Books on the radio

Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's Good Omens is near the top of my list of go-to recommendations. It's hilarious and irreverent and profound, by turns and all at once. When I heard it was going to be turned into a radio play for the BBC, I got giddy. When I heard the names of some of the cast, I may have stopped breathing for a bit from sheer excitement.

Listen to all six episodes here before they disappear.

I'm not new to audiobooks, but listening to a full dramatization of a book was a novel experience. ('Scuze the pun.) I listened to most of Good Omens on my mother's couch, still trying to get over the death cold I got for Christmas. Do you know how hard it is to laugh and stifle a cough at the same time? I had to keep pausing the player so that I could replay the bits I'd missed due to the horrible noises I was making.

The dramatization captured a lot of the main plot. Like any devoted fan of the book, I wish they had managed to capture more of Pratchett and Gaiman's zany theology and history—but there's only so much time you can devote to recreating the footnotes while the world is supposed to be ending. Mark Heap as Aziraphale stands out from the cast and Peter Serafinowicz was a brilliant choice for Crowley. This really was a fantastic production.

The Drop, by Dennis Lehane

The Drop
When I read the first brief review for Dennis Lehane's The Drop, I scoffed at the mention of a dog changing a man's life. Now, I'll be one of the first people to argue for pet adoption, but I don't want to read a book about it. It would be saccharine and dull, and I can't be doing with sugary books with no soul. I gave The Drop a chance because Lehane is one of my favorite thriller writers. His books bring Boston—past and present—to gritty life. His characters, always on the wrong side of the law, are amazing as they mete out their own brands of justice. If anyone can write a book in which a dog changes a man's life that I would actually enjoy, it would be Lehane.

Bob Saginowski is a lonely man. He tends his cousin's bar, goes to mass on Sunday, but that's really about it. He doesn't want to be lonely, but he's shy and reluctant to talk about his past running with his cousin Marv's crew. One night, as he walks home from the bar, he hears a dog whimpering. He finds a pitbull puppy, soon to be named Rocco after the patron saint of dogs, hurt at the bottom of a garbage can. He also meets Nadia Dunn. Nadia is suspicious of the man rooting around in her trash can, but she softens enough to help Bob learn how to take care of his dog.

If The Drop had been written by any other author, we probably would have been treated to a heart-warming tale of love and friendship as Bob and Nadia grow close over their bond with Rocco. But this is a Dennis Lehane novel and nothing is ever that simple. Marv's bar is robbed, putting Marv and Bob in a tight spot between the robbery detectives and the Chechans that actually own the bar and have been using it as a drop point for their money. Then a psychotic man complicates things further. Bob is caught in the middle of all of it, between crazies and mafiosa and cops and his own sense of what is right.

Lehane outdoes himself with his characterizations in The Drop. Crazy Eric Deeds and Marv get a chance to narrate a few chapters while Bob does most of the heavy lifting as our point-of-view character. We get to see why they do the things they do, rather than just have antagonists randomly fuck up Bob's life for him. Not that you'd sympathize with Marv and Eric after getting their sides of the story. Rather, I ended up feeling more sympathy for Bob. He's not up against evil for evil's sake. He's up against real people who were warped by their circumstances and don't see any other way to be.

The Drop is a fast, deeply engaging read and only heart-warming in an off-kilter, violent, rough-around-the-edges kind of way.


The Restorer, by Amanda Stevens

The Restorer
I spent the last week in the snow-blasted wilds of Idaho with the family. We shared presents, Christmas dinner, and many, many germs. Consequently, I didn't get much time to read even when I wasn't feeling too sick to read. When I did have the time and energy and wasn't fevered, I wanted to read something that wouldn't be too taxing. Sadly, that's not The Book Thief. I had to set that aside until I felt better. Instead, I ended up reading Amanda Steven's The Restorer, the first novel in the Graveyard Queen series.

Amelia Grey saw her first ghost at age nine. Her father immediately taught her the rules. Don't acknowledge the ghosts. Stay on hallowed ground. Shun the haunted. And Amelia has done a good job of following those rules in the years since, even though she works as a cemetery restorer and writes a blog about cemeteries. But then a body—a fresh one—is found at the cemetery she's currently restoring for Emerson University. Devastatingly attractive police detective John Devlin asks for her help, as she knows more about the Oak Grove cemetery than anyone else in Charleston. Devlin is haunted by the ghosts of his wife and daughter. All her common sense tells Amelia to stay away from him. The case, however, refuses to let her go.

Though she has been good about following the rules up to this point, Amelia has begun to wonder if what she was taught was accurate. She slowly—and not all that willingly—lowers her guard to ghosts. The ghosts give her hints about what's going on at Oak Grove as more bodies and secrets are uncovered. There are several red herrings in The Restorer, but I didn't see the resolution coming at all.

Stevens has a less-than-light touch in The Restorer. At times, you can see her consciously rejecting the conventions of the contemporary/urban fantasy genre. Amelia and John strike sparks, but they don't immediately fall into bed together. Amelia is more real than many other heroines of her genre. She has fears and curiosities and doubts. She reflects on her emotions and thoughts (sometimes to the detriment of the pace of the plot). Devlin is extremely reserved and grieving and haunted. The supernatural elements are low key and well-deployed throughout the book. Stevens is doing new things with ghosts in fiction.

The Restorer doesn't have a perfect ending. I suspect it will tempt more than one reader to toss the book across the room in frustration. It's clear that The Restorer is meant to lead straight into the next book in the series. I'm hooked, though.


Back to school (sort of)

After two days of grading, I am free...to take on the reading I need to do to prepare for the spring semester. I've been working with one of the English professors at my university for a few years now. This semester, we realized that we both share the same frustrations about library instruction. There's just not enough time to teach students everything they need to know to do good research. On top of that, many of the students we're seeing lately have never been taught to do close reading, let alone reading scholarly articles. This semester, we also realized that we'd like to try embedded librarianship with her upper division writing about literary class.

This isn't a post about embedded librarians. Everyone who was going to click away because I'm talking about work can relax. Anyone who wants to know more about embedded librarianship is probably already a librarian and should know how to Google it. (Hi, colleagues!)

Juliano Lopes
So, after two days of grading, I had time today to sit down with the first of two books the writing about literature class will be tackling this spring. I've already read both Bernhard Schlink's The Reader and Markus Zusak's The Book Thief, but I read them for my own entertainment.

I sat down with The Reader with a fresh mechanical pencil in hand.* There was a fresh cup of tea on the table at my side. I opened the book to the first page of the first chapter and commenced to trying to tease meaning out of each paragraph and sentence. My skills at close reading were rusty, but I could feel them coming back as I read on. When I started making notes about Freud in the margins, I knew that I hadn't forgotten as much as I feared. I wrote more and more on each page. I underlined passages that I could use to prove my points about the characters and the plot. And oh was I enjoying myself!

When I read The Reader the first time, I remembered blistering through the text (as I usually do). I was still reading at a good clip this time, but the pencil in my hand and the need to closely consider the author's intent as well as what was happening on and behind the page slowed me down. This isn't a bad thing. I should slow down my reading more often. I worry about what I miss when I steam through a novel I have to review.

I still need to read The Book Thief, visit the family for Christmas, and read Unbroken for book group in early January. Not only have I had to readjust to reading closely, I've had to readjust to having reading deadlines. This part I don't enjoy. When I was a young English major, I resented that I had to read stuff like The Faerie Queene in my personal time. This time, I'm reading books that I enjoy—but I have so many other things to read and do. Oy.


* I bought a set of pencils for book club reads, so that I could mark up my copies of the books and sound intelligent.**

** Yes, I mark up books. ***

*** This line of thought reminds me of an article I read recently about why readers should mark up every book they read. It was wonderful.

