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.

And So It Ends: Peter David and the Legacy of Babylon 5

David, Peter. Out of the Darkness. Del Rey, 2000.

Embarrassingly, there are few books I've read as swiftly and as lethargically as Out of the darkness the third volume in Peter David's futuristic Centauri Prime trilogy set in the universe of Babylon 5. On the one hand, I quite imagined that this volume would hold the key to many mysteries left unanswered in the earlier volumes as well as in the Babylon 5 television series itself; on the other hand, I was hesitant to allow the series to end. It seemed that this concluding volume was among the shortest books I've ever encountered: it began, it continued, and--all too quickly--it ended, and this is less a praise of the volume's marvellous pace than a slight criticism of its very rushed feel.

Out of the Darkness, it is to be confessed, would make very little sense without a good knowledge of the Babylon 5 universe created by J. Michael Straczynski for a television series of the same name, and without a perusal of the first two volumes in this trilogy, The Long Night of Centauri Prime and Armies of Light and Dark. In many ways, this volume provides the closure that is still lacking at the end of the final episode of the original television series: it demonstrates the ways in which many foreshadowed elements from the series are played out, allows fans and readers a glimpse into the future of Centauri Prime and the Interstellar Alliance, and allows the prophecies of earlier television seasons to reach natural and anticipated closures. For readers in search of the next great work of literature, this book leaves a little to be desired: its characters and events, while rich, lack the elegance of fleshing-out that would make this volume a standalone novel. For fans of the television series, Out of the Darkness is the end of an era, and the icing on an already very interesting and pleasurable cake.

Don't Read This First: Peter David Tackles Vir Cotto

David, Peter. Armies of Light and Dark. Del Rey, 2000.

Armies of Light and Dark, the second volume in the Centauri trilogy by Peter David, should be read with an awareness of the caveats I raised while discussing The Long Night of Centauri Prime. Primarily, this is the second book in a trilogy based upon the television show Babylon 5, and probably not intended for the non-sci-fi-geek. For those of us who can find alternate worlds a little fascinating and have already enjoyed the television series and the previous novel, this book is better than The Long Night of Centauri Prime, and all the more so because it focuses on one of the greatest characters from the original series.

That lovable and sometimes bumbling Centauri, Vir Cotto, has finally gained a little maturity and is in the process of gaining a lot of spine, and in this exceptional novel, Peter David manages to capture his transformation from a young man into a vibrant and cunning revolutionary. Over the course of this novel, he finds himself in increasing amounts of trouble, falls in love, gives away something beautiful, and manages to make several other alien races quite uneasy. Of course the troubled Londo Mollari plays an important role in the volume as well, but this book is really all about Vir, and for those of us who found the TV show occasionally lacking with respect to the ambassadors' aides, this book takes away some of the sting. As with The Long Night . . ., Armies of Light and Dark has moments of stilted scripts and a too-hastily-unravelled plot, but I found that the book solved more problems than it created, and manages to provide a quite passable character study in the process.

A Short, Fun, Geek Read: Peter David's Long Night of Centauri Prime

David, Peter. The Long Night of Centauri Prime. Del Rey, 1999.

Babylon 5, a space station from 2057, was once the galaxy's last, best hope for peace. It failed, but along the way, it offered science fiction fans of the past a chance to imagine a future directed by Vorlons and Shadows and inhabited by humans, Cantauri, Narn, and Minbari (as well as almost countless minor races). Over five seasons, J. Michael Straczynski introduced us to this future galaxy, whose races and inhabitants struggled with many of the issues hotly contested, even today, on the continents of planet Earth. He also allowed us to fall--just a little--in love with characters such as hapless Vir (a Centauri), passionate G'Kar (a Narn), devoted Lennier (a Minbari) and a lot of humans.

