Teaser Tuesdays: Juliet by Anne Fortier


Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly bookish meme, hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Just open your current read to a random page and share a few sentences. Be careful not to include spoilers!

I’m doing it again: getting slightly out of my usual reading habits to try something that sounded appealing. Juliet references Romeo and Juliet and is a romance in its own right, and that’s about what I knew of it when I started. I have selected an extra-special teaser for you today.

Within the coniferous greens of his eyes, I now got a warning glimpse of his soul. It was a disturbing sight.

Kids, I don’t know about you, but this is the sort of thing that concerns me about romance novels. Coniferous greens of his eyes? Really? Anybody love this or (ahem) anybody else find this ridiculous?

looking back on early 2012… looking forward to a new trend

As I wrote at the beginning of the calendar year, I am moving away from challenges and lists and readalongs this year, hoping to follow more truly my reading urges, ideally with an emphasis on my TBR list(s) and shelf (shelves). Well, here we are two months (more or less) into 2012, and I see my reading urges taking shape. I wanted to share what I’m observing, and what I’m looking forward to.

First, what’s happened in the last eight weeks? I’ve read 25 books (wow! that many? really?), but I haven’t had really excellent luck. I really loved eight of them, which is a scant third: not very good stats. I loved:

If you have noticed a pattern above, so have I: I am leaning heavily towards a certain two bearded men whose first names start with ‘E’. (On a personal note, I have been toying pictorially with the three bearded men in my life…)

Ernest Hemingway, Edward Abbey, and my Bearded Husband


My newfound (or newly recovered) interest in Abbey has come out of my love of Philip Connors’s Fire Season, which I called my favorite book of 2011. I’m still not done being moved by it; Husband is actually reading it himself (a truly momentous occurrence), I am planning a reread at the earliest available moment, and we’re planning a summer trip to the Gila National Forest itself, possibly even to meet the author who has graciously been corresponding with me and overlooking my rabid fandom. The unfortunate coincidence of Fire Season‘s publication with the worst drought in Texas’s history, and a series of wildfires including one that touched my family, has had me thinking about some of the themes involved. I’ve read a few other pieces of nature writing this year (Liebenow’s Mountains of Light and March’s River in Ruin – both lovely, and both reviews to come in Shelf Awareness). But mostly I’ve been revisiting Abbey himself, who represents the epitome of nature writing, at least for me in my not-very-well-read experience. I can’t begin to go into what his writing does for me at this moment; that’s another blog post. But he makes me laugh, and cry, and think and feel, and plan trips. I am trying to take to heart his exhortation to “get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, encounter the grizz, climb the mountains, bag the peaks. Run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and comtemplate the precious stillness, that lovely, mysterious and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves…”

And Connors, and Abbey, are shaping my reading, too, of course. I’m working on building my collection of Abbey’s books, and a few books about him; I have Aldo Leopold’s A Sand Country Almanac coming to my local library; and I have my eye on Muir, although with a few reservations. (I did love his Stickeen as a child. If you see it, grab it.) I have a few books on New Mexico and the Gila coming, too, to help plan our trip this summer.

Again, my thoughts on Abbey are large and evolving, and I’m not feeling worthy of trying to communicate them today. But I’m working on it.

And then there’s the other bearded man. I do have still a handful of Hemingway works on his little shelf that I haven’t read; and I have several biographies of him and other related fiction and nonfiction. My love for Hemingway has not faded yet.

So I guess what I’m trying to say, very long-windedly, is that I am finding great joy in my reading these days by focusing on a few areas that are holding my interest: mainly, two authors I greatly respect, and the writings about and surrounding them. I hope to delve more deeply into Abbey (and similar) and Hemingway, as 2012 rolls on by. Of course my reviews for Shelf Awareness continue; but they take 3-4 reviews a month from me, and that makes up a minority of my reading, so I have time to do my own thing. There will always be some variety, too – this weekend I checked out the new Girl Reading by Katie Ward just because it looked good – but I am doing pretty well at putting down the books that don’t work for me, because I know there’s lots more Abbey et al out there for me.

