Z is for "Zut alors!" or What Kate Has Learned From This Project

What I (tried) to read: The Marriage Bureau for Rich People by Farahad Zama

This book is an obvious attempt to build on the success of Alexander McCall Smith's No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency.

Okay, that might not be fair. Maybe, Zama came up with the idea before McCall Smith became popular, and McCall Smith's success simply enabled him to sell his idea. Or, maybe Zama was inspired by McCall Smith (and why not?!). Or, maybe Zama thought, "I could make a buck by doing the McCall Smith thing in India!"

Whatever the reasoning, I couldn't get into the book. McCall Smith rambles but does go somewhere. Although the first book focuses on Mma Ramotswe's biography, McCall Smith supplies little mystery arcs to keep the reader interested.

The Marriage Bureau provides lots of stuff-is-happening but no little stories. I kept thinking, "THIS chapter will give me a story about matchmaking," but no, just more information about the main character. So I gave up.

And now that I've ended A-Z List 1--reading a new book from each letter of the adult fiction section--what did I learn?

1. There's a lot of books out there that I have no desire to read.

Many, many, many books have been published about characters' ANGST-RIDDEN/PROBLEM-RIDDEN LIVES, involving EMOTIONAL CHANGE and INSIGHTFUL, PROFOUND INSIGHTS AND PROFUNDITIES.

Oh, blech.

But people must read these kinds of books because other people keep publishing them. 

And in truth, I'm a big believer that there is a reader out there for just about anything. Some writers want to cater to the "masses"--but I think even that plan is kind of a crap-shoot. (Just because something fits a zeitgeist, doesn't mean it will take off.) I think most writers aim for writing to the best of their ability the books that they want to read. And the truth is, there is someone out there for all those books. People are as variable as what gets written. 

2. There're a lot of writers people have never heard of.

A lot of my students think that having a literary career means writing a novel that takes off and makes them famous. This is kind of understandable when you realize that most of my student's lives have been dominated by Harry Potter and Twilight.

Or it's just the age since I kind of thought the same thing at 20. AND I was trying to get published (unlike many of my students), so I should have known how hard it really was.

The truth is, publishing a novel is impressive but no guarantee of stardom. Unfortunately.

3. There are good writers you haven't heard of or read.

Out of the writers I read, the only one (at the time) I went on to read more of was Elkins. However, I enjoyed reading almost all of the writers and I discovered books I never had before that made a definite impression. 

4. You can learn from bad writing.

It's unfair to keep picking on Jeffers since I don't actually think she is a terrible writer; I just disagreed with her vision. But reading Jeffers is what led me to write A Man of Few Words.

Likewise, by trying Cussler again, I learned something about creating characterizations in a quick, non-obtrusive way. 

 5. There are a finite number of books.

Sure, there are many, many "S"s and billions of "C"s, but there are only so many "Z"s, no matter how many different libraries you go to.

The finite number of books is still an awful, awful lot. There's always more to read, which brings me to...

2023: I discovered a new mystery author when I picked up The Doctor of Thessaly. 

The writing is good. It is the kind of writing that depends almost entirely on show-no-tell, very little interior monologue. I generally prefer to hear a little more about what is going on in my main character's head. But I appreciate the type of writing Zouroudi employs here, especially when it is so crisp and easily evocative.

The detective, the "fat man," is a kind of Nero Wolfe, only more congenial with a slightly more impish sense of humor--though equally ruthless in some ways.  

I will likely read more of Zouroudi!

Y is for Yawny Yancy and Young at Heart Youngson

What I read: The Highly Effective Detective by Richard Yancey.

As stated in an earlier post, the books on this list are not (always) books I have finished. This is one I didn't finish even though I got it out of the library twice plus it is reasonably well-written with clever dialog, clearly established characters, and humorous situations. I would probably try to keep going if it wasn't due Monday [in 2010].

I'm just as happy to send it back; it bores me. After some thought, I've decided that this is because it is detective rather than mystery fiction.

I enjoy mysteries, and I enjoy cop/lawyer shows, but I have never cared for American P.I. fiction. One reason is that I am partial to the "cozy" (though I am a fan of Law & Order, specifically Seasons 1-4 when it still felt gritty and focused on the evidence).

In addition, despite my high opinion of both Humphrey Bogart and Patrick Stewart, I've never cared much for Bogart's Raymond Chandler-type movies or for Star Trek TNG's Dixon Hill episodes. P.I. plots are almost always gangster-oriented, and gang stories (with the exception of The Freshmen with Matthew Boderick and Marlon Brando) don't grab me. The moment I see the word "gang" or "Mafia" in a book or film summary, my brain goes to sleep. I've never seen The Godfather and can't imagine a circumstance where I would--voluntarily at least. (I even skip Law & Order gang-related episodes.)

As for why gangs fail to interest me, I think it is because the collective doesn't interest me. Gang stuff always seems to be about the P.I. or gang member versus THE GROUP or SOCIETY: environmental determinism to the max. Even with Star Trek, my interest in the Borg has always been in the ex-Borg, not the Borg itself [and the Borg, by its very existence, bring up the question of the individual]. Collective history doesn't interest me either. I need an individual to latch onto. Even if we are all products of collective DNA or collective social pressures...who cares? [In any case, as I get older, I buy into collectiveness as an explanation less and less. Every person is born into the world as an individual and dies as an individual, even conjoined twins. Collective narratives are just that: narratives.]

