Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ Friends, I'm delighted to let you know that I have a story in this year's Gold Man Review: Pour Out Like Water. I'll return with thoughts onÅ·±¦ÓéÀÖ Friends, I'm delighted to let you know that I have a story in this year's Gold Man Review: Pour Out Like Water. I'll return with thoughts on the other short stories and poems in this collection....more
Told in short bursts of chapters representing confessional entries in a diary, A Room Made of Leaves is the imagined secret history of a real historicTold in short bursts of chapters representing confessional entries in a diary, A Room Made of Leaves is the imagined secret history of a real historical figure. Kate Grenville inserts herself at the beginning of the novel in a playful, clever meta-role as the historian who discovers letters and pages of a diary and edits them into a narrative. Then the novel quickly settles into a more conventional style, with the narrator, Elizabeth, addressing her reader at the end of her rich and storied life.
Elizabeth Veale is raised in humble fashion in rural Devonshire, circa 1780s. The early third of the novel takes a decidedly Austenesque tone as Elizabeth is shuttled first to her Grandfather's sheep farm, then to a kindly neighbor, where she and her best friend, Bridie, are courted by soldiers from a nearby regiment. Elizabeth knows her only way out of her pecuniarily-disadvantaged station is marriage, and the only way to a decent marriage is to guard the only thing she has of any real value: her virtue.
Welp. Whoops. Soon Elizabeth finds herself with child and hastily wed to a cold, weird, conniving and deeply indebted solider, John Macarthur. Macarthur, desperate to avoid debtor's prison, accepts an overseas posting to a nascent colony. The young couple and their infant son—Elizabeth pregnant again—board a sailing ship bound for the antipodean outpost of New Holland and the penal settlement of Sydney.
What follows is a fascinating imagining of life in early colonial Australia as seen through the eyes of a young wife and mother married to a foolish sociopath. Elizabeth must gather all her wits to survive in a harsh environment that includes an unforgiving landscape, a settlement of hundreds of prisoners guarded by a few dozen officers, and a husband she loathes but is utterly dependent on. Instead of succumbing to hopelessness, Elizabeth rolls up her sleeves and gets down to the task of flourishing despite the odds.
Her voice, her machinations against her husband, her quick study of the community around her, all rendered in Grenville's beguiling prose, are irresistible. Elizabeth is a true heroine and the reader cheering her on will be greatly rewarded.
Running parallel to these themes of frontier survival is the near-universal destruction by colonial settlements of indigenous peoples. Grenville tenderly brings in the local tribes displaced by the growing settlements that began in Sydney, branched deeper into the territory of what would become New South Wales, and then throughout Australia. The novel stumbles into anachronism by channeling too much of a 21st century sensibility into Elizabeth's 18th century awakening to her home country's massive land-theft and decimation of Aboriginal culture. But at the heart is the author's determination to tell stories otherwise hidden by accepted historical narrative. And she does so to stirring, atmospheric, thoughtful effect.
A Room Made of Leaves further fleshes out Kate Grenville's chronicles of Australia's colonial history explored in The Secret River, The Lieutenant, and Sarah Thornhill. The Secret River remains my favorite, but A Room Made of Leaves is a wonderful addition to the saga....more
A tender, liminal portrait of a community imperiled by modernity. Elizabeth O'Connor imagines a small island off the coast of Wales, a fictional settiA tender, liminal portrait of a community imperiled by modernity. Elizabeth O'Connor imagines a small island off the coast of Wales, a fictional setting reminiscent of Ireland's Blaskets or Scotland's Kilda archipelago, whose residents seem caught in a bygone century. She lands Whale Fall in 1938, when Europe is poised on the brink of war. The island's population, already decimated as its young men flee to the mainland in search of opportunity, is made up of veterans from the Great War who fish the roiling Atlantic, widows who regularly lose their husbands to those waves, and a handful of young ones like eighteen-year-old Manod and her little sister, who sense the world outside is coming for them.