The Long Night of Centauri Prime is set at the very end of the Babylon 5 television series (obviously excluding the Season 5 finale), primarily on the Centauri homeworld. Readers of this novel have a front-row glimpse into the life of Londo Mollari, whose rising status on the Centauri homeworld and acquantance with some troublesome associates gives him at once ultimate power and complete helplessness. Alone in the midst of his people, Londo must fight demons he never imagined existed, and watch as his world hovers between destruction and slavery.

Having seen the entire televison series on which this novel is based, I can't speak for its suitability for non-sci-fi geeks or those who haven't yet entered the world of space stations where aliens and humans can mingle and come to understand one another more fully. For a fan of the series, however, this book (and the two that follow) provide a fitting epitaph and patch up several of the holes left unfilled in the final episodes from Straczynski's universe. There are spots where the dialogue seems weak, and moments where the plot runs ahead of the literary elements, but, all in all, this is an enjoyable read, and well worth the time spent savoring a few last glimpses of characters and places I'd seen on camera for five short seasons.

A Quick Thursday Read: Another Noel Streatfield

Streatfield, Noel. Far to Go. First published 1986.

Far to GoMargaret Thursday, as heroines go, is perhaps not the most typical young woman ever to live in lines of ink. An orphan with a harrowing back story whose theatrical skills are in high demand, she is at once both infuriating and fascinating. Streatfield's Far to Go begins with her escape from a touring show in which young Margaret has played the role of Little Lord Fauntleroy, and continues with her introduction to the London stage (and, in the process, bits of the London underworld, where a few shady individuals still recognise her as a hapless orphan). The novel moves quickly, and the story is entertaining, but Streatfield seems to focus more on details (Margaret's lace-trimmed pantaloons, and the days upon which they are to be worn, are a frequent source of contention between the little girl and her guardian) than on character development, and although Margaret has a very exciting life and meets some very interesting individuals during the course of the book, there is little to remember fondly when the volume has closed. Even as I was thrilled to see Posy Fossil reappear in The Painted Garden, I would be less interested in finding Margaret Thursday in another Streatfield novel.

Despite its limited character development, Far to Go is still a fun and fast read. Margaret's rehearsals, and her growing understanding of the complexity, flexibility, and dedication required of an actress, offer an entertaining look at the London theatre of yore. Her encounter with her past is exciting, and the book is full of adventures. For a younger reader with a little more imagination than I, her character's shortcomings might provide the space for a fully-fleshed-out literary friend, with whom a younger reader can enjoy Margaret's own adventures. Though it discusses some weighty issues, such as child labor and kidnapping, the novel is clean and fairly non-graphic when it comes to these points, and it could be safely enjoyed by most children over eight or nine years of age. For Streatfield fans, it provides a fresh departure from some of his other, perhaps more wonderful, but also more typical, works of literature.

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.

A Painted Fiction: Noel Streatfield's Painted Garden

Streatfield, Noel. The Painted Garden. First published 1949.

Although I'm familiar with many of Streatfeld's mainstream works, I'd never heard of The Painted Garden, also known in the States as Movie Shoes. The interwebs suggest that Movie Shoesis a heavily abridged imitation of the British original, so I'd recommend looking a little harder to find the original, which maintains the original Streatfield charm while offering a humorously sharp critique of American society.
Movie Shoes
The Painted Garden follows the lives of three young English children who visit their Aunt Cora in America and are, from almost the very moment of their arrival in New York, quite critical of the ways in which America differs from their beloved England. Many of the distinctions Streatfield emphasizes are still present today, and as the book progresses, the children slowly learn that different doesn't always mean worse. Two of the children come to America with well-developed artistic talents that enable them to find jobs for themselves in the Califormia society into which they enter, while Mary struggles to find a place and a purpose for her long stay. Highlights of the book include a cameo reappearance of Posy Fossil from Streatfield's first book, Ballet Shoes, as well as the gently emphasized critique of America's public transportation system. Although this book was initially intended for children, it is well-written, engaging, and an ideal volume for ex=pats who wish to reminisce about old England (or even old America).

