Lit Lovers Lane

When I bought the book 84, Charing Cross Road on Amazon, I also discovered it had been made into a movie featuring powerhouse actors Anthony Hopkins and Anne Bancroft as Frank Doel and Helen Hanff. So, after inhaling the book like a bag of my fave potato chips,  I simply couldn’t resist plunking down even more money for the DVD. With such a pleasurable reading experience, I would have staked my life on the film being incredible.

 

Luckily, no opportunity to gamble with my fate presented itself, because while the movie 84, Charing Cross Road wasn’t a flop, it also wasn’t exactly cinematic genius. Frankly, it was a bit of a letdown for me.

 

Drat! Yet again, I had been sucked into witnessing a book I adored reduced to a movie that sorely disappointed. Actually, there has only been one movie that lived up to the books for me so far…Gone With the Wind. And I saw that when I was a kid.

 

So why the heck do I keep going back for more frustration? More often than not, either one of a few things happens:

 

•      The chosen actors aren’t how I envisioned the characters
•      The fantasy world I created doesn’t jibe with the movie world
•      The basic story is completely changed
•      The story is over-simplified

So, why do I let my enthusiasm for a good read outweigh the near certainty that the movie will obliterate the near perfect fantasy world I’ve create around a book?

 

My only answer is that when a story catches my heartstrings, I am almost powerless to resist revisiting it and seeing the characters come to life before my eyes. One day — soon I hope — I will realize my fantasy characters and settings already are alive right before my eyes….my mind’s eye. And, I will quit while I’m ahead. Unfortunately, I write this even as I long to see One Day and The Fault in Our Stars. 

 

Anyone else struggle with this problem? What movies have disappointed you? Which lived up to your expectations? Why?

This was the first time I’d ever taken Amazon.com up on one of its book recommendations. Privy to my reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (by spying), the folks at Amazon tried to hook me up with this book. I obligingly forgave the spying, fell for their gimmick, and was totally charmed by the initially perfunctory letter exchange between Helene Hanff and Frank Doel, which evolves gradually like a gracefully aged wine into a full-bodied friendship. Just as naturally, Hanff finds herself corresponding not only with Frank, but with his family and other Marks & Co. employees. I was thoroughly captivated by this easy read, but especially liked the story of the unfurling friendship, the mini history lesson I received, as well as the discussion of books Hanff wants that I’d never heard of.

With the letter exchange beginning just after WWII, 84 Charing Cross Road is naturally infused with history, both of the historical event variety and the equally important how-we not-so-long-ago-lived variety. I loved history in school, but must admit having had absolutely no interest in 20th-century history. Maybe I figured humankind should have learned to stop warring by then, and simply couldn’t stomach it. Consequently, my knowledge of this time period is altogether embarrassing. Still, despite my distaste for anything beyond the 19th century, I loved reading about England’s struggles just after the war in this book. I had no idea that rationing still existed three years after the war ended, or how the British handled the situation, and I liked learning about it.

Then, there’s the everyday lifestyle of a bygone era that’s nice to reminisce about if one is old enough to remember. If not so old, it’s still fun to learn a thing or two. For instance, when’s the last time you actually wrote a letter and mailed it…a real honest to goodness letter, not a greeting card. Today, we’re lucky if we even phone or email anymore. We Facebook and Tweet. In 1949, letters were THE way to correspond, and Hanff actually put dollar bills in an envelope and mailed it off to London as payment for books. I thought, she’s nuts. First, it won’t make it there with the money, and second, no way are the British gonna accept American dollars. Wrong! Ah, when life was simpler and somehow sweeter. I liked reading about these tiny, but really enormous everyday contrasts to 21st-century life.

Also, there are the letters themselves: each like a dance reflecting not only the writer’s temperament, but also the quintessential contrasts between American and British personalities. Hanff’s letters are a tango, a bold and brassy dance filled with in-your-face, sometimes sarcastic humor. In contrast, Frank Doel’s responses dance a formal, reserved British waltz. It’s charming to see how the two completely different ‘dance’ styles eventually merge and become one fluid movement of friendship and how the ‘steps’ find a matching rhythm as the friendship grows.

Lastly, I enjoyed reading on Hanff’s ‘antiquated taste’ in books, with many titles and authors familiar, but just as many I’d never heard of and mostly have no intention of trying to slog through. Truth is, compared to Ms. Hanff, I read trash. Still, it was a joy to learn of these obscure tomes and get albeit a VERY few ideas for my reading list. This book is a fast, fun, full of interesting info read that I heartily recommend.

Don’t judge a book by its cover. Bet if you look in the Book of Quotations for this saying, you will find the cover of The Tenderness of Wolves as the illustration. Upon being lent this book, nothing about it appealed to me. Not the odd title. Not the somewhat muted, depressing cover with wolves staring out at me. Not the back cover blurb describing a woman traipsing over the 1860’s Canadian wilderness to track a killer. AND to be perfectly honest, not an author who seemingly shares my name (Stephanie), but blasphemes it by spelling it with an F rather than PH. Yeah, yeah. I know that last reason is bonkers, so I am relieved I can do penance for it by giving this book a good review. I enjoyed it on several levels.

