Book Round-Up: Where Does the Time Go?

 Thornhedge by T. Kingfisher: Kingfisher's novella is a decidedly unusual retelling of Sleeping Beauty, with a heroine who is about as far from a Disney princess as you could imagine. Instead of the usual tropes, the story focuses on the folk idea of changelings and how that can devastate a family. It's melancholy and touching, odd and funny. 

Around the World in Eighty Games by Marcus du Sautoy: du Sautoy is a mathematician with a longstanding fascination with games, and here he gives an overview of the history of gaming. As you might guess from the title, he covers games from every part of the globe and as far back as the third millennium BC. His insight into why humans play games was good, although when he strayed into meaning-of-life philosophy he fumbled a bit.

The Art of Vanishing by Morgan Pager: This was an interesting premise -- painted figures come to life when people aren't watching, and some people can even enter the paintings -- but the resulting story was just ok; The pacing was better suited to a thriller (this wasn't) and the love story wasn't very strong.

The Mythmakers by John Hendrix: An interesting graphic novel on the fruitful (and fraught) relationship between J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, with digressions into the nature of myth, fairy tales, and folk tales. I had known about the Inklings, of course, but reading about the deterioration of their relationship (due to religious and literary differences, changing life circumstances, and human frailties) was sad. One hopes they are now reunited, their friendship restored to its full glory.

Golden Age Bibliomysteries by Otto Penzler, ed.: A collection of mysteries set amongst librarians, booksellers, and collectors. Sometimes the bookish element was a McGuffin, other times integral to the plot. Stories by Lawrence G. Blochman, Anthony Boucher, and Cornell Woolrich were standouts. 

Hellboy v. 5-7: Love 'em. With volume 5, the initial storyline is over -- Hellboy is no longer fated to bring about the apocalypse and he's no longer a member of BPRD. Instead we get his adventures, past and present, along with Mignola's trademark folk horror and humor. 

Book Round-up

Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg: I've seen the movie, of course, but I had not read the book until it was the April selection for my book club. Unlike the movie, the book follows many more characters than Ruth and Idgie (whose relationship is a lot more obvious), and the depictions of racism, poverty, and addiction in the 1920s and 30s are sometimes heartbreaking. I don't have a lot to say about it, but I enjoyed it.

The Spellshop by Sarah Beth Durst: Durst set out to write the ultimate cozy novel, and it certainly has all the elements -- books, flying cats, talking plants, bakeries, gardens, jam, and a gentle love story. I do wish she had put as much thought into the world-building; I don't need GRRM-levels of detail, but the characters were remarkably incurious about the political revolution happening in the background. On a nit-pickier level, I also wish she had done a little more research into how libraries work (manuscripts, for example, don't have publishers, and in a world apparently without a printing press books would be much scarcer and more expensive than they are now). Props to her, though; Meep the cactus is adorable.

Witch Hat Atelier by Kamome Shirahama: A cozy fantasy manga series about a little girl who accidentally turns her mother into a statue and must attend the titular atelier to learn how to undo the spell. It was cute, but I don't feel the need to read the <checks notes> … next 14 volumes.

Exit Strategy by Martha Wells: I love these novellas so much I've started buying them rather than getting them from the library. This one is as funny, thrilling, and even heartwarming as the previous ones (don't hate me, Murderbot!).

Hellboy v. 1-4 by Mike Mignola: A reread, just because. Love both the unambiguously good (despite his name and appearance) hero and the mix of folklore and horror.

Meet Me in the Moon Room by Ray Vukcevich: A collection of very short, very odd stories. Vukcevich specializes in speculative, almost absurdist fiction. The stories were hit-or-miss for me; some were quite affecting, but others were clinical, sometimes quite cold and cruel. A riff on Frankenstein ("Rejoice") was excellent.

Book Round-Up

The Correspondent by Virginia Evans: An absolutely lovely epistolary novel about an elderly woman looking back on her life, and the wonderful, difficult, troubling relationships she had. It was well worth the months-long wait at my library.

Great Big Beautiful Life by Emily Henry: I’ve only loved Henry’s odd-numbered books, but this (her 6th) broke the pattern. Probably because it was also a departure for her, with a good chunk of the novel devoted to another elderly woman reflecting on her life and relationships (a theme this month, I guess). I know some were put off by that, but I was ok with it, especially because I tend to prefer romances that are secondary, not primary, plots.

Agnes Aubert's Mystical Cat Shelter by Heather Fawcett: Of course I read a book about a woman who runs a cat shelter and her wizard landlord. I'm loving Fawcett's take on romantasies -- fewer assholes, more humor.

