A Great and Terrible Beauty

A Great and Terrible Beauty has edged its way onto many a tabletop display in bookstores and I finally decided to break down and see why. To start, the cover is pretty darn alluring for its market of adolescent girls. Giant type over a beautiful girl in a corset... immediately, we're clued in that we're going to find a historical novel with some luscious undertones and most likely a romantic (though probably forbidden) storyline in the background, but with one girl's struggle to fit into a particular mold of society taking precedence. (Or at least if you study bookcovers like I do, you might think this.) And this is true... somewhat. I'll admit, though, I was surprised when the back of the book told me about the supernatural elements at play that were more than the usual ghosts and suspense found in Gothic novels.

This is the first in a trilogy of books set in the late 1800s about Gemma Doyle, a young British girl raised in India. On her sixteenth birthday, she feuds with her mother over her desire to visit London and runs off, only to then have her mother and another man die in a strange and mysterious way. Also mysterious is the fact that Gemma witnesses their deaths in an overpowering vision, but cannot understand what forces are at work, both in their deaths and in her vision. Gemma's father, whose hold on things already seems tenuous at best, suffers a nervous collapse and they return to England, where Gemma will attend the prestigious Spence boarding school for young ladies.

At Spence, she is immediately faced with the structured Victorian lifestyle that requires young ladies to be well-bred, compliant to the wishes of their elders, and highly accomplished. But let's not forget we're also dealing with adolescent girls and evidently, they remain the same no matter what the time period might be. At Spence, there is a strong clique of beautiful and wealthy girls that Gemma at once despises and yet feels pulled towards. At the same time, Gemma is still having flashes of visions and she discovers that she's been followed to England by a young Indian man (the brother of the man who died with her mother) who warns her to block out the visions at all costs. At this point, I find it hard to summarize without laughing a little bit... girl is unsure of her powers; girl is led to find a secret diary of another Spence girl who had similar powers; despite being warned by the Indian boy, she tries her powers out with her friends and they enter "the realms," a place where everything is shaped by their desires; girl is reunited with mother in these "realms" and mother warns her about taking magic into the real world; girl and friends do this anyway and subequently get in way over their heads with some darker force named Circe. Yeah. I suppose the less laughable summary would be: "As she struggles to keep her secret and still learn more about the powers she seems to possess, she and three friends play dangerously with forces beyond their understanding." but that's not quite as honest.

I admit right off the bat that I have a soft spot for young adult literature. There's something fascinating about work aimed towards a period of life where there's so much going on in terms of one's psychological development, education, and personality... not to mention the outward expression of it with inter-personal relationships. Young adults are finding out who they are and who they want to become. There's this interesting issue of trust at work whenever you're dealing with children's and young adult literature. What the author chooses to convey to the reader could shape this young person's life in ways they might not realize. It's fascinating and that's the logic I use whenever I think I should be reading a grown-up book. In addition, I really enjoy historical novels, so I was guiltily assuming that I'd really enjoy this series.

Not so much. On the teen education front, clearly Libba Bray's focus here was on the idea of personal insecurities and the question of coming to terms with one's self and having sincere friendships with others. There's also a healthy dose of forgiving each other and ourselves for the wrongs we've done or think we've done. Certain members (the leaders, really) of the pack of cruel girls at Spence become some of Gemma's closest friends (though honestly, it seems that this happens because of limited options) and they all have their own secrets, even as they bluff their way through appearing perfect. I feel that I'm not alone in thinking that these girls are not terribly likeable, but then, they're teenage girls. They do mean and hateful things to each other. When first entering the realms, Gemma is asked if she really trusts these girls and she immediately said yes -- which rather shocked me. Trust had not yet been earned and despite the professed bonds by the end of the book, I'm not sure it ever was merited. But, as I mentioned, we are dealing with teenage girls and at least Gemma herself is not some shining and perfect example of trust, honesty, and goodness. Everyone has flaws, though we might be a little too forgiving towards some of them. The historical features of the novel are more or less used for background elements and and when convenient in plotpoints -- one girl is being forced to marry a rich older man, gypsies (in a very stereotyped portrayal) populate the woods, there's the general backdrop of girls in a society that has specific expectations of them when they have different desires, etc. The time frame basically gave us some more Gothic elements, but clearly these girls were clearly created to seem more modern as a means of getting adolescent readers to relate to them. There are some steamy fantasies and underage drinking... definitely things that seem engineered to be more modern.

In the end, I also wasn't terribly swept away with the idea of "the realms" and the magical things taking place. Intrigued, perhaps, but never really convinced that they would be fantastic. In addition, I found most everything to be quite predictable, so I wasn't surprised by any betrayal, death, or revelations of character. And here's an incredibly petty criticism, but I was surprised when I discovered that Libba Bray herself is a redhead, as Gemma is not a convincing one. She lacks the spark of personality and there was a complete lack of a reaction from surrounding characters to this fact (and surely at the time, there would be something snide about Ireland or Scotland mentioned to Gemma once she reached Spence, and in India it would have been even rarer and comment-inducing). A bigger deal was the fact that she has her mother's green eyes. Alas.

What I did appreciate, I suppose, were the great pains taken to suggest that we're all flawed and no one is perfect. There was also a good emphasis on how there were very limited options for girls in Victorian times (even if everything didn't quite feel accurate enough). And perhaps another benefit might be that the adolescent girls reading this might end up reading real Gothic literature as a result, and fingers crossed that they won't stop reading when they realize they won't be getting the same kind of steamy scenes and blunt, modern language in the older stuff.

So... will I be reading the rest of the trilogy? Normally, you'd assume that a reviewer with these opinions would say no, but then you have to remember that I have trouble letting go of things. And when it's so easy to read young adult novels quickly, I find it hard to justify the abandonment of them. In the end, I'll let my pocketbook make the call. If I end up finding them at a used bookstore or on super sale, then I'll continue, but I will not be paying market price, even for a fellow redhead.

The Moving Toyshop

The Moving Toyshop by Edmund Crispin is utterly fabulous. It cropped up on some list of great sleuthing books a while ago and recently, I decided I needed a random treat. Having forgotten all the details that merited its placement on my Amazon wishlist, I was plunged into a wickedly funny and delicious murder mystery romp that takes place over twenty four hours in Oxford.

The Moving Toyshop is the third in a series of novels featuring Gervase Fen, an Oxford don who evidently solves crimes more often than he lectures or have tutorials with students -- but knowing nothing about Gervase Fen did not hinder me here. The novel opens in 1938 London, with the poet Richard Cadogan trying to coax an advance from his publisher, as he's utterly bored, needs adventure, and has selected Oxford as his holiday destination of choice. After a late-night arrival in Oxford, he stumbles into a toy shop -- and discovers a dead body. (Just accept this ridiculous premise and move on.) After being knocked unconscious and reviving in a broom cupboard only to escape, when Cadogan tries to take the police to the scene of the crime -- the location he distinctly remembers as a toy shop is a grocer's and there is no body to be found. Cadogan seeks out his old schoolmate Fen to help him track down the killer (and the body... and the toy shop...) and a rolicking day of sleuthing ensues.

Now, we all know how much I love Oxford, and if you do, too, then I think you're certain to love this. Cadogan and Fen seem to run over every inch of the place, but there are other things that conspired to make this a new favorite book of mine... for instance, the near bar-fight over Jane Austen. Seriously, I knew before then that I was quite charmed with the book, but at that point, I knew it was fantastic. While sitting in a bar or tied up and held hostage, Cadogan and Fen play games where they name off unreadable classics or insufferable characters that are intended as sympathetic. I'm totally going to start doing this with my friends whenever we find ourselves waiting somewhere. The novel is also in that particular witty style of British novels where every man is a raging homosexual or a rake... and even the rakes seem a bit light in the loafers. The dialogue is fantastic (I don't often underline in my books these days, but there were a few exchanges that I simply knew I'd want to note for later reference) and while the circumstances of the murder mystery are clearly ridiculous, it still makes for a very amusing story.

In short, if you enjoy ridiculous British sleuthing novels, then I'd be surprised if you hadn't read this already -- and if you haven't, you simply must.