First, there is the story, which features a mystery within a mystery. It opens with fur trader Laurent Jammet found dead in his cabin. The incident once again reminds settlers in the small town of Caulfield of their vulnerability and reignites tensions and memories of a long-ago incident when two young girls went missing without a trace. This time a 17-year-old boy is also missing and considered the prime suspect; however, Jammet’s life was not an open book, and though many think this is an open and shut case, the possibilities of who may have wanted him dead increase. As the story unfolds, this mystery intertwines with that of the two young girls’ earlier disappearance and makes for a good whodunit.

Another compelling facet of the plot is the backdrop of 19th-century Canadian society with the delicate, distrustful balance among settlers, fur trading companies, and Canadian Indians. Ms. Penney sketches a vivid picture of the tensions among the avaricious trade companies, whose only goal is killing animals for furs; the Native Canadians, marginalized and used in their own land while trying to preserve a way of life; and the European settlers, who are betwixt and between. One gets a distinct feeling for the historical period and how life must have felt on all sides.

Then there are the characters, most with obscured motivations, which lends suspense. The dead man himself is shrouded in mystery, a French trapper who lives in Caulfield, but is really not part of the close knit community. Mrs. Ross is certain her troubled son is not the killer, and as she heads into the Canadian wild to find him, her unusual past is revealed in flashbacks. Other suspects are the charming but slippery Tom Sturrock, who led the search for the two girls years ago and is now after a mysterious object Jammet promised him, as well as Parker, a Canadian Indian who also has ulterior motives for helping Mrs. Ross find her son. Finally, there is the young Hudson Trade Company employee who wants to do his job, but isn’t sure whom or what to believe.

Notwithstanding a good mystery, and well-honed characters, there were aspects of the book that confused me from the very beginning. First, so many characters were introduced so soon that I had a devil of a time keeping them straight. Several times I found myself whispering: Wait? Who the hell is he again? It took a while and I finally got people straight, but not easily and not without several backtracks. My second confusion was also character driven. I have no idea how many characters peopled this book, but believe me, there were a whole passel of them. Way too many IMO and some who really seemed quite unnecessary. I found myself thinking that the addition of yet another character with a piece of the puzzle was a less creative, clumsy way of solving the mystery.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed the book immensely, recommend it wholeheartedly, and look forward to more from author Stef (with an F) Penney.

Even though I truly enjoyed this book, my overwhelming impression while in its midst was that it was totally not what I expected. Standing in the bookstore and reading the back cover, I imagined a sort of mystery, crime, thriller genre with a good dose of humor. I am not a big crime or thriller reader, but the idea of it mixed with quirky British characters and a London setting intrigued me. In fact, my impression could not have been further from the truth, as the story of the mysterious postcards is SO secondary that for great stretches it is seemingly forgotten by the author. Instead, this is more aptly a look at the lives of archetypal London types from all rungs on the societal ladder during the time period of the 2008 financial bust. And when I finally realized this fact and stopped waiting for the crime mystery to take center stage, I was able to simply sit back and become engrossed in the cast of characters.

Pepys Road hasn’t always been such a tony address, so there’s a mix of the old-timers and the newcomers with money. For instance, Petunia Howe is an 80-year-old widow who’s lived in her house since childhood, while banker Roger Yount and his airhead wife are an upwardly mobile, yuppie family type who’ve recently moved to the neighborhood. Then, there’s Freddy Kamos, a 17-year-old just off the plane from Senegal to play professional soccer, as well as the Pakistani family who run a convenience store on the block. There are quite a few more supporting characters, such as Zimbabwean Quentina Mkfase, the illegal immigrant parking enforcement attendant, and Petunia’s grandson, Smitty, and a host of worker bees like nannies and handymen who add flavor to the story.

Each chapter focuses on a particular character’s circumstances and rarely do the characters’ lives intersect, which was a bit disappointing. However, the more I think about it, the more I realize it mirrors real life. People of different backgrounds and on different rungs of the social ladder rarely mix and mingle, and this is simply art imitating life. Regardless of their non-intersecting lives, the characters’ stories are captivating and totally believable. Having lived in New York, I think I overdosed on meeting financially over-extended yuppies in the rat race with wives whose only concern was what to buy next. Roger Yount fits the bill to a T, and his lady-who-lunches wife Arabella is so aptly painted, I wanted to climb into the pages and kick her in her teeth myself. Lanchester’s portrayal of the plight of immigrants, both legal and not, is also moving. What can happen to a Muslim immigrant who makes an innocent mistake in today’s Islamophobic climate is addressed in Ahmed Kamal’s family story, and how an asylum seeker fares in the West is told through Quentina’s poignant tale.

What is also inviting about this book is that even though the characters are dealing with some heavy issues, Lanchester is able to inject much humor into his stereotypical characters and their thoughts. Nevertheless, I feel the book is a tad too long for the subject matter it treats. At almost 600 pages, it’s a definite time commitment, and I found myself wondering when the heck something was going to happen other than character development in the first 300 pages. In the end, if one looks at the novel as more of a social commentary on the varying attitudes, fortunes, and societal pressures of different social classes in modern Western society, it is a much more enjoyable, thought-provoking read than imagining it to be a mystery novel and being disappointed. If one wants a slice of life look at modern urban life, this is a good place to start. If one is looking for a mystery novel, keep looking.