Woman Hollering Creek by Sandra Cisneros: I don't know why it took me so long to read Cisneros, but I absolutely loved this collection of vivid, evocative, heartbreaking, and funny stories. My favorite was "Little Miracles, Kept Promises."

Men of Maize by Miguel Angel Asturias: Considered to be possibly the first magical realism novel, it's not nearly as famous as 100 Years of Solitude, probably because the text is quite challenging -- a loose understanding of time, opaque (to me) allusions to Guatemalan political history, extensive references to Mayan folklore and religious beliefs, and an impressionistic approach to language use. I'm so glad I didn't try to read it in the original Spanish, a particular dialect with lots of Mayan vocabulary. This edition was heavily annotated and had several essays on the author, text, and translation, which allowed me to understand much better Asturias's themes of colonialism and the degradation of the environment and left me with a desire to learn more about the Mayans. (Interestingly, there's a section very similar to my favorite Cisneros story.)

 

Book Round-Up

 Rogue Protocol by Martha Wells: Still enchanted by the series. I think I'm going to buy them (high praise!)

Winter's Tales by Isak Dinesen: A varied collection of tales, rigid in upholding the class system and morality, but also with sharp insights about the inherent oddness and tragedy of some people. "The Dreaming Child" in particular, about the lies we tell ourselves, has stuck with me.

Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead by Sara Gran: I joined a book club, and this was the first (for me) pick. And I was one of the only people who liked it, ha. Ostensibly a murder mystery set in New Orleans about a year after the flood, it's by no means a conventional procedural. There are elements of magical realism, not a whole lot of detecting gets done, and Claire is an oddball (to put it mildly). Instead it's about trauma, the lack of control we have over what happens to us, and the ability to rise above it. This is the start of a trilogy and I'm looking forward to the other two.

The Librarians by Sherry Thomas: Of course I was going to read a book about librarians who solve a murder. Unfortunately, it was a bit of a disappointment. I liked the characters and the story, but the whole thing felt engineered, like the author was given a checklist of modern topics, character traumas, and pop cultural references to incorporate.  A more organic version of the story would have been perfect.

English Is not Easy by Luci Gutiérrez: This is a delightful graphic novel that explains the English language to non-native speakers. For a native speaker like me, the value is in the quirky, funny, occasionally bawdy illustrations.

Tuesday Mooney Talks to Ghosts by Kate Racculia: This story has the titular character go on a scavenger hunt arranged by an eccentric millionaire while dealing with the ghosts (figurative and literal) of her past, but it took an unexpectedly dark turn towards the end. Still, it was fun and engrossing, and filled with a number of great characters.

Wild Dark Shore by Charlotte McConaghy: another book club pick, and again I was one of the only ones who liked it. It's a family drama with elements of eco-dystopia and magical realism; normally I avoid dystopian novels at all costs, but gratifyingly this one found hope in human relationships, particularly in those of parents and children. A common reason given today for not having children is the unwillingness to subject them to climate change, but that can lead to a sort of despairing complacency, an excuse to not bother to try to solve the very many problems we are facing. Future generations can and should inspire us to work towards the common good. I think some of my fellow club members were hung up on the lack of explanation for the some phenomena and motives in the novel, whereas I'm more comfortable with unanswered questions. It's a sad novel, but gorgeous in its own way.

The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell

Mitchell's novel, set in the same world as Cloud Atlas (and all his other novels), has a similar formal structure: it's divided into six parts, each a different kind of story -- coming-of-age, Faustian bargain, war memoir, literary satire, metaphysical fantasy, and eco-dystopia. Underlying the narrative, though, are references to a war between the mysterious Horologists and Anchorites; the former are trying to protect humanity from the latter, who want to use humans as fuel in their quest for immortality.

 But it’s not until late in the novel we learn this, and with the exception of the fifth section we spend little time with the Anchorites and Horologists themselves. Instead every part serves as a character study, each one narrated by someone with a connection to Holly, the first narrator and the key to the novel as a whole. in each of these sections we see the characters make bad or even disastrous decisions, but what matters is the fallout — not just the consequences to the plot, but the effect on the characters and what they choose to do after. 

 It's here that Mitchell demonstrates his skill as a writer. Most of the characters are deeply flawed, often making stupid, selfish, or evil choices, but Mitchell lets us see what drives them to make those choices. The fourth section in particular stood out -- it's the section that covers the longest time period, allowing us to see an arrogant, self-involved writer ever so slowly repent and learn to put others before himself. On the other hand, the fifth section, while fun and fascinating, felt out of place. The sixth section returns us to ordinary humans, but, set in a near future ravaged by climate change, it displays a deeply cynical attitude about humanity, something that seems almost like a betrayal of the poignantly-depicted characters of the rest of the novel.