Two anthropologists arrive on the island, seeking to record the traditions and folklore of this remote outpost. Manod, who has learned English from ladies' magazines, is tapped by the exotic mainlanders to serve as their research assistant. Their arrival coincides with a whale washed up on shore, an event that seems to want to serve as a larger metaphor. In the end, it is simply a sad, natural event that is a harbinger of doom. Perhaps its rotting flesh is meant to coincide with the revelation that these researchers, who claim to want to honor the island's unique culture, are themselves corrupt from within.
It is a stretch to call Whale Fall a novel. It is brief in length, limited in aspect, and offers little resolution. It reads more like an extended short story, a snapshot of lives at a time when tragedy looms darkly and drastic change is inevitable. O'Connor's writing is delicate and lyrical, lending a sense of haunting melancholy to the claustrophobic setting and poignant plot. A memorable debut....more
A somber ending to a trilogy of mysteries set on a remote island off the coast of Scotland. Like the two before it, Lewis Trilogy #3, The Chessmen is A somber ending to a trilogy of mysteries set on a remote island off the coast of Scotland. Like the two before it, Lewis Trilogy #3, The Chessmen is deeply atmospheric and melancholy, dredging up characters from Fin McLeod's past (Literally. This time it's a body trapped in a small plane at the bottom of a lake). The former Edinburgh Detective Inspector is now head of security at a hunting lodge on rocky, boggy, windswept Lewis Island, living somewhat awkwardly with his childhood sweetheart and encountering ghosts like some sort of Macbethian dream. The ghosts are really his memories and the way the past keeps interfering with the present. The internal mystery of Fin's unsettled heart is at least as intriguing as the external mystery of the crimes he uncovers and solves.
A fantastic series. It's certain I'll be digging through the library stacks for more Peter May! ...more
I'm a big fan of messy, complex, epic novels. Stories that span generations, with threads of history woven into a sprawling tapestry. Think The ThornbI'm a big fan of messy, complex, epic novels. Stories that span generations, with threads of history woven into a sprawling tapestry. Think The Thornbirds, The Goldfinch, The Shell Seekers, Cutting for Stone, The Dutch House...stories you can read more than once and the characters reveal layers that you didn't catch the first time. These novels have so much heart and often move you to tears, certainly by the end if not in the thick of their hefty middles.
All the Colors of the Dark isn't one of those novels for me, but parts of it come close. Saint and Patch and the tenderness of their friendship is worth the price of entry. I had a rough go of it the first half: Whitaker is overly fond of turning adjectives into verbs and overly enamored of his own writing. But you can see the writer mature in real time: the second half flows with assured, crisp prose.
I'm awed by the literary mash-up. It's like The Shawshank Redemption met All The Light You Cannot See (the syllabic and thematic similarities of the titles, the super-short chapters) met Silence of the Lambs met The Notebook and they begat this utterly implausible but undeniably engaging plot. I give it 3 stars for all the wildly bizarre never-would-happen stuff that I can't detail here because it would be All The Spoilers You Don't Need and 5 stars for the exquisitely crafted characters....more
Operation Pied Piper evacuated thousands of children from cities in Great Britain—likely bombing targets—to rural regions during WWII. Some of the 4.5
Operation Pied Piper evacuated thousands of children from cities in Great Britain—likely bombing targets—to rural regions during WWII. Some of the children were even sent abroad, to Canada and the United States, where their schooling could continue without interruption, safe with families who weren't suffering the wartime deprivations of rations and blackouts. From this historical vantage point, Laura Spence-Ash writes a poignant and captivating portrait of two families, divided by an ocean, united in love for a young girl.
By 1940, with the German army marching steadily westward, Millie and Reg Thompson are convinced that the safest place for their eleven-year-old daughter, Beatrix, is with a family in America. With her name and case number pinned to her coat, Trixie, her British diminutive, sets sail on a ship full of other young evacuees. She is placed with the Gregory family—Ethan, Nancy and their two sons, William and Gerald. Bea, as she is known in America, slips like a perfect stair step in-between the boys, thirteen and nine to her eleven, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty in contrast to tall, golden William and freckled, impish Gerald.