The non-fiction stunt genre. Before I read this book, I’d never heard this term, which refers to the wave of new authors who undertake an activity for a period of time and then chronicle the process. The name lends a somewhat unsavory whiff to this literature...indeed many would die rather than call it literature. Even I must admit to a bit of red-faced shame at having been snagged in the genre’s net with this purchase. But, as I read The Happiness Project, I let loose of my embarrassment with one of Ms. Rubin’s Happiness 12 Commandments -- Be Stephanie. Rather than twisting ourselves to like, be, or do what we feel we should like, be, or do, give in to the the truth of what floats our boat. How liberating. It sounds so simple really, like many of Rubin’s other ideas, but the devil is in the practice. Regardless, I decided to let my natural Stephanie reign, and I am so happy I did.

Gretchen Rubin sets out to discover whether, by identifying and systematically neutralizing her personal happiness zappers, it is possible to increase not only her own happiness quotient, but that of those around her. Though she acknowledges some might find her endeavor frivolous, given her already quite satisfactory life circumstances, Rubin agrees with the ancient wisdom that adding happiness to one’s life will add happiness to the field, and increased happiness generates more good/more happiness for everyone. And, I agree.

What I like about this book is the engaging, friendly voice; the unflinching candor; the wealth of background research; the clearly organized presentation; and the simple, yet profound implications for our lives. After analyzing her personality traits, habits, and wishes, the author hones in on 12 aspects of her life to improve – one for each moth of the year. Accordingly, the book’s chapters are organized by months. In each month, Rubin explains her target, outlines the concrete method and resolutions she has devised to reach the target, and assesses whether the methods panned out for her. For instance, February is her Remember Love month with marriage as the focus. Rubin’s resolutions are to: quit nagging, give proofs of love, and not expect praise or appreciation. For each resolution, she develops specific steps/aids for improvement. As an example, to stop nagging, Rubin limits herself to one-word reminders to her husband rather than a longer, nasty order. Alternatively, she does the task herself. Interwoven in each chapter is relevant research and literature she has read on the particular topic, but while her reading list is exhaustive, she does not hit the reader over the head with it. Instead, she presents the background material in interesting, cogent, easily digestible bits. Then, at each month’s end, the author evaluates progress, and here I find Rubin unsparingly candid. When something doesn’t work for her, she admits it and tosses it out the window. This, together with her honesty regarding her perceived bad habits and failings she wants to work on, impresses me.

Finally, what most excites me is The Happiness Project’s implications for the rest of us. If you are like me, you have probably traveled over hill and dale to try a host of self-improvement methods AND paid an arm and a leg for the privilege. But what Ms. Rubin lays out, for those of us who consider ourselves only mildly insane, is a systematic, self-directed way to improve our happiness levels without depending on anyone else or handing over our first-born child in payment. And I adore that prospect.

If I have any apprehension or criticism of the work, it would be only that so ambitious was her project that, at times, I was overwhelmed and felt tired just reading about what she attempts to try. She starts a reading group; she tries to make 3 new friends at every gathering; she writes a novel in 30 days; she keeps a gratitude book – the list goes on and on. She adds so many new activities to what appears to be an already full life that I was almost sick thinking about if it were me. But what I remind myself is that everyone’s happiness project is supremely personal, both in content and volume. In the end, I cannot praise Gretchen Rubin’s “stunt” enough, and I will definitely be incorporating her work into my life

Having had good experiences with Amazon recommendations, I put this book on my Christmas wishlist, and Santa Claus (my husband) duly delivered. I really liked the idea of the author's using adverbs to describe experiences of love, so please bear with me as I follow suit in my review.

Excitedly, I cracked open this book and began to read. I saw the chapters were titled with adverbs (like obviously, briefly, naturally, wrongly, etc.), and thought how wonderfully ingenious this was. Nevertheless, as I read, I found myself increasingly confused, unable to make heads or tails of the story. With each chapter, the story seemed to change characters (some of whom were unnamed), and the story itself, with chapters disconcertingly unconnected and disjointed.

After 50 pages of understanding nothing and worriedly wondering if I was suddenly suffering from early onset dementia, I quickly fired up my computer and headed to Goodreads, frantically needing to see if I was the only one with this impression. While the overwhelming majority like this book, I rejoicingly saw others who were as disenchanted and confused as I.

One reader suggested mapping out all the characters to keep them straight, while another insisted keeping track of the characters missed the point, because the focus is on the love experiences, not the people. Still, I decided to start the book over, meticulously jotting down characters and desperately hoping the book would then make some sense.

From one chapter to the next, I went, and the strategy helped somewhat with characters, but still the stories were so disconnected and the character changes so chaotic, I fail to see how anyone can remotely term this a novel. Simply put, the chapters do not follow each other in characters, time, or story, but are rather more like standalone vignettes or short stories, which was certainly not what I was wishing for in a novel.

As for the characters, though the same characters come and go in the chapters, I really couldn't get much of a handle on any of them. One character could have different names, and I never felt sure of my grasp of any. But more than that, I could not have cared less about any of the characters' love experiences because I didn't know them intimately, and what I did know of them didn't make me care about them in the least.

As to the stories in each chapter, I found them either uninteresting, silly, outlandish, or all three. Between an old woman called the Snow Queen who used to be an actress and her freezing people in their tracks to a man walking onto someone's property, having sex with the male house sitter and then coming back the next day with his girlfriend (just to name two scenarios), I was constantly alternating among being baffled, bored, or angry. Every chapter left me hanging in the unknown, and just when I thought another chapter might pick up the threads, I was never certain either because the names changed or the past was only alluded to subtly.