Despite my disappointment in the ending, I fully intend to read more of Mitchell's work. The world he has created is filled with wonderful characters and fascinating bits of lore.

A Long-Overdue Christmas Wrap-up

 It's been a tough month.

On the crafting front, I started Sue Spargo's Christmas tree pillow project. I cannot actually afford any of her kits, though, so I worked out of my stash. In the process I changed some motifs and stitches to suit my tastes, such as adding a manger scene because Christmas isn't secular for me, and eliminating most bullion knots because those are the devil's stitch. What I have so far:

I also stitched this freebie from Momentoell. I like the chunky effect she gets by using 6 or even 12 strands of floss. The lovely, soft colors are a nice change of pace, too, from the usual embroidered Christmas tree.

Not much jewelry making happened, but I did remake a bracelet (which apparently I never photographed) with several Christmas-themed charms into a necklace. No point in wearing a bracelet if my wrists are covered up in several layers of long johns and wool sweaters (it's so cold where I work).

 

My middle son gave me a skein of acrylic yarn for Christmas. I love the color, but it is too scratchy to wear so I crocheted a garland. This worked up so fast and fun I made a second with a different yarn.

He also gave me more buttons, so I made a button garland for the tree.

And I finally finished my youngest's quilt: 

On the book front, I read three Christmasy books:

The White Priory Murders by Carter Dickson: An enjoyable locked-room mystery, where, amusingly, Dickson had two characters immediately propose the most obvious explanations to accuse each other. John Dickson Carr was name-checked in the locked-room mystery Wake Up Dead Man, too, which was a fun little easter egg.

Snowed In by Catherine Walsh: a cute holiday-themed contemporary romance, related to her previous novel, Holiday Romance. I enjoyed it, but it lacked an effective structure to hang the story on.

Golden Age Christmas Mysteries ed. by Otto Penzler: some of these would better be classified as spy thrillers or adventures, but all were enjoyable. The collection runs the gamut from light-hearted, comedic stories to darker, melancholic ones, so there's something to suit most tastes.

I think that about wraps it up. Aside from the food, cancelled trip, car troubles, pretty snow fall, improv king cake ...

Threads of Life by Clare Hunter

 

Needlework has often been dismissed as just women's work -- a hobby, a distraction, a trivial thing done with one's children. Frasier Crane superciliously claims he supports the arts, not the crafts. Tim Gunn on Project Runway warned contestants to not be too artsy-craftsy. Occasionally, needlework is treated as an art form, most notably as part of William Morris's Arts & Crafts movement, but I suspect his sex -- and his interest in more "serious" art forms -- had a role.

Which is why Hunter's Threads of Life is so critical to understanding the power of needlework. Each chapter explores one aspect the art has brought to women's lives, such as protection, identity, and voice. Some sections include research into ancient and historical practices, techniques, and cultural contexts; others profile one or more women and their art. Some of these stories are enraging: Lorina Bulwer was imprisoned in a workhouse by her brother when their mother died; she spent the rest of her life there, embroidering long screeds in block letters detailing her anger at the unfairness of how she was treated. Others are heartbreaking: Hmong women, stuck in refugee camps after years of wars and persecution, created story clothes to tell what they had lost and endured. 

The stories are not always bleak. Embroidery has also been a source of power -- as symbolism, as what queens would choose to wear, as financial stability, providing a steady income for women
, as art, allowing women to create meaningful and beautiful statements, as community, encouraging women to seek friendship and advice, and as protest, allowing women to speak out about the injustices of the world and bring about change. Anyone who is interested in needlework, and anyone interesting in women's history, will learn much from this book.

Book Round-Up

 Cold Clay by Juneau Black: Sad to say, I didn’t enjoy this one as much as the first. The authors have created fun characters in a delightfully cozy setting, but the actual writing in this novel was not great — both overwritten and messy.

Moon over Soho by Ben Aaronovitch: I’m enjoying the Rivers of London series, an urban fantasy about a police officer learning to become a wizard. This one centered around jazz music and its vampiric fans.

The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly: This book, about a boy who finds himself in a world of fairy tales, was a lot darker than I expected, but it was a moving exploration of grief and growing up, deeply satisfying by the end. The only flaw was the chapter with Snow White, which was completely out of place tonally.

The Bewitching by Silvia Moreno-García: This was a bit of a disappointment; it has lots of interesting elements and characters, but it doesn’t quite cohere, feeling more like a draft than a finished novel. Some elements are left dangling — ownership of the land, so critical in 1908, is not mentioned at all in 1998, and Minerva talks about her mother and great-grandmother, but her grandmother is entirely missing. Then there’s Alba’s relationship with her putative lover: Alba, and the narrative itself, treat it as if it were merely inappropriate and not absolutely awful. I don’t regret reading it, but I didn’t enjoy it as much as Gods of Jade and Shadow.

