Reading: 3 Thrillers

I love a good thriller and I especially love one with a fascinating and complicated main character who I know is going to return in future adventures. So, when Hope Dellon, of St. Martin’s Press, who is the editor of Louise Penny’s Inspector Gamache series and M.C.Beaton’s Agatha Raisin series, mentioned author Becky Masterman’s Brigid Quinn series, it was only a matter of minutes before I put in a reserve request at my local library. Once gain, Hope Dellon has led me to a heroine who is startlingly and marvelously human, flawed, and skillfully written.

Rage Against The Dying (Brigid Quinn #1), Becky Masterman, Hardcover, 307pp, March 2013, Minotaur Books

Brigid Quinn is a 59 year old, ex-FBI agent, newlywed, who hasn’t been completely honest with her ex-priest husband about her past. She gets drawn into a case seemingly by accident and circumstance, only, not so much; turns out she was targeted because of her involvement in a past search for a serial killer who may or may not just have been captured and the danger and the secrets become more towering with every page turned in this debut thriller.

First of all, I’m all in for protagonists who defy some of the -isms of this world. Brigid Quinn is of a certain age (right near mine) and gender rare to main characters, and even rarer, allowed agency and power, not used as a prop or victimized.

Second; the plot and pacing of this novel is breakneck. It moves. It’s a one-sitting sort of read because you’ll want to keep going, so invested do you become in what will happen to Brigid Quinn and what sort of victory or defeat will be the result of her split-second and not always measured reactions and responses to events.

Third; either my reading of thrillers and serial killer fiction (or, perhaps, today’s politics) have numbed me to the horrors written about in these novels, or, Becky Masterman manages to evoke the degenerate nature of the crimes without rubber-necking over the gore and grossness. I appreciate that, as, some thrillers seem to be trying to out-shock with vomitous depravity, so nasty it makes me stop reading.

Fourth – and most important; the writing is excellent, the character development skillful and riveting, and the author thanked her editor, Hope Dellon, and her agent, and that is enough for me to know I’m dealing with a writer who I would like in real life, so it gives me pleasure to read them.

The Marsh King’s Daughter, Karen Dionne, Hardcover, 320pp, June 2017, G.P. Putnam’s Sons

Sometimes having to use a rating system which allows only five stars — no fractions, and no categories as in: A number of stars for authorial style and skill; A number of stars for content; A number of stars for packaging; And a number of stars for personal preference/peccadillo — is frustrating; this is one of those times.

So, I’m going to use categories to help resolve the disaccord between my heart and my head on this one.

Authorial Styles and Skill: 4 Stars

There is no question that Karen Dionne accomplishes the goal of good thriller construction in this compulsively paced novel with its piecemeal reveal, past/present, psychological and imminent physical threat, powerful and interesting central characters. The voice of Helena Pelletier, the title character, is strong and deepens and grows as the story jumps from her present and her past, a past where she was born in captivity to a mother who’d been kidnapped as a child, raped, and tortured into pretending to be a wife in a wilderness where there were no other people save the sadistic, sociopathic, pedophile who enslaved her. The sense of Helena’s awareness grows as she does, and, too, it evolves in the present as she tells the story of her childhood, twenty years later when her monster of a father has escaped from prison and she is certain he is coming for her. The conflict between being, living and using the parts of herself shaped by the man who raped her mother and sired Helena,  and  acknowledging and coping with the reality that he is a complete and utter beast, is a terrifically constructed journey for which Karen Dionne deserves all the kudos. Our repulsion builds as Helena’s does, and the last third of the book one is tempted to skip pages, skim paragraphs, and hurry hurry hurry to its finish, hoping for — well, whatever it is the particular reader will hope for. Which brings me to —

Content: 3 Stars

The subject matter of this novel is certainly a legitimate story/set-up worth exploring about the discovery of self, the ability to survive unspeakable trauma, the cost of such trauma, and a larger metaphorical commentary on what the havoc that is wrought by an alpha-male, misogynist culture where sociopaths in power terrorize their victims — i.e. tr*mp and his gop cohorts, these white-cis-hetero men motivated by a hunger for control, full of hatred for and fear of all others not them. That said, it’s almost too much. It’s both too frightening and, somehow, demeaning, as in, this is too horrifying a possibility to be made fiction and so reading it seems like rubber-necking at a fatal accident where one can do nothing but watch, which one ought not.

Packaging: 3 Stars

Attractive cover design; front blurbed by Lee Child, back blurbed by 8 who’s who of thriller and Oprah Book Club authors including Karin Slaughter and Jacquelyn Mitchard. The typesetting is easy to read, pages nicely spaced, quality binding. I’d have given it another star if there hadn’t been SO MUCH in italics. The whole first page — an intro to the Hans Christian Andersen, whose tale of the same name is that on which the novel is based — is in italics. And every time we get more of the Andersen tale, more italics. To me, italics say DON’T READ ME — SKIP AHEAD.

Personal Preference/Peccadilloes: 2 Stars (SPOILER ALERT/THIS PARAGRAPH)

I can’t watch Law & Order: SVU, or movies in which children are terrorized, or read about graphic acts of violence, and this book had plenty of all the things that make me feel icky. If you want to tell me stories about vampires or fantasy tales which could never possibly happen, okay, but if you’re telling me a story that is possible in the real world in which I live, I am easily turned off by evil and cruelty. I have gotten markedly more sensitive as I’ve aged and as the world has gotten meaner, so, maybe I ought to stop reading crime fiction and thrillers entirely. Stick with British cozies. We’ll see.

And, finally, the very last section of the novel, during which daughter and criminal father struggle for victory over one another, is a bit heavy-handed on metaphor.

Hmm, those do average out to 3 stars. Maybe only having 5 stars isn’t so bad after all.

Midnight At The Bright Ideas Bookstore, Matthew J. Sullivan, Hardcover, 336pp, June 2017, Scribner

Set a novel in a bookstore, people it with book-loving characters, and chances are I will decide it’s a must-read for me. The premise, the cover, the beginning of Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore set a tone not unlike one of the series of cozies set in indie bookstores peopled by quirky characters with slightly mysterious and/or troubled pasts, who are suspects in and solvers of a death in their community, and, all too often, there is also a cat.

On the plus side: no cat here. On the minus: not a cozy and the intriguing set-up and idiosyncratic characters never quite fulfill their promise in this well-written but frustrating debut novel which feels more like what started as a brilliant outline of great idea but was published too early, and could have used a few more drafts and a guiding hand to clarify, focus, and decide: What is this book really going to be?

Lydia Smith, not her real name — check: Mysterious Past — is one of the Bright Ideas booksellers, — check: Indie Bookstore —  the one to whom the BookFrogs, those outliers who loiter about the store — check: Idiosyncratic Characters — turn for comfort. It is Lydia who finds one of her favorite BookFrogs, Joey McGinty, hanging in the upper level of the bookstore —check: Death in the Community — and thus begins the piecing together of not so much as whodunnit as a who is it? Turns out almost everyone Lydia knows or has known is one way or another connected.