So many times, I sorely ached to end my misery while reading, but I diligently persevered, praying the story would somehow miraculously redeem itself and make my time worthwhile. When I reached page 234 of 272, I sadly realized that wasn't possible. Nothing could salvage this for me. And I was correct.

For anyone who loved this book, I am supremely happy for you. Really and truly. Nonetheless, on the back cover, the author and publisher wish that Adverbs be of interest to readers. For me, it was so totally not, I cannot almost not fathom it.

So, for her birthday, I gave a dear friend The Fault in Our Stars, which as many of you know deals with a teenager diagnosed with terminal cancer. Now, I don’t know if she was trying to send me a subtle message, but for Christmas, Birgit seemed to fire back. Kind of like a poker play – I’ll see your dying person book, and I’ll raise you…this story is true, baby! Which is how I came into possession of The End of Your Life Book Club. Definitely a book with a catchy title, but hardly likely to stimulate Christmas cheer. But then again, I suppose a terminally ill teenager isn’t exactly great birthday fodder either. :) Anyhoo, I finally got around to reading it, and can truly say I enjoyed this book immensely.

First, the books this mother and son duo read and discuss are not simply an entrée into the books themselves, but also into their lives and relationships. Author Will Schwalbe uses book titles as his chapter titles, and while the book is discussed, its themes are also tied into this family’s lives. For instance, the Marjorie Morningstar chapter describes the book and possibly why Mary Ann loves Herman Wouk’s work (try saying that 3 times fast). Like Marjorie Morningstar, Mary Ann had been a young Jewish woman with visions of being an actress that didn’t quite pan out. Also, another key character helps Jewish people flee the Nazis through the International Rescue Committee, an organization Mary Ann Schwalbe eventually worked with. Throughout the book, the themes presented in the book club choices help us learn more about Mary Ann, Will, their lives and their relationship, just as they helped them learn about each other.

Then, of course, there’s the story of a woman dying, the aspect of this book that had me initially apprehensive. Schwalbe doesn’t shy away from the emotional toll on all or the physical toll on his mother, but rather than frighten or repel me, Mary Ann Schwalbe’s story was full of inspiration and guidance. Her quiet dignity in the face of near-certain death and her determination that both she and her loved ones go on living their lives together and separately is remarkable. I read in awe as she encourages her daughter to take a job in Geneva and can only hope to be so graceful when my life is coming to a close. Additionally, while we all pray none of this will ever apply to us, this family’s negotiation through the medical and personal decisions is also instructive. Even an idea as simple as instituting a blog to keep concerned friends and family in the loop with the least burden possible on the family is one I appreciated.

Finally, there’s the list of books, short stories, and poetry that mother and son share during this time, 99.99% of which I’ve not read, but much of which I now have on my own To Read Bucket List, due to their conversations which whetted my appetite.

In the end, there’s nothing much I didn’t like about this book. Well, may have been one or two things. The first was more a touch of skepticism or maybe bewilderment. I simply could not grasp how a person so sick could read so much. I mean, when I have a simple cold, I don't want to see a book or even television. I simply cannot focus. So, I constantly caught myself wondering if she really could have accomplished all this reading. And my second issue, I am sure says more about me than the book. Mary Ann Schwalbe’s was a life well and truly lived – full of purpose and dedicated to the service of humanity and the betterment of this world. Just reading all she had accomplished in her time here exhausted me, brought out the green-eyed monster in me...and made me ashamed I don’t do more for others. Still, it’s all good. Shame helps no one. Getting kicked in the pants into action does. And Ms. Schwalbe’s life and this book have helped do that for me. In the end, whatever doubting thoughts I entertained did not take away from the fact that this is an inspirational read.

So, how’s your significant other at gift giving? Mine is a long history in that particular department, which began with my first husband, our first Christmas, and a disastrous gift. Rather than relate the gory details, let’s just say that from then on, I began compiling lists of welcome gifts for my husband to choose from, and come any gift-giving event since then, I have been a happy camper. Notwithstanding this mutually satisfying practice, my sweet Ulli decided to go a bit rogue this Valentine’s Day. In addition to my requests, he took himself off to the bookstore and got me a set of magnetic bookmarks and The Love Detective, thereby confirming the urgent and continued need for my ingenious gift list.

The thing is, it’s not that I don’t like romance. I do, but there’s romance and there’s romance...and then, there’s The Love Detective. By that, I mean there’s Harlequin-type romance, which everyone knows is pure, unadulterated fluff with no storyline other than boy meets girl, boy and girl hate each other, and then, boy and girl fall in love. Alternatively, there’s more serious romance where, yes, there’s boy meets girl, but there is more depth to the story, less fairytale, and more realistic themes involved. Then, we have Ms. Potter’s book, which is really just a Harlequin Romance IMO. That wouldn’t be such a problem except it is double the page count and double the price for the pleasure of slogging through a book that goes boringly on and on about nothing much really.

Here’s all that really happens. For a couple of years, Ruby has been a basket case because she caught her fiance with another woman. Unable to write romances because she's given up on love, she sets off to India to visit her sister and shake things up. When said sister decides to elope, Ruby needs help tracking her down. Enter the gorgeous Jack, whom Ruby hates at first. A series of mishaps, miscommunications, and unbelievable coincidences ensue, and their mutual attraction grows as they make their way across India. .

