Bleakly Hall

Bleakly Hall by Elaine di Rollo (2011)

After the Great War, Nurse Montgomery (known as Monty) is reunited with wartime friend Ada at Bleakly Hall, a strange hydropathic hospital (or is it a hotel? It's hard to tell) where older people come to partake of the curative waters in the form of various types of baths ("douches") and other water therapy. The hall is crumbling, the pipes groan and sputter noisily, and business is failing. Co-owner Grier Blackwood hopes to improve the popularity through advertising geared towards younger folk and by changing some of the long-standing rules and traditions of Bleakly. Monty has come for quite different reasons though; she is tracking down Captain Foxley, who she considers responsible for a close friend's death during the war.

Monty is brisk and business-like, just the sensible kind of person to get to the bottom of trouble and get everything sorted out. When it comes to Captain Foxley, Monty definitely has blinders on and is so focused on revenge she has a hard time seeing the consequences of her actions. Her presence at Bleakly solves problems and stirs up trouble in equal measure.

It's not entirely her fault however, thanks to an array of darkly comical and troubled characters whose eccentricities in some cases border on mental illness. Their delightful foibles lent the novel a bit of a slapstick air, but in the best way possible. I pictured most of it as a hilarious and quirky dark comedy film. In one especially memorable scene Bleakly staff shuffled guests outside and down the hill to the pump house to indulge in fortifying glasses of Lady Beaton water, one of several varieties available from their special pumps. I could see the ragtag group traveling in bath chairs or walking arm in arm for support, probably wearing pajamas and robes, walking past the crumbling moss-covered houses of the village. Bleakly Hall's structure is a character itself with it's groaning pipes and mysterious stenches, an unsettling and ominous backdrop looming over its staff and guests.

Of course, underlying the frequently lighthearted tone are fairly serious themes and issues. Many of the characters, including the Blackwood brothers, were actively involved in the Great War and were haunted by memories of their time at the front and the people they lost there. Foxley was also a serial womanizer, leaving a trail of heartbreak and ruined lives in his wake, and the reason for his apparently flip attitude about this is fairly horrific. But tempered with the author's colorful writing style and gift for comedy, it became fun and engaging.

Much like di Rollo's A Proper Education for Girls, this novel had a pronounced feminist slant. It wasn't preachy or too obvious, just great strong female characters who know what they want and aren't afraid to go after it. They stand up for each other as well as for themselves, and I found their supportive friendships touching as well as empowering.

I loved A Proper Education for Girls and was very excited when I heard that di Rollo had another book. Alas, this one is unavailable in the US. I ordered it from Amazon UK, along with a couple others that I can't get here. So if you're in the US and want to read it, you may have tough time unless you're willing to pay for international shipping. (Of course, if you know me personally I'd be happy to let you read my copy.) For me, it was well worth ordering from afar. And isn't the cover art fantastic? I love the shadowy gothic style, which is perfectly suited to the story.

This author hasn't gotten a lot of attention (at least not here in the US) despite the great reviews her books earn, and I can't imagine why. I love her unique tone and style and I hope she keeps writing for years to come.

The Way of the Dog

The Way of the Dog by Sam Savage (2013)

Again, Sam Savage has created a character that lives and breathes and has thrust the reader inside of his head to experience his unpleasant life. This time it's Harold Nivenson, once a minor painter and art collector, now elderly and falling further into decline after losing his dog Roy. Nivenson writes obsessively on index cards or scraps of paper which he used to file away in an orderly fashion but now just stacks into piles until later throwing them away. He spies on his neighbors from the window and reminisces about his past life as his condition, and that of his house, continue to deteriorate.

In his youth, Harold Nivenson was friends with an artist named Peter Meininger. Nivenson tried to emulate him as much as possible before eventually growing to hate him. Meininger is now dead but their rivalry is kept alive in part by the large collection of his paintings staring down from the walls of the house. The house itself has become oppressive; bought hopefully using inherited money, it once sat in a bohemian neighborhood and was filled with artists and their ilk. But Nivenson never completed his remodeling plans, the neighborhood has changed, and he remains alone and trapped.

In fact, Nivenson is not completely alone. His son arrives, a distant figure who Nivenson calls Alfie despite the fact that his name is actually Sidney. A woman named Moll moves in to take care of Nivenson, though she is an older lady herself. Their relationship is only revealed late in the book. Nivenson is resentful towards both Moll and Alfie, interlopers invading his privacy, and bringing along strangers who traipse through the house invading his solitude.