Leave It to Psmith by P.G. Wodehouse

Let’s hear it for Psmith! Wodehouse wins again! I love this guy. He makes me laugh. His stories are lighthearted and feel-good and things always come out right in the end. This is my first non-Jeeves Wodehouse, and I loved it.

I don’t think I’m able to sum this plot up briefly, but I will say: there is a spacey Earl (whom we met the other day) with a thick-headed and scheming son, a tyrannical (but efficient!) secretary, a decidedly difficult sister, and a hard-beset brother-in-law. There is a small crowd of people trying to steal a diamond necklace, mostly independent and unaware of one another. And Psmith (the ‘p’ is silent) comes on the scene to solve the world’s problems and woo the girl – under a false name, naturally. He is a perfect Wodehouse creation: a little bit bumbling but oh so charming and well-dressed. There are several strong female characters (some portrayed more flatteringly than others) and the requisite daunting aunt. There is a troubled but eventually happy love affair. And oh, the laughs.

I was relieved to detect none of the misogyny in Leave It to Psmith that I found in my last Wodehouse read. This was as delightful as it gets. While there is hilarity and even some light slapstick, Psmith is less ridiculous than Bertie Wooster, and a little more capable. I still like the Jeeves and Wooster pairing, mind you, but Psmith is a new love. Beyond that, I should direct you to Simon’s recent discussion of the wonders of Wodehouse as he said it so well. More ice cream, please!


Rating: 6 giggles.

Available Dark by Elizabeth Hand

A dark, cold, bloody thriller set in Iceland’s winter, seen through a photographer’s lens.


Cassandra Neary lives hard. Between the drugs, the booze and her trauma-ridden past, she just barely stays afloat; a recent foray (in 2007’s Generation Loss) back into her former field of photography didn’t earn her much, other than a suspicion of murder that she’s eager to outrun. So when a mystery man contacts her from overseas, offering a chance to put her 30-year-dead photography skills back into action for a tidy sum, she leaves her New York City slum life without too much consideration. Correspondence from her high school boyfriend Quinn–long thought dead–pushes her along, too.

But Cass is greeted in Helsinki not only by gruesome photographs–more or less her specialty–but by gruesome murders as well, and she has to keep moving. So it’s on to Reykjavik in the heart of winter, where Cass makes her way through a world of icy cold, hard drugs, black metal, mental illness and multiple murders. A reunion with Quinn lends adrenaline and excitement, but no greater light.

Not for the weak-stomached or the easily frightened, Available Dark is a masterpiece of lovely writing and ghastly details. Elizabeth Hand, who has a personal background in the early New York punk scene, treats the finer points of Scandinavian black metal with respect. Her writing is sharp-edged and gritty, and fully realized, filled with frightening, contradictory characters and shocking edge-of-the-seat twists. Cass’s artistic perspective, as she photographs ritual killings and crime scenes, adds another layer to what might have been a straightforward thriller. Great fun, if you can hang on for the ride!


This review originally ran in the Feb. 21, 2012 issue of Shelf Awareness for Readers. To subscribe, click here, and you’ll receive two issues per week of book reviews and other bookish fun!


Rating: 5 gory photographs.

book beginnings on Friday: Leave It to Psmith by P.G. Wodehouse

Thanks to Katy at A Few More Pages for hosting this meme. To participate, share the first line or two of the book you are currently reading and, if you feel so moved, let us know what your first impressions were based on that first line.

Today we’re back with Wodehouse, in my first departure from his Jeeves novels. I was feeling in need of some comfort food, and as Simon recently said, Wodehouse is like ice cream: perhaps not commendable for daily fare but oh so good when a person needs something sweet and rich.

My expectations are being met so far: the first several pages had me in stitches, unable to choose my favorite lines to quote. Of course, today’s exercise mandates the first lines, thereby relieving me of that decision. I have taken the liberty of quoting a longer passage than is customary because these were too good to miss:

At the open window of the great library of Blandings Castle, drooping like a wet sock, as was his habit when he had nothing to prop his spine against, the Earl of Emsworth, that amiable and boneheaded peer, stood gazing out over his domain.