The details of Joey’s troubled past, about which he told Lydia, were only the beginning, and he’s left her coded puzzles of clues about who he was and where he came from via a series of books from which he’s cut patterns of boxes into pages. Lydia figures out how to decode, and, unfortunately, each message is then shown to us — taking up lots of page space to little effect as immediately following it, each message is written out in italics. This could better have been accomplished by ONCE actually reproducing one of the cut-out pages and coded answer beneath it in the novel which would have been a nice, quirky (that word again) production feature.

Missed opportunity.

The solution to the clues rely on knowledge of ISBN codes, which are not adequately explained for non-book people, and one wonders why and whether a lover of books, like Joey, would choose a method of post-mortem messaging that defaced books?

We learn enough about Joey, and Lydia’s live-in lover, David, and her childhood friend, Raj and his parents, and her dad, and — well, lots of interesting and well-defined characters, to make us want (and expect) more of them, but we don’t get that more. We are left with what feel more like sketches than fleshed-out lives.

Again, this novel feels like it could have used a few more drafts to develop it further.

NOW, that said, these are cavils I could not have had were this author not so promisingly gifted, so adept and creative. The writing flows, the pace never lags, and I suspect this good book will be followed by even better books from this author who clearly has in them a great book.

*************

So, there it is dear ones, three thrillers in a row. What next? Well, I’ve started the much recommended Lily and the Octopus, although it seems to be a dying dog story and I am still not over the death of any of the dogs I have known, and pet-sitting an ancient pup now who is slowing down at a frightening pace, so I may delay Lily. Also reading the glorious The Long-Winded Lady (Notes from The New Yorker), which is a collection of the writer, Maeve Brennan’s glorious pieces for the magazines The Talk of the Town section. How I had never heard of her before is a real mystery, but, also, a gift, because her work is glorious and takes me back to the imagined New York and literary circles of my childhood. Already in the first few pieces she has mentioned The Algonquin and Schrafft’s — I’m in literary-nerd heaven.

Here I am, dear ones, going.

 

Let It Be

Sometimes, the thing to do, is not to do.

And not to hold on.

Because, you see. Finally. You haven’t seen.

And, still, the places you’ve been, and the people you’ve known, you see, you’ve seen, as well as you could, and they you, as well as they could, and, truth: You’ve always been lucky.

Now, aren’t you tired of all this trying? Enough. Do some living, you’ve done enough dying. Get on with it.

Gotta go. I’m tired of feeling, tired of being broken, and my life is calling me.

 

 

Reading: June is for Genre Jumping

Thus far in June I’ve read seven books, the latest three in the last three days, and so different were they a weaker reader might be suffering literary whiplash, but I am made of sterner stuff and, frankly, both my driving and mood swings have accustomed me to nerve-wrackingly abrupt lane changes and shockingly sudden emotional ups and downs, so it was nothing for me to start at Regency Romance, segue to hilarious, profane, up-to-the-minute/zeitgeisty essays, and then brake and veer left into serial-killer, crime novel land. And so, in that order, and in brief, here we are, going.

It was fellow book-bloggist (and Fredericktonian), Kerry McHugh at Entomology of a Bookworm [click here] who first turned me on to Regency Romance novels. It was a year or so ago (I think — my sense of time is as off as my sense of direction and distance — see above bad driving reference) Kerry offered a blog on exploring the Romance genre and so enlightening and persuasive was her column, I hied to my local used book store and started exploring. I am now a devotee of Regency Romance, and cycle one in along with my other favorite genre reads — literary fiction, British mystery cozies, LGBTQ fiction and non-fiction, short stories, essays, classic fiction — I could go on, but why? Here’s the thing, though it is convenient to divide reading material into categories, it is also, finally, meaningless. What I look for and love is good, interesting, committed writing. Sometimes I need it to help me escape real life (HELLO – WORLD NEWS NOW!) and sometimes I need it to connect me to and explain to me and make sense of for me real life (HELLO – WORLD NEWS NOW!) — so I turn to what I need at the moment to keep me going (or, keep me safe) and so, with daily news being what it is — the cluster-freak of unbelievable events day after day — genre jumping June it is.

The Heir (Windham #1), Grace Burrowes, Paperback, 471pp, December 2010, Sourcebooks Casablanca

Would that I were better at remembering from whom or where I was recommended books. I am not sure if this was a Twitter-pal recommendation or one of those titles I came across while web-surfing, following links here and there, as I do, and noticed that the author, Grace Burrowes, lived in rural Maryland — which I automatically assume means Frederick. However I found her, this, her debut novel, was wonderfully enjoyable.

Gayle Windham, Earl of Westhaven and heir to the Duke of Moreland falls in love with his housekeeper, Anna Seaton, a woman of obvious charms and breeding and mysterious past. Intrigue, eroticism, adventure and all variety of romance ensue. Many a fascinating secondary character is brought to vivid life — I know there are at least four more books in this series since 2010 and I hope to get to know the secondary characters better in some of those — and the 470 pages fly by.

We Are Never Meeting In Real Life. Essays, Samantha Irby, Paperback, 288pp, May 2017, Vintage

Dorothy Parker and Fran Lebowitz were my childhood idols. I longed to be that smart, that funny, that honest, that able to see the world and reveal it in all its dichotomy and hypocrisy and beauty, all with a sardonic, curmudgeonly affection, from a safe distance, mostly cozied up in my distant aerie, looking down on it all, wrapped in my irascibility.

So, of course, I loved Samantha Irby. Self-deprecating, laugh-out-loud hilarious, brutally honest, ribald and delightfully indecorous, suffering from intractable intestinal disorder and degenerative arthritis, depression, and being a woman, a person of color, a person of heft, and a member of the LGBTQ community in a world where just one of those would be enough to cause you trouble, Samantha Irby is a brilliant documentarian of life in these troubled, terrifying times.

Samantha Irby — who, like Dorothy Parker and Fran Lebowitz (and me) did not graduate college displays a level of erudition and insight, sophisticated and bawdy at once, proving that sometimes life experience is all the degree one needs to be brilliant. She explores everything from lousy parents to lousy taste in men, to finding (and being appalled by the requirements of) love, to her Satan-possessed feline, Helen Keller. Don’t ask. Just read it.

Little Boy Blue, A Detective Helen Grace Thriller #5, M.J.Arlidge, Paperback, 432pp, October 2016, Berkley

Whomever or wherever recommended to me M.J. Arlidge’s Little Boy Blue and its anti-hero, Detective Helen Grace, I thank you. This is number 5 in the series and I am happy to know I’ve the first four to explore. But, not right now.