Like Edna in Glass and Andrew in The Cry of the Sloth, Harold Nivenson is an unappealing person but he is by far the most relatable. Despite his repeated claims of insanity, Nivenson is actually the most sane of Savage's characters. He is someone we may all become someday; elderly and declining, barely able to get around and not doing a great job of taking care of himself. He talks of suicide, though carrying it out seems unlikely. His isolation is only increased by the gentrification of his neighborhood, which is slowly transforming into a place he doesn't recognize.

I think it's because this story could so easily be one's own life that it's not as funny as the other two books I mentioned. But true to his style, Savage employs wonderful little nuggets that I marked throughout the book, clever turns of phrase, and occasional bits of lucid wisdom. In considering the different ways in which a single event could be described Nivenson observes, "There is no necessary connection between the events of a life and the lies that recount them."

Nivenson now feels like an outsider on his own street, though he has lived there longer than his neighbors. One of my favorite passages highlights how strange they are to him:

"Weekday mornings the neighborhood is at its most bizarre and alienating, as if someone has kicked an anthill. They pour from the nest, rushing and tumbling into the street, mandibles masticating the last crumbs of breakfast, antennae waving."

I think it is the realism of this book that makes it my least favorite by Savage, which is completely unfair. It's just as well-written, the protagonist just as real, but it's unpleasant to be forced to confront old age and poor health. And Nivenson is so unhappy about a lot of choices in his life, feels like a failure in many ways, and has isolated himself from everyone around him. It's so easy to imagine becoming him. Which, of course, is exactly the beauty of the novel.

The Miseducation of Cameron Post

The Miseducation of Cameron Post by Emily M. Danforth (2012)

Just hours before her parents' death, Cameron Post was kissing a girl. Upon hearing the news of their car crash, her first thought was relief that they'd never know what she had done. Everything in Cameron's life changed when her parents died. She had to live with her religious Aunt Ruth who dragged her along to church, and the rest of the time she just rented movies and watched them alone in her room while working on a weirdly artistic dollhouse. Miles City, Montana is not the best place to be a lesbian so Cameron continued to keep a low profile until she became helplessly drawn to beautiful straight girl, Coley Taylor. It's too good to be true when Cameron and Coley finally progress beyond friendship and next thing Cameron knows, she's being sent away to God's Promise, a school intended to cure kids of their "unhealthy desires."

It would be hard not to sympathize with Cameron after all she's gone through, but she's also an incredibly genuine character in many ways. She's wonderfully imperfect: she smokes pot, shoplifts, and says "fuck" a lot. Her sexual experiences are honestly rendered with hesitation, awkwardness, and guilt. Her feelings are channeled into her childhood dollhouse which she began decorating after her parents' death. She uses various detritus in her life in unusual ways, such as decoupaging the mother and father figures with newspaper clippings about her parents' car accident. Her narrative voice is honest and matter-of-fact.

I think one of my favorite parts of the book is early on, just after her parents are killed. Cameron rents the movie Beaches because she remembers that a young girl's mother dies, and she needs cues about how she should act. Heartbreaking! But so believable: we do expect certain things to come with grief, and they don't always. Isn't it nuts that when we're dealing with tragedy, we are so concerned with our outward appearances? But that's just one of many ways in which this story, and Cameron Post, are so real.

But Cameron isn't the only well-rendered character in the book. Her friend Lindsey is sort of her lesbian mentor, as she lives in a more accepting environment and is attuned to the gay community. She is also pretty militant and lectures Cameron about various issues; Cameron frequently hears Lindsey's voice in her head when she's dealing with something she knows Lindsey would have an opinion about. Often she ignores that voice. Jane is her first friend at God's Promise, and has a colorful background having been raised in a commune (something of which school leaders definitely disapprove.) She has a prosthetic leg in which she hides a stash of the pot she grows nearby. Completing the friendship trio is Adam, a Native American who says he is not gay, but is a winkte or "two-souls person," a special designation usually revered in his culture. I really enjoyed all of Cameron's relationships and her complicated feelings about the people in her life.

Another of my favorite aspects of this book is how the leaders at God's Promise are portrayed. It would have been easy to make them all villains for wanting these kids to change something unchangeable about themselves, but Danforth didn't do that. Pastor Rick was a truly likable guy who, though misguided, absolutely believed in what he was teaching and sincerely cared about these kids. With all the political rhetoric thrown around, it can be difficult to remember that sometimes people who believe things you find abhorrent may still be nice people. They are multi-dimensional just like all of us. That was captured very well here.