An Expert in Murder

An Expert in Murder is a quite a good book, but in many ways, it's a victim to its own complications. There's a great deal going on with it, so let me give a brief summary, get into some of its stumbling blocks, and then close with why you really should read it anyway.

Josephine Tey, a Scottish writer and playwright, is traveling by train to London in the 1930s for the final week that her play, Richard of Bordeaux, will be playing in the West End. While on the train, she meets Elspeth Simmons, a young girl who recognizes Tey from a theater review and is quite a fan of her work. Elspeth is staying with her aunt and uncle in London, but she and her beau (who happens to work backstage on Richard of Bordeaux) will be seeing the play later that week. Tey is charmed by the girl, even inviting her to meet the lead actress of the play, who is meeting Tey at the station. Elspeth does so, and in her excitement, forgets her luggage on the train and runs back to retrieve it. Tey and her actress friend leave, but when Elspeth returns to the train car, she is brutally murdered in a way that the police can only believe is premeditated. She will not be the only casualty in this complicated story of the theater and England after the first World War -- for even if the war is over, its effects are still very present in the lives of those who lived through it.

This is Nicola Upson's first mystery novel and don't let yourself be convinced otherwise as you start to read it. I say this because I knew it was the first, and yet kept second-guessing myself. There are two reasons for this. Number one: Upson gave herself the daunting task of fictionalizing history. Her main character, Josephine Tey, is based on Elizabeth Macintosh, a Scottish mystery novelist. Josephine Tey was one of two pseudonyms that Macintosh used; the other is Gordon Daviot. Upson nods to both of these, as Upson's character of Tey writes under the name Daviot. This novel focuses on events surrounding the original West End staging of Macintosh/Tey/Daviot's play Richard of Bordeaux. Now, the plot of this novel is entirely fictional, but many of the characters are modeled on real people. This is a lot of overlay to deal with, but not too much... which brings me to the second reason that I felt like I was missing something throughout the beginning chapters. There was information being glazed over in a way that suggested that these were plotpoints of an earlier novel and all you needed to know was the outcome (aka a court case ruled in favor of Tey and as a result, some other author committed suicide). These incidents that have taken place prior to the events that are taking place in this novel are actually important here in this story, but you aren't necessarily given that impression. When Tey refers to her guilt that author's suicide, the reader feels confused because we are not given much to go on, and the natural impulse is to assume there was backstory here in the form of another novel that we clearly skipped/missed. I'm not sure what could have been done to make this better, but it wasn't until halfway through the book that I realized this backstory was still very much in play. It made things confusing and you never want your reader to spend a lot of time thinking, "did I miss something?"

That said, I quite enjoyed An Expert in Murder. It has its first novel flaws, but perhaps Upson is only really guilty of being ambitious. Upson paints an incredibly vivid picture of theater in the 1930s -- which I assume might be the subject of her nonfiction works, and certainly might be influenced by her own work in theater. It's not simply the on-stage action (because really, this isn't focused on much at all, except in discussions off-stage), but the theater-owner and the backstage crew are interesting, too. One accepts that strong personalities populate the theater, and so they do not seem at all out of place with their quips. Upson doesn't shy away from depicting homosexual relationships even at this time, though mostly she acknowledges that while they might be more common in the theater world, they were still bound by certain societal rules away from the footlights. Her characters off the stage have a bit more depth. Tey was interesting as a slightly older female lead character, but Archie Penrose, the detective, was really great. Their interaction is great and restrained -- very English, but wonderfully multi-faceted. Their link is a bit contrived, but Upson has a real gift for depicting poignant facts that have to do with this time period and if the complications are somewhat easy to foresee, you'll at least appreciate what still feels like genuine emotion without being overly dramatic. The complications of having survived friends and loved ones who were lost in a war, the attempts to move on with one's life, the inability to escape atrocities committed on and off the battlefield... Upson really shines here. I wasn't was thrilled with the ending of the murder mystery (don't worry, no spoilers here), but it came with what felt like a caricature of an evil villain. But even that wasn't quite enough for me to set aside the enjoyment that I'd gotten out of the rest of the novel's prose.

So I certainly believe that Upson will be a mystery writer to watch if she can keep pace with her own standards. I feel that, given the amazing depth of this work, they must be rather high. With all the plotpoints and characters, things felt slightly contrived, but despite these few issues, I still think the book was quite worthwhile and I look forward to the next Josephine Tey mystery, where hopefully Upson will have ironed out a few kinks. Oh, and I'll admit that this is another book where I was lured in by the cover -- I think it's just lovely.

Bunnicula: A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery

Bunnicula: A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery was written by James and Debra Howe about a vampire rabbit that comes to live with a family. When we read and love books as children, I suppose it's only natural for us to want to pass along that love to a new generation, so when I realized that my godson was coming upon the age and reading ability where Bunnicula might suit, I immediately bought it for him. It was only after the purchase that a friend asked, "So wait... he's a vampire rabbit? But he only drains vegetables? Where's the danger?"

It took a moment to admit that I couldn't exactly remember, and so I re-read Bunnicula to find that no matter what Chester the cat might suggest, there isn't really any danger (well, at least from Bunnicula), but the book remains delightful.

Bunnicula is written from the perspective of Harold, the Monroe family dog, but in his manuscript, he maintains that he has changed the names of the innocent for their protection. Harold has a peaceable companion in Chester, the family cat, named after G.K. Chesterton. (Which must have triggered some subconscious memory, given that I just read a book by G.K. Chesterton, but I'm not sure which book led to the other.) Chester reads quite a lot and when the family brings home a new pet after finding him at the movie theater (a showing of Dracula), Chester suspects that Bunnicula is more than he appears. He sleeps all day and the markings on his fur form a curious widow's peak that gives him the look of wearing a cape. And Chester could swear that he saw two pointy fangs on the bunny by the light of the moon. Chester becomes obsessed with watching Bunnicula and discovers white vegetables in the house, which he believes Bunnicula has drained.

Having now read this as an adult, I actually found Bunnicula to be relatively simple in terms of plotline, but rather packed with some more complicated ideas if one chooses to think about them. For instance, Chester is convinced that Bunnicula's eating habits somehow endanger them all -- a very "today vegetables, tomorrow the world" kind of approach. Harold, on the other hand, is rather torn between supporting his friend Chester and simply leaving Bunnicula be, as he sees no harm in it -- aside from a rather startled family when they believe themselves subjected to some kind of vegetable blight after finding the white veggies. This manages to provide a rather fantastic set-up for teaching children about trusting their own opinions, not simply going along with the crowd, respecting others despite things that make them unique/different, and so forth. Chester appears to be a much less enjoyable character now that I'm older and the simple fact of him being a kitty counts for less than it did when I was eight. I mean, one could argue that Chester is instigating hate crimes (thank goodness that for all his literacy, he doesn't know the difference between a steak and a stake). His antics with spreading garlic everywhere are amusing (particularly in the time-honored tradition of humans being completely oblivious to anything in the animal world when your characters are animals), and there's a nice little jab at the concept of therapy being able to help him at the end of the book, but I found Chester to be much less of a funny kitty this time around. Our trustworthy narrator, Harold, does not let his fondness for chocolate cupcakes (though really, one shouldn't given chocolate to dogs) distract him from helping a potential new friend.

So if you're looking for a good (not too scary) Halloween book for that 8-12 year-old, then your search should be at an end. Of course, if memory serves, some more threatening things (like a potential zombie/vampire vegetable army?) seem to loom in the series. And speaking of series, I think I might have stopped after book number four, but the entire series for young readers (aka not counting spin-off books and for even younger readers) includes Howliday Inn, The Celery Stalks at Midnight, Nighty Nightmare, Return to Howliday Inn, Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow, and Bunnicula Strikes again.

Whenever I re-read books like this, I inevitably research them online and come up with some interesting facts. Evidently, James and Deborah Howe wrote Bunnicula together, but Deborah Howe died of cancer at the age of 31, before Bunnicula's publication. It seems that Deborah Howe was already an established children's author, having published a number of works and won several awards in her short life, and it was this first foray into children's literature that inspired James Howe. He continued writing the Bunnicula series, in addition to other books, after remarrying, fathering a daughter, eventually divorcing, and coming out of the closet. While Bunnicula Strikes Again appears to be the last in that series, he continues to write today.