What was meant as a temporary plan—surely Germany would be defeated in a matter of months—becomes five formative years during which Bea becomes fully integrated into the Gregory family. She becomes daughter, sister, beloved as she blossoms from a reserved, lonely girl into a confident, wise young woman. What becomes of her and her relationship with the Gregorys once the war ends and she returns to a London destroyed by years of war becomes the central tension in this novel ripe with longing and regret.
Beyond That, the Sea is told in very short chapters that alternate between the novel's multiple main characters. Some of the novel's structure might seem gimmicky—these short chapters, so reminiscent of Anthony Doerr's luminous All The Light We Cannot See, the italicized dialogue embedded in descriptive and expository text—the usual provenance of inner thought—but Laura Spence-Ash's elegant and precise prose removes any doubt that this is a deeply felt and deeply serious story. Her characters as are carefully rendered as an Audubon sketch, nuanced and complete. We fall in love with Bea, William and Gregory as children, and weep as they break our hearts in their flawed and complicated adulthood.
This lovely novel reminds me why I love stories: when I'm invited to feel, pine, mourn and hope, and at the same time learn something new about the past, the world becomes gentler, brighter. Or is it me who does?
I read Sean Duffy #1 last summer and enjoyed the heck out of its brooding depiction of Belfast in the early 80s and I intended to take on the entire sI read Sean Duffy #1 last summer and enjoyed the heck out of its brooding depiction of Belfast in the early 80s and I intended to take on the entire series as time allowed. Somehow I broke away from my Virgo sensibilities, which dictate that series must be read in order, and grabbed #7 from the new releases table at the library a couple of weeks ago as a tide-me-over read in-between library holds.
Admittedly I was a little reluctant, having just been burned by the atrocious The Island, one of McKinty's standalone thrillers. But The Detective Up Late is really good. Almost great. I now kinda regret that I didn't wait to read the Sean Duffy series in order. Not because any of the references to earlier cases or events were difficult to follow or served as spoilers, but now the plots won't seem particularly fresh. I also sense the author wishes he hadn't saddled his hero with a wife and kid, because they are quickly dispatched to live in Scotland, while most of the book takes place back in Belfast, where Sean is required to spend seven days a month to keep his job. Alas, a multi-book series can be a plot-pit that is hard for a writer to dig himself out of. But this is a minor quibble for a very enjoyable police procedural.
The plot is the driver here—a search for a missing and presumed murdered young Traveller woman, a preternaturally beautiful and gifted girl who appears to have been used by multiple men. The search is a ride worth taking....more
What a strange thing to be exactly the target audience for this book and yet feel that if you had to read one more page, your head would explode. Or iWhat a strange thing to be exactly the target audience for this book and yet feel that if you had to read one more page, your head would explode. Or is that feverish frustration just another hot flash coming on? Because they seem to be on a 20-minute cycle with me these days. That prickly heat which starts in my cheeks, spreads across my sternum in a red wave, tucks its slimy wet palms under my arms—it feels disconcertingly like an oncoming panic attack, which also seems to be my new menopausal BFF... which... crap. I'm supposed to be writing a book review.
There was much about this book that made me very sad and weary, which was likely not Ms. Newman's comic intent. There are also lots of sandwiches in the story. Rocky is forever making sandwiches (meant, of course as a coy reminder of the book's Big Theme: a woman generationally sandwiched between her grown children and her aging parents). I'm a big fan of sandwiches, personally. Just not so much this one. It gave me heartburn....more
With the unknowable expanse of the North Atlantic Ocean as the ever-present backdrop to their lives, three woman trapped in unhappy marriages collide With the unknowable expanse of the North Atlantic Ocean as the ever-present backdrop to their lives, three woman trapped in unhappy marriages collide in a small Irish village—the fictional Ardglas—in Couny Donegal. This is not a 19th century or post-WWII portrait of an isolated community trapped in ambered tradition. This is 1994, in that peculiar time where Ireland's slow-to-budge past is poised to accelerate into a transformative 21st century.