Maeve Binchy's Whitethorn Woods: A Novel in Short Stories

Binchy, Maeve. Whitethorn Woods. Random House, 2007.

Although Whitethorn Woods is officially listed as a novel, and structurally works as one, my appreciation for this book by Maeve Binchy is primarily related to its secret identity as a collection of thematically based short stories, all of which feature individuals from or visiting the small Irish town of Rossmore. Perhaps my appreciation for the character-driven chapters rather than the novel as a whole is due to my general disinterest in the volume's most overarching theme, which relates to the preservation of a purportedly magical well located on the outskirts of Rossmore.

Broad themes aside, Binchy manages to craft interesting short stories around the lives of more than a dozen Rossmore inhabitants in such a way as to keep her characters both believable and non-stereotypical (in most cases). Several of her stories contain surprising twists as Binchy prepares to move on to her next chapter/character, and often she manages to neatly link together two characters whose lives have overlapped in passing (and she kindly does this within the space of two or three chapters, which makes it much easier to remember the characters in the first place).

This book is perhaps one of the most lovely short-term reading books I have encountered; while its structure makes it awkward to read in one or two long stints (my common method of enjoying a novel), it would work well in the bathroom, on a commuter train, or at the hairdresser's. Reading each chapter in isolation removed much of the irksomeness of the overarching well-story and allowed me to savour Binchy's colourful characters and imaginative plot twists. As an aside, the book moves very slowly and I nearly left it half-read at several occasions; for me, the strength of her stories becomes much more apparent halfway through the volume.

Scholes' Lamentation: Very Little to Lament

Scholes, Ken. Lamentation. Tor, 2009 (2008).

The fantasy worlds of modern authors really haven't made as much of an impact upon me as they might have, of late, but Scholes' Lamentation manages to emerge pretty well from the sludge of would-be Tolkiens and not-quite Le Guinns that have plagued the fantasy bookshelves of late. Lamentation is set in a far-off world on an apparently quite compact continent, and the novel opens with the destruction of the ancient city of Windiwir, home to most of that continent's knowledge. The narrative is told from the perspective of several key characters, which allows Scholes to keep the novel's focus on major players in several key players all at once, and the plot is strong but well supplemented by rich description.

Although Scholes' reliance upon stylistic elements introduced by Tolkien and the Star Wars canon is pretty clear, and although the narrative voice (unfortunately) doesn't change with each shift of narrator, there are many good things about this book. The choice of narrators is excellent, giving readers insight into certain villainous activities about which other characters are unaware, and keeping two key characters, in particular, far enough from the various narrative voices to maintain crucial elements of mystery and surprise. Scholes' women (all two of them) are interesting, strong, and likeable, and I might be inclined to read the sequel of this text if only to watch their further adventures unfold. On the other hand, while the possible heroes are flawed enough to be interesting, the major villains of Lamentation are dry and uninteresting.

I enjoyed this book, and would not be opposed to reading at least one of its four intended sequels (not all of which have yet been published) but I hope that future volumes in the saga will be less derivative and more complex.

Limitless: Should've Limited Production

Limitless. Dir. Neil Burger. Perf. Bradley Cooper, Robert de Niro, Abbie Cornish, Andrew Howard, Anna Friel, Richard Bekins. 2011.



Well, there you have it: Having seen the trailer above, you have just seen the entire plot of Limitless, with the only omission being a small (but, I confess, intriguing) plot twist at the end. Writer Eddie Morra (Bradley Cooper) is given a drug that allows him to tap into his hidden potential, enjoys the benefits, and eventually learns (though a little too late) that actions have consequences. In Limitless, these consequences include lost days, drug addiction, and the disintegration of relationships. The benefits include getting to work with Robert de Niro, whose performance is (as ever) impeccable but (on this occasion) severely hampered by a stultifying script.

