UNDER THE WIDE AND STARRY SKY by Nancy Horan

I have an emerging benchmark for author-centered novels: if it doesn’t make me want to read the protagonist’s books, it isn’t that good. I knew The Paris Wife was a fantastic read when I found myself putting A Moveable Feast on my Classics Club list, despite the fact that I HATE Hemingway. Nancy Horan’s Under the Wide and Starry Sky had the same effect on me. Despite the fact that I am not a fan of “boy” fiction, I have decided to read Treasure Island, because her story of the relationship between Robert Louis Stevenson and his feisty American wife, Fanny, was so compelling that I have to see for myself what that romance gave to English literature.

I am not sure that most people know that Scotsman R.L. Stevenson owes so much of his legacy to his indomitable, much older, American wife, Fanny van de Grift Osbourne. I certainly didn’t know it. They met when she escaped her philandering Californian husband to forge her own existence as an artist in Europe. When she left Europe to give her marriage a second chance and the behest of her family, Stevenson was devastated. But when she sent a telegram saying she was sick and needed him, he forsook his family and his own health and traveled in steerage to the US, and then across North America, just to rescue her. (Frankly, it makes Darcy spending a few hundred unearned pounds to buy off Wickham seem pretty shoddy, indeed.)

Horan writes directly but sensitively, so that you feel the characters’ turmoil, without ever hating them for their bad behavior. Fanny is quick-tempered but always sorry for erupting; Louis is a brooder, and sometimes seems ungrateful for all Fanny has sacrificed for him and his career. Their love story is jagged and gripping. But I actually think for me thesome of the best parts of the book were Fanny and Louis’ insights into their travels together, as in this reflection in the Pacific:

He was too much of a realist to romanticize the South Sea islanders or demonize the whites who traded with them and lived among them. But as far as he could see, not much good had come of Europeans bringing their notions of civilization. Of the islands they’d visited, it seemed that the ones with the least contact with the outside world had fared best. And in many places the kanakas, as the natives were called, had been hideously misused by the colonizers. p. 364-365

I recommend this book to lovers of historical fiction and literary fiction. But also to anyone who loved Treasure Island or Kidnapped or Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Understanding Stevenson’s own problems with health and medicine, as well as his quest for the “perfect” climate to accommodate his frail lungs, will surely add complexity to those classics. I am looking forward to reading them myself, “boy” books be damned!

I read this as part of a TLC Book Tour. Thanks to Lisa for including me on the tour! Click here for links to other opinions about Nancy Horan’s Under the Wide and Starry Sky.

I AM VENUS by Bárbara Mujica

In a “perfect” novel, you wouldn’t notice narration. The perspective provided by the text would be so clear, so seamless, that the reader would have complete comprehension of the characters and plot. Of course, there is no “perfect” novel. Authors are constrained by language and struggle with the perspective of the narrator in their storytelling. In I Am Venus, Bárbara Mujica attempts to break free of those narrative constraints. I cannot say that I thought the experiment was totally successful, but I do appreciate the desire for enhanced perspective without multiple narrators that the author was striving to achieve.

The story starts with a prologue, in which the mysterious model for Diego Velásquez’s “The Toilette of Venus” describes the secret conditions that accompanied creation of the painting. Now in Britain’s National Gallery, “Venus” is the painter’s only extant nude, because the strict conservatism of the Catholic Church in Spain forbade painters from depicting illicit scenes. It caused a sensation when it was eventually found in the collection of a Spanish noble, but Velásquez managed to avoid prosecution because of the mythological subject matter: by adding Cupid holding a mirror, the painter went from pornographer to classicist under the Inquisitorial logic of the time.

The story focuses more on the life of Velásquez and his family than on the painting of Venus, however. This was where the peculiarities of the narration became apparent – and frankly distracting. The narration changed from first person to third person when the narrator was describing things about which she had no direct knowledge. However, it became clear that the first person narrator was also describing herself in the third person, as though she is looking on at her own life in an objective way – subjecting herself to the artist’s gaze, in a way. The choice is interesting, of course, because Velásquez famously used mirrors in both “The Toilette of Venus” and “Las Meninas” to work beyond the limiting borders of a flat canvas, giving it a 3-dimensional quality. And in “Las Meninas,” the artist boldly inserted himself into a portrait of the royal family, turning the painter himself into a subject. Perhaps that's what Mujica was trying to recreate with her fictitious author.

I liked the subject matter of this book very much. I knew next to nothing about Velásquez and the court of Felipe IV before I read it, so I really enjoyed learning about the history of post-Armada Spain. I was especially curious about the life of the painter after having the chance to see his Baroque masterpiece, “Las Meninas,” in the Prado a few years ago. I’d seen a hundred depictions of it, but seeing it in person was absolutely inspiring – it’s both beautiful and playful at the same time. So I was grateful for Mujica’s ability to bring the great master to life.

I was less satisfied by the character development in the book, however. I never got to love any of the main characters. This is especially odd considering who the mysterious model turns out to be in the end, but I don’t want to go into details. Suffice it to say that when I got to the end I felt like the narration choice made even less sense in retrospect. But maybe that’s just me. I read this book as part of a TLC Book Tour, so you can read other opinions of the book by following the links here. I received a copy of this book in return for my honest opinion. Thanks, as always, to Lisa for including me on the tour.

THE CROWN and THE CHALICE by Nancy Bilyeau

Careful folks, I’m about to gush! I enjoyed Nancy Bilyeau’s The Crown and its sequel, The Chalice, that much!

I think the best thing a historical novel can do is take a historical situation we’re all familiar with in some broad sense – say, the Great Depression or the Fall of the Roman Empire – and give the reader an idea of what it would actually be like to be one of the myriad people caught up in the historical circumstance. Not necessarily the people making the policy or winning the wars – there’s plenty of great academic history written about the kings, queens, presidents and popes that set the world spinning in one direction or another. Rather, I generally prefer historical novels in which those characters are secondary to “real people” who are dealing with the circumstances that they have purposefully or accidentally created. That is what Nancy Bilyeau has done with Sister Joanna – given us a window into what it would be like to live through Henry VIII’s brutal suppression of the Catholic Church.

By the way of backstory, one of the best seminars I ever took as an undergraduate was called “Tudor-Stewart Britain,” taught by a professor who was taken from the world far too early, Michael Foley. Needless to say, the

Dissolution of the Monasteries was a topic we discussed A LOT in that class. But I don’t think I ever really thought about what that would mean for the nuns, priests and brothers forced from their convents and abbeys until I read Bilyeau’s fantastic books. Through Sister Joanna, a young and brilliant Domincan novice from an old and landed family that had run afoul of the grasping Tudors, we get a real sense of what Henry’s policies, designed for the preservation of the tenuous Tudor dynasty, actually did to the people impacted by them.