The Other Side of Midnight by Simone St. James: I try to read a Simone St James novel every fall; she excels at mysteries that are spooky and romantic. I didn’t love this one as much as the first two I read, but it was an enjoyable, creepy-but-not-too-creepy story about psychics real and fake.

Hemlock & Silver by T. Kingfisher: Kingfisher's novels have certain commonalities -- middle-aged characters with ordinary jobs, humor to counterbalance the horror and weirdness, and a pantheon of saints and gods -- but the settings and stories are varied and inventive. This one takes the elements of Snow White (queen, daughter, mirror, apple) and puts them together in an utterly novel way. I just can't get enough of Kingfisher, and I'm pacing myself through her extensive bibliography.

Book Round-Up: Cozy Witchy Edition

Thornyhold by Mary Stewart: Just about the gentlest possible story you could imagine about witches in a small English village. As with most of Stewart's romantic suspense novels, the protagonist is an orphan looking for a purpose. In this story, she inherits a cottage from her witchy aunt and finds among her neighbors a busybody who seems to have powers of her own and a handsome widower with an adorable son.

 The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches by Sangu Mandanna: Just about the coziest story you could read about witches in a small English village, complete with magical potions, adorable moppets (three daughters this time), a goofy dog, and a sweet romance. As one would expect from a modern romance, the magic is a much bigger deal than in Stewart's novel and the characters are dealing with not just a growing attraction but their own past trauma. It was lovely, and I look forward to Mandanna's other novels.

 Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones: Just about ... eh, I guess third time's not the charm. While waiting for some holds to come in at the library, and having just watched Miyazaki's adaptation of Howl, I decided to re-read it. Some day I have to get the sequels.

 Cackle by Rachel Harrison: Every once in a while I feel like my understanding of a book is vastly different from others’, or at least of those who are active online. Cackle is often described as a cozy, witchy, feminist novel, and it is that, but there is serious psychological horror underlying it. “It’s about female friendships, and not needing a man to have a fulfilling life!” It is, but it is also about how friendships can be just as toxic as romantic relationships. “It’s about empowerment and discovering your authentic self!” But Annie’s empowerment comes at the expense of a whole lot of people. The life Annie ultimately chooses – carefree, living day to day, enjoying nature and beauty and good food – seems like a dream to anyone mired in the daily grind, but it is ultimately a superficial life, lacking in meaningful connection or purpose of any kind. Annie finds herself but loses her humanity, and to me that is a horror.

Book Round-Up

 Paladin's Hope by T. Kingfisher: The third in T. Kingfisher's Saints of Steel series. I am loving the world she has created: the gods, wonder workers, gnoles, and lawyers.

Artificial Condition by Martha Wells: I think I loved this one even more than the first. ART is a great addition, and it's fun to see Murderbot acquire friends and allies despite its best efforts.

Say You'll Remember Me by Abby Jiménez: I enjoyed this well enough, and appreciated that the central conflict came from the characters' circumstances rather than a misunderstanding or three. This novel is apparently heavier than her others (it's my first Jiménez book), but I thought it was handled sensitively.

Proto: How One Ancient Language Went Global by Laura Spinney: this book about the development and spread of the Proto-Indo European language and its descendants would make an excellent companion to Who We Are and How We Got Here -- both argue that the evidence increasingly supports the idea that humans have always been migratory, sharing genes, technology, and language for the betterment of humanity, despite what certain politicians would claim.

Seduction Theory by Emily Adrian: I'm a sucker for academic satires, and this novel, purporting to be a master's thesis that dissects the marriage and infidelities of its star professors, fit the bill. At one point one of the professors, teaching a course in writing, mentions the need to strip out the conceits of a story to see what is left. At the core of this novel is the complicated portrait of a particular marriage, and a person on the outside looking in.

The Watermark by Sam Mills

 Mills's The Watermark is billed as a "quirky, literary love story" but it's a lot weirder and less romantic than that would imply. Rachel and Jaime are two Brits who are captured by a famous author (Augustus Fate) who forces them to drink a magical tea that keeps them trapped inside one of his novels; he's decided that having real people as his characters makes his writing better. In an attempt to escape the author's clutches, the pair flee into other novels hoping to find a way back into the real world.

So it's obviously metafiction, and it brings to mind both Jasper Fforde's delightful series and literary works like Miguel de Unamuno's Nieblas (Mist in English), where the main character gets into an argument with Unamuno himself (see also the romance novel Hero Worship, where the heroine finds herself in a historical novel and decides she can improve the story). The mechanism by which Jaime and Rachel are able to travel from book to book doesn't make complete sense, but that's not really the point; it rarely is in metafiction.