Ultimately, this novel is less about Cameron's experiences at God's Promise than her unresolved feelings about her parents' deaths. Watching her grow as a person throughout the book and find peace within herself was much more important than whether or not she was able to get away from her oppressive school environment. A little meatier and sophisticated than a lot of young adult fiction, I would think this would appeal more to older teens, but it's also a great crossover title for adults. I'm glad it's a book group pick because I'm really looking forward to discussing some of these things with other people, and hearing what they noticed that I may have missed. I could continue to go on and on about this book - there's so much to discuss and to love. But all I really need to say is this: read it. You won't be sorry.

Storm Front

Storm Front by Jim Butcher (2000), narrated by James Marsters

In this first volume of the Dresden Files, we meet professional wizard Harry Dresden. He's sort of a magical private investigator, hired by private clients but also a consultant with local police. In Storm Front the police asked him to look at a crime scene with some very suspicious elements. It's a double-murder in which the victims' hearts seem to have exploded from their chests in a way that medicine cannot explain. But Harry can, and soon he is in grave danger from the same perpetrators.

Urban fantasy isn't a genre I usually gravitate towards, but I was curious about this series because of it's popularity. When I saw that it was narrated by James Marsters, who many of us know from his role as Spike on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I was even more intrigued. Disappointingly, he didn't speak in a British accent. Nonetheless I thought his performance was excellent. Some reviewers disliked the editing on the audiobook, because it caught a lot of noises that are usually removed, like sighing and swallowing and whatnot. But to me, it just felt like Marsters was in the room with me, personally telling me this story. And I really like him, so that's an enticing thought. I liked how he read Harry Dresden, capturing his feelings from his dry humor to exhaustion and fear. I don't think I would have liked the book as much had I just read it.

The story was well-crafted enough, and I liked it about how I like Janet Evanovich's crime series. Just fun stories that entertain me on a commute, but that I don't really think about after they have ended. But that's just my personal taste - I liked the story and liked Harry Dresden as a character, it's just not really the sort of book I'm into. If you like urban fantasy with crime and mystery elements though, I recommend trying it out.

Texas Destiny

Texas Destiny by Lorraine Heath (1997)

Amelia Carson accepted marriage to a man she had never met, but when she arrived on the train in Fort Worth it wasn't Dallas Leigh who arrived to meet her, it was his brother Houston. Quiet and gruff, Houston still wears the scars from the Civil War, and seems convinced that he doesn't deserve anything good in his life. But as he and Amelia spend three weeks traveling across Texas to the ranch where she is to marry Dallas, they find themselves helplessly drawn to one another.

Houston and Amelia were great characters, both with tough exteriors and carrying around a world of hurt.  I really dislike when character think they are worth little because of scars or other physical attributes (although I know it's not unrealistic) but it became clear there was much more to Houston's feelings of low self-worth than his looks. Amelia carried her own sort of scars from the war, just not ones that were visible. They understood each other so well that it was easy to see why they would be drawn to each other. I also appreciated that Dallas was also a perfectly good guy, because making the losing love interest a jerk would be an easy and cheap way out. (It would also make it impossible to write the sequels.) The third and youngest brother, Austin, was sweet and charming. They all made me want to read the other two books in the series.

Because the characters were well-drawn, the romance was also believable. It was a sticky situation, but nothing about it felt contrived. I could absolutely understand why both Houston and Amelia were drawn to each other, and also understood how torn they both felt because they wanted to do the right thing. Houston's internal issues almost seemed like a bit much, but considering that nobody in his family actually talked about what happened during the war it was easy to see why he thought and felt the way he did. It was all really quite well done compared to most of the romances I've read.

This is the closest I've come to reading a Western, and surprisingly I really liked those aspects of the story - the cowboys, the long dusty trip across the state, eating beans from a can next to a campfire. Plus the obstacles encountered as Amelia and Houston crossed the state by wagon, such as when they both almost drowned in a river, and when Amelia was bitten by a poisonous snake. Not to mention the entire prospect of traveling to a place where she would be the only woman around to marry a man she had never met. I even found the language endearing. Somehow exclamations like "Hot diggity damn!" which could have been totally hokey seemed appropriate.

This novel is older, but caught my attention after being featured on Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. As I was just finishing up Wolf Hall, I pounced on this mainly because it was the opposite of Wolf Hall. It was exactly what I needed.

Wolf Hall

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel (2009)

"Already there are too many books in the world. There are more every day. One man cannot hope to read them all." So says Henry VIII, and yet I spent a full month reading this one. I can't explain what was so compelling about a book that confounded me at every turn, but I kept plugging away at it despite the bewildering number of characters who all shared just a handful of first names, and the unclear pronouns that made it impossible to know who the hell was speaking at any given time.