Limitless as a concept is a good one, and although my expectations, based upon the preview, weren't outrageously high, I was heavily disappointed. Morra's character makes an entire series of idiotic decisions, and the consequences should have been even more dramatic than they were; the main message of this film seems to be that most actions have consequences, but money changes everything. Nowhere in the film does Morra ever seriously weigh his options and their potential outcomes, and by the time the numerous flashbacks return us to the moment in Morra's life at which the film begins, every moment is tedium. From this relative boredom we are quickly led into the world of bad gimmicks of the sort a teenager would use to disgust his friends. Throughout the slow monotony of these ill-written scenes, Bradley Cooper does a competent job acting as the imbecilic slug you'll love to despise (and hope to see crushed into a thousand pieces by a truck (the second scene in the film, where he jaywalks across the street, would have been an ideal moment for this potentially delightful moment).

Add to the script's failings some truly nauseating special effects, in which the crew seem determined to impose seasickness upon viewers by means of an almost unending motion blur, and this film is one you'll love to miss. Its only redeeming attributes are the acting performances of Robert de Niro (a methodical, demanding madman), Richard Bekins (whose physical performance provided the most elegant foreshadowing in the entire film), and Anna Friel (perhaps the most memorable female character, although she's only a cameo). Having caught this inspid drama at a local off-run theatre, I'm left wishing I'd spent my one dollar on a Snickers bar instead, which would at least have saved me one hundred and five of the dullest minutes of my life.

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.

Stockett's 'Help' is Pretty Self-Sufficient

Stockett, Kathryn. The Help. Putnam, 2009.

I first heard about Stockett's The Help through a movie trailer of its upcoming film (in which, I am told, an old college friend has been cast as an extra, which is fun on its own merits). Now, the film hasn't yet been released, but here's the trailer I saw, which caught my interest for many reasons (not the least of which was the time I spent in Jackson, Mississippi, where the film is set, as a college student):



What this trailer lacks, though I didn't realise it until after I read the book, is the emphasis Stockett places upon the 'Help' themselves. In her novel, Stockett relies on three narrators: Skeeter, Minnie, and Abileen. Impressively, she manages to make the voice of each character unique and captivating. The three narratives are superbly interwoven, the plot is carefully advanced and embroidered using this same layering device, and--perhaps best of all--the novel manages to be simple and effortless to read despite its complex and well-planned structure.

Stockett's The Help is not only a fun read, but a thought-provoking one: unlike most books I've read this year, Stockett's novel is layered in a way that allows the reader to skim the book as a light summer read (for which it would be excellent, both witty and entertaining) or to engage with it more deeply: Stockett's novel is willing to propose many of the hard questions about racial relationships and segregation, and the answers are as complicated as her structure and rarely pretty. This would be an exceptional choice for a book club, and an interesting supplement to a study of 1960s America. Weep, laugh, ponder, and discuss: this book allows all four responses, and marvellously so.

'Three' Tries to Charm

Dekker, Ted. Three. Thomas Nelson, 2004.

Like most humans, Kevin Parsons has a past. Like some humans, his past is rearing up to bit him, courtesy of a nemesis named Slater. Suddenly for Kevin and immediately for his audience, Dekker's readers, Kevin's past becomes dangerous and explosive, and it takes the skills of his local police, as well as some larger government officials, to find his nemesis and come face to face with the truth.

It's hard to say anything about the plot of this book without spoiling it for a would-be reader, but suffice to say that the plot is intricate without being laboured. The book manages to draw in flashbacks and stories of Kevin's childhood without losing the momentum of its present-day narrative, which allows the plot to be both compelling and complex. Dekker's characters can come across as flat at times, although I expect this is primarily a facet of the rapid storyline (and perhaps something that can be improved upon in future Dekker novels).

