Hilary's Book Blog

This is the one book on blogs we had at the library, and I wanted to read up before teaching my Montrose Adult School class. It’s OK, not great, and could have been edited down to a much shorter book. Two problems that jumped out at me: quite a few of the author’s examples of trouble that can be caused by blogs were actually email issues, and she seems to have misunderstood what permalinks are: “posts…typically remain accessible forever via the permalink (unlike web pages, which are subject to change and removal).” Ummm…unless the post or entire site is taken down, which happens not infrequently! But for a large organization, this does provide a helpful overview of pitfalls, best practices, and the importance of including blogs and relationships with bloggers in crisis communication plans.

Continuing on my Heyer kick–this time one of the few Regency romances I like. Now that I’ve finally become an Austen fan, I can understand the desire to create works like hers, but not the veneration of the Regency period itself as a setting. What makes Austen delightful to read, for me, is primarily her humor and subtle observations–she was not writing historical fiction. As in most Regencies, proof of research is laid on with a trowel; every page is studded with period detail and every speech is stuffed with period slang, ironically far more than in all of Austen put together. But this book is so delightful that it doesn’t bother me too much–and even thought I don’t think it works well artistically, I do enjoy the vocabulary itself, from “great gaby” to “puptons of fruit.” Sophy Stanton-Lacy is a wonderful heroine–independent, wise, funny, and kind–but there are lots of great minor characters as well, like the impractical poet Augustus Fawnhope and the interfering fiancée of the male protagonist, whose appearance gives rise to my favorite exchange (between the two leads):

“Since you have brought up Miss Wraxton’s name, I shall be much obliged to you, cousin, if you will refrain from telling my sisters that she has a face like a horse!”
“But, Charles, no blame attaches to Miss Wraxton! She cannot help it, and that, I assure you, I have always pointed out to your sisters!”
“I consider Miss Wraxton’s countenance particularly well-bred!”
“Yes, indeed, but you have quite misunderstood the matter! I meant a particularly well-bred horse!”
“You meant, as I am perfectly aware, to belittle Miss Wraxton!”
“No, no! I am very fond of horses!” Sophy said earnestly.

I hadn’t noticed the profusion of exclamation points in the dialogue until typing it up. !

Fair warning: on top of the usual classism, there’s a very offensive (anti-Semitic) scene with a money-lender.

A week ago I would have called this one of my favorite mysteries of all time, but on re-reading it’s not as compelling as it used to be. It may be the falling tide of my interest in mysteries lowering all boats (as I get pickier with age) because all the ingredients still seem to be present: good British cozy setting, entertaining characters (well-meaning Uncle Joe, who manages to drive everyone straight up a wall while trying to be nice, is particularly memorable), the always-enjoyable locked room setup, funny dialogue and situations, and a heart-warming romance. But there’s a little too much telling instead of showing, and the solution is not as believable as one might wish. Maybe I’ve just read it too many times. I got out all the Heyers I kept (purged most of them years ago) because of recommending them to a library patron who loves Agatha Christie best of all and doesn’t find anyone to compare to her. She enjoyed the one (IMO inferior) Heyer mystery we had at the library (A Blunt Instrument, I think) and I’m going to lend her mine. Where’s Behold, Here’s Murder, though? I must have misplaced it…

Oh, how I wanted to love this mystery, centering on a golden retriever who “testifies” in court to get his owner out of jail–in a completely realistic and believable way (ie no Lillian Jackson Braun-style anthropomorphization). It had great reviews so I ordered it for the library and put it on hold for myself; there was a hitch in the ordering so anticipation built for much longer than usual. And… it’s fine, no more. Lawyer Andy Carpenter, the narrator, has a not-particularly-funny wisecrack for every occasion. The story is told in present tense–bleurgh–is that popular simply because it allows authors to avoid the pluperfect? I’ve seldom/never found it to be anything but annoying as a technique. The solution was a little deus-ex-machina, especially because the dog, crucial in the beginning, is shuffled off to the side by the end. The golden rescue operation in the book is based on the author’s real-life Tara Foundation, but it’s only mentioned in passing. I would have loved more dog detail instead of rote courtroom scenes!

(Another large print read on the elliptical trainer.) Lamott can be a wonderful writer with interesting things to say…sometimes. Other times she is a good writer who’s gratingly narcissistic and overdramatic. I’m afraid most of these essays show the second style. Her willingness to expose her worst sides is admirable (although where is the line between emotional bravery and exhibitionism?), and she’s certainly handled more adversity than most–I feel almost guilty that she gets on my nerves.