Which isn't to say that The Highly Effective Detective is about gangs. It doesn't appear to be. But there is that "P.I. investigating the world" aspect. I need an individual body and an individual setting--and if the latter is a manor house or library, all the better!

2023: I randomly selected Meet Me at the Museum by Anne Youngson. I will say--before I get into thoughts on epistolary literature--that it is very much the story of two individuals!  

Meet Me at the Museum is letters between an English farmwife and a Danish museum curator who begin corresponding about the Tollund Man and develop a close and sustaining relationship. I chose it mostly because I wasn't interested in any of the other books on the shelves (rather sadly, Yancy wasn't available for me to try again: there is a lesson here about the rise and fall of author popularity). 

I was hesitant because I generally don't read epistolary fiction, and I'm not entirely sure why. When I do, I am always engaged. I find the reading fairly effortless. And if it is well-done (which it is here), I come away with a satisfied feeling. 

I think, however, that I harbor the suspicion that letters as fiction is cheating. Not really story. Not complete. Taking the easy way out. Too off-the-cuff. I can't describe my reaction, only I'm wary of the form.

I recommend this epistolary book too!

Such literature can be poorly done: ordinary people who just happen to bring up profound ideas at the drop of a hat. Way too much explanation in cases when people would not explain. Letters that say things like, "I'll tell you the rest of the story in my next letter" (people never do this--not truly), just so the author can create a new chapter. Sudden fulsome descriptions of the protagonists, which again they would never do ("I guess I should describe myself to you"). 

But the truth is, good versions of this form don't do the above. Meet Me at the Museum is written by two fairly well-spoken people who enjoy the act of writing, yet the letters don't feel belabored. They sound like two people talking about whatever comes into their heads without delivering a plethora of names and details that wouldn't matter to anyone. (My mother used to write letters containing completely mysterious details in utterly undecipherable handwriting: Yesterday, I went to the store on Western Ave and bought two screws for the pictures I bought from Leslie for $3.99 each, and I stopped to talk to Mr. Hansen and then dropped by Mrs. Ferguson's. Who? Who, Mom? Who are these people? Why are you telling me about them?). 

It helps that the characters in Meet Me at the Museum are primarily interested in talking about things and ideas. When their families enter the picture, the details are entirely within context. The world behind the letters is a full one, so much so, I imagined some fan fiction in my head for one of the sons.

Most importantly, relying almost entirely on show-don't-tell, the  characterizations of the principle characters in Meet Me at the Museum are impressively clear even though the female writer, Tina, doesn't describe herself  until several letters in (in reference to her daughter and then to another woman). The tone is consistent. And the letters are surprisingly poignant and human. And they bring up history and archaeology, which I always appreciate. 

Despite my lack of warmth towards the form in general, I do recommend the book! 

X is for Xenophon and What Makes History

What I read: The Expedition of Cyrus by Xenophon

I'm never going to be a classicist because I like more dialog in my exposition. Book 1 of The Expedition is straight exposition. It's kind of like reading Numbers in the Bible: lists of generals and numbers of troops. It's like watching a Risk game. Shoot, it's like playing Risk. (Most boring board game ever invented.)

However, about half-way through Book 1, Cyrus dies, and Xenophon (who was there, but refers to himself in the third person) goes into this long panegyric about what a great guy Cyrus was and how he would have been a WAY better king than his brother, thank you very much, and this is actually pretty interesting stuff as well as being great argument/persuasion. Here's a guy who knows how to argue his point (and is totally direct about it).

And there are some interesting nuggets. One is the description of the battle. You know those fantasy/ancient legend types of movies where the two sides line up in a really, really, really long line and rush each other? Turns out, the ancient Mediterranean people actually did that, and it sounds pretty exciting!

Another is Xenophon's historical persona. It isn't as if he footnotes his "data." But he doesn't jump to conclusions. At one point, Cyrus is "betrayed" by one of his Persian backers, Orontas. Orontas goes to trial and then "was taken into the tent of Artapatas, the most loyal of Cyrus' staff-bearers, and no one ever again saw Orontas alive or dead, nor could anyone say with certainty how he died, although people came up with various conjectures. No one ever saw his grave either." It isn't clear whether Xenophon is trying a little too hard to NOT make Cyrus seem like a butchering murderer or whether Xenophon is actually doubtful whether the whole thing wasn't just an elaborate show, and Cyrus really let the guy live. In any case, it's fun historical writing!

Another interesting tid-bit is how xenophobic (another "X"!) those Greeks were. Cyrus hired a bunch of Greeks to go fight with him against the Persian army controlled by his brother. The Greeks were mercenaries, yet Xenophon, a Greek, continually refers to the Persian army as "barbarians." He's completely unapologetic about it. That's what barbarians do. Yep, the barbarians are at it again.

The lowliest Greek is better than the Persian king: there's something awe-inspiring about this attitude. 

2023: I learned about Xenophon. I read the introduction to another of his books, Hellenica. I also watched Great Course's The Greek and Persian Wars with Professor John R. Hale. 

Xenophon is apparently not all that reliable. He was "there," at least part of the time, But even when he was there, he seems to have heavily edited events. G.L. Cawkwell in the introduction to Hellenica states, "[Xenophon] is principally what we have to rely on [for Cyrus's war against his brother and the end of the Greek Empire] and again and again puzzles present themselves. For the Hellenica is not history. It is essentially Memoirs." 