The one saving grace in the book is the India setting. As Jack and Ruby go from city to city, Ms. Potter’s descriptions somewhat tempt the reader, even if they are superficial. Nevertheless, I must say I did take exception with her portrayal of Indians as pretty much all happy, dancing and smiling, no matter their circumstances. I mean, India is a country with heartbreaking, grinding poverty and other social issues. Not that every country doesn't have its issues, but the gloss over India's was simply too much for me. Everybody can’t be smiling and dancing, but from this book, one would never know it. Yes, I am aware this is a feel-good romance, but some semblance of reality somewhere in the book would not go amiss. Just sayin'.

Perhaps, my even rating this book is unfair as I would never have chosen it on my own and it is obviously geared toward an audience of which I am not part, but after reading 360-odd pages of much ado about nothing, I feel entitled to have my say. And it’s sad really, because since I’ve discovered my love of all things Jane Austen, I am truly tempted by Ms. Potter’s book Me and Mr. Darcy, but unless it falls into my lap for free, I fear I will never read it.

So, in the end, this book was not for me. AND rest assured that Ulli will be banned from making further autonomous reading choices for me. But all is not lost. I do love my magnetic Valentine’s bookmarks. :)

Last summer, while staying in a friend's apartment, I happened upon this book. Since I didn't finish it while there, I purchased my own copy of this fun and fascinating read. Okay, I can see you already searching for the phone number of the man with the net to come get me. A history book? Is she mad? Didn't we suffer enough in school? Believe me, I know, but before you make that call, hear me out, because this book has everything your 7th-grade history class lacked: accessibility; fun, bite-sized morsels of info; and nary a pop quiz in sight.

By accessibility, I mean this history of England is nowhere near your hated textbooks of yore. There are no long, drawn-out, boring chapters filled with endless drivel about this battle or that, an endless array of rulers and military men, the signing of yet another great document, or dates up the wazoo. Instead, each 2- to 3-page mini-chapter is a colorful snapshot of a historical person or moment, some well-known and some obscure, but all helping to shape the England of today. For instance, author Robert Lacey begins with a 1-1/2 page vignette about the Cheddar Man, England's oldest complete skeleton found in a cave near Bristol and dating back to 7000 B.C., still the time of hunter-gatherers. Naturally, not much is known about Cheddar Man's life, but one is fascinated by the clues Cheddar Man has left behind -- including the possibility that ancient Brits were cannibals. The next chapter fast forwards to 325 B. C., so while the stories are chronological, this is not your normal, comprehensive, boring history book.

Additionally, the stories Lacey chooses to highlight are tasty little tidbits you've most likely never heard. Do you know who we have to thank for those darned math word problems that have plagued school children for centuries? Any idea who is responsible for modern British spelling conventions? Did you ever learn Florence Nightingale had a Jamaica-born, mixed-race counterpart in Crimea? From what untutored girl did geology and paleontology experts steal knowledge and claim it as their own? All this and SO much more is contained in the pages of this unique take on British history, and it is almost impossible not to be fascinated with these little known historical gems of not only kings and queens, but of the common man, who contributed just as much to history as those whose names we all learned.

The other aspect I admire in this book is that there is no need to read it all at once. In fact, I put it down for months (not because I was bored). Happily, when I picked it back up, it was easy to continue because each chapter is a discrete story which doesn't depend on its predecessors. It is also a book that one can simply pick up, open to any page, and read a quick tale about something interesting. Meaning, this is a keeper in one's library.

And, the English teacher in me knows that Lacey's English composition teacher would be supremely proud of where he ended his history. Where? Exactly where he began -- with Cheddar Man -- but I won't tell you how.

As I read, I had only one moment of disappointment.When describing Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee celebrations, Lacey lists where all the attendees from around the Empire came from -- From Canada they came, from Australia, Africa, India, Borneo, Fiji, Hong Kong. Excuse me, but when are people going to get that Africa is not a country, but a continent of many countries with many diverse cultures that should not be carelessly lumped together?

Okay, enough for that little rant, because otherwise I simply loved this book.

This is the first P.D. James book I’ve read, probably because I’m not a big fan of crime novels, but I was drawn in by it’s the historical time period. Moreover, I was doubly intrigued upon realizing Ms. James had befriended the characters of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and given them new life. One certainly needn’t have read P&P to follow Death Comes to Pemberley, though I feel it pleasantly enhanced the experience for me. I found myself admiring James’ seamless crafting anew of Elizabeth and Darcy’s early 19th-century world. She seems to pick up the story as easily as one retrieves a dropped knitting stitch and then carries on flawlessly, but with the added spice of a murder mystery.