This was an extremely well done, incredibly fast paced thriller. Its exploration of Helen Grace’s hidden side, her involvement in the BDSM community and thus connection to a series of murders in that underground world, a connection which comes to light in an unfortunate and possibly career-ending manner, all make for a great read.

But, it doesn’t really have a resolution, rather, it sets us up for #6 — and I’d like to be TOLD that is the case when I start a book, not find out when I’m near the end and saying to myself, “There don’t seem to be enough pages left for this story to be tied up — or, in this case, hog-tied and duct taped.”

Too, the reveal of the serial killer was a bit unexpected if one hadn’t read the previous installments — which I have not, so, I felt a trifle betrayed, as in, how could I have guessed this person?

Those minor cavils aside, I finished this in almost one sitting. Very speedy. Compelling. And great character building. Once I recover, I will, probably, read the first four I missed.

So, there it is, halfway through June and I’ve read far and wide so far. What I’m lacking is a classic, but I’ve got Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence waiting near the top of the pile. And quite a pile it is, plus nine books on hold at the library and two on order at The Curious Iguana, my gorgeous local indie bookstore [click here]. So, must get to reading (and, you know, the other things in life — but I only do those so I have time and opportunity to read) and thus, here I am, going.

Reading: Not Everything Can Be A Musical (dammit)

Extraordinary Adventures, Daniel Wallace, Hardcover, 336pp, May 2017, St. Martin’s Press

I was hanging in my local indie, The Curious Iguana, a gift card SCREAMING at me from my wallet to buy something but there weren’t any books I was dying to have or had been alerted to by my vast Twitter network of word and book lovers. So  consulted my friendly bookseller and, voila! All I needed was to be told the writer of Big Fish had a new release, Extraordinary Adventures, and I was in.

Okay, true confessions (why do so many of my book write-ups involve confessions?): I never actually read Big Fish. And surely you don’t think me one of those cretins who believes movie content has much of anything to do with the book that inspired it. Ha! Of course not. It was the *MUSICAL version of Big Fish had its way with my heart, memory of which experience prompted me to buy this book.

The blurbs called it quirky and funny and hilarious and witty, and I suppose that’s a decision made by the marketing people, but wow, while I found much to admire in it and was touched by its humanity and tenderness, I did not find it funny.

I asked myself why?

And, alarmingly, the only answer with which I could come up was that, perhaps, maybe, it could be, oh dear, I’m too much like the main character, Edsel Bronfman. He is a reasonably intelligent man, reasonably capable, reasonably kind and good, who has allowed his life to live him rather than he living his life. He waited, he hoped, he wished, but he didn’t do much to make any of his hopes or wishes come to fruition. He did not — maybe — believe he was worthy of the lives he saw others living, the hopes fulfilled, and the wishes come true.

Edsel makes an effort to remedy these things through the course of the narrative (he’s MUCH younger than I am, so, good on him for trying to change) and interacts with a number of extraordinary women, discovers some of his mother’s secrets, develops a fondness for the drug dealer next door who robs his apartment and almost gets him killed, and trips, trudges, and travels through a series of — well, okay — quirky adventures leading up to a resolution — of sorts.

The novel sometimes feels as if it’s trying just a little too hard to be a Bill Murray vehicle. You know, one of those darkish meta-noirs posing as comedies directed by a pair of brothers, the kind a comedic actor signs up for in an effort to gain an auteur-hip patina and an Oscar nomination; the kind of film (definitely NOT a movie) the cognoscenti group-think agree to crow over despite the fact very few of them actually sat through the whole thing.

Which makes it sound as if I didn’t like this book, which is not the case. I didn’t not like it. I just, well, look, I’m having a rough life and I’m a hard sell on believing that your average schlub is going to stumble out of schmo-dom into a happy end.

After my tenth biopsy in four weeks, with insurance the congress is about to strip me of, in a country being run by a misogynist racist mentally unstable foreign plant, well, I’m just not buying it.

And there it is. And here I am, going.

*I saw the final performance of Big Fish: The Musical, to which I was taken as a gift by a dear, dear friend of mine. I had recently lost some people, my life was in what can politely be called chaos, one of the stars of the show — Bobby Steggert — is from Frederick, Maryland, where I live, and I had seen him in shows when he was a youngster, and, I am a sucker for almost every musical ever. Kate Baldwin played the love interest in the show, and during the course of it, as the leading character is dying, she sits downstage center, holds his head in her lap, and sings a song called I Don’t Need A Roof — listen:

During the course of this song I sobbed (you’d have to be an ice cube not to do so) with such vigor and volume not only did my dear friend on my right put his arm around me to comfort me, the stranger on my left grabbed my hand and comforted me as well, sobbing along. So, yeah, that kind of magic? I’m of course going to buy Extraordinary Adventures.

Reading: A Mystery, A Tragedy, and a Regency Romp

Ill Will, Dan Chaon, Hardcover, 480pp, March 2017, Ballantine Books

Multiple unreliable narrators, voiced through physical text purposely out of whack — words and punctuation missing, ends of sentences dropped off, odd spacing, pages divided into multiple columns of story — all meant, I think, to keep the reader off balance, uncomfortable, yanked from complacency, make Dan Chaon’s Ill WIll a book unlike most others, a Dadaist approach to literary fiction, experimental to the point of distraction.

The story is told as collage, time jumping and changing points of view. I was enjoying it for the first two hundred pages or so but around that halfway mark I came to suspect there was not going to be satisfactory resolution nor sufficient motivation for all the trickery; that I was never going to get complete backstories of the characters; and that what I was reading was something written as an exercise in effect, less a story about the characters than a story about the author’s prowess and daring.

That show-offy quality, the bleak and hopeless tone, and the unearned length wore me out. But this novel is MUCH LOVED by many literary critics and reviewers, so, don’t take my word for it. This is just my opinion.

The Rules Do Not Apply, Ariel Levy, Hardcover, 224pp, March 2017, Random House

Ariel Levy has been through the mill. Actually, she’s been milled, ground up, beaten into biscuit-dom, chewed, swallowed, egested, and still, somehow, managed to go on.

It is not a spoiler to say that during the course of this memoir she loses a child, a spouse, and a home. I think measuring tragedies against one another a fool’s occupation, but, I’m something of a fool, and I think the loss of a child is one of the most devastating sufferings one can endure — if, endure it one can. There is no coming back to who you were before your child was ripped from your reality; you are forever changed and forever measuring the loss, and, from my experience talking to those who’ve lost a child, forever numbed to  happiness and on guard against loss in a way you were not before the tragedy.

To lose your mate as well, to have to surrender one’s home, all on top of the loss of your child — how do you survive? Ariel Levy, I suspect, manages to continue living by putting words in order, one after another, in ways that make sense and have shape — logic and form and reason that are lacking in her real life, because, there is no way to make sense or find form in the loss of a child. No way.