Another of Xenophon's problems is "[h]e wrote for men who knew, and felt no need to explain to those who did not know." 

 

Herodotus

He was no Herodotus, who by all accounts was a truly magnanimous man who felt the need to honestly depict and relate what he heard, even if he personally disbelieved it. In comparison, Xenophon edited by his silence stuff that he didn't want to remember or relate or think about.

 

Both Xenophon and Herodotus were interested in the moral lessons of history, however. I personally find this approach to history troubling since it can take on the same role as slathering academic theories. The moral lesson gets in the way. However, here again, a difference rears its head. Herodotus, like Adam Smith, observed, then deduced while Xenophon appears to wade into recent history with a story already in place. As Cawkwell states, "The hand of God is an explanation that dulls the quest for truth." 

 

Contemporary historians still love Xenophon (they love Herodotus more) because without both men, we would know even less about the ancient world than we do. And, too, Herodotus at least was promoting a somewhat new approach to the past. Ancient civilizations had "origin" stories as well as plenty of law documents as proof that a society had been around for awhile  (in fact, most conquerors in the Sumerian time period simply adopted everything that was left and kept it going).  But digging all that up (quite literally on occasion) became increasingly popular at the time of Herodotus and Xenophon. 

 

How did we get to here?

 

What was it like back then? was slightly less common but still part of the equation.

U is for Unsatisfying Uhnak and Ummm Updike

What I read: Victims by Dorothy Uhnak

I'm not a huge fan of crime novels. Mysteries, yes. I LOVE mysteries. And I'm a big fan of television police procedurals (CSI, Law & Order, Blue Bloods). But I've never found novel cops and robbers particularly interesting.

Victims, however, starts out good. The main cop protagonist is interesting, and the entire novel (at first) is based around the real-life Kitty Genovese case in which a woman was stabbed (several times) outside an apartment complex; her neighbors saw and heard it happen, but no one helped.

Using a similar set-up, 2/3rds of Victims focuses on interviews with the neighbors and their reasons for not calling 911. Uhnak does a fairly good job demonstrating a wide range of what is popularly called the Bystander Effect. There is a nice degree of tension between the protagonist, the famous reporter who wants to write about the neighbors, and the neighbors.

And then, the book completely collapses. It collapses because Uhnak falls back on the plot device of POLITICAL MACHINATIONS by POWERFUL PEOPLE.

There are really no words to express how unbelievably boring this plot device is. If anything can make me fall asleep while upright, it is POLITICAL MACHIzzzzzzzzz.

Like death, POLITICAL MACHINATIONS by POWERFUL PEOPLE is a writer's ultimate cop-out, a contemporary deus ex machina. The autopsy report was changed! Thousands of workers were bribed to keep their mouths shut! The reporter sells out for movie rights! Money buys off everyone!!

It's boring. (This may be why, while I enjoy crime shows, I lose interest the moment the Mafia enters the picture.) And it completely overwhelms the human element. The story is no longer about individuals struggling to get on in life; it's about whatever the powerful people are doing or thinking or...who cares?

How can this type of art even speak to people? Other than conspiracy-theorist, paranoid-type people? Sure, if all a person wants out of life is a fear of big, bad forces OUT THERE--I suppose the art has some use. But I can believe in big, bad forces OUT THERE without the help of art. Those big bad forces are called volcanoes. And earthquakes. And, if I'm really insistent, asteroids. I don't need to rely on people to clutter up my vision of big, bad forces.

If I'm going to watch movies and read books, I expect something more human, something closer to the human condition. The trappings are unimportant. The exploration of human interaction is what matters. Genre matters less than human connection, be it humorous, light, fantastical, bizarre, down-to-earth...

But plot devices that fall back on tired cliches about everyone being at the mercy of THE MAN--oh, please. Who cares. Go leave that message on someone else's machine.

Give me Columbo over POLITICAL MACHINATIONS any day.

2023: I read John Updike's Gertrude and Claudius.

It was readable but intellectually tedious. Despite the wealth of historical details and the use of supposedly medieval names (until the end), the story felt like a suburban love affair plopped into the middle of a historical moment.

 

Updike may have been making a point. Yet the story felt--not contrived but curiously lifeless. I am generally a fan of seeing universal human nature in the past--that is, although I believe that the past doesn't truly repeat itself and history relies on distinct, non-repeatable individuals, I also believe that human emotions/human biology/human desires show up in every era.

 

Consequently, a show like Rome--which has a number of flaws--still manages to capture the experience of actual human beings trying to survive a turbulent time.

 

Rome (again, despite its flaws) points the difference to Gertrude and Claudius. With Rome, I feel that human beings are reacting humanly to unforeseen events (there's no "right side of history" here--it's a mess!). The Tess of the D'Urbervilles approach (how many more dramas can the scriptwriters heap on a single family?) gets a little wearisome. Yet the sense of normal people just trying to get by remains.

 

While reading Gertrude and Claudius, on the other hand, I continually felt like the whole thing was an elaborate game of dress-up, which again may have been Updike's point but seems a tad extreme for 200-odd pages. Not normal people with normal human emotions trying to survive but contrived "types" costumed and buried in historical references. The bored and misunderstood wife! The cosmopolitan and enraptured lover! The pompous and mean-spirited husband!  

