on the writing: I got used to it after a couple of chapters, but James' writing style is one that demands my full concentration. If I let my mind wander for even a few seconds, I lose track of the sentence and have to start again. And one of the things that took some getting used to was his use of commas. He'll stick one in every single place where it's grammatically admissible to stick one, and as a result the flow of his writing is very different from the kind of flow I'm used to. Example:

This person proved, on her presenting herself, for judgement, at a house in Harley Street, that impressed her as vast and imposing—this prospective patron proved a gentleman, a bachelor in the prime of life, such a figure as had never risen, save in a dream or an old novel, before a fluttered, anxious girl out of a Hampshire vicarage. One could easily fix his type; it never, happily, dies out.

Bits I liked:

But as my little conductress, with her hair of gold and her frock of blue, danced before me round corners and pattered down passages, I had the view of a castle of romance inhabited by a rosy sprite, such a place as would somehow, for diversion of the young idea, take all color out of storybooks and fairytales. Wasn't it just a storybook over which I had fallen adoze and adream? No; it was a big, ugly, antique, but convenient house, embodying a few features of a building still older, half-replaced and half-utilized, in which I had the fancy of our being almost as lost as a handful of passengers in a great drifting ship. Well, I was, strangely, at the helm!

I can hear again, as I write, the intense hush in which the sounds of evening dropped. The rooks stopped cawing in the golden sky, and the friendly hour lost, for the minute, all its voice. But there was no other change in nature, unless indeed it were a change that I saw with a stranger sharpness. The gold was still in the sky, the clearness in the air, and the man who looked at me over the battlements was as definite as a picture in a frame. That's how I thought, with extraordinary quickness, of each person that he might have been and that he was not. We were confronted across our distance quite long enough for me to ask myself with intensity who then he was and to feel, as an effect of my inability to say, a wonder that in a few instants more became intense.

...the element of the unnamed and untouched became, between us, greater than any other, and that so much avoidance could not have been so successfully effected without a great deal of tacit arrangement. It was as if, at moments, we were perpetually coming into sight of subjects before which we must stop short, turning suddenly out of alleys that we perceived to be blind, closing with a little bang that made us look at each other—for, like all bangs, it was something louder than we had intended—the doors we had indiscreetly opened.

They read it too: Out of the Blue, Bending Bookshelf, Melody's Reading Corner, Tales from the Reading Room, Age 30+: A Lifetime of Books, ChainReading, Booknotes by Lisa, Bart's Bookshelf, Moo's Place, Reading, Writing, Working, Playing, BiblioAddict, Life and Times of a "New" New Yorker, somewhere i have never travelled, Steph & Tony Investigate!

(Please let me know if I missed yours.)

Ash by Malinda Lo

2009-10-15T10:31:00.003+01:00

Not long after Aisling's mother dies, her father marries again. Aisling's - or Ash's - stepmother is called Lady Isobel, and she has two daughters of her own, Ana and Clara. None of them are particularly fond of Ash, and after some time her standing in the family becomes that of a servant. Sounds familiar? Yes, Ash is a loose retelling of "Cinderella". The most noteworthy difference is that instead of falling in love with a prince, Ash falls for Kaisa, the king's huntress.

I had been dying to read Ash ever since I first heard of it earlier this year. I wanted to read it so badly that I made it one of the three new releases I was allowed to get under my book buying ban - and this in a year with plenty of new releases that I'm coveting. Perhaps these high expectations were part of the problem. In any case, it really pains me to say that I didn't enjoy Ash nearly as much as I was expecting to.

I finished the book a week ago, and I've been trying to figure out what it was that made it not quite work for me ever since. The best thing I can come up with is that I failed to connect with the narrative voice. There was something about it that seemed a little off to me, a little strained; I kept being jolted out of the story when I wanted to lose myself in it. Nevertheless, there was a lot to like about Ash, so let me tell you about the good things:

I really liked the romance between Ash and Kaisa. It develops slowly, and the two have time to get to know each other, to develop a connection that feels real. The world of Ash is not a world where a same-sex romance is frowned upon, and Malinda Lo explains why she made that decision in her Big Idea post at Scalzi's blog. I completely agree with her reasons, and I love the fact that the romance in Ash is a romance, period. It's not overshadowed by the fear and shame that same-sex couples unfortunately still have to deal with in our world.