It seems difficult enough to take on another author’s story and weave a seamless story fabric, but to take on the revered Jane Austen’s characters must have given even Baroness James the willies. I read P&P and this book back to back and was awed by the author’s artistry capturing the atmosphere of Austen’s world quite faithfully. She transported me right back to the 19th-century English countryside, with her painstaking research of this time period abundantly evident. I also enjoyed being re-introduced to familiar friends, and learning more about them. For instance, James explores Darcy’s childhood in the story, explaining the origins of his taciturn demeanor. Additionally, she fleshes out the stories of secondary characters, like Darcy’s sister Giorgiana. Unfortunately, some of the more comical characters went missing, such as Elizabeth’s mother and the self-righteous minister Mr. Collins (though he makes an appearance through letters). And, if I had any disappointment in the story, I would say this is one of them: the liveliness of Austen’s characters is muted. Elizabeth seems to have settled completely into life as the mistress of Pemberley, and promptly lost her wittiness, her fire, her spunk. For instance, I would have expected a few less judgments about her sister Lydia as time passed, but her nose is almost as high in the air as Darcy’s aunt’s was about her. Too, I expected a more playful, somehow unconventional relationship between her and Darcy, but it seems staid and rather boring. Another element James left behind in her book was Austen’s often long, circuitous, and winding roads of words strung into sentences simply begging to be re-read for comprehension. This was an utter relief.

The murder mystery was a lively welcome addition. It kept me engaged and speculating, threw in a few good red herrings, and left me actively guessing until the end. As a lawyer, I was fascinated by the history lesson on English criminal law, though I readily admit everyone might not be. The solution to the mystery is quite satisfying. One thing I did not like, however, is that the unfolding of the tale’s end is accomplished with a surfeit of telling, as in someone telling what happens, rather than us finding it out naturally. But this is a very minor criticism for a book I really enjoyed.

Rating on website: 3.5

After reading Wells’ The Journey of Man and loving it, I couldn’t wait to dig into Pandora’s Seed, which promised to illuminate how “advanced” the hunter-gatherer societies were and what modern man can learn from these times for sustainability. Where there were a plethora of interesting ideas and facts, I must admit the book never grabbed me for a couple of reasons.

As I said, there are fascinating ideas and much to learn from this book for sure. Who wouldn’t be interested in discovering how the world’s population explosion today has its root in the ending of the hunter-gatherer lifestyle and the dawn of agricultural society? Whose ears (or eyes in this case) wouldn’t perk up at the contention that modern society is a breeding ground for illness and disease that was totally foreign to the Paleolithic era. I know I was grabbed by Wells’ claim that our modern style of living fosters conflict and war unheard of in hunter-gatherer societies. These were just a few of the gems in this book, but getting to those gems is where the problem lay for me.

One issue I had with Pandora’s Seed was the feeling of reading for long stretches not quite sure why I was reading about whatever the current topic was or what point the author was trying to make. In all fairness, the point always became clear eventually, but throughout the book, I had a constant nagging feeling of being just the tiniest bit lost.

This disoriented feeling seemed to be compounded by another feature of the book. Throughout, Wells raises another topic and tells us that to learn more about the topic, he (and the reader) must go here – here being either another time, another place, or both. The ‘tale’ jumps around so frequently, the reader could be excused for claiming jet lag. He skips between centuries and parts of the world, saying in order to understand one idea, we have to go…halfway around the world or back 70,000 years. I was dizzy sometimes wondering where I was or when it was, but more importantly, why I was there. The text seemed disjointed, perhaps, too ambitious, and I ended up confused a lot of the time as to the author’s point. Eventually, he would make it, but by that time, I didn’t care.

In addition, I think I was expecting some grand ideas on how to deal with the fix modern humans have gotten themselves into, and there also, I was a felt a letdown from a lack of concrete solutions. I mean, let’s face it – if put to a vote, who would opt for returning to hunting for game and scavenging for berries after they’ve seen Whole Foods and Safeway? Certainly, we can want less, which is Wells’ ultimate advice, but I already knew this without reading this book.

So, in the end, while the book has some interesting ideas, its conclusions and solutions are hardly groundbreaking

Helen Simonson’s first novel came to me by way of Amazon recommendations, and maybe it’s time for me to at least think about revising my innate skepticism of its recommendation process. Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand is an improbable love story peppered with quirky but wholly believable characters who charm the pants off you, as well as an all too familiar reminder of how small town life can be, and a timely theme of cultural diversity and tolerance delivered with heavy doses of humor and sensitivity.

Having grown up in a small town where everyone knew one another’s business, I was transported back to both the comforts and confines of small town life. Until the day Major Pettigrew receives very sad news and Mrs. Ali happens to be on his doorstep just in time to offer him tea and sympathy, the very proper British widower and the pretty Pakistani widow live in the same small town, but inhabit very different worlds. This personal encounter leaves them viewing each other in a new light, but societal pressures don’t loosen their hold even on the independent and middle-aged. Almost before Major Pettigrew’s wife was in the ground, the town biddies had picked the new bachelor’s mate, and it wasn’t a shopkeeper with foreign ways. Mrs. Ali’s world is no less opinionated, with her family pressuring her retire, turn over her business to them, and return to their repressive bosom like a good Muslim woman. The resultant tug of war is one that takes place every day of the week no matter who we are, and it resonates strongly. Between what their worlds expect, the societal strictures they’ve internalized, and what they truly desire is a very relatable story told with poignancy and not a little humor.

One would think tackling the cultural and religious issues surrounding such a romance would drag the story into heaviness, but Ms. Simonson’s humor keeps the story afloat and bobbing like a buoy. The issues of British colonialism, racism, religious intolerance, and terrorism are hot button topics that don’t lend themselves easily to comedy. Still, Simonson has found just the right combination of razor sharp wit and respectful sensitivity to make the reader think and reflect, but all the while thoroughly enjoy the ride. Major Pettigrew’s waffling, sometimes cowardish ways are at once maddening and understandable. His wrestling with his own prejudices and fears, as well as the oddball townsfolk’s pressures, make for comical yet all too true situations.