 

The non-reality of these types may have been Updike's point...but the book takes itself rather seriously. Worse, it isn't even funny.

I, Claudius, like HBO's Rome, descends into melodrama but is pulled back from the brink by the dark humor and phenomenal comedic timing of the main actors, namely Derek Jacobi, Sian Phillips, George Baker, and Brian Blessed. At one point, Sian Phillips as Livia and George Baker as Tiberius encounter each other--both in their own litters--in the marketplace where they start squabbling about her birthday. It's a fantastic scene that undercuts the melodrama and brings the viewer in on the joke: Yes, we are making the ancient Romans sound like a family in a sitcom. That's the point! Why shouldn't they be?!

 

Updike doesn't seem to be aware of anything so grounded as real people simply being weird. Throughout his novel, I did occasionally ponder if he was trying to play fair, to show that Hamlet, the father, was not without insight; that Claudius (Fergon) and Gertrude (Gerutha) are wholly self-serving and rather shallow.

 

But the jacket paints Gertrude and Claudius as having "fond intentions...on a stage darkened by the ominous shadow of a sullen, disaffected prince."

 

I don't particularly mind Hamlet (the younger) being kind of a jerk, an immature, smug man who pulls down an entire edifice over arguably self-important emotions.

 

Unfortunately, Updike doesn't see any other character as clearly. His supposedly historical drama lacks the tough self-mocking reality of Monty Python's look into the medieval and ancient worlds.

 

Trollope Continued: Review of The Warden & Entirely Relevant Trollope Quotes about Social Media

The Warden by Anthony Trollope (see T is for Terrific Trollope) revolves around an important religious issue in the 19th century (and now). A clergyman is living, partly, on the income derived from the property attached to an Almshouse. As the Almshouse property value increased, the amount extended through charity remained relatively the same. The older men at the Almshouse--who are basically in assisted living--are not abused or even struggling. Nonetheless, in truth, the clergyman is living a rather well-padded existence based on a charity that gives him most of the money.

The clergyman is a good, decent, sweet-natured, timid man who honestly looks after his charges. When the disparity in the funds' distribution is brought to his attention, he is devastated.

 

The matter is brought to his attention through the actions of a reform-minded young man in the neighborhood, Mr. Bold, who starts the entire matter. It is exacerbated by the clergyman's son-in-law, an officious self-righteous blowhard with no tact (though even with this character, Trollope goes out of his way to point out that the events have highlighted the man's faults more than his virtues; and he did pay the lawyers' bills!), and by the newspapers. 

 

Much of  Trollope's most trenchant commentary is delivered about the news. If anyone foresaw Twitter, it was Trollope!

 

Here reigns a pope, self-nominated, self-consecrated...a pope hitherto afraid of no Luther...who manages his own inquisition, who punishes unbelievers...one who can excommunicate thoroughly, fearfully, radically; put you beyond the pale of men's charity, make you odious to your dearest friends, and turn you into a monster...

 

Bold thinks of his editor friend: 

 

"[He accuses Harding, the clergyman] as an imposter on no other testimony than my chance conversation; but when I offer him real evidence opposed to his views, he tells me that private motives are detrimental to public justice!"

 

[Trollope's perhaps unfair but clever criticism of Dickens whom he calls Mr. Sentiment]: 

 

"His good poor people are so very good; his hard rich people so very hard; and the genuinely honest so very honest."

 

What makes the book so remarkable is that Trollope so closely and excitingly (!) portrays what is a quite domestic matter--a small issue of a single Almshouse in a single town--yet matters tremendously to the people involved.

 

In the end, the clergyman resigns. A timid man with a fierce conscience and strong integrity, he is the most lovable character in the book. 

 

But nobody is left better off. The charitable trust isn't fixed. The old men have lost a patron who truly cared about them. And the position, warden of the almshouse, is not filled, which is both good (the issue should be fixed first) and bad (the care of the elderly is left untended). It's not right or wrong. It's messy fall-out from life being life and people being people.

 

Barchester Chronicles was televised by the BBC in 1982. It stars such notables as Donald Pleasance, Nigel Hawthorne, Alan Rickman, David Gwillim, and a number of extraordinary female actors, including Phyllida Law. The Warden is quite faithful to the text and Donald Pleasance, as the Warden, naturally shines. Alan Rickman in the story's continuation, Barchester Towers, is so creepy as a self-serving sycophant, he is actually enjoyable to watch (creepy sychophants are usually not my thing but, well, Alan Rickman). 

Like the book, the series is domestic, funny, devastating, and spellbinding all at once. And it doesn't do what so many current BBC productions do: "improve" on the material. Trollope was a master at making the large problem personal and the personal problem loom large. There's no point in "improving" him.

T is for Terrific Trollope

What I read: The American Senator by Anthony Trollope

Trollope is fun. Reading Trollope is rather like reading Dickens, Austen, and People magazine all at the same time. Trollope creates gentle yet ironic, deftly drawn characterizations. One of the most impressive achievements of The American Senator is that I ended up routing for the cold, manipulative femme fatale. Trollope does a fair job depicting the reality of life for a single English woman in the gentry class circa 1900. The machinations of the femme fatale become understandable, even justifiable, the further you get into that world.

I don't think Trollope would have expected me to side so much with this character (Arabella). I think I was supposed to be bowled over by the sweet, kind, heartwarming mirror to Arabella. But Trollope is too good at what he does to NOT to give Arabella a complex personality.