The romance, however, only takes place in the second half of the book. The first half is slower, more subtle and subdued. It spans several years, and it's mostly devoted to Ash coming to terms with the loss of her loved ones and with the subsequent changes in her life. We also watch her grow and change and realize who she is; who she does and does not want to be. The book isn't very long, so this first half only takes a little over a hundred pages, but it conveys the feeling that a long time has passed quite well.

I also loved the worldbuilding - the world of Ash is complex and fully realized. It's very much its own thing, but it reminded me of the worlds of The Goose Girl or Ella Enchanted, two of my favourite fairy tale retellings. If Malinda Lo were to set more novels in this world, I'd be sure to read them. But let me tell you a little about what makes the world so appealing: it has its own customs and traditions; it seems to exist beyond the story. Ash grows up in a remote part of the country, in a forested area where old traditions still live. We're told about the conflicts between older and modern ideas; about rites, festivals and celebrations; about the land's lore and about the truth behind that lore. And most interestingly of all, Ash's world is one where oral storytelling is of great importance. Ash's most treasured possession is a book of fairy tales that she inherits from her mother, and she and Kaisa connect by telling each other their favourite fairy tale.

Finally, I liked the fact that even though Ash's stepmother and stepsisters are far from being likeable characters, they are nor portrayed as black and white villains either. They're unpleasant and arrogant, especially Lady Isobel and Ana, the older sister. But Malinda Lo gives us a glimpse of the social system that forced these women to desperately seek a wealthy husband. There is some sympathy in the narration; some awareness of the demands that reduce these women to fairy tale stereotypes of callousness and greed.

I so wanted to love this book. It truly makes me sad that despite all the things I liked, in the end I just couldn't connect with Ash. The reasons probably have as much to do with myself as with the book. But plenty of other readers loved it, and perhaps you will too.

Other opinions: Melody's Reading Corner, Presenting Lenore, Pop Culture Junkie, The Story Siren, Steph Su Reads, Zoe's Book Reviews, The Dreamer Reader, Becky's Book Reviews, The Book Smugglers, A Chair, A Fireplace & A Tea Cozy, GalleySmith

(Did I miss yours?)

The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins

2009-10-14T13:10:00.003+01:00

Legend has it that anyone who removes the Moonstone, a sacred diamond from India, from its shrine will have the moon god's revenge fall on them and their descendants. With that in mind, readers and characters alike have reasons to suspect Colonel Herncastle, a former army officer who served in India, when he leaves the Moonstone to his estranged niece Rachel Verinder for her eighteenth birthday. The morning after Miss Verinder’s birthday party, the Moonstone is discovered to be missing, and so our mystery begins.

Like The Woman in White, The Moonstone is divided into several parts, each narrated by a different characters. I was very interested in the way the story is framed—once again, we have a character who takes the role of editor, and each of the narrators provides an explanation for how their section of the story came to be. Memory wrote an excellent post on framing or context last year, so instead of repeating her points I’ll just point you towards it. What I'm trying to say here, though, is that I notice that nineteenth century authors seem to pay a lot more attention to how they frame their narratives than contemporary ones do. Do we take fictionality for granted? Is it because the novel is more established now? These days, a novel that provides a careful explanation for its existence seems rather forced more often than not. But not so with The Moonstone. Why is this, I wonder?

One of the reasons why the different narrations work so well is because they provide an opportunity for the characters to interact through their narratives; to make their opinions of one another perfectly clear, as Miss Clack and Mr Franklin Blake do. And that’s a source of much of the book’s humour. Humour, you ask? Isn’t this a Victorian detective novel? Yes, yes it is. But it's also absolutely hilarious. I’m not quite sure why, but this really surprised me. Gabriel Betteredge's and Miss Clack’s narrations had me laughing out loud.

I’ll let you discover Miss Clack for yourself if you haven’t yet, but let me tell you a little about Gabriel Betteredge: Betteredge is the steward of the country house where the theft occurs, and he has been in the family’s service for most of his life. His defining trait, if we can call it such, is his unshakeable faith in Robinson Crusoe. Gabriel firmly believes that there is no question in life that can’t be answered by this novel, and this gives rise to episodes such as this:

“Betteredge!” I said, pointing to the well-remembered book on his knee, “has ROBINSON CRUSOE informed you, this evening, that you might expect to see Franklin Blake?”
“By the lord Harry, Mr. Franklin!” cried the old man, “that's exactly what ROBINSON CRUSOE has done!”
(…)
“Here's the bit, Mr. Franklin!” he said, as soon as he had recovered the use of his speech. “As I live by bread, sir, here's the bit I was reading, the moment before you came in! Page one hundred and fifty-six as follows:--‘I stood like one Thunderstruck, or as if I had seen an Apparition.’ If that isn't as much as to say: ‘Expect the sudden appearance of Mr. Franklin Blake’--there's no meaning in the English language!” said Betteredge, closing the book with a bang, and getting one of his hands free at last to take the hand which I offered him.