In The Crown, Joanna goes through the first stage of mourning for her lost world: disbelief. She believes that events will somehow be turned around. And as it turns out, oily Bishop Gardiner of Winchester thinks he can use her relationship to Dartford Abbey to find the legendary Athelstan Crown, which has the magical power to bring Henry VIII – and his reforms – down. The book reads like a historical mystery, as we watch Sister Joanna try to figure out the mystery of where the crown may be kept. But there are other mysteries going on in the abbey as well, including the strange behavior of some of Joanna’s fellow novices. Oh, and there’s also a handsome, mysterious stranger who seems to have a knack for saving Joanna’s life. And a couple of displaced monks who help provide her with clues. I found it a total page-turner, even though I know how the history turns out, obviously, so we know going in that Sister Joanna can’t possibly succeed in ending the reforms she opposes so deeply.

By The Chalice, Joanna has moved onto the next phase of mourning: anger. Evicted from her abbey, and unwilling to live with her Stafford cousins, she is forced to try and make her way in the world – not a simple thing for an unmarried woman in Tudor England. She is not without means, being a distant relative of the king, and is able to come up with the money to buy a loom and begin a tapestry business. But the magical arc of the story continues, with a prophesy that indicates that she is the one who is meant to change the course of history. The only thing is, she has to willingly hear the second two parts of the prophesy, and she is not willing to be drawn into the fray again. But, of course, history intervenes, and her fury eventually leads her back into the Tudor Court – and eventually into the path of the famous mystic, Nostradamus.

I liked The Chalice even better than The Crown, because all the layers of intrigue helped illustrate how the English Reformation was viewed not only within England, but in other countries. Bilyeau also expanded the cast of characters, giving us insight into how dangerous the world of even the Tudor’s closest confidants could be if they appeared to be at all disloyal. The action never stopped – in fact, I read it cover to cover on a plane ride back from London. Having just seen Salisbury Cathedral, which was partially destroyed during the dissolution, I had an easy time imagining exactly what Sister Joanna had lost, and why she would be so frustrated by its loss.

The characters are beautifully drawn, but not at all black and white. Everyone’s motives are suspect – even Joanna’s at some points. Obviously, having left the abbey, there is more room for romance in the second novel, and constable Geoffrey Scoville seems like a likely candidate. But former friar Edmund Sommerville is also clearly smitten with Joanna. And when the romantic plot gets twisted up with the mystical prophesy plot and the historical facts, Bilyeau manages to weave it all together like a beautiful tapestry. It was the kind of book that I was sad to finish, because I knew if it was on a book tour, the next book in the series probably wasn’t out yet! It kept me that interested.

I definitely have to thank Audra at Unabridged Chick, one of the book blogger world’s go-to people for historical fiction. Her earlier review of The Chalice really piqued my interest, and when she mentioned it was the second book in a series, I mentally put them on both on my TBR. About a week later I found out they were on a TLC book tour and jumped on the proverbial bandwagon. I received a complimentary copy of both books – and only the books – in return for my honest opinion. Thanks, as always, to Lisa for including Col Reads on the tour. For other opinions on this fantastic title, please look here.

Godiva by Nicole Galland

Maybe because I studied medieval history as an undergraduate, historical novels set in that era have a particular fascination for me. I love trying to imagine characters that I know from chronicles and legends take on personal details and emotional lives that their original biographers wouldn’t have been interested in – and even if they were, they might not have recorded for political reasons. This is particularly salient when it comes to medieval women. With some notable exceptions – mostly saints and queens – women operated below the level of interest for those recording histories during the medieval period. This is hardly surprising, since many of those writers were clergy, and had very little interaction with women at all. Which is a long explanation for why I was really looking forward to reading Nicole Galland’s Godiva -- and why I truly enjoyed it too, even though it takes more a feminist turn than I think would be historically accurate.

First, the fabulous. Galland does a really fantastic job of writing about an actual friendship between historical women. Godiva, Countess of Mercia, is a long-time friend of Edgiva, the Abbess of Leominster and also a member of the tenuous royal family. This book actually passes the famous Bechdel* test: the book has two female characters; they talk to each other; and they don’t always discuss a man. It’s surprising how many historical fiction novels centered on women don’t pass that test. In this case, Godiva and Edgiva are united in their opposition to an unfair tax, the heregold, which ultimately results in the great Lady’s infamous ride. This is actually a twist on the original story, in which Godiva defies her husband with her ride, but I liked the arc of the story better with Godiva opposing the king, rather than her husband.

Next, the quibbles. The novel takes place at the end of the Anglo-Saxon era in England, when England was culturally more a Scandinavian country than a Continental one, with powerful earls like Leofric of Mercia, Godiva’s husband, loosely held together by an essentially foreign king, Edward the Confessor. Galland uses this fact to justify Godiva’s seemingly modern attitudes and behavior. (Less than 20 years after the events detailed in this book, William the Conqueror and the Normans overran the island and brought closer ties to the Catholic Church.) But while I’ll certainly concede women had more property rights in the Anglo-Saxon era, nothing I’ve ever read, including Sigred Undset’s painstakingly researched Kristenlavransdatter trilogy, indicates that women had the kind of autonomy – economic and sexual – that Godiva wields at any time in Europe until at least the 1970s. For me, that gave the book an anachronistic feel – or maybe it would be better to call it a “New Age” feel, kind of like Zimmer Bradley’s Mists of Avalon or Tobin’s Ice Land, rather than a traditional historical novel.

For example, at one point, Godiva tries to convince one of her husband’s rivals of her availability:

“I am barren,” she whispered. “Not that I was desperate for motherhood anyhow, in this world where someone else nurses the babe and someone else yet raises it. Where is the motherhood in that? No wonder the likes of Queen Emma became such a heartless and conniving monster. My very womb rebelled against it early. So you see, there is not the slightest danger of embarrassment to Leofric, and he knows I would never make a fool of myself.” (p. 58)

The problem is, that was motherhood back then. The current conception of motherhood as nurturing and child-focused is just that – modern. What would have been Godiva’s basis for comparison? It seems too progressive a statement for a time when even wealthy women had trouble living through childbirth and children’s life expectancies were brutally short. Nursing and fostering were thought to benefit the children and the family. From what does the childless Godiva construct her alternative motherhood? As Ralph Linton said, “The last thing a fish would ever notice would be water.”

That said, I enjoyed the novel, and I think it was mostly successful. Galland certainly managed to pull the action away from romantic entanglements and on to issues of social importance. I was surprised by the ending, mostly because the focus shifted from Godiva to Edgiva, and considering the title and the legendary events portrayed, I hadn’t expected it. But I actually liked it. This novel is a great choice for historical fictionistas, but I’d also see it as a choice for those who enjoy New Age fantasy, and are looking to stretch a little beyond the genre.

I read this book as part of a TLC Book Tour, and received a free copy of the book in return for my honest opinion. For other takes on Nicole Galland's Godiva, please follow the links here. Thanks, as always, to Trish for including me on the tour!

*Bechdel, A. (n.d.). The Rule. Retrieved July 11, 2013 from http://www.flickr.com/photos/zizyphus/34585797/. Go ahead, try to find a blockbuster movie that passes the test this summer. It ain’t easy!