The book is also hilarious. Towards the end, the narrator tells us:

The duke had objected to the term "thoroughly bad girl," which had been applied by his wife to his niece. He had said that "thoroughly bad girl" was strong language, and when the duchess defended the phrase he had expressed his opinion that Arabella was only a bad girl and not a thoroughly bad girl. The duchess had said that it was the same thing. "Then," said the duke, "why use a redundant expletive against your own relative?" The duchess, when she was accused of strong language, had not minded it much; but her feelings were hurt when a redundant expletive was attributed to her.

This is Monty-Python level humor! Great stuff.

Despite liking Trollope so much, I probably won't be reading him again soon. The American Senator took me about 2 months. Seriously. It was like reading War & Peace except the names were easier to follow, and it was less depressing. But talk about long.

But I do recommend him!

2023: Review of Barchester Chronicles's Book One, The Warden, to follow!  

S is for So-So Sansom and Stunning Sutcliff

What I read: Dissolution by C.J. Sansom

The book is a historical mystery, and it does a lot of things right. The author manages to combine a modern voice with a historical perspective. To my mind, this is exactly how historical novels should be written.

For example, I dislike historical novels where everyone speaks "forsoothly." It's one thing to put up with that kind of language from Shakespeare (after all, he has an excuse). It's another to put up with it from a modern writer who will, inevitably, get the "forsoothiness" wrong anyway.

In any case, medieval people didn't sound "forsoothly" to each other. Why not just make them sound like human beings? Especially since human greed and political-mongering ain't exactly new to the human race. It isn't as if everyone hit the Middle Ages and then got all high-minded and archaic about certain behaviors. So why make it sound that way?

A Man for All Seasons is a good example of a play that captures the politicking and even the formalism of court speech while avoiding the "forsoothiness".

The other thing Sansom does right is capture the historical mindset. He is writing about the time period right after Queen Anne was beheaded. Henry VIII, through Cromwell, is attempting to dismantle the Catholic monasteries piece by piece.

Sansom does an excellent job capturing the complexity of the issue. The most remarkable thing to me is how little resistance there was. This was not a case of an entirely Catholic country being turned, overnight, into a Protestant one. Many English men and women were already headed into, or firmly entrenched in, Protestant territory when Henry VIII broke with the Catholic church (a weasly powerplay, if there ever was one).

Which doesn't mean nobody put up a fight (hence priest holes and plotting to put Mary, Queen of Scots on the throne during Elizabeth's reign), especially since Henry VIII and Cromwell were motivated as much by greed and power as by any particular theology. (Dismantle a monastery, get its land, fill your coffers!) Sansom wends his way skillfully through what must have been a quagmire of good, bad, and ambivalent intentions.

And it was boring. It shouldn't have been. But it was. I was so impressed by Sansom's skill with the historical time period, I got out his second book, but it didn't take, and I never even finished the first (I got to within the last chapter, skipped ahead, discovered the murderer, and put the book down with a grateful sigh).

I actually recommend the book if you like well-written, historical, medieval mysteries. But don't blame me if you run out of interest!

2023: Sutcliff's The Eagle or The Eagle of the Ninth

This first A-Z list was originally meant to be an exploration of fiction authors I'd never read before (the second list is fiction books I have read). I have read several of Rosemary Sutcliff's books. 

However, I hadn't read The Eagle. 

I decided to read The Eagle after I learned about it from a Great Course's History Films DVD. I watched the movie, read the book, then watched the movie again. 

Rosemary Sutcliff is a skilled writer. Like Sansom, she captures the time period though her prose is rather more readable. These days, I don't read books as quickly as I used, but I finished The Eagle in record time. In fact, I read it faster than the time I'd given myself, I was so engaged. 

Sutcliff tackles early medieval history, the first four centuries of the C.E. era before and after the Romans occupied Britain. It should be noted: she wrote these books before The Mists of Avalon and other such novels. And she is quite accurate, not only to Roman Britain but to the culture and the mindset. 

Marcus, for instance, casually accepts Esca as a slave right up until someone challenges his decision to travel past Hadrian's Wall with Esca, at which point he frees Esca (I discuss the film change to this detail below). Likewise, although both Marcus and his uncle disparage the "games" (mostly for being lousy--in the movie, Donald Sutherland as the uncle says in his deadpan way, "This is fun. Right?"), nobody stands up and says, "My goodness, killing people for entertainment is so wrong. Stop it, now! Where are the protesters!?" 

In addition, Sutcliff manages--in all of her books--to balance the perspectives of her characters. Marcus and Esca are Roman and Briton. Marcus serves Rome yet comes to realize that he truly doesn't desire to go home--technically to an Italian province, not Rome, a detail Sutcliff gets right. Esca has opposed Roman rule but is willing to move on with his companion and his companion's wife-to-be to the land rewarded by the Senate. Neither of them is apologetic about their stances. Neither of them sees any conflict between their soldiering and "retirement." 

They are primarily military men in their thinking: We fight. We stop fighting. We do something else. 

The movie captures that mindset extremely well. It is, in many ways, a military film. 

There are a few changes. Marcus doesn't free Esca until almost the end of the film. At first, I thought the filmmakers were trying to make some sort of statement, but actually, after the second viewing, I think they were heightening tension about Esca's motives. 