So, she wrote this book. She manages to convey much of the horror but it is never done in a weepy-poor-me singing the blues sort of style. She is a successful reporter/profiler (she’s worked at both New York Magazine and The New Yorker) and she lays out the story — her story — in artful prose, swiftly, not dwelling on the ache and the pain, but, rather, illustrating it, conveying it in reasoned but moving prose. This is a very short and quick book, almost a long-form article, which I read in one sitting.

Any longer would likely have lost me because there is so much pain here. But, if Ariel Levy can write this well about her own life, I have been encouraged to start searching for her profiles and reportage on the lives of others.

Where The Dead Lie (Sebastian St. Cyr #12), C.S.Harris, Hardcover, 338pp, April 2017, Berkley Books

How did I miss the first eleven episodes in C.S.Harris’s Sebastian St. Cyr series? This is just my cup of tea — possibly laced with arsenic and served by a butler with a terrible secret who is probably blackmailing my guest, a not so nobleperson who is of questionable parentage.

A Regency London set mystery full of intriguing and complicated characters, artfully woven period details and history, and compelling, fast-paced storytelling written with style, grace, and wit.

In this installment, when an orphaned street urchin of London is murdered in a most brutal and disgusting way, Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin is called in by a law enforcement type unwilling to sweep the death of a child under a rug, no matter how little the child mattered and how many would gladly dismiss the death of one more useless beggar. Devlin is determined to get to the bottom of it and discovers along the way that this urchin is not the first to have disappeared mysteriously and been used and abused in such a manner. In Devlin’s relentless pursuit of the truth and the killer, he is forced to interact with the darkest sides of London’s lowlife and discover their unsavory connections to the higher born who are part of Devlin’s own circle, and, perhaps, family.

Loved this. Great distraction from life. Horrifying subject but not done in a way that sickens one. Credit where credit due; it was because of the back cover blurb by one of my favorite writers, Deanna Raybourn, author of the Veronica Speedwell (among others) series, that motivated me to sign this book out of the library. Thank you to her. I am now struggling with going back to number one through eleven in the series — MY TO BE READ PILE IS ALREADY FILLING A ROOM!

So, off I go, to read another in my stacks.

Reading: Wrapping Up May

I read 13 books in May and have only talked about 6. So, I’m catching up with the rest of my May reads except for one, Celeste Ng’s GLORIOUS novel, “Little Fires Everywhere“, an advance reader copy of which I finally got my hands on. Since it is not being published until September and since I hate reading other people talk about books I can’t yet get, I’m going to reserve my hosannas and huzzahs about Celeste Ng’s genius and gift until closer to the book’s release date; except to say to you, PRE-ORDER THIS ONE!

Now, then, on to the books I am going to talk about, and wow, this has been a great month for reading. Let me start with a Twitter pal’s work;

His Majesty’s Hope (Maggie Hope Mystery, #3), Susan Elia MacNeal, Paperback, 334pg, 2013, Bantam

I love Maggie Hope. I love this series. And I love knowing I’ve four more of this heroine’s adventures waiting for me. That said, each of these novels stands alone, so start where you like, but reading the first two: Mr. Churchill’s Secretary, and Princess Elizabeth’s Spy [click HERE to read what I thought about those] certainly enriches the experience of reading this installment in which Maggie continues her education and evolution as a secret agent working for Britain against the Nazi’s during World War II which has come to England with a vengeance. Dropped into Berlin to pose as a Nazi-sympathizer while delivering radio crystals to another undercover operative, Maggie sees an opportunity to gather essential information and despite the danger to herself and in defiance of protocol, she undertakes a mission of her own making, during which she meets a half-sister she didn’t know she had and discovers that no one is who they seem to be or who she thinks they are, including herself. By the end of this chapter of Maggie’s story, her efforts to uncover enemy secrets have exposed a darkness in and doubts about the world she thought she knew and everyone in it, including herself.

Susan Elia MacNeal’s writing is as graceful as ever, her plotting clever and breakneck paced, and her character development detailed and deep. In addition to that, she effortlessly weaves in history and period detail enriching the experience and taking the reader away into another time. Sadly, reading about Maggie fighting evil during World War II and one of her dear friends being gay-bashed spotlights uncomfortable parallels to the present. How has the world NOT learned the lessons that war should have taught about hate, bigotry, and narcissistic, pathological liars being elected to power? While reading this novel I had at least a reasonable expectation things would turn out okay in the end; an expectation I cannot, today, in the real world in which we live, think reasonable or likely.

But I loved this book and I’m not allowing myself number 4, The Prime Minister’s Secret Agent, until September. Well, that’s my plan. We’ll see if I — who cannot turn down a donut despite being supposedly seriously on a diet — can wait.

I read another of my series go-to authors in May, John Sandford’s 27th Lucas Davenport novel:

Golden Prey (Lucas Davenport #27), John Sandford, Hardcover, 416pp, April 2017, G.P. Putnam’s Sons

If you like Sandford, you like Sandford, and I really like him. I am a fan of both the Lucas Davenport and Virgil Flowers series and in this installment we have Lucas able to choose his own assignments thanks to having (in an earlier novel) saved the life of a very Hillary Clinton-esque politician who, in this novel, is running for president. She loses. Which was a little too unhappy an ending for me. Again. I mean, I’m still on medication from the IRL election. I don’t need it in fiction, too.

It was a month for detective novels. The next two were:

My Darling Detective, Howard Norman, Hardcover, 256pp, March, 2017, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt  and

The Long Drop, Denise Mina, Hardcover, 240pp, May 2017, Little, Brown and Company

Howard Norman’s My Darling Detective is a noirish romp in which Jacob Rigolet, personal assistant to a wealthy collector of art, and his detective lover, Martha Crauchet, become caught up in a crime committed by his mother, Nora, during which investigation are uncovered secrets, connections, and surprises. All of this is done with quirky style and whimsical (though never twee) humour tightly woven in a suspenseful and rollicking mystery plot with an explosive, Mack Sennett-like finale. I’ll say this, it’s not like anything else I’ve lately read, and that is refreshing.

Denise Mina’s The Long Drop is a darker journey based on true events. It explores in disturbing and thought provoking ways what “guilty” means and the thin line between good guy and bad guy, and whether crossing the line — even for the greater good — is ever justified. Denise Mina is a smart writer who trusts the reader is also smart. I mean, when a modern novelist is courageous enough and has trust enough in her audience to make a Samuel Pepys reference, I say, “YES, MORE PLEASE.”