Unbecoming, by Rebecca Scherm

Grace doesn't know who she is. She knows who she wants to be. She wants to be Riley's beloved wife and Mrs. Graham's adored daughter-in-law. She wants to be perfect. She wants to hide from her origins as the poor daughter of a family that ignored her, from a rural town in Tennessee. Of course, no one can keep up an illusion forever. Someone is bound to find out what Grace is like when no one is watching her. Rebecca Scherm details Grace's slow unraveling in Unbecoming, as Grace finally learn to live with her real self.

Unbecoming opens in Paris. Grace works under the table at an antiques restoration shop. She's clearly hiding from something. She's transformed herself into quiet Julie to prevent her past from catching up to her. As Grace repairs damaged family heirlooms and restores collector's pieces, she reveals what has sent her across an ocean. A few years before, Grace's husband and his best friends robbed a historical house in Garland. One pled out, but Riley and his friend, Alls, served three years. When we meet her, Grace has just learned that Riley and Alls have been paroled. And she's terrified that one or both of them will come find her.

Scherm shows us Grace's life in flashbacks. We see her ignored by her parents, who started over with a second marriage and new children. We see her adopted by the Grahams and falling in love with their son, Riley. even though things seem to be working out for Grace, she can't help but fear that it will all disappear. She works hard to be what everyone wants her to be, but she can only do that by lying. Grace might have been able to muddle along if it weren't for Alls. Alls haunts her. When they end up sleeping together, the secret fractures Grace's façade. What begins as a literary novel starts to take on some of the characteristics of a heist story.

Grace is hard to like. As much as she lies to others, she lies to herself. She keeps telling herself how she ought to be and ought to live, instead of striking out to discover what will really make her happy. It's hard to watch, because I wanted to reach through the pages and send Grace to some hardcore therapy. Unbecoming is a strange coming of age novel. Usually, you see characters trying to go straight after a life of crime. Grace goes the other way. As she gets closer to real happiness and love, Grace becomes more honest—and much less frustrating as a character. You still wouldn't want to meet her at a party—because she'll rob you blind. But I think you'll grow to enjoy watching her story spin out.

I received a free copy of this ebook from NetGalley, in exchange for an honest review. It will be released 22 January 2015.


The five stages of book prize grief

Every year, when the Nobel Prize for literature is awarded, the book world erupts. Readers and critics will argue that the winner is the wrong ethnicity or gender. Most of the time, the hubbub springs from the fact that no one—outside of the Nobel Committee—seems to know who the winner is. I freely admit that I'm left in the dark more years that not. For me, the announcement of who won means that I need to scramble to find copies of whatever books are available for my library.

Patrick Modiano, winner of the 2014 Nobel Prize for
Literature, looking just as surprised as everyone else.
The 2014 Nobel for Literature was handed out more than two months ago, so it may seem a little strange that I'm writing about it now—as if I can't stop chomping down on those sour grapes. But then one of my favorite podcasts, The Readers, devoted a recent episode to book prizes. Simon and Thomas, the hosts, sounded like they were just so over all the book prize fuss. They made several great points about why we book nerds all seem to react so badly when someone unexpected wins.

I think I might have finally cracked how to deal with the aftermath of a major book prize. It's based on the five stages of grief and inspired by Episode 113 of The Readers. Bear with me; this is rough.

Denial: Who the hell is Writer X? I've never heard of them. That can't be right.

Anger: Why the hell did Writer X win? Why didn't Other Writer win? They deserve it more. What the hell were the judges thinking? The judges are so snobbish/pretentious/politically correct/illiterate/etc.

Bargaining: Well, if they're going to give the award to Writer X, then Other Writer should win next year. Or if Writer X gets this award, then Other Writer should get Other Major Prize.

Depression: My favorite writers never win. I just don't care anymore.

Acceptance: Ooo, I wonder who's going to win Major Prize this year?

At least, that's how it goes for me.


The Great Zoo of China, by Matthew Reilly

The Great Zoo of China
You've heard the expression "Made for TV movie"? Matthew Reilly's The Great Zoo of China is a made for movie book. I don't mean this as an insult. I mean that as I read The Great Zoo, I could see the plot playing out perfectly on a big screen.

CJ Cameron is a herpetologist who specializes in crocodilians, especially the saltwater crocodile of Australia. In fact, it was a saltwater croc that scarred her face years before. As the novel begins, CJ and her brother Hamish, a photographer for National Geographic, are offered a mysterious job somewhere in China. The hints from the prologue hint strongly that this mysterious job is also extremely dangerous. There's a risk of being eaten alive by something. CJ and Hamish sign on for the job, in spite of the lack of details. They are quickly flown, along with a US ambassador, his aide, and two journalists, deep into the Chinese interior. Their Chinese guides are tight-lipped, not wanting to spoil the surprise as CJ et al. arrive at the magnificent zoo. As their train pulls into the zoo's special station, they finally see what's in the zoo: dragons.

At this point, you might be tempted to compare The Great Zoo of China to Jurassic Park. You wouldn't be wrong.  CJ's guides explain that 40 years ago, a cache of dinosaur eggs was discovered under a nickel deposit in China. The eggs contained creatures that we would describe as dragons. The dinosaurs, classified as archosaurs, have four limbs and two wings. They can grow to fantastic sizes and eat prodigiously. Somehow, they've been kept secret for 40 years. Now, China is ready to go public with their great dragon zoo. They're inviting dignitaries, journalists, and scientists to start their marketing campaign.

Of course, it all goes wrong.

In a nod to Jurassic Park, things start to go wrong while CJ and her group are on their first tour of the zoo. For the rest of the book's 515 pages, CJ, Hamish, and the rest of the parks visitors and workers and directors run back and forth across the zoo trying not to be eaten and escape the supposedly secure facility. The dragons in The Great Zoo are terrifyingly intelligent. CJ likens them to saltwater crocodiles early in the book, pointing out the large reptiles ability to plan for days before they strike. The dragons have found a way around one of the zoo's main security features—something that was supposed to be impossible. But time and again, the dragons outsmart the humans. Imagine velociraptors with wings and you'll be nearly there.

There are a few stylistic problems with The Great Zoo of China. Paragraphs are extremely short, often just a sentence, and not in a poetic way. Towards the end, the dialog devolves into clichés and potential catch phrases. Almost every chapter ends with a cliffhanger. This book really is made to be a movie. If you can put up with these flaws, The Great Zoo of China is a gripping science fiction thriller.

I received a free copy of this book from NetGalley, in exchange for an honest review. It will be released 27 January 2015.


The Mangle Street Murders, by M.R.C. Kasasian

The Mangle Street Murders
One of the dangers of becoming an established genre is that it makes parody possible. All anyone has to do is exaggerate the genre's characteristics a little more and bam! Comedy. I'm sure parody is a stage in the life cycle of a genre on some chart somewhere. M.R.C. Kasasian's The Mangle Street Murders, the first in the Gower Detective series, is one of the best parodies of the detective genre that I've read in a long time.

Sydney Grice is known across London as its greatest private detective. (Though he will angrily point out that he's a personal, not private, detective.) He's also eccentric, rude, callous, and more concerned with money than justice. Our narrator, March Middleton, rapidly learns all about his character flaws when she comes to live with him after the death of her father. Grice is clearly modeled on Sherlock Holmes—though he's even ruder than his inspiration, if you can believe it. He can tell who and what you are based on the tiniest of clues. March is no slouch at detecting either, though she is much more trusting than the cynical detective.