Instead, Mills is focused on the way stories, and art in general, can be controlled -- manipulated, commodified, and politicized. From the Fate's manuscript, a Victorian novel where tradition, religion, and capitalism are used to tightly control people's behavior, the duo move into a fictional novel written by another of Fate's victims; he promises to let the characters do what they want, but they run up against the limits of that when a world is not fully thought-out. From there it's a dismal novel about the tension between communism and fascism, two systems notoriously averse to artistic and literary freedom. A later section takes place in a quasi-dystopian future, where widespread use of robots with artificial intelligence forces humans to wrestle with who can make art and what its purpose is.

In a novel about stories and control there are, unsurprisingly, numerous references to the idea of the author as God (Fate's name is a little too on the nose), an attitude Jaime, a fervent atheist, especially latches onto. This, of course, ignores the fundamental Christian concept of free will -- God rather famously lets us do what we want (hence the Problem of Evil), which is the opposite of how Fate behaves as he tries to bend Jaime and Rachel to his will. But despite the references to God as author and Fate himself (that name!), not much time is spent on the influence of the supposed authors of these novels within novels. Instead it's more about breaking free of the stories we tell ourselves that can limit and even trap us.

This isn't the only concern of the narrative. With Rachel in particular Mills illustrates the way stories can also be an escape, and how that can be its own trap. When the novel opens, Rachel is struggling with grief, artistic block, and depression, and is not sure she wants to keep going. The idea of being in someone else's story and ceding control is deeply tempting, and it puts her in conflict with Jaime, who is desperate to get back to the real world. Complicating matters is the fact that there is no way for them to predict who remembers what every time they enter another story. One of the lovely parts of this book, then, is watching Rachel find purpose and meaning over the course of her journey.  

When they finally escape for good, it's into the Covid pandemic. Coming to in the midst of a bewildering lockdown environment adds a dreamlike quality that causes them to wonder if they really did escape. The novel ends on a somewhat melancholy note -- they've escaped, but the future is uncertain. It's not a traditional "happily ever after," but their love and their commitment to life is strong. Not everything worked about this novel, but I liked a lot of it, and I will be looking at more of Mills's writing.

CoDex 1962 by Sjón

Sjón's post-modern novel is comprised of three novels he wrote over twenty years: Thine Eyes Did See My Substance ( a love story but not really), Iceland's Thousand Years (a mystery but not really), and I'm a Sleeping Door (science fiction but not really). All three are narrated by Jósef Loewe and purport to be his autobiography, but in the tradition of Tristam Shandy, he is not even born until the end of the second part. Instead, the bulk of the narrative is focused on his father's trials as a Jew who escapes Nazi Germany and settles as a refugee in Iceland. 

The story itself is a metafictional narrative that plays with storytelling, weaving together folktales, history, Biblical stories, and fragmented accounts. And like a lot of metafiction, it's about the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of our lives and the world around us. Maybe Jósef is the child of a desperate woman so mired in grief and alcohol she has lost track of where she's been or who she's been with. Or maybe he is a golem, lovingly sculpted from clay by his father and mother and brought to life with the word "truth" and the seal from a gold ring. 

Just as the bones of a patient afflicted with Stone Man Syndrome react to blows by swiftly forming a new layer of bone tissue over the site, so Jósef's mind wove a story every time he encountered a painful thought or memory.

Images and ideas recur throughout and characters are connected in surprising ways. Iceland is a small nation, but this is also a story being told to a listener. These elements, and the frequent interruptions from the listener, remind us of the unreliability of the narrative -- not to distance us from the characters,  but to remind us that there is a storyteller behind the story.

Parts -- especially during the section that takes place in Germany -- can be quite vulgar and upsetting, and in that way it reminded me of Gunter Grass's The Tin Drum, but this book is far more humane. Despite the prevalence of evils like anti-semitism, greed, and violence, characters display kindness towards each other and a determination to make the best of what they have. The novel ends on a melancholy note, but also the recognition that whatever else is lost, the stories live on.

All stories have their origins long before humans discovered a means of storing them somewhere other than in their memories, and so it doesn't matter if books are worn out by reading, if the print-run is lost at sea, if they're pulped so other books can be printed, or burned down to the last copy. The vitality contained in their loose ends and red herrings ... is so potent that if it escapes into the head of a single reader it will be activated, like a curse or a blessing that can follow the same family for generations. And with every retelling and garbling, misunderstanding and conflation, mankind's world of and and stories expands.