There’s been a lot of "it’s just a jump on the Marley & Me bandwagon," and it’s true that at a skimpy 82 pages for $14.95, this is basically an essay posing as a book. But on the other hand, Quindlen writes rings around Grogan and compresses almost all the emotion in a fraction of the space. A good third of the book is cute dog photos, which is a little confusing because some of them do seem to be of her two dogs (Beau and Bea), but taken by the same professional pet photographer (Amanda Jones) who did many of the unrelated dogs. (Alas, my favorite (p. 6, a Bichon Frise whose eyes are totally concealed by fur) isn’t on the website). One hopes this wasn’t some kind of kickback. But no matter, if you love dogs, the book’s a winner. (My favorite dog book ever ever is still Elizabeth Marshall Thomas’ The Social Life of Dogs.)

Reading biographies often takes me a long time. The people move into my mental landscape, and I feel almost like I’m living life along with them in real time. (I had to return Ackroyd’s wonderful Dickens to the library eventually, before finishing it, so he’s still hanging out in my brain at the peak of his career.) For the past month or so my companions have been Georgia O’Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz, thanks to this engrossing book. (Eisler was recently at the Historical Society researching George Catlin and his family, and it turns out she knows my mother, hence my interlibrary loan.) O’Keeffe’s art doesn’t speak to me particularly, but Stieglitz’s photos, especially his portraits of Georgia herself, certainly do. The story of their relationship, the rise and fall of Stieglitz’s galleries (from 291 to An American Place), and O’Keeffe’s path to the Southwest (which seems so inevitable now) are particularly interesting, as are the canny ways they positioned and marketed themselves in the art world. Unsurprisingly, neither seems like someone you’d want in your own circle–all kinds of power corrupt. Eisler has chosen wonderful plates, and each chapter also starts with a painting or photo. I can’t think of any other woman whose image is more striking or iconic than O’Keeffe’s. Her little sideways smile haunts me still.

King is one of those writers I (usually) find compelling despite his flaws. But the worst of those flaws were barely in evidence in this book, one of his very best. Presumably because he’s drawing on his recent experience of recovering from a horrible accident, the non-supernatural characters and incidents in Duma Key are fully realized and believable. I particularly love stories of success, and Edgar Freemantle’s sudden flowering as an artist was delightfully involving; finding redemption and healing in creation clearly draws from King’s recovery as well, and it’s thrilling to watch unfold. The supernatural elements are still somewhat random and motiveless (which is why I fundamentally prefer fantasy and SF to horror–a lot of horror relies on not questioning WHY the Big Bad showed up and why it’s attacking the protagonists). King’s worst faults in my view: a) vulgarity; b) going for the cheap gross-out; c) an intrusive sort of verbal ticcing, where he repeats cultural or personal catch phrases (joking expressions, song lyrics, ad taglines) ad nauseam. The latter has its good side of adding texture and interest, and it’s realistic in the way the human mind works (mine included). In the recent Lisey’s Story, where he did it constantly, it was incredibly irritating. Here he manages to do it almost as much, but it works because it becomes a natural part of the exchanges between Freemantle and his friend Wireman. Duma Key also has a wonderful portrait of the love between father and daughter. I’m very glad King hasn’t retired, as he threatened to do years back, since he has books like this still in him.

Another for the Sony Reader. I read dozens of Comtesse de Ségur books in the Bibliothèque Rose when I was a kid, but this is the one I remember best (I was going to say aside from the passages about the Great Pyrenees dog in L’auberge de l’ange gardien, which I now realize I have confused with Belle et Sébastien.) I still to this day identify with poor silly, greedy, impulsive Sophie who is always getting in trouble, but this is a strange book to modern eyes. The children are tiny (Sophie turns five in the book) but behave, and are expected to behave, like much older kids. For example, Sophie has a little pocket knife with which she enjoys cutting up all kinds of things (good and bad). (This may be what influenced me to loan my little brother, who was 5 at the time, a “knife” I had made from a ripped metal can embedded in a piece of styrofoam, on the condition that he be careful and not cut himself. Of course he did and I got in trouble, but I was angry at him for breaking his promise to me! I was 7.) Sophie and her cousin Paul keep all sorts of pets which always meet a bad end by the end of the chapter. No sugar-coating death in the 19th century, no siree. Everything is a moral lesson about “le bon Dieu.” But it’s still extremely readable today–lots of dialogue, and very realistic portrayals of child characters. A wonderful way to time travel.

Like many people I’m fighting some middle-aged spread–it’s no lie that a few extra pounds are harder to get rid of after you hit 40, alas. Health books are perenially interesting to me, and this one caught my eye at B&N.; It looked sensible and very amusing from a quick flip-through. Now that I’ve read the whole thing: yes, it is. Good input from pros–“Chef Terry” gives some great coulis recipes for steamed vegetables. Wonderful “cheat sheet” in the back–“a summary of every pearl of wisdom in this book.”