Their first case arrives in the black-clad form of Grace Dillinger. Her son in law has been accused of brutally murdering his wife. March convinces Grice to take on the case, even though Grace can't afford to pay him. March then pushes her way into the investigation, with every male trying to tell her its no place for a woman. As a doctor's daughter, she's no stranger to gore. March and Grice question William Ashby, the accused murderer. March is convinced that such a gentle man couldn't have murdered anyone. Grice is firmly convinced that Ashby is a murderer. The evidence against the man is damning, but there are inconsistencies. In 1881 (or thereabouts), forensic science is in its infancy and, with Grice pushing, Ashby goes to trial and is quickly convicted of murder.

This isn't a spoiler. All this plot happens in the first third of the book. The Mangle Street Murders has a rapid pace. The hanging of William Ashby is really just the beginning. After his execution, March turns up more troubling information about the Ashbys and Grace Dillinger. Grice only gets involved after his impeccable reputation is questioned. Kasasian slowly reveals that the murder of Sarah Ashby was just the tip of the iceberg in a bigger criminal conspiracy.

The Mangle Street Murders, though the plot sounds grim, is peppered with jokes about the detective genre and its history. If you're paying attention, you'll catch on and end up laughing in the middle of an autopsy or crime scene reconstruction. Meanwhile, Kasasian is turning the stereotypes of the Great Detective inside out. I was expecting an interesting puzzler, but I got a lot more from this book.


Wolf Winter, by Cecilia Ekbäck

Wolf Winter
People say that there is evil on Blackåsen. Perhaps in Maija and her husband, Paavo, had known that, they wouldn't have swapped homestead with their uncle and uprooted the family to travel from Finland to Swedish Lappland. But then, Maija has her own secrets that she wants to hide from. Cecilia Ekbäck's Wolf Winter is a dark story, set in a dark time. But Ekbäck's tale is also full of magic and justice. It's not all bleakness in the bleak winter of 1717.

Just as Maija and her family are getting settled on their homestead on Blackåsen mountain, her daughters, Frederika and Dorotea, find the mutilated body of a man. The murdered man, Erikkson, is known as a troublemaker on the mountain. He knows everyone's darkest secrets. His wife was once accused of being a sorceress. And, for some reason, the local bishop wants the parish priest to investigate and wrap the case up as soon as possible—and ask quietly as possible.

Olaus Arosander hates going up the mountain. He hates dealing with the peasants. He was once court priest to the king. All he wants to do is go back south. Maija, on the other hand, can't help but dive into Erikkson's murder. She won't stop asking uncomfortable questions and won't just swallow others' facile non-criminal explanations for what happened to the man. Frederika seems to have inherited her mother's drive for justice and truth, though her path is less rational than her mother would like. Frederika is being haunted by Erikkson and Blackåsen's wolves. But, because she knows what happens to women who see spirits, Maija refuses to teach Frederika how to control her gifts.

As Maija, Olaus, and Frederika follow their own paths towards what happened to Erikkson and the evil on Blackåsen, Ekbäck weaves the mystery, historical fiction, and historical fantasy genres together. As if this wasn't enough to enchant readers, Ekbäck has a strong poetic style of writing. No one says more than they need to. And Ekbäck doesn't use three words where one will do to draw the stark landscape of eighteenth century Lappland for her readers. Not that you need more words. The landscape is so well drawn that it is its own character. I felt cold and hungry and fearful along with the characters.

I don't want to say too much about the ending. Wolf Winter is a mystery, after all; it wouldn't do to ruin it. But I will say that the ending had me cheering. The ending was the crowing moment of a fantastic story.

I received a free copy of this ebook from Edelweiss, in exchange for an honest review. It will be 
released 27 January 2015.


Sharing the love

Earlier this week, I griped about the difficulty in finding bookish sites that catered to my interests. I wanted to share a few of my favorites.

BookRiot is my touchstone on the bookish Internet. They don't review books. Rather, they write about issues in publishing, share their reading lives, and podcast about book news. 

The book world can be pretentious. It's delightful to see someone skewering our idolization of the literary greats by writing small, humorous vignettes of writers and characters visiting a famous coffee shop.

The reader and reviewer behind the Narratologist has similar taste in books to mine, but manages to find books I've never heard of. I just wish they read and wrote faster.

Public Books is one of the best sites I've found that provides literary criticism, not just book reviews of the books I enjoy. I wrote about them earlier this week, so I don't want to harp on.

Do you have favorite bookish sites that you'd recommend to me? (I already know about GoodReads and have been a member for quite some time.)

Wildalone, by Krassi Zourkova

Thea Slavin has grown up under a shadow. Fifteen years ago, her older sister, Elza, went to Princeton  University and never came back. Her parents never spoke about Elza again. They kept Thea away from other family members who might have told her about her gifted, troubled sister. But then Thea is accepted to Princeton to study music, just as her sister did, brings the past into the present in Krassi Zourkova's hypnotic Wildalone.

The wall of silence stands in Princeton, too, Thea discovers as soon as she starts to look for people who remember Elza. As if it's not enough to study and work at Princeton and to try and find out what happened to her sister, Thea soon finds herself tangled up with two brothers who might be the love of her life—if she could decide between them.

Even though she's been dead for fifteen years, Elza is everywhere Thea looks. Thea ends up taking the same classes, with the same professors. In her Greek Art class, the professor assigns her a paper on the same Greek vase depicting a version of the myth of Orpheus the Elza wrote about when she was at Princeton. There were hints before this that Elza was obsessed with Greek and Bulgarian myths. But when the professor reveals what Elza wrote, it becomes clear that Elza was a true believer.

As Wildalone progresses, Zourkova takes us further away from a simple mystery novel. There is magic in Thea's world, more than what she conjures with her musical talent. Perhaps Elza wasn't crazy after all. I love this turn. In fact, I wished Wildalone was longer so that I could linger in the mythical.

That said, I was all troubled by the nature of Thea's relationship with Rhys—the brother Elza was pursuing when she was a Princeton. Rhys is unfathomably rich. His good looks, money, and elitist confidence mean that Rhys hasn't been denied much in his life. He is the kind of guy that takes charge in a relationship—whether his partner wants him to or not. It bothers me a lot that Rhys gets away with behavior that comes right from a pamphlet about how to recognize an abusive relationship. Even Thea has qualms about how he constantly overrides her objections to taking trips to surprise locations or to parties she doesn't want to attend. And yet, Thea wants to stay with Rhys. It is, as my fellow English majors would say, a vexed situation.

I received a copy of this ebook from Edelweiss, in exchange for an honest review. It will be released 6 January 2015.


Gulp, by Mary Roach

Friends and family know that I have a weird interest in bizarre medical history*. I've been known to tell disgusting stories at meals or in meetings. You know, wherever appropriate. It's a pity I live alone because I would have loved to share all the tidbits I picked up while reading Mary Roach's Gulp: Adventures on the Alimentary Canal. Funny enough, I read most of this book during dinner for the past few days. 

Roach begins, as is fitting, at the top with our months and noses. She talks to pet food researchers and saliva specialists to enlighten her readers about what happens when we eat. As she describes the whole process, I marveled (as did Roach, at great length) at all the biological engineering and chemistry that takes place. Our jaw muscles can sense when food gives way when we chew and stop us from destroying our teeth. Saliva helps us process acids. Peristalsis carries everything on its path. Villi in our intestines leach out nutrients and energy. Bacteria help us digest pretty much anything. 

I started reading Roach years ago with Stiff. I fell in love with Bonk. I adore her loopy, discursive style of writing because I do research in the same way. Ideas lead to tangents and everything ends up pretty weird. Gulp is also, in part, about the strange pathways scientists and doctors have tried to understand our digestive system. She shares the interminable practice of Fletcherization and John Harvey Kellogg's war on defecation. There's an entire chapter about William Beaumont's callous treatment of his test subject, Alexis St. Martin, who survived a gunshot with a hole straight through to his stomach. And these guys are nothing compared to the scientists Roach consults. Those oddballs end up doing on-the-fly experiments about exploding rat meals and whether a mealworm can eat its way out of a frog. Everyone in the book (especially Roach) has an abundance of curiosity.