Book Review: EQUAL OF THE SUN by Anita Amirrezvani

Growing up one of my best friends had a dad from Iran. Only the family never referred to it as Iran. They referred to themselves as “Persian.” Over the years, spending time at their house, “Persian” came to stand for a beautiful (though unintelligible) language, sweet desserts and colorful carpets. And over the years, as more and more bad news came out of the Middle East, I think I’ve compartmentalized my beliefs: Iran as a political entity, and Persia as a culture. Little wonder, then, that I jumped at the chance to read Anita Amirrezvani’s Equal of the Sun, a historical novel about Imperial Safavi Persia.

The book tells the story of Pari Khan Khanoom Safavi, a powerful daughter of Shah Tahmasb, as told by her faithful eunuch servant, Javaher. Pari is both a diplomat and a poet, a woman of great importance. In fact, during her father’s reign she was one of his most trusted advisors. But her father’s death turns her world upside down, and she and Javaher have to negotiate a completely different world than the one they have previously inhabited.

This book was the first I’ve read about the Safavi dynasty, and I was surprised and intrigued by the power of the women in the book. Yes, they were part of an Islamic world. But according to Amirrezvani many were able to wield a behind-the-scenes power I never imagined. In fact, Pari uses her gender to her advantage. At one point, her former guardian vaguely suggests that Pari might have been involved in her brother’s death:

From behind her curtain, Pari said, “Curious rumors are always circulating amoung you men about the royal harem. You seem to imagine it as an opium den full of connivers, but it s more like an army regiment organized by rank and task. How could you know what goes on in the harem? Have you ever been inside?”

“Of course not,” said Khalil Khan.

“Then I think you are best off leaving such concerns to me.” p. 339

I was also fascinated by the long-term orientation of the characters in the book as they created and destroyed alliances based on their own goals. Amirrezvani presents the reader with a ruthless world where the Shah was truly all-powerful, with the fate of his subjects literally in his hands, to dispose of as he saw fit. Individuals in the palace are shown constantly balancing their own needs against the Shah’s, advancing often by the destruction of others.

As a historical novel, Equal of the Sun has exactly what you’d ask for: strong, likeable characters, exotic locations, believable relationships and lots of intrigue. Even at more than 400 pages it’s a quick read, and lots of fun, although the unfamiliar names and shifting alliances were sometimes confusing. I really enjoyed it, and I’d recommend it highly for those who enjoy historical fiction, particularly those with an interest in Middle Eastern history. Another one for the Historical Fiction Challenge!

I read this book as part of a TLC Book Tour, and received a free copy of the book in return for my honest opinion. For links to other opinions, look here.

Book Review: Angela Davis Gardner's BUTTERFLY'S CHILD

Very few people can have watched the tragic end of the famed opera, Madama Butterfly, without wondering what happened to the little boy she loved and hoped to protect through her own suicide, placing him in the care of his American father, Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton. Angela Davis-Gardner’s Butterfly’s Child offers one possible glimpse of Benji Pinkerton’s future in a novel that certainly captures the raw emotion of Puccini’s masterwork. The novel is beautifully written, and the story is compelling, but it also left me oddly deflated, without the hope that infuses the opera it’s based on*.

Imagine what life would be like for Benji in rural Illinois at the turn of the last century. Frank and Kate Pinkerton tell everyone they’ve selflessly adopted a “heathen” child, although it’s clear to anyone who bothers to look that Benji can’t be pure Japanese. The newly married Kate is devastated to learn of her husband’s liaison with Butterfly, and struggles to give Frank an American family of their own. Benji finds love from his grandmother, Mrs. Pinkerton, and the local veterinarian, Dr. Keast, and he grows up a motivated and intelligent young man, determined to find his mother’s family in Japan. But Davis-Gardner takes Pinkerton down a far darker road than the one I’d imagined, turning what was a callow fellow in the opera into a truly cruel one in the novel. As his web of lies unravels, it’s clear they’ve turned him into a worse father than he was a husband – poor Butterfly sadly bet wrong on his character:

Rage boiled up in him. He imagined lashing Benji with a cat-o’-nine-tails, wrapping it around his neck, and tearing off that suffragist’s clothes and making her march through town naked. In the saloon, men would take turns with her. Aimee Moore too – she was in on this. pg. 221

This book contains a couple of huge plot twists that I don’t want to give away because they are central to the novel. But in the end I can say that one of those twists unfortunately rang hollow to me – specifically, the one that involved the US diplomat Sharpless, who had grown fond of Butterfly and sought a way to revenge her death. “Really?” I couldn’t help wondering aloud. I am not sure how exactly to walk the literary line between “life” and “art” in this kind of a novel, and I am looking forward to hearing others’ opinions on this plot line.

I love novels with multicultural themes, and this one does a great job of dealing with race from many perspectives, without much sentimentality or anachronism. I also love opera, and I enjoyed Davis-Gardner’s reexamination of Puccini’s characterizations. There is a lot to like in this novel, but in the end I didn’t find it as satisfying a “next act” as I had hoped. But maybe my own thoughts on the opera made that inevitable.

I read this book as part of a TLC book tour, and received a copy of the book in return for my honest opinion. For other opinions, check out the links here.

In 140 characters or less: Angela Davis-Gardner’s emotional look at the consequences of Madama Butterfly’s final, desperate act of love.

*Yeah, I know it sounds weird to call an opera that ends with a woman plunging a knife into her chest “hopeful,” but in the sense that she is taking a leap of faith in her “husband” Pinkerton, I’ve always seen it that way.

Book Review: R.L. Prendergast's DINNER WITH LISA

I grew up with my father’s stories of the Great Depression. Only it never seemed so depressing at all. My father was part of a huge Irish-American family, growing up among some 30 cousins in New York City. He spoke wistfully about taking potato sandwiches to school because there was no meat. And how he hated rice, because eating it meant that they couldn’t even afford potatoes. (To this day, my dad won’t eat rice unless it’s safely tucked under a plate of Chinese food!)

R.L. Prendergast’s Dinner with Lisa gave me a new appreciation for my own family’s Depression era history. So much so that I already put the book on my dad’s Christmas list. It’s that good!

Joseph Gaston is out of luck. His beloved wife died right after the birth of their fourth child, and his small farm has been taken in bankruptcy. His only hope for his family’s future lies a week’s train ride away on the other end of Canada, in a little town called Philibuster, where his Quebecois brother Henri and his wife have helped him secure a coveted job at a local dairy. Without a job, he might soon be forced to give up the children to a relative – or worse, the government . Prendergast does a good job of outlining the bleak options available to the poor in mid-Depression, as well as explaining the failed policies that brought them to that place. Sometimes the situations seem eerily familiar:

Joseph had heard stories of camps where men spent eight hours a day clearing brush and piling stones. The workers could have been employed productively, cutting timber to make houses for the poor, or constructing public buildings, but for the fact that some big contractor or lumber company with political connections would raise a stink. Free labour would kill their businesses. The rich knew how to stick together.Kindle location 1775

I remember my dad telling stories about his uncles getting work with the W.P.A., and I always love seeing the results of those projects when I visit National Parks in the US. The book made me think about how bad the situation must have been for the government to have taken such extraordinary steps to put people to work.