On an entirely different note, I read One Day We’ll All Be Dead And None Of This Will Matter, Scaachi Koul, Paperback, 256pp, May 2017, Picador

— which was stunningly, often funnily, frequently painfully, open-veined, no boundaries, soul-searchingly wrought insight into being a woman, being of Indian ethnicity, being a daughter, being a lover, being human in today’s complicated, judgey, unforgiving, and often ridiculous world. Scaachi Koul has a gift for the pithy, hilarious, piercing one-liner coupled with the ability to quickly segue to a heartbreakingly honest confessional truism which leaves one saying, “Yes, exactly, I, too have felt that ache.” Caveat: I read this in one sitting which, I think, does it a great disservice because despite its drollery, it is a deeply serious work overall, in total, a sort of gut-punch of “wow, being not white, not male, not in the so-called club in this world sort of sucks.” Which, needless to say in these times, is a thing necessary to face, but, not particularly pleasant or easy to cope with.

And, finally, I end as I began, with a Twitter-pal, Pamela; she didn’t write the book, but, rather, read it and thought of me, recommended it a while ago, and it was only when making one of my regular visits to my friends at the local indie — The Curious Iguana — I remembered Pamela’s recommendation and picked it up. Wow. She knows me. So well.

Rules For Others To Live By: Comments & Self-Contradictions, Richard Greenberg, Hardcover, 320pp, October, 2016, Blue Rider Press

Richard Greenberg is the Tony Award Winning author of Take Me Out and many other perceptive, incisive, savvy, acute stage works. I am happy to say these essays — or, observations? —are every bit as sharp and moving and full of laughs, a-ha moments, and tears as are his plays — most of which straddle the line between comedy and drama, defying categorization.

Mr. Greenberg sculpts so many glorious lines I hesitate to choose among them, but, here goes.

She looked like an untaken photograph. There should have been a saxophone.

Success radiated from her like quills from a porcupine.

And there are many more surgically precise observations about people and places and situations, insights so imaginatively perceptive, one wants to approach Richard Greenberg, waving one’s hand like a child wanting the next piggyback ride from the big, strong, fun adult, pleading, “Do me! Me next!” so one might have one’s own Greenberg-metaphor to use forever as introduction so that one need never again try to explain one’s self. “Oh, lovely to meet you, my name is Charlie and I am like a place you visit infrequently which is never anything at all like you remember it; one of those night terrors where walls and doors and windows have all been rearranged into unfamiliar architecture through which you can’t find your way.”

Or, something like that only shorter and better. I feel as if Richard Greenberg could write me perfectly, because we are — save for his genius as a writer — alike in so many ways that as I read through the book I thought, perhaps, he’d been eavesdropping on my soul, or, he’d gotten the life I was supposed to have had. These:

Even in the thick of situations, and very happy about it, I don’t generally feel a part of things. I have a lot of friends who count on me to lend a sympathetic ear and give good counsel, but when I bother having a picture of myself…. As much as I enjoyed the party — as I enjoy most parties — in the cab after, I felt, as always, that I was heading back to freedom.

Serious people exist. But they tend to be drowned out by these others whose loudness, speed, shallowness, and ubiquity wear me down and diminish my capacity to go slow and think hard. It’ as though at some point it was decided the world was irreparably broken and all that’s left for us is to be connoisseurs of the wreckage.

I have a long history with people undergoing epiphanic breakthroughs, and it’s been demoralizing when it hasn’t been chilling.

When I am very old, I am going to become a walker. I am going to walk up and down the few streets of my neighborhood, taking everything in, and I will be wearing my green coat. Even in early spring, I will be wearing the green coat. It will be patched in places and threadbare in others. Already, my friend Linda has had to sew back on a button that fell off from sheer fatigue. I don’t discount the possibility that one day the buttons won’t all match. Some of them may not be flush with the buttonholes. This is fine by me. I will walk in my tattered garment, surveilling my immediate surroundings with a captious eye. People will start to notice me. I will become something of a local character.

I will have met my destiny, which is to be a flaneur, a walker in the city, as I would be already, were it not for my tendency to self-quarantine.

Yes. So precisely and decisively me, it is uncanny. Which Pamela saw. Which is why she suggested I read it, because reading it had, in her, done that a-ha thing of a bell ring of, “Oh, this is so much Charlie, he should read this.”

Because, you see, another thing I’ve in common with Richard Greenberg is a life-story where the time is measured not in years, but in the presence of remarkable women I have known, of which Pamela is one. We met on Twitter and then, because she urged me and arranged it we met in Washington, D.C. one day, which, for me, is something of a miracle since it required of me the panic-attack inducing activities of driving forty minutes to a Metro stop, boarding a train and riding 30 more minutes into D.C., and walking the city until the meet-up time — because so terrified am I of being late, and so every-time-I-do-it certain I will not be able to navigate the Metro and thus head hopelessly in the wrong direction — I arrived in the city approximately two hours before the appointed hour for the first in person embrace — of which I was also terrified. (See above faux Greenberg metaphor about me. I’m better long-distance and in writing than I am in person and long-exposure, both of which reveal me to be rather less of the good and more of the bad than I seem to be when able to edit — not that I manage to shorten anything when I edit — such as this; MOST of my editing/re-writing is about adding clarifying sentences and clauses and too effing many adjectives to try to explain myself — my virtual self, and excuse myself — my IRL self.)

Where was I? Oh, yes, Pamela. I’ll return to Richard Greenberg quotes:

I had no idea what she saw in me, but I didn’t question it….Some people say the same things in the same way to everyone they know. You think you’re conversing with them; you’re merely partnering their monologue. Jill had conversations that pertained to the person she was talking to. There was no double-dealing in this. She saw us.

That’s dear Pamela. Who has seen me — and I am not an easy see, and after having been seen require a lot of patience and effort at continuing to see — still, Pamela manages to find it in her heart to think of me when she reads a book she particularly likes and thinks I would enjoy. Like Rules For Others To Live By.

Remarkable women — by whom my life has been blessed — and remarkable books, like some in this blog entry. I hope for you, gentle reader, that your life has been as filled with the remarkable as has been mine.

Love and light and here I am, going.

Reading: Edan Lepucki’s “Woman No.17”

Woman No. 17, Edan Lepucki, Hardcover, 320pp, May 2017, Hogarth Press

I loved Edan Lepucki’s California, and when I wrote about it I spoke of how much I looked forward to this fascinating writer’s next novel with the fervent wish its setting not be dystopian. Ha! Little did I know by the time Edan Lepucki published again we would be hurtling toward a non-fictional dystopia brought about by a treasonous, narcissistic, sociopathic, dementia-riddled, pathological liar who stole an election with the help of Russia.

But, here we are. And without babbling on at too great a length in sociological theorizing, I think we arrived at this seventh circle because we live in fear that who we are is not enough, not who we ought to be, and because of that fear we have become performance artists, pretending to be some idealized “I”  — or, at least, a version of that “I” we wear like armor, a disguise we hope will allow us to survive, to meet with the approval of the culture in which we live. And, the effort to maintain the facade of projected-self is so all-consuming, we often dissolve into despair and desperate behavior, having lost the line between truth and our invented-self, an exhaustion of being which leaves us vulnerable to the manipulations of others to whom we look as mirrors, to find ourselves in how they perceive us.