Much of Gulp centers on the disgust we (as a species, not just a culture) feel when it comes to eating, digesting, and eliminating the by-products. So as Roach discusses saliva studies, rectal smuggling, and fecal transplants, she also delves into why we find it all so taboo. (Except for the scientists doing all these studies. It quickly becomes clear that nothing yicks them out.) 

I know some people won't be able to handle this book. Roach is explicit in describing defecation, megacolons, and the like. If you have a weak stomach, don't read this while eating like I did. Others may not like it because Roach goes on so many tangents. Like the small and large intestines, this book is not linear. Yet others may not like it because Roach never passes up an opportunity to make a pun or poop joke. (I'll admit there were parts of this book that had me snorting with laughter. How can you not laugh?) 

I have no idea what my book group is going to end up talking about when we meet to discuss Gulp. Because we meet over dinner, though, it should be pretty entertaining.


* This seems like a good spot to give a shout-out to one of my favorite podcasts, Sawbones. I laughed. I cringed. It's awesome.


The difference between literary criticism and what I do

By Loui Jover
Finding a good book site is harder than finding a good book to read*. I've found a few I enjoy, but so many review sites out there cater to a different reading audience. There are so many sites that only review young adult novels or romance or novels in translation—things I don't usually read. Or the reviews are so skimpy that I can't figure out if I should read it or not because I don't know what the reviewer liked or didn't like about it.

(I plan on writing a post about some of my favorite book sites this week. Stay tuned.)

The majority of the bookish Internet does not contain literary critics. We're enthusiastic amateurs. We read widely and try to share our love of books with our followers and people who stumble onto our sites.

Writing a good book review is not as easy as it sounds. But taking the next step to write criticism is daunting. I recently started reading Public Books. The wonderful articles reminded me of how far I am from being a literary critic.** J. Keith Vincent's article, "What Makes a 'True Novel'?" is a wonderful example of literary criticism online.

As I see it, a literary critic takes a wider view than a book reviewer. Instead of writing about why they liked a book (or not), a critic places the book in context. They connect it to what has come before. They deconstruct it for us. They psychoanalyze it for us. A good literary critic will bring scholarship to bear and not just rely on the authority of their platform.***

I'm so happy to find a source of criticism outside of academia because it inspires me to be a better reviewer, in addition to reminding me of the good old days I spent picking apart novels as a young English major. It's easy to get into the habit of delivering a quick review. I've fallen into the habit more than once. But I suspect that, outside of the bookish Internet, criticism like Public Books delivers constantly runs into the TL;DR problem, unfortunately.


* If you can't find one on your own, I can recommend one or two (or lots).
** Not that I had any such pretensions.
*** I have some issues with The New York Times.


The Ice Queen, by Nele Neuhaus

The Ice Queen
The Ice Queen is the third in German author Nele Neuhaus' Pia Kirchhof and Oliver von Bodenstein series of mysteries. In this outing, Korchhof and Bodenstein are called in to investigate the strange, vengeful deaths of three elderly Germans and a deadly conspiracy that is claiming the lives of the suspects at an alarming rate.

Jossi Goldberg is known as a wealthy Holocaust survivor. No one knows why anyone would want to kill him, still less what the mysterious numbers 11645 left at the crime scene mean. The murder gets somewhat less mysterious when the medical examiner finds the remains of a blood group tattoo on the inside of his right arm—a conclusive sign that Jossi Golberg is actually a former member of the SS. Before Kirchhof and Bodenstein can get very far in their investigation, their boss calls them off and Goldberg's body is claimed by his American son. Then another elderly German is found murdered. His basement is packed with Nazi memorabilia. All the clues are pointing to someone getting revenge on people who have eluded justice for more than sixty years. A third death of an old woman in a nursing home make the police even more suspicious about the one person that links all three victims together: Vera Kaltensee. Vera is very wealthy and known for being charitable. Still, it doesn't take long before the cracks in her persona and lies start to widen.

Kirchhof and Bodenstein don't have things easy. Their boss pressures them to bring in a suspect and wrap the case up quickly. But every person who could be considered a suspect ends up messily dead. Everything points back to Vera and the Kaltensee clan. The investigation lurches on as best it can. The break in the case comes when Kirchhof and Bodenstein finally find people willing to tell them the truth about Vera and her sixty-year string of crimes.

I'm not sure if it's the translation or Neuhaus' style, but The Ice Queen is a clumsy book. All the subtext and clues are spelled out explicitly. It's not hard to figure out what's going on. Worse, Neuhaus hobbles her detectives. There are moments when I wanted to reach into the book and take over the case. At the very least, I wanted to shout at them to pursue this or that lead or talk to this or that person. The only reason I can see for the inconsistencies in the detectives' abilities is to spin out the drama a little more.

I haven't read the first two books in the series and I felt like I was missing quite a bit when it came to the relationships between Pia, Oliver, and the other Kripo detectives in unit K-11. I would recommend that interested readers read the series in order as Neuhaus is telling a story about her characters as much as she is writing mysteries. However, given the sloppy construction of The Ice Queen, I doubt that I'll go back and do so myself.

I received a free copy of this ebook from NetGalley, in exchange for an honest review. It will be released 13 January 2015.


The Diviners, by Libba Bray

Since my library bought a copy, The Diviners hasn't spent much time on the shelves. Over the Thanksgiving holiday*, I took the plunge and read it to find out what the fuss was about. I discovered a book that shouldn't have worked and, yet, strangely, I was hooked for nearly 600 pages.

The Diviners
Libba Bray's The Diviners is a scattered book and it does sag a bit under the weight of its role as the opening book in a series with a complicated mythology. Bray introduces you to dozens of characters, plunges you into the middle of swinging 1920s New York, and sets her characters against a horrific villain, a shadowy government conspiracy, and more. It's a lot to keep track of.

The bulk of (the already bulky) The Diviners centers on Evie O'Neill, a transplanted flapper who is sent to New York to live with her uncle after accusing the local town playboy of getting a maid in the family way. Her uncle runs a museum of the occult and has little time for the jive-talking and gin-swilling Evie. She was a little hard on me, too, as a character, until she starts to grow beyond her persona as a jazz baby. (My hat is off to Bray for her perfect depiction of Jazz Age dialect and slang. Truly, she does a brilliant job.)

As Evie settles into New York life, something is hunting people across the city and murdering them in bizarre ways. The police call Evie's uncle Will in to investigate, as he is an expert in the paranormal. Evie invites herself along to the first crime scene. While there, trying to keep her stomach under control, she touches the victim's shoe and sees a bit of what happened before the girl was killed. This is Evie's secret. Like many of the myriad characters in this book, she's a Diviner—someone who has paranormal abilities. Evie's been hiding her talent all her life and when Will believes her, she dives into the case of Naughty Jack with as much verve as she used to dedicate to finding the latest hot club.

Naughty Jack is the major villain for most of the book, though there are hints that there are more insidious bad guys out there that the young Diviners will have to watch out for. By the end of The Diviners, it's clear that Evie, Memphis, Theta, and all the younger gifted characters have just arrived in the middle of a war that's been going on for a long time.

The Diviners juggles all this fairly well. Bray made an interesting choice to throw all the characters and plots into one big book, rather than writing a series of linked books. In that sense, The Diviners reads like a mini-series that's trying to keep all the characters on the same chronology. There are sections and characters that feel secondary (or even tertiary) as you read about Evie, Will, and Jericho et al. chasing after Naughty Jack. You have to trust that Bray will take all the loose ends from The Diviners and tie them up in future volumes.