The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare

On the cover of The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare, there's a sentence from a review by Kingsley Amis where he calls this book "The most thrilling book I have ever read." Clearly, strong recommendations from well-known authors can be a powerful selling tool, but I'll admit, it was the rest of the cover that sold me on this book. You can't always judge by it, sure, but you can certainly be reeled in by an attractive one. Look at this! Can you feel the energy? It's a small little volume, too, but on paper that's more appealing than the usual mass-market paperback. The crisp white and the stark black and red... Hats off to the art department at Penguin. Something about this small volume called to me and after reading the back cover description, I knew this was going to be good.

The best way that I've found to describe this book is that it feels like you're reading a car chase. In a good way. No, the whole book is not a car chase (though there is a car chase at one point), but it's a fantastic thriller that had me riveted as it raced through twists and turns in the plot, which featured poets, anarchy, and the question of what makes reality.

G.K. Chesterton published this book in 1908 and it opens on the meeting of two poets in turn of the century London -- Lucian Gregory and Gabriel Syme. Gregory loses his temper when Syme suggests that Gregory is not a true anarchist. So to prove his commitment to anarchy, Gregory extracts a vow of silence from Syme and then takes him to a secret meeting of anarchists... only to find (after Syme requests a similar promise from Gregory) that Syme is part of a secret anti-anarchy group of Scotland Yard. The two are at an impasse, unable to expose the other, and so Gregory is completely at a loss when Syme gives a rousing speech at the meeting and the secret agent is elected to serve as the local representative (called "Thursday") on the worldwide Central Council of Anarchists. And this is only the beginning as Syme joins the Council and meets its president, Sunday, who comes to represent all that Syme is battling against in this world.

Wikipedia will tell you that Adam Gopnik ran a piece in The New Yorker which described this book as "one of the hidden hinges of twentieth-century writing, the place where, before our eyes, the nonsense-fantastical tradition of Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear pivots and becomes the nightmare-fantastical tradition of Kafka and Borges." Even 101 years later, I could feel that this was that missing literary link that finally made me understand how the jump to writing and appreciating Kafka's work was made possible. That tradition of literature was never my focus, and I feel that had I been asked to read this before Kafka in school, I could have found a more coherent place for it in the sequence of literary styles. I had always been dissatisfied with explanations of how Kafka brought forth such a surreal narrative, fully-formed in its own unique style, a man suddenly made insect. I knew there must have been some premonitory clue, and here I feel as though I've stumbled upon something that makes that a little clearer. Though it seems amusing to use the term "clarity" here, as the simultaneous trust in and distrust of reality is what makes it all terrifying/fascinating.

Oh, and it might be narcissistic, but I'm always going to have a small affinity for a book that treats redheads with respect. There's a fantastic line that you can bet I'll remember: "My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world." Awesome. And I'll leave you with an early paragraph where Syme is speaking with Gregory's sister that I particularly enjoyed:

He stared and talked at the girl's red hair and amused face for what seemed to be a few minutes; and then, feeling that the groups in such a place should mix, rose to his feet. To his astonishment, he discovered the whole garden empty. Everyone had gone long ago, and he went himself with a rather hurried apology. He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain. In the wild events which were to follow, this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over. And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night. For what followed was so improbable that it might well have been a dream.

The Amnesiac

James Purdew cannot remember a few things. A few years, come to think of it. They seem to have just slipped his mind. And it's not as though he can simply consult his journals to refresh his memory, because the journals for those three years seem to be locked in a small safe that can only be cracked via explosives and he's misplaced the key.

In the first scene of Sam Taylor's The Amnesiac, James is rushing up the stairs to answer a telephone in the Amsterdam flat that he shares with his girlfriend, Ingrid -- and he breaks a bone, which leaves his leg in a cast. It is the day before his thirtieth birthday. After a few weeks of recuperation, their relationship unravels, though not explosively by any means. Ingird leaves to take a job where, if he went with her, he could see his life neatly mapped out for him and James is unwilling to continue along such a clear path. After the break-up, a chance encounter with Ingrid's brother conveys to him the message that Ingrid hopes James can work things out with Anna. The name means virtually nothing to James, but it does give him a flash image of recognition, even if he has no idea who Anna might be. He feels compelled to discover the secret of those missing years -- for really, with such a hole in his memory, he starts to question a good amount of the rest of his memories, too. So James returns to H (an specified university town) in the UK, where he went those missing years occurred. He begins to restore a house owned by an unknown Client, and James becomes convinced that he knew this place during those missing years. Alternately becoming obsessed with rebuilding the house and peeling back the layers of his own past, James becomes a kind of detective, digging up clues to discover what secrets are out there, even if they would best be forgotten.

Oddly (or perhaps fittingly), I cannot remember the recommendation or review that caused me to put The Amnesiac on my short-list of books to read. Book club books and other titles wormed their way into my hands before I could finally reach for it upon my shelf, and without glancing at the back cover to refresh myself of the plot (and I had forgotten most of that, beyond simply that it featured a man trying to discover something about himself that he had forgotten), I started to read.

And I could not put it down.

It's hard to describe this novel, as its appeal wasn't necessarily in the linear story. Indeed, when discussing it with others as I was still reading it, the only thing I would say is that I feared it might collapse, becoming too clever to sustain itself. And while it didn't collapse, I also didn't feel entirely satisfied with its resolution. What I did enjoy, though, was the tone of everything... when things started to spiral out of control, the language kept up as you moved along at breakneck speed, but then slowed with James's (and the reader's) attempt to understand. The details helped this, without beating you over the head with clues (though James himself keeps a box quaintly labeled "CLUES"). And these details, like common initials in a story within the story that James finds under the wallpaper or flashes of what must be memories, are what James and the reader cling to as we move along. The reader is allowed to feel satisfied with guessing when things are a bit fishy and while a handful of instances resulted in my guesses being spot on, there were an equal number of times where I felt the bottom drop as I struggled with a new twist. If you couldn't tell already, reality is a bit of a dodgy concept for James Purdew, but it's certainly interesting. I particularly enjoyed a conversation between James and Philip Larkin, where James calls Larkin out on being dead. The details scattered throughout, too, were great -- shining moments of how imperfect our recognition of details can be and what exactly we choose to recall about scenes.

So the novel might not be perfect, but it's certainly fascinating. I mean, if you were to summarize the simple plot of the novel, it involves a newly-thirty man struggling to understand his past and what it all means. That hardly sounds original, but I'm quite pleased with Taylor's twists on it.

The Graveyard Book

I've come to the conclusion that I will always read Neil Gaiman's things and even if I'm not delighted by a piece, it doesn't seem to decrease my interest in his work. It's just kind of how it is. There's something fascinating about the stories he tells and so even if I'm not immediately taken by the idea, sooner or later, I know that I'll always pick up whatever he happens to publish. In addition, I tend to prefer his novels on audio book (or at least certainly the ones geared towards a younger audience). He reads them himself and there's something about having the writer read his work... it's the closest you can get to understanding his intentions, as he's placing the emphasis on just what he wishes. I also think I just might find Neil Gaiman to be fascinating, too, and I'm always pleased to see his tweets (@neilhimself).

The Graveyard Book opens with a very chilling scene -- a man named Jack enters a home and kills a family... everyone except the baby, who happens to escape death by chance, as he toddles out the open door and into the nearby graveyard. With Jack in pursuit, the ghosts of the graveyard hide the baby after the faint spirit of his newly murdered mother appears to plead for assistance, and the man Jack is diverted and drawn away. After a good amount of discussion between the occupants of the graveyard, the baby is adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Owens, and he is christened "Nobody." Another being, named Silas, also agrees to serve as the child's guardian, as the ghosts cannot leave the graveyard, but Silas can, and therefore is able to procure food and clothing for the boy.