Oscar Wilde said it best; “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” In Woman No. 17, Edan Lepucki has created a riveting and revealing portrait of the ways in which masks, personas, disguises, and the distancing effect of communication via social media affect modern life and personal reality.

The story is told by two alternating first person narrators; Lady, whose birth name was Pearl, and Esther, who is now called S. That the Lady sections are titled Lady, and the S sections titled Esther, indicates which of the two is more in touch with the anima beneath the persona, but both characters are remarkably aware of their own delusions — which in my opinion is where Edan Lepucki’s astounding ability to create real humans with whom one identifies and sympathizes, flaws and all, shines — because while Lady and S are both at turning points of identity confusion in their lives and behave in ways some reviewers and readers have described as repugnant, I found them to be like me, like everyone I’ve ever known, acting and behaving in the ways they do because they are compelled by the desire to find and be the “I” behind the masks, questioning the rules and expectations of cultural forces: social norms, parents, friends, and the roles we are expected to play based on gender, age, income, race, and class.

Lady, having recently decided to take a break from her marriage to Karl, hires S from a Craigslist ad to nanny for her toddler son, Devin. Too, Seth, Lady’s eighteen year old son from her first marriage to the long disappeared Marco, lives with her; while he has no diagnosed disability, Seth has spoken only one word in his lifetime and communicates via sign language, gestures, iPad, and phone texts. Both Lady and S had difficult mothers, and while Lady chose to deal with hers by disconnecting and cutting her out of her life, S’s reason for pursuing the nanny position has to do with her having decided to do a performance/art project and become her mother, who, early in her life, worked as a nanny; a project meant both to reveal to S who her mother was and who she, herself is. While S is plundering her mother’s past, Lady has pillaged Seth’s silence for an article she wrote which led to a contract for a book about his life. As the two pursue their goals, their lives and lies and loves become intertwined in a complex chiaroscuro portrait of parent and child relationships, the isolation of the self, and the ways in which we are so busy defining our own identities and healing our own wounds, we may well miss the ways in which we affect — or damage — others.

We don’t mean to disappoint, but life is never what we think it will be. Lady, remembering a long ago night when she thought things were turning around for her, that she was on the path to a happy end, says this:

     It hurts because nothing turned out the way I thought it would. You think you know how a story begins, or how it’s going to turn out, especially when it’s your own. You don’t.

There, there. So there.

Exactly. There is an economy of prose there with a near poetic rhythm, with that final paragraph, its four words sculpted into a metrical structure approximating a heartbeat, absolutely perfect; somehow both precise and ambiguous, like life, like the story, like the behavior of all the characters, like being human.

There are so many gorgeous, lyrical moments in Edan Lepucki’s work, I hesitate to begin quoting. But, in addition, Edan Lepucki also excels at dry wit and humor, with piquant observations of a world gone mad, populated by people trying to love and/or struggling to understand why they have not been better loved. I’m going on too long and I apologize. One more quote — this is the opening of the novel, by the end of which paragraph I was totally hooked, in love with the words, with the style. Listen:

It was summer. The heat had arrived harsh and bright, bleaching the sidewalks and choking the flowers before they had a chance to wilt. The freeways shimmered, any hotter and they might crack, might explode, and the poor cars would confetti into the air. People were complaining, they were moving slowly. They were swarming the beaches like tiny bugs upon the backs of dead animals. I preferred to stay home: ice cubes in the dog bowl, Riesling in the freezer. The air conditioner was broken. I had taken to sitting in the living room with the curtains drawn, my body edged with sweat like frosting on a cake, daring to see how hot it could get. I ate salad for dinner every night and had almost checked myself and the boys into a hotel. I’d refrained because of the babysitter search. What would applicants think if I requested they meet me poolside at the Roosevelt?

How beautiful and evocative is that? The highest compliment I can pay any author is that their work reminds me of Joan Didion and her trenchant, dissecting, laser-sharp prose; each word a perfect complement to the whole. Every word of that paragraph reveals something about its speaker, Lady, and after just those few sentences we know her, we’ve a feel of who she is; we’ve met her just as surely as if we’d been in a room with her.

This is the brilliance of Edan Lepucki and the beauty of a story which explores the meaning of family, art, truth, and the cost of our delusions and denials and desires.

Read it. Five stars. And, like I said after California, I can’t wait until her next novel. This time, though, I have no requests. I place myself wholly in Edan Lepucki’s hands, knowing that whatever she gives us will be a worthwhile and wonderful gift. She is one of my instant-always reads, and I bet she’ll be one of yours, too.

 

Reading: Genre Love – A Good Read is a Good Read is a Good Read

In this blog post I discuss One Perfect Lie by Lisa Scottoline and My (Not So) Perfect Life by Sophie Kinsella

When it comes to books, some people find genre a dirty or disparaging word. I confess, I once disdained fiction not labeled literary. Then, after having worked seriously and for years on what I thought was a piece of literary fiction, I became discouraged, stopped trying to waken my inner Didion, and went into a writing-funk, during which a dear one suggested since I was such a raconteur (by which she meant, I never shut up with my inventing of back-stories about people we knew) I should try my hand at mystery cozies or romance novels. I thought, “Hmm, how cinchy. YES!” And, like your typical ignorant-of-the-skills-required fool, I read a couple of crime/mystery thrillers, British mystery cozies, Regency romance novels, and so-called chick-lit, and I was gobsmacked.

And addicted. And knew, right away, those writers who mastered genres had a gift I did not and would not ever possess.

There is so much wonderful, inventive, entertaining writing by an overabundance of skillful artists of the word out there, one never need want for a good read. What I have found especially comforting is that each time I discover a “new” (to me) genre expert I can rely on their having a backlist to which I can look forward when I need a reliable pleasure. When a Twitter friend introduced me to M.C. Beaton’s Agatha Raisin series and then sent me all of them currently in print, I was thrilled to have in reserve those many episodes. Too, there is the Louise Penny Inspector Gamache series, the writing in which rivals anything labeled literary fiction. I’m also a fan of John Sandford. And Harlan Coben. And the GLORIOUS Maggie Hope series by Susan Elia MacNeal. And Deanna Raybourn’s Veronica Speedwell glories. And Elizabeth Hoyt’s Maiden Lane Regency romance series. And Rhys Bowen’s Her Royal Spyness delights. And …I think you get the picture.

So, I am always delighted when someone I trust suggests a new genre writer I ought to sample. Thus it was that I was led to Lisa Scottoline, who, it turns out, is not only a powerfully talented and prolific writer of mystery/crime thrillers, but, too, an inordinately friendly and gracious Twitter pal. Thus, I was eager to get my hands on:

One Perfect Lie, Lisa Scottoline, Hardcover, 384pp, April 2017, St. Martin’s Press

Chris Brennan — who is not, in fact, Chris Brennan — is the new government teacher and assistant coach at a high school where we know, early on, he is targeting three teen boys — Raz, Justin, and Evan — for some scheme he’s been sent there to accomplish. The three boys, troubled and struggling in their own ways, come from very different circumstances, each with a loving mother suffering her own complications and growing pains. All of these well-developed and sympathetic characters and their individual threads weave into the breakneck paced plot, coalescing in a breath-taking climax for another grand slam Lisa Scottoline thrill-ride.