* It wasn't much of a holiday for me. I was moving to a new house and then I got the worst head cold from my family. This always happens when I visit for the holidays. I'm asking my mom for a hazmat suit for my Christmas visit.


The Just City, by Jo Walton

The Just City
Plato was the first dystopic writer. I didn't realize it when I read The Republic in college. But when Jo Walton decides to use Plato's thought experiment about what it would take to build a truly "just city," it seems that all Plato was missing was a plucky heroine or two short of a young adult novel. Plato's thought experiment posited that if a population of 10-year-olds were taught by wise guardians, under a prescribed regimen of exercise and education, they could grow to be their "best selves." Some of them could become philosopher kings.

The Just City opens with Apollo questioning Artemis about why she turned a nymph he was chasing into a laurel tree. Still unsatisfied, Apollo asks Athena why a nymph would rather be a tree than mate with him. He ultimately decides that he needs to spend some time as a mortal learning about "volition and equal significance." Athena tells him she has just the place. She's long wanted to see if Plato's Republic could actually work, so she's recruiting Platonists from all through history to try it out on an island that will eventually be destroyed with a volcano—so as not to mess up the historical timeline.

Even if you're not familiar with Plato, this may sound like a very dry premise for a novel. Fortunately for us, Walton has three very compelling narrators tell us the story of the nascent Just City. Maia is one of the scholars drafted by Athena to be one of the first generation of teachers, Maia was born in Victorian England and always chaffed at the restrictions society placed on her gender. Simmea was born in Coptic Alexandria and sold as a slave after her village was raided by a group of teachers who are recruiting (purchasing) 10-year-olds to be the City's first generation. As she grows, she becomes a loyal member of the City and considers herself lucky that she was chosen to live there—considering what her life probably would have been like back in the world. Apollo, in his guise as Pytheas, is also a narrator. By living as a human, Apollo has learned to temper his arrogance and privilege.

The first teachers—the Masters—are mostly philosophers, with a few translators and natural philosophers thrown in to keep things interesting. Few of them come from the twentieth century. I remember thinking as I read the book that if there had been any psychologists or sociologists or historians in the group, they would have known that the City was doomed from the start. The Republic was a thought experiment; it wasn't meant to be a blueprint for an actual living city. There were too many gaps. Not only that, but Plato wasn't really a student of human nature. People are complicated things. No matter how much you try to level the playing field and make everyone's experiences the same, you can't predict how people will turn out.

One of my favorite characters in The Just City is Sokrates (though I love Maia and Simmea). Just as he is portrayed by Plato in the dialogues, Sokrates is a questioner and a troublemaker. He still has a ravenous hunger for knowledge and information. When Sokrates shows up in the City, his questions soon cause the small cracks in the community to grow into big, ugly, glaring problems.

All dystopias are thought experiments. The Just City wears its inspiration more obviously than other examples of the genre. Every dystopic setting I've ever read about started with an attempt to make people better. They're always wildly optimistic. And, just like The Republic, they're always doomed to fail because they never take human psychology and unpredictability into account. Walton gives us the opportunity to really explore this idea as her characters build and inhabit Plato's Just City. More than that, she makes philosophy come to life in The Just City.

I received a free copy of this ebook from NetGalley, in exchange for a fair review. It will be released 13 January 2015.


Near Enemy, by Adam Sternbergh

Near Enemy
Until recently, Spademan's life was uncomplicated. He was a garbageman turned hit man. He didn't ask questions. He didn't investigate. He just took care of things other people paid to disappear. Then Grace Harrow happened (see Shovel Ready) and Spademan started to ask questions. Adam Sternbergh's Near Enemy starts with one of Spademan's usual calls. A woman's voice says a name and Spademan takes his box-cutter and tracks the man down. But when the man wakes up from his trip into the limn (immersive virtual reality) screaming about something impossible, Spademan's newly awakened curiosity gets the better of him.

Lesser is one of the new generations of hackers in Spademan's post-dirty bomb New York City. Lesser hops from limn-trip to limn-trip, spying on people's darkest fantasies and blackmailing him. Small wonder someone wants him dead. But then when Lesser comes out of his latest trip and says that he just saw someone murdered in the limn (which is supposed to be impossible), Spademan decides to leave Lesser alone to find out if the hacker is telling the truth. Meanwhile, Spademan also has to protect Grace Harrow—now calling herself Persephone—from the fallout from Shovel Ready. (I lost count of the number of assassination attempts in Near Enemy, to be honest.)

Sternbergh's protagonist Spademan lives with a strange morality. Because he is always an outsider, always an observer, he just doesn't buy into other people's arguments about terrorism or sin or the greater good. When the Lesser case blows up ('scuze the pun) into a huge terrorist conspiracy, Spademan is caught in between corrupt cops and reformed hackers and his own code of ethics. It's enthralling.

As Spademan tries to figure out what the hell is going on, Sternbergh does some subtle world building. We learn more about the origins of the limn and what happened the day the bomb went off in Times Square. We learn more about the Wakers, who want people to return to real life instead of wasting away in the limn. Spademan's world is a gritty one, but it's one that doesn't seem too far-fetched as a possible future just a few decades away.

Near Enemy is written in what is becoming Sternbergh's signature noir poetry style. Much of the text actually consists of one sentence paragraphs—something that normally bothers the hell out of me. Sternbergh makes it work. His style gives an Impressionistic sense of the once-great New York and Spademan's unique perspective. In other hands, the one sentence paragraph is a punchline for an action-packed narrative. But in Sternbergh's hands, it transcends that I once called "the bastard child of poetry."

I received a free copy of this ebook from NetGalley, in exchange for an honest review. It will be released 13 January 2015.


Horns, by Joe Hill

Ig Perrish has been going through hell in the year since his girlfriend was murdered. And then, he wakes up with horns growing out of his head and the ability to hear and encourage people's sinfulness. Hell gets literal in Joe Hill's Horns.

The day that Ig sprouts his horns is a long and disturbing one for the mourning, self-destructing Perrish. He can't quite remember what he did when he got drunk the night before. When he stumbles out of the bedroom, his new girlfriend tells him she wants to do something so disgusting he will leave her—then asks permission to eat an entire box of expired doughnuts. The two cops that pull Ig over later that day admit that they think he killed his former girlfriend, Merrin Williams, and that they're waiting for him to make a mistake. Ig's doctor offers him Oxycontin before the young man heads to his parents house, thinking that at least they will believe that he didn't kill Merrin. No such luck, unfortunately. But Ig's brother, Terry, lets a secret slip that puts Ig on the trail of the man who really killed Merrin—Ig's lifelong friend, Lee Tourneau.

All this happens in the first blistering chapters of Horns. I can only describe Horns as a blend of magic realism and horror. After a day, Ig settles into his horns and newly found diabolical abilities remarkably well. No one else remembers the horns after a bit, let alone that they asked Ig if they could indulge in their dark little sins and yell at a screaming toddler or tell Ig that they wish he would kill himself. Curiously, only Lee Tourneau seems immune to Ig's abilities. There's something not right about him, too, which Hill takes his time revealing to us. Even though Ig is sporting devil's horns, it's clear that Lee is much more terrifying and dangerous than Ig. This book shares an acceptance of the supernatural that I've only seen in magic realism. Lee's evil and Ig's horns just are.

After Terry tells Ig what he remembers of the night Merrin was killed, Ig decides that he must avenge her by murdering Lee. This is easier said than done, because Lee is uninhibited when it comes to violence. Ig just doesn't have it in him. Things get even stranger after Lee sets Ig's car on fire, locks him inside, and tries to drown the would-be avenger.