Divorce is on the ballot again in Ireland, having been defeated in past referendums by a nation clinging to the directives of its most prominent governing body: the Catholic church. Although sentiments are rapidly changing, it's not a certain bet that the referendum will pass. In the immediate meantime, marriage has become a trap for Izzy. Her two children have grown, yet her minor politician husband won't allow her to return to running a small business in town. Izzy keeps her frequent depression at bay by befriending the parish priest and taking a series of self-improvement classes at the community center. The latest is a writing class, taught by poet Colette Crowley. The most popular topic of Ardglas' vibrant rumor mill, Colette abandoned her husband and children to have an affair with a married man in Dublin. She's back, having also abandoned her lover to reclaim her role as loving mother, but her husband won't allow her to see the youngest of their three sons. Determined to stay, Colette rents a cottage from the Mullens, Dolores and Donal. Dolores is unexpectedly and bewilderingly pregnant with their fourth child, conceived when Donal is in between affairs and feeling a twinge of guilt for his constant betrayals.
These women intersect in ways both tragic and redemptive. The strength of the narrative lies in Alan Murrin's ability to reveal the complexities of their marriages, their inner lives, and their deep ambivalence at breaking up their families as each woman searches for meaning and possibility.
The plot remains fundamentally character-driven, moody and thoughtful, rich with portraiture, until the final quarter of the novel when it bursts into melodrama and reads more like a domestic thriller. It's a bit jarring, really. As are the male characters, which are all—with the tepid exception of the parish priest—villainous, vacuous, and pathetic. The portrayal of men feels mean-spirited and heavy-handed and detracts from the more compassionate and nuanced aspects of an otherwise deeply compelling story....more
A complex, rich, intelligent novel that possesses all the ingredients for a smash hit for this reader: gorgeous prose, an original premise, nuanced chA complex, rich, intelligent novel that possesses all the ingredients for a smash hit for this reader: gorgeous prose, an original premise, nuanced characters, old-fashioned sensibilities that hold the most exasperating elements of modern culture at bay. And yet it just didn't gel for me. As enamored as I was of Sarah Perry's stunning sentences, I was nearly equally stultified by a belabored story....more
The novel opens in obvious crisis: Teddy Carlyle returns to her Rome apartment, covered in blood. Close on her heels are two embassy officials seekingThe novel opens in obvious crisis: Teddy Carlyle returns to her Rome apartment, covered in blood. Close on her heels are two embassy officials seeking answers. The 300 pages that follow wind back in time to show us how everything went so terribly wrong.
Teddy Carlyle is a zaftig Texas socialite who is rapidly aging out of relevance by the time she marries a minor State Department suit and accompanies him to his posting in Rome. It's 1969, but Teddy missed the memo. She's still pouring her luscious flesh into girdles and pantyhose and teasing her hair into architectural wonders, batting her false eyelashes, while the enlightened women around her are wearing their hair long and loose, letting mini-skirt graze the tops of their bare thighs, and charting their own courses. But Teddy is more than the sum of her superficial parts. She is a woman of secrets and lies, and they are about to catch up with her.
Teddy is a highly-stylized noir caper that features breathtaking period detail overlaid on eye-rollingly unlikely circumstances. There is something off about Teddy—a whiff of soured milk—underneath the heavy French perfume. It's not just that she's an unreliable narrator, it's that her very essence is a curdled mess. I found her deeply sad, but the artifice of her life is so unbelievable that I couldn't muster much sympathy. The novel is cleverly plotted, in the spirit of Taylor Jenkins Reid, but TJR imbues a warmth and depth in her characters, where here the blood is tepid.
Emily Dunlay is a sharply talented writer. Despite its glittering attributes, Teddy left me dispirited....more
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