Joseph soon finds that the little town retains its Wild West character, with a crooked mayor, divided loyalties and a deep hatred of outsiders that constantly threaten to undermine his chance at a new life. But it’s also home to a group of industrious free spirits who are making the best out of a very bad situation, finding fun, food and fellowship whenever and wherever they can. The supporting cast brought Prendergast’s novel to life for me: Beth Hoogaboom, the rowdy dry goods store owner; Police Chief Montgomery Quentin, who knows the dark side of the mayor’s policies, but remains under his thumb to keep his job; and Tom Wah, a Chinese immigrant fearful of losing the family he has built in Canada to the town’s bigotry. I also loved the intimate way the Prendergast brought us into the lifeworld of the Canadian plains, with black blizzards and freezing temperatures and lots and lots of gophers.

Dinner with Lisa was a surprising title. I sat down to read it and didn’t put it down until I finished. Prendergast is a new author to me, but I will definitely seek out more of his work. This is highly recommended for lovers of historical fiction, Canadian fiction, and fiction with Western themes.

I read this book as part of a Premier Virtual Author Book Tour, and received a copy of the book in return for my honest opinion. For other opinions, check out the links here.

This is another hit for the Historical Fiction 2012 Challenge hosted by Historical Tapestry. Looks like there is little chance of me not finishing that one!

Book Review: ENCHANTMENTS by Kathryn Harrison

How does a teenager process the fact that her beloved father’s murder signals the death knell of the world she’s known? What part of her old world can she take with her into the ominous new one? And who can she turn to for comfort when her lot in life is to comfort others? These would be difficult enough questions to tackle for any young woman – but for a daughter of the monk Rasputin, the personal turmoil reverberates throughout a country.

Kathryn Harrison’s Enchantments is a beautifully written story about the end of the Romanov dynasty, imagined from the point of view of an actual eyewitness: Matryona “Masha” Rasputina. Novels that present a well-known story from a new standpoint are certainly not uncommon. Still, there is something to be said for “pivoting the table” as my quantitative friends would say, and exploring a tale from a new or unique angle. Harrison uses the tsarina’s desperation at the loss of Rasputin to bring Masha inside the palace as a surrogate healer for her hemophiliac son, Tsarevich Alexander, which gives her narrative a unique insider/outsider perspective on the last days of the royal family – and a turbulent time in history.

The novel centers on the relationship between the tsarevich, known to his family as Aloysha, and Masha. Rasputin led the tsarina to believe that Masha shared his healing powers, but Masha is not convinced, and instead uses her true gift – story telling – to amuse the doomed young man while they wait for they know not what. Ironically, her stories give him an appreciation for a Russia that none of the other Romanovs ever bothered to know, which is the reason why he’ll never rule it.

Harrison’s writing is rich and evocative, as she describes the end of an era:

In the years before the Bolsheviks seized the city, St. Petersburg was a playground in the throes of a kind of decadence – determined, desperate – that presages collapse. As if the aristocracy knew apocalypse was imminent and, also knowing there was nothing to prevent its arrival, stayed up drinking and dancing and inhaling cocaine when they could get their hands on any, distracting themselves by whatever means they found. Spending money in a frenzy of champagne, caviar, jewels, gowns. On parties with full orchestras, themed costume balls excusing all manner of ostentation: hostesses riding through ballrooms on gilded elephants, servants dressed up like gondoliers or Vikings or pharaohs. p. 180

I loved Masha’s voice, but unfortunately the disjointed, asynchronous narrative was not as successful for me. The story jumps from Rasputin’s early life to the family’s time in St. Petersburg to Siberian folk wisdom to Masha’s exile from Russian rather incoherently at times, so that I often didn’t have a handle on the plot. I cared about the characters, but in fits and starts. I also found the “coming of age” portions of the book between Aloysha and Masha squirm-inducing. They seemed to belong more in a YA title than in this one – especially because they were accompanied by high-end philosophical thought on the nature of virtue and morality.

Still, the story was interesting and fast-paced, and it made me rethink what I knew about Rasputin and the Romanovs, so I would highly recommend it to lovers of historical fiction, especially those with an interest in imperial Russia. This title counts toward the Historical Fiction 2012 Challenge, which seems to be the only one I’m tearing up so far this year. Thanks to Historical Tapestry for hosting! I do have some additional books to review, though, so I’m hoping to start really making progress on my reading goals for the year!

I read this book as part of a TLC book tour, and received a copy of the book in return for my honest opinion. For other opinions, check out the links here.

In 140 characters or less:The beginning of adulthood and the end of the world from a Rasputin's perspective.

Venice in February: Balzac’s Massimilla Doni and Corona’s The Four Seasons

In eighteenth and nineteenth century Venice, music was an obsession, marriage was a part-time occupation, and love was a spectator sport. Ironically, I read two books written more than 150 years apart by authors from two different continents (neither of them Venetian), for Bellezza and Ally's Venice in February event and found them strikingly similar.

The first was Honoré de Balzacs classic novella Massimilla Doni, which forms part of his masterwork, La Comedie Humaine. One of my goals for this year was to read some of the classics I’ve missed up until now, and Balzac was on that list, so I figured I’d test the waters with one of his shorter works. I actually enjoyed it, but his flowery style and the treacly heroine made it a bit slow-going at times.

Emilio Cane is a prince with no money, thanks to the conquering Austrian’s usurpation of the family patrimony. He falls in love with the beautiful and virtuous Massimilla Doni, an heiress who has been married off in a loveless marriage to the aging Duke Cataneo, and they hold hands and yearn for each other while chastely occupying her fabulous villa for what seems like the first half of the novella. But when renowned soprano Clarina Tinti and the great tenor Genovese arrive in Venice, the lovers quickly head back to town for the musical season. This is when the book becomes really interesting, as the tempestuous Clarina becomes – through a set of pretty unbelievable circumstances – Massimilla’s rival for Emilio’s affection.

The Duke, as it turns out, would like an heir, but has no interest in helping Massimilla out in that way, so he and apparently everyone else in Venice are anxious for Emilio and Massimilla to just get on with it. Balzac leads the characters down a circuitous road that involves opium, stage fright and suicide, examining the impact of passion on both relationships and art, and also manages to give the reader a nifty synopsis of Rossini’s Mosè in Egitto, all in the course of a 120 page novella. Phew!

For a lighter take on Venice, I returned to one of my comfort zones: the historical novel. I have had Laurel Corona’s The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi’s Venice on my TBR pile since I first read about it. I have loved Vivaldi’s masterpiece since I first saw those pixies spreading dewdrops to it in Disney’s Fantasia, and I thought I’d enjoy a novelization of how it came about. And I would have, if that’s what I read – but Corona actually delivered so much more than I’d anticipated with this fantastic book!

Maddalena and Chiaretta are abandoned as children by their courtesan mother on the doorstep of the Ospedale della Pieta, an orphanage known for its famous “coro” of musically gifted young women who perform for Venetian society. The young women of Pieta are taught the womanly arts and allowed to make money from their crafts and performances until they are old enough to either get married or enter a convent – the basic choices for women in 18th century Venice. Chiaretta’s extraordinary voice leads her to the coro early on, but Maddalena’s talent with the violin goes almost unnoticed until Vivaldi (who I had no idea was a priest) takes the job as musical director of the coro. Vivaldi begins to write for the sisters, and the novel follows the sisters’ diverging paths: Chiaretta as the wife of a wealthy Venetian businessman and Maddalena as Vivaldi’s muse.