This is my fourth Lisa Scottoline read, and it is great to know I’ve something like twenty-five more (so far) waiting for me.

My (Not So) Perfect Life, Sophie Kinsella, Hardcover, 448pp, February 2017, The Dial Press

This is the first book of Sophie Kinsella’s I have read and I was lured by the cover design and jacket copy, particularly this: “…this sharply observed novel is a witty critique of the false judgment we make in a social-media-obsessed world.” Other than what I consider to be a misspelling of judgement (when did they delete the e after the g? NO!) that pretty much sold me as I am lately all too aware of my own false judgements and media-obsession.

Plot synopsis: youth leaves small town for big city dream; big city dream not so dreamy with some big bad monsters; youth returns to roots; youth discovers lots of things about roots and monsters; love blossoms; happy ending.

I read it in one sitting. The writing is smooth, occasionally deliciously funny, and moves with buoyant pacing and graceful alacrity. I had a great good time reading it, finding comfort in knowing what to expect and being provided it with neat mastery.

So, a weekend day of genre reading — and label as you will, the only genre that really matters is a good read, and both of these were.

Reading: “Days Without End” and “The End of Eddy”

Days Without End, Sebastian Barry, Hardcover, 259pp, January 2017, Viking and The End Of Eddy, Edouard Louis, translated from the French by Michael Lucey, Hardcover, 208pp, May 2017, Farrar, Straus and Giroux

There comes a certain responsibility when one is the 46,000th (almost) most popular reviewer on Amazon.com as well as being in the bottom two per cent (almost) of most visited of the 3 million (or more) blog posts daily clogging the virtual world, not to mention having two thirds (almost) of the average number of Twitter followers, many (almost) of whom have not muted me (yet) and a few (almost) of whom find my Tweets and my blog posts to be interesting/amusing (almost) — such media penetration combined with so large and loyal (almost) a following weighs heavily on me as I resist my genetic otiosity, force myself off the couch and skivvy my way through crafting my thoughts and feelings about what I’ve read into cogent (not even almost) essays which are honest — so as to fulfill my duty to the reader, and respectful — so as to recognize the efforts of the writer, for there are few people in the world I respect more than those who give us the gift of words shaped into story; and all of this I do for no remuneration or profit (in fact, I incur debt in the effort), because I love reading and writers and my many (if by many one means hardly any) followers.

All of which is circumlocutory procrastination because I have spent two three four five days unsuccessfully trying to figure out what I really feel and mean to say about these two books which I coincidentally read back to back and which have everything and yet nothing in common.

Don’t be misled by the Albert Bierstadt cover painting; this novel takes place on the Western frontier, but it is not a Western.

Days Without End was recommended to me and so I got it from the library. Once gotten, however, I could not recall who had suggested it and I was so put off by the cover-art and jacket copy (both of which turned out to be very poor predictors of what the book was about), I kept moving it to the bottom of my stack and was considering returning it without reading.

Then, I finished Elizabeth Strout’s Anything Is Possible [click here], which I five-star-plus adored, and I knew from past experience that when I love a book that much, the next one (or two or three) are going to get short-shrift, not measure up in comparison, and so I thought, “Well, okay then, let’s go ahead and start this since I probably won’t like it anyway.”

Was I ever wrong. (Well, yes, in fact, I am often wrong — but wait, that’s another kind of blog post. Or, maybe, not.)

In the 1850’s Thomas McNulty, who watched his entire family succumb to the to the Great Famine in Ireland, emigrates to America when Irish immigrants suffered the sort of bigotry Muslims now suffer from the ignoramus-tr*mpist class(less) hordes. In his early teens, he dives under a hedge in Missouri to escape a rainstorm, and it is there fate throws him up against the even younger John Cole, who, too, has been living on his own, having left his family and home at age twelve. From page two it is clear their connection lasts a lifetime:

Thank God John Cole was my first friend in America and so in the army too and the last friend for that matter. He was with me nearly all through this exceeding surprising Yankee sort of life which was good going in every way.

McNulty lives in this nearly comma-free, rough-hewn, plainspoken reality, the patois of which Sebastian Barry has artfully crafted so the deceptive simplicity of the voice in contrast to the depth and emotional complexity of the story is exultantly atonal, inviting the reaction, “what is this unexpected, unusual, and jarring, yet beautiful music?”

McNulty and Cole love one another. From their early employment as faux-female barroom hostesses selling dances and sexual favors, to their faux-adoption of a Native American child whose people they have had a role in slaughtering, to their attempted escape from a lifetime of mercenary soldiering to a farm life as husband and wife, McNulty unapologetically and without angst in skirts, they are quietly lovers, partners, companions, a couple.

While McNulty and Cole’s union might have felt anachronistic in less capable hands, Sebastian Barry manages to make it as believable and visceral as he does the haunting brutality of the lives his characters lead, the milieu of violence and hunger and the treacherous landscape of fealty to the truth of one’s self.

The story is deftly relevant without being sententious, a poetic exploration of the shapes family, love, gender, and violence can take in a life, and the rewards and losses of one’s odyssey through that life in an often unfriendly world.

The End Of Eddy is an international sensation, translated from the French, about which I have been hearing for months so I begged for and received an advanced reader’s copy.

Honestly, I am torn.

Luckily, Garth Greenwell, author of one of the finest novels I have ever read, What Belongs To You [read what I thought and wrote about it HERE, from February 2016], has written one of his customarily comprehensive and insightful exegesis of The End Of Eddy HERE, in the New Yorker Magazine [click here] which explains and illumines this translation brilliantly.

You can stop here, now, if you’re looking for me to shed any light on this novel’s technique or the author’s background. This is a book hewn from personal experience and, for me, a gay man of a certain age who was obviously, inescapably effeminate as a youth in a time when being so was guarantee of abuse and rejection, The End Of Eddy was a painful revisiting of a difficult and often terrifying youth; a revisiting made all the more excruciating given the current political climate of a return to the hate and bigotry and inequality we’ve worked so hard and sacrificed so much to change for those who’ve come after us; that we now have in power in this supposedly civilized country a group of cis white men who are determined to belittle and demonize women, people of color, LGBTQ, and all others who are not THEM, is a harrowing reality — and makes this novel not just relevant, but required.

But, maybe not required for people who’ve lived through it. Which means, in my case anyway, the rest of this “review” will be an unabashedly personal confession.