This is from Franklin Blakes’ narration, though, and I want to share Betteredge’s voice too. I absolutely loved it, particularly his penchant for addressing the reader:

Here follows the substance of what I said, written out entirely for your benefit. Pay attention to it, or you will be all abroad, when we get deeper into the story. Clear your mind of the children, or the dinner, or the new bonnet, or what not. Try if you can't forget politics, horses, prices in the City, and grievances at the club. I hope you won't take this freedom on my part amiss; it's only a way I have of appealing to the gentle reader. Lord! haven't I seen you with the greatest authors in your hands, and don't I know how ready your attention is to wander when it's a book that asks for it, instead of a person?

Oh Betteredge—you’re wrong. I have the embarrassing habit of letting my attention wander exactly when a person asks for it. But I love you still. Yours has joined my mental list of All-time Favourite Narrative Voices.

When I read The Woman in White, I commented that much of it was grounded in a decidedly Victorian social structure. Likewise, some important plot points of The Moonstone are very much grounded in Victorian notions of science (which isn’t to say, of course, that social structure isn’t also important). I cannot go on at length about this without giving too much away, and so I’ll refrain from doing so. But my main point is that what I’m sure Wilkie Collins thought of as a perfectly believable explanation for the mystery no longer reads like one. However, this dated aspect only makes the story more interesting in my view.

The answer to the mystery of who stole the Moonstone is not very difficult to guess, but Collins leaves you waiting for the “how” and the “why”, and those are just as interesting, if not more. The final answer reinforces one of The Moonstone’s most obvious themes: that an appearance of respectability should not be taken for the thing itself. This is also visible in characters like Ezra Jennings, who was treated with a kindness that surprised me. Overall, I found The Moonstone to be kinder, warmer, more open, and less rigid and respectful of propriety than The Woman in White. Another example of this is the very ending, which I of course won’t give away. But I was very pleased to hear of the final fate of the Moonstone.

And I haven’t even told you about the characters yet. Other than Gabriel Betteredge, that is. I loved Rachel – I loved her spirit, her unapologetic determination. She was much more Marian than Laura, but without having to compensate for her independence by being described as “manly” or “ugly”. The Moonstone was written eight years after The Woman in White, so I’ll happily attribute this to a progression in Collins’ thought. Anyway, I won’t blab about this book all day (though I could!). I’ll end this by saying that I completely agree with Audrey Niffenegger, who says in her introduction to this edition that the characters are at the heart of what makes The Moonstone such a joy to read.

A few more bits I liked:

Thanks be to Heaven, we have arrived at the eve of the birthday at last! You will own, I think, that I have got you over the ground this time, without much loitering by the way. Cheer up! I'll ease you with another new chapter here--and, what is more, that chapter shall take you straight into the thick of the story.

People in high life have all the luxuries to themselves--among others, the luxury of indulging their feelings. People in low life have no such privilege. Necessity, which spares our betters, has no pity on us. We learn to put our feelings back into ourselves, and to jog on with our duties as patiently as may be. I don't complain of this--I only notice it.

Other opinions: S. Krishna’s Books, A Garden Carried in the Pocket, A Guy’s Moleskin Notebook, A Striped Armchair, books i done read, Farm Lane Books, The Indextrious Reader, ChainReading, Book Nut, BiblioAddict, third-storey window

(As always, please let me know if I missed yours!)

Wonderland by Tommy Kovac and Sonny Liew

2009-10-13T09:54:00.007+01:00

Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her in an angry tone, `Why, Mary Ann, what ARE you doing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!' And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it had made.

`He took me for his housemaid,' she said to herself as she ran. `How surprised he'll be when he finds out who I am! But I'd better take him his fan and gloves--that is, if I can find them.'

From Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

Tommy Kovac and Sonny Liew's Wonderland is a gorgeously illustrated graphic novel that revisits the world Lewis Carroll created. But instead of Alice, the protagonist is Mary Ann, the housemaid the White Rabbit mistakes her for in the original book. When Kelly from The Written World and I noticed we'd read it at the same time by coincidence (it's probably the fifth time something like that happens this year, seriously), we decided to review it together. This time we used a conversation format, and I'm posting part two of our discussion. Please make sure you visit Kelly and read part one first; otherwise this won't make much sense!