Dekker is a Christian author, following in the footsteps of some very good authors (Frank Peretti, whose Prophet I recently reviewed, for one) and some very mediocre ones. Yet Dekker, perhaps more than almost any Christian author I've read, has a fine grip on the balance between plot and proselytizing (that is to say, he writes the novel and leaves the preaching to the pastors). Despite the fact that Kevin is a seminary student grappling with some large issued of faith and doctrine, the reader is encouraged to ponder rather than to submit to a lecture or an all-inclusive happy and spiritual ending, and it is for this reason, perhaps, that I expect Dekker's work to move outside the world of Christian fiction and into the world of mainstream literature over the next few decades.

As a thriller, this book is strong; as a Christian novel, it is subtle: all this to say that I'm far more impressed than I expected to be. Well done, Mr. Dekker.

Joe Sixsmith Needs More Sympathy

Hill, Reginald. Blood Sympathy. Harper, 2010 (1996)

Would-be private detective Joe Sixsmith, the protagonist of Reginald Hill's novel Blood Sympathy (which I gather is from a much larger series) is described in some professional-grade reviews as "an unlikely hero," a portrayal only enhanced by the description on the back cover of the edition I read (a pink British reprint) in which the marketing director enquires, "PI can mean many things, but can it really mean a balding, middle-aged redundant lathe operator from a high rise in Luton?"

It may be dangerous to allow one's audience the freedom to answer (although the blurb continues with one possible answer: "Joe Sixsmith thinks it can. His Aunt Mirabelle thinks you’d have to be crazy to hire him, and Joe’s current clients certainly fit the bill"). Hill's Sixsmith has indeed set up office and established himself as a PI, but his effectiveness on the case (or cases) is mostly due to good fortune and a heavily premeditated plot. Blood Sympathy opens with the confession of a presumably crazy man, who swears that he has dreamed his family's death and takes Joe home just in time for his dream to become a reality. Joe also finds himself trying to defend a family of immigrants from charges of smuggling, steal a voodoo charm, and keep an eye on the prankster teens harassing a local shopkeeper. Of course (as in most good detective novels) these multiple cases all have thematic or actual links, and of course (again, as per tradition) Joe is frequently at odds with the local police force who resent his intervention. Hill supplements Sixsmith's cases with some good old-fashioned romantic meddling and a token feline, both of which provide some of the lightest and most enjoyable moments in the novel as a whole.

Without giving too much away, the plot of this novel is standard and predictable, not due to a comfortable familiarity with the author's work but due to Hill's repeated inclusion of nearly every twist and trope common to the detective genre. His protagonist is perhaps unique, but Sixsmith's age and background add little to the novel: it becomes quickly a comedy of errors, both in Sixsmith's detecting and in Hill's laboured plot devices. Although I believe very much in giving authors a second chance, it will be a little while before I pick up another novel by Reginald Hill, and I plan to steer towards some of his more traditional detective fare on that occasion. Blood Sympathy is written competently and shows Hill's extensive awareness of the detective genre, but it lacks the creativity, surprise, and intermittent humour found in works by many of his colleagues.

In Elegant Paint and Memorable Print: Sellers' Vanessa and Virginia

Sellers, Susan. Vanessa and Virginia. Two Ravens, 2008.

My dalliance in the novels of Virginia Woolf is somewhat limited: I enjoyed To the Lighthouse and Orlando and appreciated the careful homage paid her works in Cunningham's The Hours and the film adaptation thereof, but there my knowledge of the writer and her works abruptly ends. My knowledge of Woolf's sister Vanessa, however, has always been vague and horrifically incomplete. By some miracle, Vanessa and Virginia has managed to bridge a gap between my inadequate education and the lives of these two famous sisters, and allowed me a little more insight into their skills, struggles, and complicated biographies.

Narrated from the perspective of sister Vanessa, a painter in search of appreciation, Sellers' novel deals less with the life of Virginia Woolf and more with showcasing the tangled and complicated personalities that surrounded and influenced her. Vanessa and Virginia is broken down into numerous short scenes, which initially makes the book seem fragmented yet eventually makes it both more believable and easier to read. Sellers' Vanessa is occasionally frustrating, often impatient, and fairly sympathetic: her Virginia is less the now-idealised writer portrayed in The Hours and more a human (a gifted and talented human, to be sure, but a very fragile and impetuous one with many flaws and much to love).