And so Nobody Owens (known as "Bod") grows up in a graveyard, under its protection and thus given certain advantages. For instance, he can see quite clearly in the dark and learns things that ghosts must learn, such as the abilities to fade from view or change the atmosphere to increase the levels of unease and fear. He is tutored by ghosts and only makes one living friend as a child. But always there is the threat that outside the graveyard, there is danger. For the man Jack had been sent to kill Bod and his family, and he has not stopped looking for the boy.

I found the first half of this story to be more interesting than the second, and certain moments stand out as being more memorable than others. I tended to like the idea of things best (the idea of a boy raised by ghosts in a graveyard, the idea of an ancient spirit living deep under the graveyard that is waiting for a master, and so forth), so it's not surprising, I suppose that the beginning would appeal to me more than the end, where things had played out. I certainly do recommend the audiobook, and Neil Gaiman unsurprisingly does a wonderful job. His voice perfectly fits the tone of the story; and it was that tone that I consistently enjoyed, even while certain events didn't delight me. The relationship with Scarlett, his one friend, was cute but predictable, particularly when it came to her introduction of Mr. Frost. The motivation for killing Bod's family and the continued search for Bod was not what I hoped for. It seemed too grandiose for the setting and I would have been more satisfied with something a little more focused. I also thought that while we did have some entertaining vignettes of scenes, they were quite obviously inserted for later use, and I never found myself surprised by the events. But as with all Neil Gaiman stories, there are some delightful details and moments. The focus on and description of the knife in the first scene made it so chilling. Bod's identification of the ghosts both by name and the inscription on their tombstone made me smile. When the Sleer uncertainly asked Bod if he was their master, and then if he would be their master, I almost cried.

If you enjoyed Coraline, I certainly think you'll be entertained by this -- though despite its setting, I didn't find it as unsettling as certain parts of that story. I do always appreciate that Neil Gaiman is not afraid to let children know that bad things happen in the world, often to good people who did nothing to deserve them. Families can be killed and children can lose all they have. He doesn't overly-shield them and I find that somewhat admirable in today's day and age. It's a different tack than, say, Daniel Handler/Lemony Snicket with his Series of Unfortunate Events where bad things happen, but in a more entertaining way. So, thanks again, Neil, for another fascinating tale. My ipod and I eagerly await the next.

Intelligence and How to Get It: Why Schools and Cultures Count

The experience of reading this book in public was not pleasant. I got several poorly-crafted observation jokes of "trying to be more intelligent, eh?" from some co-workers, who met my withering glance and then scurried away. But that was harmless in comparison to the on-edge feeling that I had in the subway, holding my book open as little as possible to minimize the potential for people reading over my shoulder. Was I ashamed of the topic? Not at all, but the language used to discuss a semi-sensitive topic sometimes left me wondering if people might think I was a racist as page after page went on about studies connecting race and IQ. (I realize that this suggests people read more than just a word or two when glancing at the things other people read on the subway, but still, it was enough to unnerve me. All someone needed to do was see "blacks with lower IQs"...)

That said, clearly the point of this book is to say that nature has little to do with IQ and nurture far and away takes the cake. And to make that point, many discussions of race and IQ had to take place (which bring us back to me feeling uncomfortable in the subway). Even in the event of disproving things, we do need to confront some awkward truths, and within Intelligence and How to Get It: Why Schools and Cultures Count, Richard Nisbett does a fair job at assuring us that we're not all doomed from the start to be limited in our abilities, though that doesn't mean we don't need to act fast in order to get our children prepared for their lives.

Nisbett includes a great deal of data to carry his point that environment is the major factor in affecting the intelligence of children (and for that matter, adults), which might seem overwhelming for someone who isn't a statistician, but I think it's all presented in a coherent manner, so I never found myself lost completely. Of course, the complex issue that is raised by Nisbett's work suggests that genes have little to do with predicting your IQ... but your cultural and socioeconomic influences do. The ugly truth of that statement? Your genes won't hold you back, but your ignorant family just might as soon as you're out of the womb, so keep those fingers crossed that you're born into an upper-middle class family that converses with each other.

Of course, that's the negative view that one can take away. The positive approach is that parents and schools (or any kind of programs) can have a big impact on the intelligence of children... provided that they're good ones. Without concerned and caring parents, experienced and committed teachers... well... things don't look good. The current socioeconomic system then becomes a kind of caste system, condemning children to repeat the lives of their parents and be unable to rise above, resulting in children who end up classified as disabled when different circumstances could have certainly avoided such a fate.

As a reasonably intelligent person, I feel that most of the conclusions drawn from this data are, in fact, things that make perfect sense if your mind ever happens to alight upon the topic. If you only surround the average child with influences that aren't encouraging or challenging, then the child's curiosity and intelligence will suffer as a result. Of course, Nisbett has data to back all of this up, resulting in some fascinating (and frightening) statistics. (And, of course, he states from the outset that not all families are alike an it's not great to make generalizations, but then the studies make their generalized statements and I start feeling awkward again.) For instance... a child in a middle class family will hear several million more words than a child in a lower class family, and beyond improved vocabulary isn't the only thing that results from that. Parents of middle class children (and again, the generalizations make me uncomfortable, but this was how it was presented in the book) are more likely to be engaged in conversation with their parents, to be asked questions that both draw out the child's opinions and logical reasoning abilities. When lower class children are spoken to by adults, they're often spoken to in terms of orders, such as to perform tasks, rather than engaged in conversation. It sounds pretty bleak, but thankfully, he did at least report on some programs that are invested in teaching better parenting skills or serving as day care facility with trained staff.

And lest you think he dodged some other issues in terms of race and IQ, Nisbitt did include chapters on "the Asian Advantage" and Jewish intelligence. While speaking of Asians, I feel that he didn't include nearly as much research in his discussion as he had with other chapters... which seemed rather odd, given that he himself does a great deal of research in Asia. He made some interesting (though not new) statements about the cultural differences between Asian and Western societies, given one's focus on the family and society's success and the other's focus on personal and individual success. What seemed a bit out of place, however, were statements like Confucius is responsible for all Asian thought, etc. (I did, however, like one Asian father commenting on the idea that it's not "Asian overachievement" so much as it's "American underachievement" when he witnessed his daugher's class give an award for completing all of the homework assignments.) And as far as Jewish intelligence, this chapter jumped away from his general format and seemed only to bring up the various theories that people have about why Jews are so smart and dismissed them pretty quickly. Perhaps he thought the majority of the book's arguments covered these, but still, it might have been worth repeating a bit.

We read this book for my book club and we actually had some great conversations result, particularly surrounding the idea of affirmative action and school funding. A great deal of Nisbett's points seemed to bring focus to early childhood development (though clearly, many educational researchers do), but almost to the point where it overlooked what can be done for older students. And I couldn't help but feel like I was waiting for Nisbett to make some kind of recommendation... to endorse certain practices or programs... but if you're waiting for that, you might as well skip to his last chapter when he tosses in a few common sense recommendations for parents (which can hardly be seen as serious, given that if someone is reading this book, they're clearly committed to their child's education and must be doing all these things already).

Don't feel intimidated by the size of the book if this isn't your usual kind of reading, for you're only reading about two-thirds of the pages... the rest are taken up by optional appendices, footnotes, and research citations. And yes, you can say that the title is stupid, as the book isn't much concerned with telling you how to acquire intelligence, be it for you or your precious little one. It was an interesting read (the studies were my favorite part, when certain things are isolated and the variables are charted) and you'll feel like it was worthwhile if you can manage to stir up some discussions on the topic. Since I work for an educational publisher, you can bet that it wasn't too hard to collect a group that wanted in on the discussion when I started talking about this book with co-workers, and I think that anyone (particularly parents) will be asking you to borrow your copy once you're finished.

Meatball Sundae

A "meatball sundae" is the idea of mixing two good ideas... and everything going horribly wrong. If the meatballs are the foundations of marketing, the things we need, and the whipped cream and toppings represent the fun stuff of new marketing... well... you can't simply just toss them together and expect the results to be awesome.