This is a sweet read with a big message gently delivered, and I thoroughly enjoyed every page.

Pride and prejudice – words figuring heavily in my relationship with classic literature. Truthfully, I’ve never had a keen interest in the classics. I pretty much went straight from Nancy Drew to the racy stuff hidden in my grandmother’s closet…anything Harold Robbins, I was in heaven. I hadn’t the time or interest in classic lit beyond the high school scraps I suffered through and promptly forgot. Over the years, my prejudice against old, fuddy duddy stories and long dead authors remained. Contemporary bestsellers instead of ancient tomes for me. And, lest one surmise that a burgeoning good taste led me to read Pride and Prejudice, let me set everyone straight.

Rather, the impetus was my purchase of P.D. James’ Death Comes to Pemberley, and the realization this murder mystery involves characters from Pride and Prejudice. So, because my anal retentive self cannot read a book series out of sequence, I dug into Austen’s classic. Now, having read and enjoyed it in so many ways, I’ve layed down my prejudice and found a bit of pride.

Whoever said there’s nothing new was so right. The story of the Bennet sisters could easily be transported into modern times. Yes, woman have options other than marriage and children now, and can certainly support themselves. That’s huge. But face it; ultimately, most long for a family like 200 years ago. When I think of my own angst years ago, and I see young women today, I despair that not much has changed, including the bid to make the right marriage. Is he educated, what university did he attend, does he have a good career, what is his family like? Okay, maybe something’s different. Men ask themselves the self-same questions about women, and instead of the amount of livestock the prospective spouse holds, we’re interested in stock portfolios. Whether it’s cows and pigs or corporate shares, Austen’s tale of machinations and intrigue, jealousy and jockeying, ring just as true today.

In addition, Austen’s characters are as well-fleshed out and believable as any contemporary ones. Whether it’s the feisty Elizabeth who gives Darcy as good as she gets, the brooding Darcy who’s social skills leave much to be desired, or Elizabeth’s grasping mother who plays favorites with her daughters….all are fully alive and bring technicolor images to mind. So, since it’s just as fun to read about romantic antics of 200 years ago as today, I’ve laid down my prejudice. The classics rock.

And pride? What am I proud of? First, that I’ve added to my embarrassingly puny list of classics read. Yup, with this one, that must bring my grand total up to…maybe two. Also, while the story is indeed rather simple, I was reminded while reading that the English language 200 years ago was anything but simple and straightforward. If long-winded, twisting, and winding sentences are not your thing, Jane Austen might not be for you. Indeed, I had to re-read quite a few passages twice or thrice, but I am proud to announce I persevered, and actually enjoyed reacquainting myself with this manner of speech, tiresome though it was at times. My advice – read only when fully awake.

Actually, I purchased a boxed set of Austen works, so I still have Sense and Sensibility and Persuasion waiting for me. But much as I loved my first Austen, I am not making any promises when I will get to them! After all, I have P.D. James' murder mystery sequel to Pride and Prejudice to read.

On a recent trip to the Hamburg library, my husband and I went our separate ways…he to the vast array of German-language books and me to the tiny English book section. Half an hour later, we met to check out and to our surprise, discovered we’d both chosen Baking Cakes in Kigali. I mean really, what are the chances, even if the cover pic and back cover blurb reminded us both of our beloved Mma. Ramotswe and The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency?! Needless to say, I was excited and raced home to dive in. After the first 100 pages, my normal do or die limit, I saw my high hopes for this inspired concept waning, and instead wondered where this story was headed and when something…anything…would happen. It is obvious that Gail Parkin has an intimate knowledge of Rwanda and its people, of life after the genocide, and of the the varied types who find themselves there by choice or not, and I enjoyed learning more about this. Nevertheless, I felt the vehicle used to bring out those stories a bit contrived, and that every little thing she knew about Rwanda was packed into the book, sometimes inartfully.

I was so eager for a delicious story about a cake-baking lady whose wisdom helps those around her and whose insights help the reader experience Rwanda. Indeed, I love the character of Angel Tungaraza. She’s filled to the brim with the milk of human kindness, crafty when she needs to be, and someone I’d kill to meet. Unfortunately, much of the story is told when customers come to order a cake from Angel, and end up also telling her their entire life’s story. After a few sad or troubled souls comes to Angel and unload, none of their troubles having anything to do with one another, I felt overdosed on disconnected stories with no clear aim forward and no action. I also kept wondering why these people would tell such intimate stories upon first meeting Angel. The author tries to address this by saying it’s because they feel comfortable telling a foreigner their stories, but I can’t say I bought it. The good part, however, is that these stories highlight the social issues of Rwanda and I enjoyed learning about them.

Still, even the social issues begin to get tedious with some of Angel’s customers seemingly conjured up solely so the author can fit in yet another social ill. Almost pro forma, Ms. Parkin touched on every issue…genocide, child soldiers, female circumcision, street children, jaded relief workers, reconciliation problems, prostitution, AIDS, infidelity, alcoholism, sexism, racism. And all this comes to Angel’s doorstep because she’s the sympathetic cake lady. It just seems implausible and clumsily executed.