Ana: Those were the first two I happened to think of, but there are definitely plenty of others these days. I liked Wicked, but I haven't read the other series yet. I tend to love retellings, but I notice that what determines if they work for me is whether or not they add something new to the original story. One of the reasons why I liked Wicked so much is because Maguire's Oz is both instantly familiar and a completely new, rich, detailed world - you said that you liked the idea of it, so I'll assume we agree on this! I think that building something new out of a literary work we already know takes as much skill and creativity as creating a world from scratch.

Which is why it saddens me when people say that authors who do it are lazy or just trying to cash in on someone else's success. This isn't to say, of course, that this isn't true in some cases. I'm not going to be mean and say that Wonderland is one of them, but it disappointed me that Kovac didn't add anything new to Carroll's world. I loved revisiting, sure, but I'd have loved it even more if I had been able to see a side of Wonderland I've never seen before.

Re-reading my answer reminded me of Peter David's lovely Tigerheart, which reimagines Barrie's Neverland. So I'm going to go ahead and recommend it to you and to anyone reading this. Time for an unoriginal question: what did you think of the ending?

Kelly: Just what I need, another book to add to the wish list! I think that one is on there all ready, though, so maybe I just need to move it up the wish list! I totally get you when you say that something new has to be added to the story in order to make it worthwhile.

As to the answer to the question. I am actually sitting here trying to think about it and mostly coming up blank! I got the book from the library, so I have all ready taken it back. I am trying to remember my original opinion upon the conclusion of the book, though. I really feel nothing! I didn't hate the ending, but I didn't really love it either. I don't find that it really concluded anything. I really hope they are not hoping for a sequel! If the art was the same, I would be so there, but unless they put their creative hats on a sequel is not a good idea at all. Mary Ann is still really the same at the end of the book. She is still obsessed with cleaning and she is still pretty subservient. I don't find that all that much was accomplished with the ending. Really, I just don't feel anything about the ending. When I read the book I enjoyed the few glimpses of familiar characters, Mary Ann drove me crazy, and the art was fantastic. That is my opinion of this book in a nutshell! You?

Ana: Yep, you've summed it up pretty well. I asked you about the ending because it really reinforced my feeling that the story had been kind of pointless. Mary Ann is still the same - she has been instrumental in causing some changes in Wonderland, but I was left with the feeling that it all happened sort of accidentally, and that none of it was of as much consequence as it ought to have been. I was also disappointed that the connection between Mary Ann and Alice that the story hints at is never fully developed. I don't know, maybe part of the problem was that I expected something different.

I'm probably beginning to sound like I hated this book, but I really didn't - I just think it's probably better to appreciate it as a quick return to Wonderland and as an Alice on Wonderland art book. And I would recommend it for that alone. I know I'll be returning to it just to look at the art! I'll also definitely look for more work illustrated by Sonny Liew. And so that it doesn't sound like I hated the story so much I vow never to read Tommy Kovac again, let me add that his comics Autumn and Stitch also sound really good.

Kelly: I agree with you. I didn't really hate it either, but it wasn't as good as I was expecting it to be. I want to buy it, really - just so I can look at the pictures! It's a great book for the read-a-thon, actually. You can sort of read the story, look at the pretty pictures, and feel like you accomplished something when you start to get too tired! Consider it a recommendation. Otherwise, I think I have said pretty much everything that I feel needs to be talked about. It wasn't a very long book, so there is not a lot to discuss. This chat style was fun, though! We are going to have to do it again!

Ana: I second your recommendation for the read-a-thon, and yes, we'll have to do this again!

I ended up taking a bit of an unplanned blogging break these past few days for personal reasons - many thanks to those of you who contacted me to make sure everything was okay. That some of you worried after only five days is probably a sign of how obsessive my blogging habits usually are!

But in all seriousness, I very much appreciate it, and I want to apologize for having been so horrible at responding to comments here and at bloghopping lately. I really don't want to neglect anyone, but...well, I'm sure you know how it is. So even though I hate to do it, I think the only way not to drive myself crazy is to click the dreaded "mark all as read" button in Google Reader, start from scratch this week, and hope I'll be better able to keep up with things in the future. Thank you again for caring!

Black Juice by Margo Lanagan

2009-10-08T13:02:00.002+01:00

(Yes, this is going to be another gushy post about Margo Lanagan. I can’t help it – I’m a complete fangirl. Anyway, consider yourselves warned.)