Meatball Sundae by Seth Godin was selected as the first book for a marketing book club at my office, where several marketing teams from the different divisions would come together and discuss. The discussion was fine, though I personally think our targeted audiences are a bit too varied for us to come up with any real action items as a group. Within our individual marketing teams, perhaps, but it was useful to hear everyone's thoughts. The book club leader was very organized and had prepared a handout and everything, leading our discussion in the same format as the book. It's broken up by fourteen "trends" that are defining the marketing landscape right now, which make for easy reading in short bites, and clear discussion.

Personally, I imagine if I had read this book in 2007, it might have been helpful. But reading it in 2009, it was only useful insofar as it re-emphasized certain basics. It would, however, be an interesting read for someone new to marketing or just embarking on a project. You could definitely get some pointers on launching a new product with this book, but it's not terribly helpful when it comes to marketers who have a product already. (After all, he notes that the two big take-aways from his book should be that you should "Make something worth talking about and make it easy to talk about.") It's a quick read and it's certainly skim-able, but because of his continued focus on energizing your consumer base (aka find people to spread the word of your product for you by activating the interested and turning them into campaigners), I spent most of the time wishing that we had, instead, selected to read "Tribes." The frequent use of case studies was both helpful (giving clear examples) and annoying (there wasn't a single company that he mentioned that I hadn't already heard of or studied).

So if you're looking for a marketing book, my advice to you is to make sure you're reading something new if you're looking for something to do with new marketing. Otherwise you'll find it's already behind the times.

Lolita

"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
"She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita."

Oh, Lolita. Is there anyone these days who doesn't know the general story? Middle-aged Humbert Humbert becomes obsessed with twelve-year-old Dolores Haze. Thankfully, few literate people disagree with the statement that Lolita is a brilliant work of twentieth-century fiction. I find myself at a loss for words in reviewing this book, if only because I feel like so much has already been said. The language is beautiful and the story is riveting. The repulsion one feels for Humbert's taste is complicated by his deviously charming writing and Lolita's self-awareness. One might find an untrustworthy narrator to be a chore at times, but here, it is nothing short of fascinating.

Above all, what struck me with this reading of Lolita is just how masterful Nabokov's command of the English language really is... I found myself savoring every sentence and looking up the definitions of words of which I knew the meanings... not because I thought I was wrong or that he would be more precise, but that there were certain nuances to be gained. I spent time reflecting on certain details that would crop up (for instance, Humbert's obsessive cataloguing of Lolita's height and weight) or various academic interpretations (the question of this book representing the corruption of young America by old Europe or old Europe's downfall brought about by young America), but really, it's the language that I kept coming back to again and again. Here is a wordsmith, here is a man who knows how to turn a phrase. Breath-taking at every turn.

If you haven't read it yet, I shall not pressure you. There will come a time in your life when you finally feel compelled to pick this up and you'll understand the awesome power of Nabokov's language in painting such an fascinating story.

Inkheart

If you think I'm a Grinch for giving this book three stars, then you'll be furious when I tell you that I really wanted to just give it two, but somewhere in my three-sizes-too-small heart, I felt compelled to recognize some of the creativity in this and so I've conceded a star.

Inkheart opens on Meggie, a twelve year old girl raised by her father (whose name is Mortimer and rather than call him Dad, she calls him Mo) in a house where books cover every inch of available space. Mo repairs books for a living and when he's not repairing them, he's reading them. Meggie has also inherited the reading gene, and even sleeps with a book under her pillow, so it can whisper a story into her ear. And while we're told by Meggie everything that would suggest this is a cozy home and loving (albeit small) family where they keep no secrets from each other, we're immediately thrust into events that put all of this on its ear.

Meggie sees a man looking up at the house in the middle of the night and while her father mocks her for imagining things, when he sees for himself, he recognizes him and lets the man in. His name is Dustfinger and he calls Meggie's father "Silvertongue." What results is Mo futilely spending a lot of time trying to hide things from Meggie. He even tries to ditch Dustfinger and take Meggie to her great-aunt Elinor's home, but he's forced to bring him along. (The book obsession runs in the blood on both sides of the family, evidently, because Elinor's home is more like a library, with incredibly valuable books under lock and key.) But of course, the truth eventually comes out to reveal that Meggie's father has kept much bigger secrets from her than she ever thought possible.

Mortimer is called "Silvertongue" by Dustfinger because he has a wondrous and terrible gift: when Mortimer reads aloud from books, things happen. More specifically, items from the story he is reading are conjured out of thin air and characters are literally brought to life -- but the price for such transport seems to be that items from this world would disappear into the story. Nine years ago, while he was reading a book called Inkheart to Meggie's mother, Mortimer accidentally brought three men from the book to life... Dustfinger and two villains named Capricorn and Basta. And if this wasn't terrible enough, Meggie's mother was taken in to the book. Despite many attempts, Mo could never read Teresa out of the book and so he was left alone with their baby daughter.

For the past nine years, Dustfinger survived in the world by performing tricks like a gypsy... eating fire and juggling at carnivals, but he still remains homesick for the world in the book, even though he can never bear to read the book's ending to discover his fate. Capricorn, meanwhile, built up an army of henchmen in this world and desperately wants to capture Mortimer and use his skills for his own purposes. Sure, Capricorn found some other guy who could read things out of books, but they never quite turned out well, and so he wants Silvertongue to read out an evil that would make Capricorn all-powerful. In addition, Capricorn has been collecting copies of Inkheart, so Mo might have the only copy that is not already in Capricorn's possession. Without Inkheart to read from, Mo has no hope of ever rescuing Teresa from the book. And so now, Dustfinger has apparently arrived to warn Mortimer that Capricorn knows his latest hiding spot... but no one realizes (the all too obvious fact) that Dustfinger has betrayed them... in many ways.

For the rest of the book, Mo, Meggie, Elinor and Dustfinger are captured, escape, and are captured again by Capricorn and his henchmen, with Basta at the forefront. A host of villainous characters are at his disposal and our good guys are desperate to discover a way to thwart Capricorn while still keeping a copy of Inkheart safe. Over the course of the story, we pick up a few other characters, including a boy conjured from A Thousand and One Arabian Nights, a mute woman brought out of Inkheart who looks suspiciously familiar, and the author of Inkheart himself who feels responsible for the men he created out of ink and paper.

On the positive side, I'm generally approving of any book that promotes literature in such a way. There's something about being a child who loves books reading a book about people who love books... it makes you sense the true value and magic of the written word. And the idea of someone who can read things out of books is good enough... but the fact that there is a price to be paid for it is even better. And hey, I have to give points to any book that quotes The Princess Bride.

But as far as my grievances go, there's a big problem that I have with the adult characters in general. Rather than have scenes demonstrate things about these characters and their attributes, we're TOLD everything about them. We certainly understand that Meggie is utterly devoted to Mo, but I didn't actually feel as though Mo was really all that overly fond of his daughter. He must be, sure -- he knew his responsibility and took care of her, but we didn't get many scenes yielding evidence of tender father-daughter affection. The bad guys talk about how he's so besotted with his daughter so she's great bait for drawing him to Capricorn, and we're told (mostly by Meggie) how close they are, but the scenes in the book were mostly scenes where Mo is supposedly doing something out of character... using a stern voice or keeping secrets. His face was also supposed to be an open book, but unless it was just that confusion for all of this muddled him so much, I didn't see him as a very well-defined character with very obvious emotions. We're also told that the bag guys are evil but they didn't seem so bad to me. It's a case of their bark being worse than their bite. Was this because we were trying to spare kids from having nightmares? It's not like the whole book wasn't spent with characters running in fear. Or perhaps we were relying on the reader to be so appalled by the burning of a library... but that's not the same kind of evil as was attributed to Capricorn and Basta. Elinor's character has a different problem... she started out as a character who was much more abrasive in the beginning and ended up as someone we were supposed to love, but the switch didn't make much sense to me. Meggie is fairly strong as a twelve year old bookworm, so I don't find much fault with her character (aside from her name, which I want to be Maggie every time I write it out). As for Dustfinger... well, I think he got off lightly once you realize the extent of his betrayal. Hardly excusable, even if he's homesick and sad. I'm not quite sure why we still view him as a "good guy" in the end.