Through flashbacks and the glimpses of the past Ig gets when he touches someone, we learn how Lee killed Merrin and why. Lee is a sociopath who has managed to escape detection so long because he models his behavior on Ig's. Ig is a wreck when we meet him at the beginning of Horns, but he was a truly good person. He was a believer about to take a job with Amnesty International, for crying out loud. But Lee, well, Lee is always out for himself. And he's always wanted Merrin. Because he is incapable of believing that Ig and Merrin don't have ulterior motives, Lee misinterprets everything they say and do—all of it leading to the terrible night Merrin dies.

Horns is a chilling book. Without the horror and magic realism elements, I could see this story playing out anywhere. With them, the story becomes an incredible meditation on good and evil, revenge, and love.


As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust, by Alan Bradley

As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust
I was worried at the end of the last Flavia de Luce novel, The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches, that we had seen the end of the young chemist who keeps tripping over corpses. Sending her off to school in Canada was a natural ending. Then I learned the Bradley was writing a new chapter in his feisty heroine's story with As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust. I am not disappointed.

Poor Flavia is heartbroken as she sails away from England and her beloved Buckshaw, Even though no one understood her there except her Aunt Felicity, it was home. Now she's sailing to Canada to attend the same school her mother did, years before. She's not too fond of the people who are escorting her either. The Rainsmiths insist on treating her like a child, for pity's sake! On the bright side, the same night Flavia arrives at Miss Bodycote's Female Academy, a body falls out of the chimney in Flavia's room. Flavia can't resist the opportunity to investigate, no matter if she has to break every school rule to do it.

Miss Bodycote's is no ordinary school. Since the turn of the Twentieth century, Miss Bodycote's has been training young women to serve as undercover agents in a mysterious agency called the Nide. Everything is a secret and Flavia is constantly frustrated when no one will tell her anything. She truly is on her own. Of course, this doesn't stop our intrepid amateur detective as she follows the clues to find out who was in her chimney and who put the poor woman there and why.

As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust is a wonderful new entry in the Flavia de Luce series.

I received a free copy of this ebook from Edelweiss, in exchange for an honest review. It will be released 6 January 2015.

King of the Cracksmen, by Dennis O'Flaherty

King of the Cracksmen
Liam McCool is caught between a rock and a hard man. When we first meet him in Dennis O'Flaherty's rollicking King of the Cracksmen, he is helping a pair of Molly Magees to blow up the a hated company man's house. After the house goes sky high, he returns to his boarding house to discover that his sweetheart has been murdered. To top it all off, his boss back in New York wants him to report back on the double now that his job spying on the Mollies is over. All McCool wants to do is get revenge for his sweetheart, but everyone else is pushing him towards a big role in the Great Game.

There isn't much room to catch your metaphorical breath in King of the Cracksmen. The plot steams ahead like one of the Acme robotic police that are patrolling O'Flaherty's alternate United States. In McCool's world, John Wilkes Booth's assassination attempt failed and Andrew Jackson sold the Louisiana Purchase to the Russians to balance the budget. O'Flaherty takes you from the coal fields of Pennsylvania to New York to Washington, D.C., to New Petersburg (formerly Minneapolis) and back to New York for an exciting showdown.

Along the way, as McCool is set to tracking down revolutionaries, demented heads of Public Safety, overly ambitious policemen, and New York gangsters, he starts to fall in love with crusading reporter Becky Fox—who turns out to be an agent of an organization that is determined to return the United States back into the nation it was before the Department of Public Safety. Meanwhile, O'Flaherty shows us the marvels of a steampunk alternate Gilded Age. There's almost too much in this novel and no time for deep introspection. But then, King of the Cracksmen is billed as "A Steampunk Entertainment."

I received a free copy of this ebook from Edelweiss, in exchange for an honest review. It will be released 6 January 2015.


Ostland, by David Thomas

There is one question about World War II that will never be satisfactorily answered. That is: how did good people turn into the kind of monsters that could perpetrate the Holocaust and all its related inhumane crimes? The kind of evil that it took to murder all those millions after stealing every scrap of dignity and hope from them should have been impossible. David Thomas' Ostland is one of the best explorations of this question I've seen yet. This is a hard book to read. It's upsetting in a number of different ways. But it is a very good book, based on the very real life of George Heuser (link to German Wikipedia page for Heuser).

Thomas begins Ostland with Georg Heuser's ignoble arrest from a spa in 1959. Max Kraus and Paula Siebert, the investigator and lawyer who work for the ZSL (German Wikipedia), have been piecing together a case against Heuser. During the war, Heuser was posted with the SS to Minsk as part of Einsatzgruppen A. (The Einsatzgruppen were tasked with murdering Jews, partisans, and whoever else the Reich decided while the Wehrmacht duked it out with the Red Army.) But Thomas conceals this from us for the first half of the book. After a few chapters from Paula's perspective, delivered in the third person, Thomas lets Heuser tell his story*.

Heuser's defining characteristic is his ambition. At university, he studied law and entered the police academy where he graduated at the top of his class. He wrangled a coveted post under one of the most highly regarded men in the Berlin police. He got to work on the career-making S-Bahn Murders case. The higher-ups in the SS "rewarded" Heuser's work by posting him to Minsk. As Heuser tells it, he was unaware of what the Einsatzgruppen were actually doing until he was ordered to take part in mass murders of Jews who had been rounded up from all over the conquered territories.

In the first half of Ostland, Heuser wonders at what kind of monster could murder all those women. Where did Paul Ogorzow (German Wikipedia) come from? What made him? In the second half, Heuser starts to compare himself to Ogorzow. What would the murderer say, now that Heuser has killed more people than the S-Bahn Murderer? Only two things make it possible for Heuser to live with himself. He tells himself, over and over, that all he can do is his duty and follow orders. The morality of what he's doing rests with the people giving the orders, not him. The second thing that makes it possible for Heuser to carry on is lots and lots of vodka. (Thomas found a statistic that the SS went through a bottle of vodka for every person they killed as a part of a "special action.") The men that Heuser works with drink and talk about everything they're doing in painful, dehumanizing euphemisms. The second half of Ostland is absolutely brutal.

Thomas jumps from 1941-1943 to the early 1960s as Heuser's war criminal trial progresses. Siebert grows gloomy as Heuser's lawyer manages to have charge after charge dismissed. The case appears to be crumbling even though Siebert and Kraus know he's guilty of terrible things. The last part of the book is a long meditation on the "following orders" defense and the mind-set of SS and Wehrmacht members during the war. Ostland is a very nuanced book, more balanced than anything I've yet read. This is not to say that Thomas is an apologist. He is very clear that Heuser and men like him bear a measure of the guilt and blame for the Holocaust. Men like Heuser will ask, "What else could I have done?" But if only more people had questioned their orders...

I received a free copy of this ebook from Edelweiss, in exchange for an honest review. It will be released 6 January 2015.


* In the Author's Note at the beginning of Ostland and the acknowledgements at the end, Thomas describes his thorough research into Heuser's life and trial. Ostland is more fictionalized non-fiction than a straight work of historical fiction.


Judgment standards; Or, one yardstick to rule them all?

"You can't evaluate a work outside the context of its time."
"You can if it's good."

Daria, "Is it Fall Yet?"
As I was reading The Amber Keeper and The Barefoot Queen, I wondered if I was being too harsh—even before I finished them and wrote my reviews. Every time one of the eighteenth century gypsies asked someone if they were "OK" in The Barefoot Queen or yet another pair of characters would have a meet-cute in The Amber Keeper, I had a hard time controlling my eye rolls. And yet, these books are rated fairly highly on GoodReads.