 

Book Round-Up

 The Baseball 100 by Joe Posnanski: I got this from the library at the start of baseball season, and then spent two months reading it. Not a criticism! Its structure -- 100 essays about some of the greatest baseball players ever -- meant it wasn't a conventional page-turner, but I enjoyed learning about the players, many of whom I knew by name only. A good number were players from the Negro Leagues, too; Posnanski made it clear how much of baseball is entwined with racism, even today.

The Devil at his Elbow by Valerie Bauerlein: I don't read much nonfiction, but this was captivating. The many, many crimes of Alex Murdaugh have been well publicized, but Bauerlein goes into his family history, too, back to his great grandfather. The family business was ostensibly law, but the ethical lapses, conflicts of interest, and sheer corruption going back over a hundred years are appalling. Murdaugh is not an outlier, but the end point of a family that put its own tawdry interests above justice.

The Woman in the Library by Sulari Gentill: I thought I was getting a library-centered mystery, but the titular library (the Boston Public Library) barely factored into the story. Instead, I got a mystery that served as a commentary on the genre itself -- chapters of the story alternate with letters from a purported reader who offers advice on the choices Gentill makes. My favorite bit: I finished a chapter wondering why the heck [character] was continuing to communicate with [deeply troubled person] and whether that reflected poorly on the novel as a whole. The very next page was a letter from the FBI thanking [character] for alerting them and asking [character] to continue talking with [deeply troubled person] while the agency investigated. I laughed out loud. Gentill knows what she is doing!

The Lost Bookshop by Evie Woods: A disappointment. The novel weaves together the story of three characters, including one who runs the titular bookshop. Her story was the weakest, because it covered covered four decades and crammed in too many plot points, neglecting the one that would have been the most interesting -- the magical bookshop. The other two story lines were more interesting, but again too little time was spent on the bookshop.

Midnight Riot by Ben Aaronovitch: this was suggested as an alternative to the sexist Dresden Files urban fantasy series, and I loved it. Peter Grant is a young police officer in London who unwittingly interviews a ghost and learns there is a hidden aspect of the city filled with wizards, vampires, and gods. Aaronovitch weaves a lot of British folklore into the story, which was fascinating, and balanced the more horrific parts with a good amount of humor. I can't wait to read the rest.

The Flatshare by Beth O'Leary: a cute romance about two people with opposite schedules who share a one-bedroom apartment. It's an epistolary novel of sorts, because the relationship between protagonists initially develops over a series of post-it notes and text messages. I also appreciated how the female protagonist came to terms with the abusive nature of her previous relationship -- in fits and starts, with the help of counseling, introspection, and friends, rather than because of some kind of dramatic epiphany.

Memory & Dream by Charles de Lint

 This is the second novel in de Lint's Newford series, and a re-read for me. It's a fascinating concept -- especially talented artists are able to use their paintings to open a gateway to another world, inviting in fairy-like beings -- and as always I appreciate the urban fantasy setting and his commitment to both art and social justice.

However, his protagonist, Isabelle, was a frustrating character who made a lot of bad decisions for almost the entirety of the novel. Some of it is, understandably, a function of the abusive relationships she has been subject to; they do a number on both her self esteem and her understanding of what's normal. But her actions are also the result of her own selfishness and obsession with art; she is willing to overlook or justify all manner of bad acts committed by Rushkin because of his artistic talent. It's one thing to separate the artist from the art, a topic that is especially relevant today. It's another to let the artist get away with murder because he's fascinating.

Late in the novel we meet another painter who serves as a marked contrast to Isabelle; I wish we could have spent more time with her.

Book Round-Up

 A Death in Cornwall by Daniel Silva: My first Silva novel, recommended to me by my husband because the protagonist has retired from spying to become an art restorer. It was fine, but the descriptions of how beautiful and wealthy every character was got tedious. I'm starting to believe there is an inverse correlation between how much time is spent on what the characters look like and the quality of the book.

All Systems Red by Martha Wells: This satirical sci-fi novella was utterly delightful. Murderbot was just so much fun to read about, and I actually teared up at the very end. I can't wait to read the rest.

Back After This by Linda Holmes: This wasn't my favorite of her novels (the podcast industry setting wasn't my thing), but I continue to love the wit of Holmes's writing, and the fact that her characters act like grown-ups.

The Sorceror's House by Gene Wolfe: My first Gene Wolfe was kind of a disappointment. I liked the structure (epistolary) and there were some neat ideas and intriguing motifs, but the attitudes of the characters were straight out the 1970s and 1980s, despite the novel ostensibly taking place in 2000s.

Orlando: a Biography by Virginia Woolf

 There is a certain pleasure in rereading a favorite book, in experiencing again its pleasures and in finding new ones. It can be especially worthwhile to reread a book when one is in a different stage of life.