I was fidgety and somewhat annoyed through most of this book, and I read it over the course of two days (a) because even if it's thick, it's a kid's book and the type is large and (b) because I didn't want to spend more time on it. Things seemed only somewhat dark (and while you knew things would end well, the feeling of things was rather bleak in terms of landscape and lack of character banter) and I didn't get enough of a fall from grace feeling to believe the world was ever better than the one that included Capricorn. A reunion scene at the end of the book seemed to be a bit lacking, though everything ended with a tidy bow. Sure, it's a children's book, but I was under the impression that the writing was really trying to explain to kids that the world is dangerous beyond super-villains, and then everything seems a-okay? Hm. I have mixed feelings about cutting this book some slack given its intended audience, but I also feel like there's clearly talent in these pages, and so the issues I have seem the result of some sloppy ideas. We could have spent more time on character development and less time running through hills only to be captured again. Alas. I doubt I'll be reading the sequels to this one any time soon, but knowing me and my obsession with finishing things completely, I might end up doing so in the future. But in paperback -- at least I've learned my lesson there.

The History of Love

Oh my.

The History of Love is breathtakingly beautiful.

Simple phrases would break my heart with their loveliness and the images that were evokes produced such sighs as I closed my eyes to savor them. Nicole Krauss (who's married to Jonathan Safran Foer) lives in my neighborhood and I'm pretty sure I've seen her around, but I kind of hope I don't run into her again, as I'd be compelled to babble something about her exquisite prose.

Told from a variety of perspectives, The History of Love follows two particular people whose lives are deeply connected to a book with the same name. Leopold Gursky is the man who wrote that book for the girl he loves, naming every woman in the book after her. After surviving Nazi-occupied Poland, he moves to New York and is now an old man, reduced to deliberately causing scenes in public places (spilling things in Starbucks, haggling for change, etc.) so he will be noticed, desperate measures born out of his crippling fear that he will die alone and undiscovered in his apartment. Alma Singer is a fourteen year old girl in present day Brooklyn, whose name came from that book and whose mother is now translating it. Her father died a few years ago and her mother is still cocooned in her grief, whereas her younger brother, Bird, is convinced that he is a lamed vovnik and quite possibly the Messiah.

Rich with the complications of life and the things that can be lost (and rediscovered) with time, Krauss expertly weaves in and out of these stories while still making sure that we are never lost.
I was given this book as a gift for Christmas (2006?) but I never picked it up... now, this could be because the ingenious friend who gave it to me inserted it in a cleverly crafted "book purse"... aka a hardcover book with handles that had a space just large enough for this paperback carved into its pages. But when I remembered its existence inside, I read this in the space of two days. I don't know if I simply needed a lovely book and so that's why my reaction is so intense, but I clearly adored it. I devoured it, trying to slow down to savor everything, but alas. It's the first book in a long time that made me reach for a pen to underline phrases and mark passages for later reference. All I can say is that if you're a friend of mine who usually gets a birthday or Christmas present and you haven't read this... well... there will be no surprise in what you'll be getting this year.

A Fatal Waltz

A Fatal Waltz would be the third in the "Lady Emily Ashton" series that Tasha Alexander writes. I read the first book because there was something on the cover about "if Jane Austen wrote mysteries" and my mom bought it for me as a joke. I read the second because a friend's father somehow wound up on the cover recommending it (not exactly his type of literature...). I read the third because, having just finished a dreadful book, I needed something that I knew would be fun. And that's exactly what it was, provided that you don't want you fun to come at the cost of thought or energy.

Lady Ashton has succumbed to the suit of Colin Hargreaves (the best friend of her first husband, whose murder formed the focus of the first novel) and the pair are engaged, but somehow, they can't quite manage to make the wedding happen. First, Colin is called away for business (he's a spy dontcha know!) and then the most powerful man in England swears that he'll do all in his power to put an end to it, as he despises Lady Ashton. Well, when he winds up murdered, you'd think that might at least pave the way for the wedding (and provide the basic plot of the novel as Lady Ashton seeks to exonerate her friend's husband, who winds up as the prime suspect), but then the Queen decides that as a favor to Lady Ashton's mother, she will lend the location and her presence... next summer.

I put the basic plot of the novel in parentheses there because I'm not fooling myself... I know why I'm reading these. I like the romance of it all, and the mystery comes second. And it's hard not to put the romance first in this one, because it's not just their cute banter as to when they can get married ("I'm free this afternoon."), but we see a bit of Colin's past as a former flame turns up. She may be married and she may be Austrian, but that only makes her more of a threat to poor Emily, who's worried that she might not measure up to such a glamorous creature... particularly when the woman tells Emily outright that when Colin proposed to *her*, she turned him down because she selflessly didn't want him to become sloppy in his work and risk his life. Despite the melodrama, I was pleased that Colin was given this past love who clearly meant something to him and he doesn't try to deny it. After all, the first novel had the intriguing premise of a young woman who didn't particularly know her husband well, but when he dies, in her search for answers, she finds that she was dearly loved... and she can't help but fall in love with him as well. It was poignant and here, we see Colin allowed to have something, too. I'm not sure I appreciated it when it was blatantly pointed out the phrase being something like "we're both people who've lived" or somesuch, but it leveled the playing field. And lest ye think that the drama ended there, oh no... we've got a case of hopeless love, multiple cases of familial revenge, and a baby on the way whose father might be execute. And the whole murder case thing. We also get to run around Vienna for a while, which is nice if you've been to Vienna so you have visuals for the copious amounts of historical touchstones and location references. Just like tourists now, they couldn't get out of Wien without sampling sachertorte.

I only wish that these books didn't bother to make an appearance in hardcover, as the third novel just made its debut in paperback and the fourth is out, but I simply can't justify the purchase. So if historical romance mystery floats your boat and you enjoyed the first two, then certainly try the third. You won't be surprised by anything that happens, but you'll certainly feel satisfied.

The Dark Volume

In finishing this book, Dorothy Parker came to mind... "This is not a novel to be tossed lightly aside. It should be thrown with great force."

The greatest joy that I experienced with this book came when I was finally finished and could set it aside. I disliked The Dark Volume so intensely that my opinion of the first book (in what is now clearly intended to be a series), The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters, was actually tainted by association.

Gordon Dahlquist, what happened? Oh wait, I know. The large amounts of studied creativity, character development and lavish scenery gave way to the deep need to keep things going in a serial format, and thus yielded a book where very little was described in valuable detail and a great deal happened, but almost none of it was of any consequence. I may have only spent nine days reading this (or rather, trying to read this, as I couldn't ever say that I got into it enough to the point where I experienced any pains in setting it down, even in the middle of a sentence), but it felt like the longest nine days that I've experienced in a great while. As a result, not only was I frustrated, but anyone who happened to be around me while I read this was incensed against the book, too. My significant other implored me to stop reading it, as he could hardly take my growls of annoyance and exasperated exclamations of, "Just die already!" (which were directed at multiple characters throughout the course of the novel).

And as far as trajectory, well, we seem to have ended up in the exact same damn place, only everyone is much dirtier. (Though admittedly, that clearly is the goal of the author, to expose the darker, corrosive side of what might seem an alluring power. Still, I was overjoyed when a character stopped to take a bath during this volume.) Confrontation between a large number of characters where the alliances are tenuous at best before everything shatters... I mean honestly, if it was going to lead to such a similar conclusion, what was even gained by the events of this book? At least the last time we saw this tableau, it was aboard a dirigible! (There may be a dirigible on the cover of this book, but there is not one in the book... unless you count references to the sunken one from the first book.) The Dark Volume failed to have anywhere near the same amount of creativity as its predecessor (not to mention that at least The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters took place in interesting locations, whereas we spend the whole of The Dark Volume in destroyed and crumbling buildings, inhaling smoke from explosions, and crawling through the woods while everyone bleeds and vomits). While I'm not necessarily an advocate for Dahlquist spending even more time describing things, perhaps the most crucial oversight was that he failed to explain exactly why we should even care about the events taking place! He relied entirely on our attachment to the characters on the basis of the first novel and made little attempt to endear any of them to us (except, perhaps, for Doctor Svenson who was tormented by his feelings for Mrs. Dujong, but it was hard to feel sympathy when I wanted to stab her repeatedly for being stupid and useless).

