A Good Murder Mystery Can Be Hard to Find (but Martinez Wrote a Fun One).

Martinez, Gulliermo. The Oxford Murders. Trans. Sonia Soto. Penguin, 2006.

Set, as the title indicates, in the town of Oxford, UK, Martinez' The Oxford Murders is the story of a young mathematician who takes up residence in that university town only to find himself entangled in a series of murders. This unnamed maths student, working with a renowned mathematician named Arthur Seldom, is encouraged by his mentor to use truths about logic and sequences (among other things) to unravel the mystery transpiring around him. Add in a few pretty girls who challenge and intrigue our scholarly protagonist, and, well, that's the recipe for a unique but comprehensible murder mystery.

I am no maths student myself, but The Oxford Murders provides a clear and interesting introduction to some fascinating mathematical concepts, occasionally encouraging the reader to solve the puzzles along with the protagonist; I particularly enjoyed these mental challenges. More importantly, however, the plot of The Oxford Murders is filled with twists and revelations that would do Agatha Christie proud; the reveal at the end is perfectly crafted and, of course, entirely logical. The pieces are all present, but the structure (and the sequence, of course!) show us, as with the sequence Seldom draws for his protege to solve early in the novel, only what we are meant to see.

Martinez' novel, elegantly translated into English by Sonia Soto, offers a splendid story, clear and interesting, with a few brain teasers thrown into the mix. It is a fresh and engaging re-interpretation of the murder mystery genre, and I'm delightfully pleased to be able to recommend it so warmly. Even had I read more than one book in December, this one would still have been a strong contender for my favourite book of the month.

Well, there's Loneliness: Hall's Unsympathetic Protagonist

Hall, Radclyffe. The Well of Loneliness. New York: Anchor, 1956 (1928).

The Well of Loneliness is frequently noted--with varying reactions--for its early descriptions of lesbian affection. Early in the book, and as a young girl, main character Stephen develops an affection for one of her family's female servants, even praying desperately to God that her servant's pains might be given to young Stephen. Her parents--the same ones who named her Stephen--are eager to curtail her passionate affection, the servant is let go, and young Stephen continues her uncomfortable childhood, bored with the traditional young lady activities expected of her, and defiantly choosing to dress in boyish apparel. The complications continue as she ages, and, thwarted on every side by the expectations of society, she desperately strives to find and keep love both close to home and, when necessity demands it, very far away.

The novel's lesbian message is emphatic and persistent, and the continuous drone of Stephen's frustrated longing grows old with time; it is preachy with an intent to change the reader, and the message would have been more powerful had Hall approached it with a little more subtlety. Some of the descriptions are elegant, and certain scenes are well-played, but as Stephen finds her desires thwarted at every turn, she takes on the characteristics of a madwoman, losing her head and bursting into a fury when the objects of her desire fail to reciprocate her love. At the same time, however, many of her friends and loved ones are portrayed more gently, and the tense uncertainty of Hall's companion Mary, given the choice between Stephen's bursts of passion and a sweeter and more acceptable coupling, is clearly torn, but her struggle is not simply between the desired and the acceptable: Stephen's crazed longing (and frequent abandonment) creates a friction that is in many ways unrelated to the novel's provocative sexual argument.

The Well of Loneliness provides a fascinating insight into the world and growing sexual tensions of the 1920s, and the world Hall creates is one that now seems much further away than it actually is. I found this novel problematic not because of its message, but because of its overt persistence and the entirely unsympathetic force with which its protagonist insisted upon having circumstances conform to her desires and expectations. For me, Stephen was entirely unsympathetic, and I found myself wishing far worse fates upon her than those imposed by her creator. (The status of monthly favourite is conferred upon this novel by sheer necessity).

Kitchen: Cooking up a Character Study or Two

Yoshimoto, Banana. Kitchen. Washington Sqaure, 1994.

Kitchen is a simple book, and one with a plot so casually structured as to provide not so much a story as a character study, and one that is remarkably difficult to wrap into a summary. It begins with a description of the main character's love for kitchens and the stories they tell, and gradually meanders into a description of the several significant events of her young life. Early in the book, protagonist Mikage's grandmother dies, and she is shortly invited to move in with her acquaintance Yuichi and his "mother" (formerly his father) who works in the sex industry. Eventually this arrangement goes sour, but through all the many struggles that she faces as she strives to make a new life for herself in the wake of her grandmother's death, Mikage remains resilient.