Thank goodness I've watched the tv series The Tudors or else I'd have been far more confused. The inexplicably-titled Wolf Hall closely follows Thomas Cromwell during the period in which Henry VIII tires of his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, and marries Anne Boleyn amid a great deal of political and religious machinations. It was very long, yet covered such a short period that Anne Boleyn was still alive at the end of the novel.

The most frustrating aspect of this novel is that Mantel almost always refers to Thomas Cromwell only as "he." This is especially confusing when there are other male characters in the scene who are also being referred to because there was nothing to clarify whether the "he" was whatever guy had been just previously mentioned, or Cromwell. Seriously, Hilary Mantel, what exactly were you trying for here? I understand sacrificing a bit of clarity for a larger gain, but here the constant use of "he" achieves nothing. It's not as though it made the writing more poetic or captured something that just saying "Cromwell" could not.

Even when names were used, it was still confusing since everyone in the novel seemed to be a Thomas or an Anne or a Henry. I realize it's based on history and these were the actual names, but it is fiction so would it hurt mix things up a little, or at least specify which Thomas or Henry was being referred to?

Now, it's not all bad or else I wouldn't have made it through at all. Had it been tighter, shorter and more clear, it would have been a very strong book. Thomas Cromwell was a fascinating and well-developed character, and I particularly liked the memory system he learned in Italy, and which I learned from reading Moonwalking with Einstein. There was a great smattering of dry humor, and I hope that henceforth when I cry out in frustration it is to say "Oh, by the thrice-beshitten shroud of Lazarus!" Descriptions of everyday life were tangible, bringing the historical setting alive. And there were some examples of really lovely writing: "Rumors crop up in the short summer nights. Dawn finds them like mushrooms in the damp grass." I wish there had been more of that and less of all the things I didn't like.

I'm mystified at all the amazing reviews and awards this book received. The NY Times review said: "Its 500-plus pages turn quickly, winged and falconlike." I cannot disagree strongly enough. The Guardian calls it "lyrically yet cleanly and tightly written" and says the "reader finishes wanting more." It's like I read a completely different book. But this is why I tend to shy away from award-winners and highly-praised literary fiction. I frequently end up reading through reviews afterward, trying - and failing - to figure out why everyone loved the book so much.

The only reason I even read Wolf Hall is because really want to try the follow-up Bring Up the Bodies. There's no reason, of course, to read the first one since I've watched the tv show and can look up any history I need (I won't even pretend to actually know it). I can't explain why I was so compelled to read this first. The sequel is apparently written in a much more clear style without the confusing Cromwell "he," and it's shorter, so there's hope I'll like it a lot better. Of course I'll tell you all about it. Mostly, after reading Wolf Hall for a solid month, I'm just happy to finally be free of it.

The Winter Queen

The Winter Queen by Boris Akunin (1998)

One day in 1876, a young man walked up to a young lady in a park and asked her (what did he ask her?) while brandishing a gun and when she refused him, he shot himself in the head. Simple suicide? Maybe, but Erast Fandorin doesn't think so. Twenty years old and just a (rank) he sees something more and is eager to get to the bottom of the mystery. Of course the apparent suicide in the park is just the tip of the iceberg and Fandorin is soon pursuing a large and mysterious conspiracy.

I found a lot to like in this novel, not the least of which is that Russia is one of my favorite settings. As an added bonus, there was a great deal of dueling. Dueling! But of a very different kind than you might think. The opening scene was one of the best in the book and drew me in instantly and I easily carried along on the casual and easy style.  

A minor quibble is that Fandorin's romantic interest was a completely throwaway character; calling her two-dimensional would be generous. Fandorin was smitten the moment he saw her, and I just never care about these shallow romances no matter how much they may insist upon their undying love. But I didn't find this relationship important enough for it to bother me much.

My main problem was with Fandorin himself, who I found be rather an idiot. This was his first case and still wet behind the ears, he regularly made bumbling mistakes with dangerous consequences. It's unlikely he would have come out alive. For instance, there is a situation in which he has learned of somebody's dastardly deeds and that person starts telling him all about the things they have done. This should set off warning bells. Instead, Fandorin actually says "Why are you being so frank with me? Surely you do not hope to win me over to your camp?" I wanted to smack him.

Despite his apparent stupidity, Fandorin still held some appeal. Young and eager, one can sympathize with an orphan who wants to rise above his station and solve crimes. I can only assume he will learn from his mistakes and grow as a character as he takes on more cases in future books. The Winter Queen is the first in a series and I was surprised to see more loose ends than in any mystery I've read. I can only presume these threads will be followed in future books in the series.