And by the end? We still suspect that the majority of the baddies are dead (though again, the only person we know who is still fully functional and at large is the Contessa), and the only difference is that we are led to believe that the majority of the goodies are dead, too... (or course, as with the last book, only a fool really believes it).

I won't bother to explain the plot, I will only suggest that if you have read and enjoyed The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters, you should do yourself a favor and not bother to pick up its sequel. I rarely abandon a series, but I doubt that I could survive another installment of this... and besides, I made the arrangement with myself that all I needed to set these books aside with a clear conscience was for a kiss to take place between two particular characters. Having received that small satisfaction, I say farewell to Dahlquist and I curse the urge that drove me to purchase this terrible thing in hardcover.

The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

My review for The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters by Gordon Dahlquist spans both Volume One and Volume Two, because really, I figure if you're committing yourself to the first, you should probably accept the second... after all, the book was originally printed as one large hardcover, and it only split into two volumes in paperback.

That said, my big issue was this. Generally, I think one can assume that the period of time in which it takes the events of a book to unfold will be greater than the time it takes one to read it. That might be *barely* true here... but only if one factors in the extra day that passes in the first five pages where Miss Temple absorbs the news that Roger Bascombe has ended their engagement. *Including that*, everything takes place in three days. Three days! That's a lot of pages to chart the course of three days. And sure, we're moving quickly, but I actually found this to be a book rich in detail, perfectly willing to linger over descriptions of people and locations... and the action scenes certainly took double the time to read than they would to actually occur (and oftentimes, you have certain scenes repeated at least twice, as we bounce between the perspectives of three main characters).

All that aside, I did enjoy these books and since I read them in the space of five days, I can reasonably say that they do captivate one's attention. Of course, they do this by such a ridiculous amount of suspense that I didn't feel as though I was eagerly devouring the book so much as I was being forcibly pushed through everything, with the knowledge that if I stopped, I would surely find something amiss and so I had no choice but to power through. There was never a moment of pause as we barreled headlong into an incredibly complicated plot with a long list of characters.

The simple description is ridiculously broad. Three unlikely compatriots find themselves banding together against a sinister group of persons who have a plot to take over the world by mind-manipulation. But that only scratches the surface.

The book opens upon Miss Temple reading a note from her fiancee, informing her in a rather terse note that he is terminating their engagement. She resolves to discover exactly why he has ended things (not out of deep love to get him back, but more with a need for closure), and of course, the most logical way to do that is not to ask him, but to follow him. This propels her (and the reader) into a world that is more and more complicated by the minute, with a "Cabal" of personalities bound tightly together by a fracturing partnership. But she isn't alone -- Celeste Temple forms a strange alliance with two other men as they seek to thwart the evil-doings of the Cabal. Cardinal Chang is a deadly assassin so named for his trademark red jacket and scarring on his eyes that gives him the appearance of being Oriental. Originally hired to kill a man (who turns out to be deeply involved in the Cabal's goings-on), Chang is unable to follow-through on that assignment when he finds the man has been killed for him, but his involvement hardly ends there. Doctor Svenson is a chain-smoking diplomat/doctor who is essentially baby-sitting a prince of Macklenburg (a German duchy) that has become engaged to a wealthy Lord's daughter, and then discovers that the Lord, the daughter, and his own prince all have their roles in this sinister plot. And lest you think this is some simple "take over the world" plot by hypnotising people, the means for mind-manipulation rest in the mysterious properties of "indigo clay" and the amazing glass that can be formed by it as a repository for memories. Such fantastic ideas have a darker side, too -- and the adherents to this "Process" might very well be selling their souls (or at least their free will) over to the leaders of the Cabal.

The fantasy elements are certainly interesting... I was introduced to the phrase "steampunk" by way of this book, and if you know that at all, it certainly applies. It's chocked full of dirigibles and trains, as well as masquerade balls and erotic undertones (without venturing into anything really romantic). It's certainly a wild ride, but I must admit that with the two volumes and all, I was a little peeved to note that there's a sequel that was just published. You'd think that it would at least have the courtesy to conclude its business within those two volumes, but ah well. I'll certainly go on to the sequel, but I predict that it might be trying my patience to do so. But if "steampunk" seems up your alley, then by all means, seek out The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters because it certainly is a creative epic, the likes of which you rarely stumble across on the pure fiction shelves (rather than that of fantasy or sci-fi).

The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work

With every sentence that Alain de Botton writes, he only reaffirms his place at the top of my short list of favorite living writers. There are few authors who are capable of writing even a single article (let alone an entire book) that is so intellectually stimulating and even fewer who can communicate in such a witty and charming style. Indeed, since it's not out of order to call de Botton a philosopher, I tend to add "poet" to that, too. While reading, I struggle with two competing desires: to devour the book in a single sitting versus slowly savoring every sentence. I ordered this as a birthday present to myself from amazon.co.uk (I prefer the British covers of de Botton's work) and while it has not unseated On Love and The Art of Travel as my favorites of his books, I was still quite pleased with The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work. I only wish that de Botton had spent as much time deliberating on the less tangible concepts associated with work as he did reporting the facts of specific working lives, for his eloquent arguments of a more philosophical nature are always utterly fascinating.

In The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work, Alain de Botton poses a number of questions about work... What is it that has driven us into our respective occupations? Do we enjoy it? Why do we keep waking up day after day to do it? What does it mean to us? What does it mean to the larger world? Are we, in fact, capable of loving what we do on a daily basis? Do we have to in order to have a meaningful life?

Of course, what's interesting is that the majority of the book is not spent wrestling with these questions... but rather, these are the questions that spurred the author towards this topic. These are the questions that might be asked in book clubs when discussing this book, and these are the questions that are truly compelling... but rather than answer them directly (as I feel his other works are at least prone to attempt), de Botton seems to leave these open. Instead of expounding on the philosophical implications of our occupational choices, he has become more of a documentarian in both word and image, with a photograph on nearly every page. These pictures of warehouses, electrical pylons, and conference booths illustrate what often comes across as a bleak beauty to scenes of people at work or the results of our labor. And so this books ends up being much more about the people he interviews and their occupations rather than de Botton's thoughts on work. He is a reporter who comes back with astute observations, but does not delve too far into analyzing particular people or groups. I wonder if it was too personal or if he felt things might be too judgmental if he drew any conclusions from specific examples. I found it interesting that he completely refrained from personal musing on his own career (beyond occasionally offering a self-deprecating comment on his own failings in comparison to, say, inventors or engineers), though he purposely focuses on jobs that aren't often in the limelight. We go through ten separate "studies" of occupations that span a broad spectrum, where de Botton speaks with those people who have found themselves performing this work on a near daily basis.

Not since Walt Whitman have I found a writer so successful at conveying the dignity of work while still leaving room for us to ask if we are truly fulfilled. As I've already noted, my only wish was that there was more Alain de Botton in this book, but I think he's produced a fascinating study that will have you spending as much time in thought about your own occupation as you spend reading this book... and for a philosopher, I think that's an excellent goal to have achieved.

Here's a few links to other reviews of the book, and below, I included a piece that Alain de Botton wrote on why he settled on this topic.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/apr/04/pleasures-sorrows-work-alain-botton
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/bookreviews/5060519/The-Pleasures-and-Sorrows-of-Work-by-Alain-de-Botton-review.html
http://www.economist.com/displayStory.cfm?story_id=13361038
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=105862437&ft=1&f=1032

I wrote The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work to shine a spotlight on the working world. I wanted to write a book that would open our eyes to the beauty and occasional horror of the working world—and I did this by looking at 10 different industries, a deliberately eclectic range from accountancy to engineering, from biscuit manufacture to logistics.

The strangest thing about the world of work is the widespread expectation that our work should make us happy. For thousands of years, work was viewed as something to be done with as rapidly as possible and escaped in the imagination through alcohol or religion. Aristotle was the first of many philosophers to state that no one could be both free and obliged to earn a living. A more optimistic assessment of work had to wait until the eighteenth century and men like Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Benjamin Franklin, who for the first time argued that one's working life could be at the centre of any desire for happiness. It was during this century that our modern ideas about work were formed—at the very same time as our modern ideas about love and marriage took shape.