The irony is that the cloistered life of the Pieta actually gives Maddalena far more autonomy than Chiaretta has as a member of Venetian society. In order to marry Chiaretta, her husband signed an agreement that she would never sing in public, so the book puts the sisters’ struggle with their musical passions in stark relief. Chiaretta adores her husband, but finds that fidelity is not an accepted part of marriage in Venice. In fact, her husband goes so far as to choose her paramour. This seems to have been a function of Venetian society, where to keep wealth in the family, second daughters were put into convents and second sons acted as a sort of “honor guard” for the women whose husbands were otherwise engaged with the city’s courtesans – unless they went into the priesthood, like Vivaldi.

The Four Seasons was a surprise. The female characters were complex and interesting – such a contrast to Balzac’s heroine. I would heartily recommend it to any lover of historical fiction, especially those who love books associated with masterpieces, like Tracy Chevalier’s novels. As for Massimilla Doni, I would say it’s an accessible introduction to La Comedie Humaine. I enjoyed it, and I think anyone interested in the roots of French literature would too. Just don’t expect Zola!

I did some double-dipping with my Venice in February titles. Massimilla Doni is my translated classic for the Back to the Classics 2012 Challenge, and The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi’s Venice counts toward the Historical Fiction Challenge 2012. Thanks to Sarah Reads Too Much and Historical Tapestry for hosting!

Book Review: SONOMA ROSE by Jennifer Chiaverini

Normally, I am a person who hates to come into a book series in the middle. So I’m going to admit to being a little worried when Jennifer Chiaverini’s Sonoma Rose arrived and I saw the subtitle: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel. I had never heard of the series, so I went to visit the site and realized I was jumping into the middle of what appeared to be a cottage industry: novels, fabric patterns, even a cookbook, all inspired by Chiaverini’s work. There was no way to catch up (there are already 18 books in the series), so I just decided to jump in and hope for the best. I’m happy to say I was rewarded with a novel of depth and grit that brought a time and a place that I know very little about – Prohibition era California – to life.

The novel begins with Rosa Diaz Barclay trapped in a loveless and increasingly volatile marriage to John, desperate at having lost four of her 8 children to a mysterious wasting disease that attacked them right after they were weaned. Two of her four remaining children suffer from the same affliction, although the other two, including her eldest, are completely healthy. Having been abandoned by her family, her only support comes from her childhood sweetheart, Lars Jorgensen, and a new arrival in Arboles Valley, Elizabeth Nelson. When Elizabeth witnesses one of John’s jealous rages, the stage is set for Rosa to run. The family’s attempt to free themselves both from the tyranny of an abusive spouse and the nightmare of a disease that the local doctors cannot understand comprise the main action of the novel, and I was caught up in Rosa’s world from the very beginning.

This novel serves up a really interesting piece of historical fiction, and throws in a offbeat love story for good measure. Rosa and her family find themselves among the desperate northern California vineyard owners who are trying to hold onto their land and their heritage as Prohibition slowly destroys their way of life. I had never really thought about the unintended effects of Prohibition on law abiding citizens – and how desperation might have forced vineyard owners into relationships with criminals, just to keep their heads above water. The book emphasizes the ambiguity of the time by contrasting the slimy Prohibition agent, Dwight Crowell, with the protective bootlegger, Mr. Lucerno.

It was also fascinating to think about how much medicine has changed our lives in less than 100 years. In the time before genetic testing and antibiotics, illness must have seemed so much more mysterious and ominous than it does to us now. Rosa’s attempts to deal with her children’s condition were so heartbreaking that any mother reading could easily put herself in Rosa’s place.

While Sonoma Rose was identified as part of the Elm Creek Quilt series, quilts and quilt-making are only tangential to the storyline. From what I’ve read, this may make Sonoma Rose an unusual part of the collection, but for me it meant there was no problem understanding what was going. It’s possible that the heirloom quilts that Elizabeth gives Rosa are detailed in a previous book, but not knowing that didn’t detract in any way from my enjoyment of the book.

I’ve been reading a lot of translated fiction and classic fiction lately, and Sonoma Rose was a nice, light break. Not being a quilter, I’m not sure if I’d go back and read the rest of the series. But I did enjoy this novel very much, and recommend it to those interested in 20th century historical fiction, regardless of whether they are quilters or not. This book counts for the Historical Fiction Challenge 2012 – it’s about time I got something done, challenge-wise, to keep February from being a complete bust! Thanks to everyone at Historical Tapestry for hosting!

I read this book as part of a TLC book tour, and received a copy of the book in return for my honest opinion. For other opinions, check out the links here.

Book Review: All the Flowers in Shanghai by Duncan Jepson

Without meaning to do it, I’ve read a number of novels recently with unsympathetic first-person narrators. But Duncan Jepson’s All the Flowers in Shanghai is unique among my recent reads, since the narrator, Feng, is completely aware that she is unsympathetic. In fact, the entire book is a kind of letter to her daughter, begging for forgiveness for a life that at the end she wishes she had lived differently. It’s an interesting approach to a novel.

Part of Feng’s tragedy is that so little of what occurs is under her control, at least initially. She is forced by her parents (well, mostly her mother) into an arranged and advantageous marriage in 1930s Shanghai. Jepson’s description of her first days with the powerful Sang family is captivating and heartbreaking. Imagine going into your marriage with no idea of how babies are made. And without that knowledge, how traumatized you would be with your first nights of marriage, even under the best of circumstances (which her husband Xiong Fa doesn’t provide). I thought Jepson did a good job of bringing that distant reality to life for me.

Clearly, living in a family in which a dropped teacup could mean long-lasting disgrace would either toughen you up or weed you out. Feng takes the “toughen up” route. Her bitterness at her parents’ treatment of her, her bewilderment at her beloved grandfather’s abandoning her on her wedding day and her terror of her husband’s brutal advances forged a woman as hard as steel – and just as cold. Jepsom makes Feng’s pain and resignation powerful and real, as when she asks her parents why she must marry Xiong Fa:

My question would remain unacknowledged because it needed no answer: the answer was already part of history itself. Unlike the ancient dead empire whose language described the flowers and trees, China had flourished and survived for five thousand years. It had survived because it must. It had survived by forcing its people to adhere willingly to ancient customs and rules, no matter what self-mutilation and pain that entailed or self deception was required. p. 72

However, it’s the choices she makes after she achieves some status and power that make Feng such a difficult character to understand. She doesn’t seem to learn much from her own suffering. But is that expecting too much? This book really left me wondering about the cultural framing of motherhood. If frames are a common understanding of a concept, then the U.S. American understanding of a mother can be distilled into one word: “nurturing.” But it seems clear to me that it is far from a universal concept. With Feng I feel like we get maternal Realpolitik, so pragmatic as to appear unfeeling, so realistic as to appear ugly. And yet, I’m wondering how much of my feelings about this character can be attributed to Feng’s actions, and how much can be attributed to my cultural expectations of Feng. In the final analysis, Feng makes her own judgment on herself. But others seem to evaluate her differently. In all fairness, the The Great Leap Forward didn’t necessarily advantage mothers who baked cookies and read bedtime stories. If Feng’s children were in a position to live through the Civil War and the Red Guard purges, didn’t she do a good job on some level?