The ending of the movie is exciting but I found the book's ending more suspenseful and interesting. However, I don't  hold the difference against the filmmakers. I thought it was clear that whoever wrote the script honestly loved and admired the book. Most changes seem to be visual/plotting alterations rather than a desire to "improve" the book. I was quite touched since I love to see a book given due tribute. 

I do think the film should have used the book ending for the eagle--rather than trying to do one ending with an alternate--but I like the movie ending anyway for the mutual look of "you are not a soldier, dude, so shut up" the two young men give the Roman politician. 

I recommend the movie and the book!

R is for RealWhoDunit Roosevelt and Reliable Runcie

What I read: Murder in the Oval Office by Elliott Roosevelt.

"R" contains a plethora of mystery authors: Kathy Reichs (who, despite my love of Bones, I have not read); Ruth Rendell; Kate Ross (author of the very good Julian Kestrel books); Mary Roberts Rinehart; Gillian Roberts; Laura Joh Rowland; and Deanna Raybourn whose Lady Julia Grey books I've just begun [in 2009].

I checked out an Elliott Roosevelt mystery on the mistaken assumption that I was checking out one of Margaret Truman's novels. Not that I customarily confuse Roosevelt with Truman: my thought was "mystery novel about politics by person related to a politician? This must be from the series . . ."

It wasn't the series I am thinking of. And the series do differ. Elliott Roosevelt's books star Eleanor Roosevelt as the detective while Margaret Truman's detectives appear to vary. Elliott Roosevelt's mysteries take place in a historical time period replete with historical personalities. Margaret Truman's novels, from my brief exposure, are more about the political setting than the historical one.

I found both authors fairly unreadable--in part because politics do not interest me in and of themselves. That is, while I might be interested in a particular time period or country, I don't feel the same way about political people and locations. Reading Murder in the Oval Office is like reading People magazine: very little mystery; lots and lots of name-dropping (and then Eleanor met the young, brash Lyndon B. Johnson!).

Margaret Truman's mysteries aren't riddled with name-dropping--the president of Murder in the White House is entirely fictional. Rather, her mysteries are riddled with political minutiae. Reading the beginning of Murder in the White House is rather like reading a Tolstoy spy novel: twenty billion people from twenty billion organizations conferring in little groups throughout the White House and...yaaawwwn.

The political murder mysteries I do like are by the mystery writing team, Emma Lathen (as R.B. Dominic). Emma Lathen is better known for her Wall Street mysteries starring John Thatcher. Her political mysteries are mostly out of print. I like them! Like in her economic mysteries, she focuses on "domestic" crimes, employs humor, and uses a detective who, while important (a congressman), isn't high profile.

Politics is always best dealt with indirectly.

2023: Reputedly, religion and politics are two topics to avoid at the dinner table. 

So I decided to try Grantchester novellas by James Runcie. 

I use "novellas" because the tomes are several long stories or investigations in one book. The first book includes "Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death" as well as "A Question of Trust" and so on. There is a chronological structure--the stories refer back to prior events--but the stories can be read and enjoyed separately.

I balked at picking up the first book because although I mostly enjoyed the first season of the BBC series, it started to feel a tad soap-operatic. I also felt that the religious positions were a tad too conveniently modern. 

The book, however, I found quite enjoyable. Sidney is by nature laid-back and laissez-faire. He honestly believes that his job is to be a good role model rather than a pious lecturer, an attitude that was not uncommon in the aftermath of the second World War. He ponders the difference between his role as a Christian canon or priest and his role as an investigator: the one role commands that he give people the benefit of the doubt and think well of them; the second role commands that he doubt everyone. 

The television Sidney is similar. He simply seems more angsty. Either book Sidney isn't as angsty or I can picture him not as angsty. 

I recommend the books!

Q is for Quality Quattlebaum, Kids' Thoughts, and Quick & Quarreling Couples

What I read: Grover G. Graham and Me by Mary Quattlebaum.

There aren't many "Q's" when it comes to fiction authors. I'm sure there are loads of "Q" fiction authors in the Library of Congress, but "Q's" in local libraries tend to occupy one to two shelves--at the most. At my local library, I found Quattlebaum, and I decided that anyone with such an awesome last name deserved to be read!

The book is quite good. It belongs in the category, "Fiction about orphan/foster children." Cynthia Voigt's Homecoming series comes to mind. Grover G. Graham and Me is told from a young foster boy's point of view. He is on foster home number eight or nine. There he encounters a toddler who reminds him of himself (this is never stated directly) and decides to rescue the toddler when the seemingly irresponsible mother comes to reclaim him.

Harper Lee's novel is remarkable:

 she retains the child's voice yet adult

readers can winnow out more.

The rescue part of the book is actually, realistically, quite short. It would have been interesting to see if the boy could have survived with the toddler for more than a day, but the book is really about the boy deciding to set down roots, not about the kidnapping.

Kids' Thoughts

The only slight snag is the boy's voice, a common problem with books told from a child's point of view. How do you make the child sound like a child without making him or her sound, well, boring? I'm not sure that children are too different from my cats: I'm hungry. I'm bored. Is there anything to do? Are we there yet? Can I go out and play?

I mean, how much critical thinking actually goes on? I don't remember much in-depth philosophical contemplation from my own prepubescence, though I do remember certain breath-taking decisions about God and theology (though I didn't use the latter word) between the ages of five to twelve but these were decisions/ideas, not developed ideologies.