Black Juice is a collection of ten short stories that range from horror to fantasy and science fiction. You know that my definitions of these genres are inclusive and wide, but even so, even trying to label this collection feels artificial, because so much of Black Juice is unlike anything I’ve read before. These are stories that blur the lines, which is to say, my favourite kind. I don’t want to tell you much about the plots, not only because it’s easy to give too much away with short fiction, but also because most would be extremely difficult to summarize.

Reading these stories felt a little like walking into an unfamiliar place blindfolded. I had to feel my way around them slowly, cautiously, word by word. And in case you’re thinking that this sounds like an incredibly frustrating reading experience, worry not: it absolutely wasn’t. The discovery was a pleasure, as was savouring Lanagan’s beautiful prose. Yes, many of these stories are vague. They demand your full attention; you have to notice the details to be able to make sense of what’s happening. But even when I wasn’t quite sure of what was happening plot-wise, I always knew what the story felt like. And that was more important than the plot.

“Singing My Sister Down”, the story that opens this collection, is actually one of the most straightforward ones. It is also very nearly life-changing. It's narrated by a young boy whose sister is going to be executed for having killed her husband. The whole family is present at the execution, which takes place in a tar pit: the girl steps into it and the family stays with her the whole day until she finishes sinking. This brief summary might make you think that the story sound unusual, which it is, and that it's sad, which it also most certainly is. But it doesn’t tell you much about what makes it work as well as it does: you have to experience it, to feel it yourself. I cannot do it justice, but suffice to say that after I finished it, it took me nearly two weeks to recover and be able to pick up the book again.

With this in mind, it might surprise you if I tell you that my favourite was actually “Sweet Pippit”. This story is told from the point of view of a herd of elephants who are on a journey to rescue a human boy they love, and there’s something about the narration itself that makes it so tender, so moving, so absolutely powerful. It reminded me a little of the way Kij Johnson writes about animals, and you’ve heard me gush about Kij Johnson before.

There are other stories I could highlight – I particularly liked “Wooden Bride”, “Yowlinin” and “Rite of Spring”, and part of me wanted them to be novels. Not because they’re unsatisfying as short stories, but because the worlds they’re set in, though only hinted at, are so interesting, so rich and strange. The stories are full of odd little details that are never fully explained, but once again this is not frustrating – it leaves you eager for more, but not in a bad way.

And then there’s “Red Nose Day”, which is one of the darkest and most shocking stories I have ever read — but not gratuitously so. It’s also one of the most demanding stories in this collection: not just because of the heavy subject matter, which involves murder, abuse and revenge, but because it’s particularly difficult to make sense of what’s happening at first. The emotions, however, are clear from the opening paragraph, and the build-up to the disturbing revelation about two third of the way through is absolutely perfect.

Let me stop before I start gushing uncontrollably: Black Juice is original, haunting, tender and dark, and written in some of the most impressive and vivid language I’ve come across. I can’t wait to get my hands on Red Spikes.

Favourite bits:

But our bearing is the sort that soothes others; we move with inevitability, as the stars do, as the moon swells and shrinks upon the sky. We brushed aside the wooden gatehouse as if it were a plaything we had tired of, and the other animals remained calm. Gooroloom tumbled it to sticks, and our feet crushed it to dust. Above the dark and swollen river of our rage, my delight in our badness hung briefly bright.

We walked out among people’s houses, that were like friends standing beside the path. With every sleeping house we passed, I was more wakeful; with every step I took that was not circle-path, or earth we had trodden as many times as there are stars, something else broke open in me. My mind seemed a great wonderland, largely unexplored, my body a vast possibility of movements, in any directions, all new.
(From “Sweet Pippit”)

Behind it, the night is suddenly vaster, colder, clearer. All the stars zing; the mountains glitter; towns and villages gather like bright mould in the valley-seams and along the coasts. Every movement in byre and bunny-hole, of leaf against leaf, of germ in soil and stream, turns and gleams and laminates every other, the whole world monstrously fancy, laced tight together, yet slopping over and unravelling in every direction, a grand brilliant wastage of the living and the dying.
( “Earthly uses”)

So I struggled up, shouting words that I mumbled, embarrassed, in front of Mum last night. They sounded powerfully pompous in our rough little home, but they suit this strong weather. They’re something to throw at the wind; words seem like nothing, but they’re tiny, fancy, people’s things. Who cares whether they do anything? What else can we put up against the wind except our tininess and fanciness? What else can the wind put up against us but its big, dumb, brute-strength? So there!, I tell it with my miniature mouth, my tiny frozen pipe of a throat, my stumbling tongue (and even the stumbling is good, for the wind never stumbles, never goes back and rights itself, don’t you see?). All you’ve got is your noise – and I’ve got noise, too! And mine’s a thing of beauty!
(“Rite of Spring”)

Other Opinions: A Chair, a Fireplace & a Tea Cozy, Reading Rants!, Scooter Chronicles, Susan Hated Literature

(Did I miss yours?)