It was a lovely morning and the air was fragrant with gentle summer scents. Yet in his lordship’s pale blue eyes there was a look of melancholy. His brown was furrowed, his mouth peevish. And this was all the more strange in that he was normally as happy as only a fluffy-minded man with excellent health and a large income can be.

You see what I mean? “Amiable and boneheaded” and still more, “fluffy-minded.” Not to be missed! I love the characterization in these opening lines of the Earl of Emsworth: likeable, but (at best) spacey. Wodehouse continues his streak, as far as I’m concerned.

What are you reading this weekend?

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy (audio)

This is a very long book, and I am trying to keep this from being a very long review. In a nutshell, I did not find it the life-changing masterpiece that I hoped it might be. (This is alarmingly often true of the very big name classics, it seems. Maybe too much hype?) However, it had some redeeming features, especially early on.

I will refrain from much plot summation (to keep my review shorter!); you can find that online if you like (for example, here’s Wikipedia). But, quick plot points: Levin is in love with Kitty, the youngest daughter of a good family. He proposes and is rejected, because she is expecting a proposal from Count Vronsky. However, just then the married Anna Karenina comes to town, Vronsky is taken with her, and abandons Kitty. Now we have a sad Levin, a sad Kitty (rather ruined, in fact, with her marriage prospects suddenly bleak), and Vronsky chasing Anna. Slight spoiler: he succeeds, and they become lovers, cuckolding Karenin (her husband). There are other characters, other couples mostly, with their own marital issues. Levin is a landowner with a restless intellect; he is probably the character most actively questioning his society’s unwritten rules, debating new ways of running his land and his peasant laborers, etc. One thread of the book follows discussions of society in various forms. The real spoilers follow in white text (highlight to read) if you want to follow it through: Levin does eventually marry Kitty. Anna has Vronsky’s baby, and goes to live with him after leaving her husband, but they are relatively ostracized by the society they were accustomed too, especially Anna; she is increasingly jealous and insecure, and finally kills herself. Levin finds God. There, that’s my quick plot summary. I have left out a great deal.

I struggled with this book for one main reason: I couldn’t find a sympathetic character. I thought I had one here and there, but they failed me time and time again. Kitty & Levin both overcome obstacles; but they never move past the tragedy of Kitty’s losing Vronsky – they continue to let his shadow lean across their lives, and I got sick of that. For all their observing their own happiness, I was unconvinced. Jealousy plays a large role in their relationship. Anna and Vronsky, too, call themselves happy but the jealousy and the quarreling just went on and on; I was annoyed. I went back and forth: poor Anna, she needs her man, he took her out of her home and life and now he leaves her home alone and lonely! And then again, poor Vronsky, this woman is a total drag! It comes back to the same point: I found none of these characters particularly sympathetic, and I did not have the patience for the woe-is-me drama. Tolstoy seems to use lots of superlatives. I think this is what contributed to my feeling of high drama (rolls eyes).

On the other hand, the ideological musings and discussions Levin indulged in failed to perk up my ears, as well. I would have been interested in working through some of these theories, but I never felt that we got any concrete experimentation with them; rather, Levin thought to himself or mentioned to his gentlemanly peers, and then plodded on. I don’t know why this made me impatient, when Jurgen’s struggles and ideologies in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle hold me so rapt, but so I found it.

I remained engaged, entertained, and concerned for the characters, and caught up in what I’m calling Tolstoy’s high drama, for a time. I would say more than half of this tome. But it dragged on too long; he lost me. I couldn’t care for that long. The characters who started off as semi-sympathetic, or potentially sympathetic, or at least interesting, dragged on into repetition and selfishness that eventually bored me; I would have found them, the story, and the writing style more interesting if he had wrapped up a little sooner. And I do not fear the chunky epic novel, either; I’m capable of enjoying books of this length when they keep me engaged.