Having said all that, the book did seem to find its footing in the second half, and more seemed to happen than simply listening to stories. Angel gets out and about a bit more, and the stories are shown, not told. I know Ms. Parkin has written a sequel, and though I am not rushing out to buy it, I do want to read it because even from the beginning to the end of this book, I could see she was finding her voice and becoming a stronger writer. So, yes, I would consider reading other books by this author.

My real rating for this on my website was 2.5, not 2. Since Goodreads doesn't allow splitting such hairs,and this book definitely didn't rise to a 3 for me, I had to give it a 2 here.

I’m a history fanatic, but if a book’s about war, it generally needs to be pre-20th century for me. A War of the Roses story, and I am glued, telling myself it was long ago and far away, even somehow romanticizing it. A story about WWI or any war thereafter – well, I am simply uninterested in a reminder we’ve evolved no further than Cro-Magnon man regarding warfare. So, when I got The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (“GLPPPS”) as a gift, it sat unread for a year -- until I read 84 Charing Cross Road, another story told through letter exchange.Sensing the letter connection, the Amazon spy machine recommended GLPPPS, and I finally gave it a go. This is a sparkling little gem of a story spun around an interesting, little known tidbit of World War II history which puts human faces on both sides of the conflict. An added bonus: a new destination on my travel wish list.

If I ever knew part of England was occupied by German forces, I promptly forgot it, so the historical background of the Channel Islands’ occupation piqued my curiosity. Within the post-war letters flying to and fro between main character Juliet Ashton and Guernsey residents, co-authors Mary Ann Schaffer and Annie Barrow subtly weave the story of the German occupation through the eyes of the Guernsey residents. With the only help coming from the British government being the evacuation of Guernsey’s children to the mainland, Guernsians were cut off from England and their children and left to fend for themselves. The antics of these brave, resourceful Britons in surviving and sometimes outwitting the Germans are a joy to read about, including the totally unexpected manner in which the Literary Society came to be.

All the characters stories were compelling, but I particularly appreciated the love story between Guernsey resident Elizabeth and a German soldier during the war. Living part-time in Germany, I have grown to love this country and its people, and am always upset when I see stupid remarks on blogs or elsewhere regarding Germany and its Nazi past.,,remarks which refuse to let the past go or to acknowledge the long way Germany has come. I have always believed a Holocaust could happen anywhere, given the right circumstances. In fact, many might claim we’ve had our own in the form of past treatment of Native Americans and slavery. So, our sense of superiority regarding this dark history amazes me. This love story really brings home the fact that ordinary, everyday Germans were victims of Hitler also and were no different from you or me, but simply caught up in the insanity with no way out.

Finally, there is the setting for the story. Once in a while, a story’s locale captures my imagination, being as in the novel as any of the author’s living, breathing personalities. Of course, I have heard of the Channel Islands between, the largest of which are Guernsey and Jersey, but I never considered them as a possible travel destination. However, being transported into the island’s unique history, as well as pondering its peculiar position as part of England and yet so separate and different, have made me determined to see the island of Guernsey someday. And what better endorsement of a book can there be?

This is another Amazon recommendation, and they are beginning to make a believer out of me. Certainly, I knew some flowers had certain meanings, but I was completely ignorant of the Victorian penchant for conveying coded messages in the guise of sending flowers, and when I saw Vanessa Diffenbaugh had crafted a story around this practice, I immediately added it to the birthday wishlist of books I gave to my husband. In The Language of Flowers, Diffenbaugh has created a story that is at times disturbing, at other times supremely sad, but mostly, it is a heartwarming tale of survival against all odds.

Whenever I think of the foster care system, I have mixed emotions. On the one hand, I am sure many kids are happily placed and well-cared for, but I also know many are neglected, abused, unloved, and moved about like pawns on a chessboard. As a foster mother herself, Diffenbaugh is likely privy to more harrowing stories than readers ever will be, and she expertly threads this knowledge into Victoria’s story. With every new home placement and subsequent disappointment, Victoria despairs of ever finding a family and bit by bit her heart hardens over. I felt sick thinking about what these children go through, and how the system really does fail too many, and nevertheless, we all expect these kids to straighten up and fly right as adults, as if they’ve been given the tools to do so. An almost impossible task, for which many have no sympathy when they fail. I commend Diffenbaugh for shining another small light on foster care problems, uncomfortable though it may be to read.

Once out of the system, Victoria has a lucky break, and is able to translate her knowledge of the language of flowers into a career path. She meets people who care about and help her -- in particular, the florist Renata who gives her a job and sets her on her path. But the damage from childhood has robbed Victoria’s trust in love and friendship. As she shuts out the kindness of one person after another, it is sad and not a little frustrating to watch her sabotage her own happiness. And yet, her actions and responses ring supremely true for a person with her life path.

Throughout the story, Victoria continues to learn and grow in fits and starts, one step forward and two steps back, which seems natural. It is satisfying to see her growth, both in her profession and life in general, but I also like the way Diffenbaugh doesn’t wipe away all her problems and struggles like a fairy godmother even at the story’s close. The scars will always be there, just fading over time. Still, heartwarming Victoria’s story is, I worry a little that her success gives some readers the mistaken impression all kids can overcome their past. Hopefully not.

This was a beautiful first novel that married the unpleasant topic of foster care and how it fails some of our children with the romantic language of flowers for an unforgettable story.