I probably shouldn't review books when I'm feeling sarcastic.
In the last few years, I have a read a lot of very good books. Plus, I re-read A Constellation of Vital Phenomena for my book group. I've been spoiled lately. It's hard not to hold everything I read to the same standard. It's not fair. I have no problem judging a book based on the merits of its genre. I have different standards for plot and characterization when it comes to speculative fiction and mysteries and literary fiction and historical fiction.

I suppose I do have one yardstick when it comes to basic writing competency. A story can be bad when the basic premise is flawed or the writer doesn't have a big enough vocabulary or the structure is so poorly constructed that it ruins whatever effect the author was going for. Besides, I would hate to think that I was actually lowering my standards to give a book a good review when it was just so-so and I know that others will like it just fine. It's just that reading really good books spoils me until I can recalibrate.

I'm probably overthinking this.

The Amber Keeper, by Freda Lightfoot

I have always been fascinated by tales of the Russian Revolution. An entire nation, caught between east and west, jumps several stages of development to try and create a workers' paradise only to erupt in terrifying violence. How did anyone survive the bloodshed and the starvation and disease and the cold? Whenever I see the Revolution mentioned in a book's description, I jump at the chance to read it, more often than not. Unfortunately for me, this doesn't always work out and in the case of Freda Lightfoot's The Amber Keeper, the Revolution was used as a more-exciting-than-usual setting for a fairly prosaic family drama/romance.

The Amber Keeper
The Amber Keeper is narrated by Abbie Myers, who returns to the Lake District of England after the surprising suicide of her mother. Abbie was in disgrace for years, having run off with a Frenchman and having a child out of wedlock—a big deal in 1963. As no one else in her family will talk to her without starting a row, Abbie questions her grandmother, Millie, about her mother. Millie is reluctant to say more than that she adopted Kate from an orphanage in London in 1920. Abbie is persistent and we soon get to learn about Millie's experiences as a governess for the Belinsky family in St. Petersburg from 1911 to 1917.

Millie's story is periodically interrupted as Lightfoot tells us more about what's going on with Abbie as she and her daughter try to settle in at the family house. Abbie resurrects her mother's jewelry story and fends off her brother's attempts to sell it and her new competition. Millie's story is much more interesting. It was always a relief to head back to Russia, even though Abbie is a better than average protagonist. But how can her story compete with Millie's? Not only is Millie a stranger in a strange land, she also has to deal with an utterly diabolical mistress, Countess Olga Belinsky. (Though it should be Belinskaya, in proper Russian, right?)

Olga is a pathological liar, greedy and lustful. (In fact, she embodies several of the Seven Deadlies.) For the sake of the children, Millie stays on, even though Olga tries to steal the love of Millie's life and actually lands the poor woman in a Bolshevik prison later in the novel. Once Millie finally tells the family where Kate came from, it's clear just why she stayed in St. Petersburg far longer than she should have. Olga is a much more electrifying character than this book deserves, to be honest. A novel from her perspective would have been amazing—assuming a reader could stay in her head long enough without getting thoroughly fed up with the woman. But then, readers stay with Scarlet O'Hara for the length of Gone With the Wind, so maybe it could work.

I muddled through The Amber Keeper fairly well, but I did not like the tacked on ending at all. It felt like Lightfoot was trying to end things with a bang, rather than letting this story be a quiet one of family reconciliation.

I received a free copy of this ebook from NetGalley, in exchange for an honest review. It will be released 1 December 2014.


The Barefoot Queen, by Ildefonso Falcones

The Barefoot Queen
Caridad, Melchor Vega, Ana Vega, and Milagros Carmona all seem to have nothing but bad luck. That or author Falcones likes nothing better than to create characters and then torture them for almost 700 pages. As The Barefoot Queen rolls along, there is poverty, injustice, imprisonment, slavery, rape, and murder. It's a wonder that anyone survives what Falcones puts his characters through.

The Barefoot Queen opens in 1748 as Caridad arrives in Seville after the man who owned her died on the sea voyage from Cuba. Everyone tells her she's free, but what's freedom to Caridad when she has no money and no one will help her find her way? After a few false starts with uncharitable Christian organizations, Caridad meets Melchor Vega as she's about to give up and starve to death. Melchor is enchanted with her mournful singing and takes her home to his family. Melchor Vega has always been the embodiment of a gypsy. He's known to wander. When he wanders away after delivering Caridad to his daughter, Ana, and granddaughter, Milagros, Caridad is once again left to fend for herself. Her knowledge of tobacco and cigar-making come in handy and help her make a meager living.

Life bumbles along for the quartet until a decree comes down from the king that all gypsies are to be rounded up and imprisoned. Milagros, Melchor, and Caridad escape, but are separated. Ana is captured and sent to Málaga with thousands of other gypsy women. Over the next several years, she suffers hunger and humiliation and torture. Meanwhile, Caridad runs afoul of the law and is also imprisoned for two years. Melchor travels the length and breadth of Spain to seek revenge on a man who assaulted Caridad and stole from him before launching an ill-starred quest to free his daughter. Milagros does get to marry the man she thinks she loves before learning just how much of a villain his is and suffering terrible exploitation.

As Falcones spins his tale, he treats us  to short essays about why the gypsies were rounded up, Spanish court manners, the tobacco industry of mid-eighteenth century Spain, and other topics. It does make for dry reading and lengthens an already long book. There is no over-arching plot to The Barefoot Queen. I would have described the book as picaresque if anything funny had happened. (It does not.) If there is a tragic version of picaresque, I would use that word instead. Bad things just keep happening to our quartet of protagonists, truly awful things. There are themes that keep this book tied together. Falcones uses his characters to explore what freedom means, what a person can live with and what they can't, how the law can be deformed by money and religion, and forgiveness. Still, The Barefoot Queen is an arduous read.

I received a free copy of this ebook from NetGalley, in exchange for an honest review. It will be released 25 November 2014. 


Why I dumped Henry James

I knew when I tried to read The Portrait of a Lady, that Henry James probably wasn't right for me. There was no spark, no chemistry in that first chapter. But then, I love Thomas Hardy. I like E.M. Forster. I devoured Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence and House of Mirth. Why didn't I like James? I decided to give him one more chance when I started reading The Turn of the Screw as my Halloween read this past month. I'd heard that it was a thrillingly creepy story and if I didn't like his human drama, perhaps I could learn to like his horror novella.

I was wrong.

Or, my first impression of James was correct after all. Henry James is not for me. I can't stand his grammar, that's what it is. I even tried to read the text aloud to get a feel for his style, but that didn't help either. Here are the first two sentences from The Turn of the Screw:
The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on Christmas Eve in an old house, a strange tale should essentially be, I remember no comment uttered till somebody happened to say that it was the only case he had met in which such a visitation had fallen on a child. The case, I may mention, was that of an apparition in just such an old house as had gathered us for the occasion—an appearance, of a dreadful kind, to a little boy sleeping in the room with his mother and waking her up in the terror of it; waking her not to dissipate his dread and soothe him to sleep again, but to encounter also, herself, before she had succeeded in doing so, the same sight that had shaken him.
In these two sentences there are 15 comas, one em dash, one semi-colon, and two periods. Fifteen commas! Even for a Victorian that's excessive. I just couldn't get past the prose. That hasn't happened to me for a long time.

What is the trick to reading Henry James? Why do people (and by people I mean critics) like him so much? Any suggestions are welcome.


Bloggus interruptus

I think I'm a grown up now. Last week, I closed on a lovely house that is twice the size of my apartment. There's even a room that I can use as a dedicated library—something I've always wanted. I've already painted it the color of good Morocco leather and it's going to look even more amazing when I get the bookshelves in.

All this goes to explain why I have to slow down on reading and posting over the next few weeks. There's more painting to be done and the arduous task of schlepping all my books over to the new house. I have few books to move this time around, having weeded out books that sounded good in the bookstore but disappointed when I read them. And for two years now, I've been buying more ebooks than print books. I still have about 675+ books to move, though. (I lost count a while ago.)

