Ortberg wrote The Merry Spinster, a work of dark humor that convinced me that he is a genius. This book is a lot different, although at times the same voice peeks through. My thanks go to Atria Books and Net Galley for the review copy. This book is for sale now.
Many of the essays in this book are recycled from Ortberg’s blog, but since I never saw the blog, all of it is new to me. The essays describe his experience as a trans man, and though it is funny in places, most of the pieces ooze pain and bitterness. And to be fair, a trans man brought up female in an evangelical Christian home, taught to consider the Rapture in every choice made, every road followed, is bound to have these things in spades. However, there is a good deal of redundancy here. After awhile I found my attention wandering, and by thirty percent of the way in, I was watching the page numbers crawl by. How much longer…?
Some of the chapter titles are full of promise, but then the chapter itself disappoints. What, this again? I did enjoy the passage on parallel parking, and the chapter on Columbo (the only man Ortberg has ever loved) cracked me up.
I have rated this title three stars for general audiences, but I suspect that for those transitioning to manhood, or for those close to someone doing so, the rating will be higher.
Recommended to those transitioning, considering transitioning, and their loved ones.
Bridget Devine—you may call her Bridie—is an investigator for hire. She’s small of stature, with green eyes and a mane of auburn hair. She smokes a pipe, keeps a dagger strapped to her ankle and poison darts in her boot heels, and wears “the ugliest bonnet in Christendom.” The year is 1863; the place is Britain. Bridie has been hired to find a kidnapped child. A dead pugilist named Ruby has volunteered his assistance; he had a soft spot for her while he lived, and now that he’s deceased, his affection for her lives on.
My thanks go to Net Galley and Atria Books for the review copy. This book is for sale now.
The subject of her inquiries is an extraordinary girl named Christabel. Christabel has unusual qualities; it is said that she is a merrow, a mermaid-like being that loves snails and salamanders can tell what others are thinking, has teeth like a pike that she uses freely against those that displease her, and can drown humans on dry land. Bridie is having none of it. “Christabel is a child. She is not a merrow because they are legendary beasts that do not exist in real life, only in fables.” So what if hundreds of snails appear everywhere the child has turned up?
The search for Christabel takes Bridie and her assistants all over Victorian London. Kidd is a champ with regard to time and place, taking us deep into the past. In particular, we visit the charlatans that collect and sometimes experiment with people born with disabilities or distinctions, as a form of sordid entertainment for those with prurient interests. There are some passages here that won’t work well for the squeamish.
The side characters are magnificent. We have Cora Butters, the housemaid that accompanies Bridie. Cora is seven feet tall and has muttonchop whiskers. Her huge hands make her a formidable defender when the going gets rough. There are others, but some of the most entertaining are the critters: a sarcastic parrot and a sage python are among them.
Those that have read Kidd’s first novel, Himself and her second, Mr. Flood’s Last Resort (in UK it was titled The Hoarder) will be delighted once again to find Kidd’s distinctive voice and brilliant word smithery in full flower once more. There are differences as well; there’s more of a story arc, and along with that we see the best figurative language and the wickedest humor after about the sixty percent mark. At the heart of it all is the same disdain for pretense, and the same deep respect for the working class.
My records show that I’ve reviewed over 1,300 titles over the past few years, and of the review copies I’ve received, I’ve chosen to read fewer than 10 of them a second time. This book will be one of them.
Aren’t we done here? Get a copy of this book and read it soon so that you can buy another copy to wrap up for Valentine’s Day. Because Jess Kidd’s books are peerless, and you should only give the very best.
My thanks go to Net Galley and Atria Books for the review copy of Marley, a retelling of the Dickens classic told from a different point of view. This book is for sale now.
This work of historical fiction took off with a bang, and then fizzled.
I have not read any of Clinch’s earlier work, and at the outset of this novel, I am electrified by his prose. I love a good word smith, and Clinch’s facility with figurative language is impressive as hell. I was ready for a good Christmas book, and the October release date was right on the money. I snuggled beneath my favorite fleece blanket and immersed myself, savoring the clever phrasing and rereading parts of it before moving on.