This wasn't my favourite novel, but I appreciated the effort that went into making the character likeable and engaging. Mikage isn't really my type of character, and this isn't my favourite type of novel, but nevertheless I found the book intellectually interesting. There are scenes of great charm, and a great deal of passion, and the novel is well written; I simply didn't find it compelling. Yet the character sketch is careful and the book has been written far more precisely than have many novels of our era; I must praise it, if only for its structure. In addition, this book has the remarkable merit of brevity: it provides an afternoon of stimulating intellectual exercise while still permitting an evening of reckless abandon in murder mysteries and other fictitious frivolities. It was my favourite book of the month, but, alas, only because the pickings were otherwise quite slim.

A Duke for All Seasons

Tunis, John. Iron Duke. Harcourt, 1938.

Iron Duke is possibly my favourite of all Tunis' novels, and the one that I would recommend, in particular, for first-time readers of this great sports novelist. Like, in particular, Champion's Choice, Iron Duke is a novel about much more than sports, and its protagonist is caught up in a balancing act of life and loyalties that make the novel, at its heart, a study of humanity and choice.

Protagonist Jim Wellington is a small-town boy whose hard work in high school pays off with an acceptance to Harvard College, where he dreams of playing varsity football and following in his father's footsteps. Once in Boston, however, he finds that the university life he imagined is more difficult to obtain than he could have known, and he struggles to survive in athletics and, soon, to stay ahead in academics.

Jim--soon nicknamed "The Duke"--eventually makes two friends, "McGuire" and the posh "Fog," whose exploits get him into trouble from time to time but also provide him with the encouragement he needs to persevere in the face of disappointments and frustrations. The adventures of the three men, eventually known as the "Dunster Funsters," provide the novel with some lighthearted humour, but the friendship that develops over the course of the novel is thoughtfully composed and presents a strong underlying support for the more lighthearted and athletic scenes that make this book so remarkable and readable.

As this is one of my favourite books of all time, it would be difficult to award the "monthly favourite" title to any of the other excellent volumes enjoyed this month. Although currently out of print, this excellent book is a must-read, and well worth a trip to the library or a used bookstore.

'Champion's Choice' Always a Delightful Choice

Tunis, John. Champion's Choice. San Diego: Harcourt Brace, 1990 (1940).

Although John Tunis is best known for his numerous baseball novels, my two favourite books in his canon depart from this tradition and showcase, instead, athletes in tennis and track. Champion's Choice tells the story of Janet Johnson, a little girl whose surprising talent with a tennis racquet catapults her from a working-class home onto the courts of a local country club whose members and instructors soon give her a chance to go much further afield.

Although Janet becomes a tennis player, and descriptions of her matches feature prominently in Tunis' novel, Champion's Choice is not really a book about tennis. Rather, this exceptional novel is a grown-up version of the coming of age novel: it explores the tensions and confusion that occasionally make it difficult for this budding protagonist to define herself. Is she Janet Johnson the tennis player, or Janet Johnson, woman, daughter, and friend? Janet is gently prodded through this process of self-awareness by her childhood friend Rodney, whose friendly advice on the court and off keep Janet alternately pleased, bewildered, and annoyed. Fans of tennis will enjoy the descriptions of matches, courts, and grueling practice sessions, but fans of character studies will find that Tunis' sports characters are far from stock athletes: Janet the character is fresh, exciting, and as fun to study on my fifth read of the book as she was on the day I first cracked the pages. Sadly out of print, this is a must-read for all.

We the Living Lives On

Rand, Ayn. We the Living. New York: Signet, 1964 (1936).

It has been nearly a decade since I first picked up We the Living, and I'm surprised to find that I like it nearly as much now as I did on my first encounter with the story. Like many of Rand's other novels, We the Living is heavily skewed to promote her then-foundling philosophy of objectivism, a worldview that is a slightly more selective and glorified form of humanism, and, like any book that strives so singlemindedly to promote one particular perspective, the plot of We the Living occasionally falls a little flat under the weight of Rand's arguments and analyses. Nevertheless, this is a terrific and important novel, and worth reading for the story as well as the glimpse into a mindset of yore.