Fables: The Dark Ages by Bill Willingham et al

2009-10-07T12:35:00.003+01:00

Ah, Fables. Writing about you without a) repeating myself endlessly and b) spoilers has become a nearly impossible task. But once again, I'm going to try. The Dark Ages marks the beginning of a new main story arc in this series. The Adversary has been defeated, and the characters we know and love are both celebrating their triumph and recovering from the final battle. But as you can imagine, the celebrations don't last long. Very soon, Fabletown discovers it's being threatened by a new enemy.

I’ll join my voice to the chorus of those who have said that The Dark Ages is not among the strongest Fables volumes. But! It’s still Fables! I’m so invested in this series that at this point it would take a major storytelling disaster for me to be completely unsatisfied. And The Dark Ages may be many things, but a disaster it is not.

It does have its problems, however, and one of them is that it feels a little rushed. Did we really need a new villain to be introduced so soon? Wouldn't a volume that simply dealt with the aftermath of the battle while hinting at things to come have been more satisfying? The villain introduced here seems to come a bit out of nowhere, to be honest. And worse than that, the way he’s introduced doesn’t leave much room for suspense. We know he’s a threat, we know the nature of the threat, and we know that our dear Fables had better run for their lives.

But threats of an unknown nature are always a little more interesting, as are ambiguous villains, or those we can’t quite figure out. This was precisely what made the first story arc of Fables so exciting, so part of me has faith that perhaps this Mr Dark will surprise us yet.

The Dark Ages is more of a plot- than a character-oriented volume, but there were still a few character moments that I loved. There was a conversation between Rose Red and Blue that broke my heart, and a talk between Pinocchio and Flycatcher that left me teary-eyed. And as usual, Bill Willingham has no qualms whatsoever about having horrible things happen to popular characters. I’m a little mad at him to be honest. Did you have to? Did you really have to?! *sniff*

I really can't say more without spoilers, I'm afraid. The Dark Ages is not the best Fables book, but it’s Fables, so I'm happy to have read it all the same. I look forward to seeing where the story is going next.

Question time: How do you deal with reviewing series? Do you write about them one volume at a time or, if all volumes are out, do you simply read them all and then write one post about the whole thing? Do you give up after a while? Do you worry you're repeating yourself? And how do you handle spoilers? Am I the only one who frets about these things?

Other Opinions:
Fyrefly’s Book Blog
Casual Dread

(Did I miss yours?)

Bluestockings by Jane Robinson

2009-10-06T11:59:00.003+01:00

Bluestockings tells the story of the first generations of women to have access to a university education in the United Kingdom: from the Victorian pioneers that first attended Girton and Newnham Colleges (founded in 1869 and 1872 respectively), to the first women to be allowed to receive degrees from Cambridge in 1947.

It’s difficult for me to imagine not being allowed to read, to study, to have intellectual interests because of my gender. But I really appreciate the fact that a book like Bluestockings helps me to imagine it—not only because this was true in the past, but because there are still many places in the world where girls don’t have the same educational opportunities as boys.

Jane Robinson writes with passion and clarity; her research is impeccable, and although Bluestockings is detailed, it is anything but dry. She often cites from primary sources like letters and diaries, and retells anecdotes about life at women’s colleges in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. But, unlike what happens with certain books I could mention, the anecdotes are not just thrown in there haphazardly: they’re always pertinent, and they give the book a personal (and sometimes moving) touch.

Bluestockings gives us a glimpse of a reality similar to that which Virginia Woolf describes in the short story “A Woman’s College From Outside”, for example. Because these women had to overcome numberless obstacles to be allowed to go to college at all, once they were in it was imperious that their life be above any suspicious of “indecency”. In practical terms, what this meant was that they led the lives of medieval nuns: they were chaperoned everywhere, never allowed to be alone with a male student, and guarded like children. Social freedom was the price to pay for intellectual freedom.