There are two aspects of this work that hold it back; one is a quibble, but one worth mentioning, and the other is more significant. The quibble is that so much of the story isn’t about Marley. We know about Scrooge. If the author wants to write about Scrooge from a different angle, then the book’s title should reflect it. Instead, Marley’s effort at winning Scrooge’s sister Fan pulls us back into the Scrooge family, and there we stay for long stretches of the book. I echo other reviewers in asking, “But what about Marley?”
My larger objection, one that took awhile to gel as I read and ultimately prevents my recommending this book, is that the entire premise, the sacred message imparted by Dickens, is ground beneath Clinch’s authorly heel as he reframes Marley as a forger, smuggler, and criminal of the highest order. Dickens, in writing the original story, took pains to demonstrate that it is possible to be a “sound man of business,” to function entirely within the letter of the law, and still be morally bankrupt. A Christmas Carol was written to let readers know that those that succeed in legally building fortunes may nevertheless be damned if they are unwilling to extend themselves, whether through private charity or humane governmental programs. Scrooge made a point of telling his nephew that he pays his taxes, after all, and that’s the end of it.
In painting Marley as a man that brings money into the partnership through a multitude of illegal practices, Clinch not only ignores Dickens’s timeless moral and social message, but torches it, leaving only so much ash and cinder.
The chains that bind Marley in the afterlife reflect the chains of human bondage in his corporal one, as he invests the assets of Scrooge and Marley in slave ships, is a lovely literary device. I wish the author had found a way to use it without laying waste to the heart and soul of a timeless classic whose message is needed more today than ever.
Odie and Albert are orphans, the only two Caucasian children at the hellish Lincoln School in Minnesota, which is primarily a boarding school for American Indian children. The year is 1932, and the Depression is in full swing. As things unravel, the two brothers sneak away, together with a mute Indian friend and a small girl whose parents have recently perished during a storm; the odyssey on which they embark raises questions for all of them about what they believe about themselves and the natures of God and man. My thanks go to Net Galley and Atria Books for the review copy. This book is for sale now.
This is the first of this author’s work that I have seen, and it’s clear that he is one gifted individual. At the same time, however, this is not easy to read. The first fifteen to twenty percent is brutal. There are triggers all over the place including sexual assault, child abuse, and both put together. I read only a few pages at a time because more would have wrecked my head, and I never let it be the last printed material my eyes saw before bed. Those that soldier through the beginning can be assured that the worst is over, although there are many other passages in which Odie, Albert and friends are tried severely. For me, though, it was worth it.
The get-away trip takes them down the mighty rivers of the North American interior. There’s a lot of rich historical detail along the way, and it will be especially interesting for those unaware of the culture that existed before anyone in America had food stamps, or subsidized housing, or a social worker, or compulsory education. There was no safety net of any kind; people existed at each other’s mercy. The travelers meet all sorts of interesting people, but when others get too close or ask too many questions, they leave rather than be identified. Albert points out that others are often untrustworthy, and that those we love are often taken from us; he says that if God is a shepherd, He must be the sort that eats his flock. But a man that hires them to do farm labor says that God is in the land, the air, the trees, and in each person.
Ultimately the journey is a search for home, for family, and for a role in the world. The original destination is St. Louis, Missouri, where Odie and Albert’s families live, but as they make their way toward it, they find out that there is more than one kind of family, and more than one kind of home.
Highly recommended to those that love the genre and have robust literacy skills.
The correct reply should have been ‘yes’ for a second time, but he didn’t want to appear rude. It would make her feel bad, and he wouldn’t feel much better.
‘I hunt,’ said Parker. He was surprised to hear the words emerge, as though spoken by another in his stead.
‘Oh.’ Her disapproval was obvious.
‘But not animals,’ he added, as the voice decided to make the situation yet more complicated.
‘Oh,’ she said again.
He could almost hear the cogs turning.
‘So, you hunt…people?’
‘The wheels came down, and the plane hit the ground with a jolt that caused someone at the back to yelp in the manner of a wounded dog.
‘Like a bounty hunter?’ asked the woman.
‘Like a bounty hunter.’
‘So that’s what you are?’
‘Oh,’ she said for the third time.