Sellers' extensive academic background and organisational approach to her book have given it a firm foundation of solid research and authenticity; although her dialogues are likely fictitious, the scenes and attitudes they represent are probably, for the most part, carefully based on events described elsewhere. By writing from Vanessa's perspective, she is not bound by Woolf's unique style, and her descriptions of Vanessa's paintings are elegant and vibrant (though they made me wish to see the images themselves; perhaps these will be added in a future edition). Certainly Vanessa's voice is a little plaintive and grating in spots, but in many ways this made her narration all the more believable.

Vanessa and Virginia is an enjoyable novel based on some very detailed academic research, and I would recommend the book to anyone interested in learning about its title characters or the world in which they lived. I should also enjoy another book by Susan Sellers should one, at some point, be forthcoming.

Not Too Distasteful: Brett Simon's Poisoned Pub

Brett, Simon. The Poisoning in the Pub. Five Star, 2009.

The Poisoning in the Pub is a charming little detective story--and, I gather, one from the middle of a series by Simon Brett--that blends the elegance and wisdom of Christie's Marple with the frivolous lightness of Braun's cat-based sleuthing stories. In many ways, this works well. Jude and Carole are determined old busybodies, and their small-town network of informant provides an excellent supplement to the "old biddy" detective work initiated by Christie. Like Miss Marple, they are concerned with the events occurring in the lives of their friends and neighbours, and their unassuming statures enable them to coerce supplemental facts and back stories out of many minor characters. Brett also does an excellent job pitting them against the law and its many servants; on occasion, steps taken by Jude and Carole prove harmful to the more formal investigation, adding a shred of realism to the novel as a whole.

The Poisoning in the Pub begins with Jude and Carole enjoying a seafood lunch in a small local pub, and the title references an outbreak of food poisoning that occurs in a timely fashion within the first chapter. Determined to prove that this incident was no fault of the pub's owner (a friend) or chef, Carole and Jude launch an investigation. Yet where Marple's stories are primarily character-based, Brett meanders almost too far into the realms of personality: Jude and Carole are entrenched within a sea of mostly irrelevant personal details, surrounded by ex-partners, and often distracted from the plot by matters of everyday life. While this is likely realistic to some degree, too much is perhaps made, in the novel, of their troubles with technology and elderly approaches to tattoos and the internet. In moderation, such trivialities would provide amusing transitions, but Brett's repeated emphasis on the generational divide turns Carole and Jude into mere stereotypes. Many of their acquaintances and friends are similarly stereotypical, such as the several mentally challenged individuals whose testimonies prove remarkably helpful to the plot's solution, but these characters are even more stilted, walking a fine line between stereotype and deus ex machina.

This was an enjoyable novel, and I would not hesitate to read another mystery by Simon Brett, but it falls far short of the elegance attained by earlier writers in the genre.

Hooper's House of the Magician: A Satisfactory Experiment.

Hooper, Mary. At the House of the Magician. Bloomsbury, 2010 reprint.

I've always believed that a good novel for children is perhaps the most difficult challenge any author might face, and I tend to judge these novels perhaps even more harshly than their adult counterparts. At the House of the Magician, therefore, is a good book. Unfortunately, it is not a great book.