I should be able to get back to my usual blistering rate of reading and reviewing by the first week of December. Right now, I'm working my way through Ildefonso Falcones' massive The Barefoot Queen and re-reading A Constellation of Vital Phenomena for my book group. I'm still reading, I just don't have hours and hours to devote to it at the moment.


The Devil in the Marshalsea, by Antonia Hodgson

The Devil in the Marshalsea
Tom Hawkins needs to grow up. Three years before Antonia Hodgson's The Devil in the Marshalsea begins, Tom refused to be ordained and ran away to London. Since then, he's been living the life of a gentleman—which he defines when asked as "doing as little as possible." He drinks. He whores. He gambles. He's the despair of his friend, Charles Buckley, and his estranged family. And in the London of 1727, it's only a matter of time before his luck runs out.

In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (and probably before), people could be imprisoned for very small debts. Tom Hawkins owed £20 (which was a fair amount in those days) and all his notes come due. He manages to win enough money to stay out of prison at the card tables, but he's robbed of everything when he's led into the rookeries on the way home. In the morning, Tom is led off to the notorious Marshalsea Prison to wait until someone pays off his debts and gets him out.

Until 1869, when debtors' prisons were abolished, running a prison could be a very profitable racket. Prisoners were charged rent for better rooms and food. Jailers even charged a fee to remove prisoners' chains. It was possible at the time for prisoners to run up even more debt in prison, between the various fees and rents in the prison and sponging-houses. If you couldn't pay any of these, you were tossed over to the "Common Side," where you ran a real risk of dying of disease or starvation before you could be bailed out.* Tom is understandably terrified of ending up on the Common Side.

Just a few days before Tom is imprisoned, another debtor is murdered in the prison. The murderers tried to make it look like suicide, but no one is buying it—especially not the man's widow. Now the murdered man's ghost has been making appearances around the jail and riling everyone up. The jailers are annoyed that all the fuss is cutting into their profits. When Tom befriends (sort of) and bunks up with the murdered man's roommate, the mysterious Samuel Fleet, Tom is given the task of finding out what happened to Captain Roberts in exchange for his freedom. Of course, he has to survive the prison before he can learn anything and everything and everyone around him seems bent on thwarting Tom's efforts.

The Devil in the Marshalsea is a nail-biting mystery. There were times I honestly thought Hodgson was going to kill off her main character because there was no way he could survive the threats and the torture and misery. Tom is such a naif that I wondered that he hadn't landed in prison before this point. His stint in the Marshalsea is a brutal lesson to look out for himself, to question others' motives, and to learn how to find real friends.

The real star of The Devil in the Marshalsea is the prison itself. Hodgson shows a deft hand when displaying the amount of research she did. Historical details are everywhere, but Hodgson never lectures or bogs down the fast-paced narrative. This is the kind of historical fiction I adore.


* Hodgson did a lot of research for The Devil in the Marshalsea, some of which is based on this 1729 report, "A Report from the Committee Appointed to Enquire into the State of Gaols of this Kingdom." The report describes the shocking conditions of the Marshalsea and other prisons of the time.


The Return of the Discontinued Man, by Mark Hodder

I normally don't do reviews of books in series after the first one, but the books in Mark Hodder's Burton and Swinburne are so unique and so terrific that I can't resist telling people around them. This series is a key part of my list of "This Book Will Mess You Up" recommendations.

The Return of the Discontinued Man
In 2202, Edward Oxford is interviewed following his invention of revolutionary scientific devices. The interviewer mentions that an ancestor once tried to assassinate Queen Victoria back in 1837. The thought needles Oxford so much that he drives himself to invent a time travel device to go and talk the ancestor out of it. Once he started popping up in Victorian England, he started influencing history. He sparked advances in steam technology and genetics, a world-ending world war, pissed off human-hating lizards, and thoroughly screwed up the timeline. Sir Richard Francis Burton and his friend, poet Algernon Swinburne, have been fighting Oxford and the side-effects of his time travel for centuries now.

Time is still in flux when we rejoin Burton in one version of 1860 in The Return of the Discontinued Man. Strange version of the original Oxford have started popping up across London, hunting for Burton—but they're not sure why. Meanwhile, Charles Babbage, Daniel Gooch, and Isambard Kingdom Brunel have been working on the various versions of Oxford's time suit to try and figure out how it works. When they switch the machine on for the first time, Burton starts to slide through time. Infinite Babbages are turning on the machine at the same time. Infinite Brunels are disabled in the resultant explosion. Burton himself is sometimes a hero and sometimes a villain in these alternate timelines. His time jaunts are the result of a mysterious and addictive tincture made of a tree that will be familiar to readers of past books.

The first third of the book can be bewildering because of all time jaunts. Once Burton and his allies work out what's going on, Burton comes up with a two-pronged attack on Oxford to stop all this nonsense once and for all (if Hodder allows that to happen, of course). Babbage and Gooch will create a time-traveling ship to take Burton and his party to the future to stop Oxford before he even starts. The other part of the plan is for the members of Burton's Cannibal Club to take the long route through history to provide support along the way.

The ship Burton et al. travel on, the Orpheus, isn't powerful enough to jump all the way to 2202. They make several 54 year jumps. Things aren't so strange in 1914, but 1968 throws them all for a loop. The descendants of the Cannibal Club let the time-traveling team know that Oxford's insanity is still influencing time. Things get even worse in 2022 and worse and worse with each stop. As I read, I could see shades of 1984, Brave New World, and The Time Machine. Oxford's influence, via something called the Turing Fulcrum, have created a monstrous underclass manipulated by drugs and propaganda to work without revolting. The world of 2202 is hellish.

What I love about each one of the entries in the Burton and Swinburne series is that even though they all had the same starting point, they all go in new directions. Hodder is fantastically imaginative. Even though you have no idea how Burton and his friends are going to make it out of this fresh dilemma, Hodder finds a way that startles and entertains.

Too much? I don't care. I love this series.

The Glass Magician, by Charlie N. Holmberg

The Glass Magician
Picking up shortly after the end of The Paper Magician, Charlie Holmberg's The Glass Magician raises the stakes on Ceony Twill and Emery Thane by presenting them with a villain worse than the one Ceony faced down in a cave on the English coast. As if that wasn't bad enough, Ceony is deeply in love with Emery, but the rules of her apprenticeship prevent him from reciprocating.

Ceony and a few of her fellow apprentices were roped into taking a tour of a paper factory, presumably to educate her about the origins of her assigned magical field. It is smelly and loud and boring—at least until a bomb goes off and destroys half the factory. Shortly after, Ceony is surprised by the man who was behind the Excisionist activities the last time they went on the rampage. He wants the secret of how Ceony managed to turn Lira into a frozen statue so that he can undo it. If Ceony gives up the secret, she can save her family, friends, and Emery from a horrific fate.

In The Paper Magician, Ceony turned herself into a hero because there was no one else. Everyone else has given up on Emery when he had his heart stolen, literally. So Ceony stuffed her satchel full of paper, stole a glider, and saved his life. In The Glass Magician, she is forcibly reminded that she's just an apprentice. The grown-ups have closed door meetings to determine how they're going to defeat the Excisionists this time. Ceony can't stand to be shut out. And because the baddie keeps contacting her by mirror and issuing threats, Ceony takes matters into her own hands. Again.

I love this series. It's a pity that I got the first two books in the series all at once (and before The Glass Magician is officially released), because now I have to wait even longer to read the next book in the series.

I received a free copy of this ebook from NetGalley, in exchange for an honest review. It will be released 4 November 2014.