In the pre-modern age, it was assumed that no one could try to be in love and married: marriage was something one did for purely commercial reasons. Things were going well if you maintained a tepid friendship with your spouse. Meanwhile, love was something you did with your mistress, with pleasure untied to the responsibilities of child-rearing. Yet the new philosophers of love argued that one might actually aim to marry the person one was in love with rather than just have an affair. To this unusual idea was added the even more peculiar notion that one might work both for money and to realise one's dreams, an idea that replaced the previous assumption that the day job took care of the rent and anything more ambitious had to happen in one's spare time.

We are the heirs of these two very ambitious beliefs: that you can be in love and married, and in a job and having a good time. It has become as impossible for us to think that you could be out of work and happy as it had once seemed impossible for Aristotle to think that you could be employed and human. Thus is born The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work. —Alain de Botton

Waiting

Let's face it, I was never going to like this book. I knew that from the beginning, though I did make a few half-hearted attempts to appreciate it for the style and the historical perspective. The fact that it takes place in mid-century China is the only reason it's getting two stars at all, really, because I found the details of their daily lives to be interesting (in a "dear god, how awful!" kind of way). The rationing, the regulation, the lack of agency in one's own life.
The basic story is this: in Communist China, a couple needs to live separately for eighteen years before a person can divorce his or her spouse without that spouse's consent. Doctor Lin Kong married young to a woman his parents selected -- an unattractive woman with bound feet (which had passed out of fashion with the previous generation) that he was too embarrassed to bring with him to his hospital in the city, so he kept her in the country. (The fact that his wife, Shuyu, is incredibly simple and has no personality aside from blind devotion isn't really a factor, except it plays on one's pity for her.) She cared for his dying parents and gave him one daughter, Hua. Meanwhile, in the city, Lin develops a friendship with a nurse, Manna, that makes him think that he should divorce Shuyu. The novel charts the years spent waiting for the year that Lin can finally divorce Shuyu and marry Manna, and then follows along for a little while later as they all deal with the repercussions.
I've heard that people disliked this novel because they found the characters unlikeable (particularly Lin, who is incredibly weak-willed), but I didn't have that problem. What I did mind was that on all counts, this is a stunted novel. The characters, the novel's revelation, even the language! To start, most of the more complicated aspects of a situation like this (married man intent on someone else, but who still wants to be a "good man") were never touched upon. Both Lin and Manna's thoughts about their relationship were incredibly simplistic, and I could never care about their worries because I knew they didn't really love each other... they simply committed themselves to each other without trying to really discover and love the other person. When Lin finally has this revelation, the tone of the voice in his head is so different it's as though a higher power said, "Enough! Don't you get it?" and had to explain it to him.
I understand that this novel meant to explain how the political situation reduced people to the point where they are incapable of maturing in any way, unable to make decisions or have deeper emotions that they believed should guide their actions. Not one character is a sound emotional being. The only two people who seem to ever actually be happy at any point in time are the rapist and the blank-slate wife. It's meant to illustrate the time period where individuality was clearly not prized and where the only inner feeling that was encouraged seemed to be one's devotion. But there was just something missing at every single turn that made me feel as though the author failed in their attempts at producing something truly good and meaningful. When finishing the novel, I actually looked up to see if it might be a translation, which might excuse some of my issues with the language, but no, it was written in English. I suppose I knew it all along, though, as the language is purposely simple as to illustrate the emotionally stunted characters, but still not lovely in its simplicity.
I'm thankful that this was a quick read, though (and with a title like Waiting, you can bet that I was worried this would make things feel like time was dragging on), and I'm sure that someone in my book club will have thought this book said something truly meaningful about love and life, so we'll be able to discuss it just long enough so that we can then feel justified in moving on to gossip about our personal lives.

Black Swan Green

During his lunch break, a co-worker went into the bookstore by our office. There, in the bargain section, was a stack of Black Swan Green, one of his favorite books. For whatever reason, no book lover likes to see one of their favorites in the bargain section. Sure, it's probably just the product of an overzealous print-run, but if I found something meaningful in that book, then I would tend to think it's being undervalued, and perhaps even tainted by the scarlet sticker emblazoned on its cover. Rather than leave them there to be passed over by those who didn't realize they were walking past a true gem, my co-worker bought them. All. The whole pile of approximately twenty copies. He brought them back to work and started passing them out to anyone who he knew enjoyed reading. His sole caveat was that if you didn't think it would be your cup of tea, pass it along to someone else. The warm and fuzzy feeling elicited by this display of loyalty to a book meant that I simply dove into Black Swan Green, confident that here, I would find an excellent novel.

Black Swan Green is composed of thirteen chapters that chart thirteen months in the life of a thirteen year old boy. Jason Taylor is growing up in the English town of Black Swan Green (located in Worchestershire, which is "somewhere in the middle") in 1982. For England at large, that means Maggie Thatcher, the end of the Cold War, recession, and the Falklands War. For Jason Taylor, it means those things, but they tend to serve as background to his life spent navigating the complicated adolescent world of school, bullies, girls, secret clubs, bickering parents, and speech therapy.

It should come as no surprise that Black Swan Green is semi-autobiographical. Some critics have grumbled about this fact, saying that it restricted Mitchell's movements when he normally plays much more with form in his other work. The novel frames a little over a year in Jason's life, resulting in the fact that there isn't a single narrative arch to the novel. Instead, it could be taken as thirteen short stories, each highlighting an encounter or an experience that the reader can see will help shape his life and his character. Mitchell is then free to linger over details and characters, evoking a sense of what one really remembers about growing up. After reading this, I feel as though I've been given a very intimate glance into Mitchell's life. It went beyond the facts and illuminated the core of what it means to be on the cusp of adulthood, no longer a child but not quite a man. Black Swan Green might not have had a fancy literary format, meant to impress and surprise, but I was certainly dazzled with its quiet beauty and truth. It was quite a bargain indeed.

The Night Climbers

The Night Climbers by Ivo Stourton is an alluring depiction of a lush and decadent side of upper class student life at Cambridge. Of course, that life comes at a price, and perhaps that's more the crux of our story. James is a first-year student at Tudor College, so concerned that he might fall into the "wrong" set of friends that he ends up isolating himself from everyone rather well before he's even realized it. But a chance at something different literally barges into his life, giving him the opportunity to make the acquaintance of a particularly fascinating group and he latches on to them with fierce tenacity. Such a fierce grip is doubly important, as these friends have a secret evening pastime of scaling the buildings of Cambridge, challenging themselves with dizzying heights and dangerous climbs. Of course, we're not simply climbing buildings in this world, where status matters so much and to fall would mean complete ruin.
The story jumps between the "present" day, where Jessica seeks out James after nearly a decade of silence, and James' first year at college where the bulk of the story takes place as we learn about the various ways this group is bound together. Francis is the charismatic center, financing their pleasures with his father's money and practically personifying hedonism. Jessica is beautiful and rather calculating in her chilly exterior, though she is devoted to Francis and his well-being. Lisa strikes a rather odd chord, with a schedule full of often shady business ventures, and Michael is nicknamed Falstaff (he thinks for his wit, though the others point to his size), clearly interested in the status of their group more than the friendships. While living as though money is no object, Francis is cut off from his father and more than anyone else, he needs a new source of income... which sets the friends on a dangerous and thrilling money-making venture.
There are a few books that will provoke the phrase, "this is perfect for you" from my friends, but undoubtedly, I got that reaction from people when I told them about the plot. Full of fascinating characters, discussions of art, and beautiful prose, this book was a delight. Sure, there were a few small rough patches (for instance, his characters in their older state were not quite as believable as they were in their youth), but one might point to the fact that Stourton was a mere twenty five when this was published. I'm certainly looking forward to Stourton's other work, because I know that the Cambridge setting was certainly a bewitching thing for me (being an Oxford alum, I might have spent more time imagining my time at Oxford than the surroundings of Cambridge) -- and it will certainly be interesting to see if Stourton can produce something just as compelling with different scenery. If so, then he can certainly count on my reading whatever he produces.