Strangely, I didn’t feel like Jepson’s first-person narration gave me great insight into the characters. The historical and cultural parts of the book were more interesting than the characters for me – externalities were explained better than internalities. I would have liked the author to depict the second phase of Feng’s life, away from Shanghai, more thoroughly. Maybe that would have rendered her change of heart more believable. As it was, Feng’s lack of empathy made it hard for me to understand why people like her maid Yan and her friend Madam Zhang were so loyal to her.

Still, this is a solid debut novel. Jepson has evoked a time and a place I knew little about, and made me want to know more. I’d recommend it to those interested in historical novels, especially those with an interest in recent Chinese history. It counts toward the Historical Fiction Challenge 2012, and others working on that challenge may want to check this one out. Thanks to Historical Tapestry for hosting!

I read this book as part of a TLC Book Tour, and received a free copy of the book in exchange for my honest opinion. Please feel free to check out these other stops on the tour for more opinions:

Tuesday, December 20th: Unabridged Chick

Wednesday, December 21st: The Lost Entwife

Tuesday, December 27th: Book Hooked Blog

Wednesday, December 28th: Raging Bibliomania

Thursday, December 29th: Life in the Thumb

Monday, January 2nd: Jo-Jo Loves to Read!

Tuesday, January 3rd: Broken Teepee

Wednesday, January 4th: Savvy Verse & Wit

Thursday, January 5th: BookNAround

Monday, January 9th: Reflections of a Bookaholic

Tuesday, January 10th: Col Reads

Wednesday, January 11th: Bloggin’ ‘Bout Books

Monday, January 16th: The Adventures of an Intrepid Reader

Tuesday, January 17th: Peeking Between the Pages

Wednesday, January 18th: The House of the Seven Tails

Thursday, January 19th: Library of Clean Reads

Book Review: Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford

I remember how jarring it was to find out about the Japanese internment camps that dotted the country during the Second World War while reading Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston and James Houston’s touching story, Farewell to Manzanar, in middle school. “My government would actually do something like that?” I wondered. I remember asking my father, who admitted that it was the case – and he was also honest enough to admit that he didn’t think right after Pearl Harbor most European Americans felt very bad about what was happening to Japanese Americans, even if in hindsight it makes absolutely no sense.

But I haven’t read anything else about that particular period in American history, so I was happy to see that Jamie Ford’s Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet was on the reading list for my book club’s December meeting. I was hoping to get more of an “adult” view of the time period, since Wakatsuki Houston was writing a memoir of her childhood. In retrospect, that expectation may have been my biggest problem with the book, because what Ford gives us is a very interesting novel told from the perspective of a Chinese American child, Henry Lee, who loses his closest friend, a Japanese American girl named Keiko Okabe, to the internment camps.

I enjoyed this book, but I didn’t love it. I did think Ford did a good job of bringing to life a tension that I frankly never thought about: the rift between the Chinese and Japanese diasporas living on the West Coast of the US during World War II. Pan-Asian tension over Japan’s actions during WWII, and accusations about the country’s subsequent attempts to “whitewash” those actions, still flares up regularly in Asia – in fact, it’s so common there’s a Wikipedia entry called “Japanese history textbook controversies.” Henry’s family in China was clearly at risk during the war, and his parents’ feelings might have been rendered comprehensible to the reader, even if they remained unjustified. Instead, Ford leaves Henry’s family completely unsympathetic throughout the book. I saw that as a major flaw, considering Henry’s decisions toward the end of the novel.

My other big problem with the book was the relationship of Henry and Keiko. Sure, my dad is always saying that people “grew up faster” during the Depression and the War. But I had a really hard time buying into a love story centered on 12-year-olds. If they had been friends for years before the internment order, the story would have made more sense to me. Or perhaps if they’d been older when they met, it might have worked better. The action seemed kind of abrupt, and the rationale simply wasn’t well-developed enough to capture me completely.

My book club had mixed opinions on this one. Many agreed that the characterizations of two of the supporting characters, lunch lady Mrs. Beatty and street sax player Sheldon Thomas, were the best in the book. We also loved the way Ford used the device of the abandoned items from Japantown in Seattle to anchor the story. “Sweet” was a word that came up often in our discussion. But while some were enthusiastic about Ford’s writing style and narrative flow, others weren’t as impressed. Some thought the book had a YA feel, which isn’t necessarily bad, but indicated a lack of character development and ambiguity. I can see why this book has a real following, especially for those who love historically based romances. It is definitely a standout first novel and I would definitely read another Ford title.

TLC Book Tour Review: Susan V. Weiss’ My God, What Have We Done?

How do we deal with the unforeseen consequences of our greatest efforts? What is the opportunity cost of action versus inaction? These are the questions that Susan V. Weiss’ new novel, My God, What Have We Done?, asks the reader to consider throughout the two stories she has surprisingly woven together in this remarkable new novel.

The first story is Pauline and Clifford’s. It’s the story of a modern, young married woman’s loneliness in her marriage. Pauline loves her self-possessed husband Clifford, and her needy children. Still, she can’t quite find happiness. She married a man who was quiet and distant, only to be disappointed by his solitary nature. Pauline is a frustrating character – she seems to desire movement and change when none is really necessary. Instead of enjoying the different phases of her life, she wishes them away for some other future that isn’t well defined, except for the fact that it isn’t the one she is currently building. Still, her struggles are both commonplace and touching:

But as much as a mother may love her child, the unvarying replay of challenges that need to be mastered during the process of growth and the repetitive schedule can become tiresome. While Jasper worked with all his might to become a toddler, I escaped the monotony of our days together by reading, and during these lapses of vigilance, my son sometimes would fall and cry, get frustrated and cry, miss my attention and cry. (page 131)

What young mother hasn’t felt that way? And yet Pauline seems to think that if she isn’t actively engaged at every moment, something is lost.

The second story is that of Pauline’s historical “crush,” J. Robert “Oppie” Oppenheimer, and his wife Kitty, as Oppenheimer feverishly tried to finish the atomic bomb at Los Alamos, New Mexico, during the final days of the Second World War. Kitty and her young son Peter have been dragged to the middle of the desert by her husband, where isolation and loneliness lead her to alcohol. Maybe it’s the historian in me, but it was this remote story that touched me the most. Kitty’s plight seemed out of her hands, compared with Pauline’s. The circumstances of her husband’s life separated him from almost everyone – even her, the person who had been his closest confidante. She knew enough about her husband’s work to know that she might be waiting for not the end of some annoying childhood phase, but the end of the world as she knew it, which served to make her struggles far more heartbreaking to me, despite the fact that her behavior was in many ways shocking.

Weiss dares the reader to compare the relative ease of our day-to-day existence with the hardships faced by the scientists working at Los Alamos. Their common purpose is extraordinary, although their diligent activity ultimately brings about the worst kind of destruction. How do we judge the result?