Edouard Louis has said that everything in this novel actually happened to him. An eerie amount of his ordeals were also mine. I had family members who found my effeminacy embarrassing and suggested with a tone of distaste I stop acting like a girl. I was targeted by bullies in school, daily abused by the same people, and was blamed for it by administration, told I should try to be more like a boy, fit in more. I too had crooked teeth, stained by medication my mother took while carrying me, which were never fixed because braces hadn’t worked well enough for my brother and there just wasn’t money to take care of my teeth — which are still a mess. I too underachieved in school, was constantly told I should use my genius I.Q. and excel, but was so terrorized by the abuse I suffered each day in school, the amount of time I spent ducking the people who’d call me names, throw me into lockers, dunk me into toilets — all of which I KNEW was my fault for not being more of a boy — that I couldn’t focus at school; being smart only made me more of a target. I too was afraid all the time when I was with my family or walking down a school hallway or out in public that someone would call me one of the many derogatory names that were shouted and whispered and graffitied at me throughout my life and humiliate me by naming my shame and flaw in front of others. I too had no idea how NOT to act like, walk like, talk like, think like, want like a girl — it was who I was and it was clear that me was a freak.

So, whatever the artistic merit of The End of Eddy, I cannot fairly measure. I was overtaken by the tsunami of pain in its story, near drowning in my own memories of the assaults on my humanity, the degradation and angst in which I lived and which I have worked impossibly hard to escape but which is there, part of the foundation of who I am, always ready to come at me and make me feel less than at the slightest provocation.

And the November election was a provocation not at all slight, a seeming affirmation of all the hateful ignorami whose own insecurities and idiocy lead them to revel in making the lives of we “other” so difficult to navigate.

Look, I can hear (and have heard) some of those who have not had this experience saying, “Get over it.” Hell, even some people who have experienced the bigotry are impatient with those who still suffer the after-effects of the trauma — although I often suspect those people are in denial, having never quite processed their own traumas — but that’s another blog entry and book review.

I would like to get over and get past it, as I’m sure Edouard Louis was, but you can’t get over or past what was carved into you during your formative years. You can only adapt, and the brutal truth of adaptation is that you will always need to spend a certain amount of your life-energy being on the lookout for the early-ingrained self-hatred and adjusting past it and its effects. You simply cannot live in a bigoted, misogynist, racist, homophobic world/society without some measure of it infecting you.

Even when I’ve found a group of people who I feel accept me — like theatre, like writers, like gay men, like, most recently, a warm and wise community on Twitter — I still feel outlier, other than, less than, never among the elite. For me, there is always what feels like an awareness that I don’t really belong, I am just visiting, having been given a visa which might at any time be revoked. I am always certain there is a secret world and cabal among them, an insiders circle and parties and events where the ones who really like each other gather, to which I will never be invited; an echelon membership in which  I will never achieve. I will never be quite enough, there will ALWAYS be something not okay about me — my teeth, my body, my income, my history, my age, my inability to ignore this dysfunction I’ve just spent paragraphs describing.

So, when I reached the last page of The End Of Eddy — which considering the short length of the book took me a very long time because all the similarities made it rough going for me — I was destroyed by the knowledge that this Eddy, no matter how far he traveled from the circumstances of his youth, whether his teeth got straightened or he wrote an international best seller, this Eddy would always bear the scars and need workaround his early years.

And it made me sad. Very, very sad.

IN CONCLUSION …

These two books, like I said some two thousand words ago, could not be more alike. And, more different. They both describe with brutal, violent truth, the lives of men who love men. Yet, the lyrical Western-ish tale set in the 1850’s, was a more hopeful, less horrifying (for me) story with an ending suggesting some resolution. While the Bildungsroman of Eddy’s story, set in the near past, was terrifying, traumatizing, and with nary a hint of happy end. Two novels exploring the realities of men loving men, both worth reading, neither easy to read, and obviously — five days and two thousand words later — difficult for me to process, and I suppose this conclusion has a lot to do with my mood, my sorrow, my loss of hope (I’m trying to get it back) since the November disaster and its aftermath, but what feels the saddest to me, what made me weep having finished these two novels and spent five days trying to figure out what it was that devastated me so, is this: the sneaking suspicion that maybe, after all, things DON’T get better, because in many ways, McNulty and Cole’s 1850’s life was far better than Eddy’s 1970’s life.

And, with that, here I am, going.

Reading: Elizabeth Strout’s “Anything Is Possible”

Anything Is Possible, Elizabeth Strout, Hardcover, 254pp, April, 2017, Random House

Pulitzer Prize winner, Elizabeth Strout, is one of those writers whose work conjures the feeling one had as a child when first discovering the magic ability of books to draw you into worlds not your own, and yet, worlds where you discovered and explored parts of yourself you’d not known about before; one of those writers who introduce you to your own soul by illuminating with truth and insight and glorious, marvelous, extraordinary language the souls of their characters.

One of those writers who reminds you in your jaded, worn out from having so many mediocre to meh books thrown at you that this is writing! This is why I read.

So, you might just as well stop wasting time reading my thoughts about Elizabeth Strout’s latest magic act and go get the book. Right now. Read it for yourself. Go on.

Are you still here? All right, well then, I warn you there is little I am going to or can say that hasn’t already been better said by others. So, if you must read a review, I suggest Jennifer Senior’s from the April 26 edition of The New York Times. [click here] Go ahead. Click. Read a real review.

And STILL you’re reading me? Well, it’s not exactly what I am known for, but I will try to keep this brief so you can go read the book.

The novel is a hybrid, a beautiful, cohesive portrait composed of stand-alone pieces which coalesce into an emotional chiaroscuro of such depth and subtlety and artistry, one wants to spend forever exploring the shades and shadows and light and dark therein.

There are many themes woven through Anything Is Possible, but the thread which mesmerized me most was the unmasking of all the ways in which humans can misapprehend and misconstrue what looks and feels like and seems to be reality, and how the discovery of those misunderstandings or deceits or ignorances result in disappointment, anger, sorrow, and, almost always, more confusion. Anything Is Possible illuminates in breathtaking, devastating accumulation of particularities that even with all the details and gossip and glut of information we have about each other and the world, we really know very little about anything at all; including ourselves.

This book illustrates the crushing loneliness and ultimate solitude of being alive better than anything I have ever read. It captures the ways in which even the people we love the most are mysteries to us, and we to them, all of us with secrets, and how the distortions caused by the things we haven’t told and the stories we don’t know disrupt and limit and often destroy our lives.

I promised I would keep this short and I considered quoting the novel at length, but, while nearly every sentence is chiseled and shaped like something Michelangelo has wrought into life from marble, they are each more a masterpiece in context. So, I won’t quote. I will simply tell you one more time: GO! GO NOW! READ THIS BOOK! Because Elizabeth Strout is indeed a Michelangelo of literature, and she has made from the marble of our lives, a thing of such beauty it rivals his David.

Go. Read. Marvel.