Kira Argouvna has a whole world ahead of her. She's young and strong, has been admitted to the Technological Institute to study engineering (she, like many of Rand's protagonists, dreams of building magnificent and seemingly eternal structures), and even has, after not too many pages, a male admirer or two. Her papers appear to be in order, and even the poverty of her slightly-too-independent family is not enough to discourage her from the joys of her studies (and boyfriends). Yet times are hard, and her family's struggles go unnoticed until even Kira loses most of the things that once brought her happiness. As her aristocratic ties become ever more dangerous, Kira struggles to keep her family satisfied, make a home and career for herself, and save the man she loves, yet her country and her circumstances seem to fight against her at every opportunity. Rand paints a poignant--if bleak--picture of life in communist Russia and manages to sculpt one of her most compelling characters into life as her novel progresses. One-sided in spots, We the Living paints a stark and probably quite honest picture of one woman's experience in a dark and troubled world, and although Rand claims in the preface to her Signet edition that the novel is more about ideals than about history, real history and realistic experiences leak onto the pages of this novel and cannot be completely overlooked. The philosophy is heavy-handed, but the story itself is compelling and magnificent.

An Old Favourite: The Hawk and the Dove.

Wilcock, Penelope. The Hawk and the Dove. Crossway, 2000.

I first read Wilcock's The Hawk and the Dove when I was a little girl, but although this reading was at least my third, it never grows old. The Hawk and the Dove is a short frame novel, set partly in recent modern times, where a young girl named Melissa, struggling with her faith, friends, and school, turns to her mother for stories that will encourage and support her. These stories are set in a fourteenth-century monastery, where the monks governed by protagonist Father Peregrine face trials, triumphs, and everyday life. Wilcock's book (and its two sequels, included in this edition) teaches faith, courage, and perseverance; her monks, though devout, are flawed and human, and the lessons Melissa learns will benefit nearly any reader. This book is my second-favourite book of all time; it's short and moves quickly, can be easily read as short stories over a longer span of time, or in a single sitting (I find it difficult to set down!). It would work well for a Bible study or devotional, and makes a perfect gift, partly because it's a surprisingly unnoticed book, even in the world of Christian fiction.

Buy The Hawk and the Dove; read The Hawk and the Dove; give The Hawk and the Dove to your friends. There are very few books I would recommend so strongly.

Framing Greatness: Loren Estleman Writing Valentino

Estleman, Loren D. Frames.

There's a lot that could be said about Loren Estleman's novel Frames, a modern-day mystery infused with the glamour and history of the early twentieth century, but the most pressing is this: not only is Frames the most enjoyable book I read in May, it may have taken the prize for favourite book I've read so far this year.

Estleman's Frames is a cold-case murder mystery set in a grand old movie theatre--and the emphasis, here, should be on the word old--in Hollywood, California. Film detective (also known as "archivist") Valentino works at UCLA and has a few hobbies on the side, one of which lands him in the middle of a police investigation during which one of the oldest and rarest silent films is in danger of being lost or destroyed. Estleman manages to fill the novel with interesting and informative tidbits about the history of silent film, maintain a fast-paced mystery plot, and even add hints (and overt moments) of romance. This book is engaging, funny, and charming; the descriptions of Old Hollywood glamour and ancient rotting architecture are entrancing, yet the action is well-grounded in the present day. While not as thought-provoking as some of the other historical books I've read this year, Frames is entertaining and elegant, written with an unlaboured simplicity of style and careful but uncomplicated structure that make me long to read another novel by Loren Estleman as soon as possible. My one caveat: reading Frames may make you suddenly fascinated by the world of silent cinema, and instantly moved to rent and watch as many old films as possible.

Too Little, Too Soon

In the midst of a greater writing project and preparations for a transatlantic move, I managed to read only two books in April. As with my top two books in March, Twilight and Prophet are vastly different books. Both are well-written, and both have proved, in the months and years since their initial publications, groundbreaking volumes within the world of contemporary literature: each has initiated its own sub-genre and has been imitated multiple times.

Instead of selecting one of these two volumes to serve as my monthly favourite, I'd like to introduce you to a fascinating and occasionally frustrating little volume that has received a tremendous amount of my attention this month and is, in many ways, my actual favourite book read this month (although I'm reading it for school).