I enjoyed this book immensely, although I admit I found it a bit uneven. Both stories were very compelling, but Weiss’ philosophical musings on the meaning of the atomic bomb struck me as too direct – almost like some kind of omniscient Greek chorus. This would be a fabulous book for a book club – I can imagine people reacting to this book completely differently, depending on their age and life experience. I would recommend this book to both lovers of contemporary literature and historical fiction, as well as those who enjoy literature about the Second World War. There is something here for all of those groups.

I read this book as part of a TLC Book Tour, and received a free copy of the book in return for my honest opinion. I hope you’ll visit these other stops on the tour:

Monday, October 10th: Steph and Tony Investigate
Tuesday, October 11th: Col Reads
Wednesday, October 12th: Regular Rumination
Wednesday, October 12th: The Well-Read Wife

Book Review: Faith L. Justice's Selene of Alexandria

Have you ever gotten to the end of a book and been so wrapped up in the main character’s world that you ran immediately to the computer to order the sequel – only to be crushed because no sequel exists? Then you have a pretty good idea of how I felt when I finished Faith L. Justice’s Selene of Alexandria.

I can’t say that I’d ever thought much about Rome’s Eastern Empire – and what eventually became the Orthodox Church – until I read SusieBookworm’s review of Selene of Alexandria. (I focused mostly on Medieval Europe during my undergraduate career, so I guess what happened in Constantinople stayed in Constantinople, if you know what I mean.)

So I was amazed to be so immediately taken in by Selene and her 5th century Egyptian Christian world. Justice blends historical characters with fictional ones seamlessly, pinning her story to historical events. The female philosopher Hypatia lived in 5th century Alexandria and ran the last Platonic academy there. So the placement of Selene, a young noblewoman who longs to become a physician, doesn’t seem as anachronistic as it might have. Selene’s family is impoverished by the Roman system of landowner fees, so she could improve her family’s fortunes with a good match. But her kind-hearted father sees her potential, and allows her to study medicine, which (predictably) leads to a host of complications.

The complications are the most interesting part of the book, actually, because Justice uses them to illustrate 5th century Egyptian society: the factionalism, the anti-Semitism, the tension between civil and religious authority. It was fascinating how Justice chronicles the rise of the Church as a form of class warfare, through which those born outside of the nobility could achieve power – and wealth. Bishop Cyril gives Cardinal Richelieu a run for his money as the pre-Machiavellian heavy, complete with a holy army of club-wielding monks to attack pagans. I was shocked to realize the cold, calculating character drawn by Justice actually goes on to become a Father of the Church, and a saint in both the Roman Catholic and Greek Orthodox traditions. It’s a sobering thought, but it certainly added to my interest in the book.

The love stories didn’t work as well for me as other parts of the book, however. I found it difficult to see what Selene saw in Orestes, the Roman prefect – he seemed too self-centered and crafty for someone with her altruistic impulses. The secondary love story, between her brother Phillip and the family’s Jewish maid, Rebecca, wasn’t developed well enough for me to understand the drastic decisions made at the end of the book. All in all, I felt like I was left with a bunch of cliffhangers, romance-wise – and no chance to resolve them.

Still, I loved learning about Selene’s world, and would welcome a chance to go back! So if anyone hears about a sequel to this one, let me know, okay?

Book Reviews: Georgette Heyer’s Frederica and The Masqueraders

Ah, romance!

There is something wonderfully comforting about reading a novel in which the most exciting element is a rather chaste kiss – the first of many, we are to believe, because nice women don’t kiss men who aren’t going to be their husbands. A place where good men are trustworthy and cads are harshly dealt with. A place where a woman’s main job is to find the perfect husband. A place where a happy ending is guaranteed.

When I’m looking to be transported to a simpler and happier place than the world in which I live, I know I can turn to the guilty pleasure of a Regency Romance. Apparently I’ve needed a bit of “transportation” this summer, because I’ve read two such books in the past two months, and enjoyed them thoroughly.

My first was Georgette Heyer’s Frederica, a delightful if predicable story about the strong-willed young woman who comes to London for a season in search of a successful match for her beautiful but slow-witted younger sister, Charis. She employs the help of a distant cousin and confirmed bachelor, The Marquis of Alverstoke, to ease Charis’ way in society. The Marquis goes along with the plan to annoy his conniving sisters, but gets more than he bargained for when he unintentionally becomes the protector of Frederica’s exuberant brothers and their bad-mannered dog, “the Baluchistan hound.” Frederica is resigned to her role as spinster and guardian to her young brothers, but I had enough faith in the genre to figure that wasn’t going to happen. Still, the energetic brothers and the Marquis’ scheming sisters make for some interesting plot twists. Nothing taxing, but still thoroughly enjoyable.

I enjoyed the first Heyer so much that I downloaded another on my Kindle, The Masqueraders, based mostly on its high goodreads ratings. When I finally got to it, I realized how lucky the choice was – the book was way more complex than the first, including not only a disguised brother and sister (masquerading as gentlefolk of the opposite sex, no less) and a pair of interesting romances (especially considering the gender reversals, that was pretty hilarious), but a mystery besides! And the answer to the mystery is not even known by its subjects: who are “Peter” and “Kate” Merriott, really? The secondary characters actually make the book. Sir Anthony “The Mountain” Fanshawe is a truly romantic hero, charming because he’s so surprisingly unconventional. John, the Merriott's servant, clearly knows more than he lets on. And the bad guys in this book are REALLY bad. Like carrying off an heiress by force bad. And framing your rival with a murder bad. The Masqueraders was by far my favorite of the two Regency Romances I read this summer.

Unlike Jane Austen or Elizabeth Gaskell, Georgette Heyer, writing from her relatively comfortable 20th century perch, was herself unfettered and undamaged by the constraints imposed on her female characters by the societies she was writing about. Being so removed from the time period may be the reason she could be so sanguine about her characters’ prospects for happiness—she never suffered because of prevailing attitudes and customs of the time, like female authors of the time would have. But then, if I want to read something that accurately represents a particular time period, I read something written then – not something written two or three hundred years after the fact. A Regency Romance is just some good, clean, literary fun! If you still have time for summer reading, these romances would be good ones to put in your beach bag, or load on your e-reader.

Just an aside: Today I noticed a button on Leeswammes blog that led to Stiletto Storytime’s Georgette Heyer Gems of August 2011 event, happening this month. She’s focusing on Heyer with reviews, guest posts and a really nice giveaway. If you’re interested in Heyer, you should check it out!

Book Review: Exit the Actress

When spring turns to summer, and my daily uniform becomes shorts, tees and sandals, my reading tastes get really light and airy as well. This is my “Calgon” reading time: Books, take me away! Give me a regency romance, a comedy, even some contemporary chick lit, and I’m happy to sit by the pool or under a shady tree, and be transported to another time or place. No heavy commitments, no trauma, no pondering the mysteries of the universe – at least until September rolls around.

Still, I’m fussy enough to want well written, engaging lightness, if you know what I mean. So when Natalie at Coffee and a Book Chick reviewed Priya Parmar’s historical novel Exit the Actress earlier this year, I took her “must-read” recommendation and put it on my summer reading list. So I have to say thank you to her for a really fun summer read.