But being in college and behaving above any suspicion of “immodesty” was by no means the end of their troubles. The daily mockery and opposition women students had to face included episodes such as the following:

A Cambridge professor who is in the habit of addressing his students most pointedly as ‘Gentlemen!’ proceeded to his lecture room on Ash Wednesday, to find only the ladies present. With head erect and eyes riveted on the opposite wall, he announced, ‘As there is nobody here, I shall not lecture today,’ and with stately dignity made his departure.

And since I’m sharing outrageous bits, I had to laugh at the Victorian “medical objections” to female education—though in fact they are not funny in the least:

…what could be proven was that women’s brains were on average five ounces (nearly 150 grams) lighter than men’s. And that menstruation sapped the body of life-blood. The inference was that a smaller brain meant a weaker one, and that loss of blood meant a periodic loss of vigour, bodily and mental. It was a woman’s duty as national child-bearer to take care of her body, keep it free from stress. Her mind must be pure, too: if a woman was clever she should not squander that cleverness, but hold it pristine in trust for her children, especially her sons. Use her brain too much and she would wear it would, compromising her physical and moral femininity. ‘When nature spends in one direction,’ warned Dr Maudsley, ‘she must economise in another.’

Victorian doctors were also concerned that intellectual pursuits would lead to brain overheating, which in its turn would cause women's wombs to shrivel. And as women were first and foremost walking wombs, this simply would not do.

One of the things I loved the most about Bluestockings was that it was not written with a self-congratulatory tone. Let me explain: Jane Robinson readily acknowledges how far we have come in terms of women's education, but she’s also not afraid do point out difficulties, both past and present. For example, she openly writes about the problems education created for the first few generations of women, many of whom had to return to a confining domestic existence after three years of intellectual freedom. Things were even more complicated for women who were educated out of their class and yet found no real opportunities once they left university. Of course, they did pave the way for future generations, and pushed for opportunities to be created—but at a personal cost.

Bluestockings is social history at its best: fascinating, pertinent, and impossible to put down. Also, for those of you who enjoy looking at old photography as much as I do: there are two sections with pictures! In glossy paper! This was the cherry on top of an already delicious cake.

Reviewed at:
The F-Word

(Have you reviewed this book? Leave me your link and I’ll be glad to add it here.)

Day of Tears by Julius Lester

2009-10-05T13:27:00.002+01:00

I had not given a thought to what a difference it can make when you treat another person with simple respect and dignity, the same respect and dignity you want for yourself. That is so simple, yet so few seem able to do it.

Day of Tears is a fictionalized account of the weeping time – the largest slave auction in American history, known by this name because it was accompanied by heavy rain. To pay for his gambling debts, Pierce Butler, owner of the Butler Plantation, auctioned off 436 of his slaves. Julius Lester’s novel includes Butler, his abolitionist ex-wife and their two daughters as characters, but the story mostly focuses on those who were sold away from their loved ones, as well as on those who were left behind.

Day of Tears is subtitled a novel in dialogue: the story is told exclusively through the character’s voices. Most of it is dialogue, except for a few sections which would be more accurately described as longer monologues. If this sounds strange to you, don’t worry. The whole thing flows really well, and it reads very much like a story told by multiple narrators.

The use of multiple points of view is actually one of the novel’s greatest strengths. We get to hear the voices of all the characters, and as a result every one of them is portrayed as fully human – even Pierce Butler, even his daughter Frances who grew up to write books defending slavery. As repulsive as their thoughts can be, we see them as people. I know I keep returning to this point, but I truly think that this is an important thing to remember: even the most horrific acts in history were committed by real human beings. Not by monsters, not by beasts. As you might have noticed by now, I have a fondness for books that remind us of this.

A lot of what happens in Day of Tears is painful, but there’s a lot of hope too. The novel is extremely balanced: it doesn’t try to use slavery as the backdrop for an inspirational story of survival, but it’s not completely bleak either. It acknowledges that there was cruelty and kindness; there were victories and losses. What makes it work so well is the fact that it was written with such obvious respect – respect for history, and for the people who lived through it.

And this brings me to the passage I wanted to leave you with. It’s something Julius Lester says in the Author’s Note at the end of the book, and it perfectly captures what I love the most about historical fiction:

History is not only an accounting of what happened when and where. It includes also the emotional biographies of those on whom history imposed itself with a cruelty that we can only dimly imagine. This book is another in my attempts to make real those who did not have the opportunities to tell their stories for themselves.

(Have you posted about this book too? Let me know and I’ll be glad to add your link here.)