I first read Orlando in college. I enjoyed it and admired it, but I didn't get much out of it other than the story itself and the commentary on the limitations historically placed on women. Rereading it 30+ years later -- wiser and more experienced, with a more nuanced understanding of the messiness of life -- was a different experience entirely. For one thing, I don't think I appreciated just how funny it is. The satire of not just gender norms but poets, publishing, and British history and culture is sharp, sometimes brutally so. Woolf has a keen eye for absurdity, as befitting a gifted writer who not only struggled with gender and heteronormative expectations but also the deeply flawed people she loved and with her own mental health.  In this way the novel is strikingly modern, even though it is almost one hundred years old.

It's a postmodern novel too, purporting to be a traditional biography of Orlando, with a narrator who refuses to record some events because they are allegedly too distressing for the reader (such as Orlando's transformation from male to female, or her pregnancy), but seemingly accepts without question her subject's centuries-long life. Woolf includes portraits of real-life aristocrats as illustrations of her fictional characters, adding an element of playfulness. Moreover, each section of the book corresponds to a particular time period of English history, with heightened descriptions to match. The Frost Fair of 1608 is depicted with a cold beauty and startling details, such as the woman sitting with a lapful of apples for sale frozen at the bottom of the Thames and perfectly visible through the crystal-clear ice. Victorian England, by contrast, is pervaded with damp, resulting in lush, overabundant growth; so of course this is when Orlando gets pregnant.

But most of all, this novel is a love letter to Woolf's friend and lover, Vita Sackville-West, who inspired the character Orlando. Without the benefit of Wikipedia to educate me about Woolf's life, and reading this on my own rather than with a professor who could point me in certain directions, I completely missed this the first time around. This knowledge makes for a poignant read, because Orlando is very much an idealized (but not perfect) version of Sackville-West, without her selfishness and unfaithfulness, who finds true love in Shelmerdine (who was once a woman, and who is as unconventional as Orlando is). 

I'm so glad I reread this.

Terrace Story by Hilary Leichter

 A young couple with a newborn in a cramped apartment invite a friend over, who opens a closet door onto a spacious terrace with a spectacular view.* It's the dream of anyone living in an overpriced city, and it's the start of Leichter's wonderful novel. The first part is about that couple as they invite that same friend over and over so they can enjoy the terrace, but it ends with a devastating act. The next section follows a different couple as they attend a funeral out in the country. The third is about a young woman who struggles heartbreakingly to connect with other people, and the last one takes place on a space station.

How these characters and spaces relate to each other is opaque; names are repeated, images recur, and connections are hinted at. It can have a destabilizing effect on the reader, but Leichter uses that to meditate on grief and loneliness, something the characters experience in different ways. Space -- the magical terrace, literal distance, an inability to communicate -- represents the difficulty in connecting with others, and the fragility of such connections. It's a melancholic novel but the payoff is gorgeous.

*Once again, marketers and reviewers label a novel as magical realism when it's really, really not. I fear I'm fighting a losing battle, though.

Book Round-Up: Supersized Edition

 The Witch of Wild Things by Raquel Vásquez Gilliland: A romance novel with a touch of fantasy. It has been advertised as magical realism, but it's not really that because of the efforts to make sense of and explain the magic. I liked the plot and the characters, but once again the melodramatic, YA-influenced style of writing kept me mildly annoyed. Occasionally, though, a different narrative voice shone through that was much more engaging. I may someday read the rest of the trilogy.

Anne of the Island by L.M. Montgomery: These really are a comfort-read for me. As a girl I was intrigued by the depictions of college from almost a century ago, although there was less of that than I remembered. And it was amusing to see Anne delude herself about Gilbert for almost four years; what an ending, though!

Ragnarok by A.S. Byatt: Another novella in the Canongate Myth series. Byatt relates the myths of the Norse gods through a young English girl who has evacuated to the countryside during WWII, and her version is beautiful, visceral, and bleak.

Swordheart by T. Kingfisher: This is the third of Kinfisher's novels set in the Temple of the White Rat world, after the Clocktaur books. Like all of her novels so far, it has wonderfully rich world-building, endearing characters, serious topics handled with a light touch, and plenty of humor.

60 Songs that Explain the 90s by Rob Harvilla: A fun series of essays on popular songs from the 1990s, linked thematically. The essays are more impressionistic than critical, and had me seeking out a bunch of songs I haven't listened to in years.

Paladin's Grace by T. Kingfisher: Kingfisher has feet of clay! The fourth in the Temple series and the first in the Saints of Steel subseries. These books qualify as romantasy, meaning the romance is the primary story, but unfortunately this romance did not interest me too much; the beats were just too similar to Swordheart. The fantasy part, on the other hand, was great, and will be continued in the next novel.

Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales by Heather Fawcett: A wonderful conclusion to the series. I'm 90% sure Fawcett wrote this in response to certain popular romantasy series out there, because while Wendell might be tall and a fairy king, but he is blond, genial, friend to the fairy equivalent of the working class, and kinda lazy, rather than dark and brooding. And when he has his big, angry show of power, and Emily points out that based on her research he will regret it, he's happy to take her advice. I hope Fawcett writes more fiction for adults.

Nine Coaches Waiting by Mary Stewart: An unexpected discovery in the little free library across the street from me, it's a thoroughly enjoyable romantic thriller with gothic elements and a dozen allusions to literature including Jane Eyre.

Paladin's Strength by T. Kingfisher: The second Saints of Steel novel had a much more interesting love story. And it was so much fun -- Nuns! Paladins! Gladiators! Bears! Really creepy golems!

The Husbands by Holly Gramazio

The paradox of choice can become a problem in online dating. With a prevalence of apps and a plethora of choices on those apps, some people struggle to make any decision at all, fearing the wrong choice. Others cannot settle down with the good choice they make, always looking for someone better. This is the plot of Gramazio's The Husbands, only the problem here isn't that Lauren can't stop swiping; instead, every time a husband enters her attic, a new one comes out.

This was initially big surprise for the single Lauren, who comes home tipsy from a bachelorette party to discover she has somehow acquired a husband. It takes a few trips up and down the attic stairs but she eventually figures out (sort of) what's happening, and eventually she delights in the opportunity to try out new men (and new lives -- each husband represents in effect an alternate universe). If one husband is too annoying or mean, she sends him up to the attic to fetch something and waits for the next one.

But after accidentally losing a husband she really liked, Lauren sets about trying to find the best husband, rapidly cycling though many of them as she sends them off to the attic for trivial faults, or because the world is a little too different from her original one, or because she can't shake off a general air of dissatisfaction. Rather than find the right life to settle into, however, she becomes increasingly lost and anxious -- the paradox of choice at its most extreme.

The parallels to online dating are obvious (hence my opening paragraph), but this is just one facet of a larger societal problem we have. As our technology advances and our ability to shape our lives and our environment increases, we become ever more focused on trying to make sure everything goes exactly as we want it to. Life doesn't work that way, though. No matter how much we might want to, we cannot control every outcome, we cannot plan for every eventuality, we cannot avoid suffering. It's a necessary part of being an adult to become comfortable with uncertainty, which is why I thought Gramazio's divisive ending to the story worked perfectly.

Book Round-Up: Where Did the Time Go Edition

It's been a hell of a month.

Murder by the Book: Mysteries for Bibliophiles: another collection of short stories published by the British Library Crime Classics, by authors well-known and forgotten. The stories were, for the most part, enjoyable. Some of the weaker ones highlight a problem with mystery short stories -- it takes a writer of great skill to create a satisfactory tale given there is little space for characterization and motive.

Interior Chinatown by Charles Yu: I absolutely loved this brilliant take on race relations. It's written in screenplay form, about Generic Asian Man who hopes his stint on the procedural show "Black and White" (get it?) will allow him to become Kung Fu Guy, movie star. It's bitingly satirical but also moving as it addresses the immigration history of Asians (and how they are never considered Americans no matter how long they have been here) and, most touchingly, the role of parenthood.

The Annotated Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien, annotated by Douglas A. Anderson: my paperback copy having long since fallen apart, I treated myself to this handsome book with the aforementioned annotations, essays on the creation and publication of The Hobbit, and oodles of illustrations by Tolkien himself and the illustrators of different translations.

Dreams Underfoot by Charles de Lint: I first read these short stories back in college? Law school? De Lint is considered a master of the urban fantasy subgenre; this first anthology shows the the development of his fictional city Newford (maybe Canadian, maybe American, maybe coastal, maybe not) and the various fairy denizens who are only rarely noticed by human residents. I had forgotten that some of these tales are straight up horror. I had not forgotten that de Lint has a chip on his shoulder about anyone one who lives a conventional life. Still, they are fun to read.

North Woods by Daniel Mason: another novel I loved. Taking place in western Massachusetts (where I grew up), it follows the history of a house originally built by a Puritan couple fleeing persecution and all the people who subsequently stay in that house, however briefly. Those people are all considered outsiders by society (some deservedly, most not), and Mason writes movingly about the peace they find in the house and its surrounding woods. It's fascinating to compare this to Richard McGuire's Here, which has the same concept but tells it in comic form.