My lack of memory (or desire to remember) may be why I don't write children's books. C.S. Lewis, for example, a mature and thoughtful adult, vividly remembered his childhood. His child characters, therefore, although adult-like in many ways, have responses that are rooted in childhood's common experiences. For instance, there is a delightful passage in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe where Lucy "got the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of summer." I remember reading that as a child and going, "Yes! Yes! That is the best feeling in the world."

On the other hand, C.S. Lewis provides his children with far more authority than your average child has--which is kind of the point. But "realistic" fiction can't make that trade-off. In real life, children don't have power. Consequently, "realistic" children are often given far more introspective thoughts about their powerlessness than I think they probably have. Most children are more like Billy Collins' "Lanyard" kid: Reality is whatever I'm doing right now. 

But then, a lack of introspection would make such books pretty uninteresting. When I'm reading books of this type, I simply increase the age of the heroes or heroines in my mind: the hero isn't eleven, I tell myself; he's fifteen. In my own story with a boy of about thirteen, I made that narrator an adult, looking back at his child self.

I will be tackling Quattlebaum for the Fairy Tale list! 

2023: I decided to read a "Q" book from adult fiction and settled on Amanda Quick, a romance writer. I've read a great many romance books over the years, but Amanda Quick is one I've usually skipped. 

I chose Slightly Shady because it has an investigation. The investigators, Lavinia Lake and Tobias March, fall in love. Although the investigation was of a "powerful villain [of] a vast criminal organization" (which plot line bores me  almost as much as conspiracy theories and drug tales), the same investigators appear in a later book, so I thought, "Hey, why not?"

I found the investigation more interesting than the characters. 

Lake and March, unfortunately (in this book at least), fall into the category of enemies to lovers who jump from bickering and arguing to kissing and other intimacies within less than a page and then jump back again. They are always going at each other about something.

When I read books with such characters, I wonder if the authors watch shows like Bones and fail to get anything out of the episodes beyond the bickering. Bones is graced not just by the initial arguments or disagreements or even the Thin Man repartee. It is graced by understanding and acceptance. The arguments--if they even rise to that level--are about insight and growth.

In Season 1 "The Man in the Bear," both Brennan and Booth are amused by the same things. In "The Man on Death Row" and "The Girl in the Fridge," Brennan and Booth demonstrate a strong understanding and respect for the other's ethics: what motivates that person. Their mutual knowledge expands until Brennan can say without hesitation to Booth, "I knew you would [fulfill my promise]. I knew you wouldn't make me a liar."

That is, the relationship changes--even in Season 1--even within the pilot--as the two become closer and gain insights and thrive in each other's presence. It is NOT a constant yo-yo of argue-argue-argue-make-out-argue-argue-argue.

The bickering in The Thin Man is never

about hierarchy. There's the case to solve!

By the end of Slightly Shady, I was still at a loss as to what the two characters liked about each other--but then I find the idea of constant so-called "challenge" dreary in the extreme. I find it infinitely more appealing to discuss a topic of mutual interest than to be constantly defending the topic, let alone one's stance on it. Bones doesn't revolve around "why did you bring that up?" or "how could you think that?!" or "you only think that because..." or "you really should care about this topic instead" but, rather, around "now that you have brought it up, let's move the conversation forward." (The expectation is so strong that at one point Brennan challenges Booth to present a new topic for discussion if he isn't willing to discuss the current one beyond "no, I don't agree.")

Constant fighting doesn't preclude mutual attraction, of course, and the suggestion of "wow, we can't stand each other but we do work well together--and then there's the sex" in Quick's book would have been somewhat interesting. 

That is not the direction the series is going. 

I may try a second book with the same characters, simply to see if they become less annoying once they are hitched.

P is for Place in Patons, including Peaks Island

What I read: Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton

I read this book for my church book club. I confess that my initial reaction was to run out and find the cliff notes: to do anything but actually read the book. My reaction was largely due to the jacket summary which stated, "[T]he story reaches a height of tragedy which has seldom been equaled in contemporary fiction."

If anything could turn me away from reading a novel, that little blurb would be it.

To digress a bit, I've never been a big fan of tragedy for tragedy's sake. In high school, I detested Steinbeck's The Pearl; disliked A Separate Peace; refused to read The Red Pony; found Tess completely ridiculous; and still consider Ethan Frome one of the stupidest novellas ever written.

On the other hand, I quite liked Shakespeare's tragedies; enjoyed Lord Jim; applauded Lord of the Flies; and even watched (on purpose) the movie version of Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men (the one with Gary Sinise).

After some thought, I determined that I don't mind--and sometimes even like--tragedy based on individuals' deeds gone wrong as opposed to tragedy based on subservience to fate.

That said, it is hard to know which category Cry, the Beloved Country falls into. I did read it very slowly since it is so sad. However, it is also heart-warming and beautifully written. 

Cry, the Beloved Country has a lyricism that I've noticed in Alexander McCall Smith's Botswana novels; I've wondered if McCall Smith read Paton or if the land itself seeps into the writing of those who have lived in Africa. In many ways, it is interesting to compare Paton to McCall Smith, not because they are writing the same kind of stuff but because their perspective on Africa is separated by fifty years of change. McCall Smith is more optimistic, but his books have the same sense of awesome (in the biblical sense) sadness one finds in Paton: a feeling of overwhelming sorrow swallowed up in an expanse of space (I don't mean to sound flip because I really don't feel flip, but the song "I'm Going to Go Back There Someday" in The Muppet Movie conveys the sense I'm talking about).