Hooper's protagonist Lucy is a young girl in Elizabethan England who leaves home after a fight with her father and ends up working as a servant for John Dee, whose career will be familiar to most scholars of the early modern period but has been mostly forgotten by the general populace. Lucy befriends the queen's favourite jester and is called upon to assist her master with some alchemical and pseudo-supernatural tasks. Hooper portrays a fairly realistic Elizabethan England, and her story moves apace; where the diligence of her research and the depth of her characters is lost is in her introduction of prophetic dreams and the supernatural. Although the afterlife and the supernatural were subjects of great debate during the lifetimes of Dee and Elizabeth I, Hooper's handling of these subjects lacks the literary grace of her domestic and historical scenes. This is a good book, and little girls who are interested in the early modern period should enjoy it immensely. Hooper's writing is clear and often elegant, but the novel itself is not exceptional. I look forward to seeing more of Mary Hooper's work as she matures as a writer.

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.

The Peretti Project: Prophet, A Controversial Thriller

Peretti, Frank. Prophet. Crossway, 1992.

Though probably best known for his novels depicting spiritual warfare as mere mortals have never seen it, Peretti has managed to blend the ethereal with everyday life in this contentious and intriguing book about abortion, politics, and conspiracies. The book looks most closely at news anchor John Barrett, a popular and fresh face on his local news station and the son of an active conservative whose radical views are a subject of ridicule and, subsequently, murder. Following the death of his father, liberal newscaster Barrett begins looking more closely at his father's beliefs and enemies, and soon discovers that many stories, including those broadcast by his increasingly popular station, don't make as much sense as they ought. Although Peretti's strongly conservative viewpoint may leave some readers skeptical, the conspiracy theory Barrett uncovers is one that has indubitably been imitated by countless politicians both conservative and liberal in the decades since this novel first reached print. Because of the controversial and religious themes prominent in this book, it is primarily a novel that Christians would enjoy, but the plot is well crafted, the suspense equal to that of any novel published in the secular world, and the writing elegant and clear.

Twilight, Twilight, Burning Bright: On the Bookshelves for the Teens . . .

Meyer, Stephanie. Twilight. London: Atom, 2009 (2005).

I'm a bit hesitant to post that I've read this novel, and, perhaps, even more hesitant to post a review of a book that has been contested so hotly for the past five years.Twilight certainly isn't the next Great American Novel, and Meyer certainly isn't Shakespeare--but, then, who is, these days?

Twilight is simply written and well edited. And where two books I recently began and set aside due to frustration with their recurring grammatical errors have been critically acclaimed (and nominated for awards) on the basis of their high literary merit, Meyer's mere teen fiction has been proofread and is composed of grammatically precise English. The story is laboured in spots, and Meyer's teenage narrator is occasionally frustrating and unrealistic, but the story moves quickly. Certainly, although Twilight is neither as classy nor as deeply researched and plotted as The Historian, Meyer does draw upon many of the elements that made Kostova's novel almost immediately popular. Meyer's vampires are compared to and based upon not the literary elements of Dracula but upon the results of an internet search, but they are inventive and (I found) more compelling than her humans.

Truly, my greatest frustration with Twilight is a flaw that I find irksome in Romeo and Juliet as well. The love that protagonist Bella has for the dramatic vampire Edward--and, to some degree, his love in return--is based completely on external appearances and to no degree on personality or spirit. Where Bella adores the perfection of his body--and Meyer lets us know that he's quite good in school--and he appreciates her scent, their love is based on few of the elements that matter to us mere mortals. Maybe in Twilight, where Edward will remain Seventeen Forever (and I'm surprised that isn't a hit pop song by now), a love based on physical attraction will last because the physical attraction itself can never diminish. But I digress.

Where the first two-thirds of the novel are a slightly sappy love story based on looks and smell, the final third of the novel turns into a spy thriller with perks. Although Meyer avoids the slippery slope of time travel, she does offer visions of the future and a cross-continental chase scene that manages to be predictable enough that readers will be frustrated with Bella's decisions and complicated enough by the ever-shifting visions of the future that Meyer very nearly touches on an interesting discussion of fate and destiny. If you can endure the flimsy romance that begins the book, the excitement and hints of intrigue in the final pages will get you neatly to the conclusion. However, that said, I'm very content to leave the series at the end of this book, and doubt I'll be looking out for its sequels.