While I’m on the subject of length, though, I wonder if the audio format was perhaps the wrong choice here. I read faster than the narrator reads aloud. It would have taken me less time to read this one in print, and maybe that would have allowed me to get through it without becoming exasperated. A reader feeling the need to rush through a book is not a particularly strong endorsement, though.

In fact I was tempted to quit. Towards the end I was very frustrated, with Anna in particular, as she descends into jealousy and insanity. I recognize the misogyny in this book (for example, see my earlier Tuesday Teaser), and perhaps it should be interpreted as a compliment to Tolstoy that it was so convincing: Anna increasingly struck me as weak and nagging. I realize the difficulty of her “position” as it is referred to, and her shortage of options. But her continued complaining rubbed me the wrong way. I wanted to stop listening to this book; but as I completed disc 27, then disc 28, of 30 (!) cds, I knew I’d come too far to turn back. I had to know how it ended – not because I cared about Anna’s fate, you see, but because I was curious to know if Tolstoy was going to finally engage or impress me, or if his finish pulled something off that I had been missing all along.

And I’m afraid he didn’t. Back to the white text here so you can avoid my spoilers (highlight to read): Anna’s suicide almost relieved me. She was suffering, and she was complaining, and I’m glad she put us both out of our misery. See? I’m sure I missed the point here, but I can only report my own reaction. And as for Levin’s finding of the faith… it happened a little bit too fast for me, although the scene with the lightning was certainly interesting. And to be fair, I’m not your ideal audience for finding-God endings, as I’m a confirmed atheist and just fine with that fact.

I regret that I wasn’t more excited by this one, especially considering the weeks it took me to get through it; but I can’t say I regret those weeks. Now I know. The real question is: is there any chance I’ll enjoy War and Peace, or should I cut my Tolstoy-losses now??


Rating: 4 fancy dresses.

hemingWay of the Day: on nightlife

Nightlife is a funny thing. There seems to be no reason or rule that controls it. You cannot find it when you want it. And you cannot get away from it when you don’t want it. It is a European product.

from “European Nightlife: A Disease,” The Toronto Star Weekly, 15 December 1923

So true, Papa, so true! I feel like I’ve spent all my life either trying to find the party or to escape it. (Is that a metaphor for something?) This article was a charming little assessment of the nightlife scenes in a handful of European cities – not a travel guide or anything, since it’s so dated (!), but a snapshot in time of one man’s experience, at least, and well presented, and funny.

Teaser Tuesdays: Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America by Gustavo Arellano

Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly bookish meme, hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Just open your current read to a random page and share a few sentences. Be careful not to include spoilers!

Gustavo Arellano is the author of the nationally syndicated column, ¡Ask a Mexican! of which I am a casual fan. That was enough for me to know I wanted to read this book – that, and I looove Mexican food. This book appears to be slightly more serious and literary. Check out the literary reference in this teaser from page two – the first of many – about astronauts making burritos in space:

…the brownish, glistening mass popped out of the bag, away from the tortilla below it, and would’ve presumably continued on an endless trajectory if the fast-thinking Olivas didn’t snatch the sausage with the tortilla. The salsa acted as a binding agent and secured the incipient Icarus.

What fun! You won’t see my review til closer to the publication date of April 10, but I promise you’ll see it then.

This quotation comes from an uncorrected advance proof and is subject to change.

Hanging Hill by Mo Hayder

A suspenseful, fast-paced thriller that reunites estranged sisters amidst a series of grisly events.

When a popular, beautiful local girl is found brutally murdered on a towpath in idyllic Bath, the investigation team pursues the recommendation of the forensic psychologist: search for a teenage boy, one of her peers. Naturally, Harley-riding bad-girl police detective Zoe Benedict has something else in mind. She follows a more sinister lead toward amateur porn, strip clubs and unsavory characters–and is astonished to encounter her estranged sister, Sally, the good girl, reduced by divorce to cleaning rich people’s houses to support her daughter, at the center of the case. One of Sally’s clients is a successful (and appropriately sleazy) pornographer; her daughter shares a history with the murdered girl; and her boyfriend has some inside knowledge that makes him especially afraid for Sally’s safety. A dirty secret from Zoe’s own past threatens to reveal itself, while Sally, struggling to defend her loved ones from harm, discovers new strength no one thought she possessed. And the sisters’ relationship gets a second chance.