Alan Paton

To return to Cry, the Beloved Country, the novel's most astounding characteristic is Paton's focus on individual human emotion. The story takes place against a context of severe oppression, yet the fundamental, true emotions of the father, Jarvis, and the various people the father meets are never ignored in favor of the larger picture. This focus makes the book human, real, universal. It makes the context more comprehensible as well as more appalling because it has not been swallowed up in political rhetoric or theory. One of Paton's finest qualities is that he is not willing to placate the context with clear-cut/easy explanations and solutions. So many people in the novel are good people just trying to do their best. Such understanding makes the book quite touching.

And the overall point is subtle, yet sure: good occurs when individuals decide to do good. I've run across few pieces of literature, outside of the Bible, that present such a comprehensive picture of forgiveness followed by acts of kindness. It is stunning and nothing like, well, the finale of Hamlet, for instance. 

Ignore the blurb. Cry, the Beloved Country is much better than "unequaled tragedy."

2023 Update: I didn't return to Alan Paton. Instead, I chose another Paton (the original purpose of the first A-Z List was to try new authors): Mrs. Bundle's Maine Vacation: Subterfuge at the Seashore by Allison Cesario Paton, which takes place, mostly, on Peaks Island.

My parents lived on Peaks Island for nearly 25 years. My idea was to delve into the use of setting, "place," within a narrative. Cry, the Beloved Country is clearly tied to the land. What about a book that also advertises its setting on the cover? 

I started Mrs. Bundle. I didn't last. In fairness, it is possible that if I tried one of the non-Maine Mrs. Bundle books, I would enjoy it. I'm not too fond of constantly shifting points of view accompanied by several pages of internal exposition. (Within the first chapter of Subterfuge, the point of view shifts from Mrs. Bundle to her two companions to the cat.) Still--I didn't get lost and the problems of each character seemed relatively interesting.

My problem, I discovered, was the use of Peaks Island. 

I should state upfront: I wasn't initially bothered that the author was making  changes and adding in history. I use Peaks Island as Elysium in my Greek fantasy world. Why not?! 

My problem was that the fictional island had no more resemblance to Peaks Island than the movie The Robe has to its book. 

The author gives the island a historical character, Gee Gwilliam, a sailboat regatta, and then (in order to make the regatta "viewable"), a geography that doesn't remotely match Peaks Island (that is, a tall enough hill to watch the regatta).

To be clear, Portland, Maine does have sailboat races. Peaks Island would not be the starting line. 

For one, there's no reason. The mainland is close enough (you can see it from the island--by ferry, it is 15 minutes) and has far larger marinas. In fact, the Monhegan Island Race is sponsored by the Portland Yacht Club which is about twenty minutes north of Portland and sits on Casco Bay.  

Two, Peaks Island doesn't have the resources for that many people (155 boats participate in the book, which is about average for the Monhegan Island Race). Yes, lots of people visit Peaks Island every year and even hold weddings there. But the number of people who attend a regatta as participants and observers far outstrips the island's capacity. Peaks Island is a small town with one marina that can handle up to 50 boats.

Three, Peaks Island is hemmed in by islands and a major shipping line for the Port of Portland. The Monhegan Island Race does use this passage (see timing map above)--to head into the open sea, not to circle a single island, which would cause problems what with ferries and tankers and fishing boats and what-not. These races are not "watch out for that rowboat!" exciting in the way that, say, roller-derby is exciting; these races are mostly about time. (And winning isn't determined by "first arrival" since handicaps are a factor.)

Monhegan Island

I got the impression that the author wanted to use the Monhegan Island Race plus something that actually involved potential hazards and then wanted the whole thing to start in Casco Bay and stick to shore. 

In which case, why not simply invent an island? Take all the smaller islands in Casco Bay and roll them into one and move them slightly north? 

Or start everything at Monhegan (see above) which at least has easy access to the open sea? And decent vantage points?  

Or, for that matter, why not use Martha's Vineyard, which hosts the Vineyard Cup Regatta?

Why chose a real island and then dismiss its character and history? If some kind of major event is needed to draw various characters together or provide a climatic final scene, why not use the band concerts at Battery Steele? Or a wedding? Or go back in time to when Peaks Island was Portland's answer to Coney Island? How about the 1930s fire? If the event must be contemporary, why not a garden tour? Or a religious retreat? Or deer shooting? Or a foot race (they do occur on the island)?

Even kayaking would make more sense--hey, the race could be from Peaks Island to House Island, around House Island and back. Don't get run over by a tanker!   

I'm not writing any of this as someone who thinks Peaks Island should secede from Portland or as someone who wishes the summer visitors would send their money but stay away. Good grief, most of the cottages on the island are strictly summer cottages! 

But the emphasis for a visitor is on the small town pleasures (strolls, restaurants, picnics, music, shopping), pleasures that come with residential living, not on anything that approaches a generalized coastal vacation spot. 

Shoot, on my fantasy Peaks Island, my Greek gods and dead citizens spend most of their time trying to figure out the island's real estate and complaining about the soil--which is exactly what Peaks Islanders do in real life.

If you are interested in a mystery book that captures New England small-town living, check out Virginia Rich's Eugenia Potter series.