Exit the Actress is a novelization of the amazing life of Nell Gwynn, the orange-seller-turned-Restoration-actress who eventually became the favorite mistress of Charles II of England. She’s also the “mother” the Dukes of St. Albans, a line of the British peerage that exists to this day, through her son Charles Beauclerk, one of the Stuart kings’ many illegitimate children. It’s a great story, and it’s certainly been told before, in movies, books and on television. But Parmar’s version is different because she styled the largest part of it as a fictional journal. This may seem like a strange idea, since Gwynn’s biographers almost all agree she was illiterate. But if you’re willing to suspend your disbelief and keep from quibbling, the device offers you a new way to look at an often-studied historical figure. (It’s summer, remember? Go with the flow.)

While I might argue with the liberties Parmar takes with history and the English language (the writing style was far too “modern” considering that the book is supposed to take place in the 17th century), I think overall the diary style of the book made Nell’s life more understandable and accessible. I loved Nell’s openness and bewilderment. But her self-effacing humor, legendary to this day, fails to shine. I’d have to call the book a bit uneven in terms of the writing – I didn’t think the intermittent gossip column entries added much, and I disliked the long periods of time that were uncovered by any information at all. And frankly, for a book about one of the world’s best known courtesans, I’d call it pretty tame – like Parmar felt a need to to sanitize Gwynn’s life to make her more likeable, but I don’t feel it was necessary in the 21st century.

Still, the book grabbed me from page one - Parmar is a writer to watch. Her debut novel is a solid, beachy read. I’d recommend it to lovers of historical fiction and romance, and those who like novels written in the diary style. It won’t change your life, but it will give you an interesting take on a fascinating woman. It may even lead you to seek out some weightier books on the subject when September rolls around!

I think Natalie liked this one even better than I did. If you'd like to read her review, you'll find it here.

Book Review: The Paris Wife

I do not like Hemingway.

I was blessed with a fabulous high school English program, where we tackled the likes of Shakespeare, Dickens, Hesse and Faulkner. I loved it all. Except for Hemingway. The Snows of Kilimanjaro? Too dull. Hills Like White Elephants? Misogynistic. The Old Man and the Sea? I rooted for the sea. God bless Mrs. Dose, Ms. Mormile and good old Dr. Kelley. They did their best. They pointed out the vivid story arcs and the beauty of the spare language. But I never learned to like Hemingway.*

Which is my way of saying that unlike some readers of Paula McLain’s novel The Paris Wife, I was willing to dislike Hemingway the person as much as I had always disliked Hemingway the writer from the get-go. And that may have driven my reading of this book. Where his first wife, Hadley Richardson, saw charm and spontaneity, I saw oiliness and rashness. Where she saw genius, I saw vainglory. Where she saw bravery, I saw bravado. And from the perspective of the novel, I think it worked really well. Right from the beginning, I adored Hadley, and couldn’t see what she saw in the young and callow Ernest anyway. At least for me, McLain was able to conjure a sense of protectiveness about Hadley.

The book is heartbreakingly narrated from Hadley’s perspective, and we watch her slowly awaken to Hemingway’s insatiable nature. On her first trip to Italy, she visits the place where Hemingway fell in love with his nurse, only to be devastated when she rejected his marriage proposal. He says he’s glad they can visit together, but Hadley senses more:

I knew he was telling me the truth, but I also knew that if it were possible, he would have preferred to have me and Agnes both there – his past and his present, each of us loving him without question – and the strawberries, too. The wine and the sunshine and the warm stones under our feet. He wanted everything there was to have, and more than that. pg. 100

Hadley is extraordinarily sympathetic, but almost too saintly at times. She is that girlfriend that you just want to shake some sense into – “He’s treating you like garbage, for God’s sake! You’re better off without him!” And there were times when her forbearance bordered on the creepy, suffering through Hemingway’s flagrant adultery at an excruciatingly close distance. But her story of a life lived around genius is extremely compelling, and the characters of the Lost Generation – Alice B. Toklas, F.Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound and John Dos Passos – come alive in this novel, as do the locations they visit in the interwar period, from Italy to Austria to Paris, of course.

Based on the title, I wonder if McLain is planning a sequel – The Key West Wife? That would be tricky, because Pauline Pfeiffer, the woman who stole Hemingway from Hadley, is pretty hateful in this book. I’m not sure I could read it.

I still hate Hemingway.

*I admit that I did learn to love John Donne, however, the other author that Dr. Kelley predicted would “grow on me” over time. One out of two isn’t bad.

Book Review: A Long, Long Time Ago, and Essentially True

Brigid Pasulka’s A Long, Long Time Ago, and Essentially True reminded me of why I am a reader. Because reading puts you in touch with the endless possibilities of the human condition.

The story is told in two voices and in two time frames, but both are set in motion by the same small miracle: one man’s enduring love for a beautiful young woman. The Pigeon loves Anielica so completely that he wants to make the world a perfect place for her. He starts by turning her father’s hut into a house worthy of her. But after the Germans roll through Poland at the beginning of the Second World War, the Pigeon works to change Poland itself, as a member of the Polish Resistance.

The second story takes place in post-Soviet Krakow, and is told by “Baba Yaga,” a young woman who has recently lost her beloved grandmother. She is living with some of her only relatives, Irena and her daughter Magda. While they are kind – in their bantering way – to the country cousin, Baba Yaga seems rudderless and apathetic. In fact, it was her story that gave me a slow start with this novel, as I kept wondering what this boring little bar girl had to do with the heroic, romantic events in the older narrative.

I am so happy I stuck with it.

A Long, Long Time Ago, and Essentially True is ultimately a novel about the ingenuity and perseverance of the Polish people. Pasulka tells that story beautifully and with great depth of feeling, as when Anielica’s brother tries to convince her that the Pigeon will return safely to them:

”I was in the woods with him for five years, and there was never anything he couldn’t manage. We just need to wait a little while longer, and I’m sure he will be back any time now.” But the words coming from his mouth were too abundant to be reassuring. Reassuring words were tall, sparse, stoic. “Don’t be silly.” “He’s fine.” Trust me.” But Anielica did not press. She knew that her brother was worried too. She had noticed the furrows in his forehead deepening, his eyebrows slowly creeping upward for the past hour. Kindle location 4488

And while many reviews have described this book as “sad,” what I thought Pasulka captured best was the profound ability of the Polish people to find happiness despite history. Happiness in small things. In a wedding shared with 9 other couples in a post-war Poland with too few priests and too many deferred dreams. In an open-air bed. In a secret shared between sweethearts.

This is a wonderful book. In addition to the gripping storylines, the book also offers a glimpse into the recent history of Poland, which I found fascinating. In fact, it made me realize I need to learn more about the post-war years in Eastern Europe in general, and Poland in particular. I would absolutely recommend it to those love contemporary literary fiction, as well as those whose tastes run to historical fiction and even to lighter romances – there’s something here for those in any of those groups.

This book counts for a “Size” in the What’s in a Name 4 Challenge, and is my first book for this year’s Eastern European Reading Challenge at The Black Sheep Dances. Thanks to Beth Fish Reads and Amy for hosting!