The Sunday Salon - Portuguese Literature

2009-10-04T14:11:00.005+01:00

Ask and thou shall receive: the other day on Twitter, Eva and Hannah asked me about Portuguese books available in English. A few weeks before, someone else (Amanda, was that you?) had asked me for a few recommendations, and since I thought a few more of you might be interested, I decided to write a post on the subject.

I'm going to leave out Saramago because everyone knows about him already. And sadly, I'm also going to have to leave out some of my favourite authors, because their books aren't available in translation Having said that, it seems that more and more Portuguese authors are being translated, so on to what matters - the list:

The Dedalus Book of Portuguese Fantasy - you saw this coming, didn't you? I actually want to get this book myself: I took a peek at the table of contents on Amazon, and it includes some authors I'm not familiar with. It also includes lots of 19th century classics, some ghost stories, and even some Modernists. I love that the book proudly identifies itself as fantasy - these stories are perhaps not what some readers would think of when they think of fantasy, but as you know my own definition of the genre is very wide and inclusive, and I love anthologies that use the same definition. The wonderful Dedalus Press actually has a whole series of fantasy anthologies from several corners of Europe that I'm very tempted to start collecting.

Eça de Queirós: my second-favourite author on this list. He's sometimes called "the Portuguese Dickens", but comparisons to Zola or Balzac are more accurate. He's a nineteenth century realist, yes, but he also wrote fantasies, like The Mandarin. I'm going to go ahead and personally recommend him to Eva, as well as to those of you who love the classics. Some of the authors listed here are prose experimentalists, but Eça is an old-fashioned storyteller (not that the two are mutually exclusive, but you know what I mean). I love him for his irony, his perceptiveness, and his social insight.

Equator by Miguel Sousa Tavares: I haven't read this book, the reason being that I dislike the author. He's also a political commentator, and he has done and said things I find repulsive, like standing up for the Noble Tradition of Bullfighting. I'm afraid that this has put me off his books. Don't let me put you off, though, as none of it actually says much about the book itself. Equator is set mostly in Africa in the early twentieth century, and it's about Portuguese colonialism. I have several friends who loved it, and they all tell me that the historical aspects and the sense of place are wonderful. I suppose that one of these days I'll get over myself and borrow a copy.
The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa: Pessoa is the favourite of mine I alluded to earlier, and I particularly love the The Book of Disquiet: it was my favourite book when I was seventeen and eighteen. Nowadays I'm more narrative-oriented, but I still love beautiful prose, and beautiful prose this is. It's not a novel, nor a collection of short stories, nor of essays. It's a collection of pieces of writing on life and loneliness and being a misfit; on insomnia and disquiet and death. Much to my joy, Philip Pullman included it in his Writer's Table at Waterstone's, so I'm going to let him convince you.
Everything else Pessoa has written - He's written some prose, but above all he's a poet. I haven't made much time for poetry in the past few years, but I always return to his. I particularly recommend The Keeper of Sheeps, one of the loveliest things ever written. It makes me cry every time. Also, a detail that I think will entice some of you: Pessoa often cited Whitman as one of his biggest influences.
Sophia de Mello Breyner is also a poet (I think I actually prefer Portuguese poets to Portuguese novelists). She also wrote some wonderful children's books, but sadly those haven't been translated. Fortunately, her sparse, elegant and moving poems have.
When I started doing research for this post, I came across the Carcanet Press Aspects of Portugal series. It sounds worth checking out: it includes poetry, novels, and history books.
José Luís Peixoto: My first, and so far only, experience with one of his novels was not a very positive one, but Lu recently read and loved The Implacable Order of Things.
Gonçalo M. Tavares: Another youngish author, often paired with Peixoto. His novel Jerusalem is going to be published in November by Dalkey Archive Press.
António Lobo Antunes: He's the other giant of contemporary Portuguese literature: big enough that there is a whole group of people who believe that he should have won the Nobel instead of Saramago (I don't have much of an opinion on this, and find these discussions a bit useless to be frank). Lobo Antunes is very hit or miss for me: sometimes he really moves me, other times he bores me. But don't take my word for it! The man has many fans, and quite a few of his books have been translated.
Miguel Torga: I actually didn't know his books were available in English, so that was a nice surprise. Torga wrote short stories and poetry, both with a very strong sense of place and heavily influenced by the landscape of the Northeast of Portugal. It's a lovely region, so armchair travelling alone would be a good reason to read him. Here's a different edition of his short stories

There. I wish I could have included more than just one woman, but sadly it seems that not very many have been translated. I hope that those of you interested in reading more literature in translation will find this list useful. Happy Sunday, everyone!