Mo Hayder’s (Skin; Gone) tightly plotted Hanging Hill keeps the suspense taut, and the characters are realistic and multifaceted as well as (in most cases) sympathetic. Hayder delights in exposing the dark side–of domestic life, of family, of childhood and growing up–and her gritty, gruesome bits are not for the faint of heart. But there are love affairs, too, sweetly relieving the grimness. Hanging Hill is finely put together and entirely satisfying–at least until the terrifying ending, which uproots the safe feeling of resolution into which the reader was lulled.


This review originally ran in the Feb. 14, 2012 issue of Shelf Awareness for Readers. To subscribe, click here, and you’ll receive two issues per week of book reviews and other bookish fun!

Papa: A Personal Memoir by Gregory H. Hemingway

Gregory Hemingway, known as Mr. Gig or Gigi to his family, was Ernest Hemingway’s youngest of three sons; his mother was Pauline, Papa’s second wife. This is his memoir of his father, and it begins and ends with Papa’s suicide, and the ways in which that trauma shaped Gigi’s life. It is a short but monumentally touching and surprisingly well-written book; I think it is the most moving biography of Papa (who, presumably, you know I adore) that I have read. While Gigi does relate several of his father’s uglier moments, including crimes against his son, he emphasizes Papa’s humanity and good qualities. The story told here seems to be of a fundamentally good man who got sicker and sicker at the end – though I think he always struggled with mental illness, from being cross-dressed as a toddler through pursuit of success, fame, and the fading of his talent – and fell apart. There are other perspectives out there; many biographers and commentators see Hemingway as a monster, and I accept that that is one perspective, and has evidence to back it up. But I’m always drawn to the outlook that he deserves our pity for the illness he struggled with that finally killed him; and that is more what we get here.

Gigi tells heartwarming stories, and some bad ones (like Papa blaming Gigi for Pauline’s death). He shows what good advice Papa gave; he was a good teacher. He addresses some of the myths surrounding his larger-than-life father, even though he is often unable to refute or confirm them because he was so small (or living with his mother). And it’s all so beautifully done! Who knew Gigi was a bit of a writer, himself? (Make note of the tale of his plagiarized short story, back when he still hoped to follow in his father’s footsteps.)

To me, one of the most poignant things about this slim memoir is our present knowledge of where Gigi went from here. At the time the book was written, he was a practicing physician and still married to Valerie (whose own memoir of Papa I have on my shelf waiting for me). He would later divorce Valerie (after some 20 years of marriage) and go on to two more marriages; become a cross-dresser and take steps toward a sex change; lose his medical license; battle alcoholism; and finally die in a women’s jail in Miami. In his book, there is a general tone of “look at me, I’ve come this far” – not bragging so much as in relief to have resisted the darkness for this long. He seems to have a positive attitude. But there is also quiet acknowledgement, here and there, of the sinister element within himself that he has worked to resist. This same subtle awareness of the darkness inside is present in Papa’s work beginning at a young age, and the youngest son Andrew in Islands in the Stream, clearly modeled on Gregory, has a “badness” in him as well. The descriptive passage about Andrew, in fact, is quoted at the beginning of this book, before Norman Mailer’s (excellent) introduction, implying that Andrew’s darkness as well as Papa’s and Gigi’s is acknowledged by all the parties.

This book was like a gift to me from yet another tragic Hemingway man. It gave me lovely, appealing moments with Papa, as well as those ugly moments in which he could be so vicious. It was beautifully written. I loved getting to know Gigi better; he struck me as a very likeable, sympathetic man. But it was also sad, as reading about the Hemingways always is.