To those of you in search of a slightly unique read, may I highly recommend St John's, Cambridge, Manuscript S.23. Compiled in the early 1600s, this lovely little volume contains poems by Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, John Donne, and many of their contemporaries, and it is freely available online in digital facsimile through the Scriptorium project. In it you will find some lovely familiar poems and a number of early modern favourites that have been mostly forgotten in the intervening centuries.

Two Swell Imitations and an Agony of Choice: My March Pick of the Month

I had two favourite books in March this year, and the difference between them is great in many ways. What they have in common is their imitative style: Gilbert Adair's The Act of Roger Murgatroyd (review here) borrows from Agatha Christie and Colm Toibin's The Master (review), about Henry James, aptly captures the soft and introspective feel of many older novels.

For sheer and base enjoyment, Adair certainly wins hands down. The Act of Roger Murgatroyd is the book to take on holiday, to read on the airplane, or to pick up after a hard day's work. Adair's novel is a masterpiece of detective fiction. On the other hand, The Master strives for elegance and in many places achieves a things of beauty: his novel left me a little haunted by the story of a man I've mostly overlooked in literature and about whom I'd--now--like to know more. So while the part of my brain that reads Shakespeare (and his critics) all day is screaming at me to send The Act of Roger Murgatroyd to every detective-story-loving friend I have, for sheer and simple beauty, Colm Toibin's The Master wins out.

An Exercise in Family: The Calligrapher's Daughter

Kim, Eugenia. The Calligrapher's Daughter. London: Bloomsbury, 2009.

Eugenia Kim's novel The Calligrapher's Daughter was not what I expected. Following the titular footsteps of The Memory Keeper's Daughter, The Heretic's Daughter, andThe Hangman's Daughter (of which three the first is my favourite), Kim's novel offers a fresh perspective on the stereotypical unnamed female protagonist. In the first place, The Calligrapher's Daughter is set in Korea, but a Korea not very far removed from modern life. In the second place, Kim manages, in her novel, to show without judging, and to inspire contemplation without becoming heavy-handed in her portrayal of a male-dominated society and one woman, in particular, living and growing within those constraints.

In some ways, The Calligrapher's Daughter is a coming-of-age novel: the book begins when its protagonist is a very young girl and lingers at great length over the years in which she develops into a mature young woman. Yet in Kim's novel, the transition from childhood into adulthood never truly ends: in the thirty years that pass between the first and last chapters, there is no single turning point, or definitive moment of maturity. Instead, the book describes the ebb and flow of the human experience in a way that allows readers to experience and identify with the constant, endless development that is a life. While slow in spots, this is very much a book that can be lingered upon and enjoyed, and I would heartily recommend it to students of life and lovers of humanity.

Also, this was my favourite February read.

In which I express some fondness for 'Mr. Rosenblum's List'

Solomons, Natasha. Mr. Rosenblum's List. London: Sceptre, 2010.

Mr. Rosenblum's List is a treasure of modern fiction, and my favourite book read this month (January 2011). It moves at a gentle pace, but not a dull one; Solomons not only studies the character of her protagonist, but portrays common human expectations for friendship, family, and marriage (all the while examining, most closely, the ideas of citizenship, nationality, and belonging).

Mr. Rosenblum is a German Jew who immigrates to London with his wife Sadie during World War II. Upon arrival, he is given a list of 'Helpful Information and Guidance for Every Refugee,' which he supplements and annotates over the course of Solomons' novel. From almost the first moment of his arrival, Mr. Rosenblum (Jack) embraces his new life, striving with his entire might to become an English gentleman, while Sadie is lost in a world of memories and the past. These conflicting attitudes towards life, of course, contribute to the unique temporal explorations in the book: Jack is forever exuberant about the future, Sadie bemoans the forgotten past, and somehow, sadly, they are too often too busy with their disparate unrealities to dwell in the present, together.

Even as it explores some tremendous themes, Mr. Rosenblum's List also manages to be endearingly funny. Solomons' characters are likeable and sympathetic, and she manages to remind us that despite cultural differences and personal eccentricities, we are all, at heart, human. Mr. Rosenblum's desperate desire to become a genuine Englishman is, in many ways, reflective of the general human desire for community, and the specific determination with which he pursues his favoured community serves also as a reminder that community can often be found where we humans least expect it. Overall, this book is both deep and funny, the characters appropriately idiosyncratic and well-crafted, and the story well-written and fun and easy to read. So far, it's the best book I've read all year.