I love Charlie Parker books, and it’s unusual for me to miss a pub date, which I did and I’m sorry. I was distracted and curious about another horror novel that came out at the same time, which was my mistake because that one wasn’t as good as this one. My thanks go to Net Galley and Atria Books for the galley, and I have learned my lesson: life is short. Read Charlie Parker first.
A body has been found in a junkyard in the American Southwest. Could it belong to Parker’s evil nemesis, Rebecca Mors? Sadly, it does not. Mors and her top stooge, Quayle are across the water, and as usual they’re up to no good. Soon Parker and his massively engaging assistants, Angel and Louis will be there too, and yes: they’re hunting. They are being paid to assist the FBI, but since their work takes them overseas, it must be unofficial. This aspect, together with the story’s supernatural elements and Connolly’s expert plotting, pacing, word smithery and character development combine to make a story so spellbinding that I never once found myself questioning whether one aspect or another is credible. Whilst reading it I was engrossed, and what’s more I was cranky when interrupted.
Key elements of our tale are Parker’s daughters—one living, one dead—and a sentient book, a living malign entity that has appeared in previous Parker stories but is at its hellish worst here. The complex plot surrounding it is so full of twists and turns, shifting alliances and above all, dead bodies that at one point Parker reflects that it looks like “the plot of a very violent soap opera.”
The author’s note at the end tells us that his editors tried to get him to edit the book down, and he balked. Whereas there are some historical tidbits that could probably be eliminated or made briefer, I like it the way it is. Why would I want a Connolly book to end sooner? However, the reader will as usual need a hefty vocabulary and greater than average stamina to enjoy this work. It may not be a good choice for those whose mother tongue is not English.
Can you appreciate this story, seventeenth in the series, without reading any of the previous entries? You will find yourself at a distinct disadvantage, but it’s not necessary to go all the way back to #1, either. I began at the fourteenth and have no regrets.
Carol Anshaw has written a good deal of fiction, but this is
the first time I have read her work. Right
After the Weather turned up on Net Galley when I ran a search for humor;
thanks go to Net Galley and Atria Books for the review copy. This book will be available to the public
October 1, 2019.
Cate is a set designer working in Chicago. She’s divorced
and looking for the right woman to settle down with. She’s in her early
forties, and the clock keeps ticking; Dana is the one she wants, but she wants
to be more than Dana’s woman-on-the-side, and Dana isn’t leaving her girlfriend
for Cate. Cate meets Maureen who is actually fairly awful, but Maureen makes
her life easier and wants her desperately, and so she is trying to persuade
herself that Maureen is the woman she wants. Meanwhile her ex-husband, a nice
guy that she dumped when she came out, is camped out in her apartment. All of
these things make it hard for Cate to move forward. Her role model is her best friend Neale, a single
mother that lives nearby, but all hell is about to break lose at Neale’s place.
Alternately with Cate’s narrative, we have infrequent but
unsettling blurbs from a different point of view. Nathan and Irene are addicts, “casual
sociopaths.” Every now and then there’s
a page or two– distinguished by a different font—that articulates their
priorities and plans, such as they are.
Anshaw is clever as hell, planting these tiny landmines that let us know
that at some point, Cate and our criminals’ lives will intersect; at the same
time, when it comes to people like this, less is more, and so they pop into the
story just long enough to leave me feeling a little jarred, and then it’s such
a relief to return to Cate’s story that I immediately forget about these other
guys. The author plays fairly in letting us know that something is coming, but
it takes awhile before I start anticipating what their role in this story will
be. It’s so much easier to not think about them.
There’s some very uncomfortable material about Maureen about
ten percent of the way into the story, and if I hadn’t had a review copy I
might have stopped reading. However, that business gets put into context right
away, and the rest of the story, though edgy, isn’t in that same out-of-bounds
zone. Instead, Anshaw makes me laugh out loud several times with her dry humor
and the perception that goes with it; in particular the scene with Cate’s
mother is uproariously funny. I am ordinarily not pleased by bad-mother humor
because it’s becoming a cliché, but when Anshaw goes there, she outclasses
others and there’s no putting this book down.
Annie Clements is a badass union warrior, nearly six feet
tall with fiery red hair and a voice that carries. When the men that work the Quincy mine strike
for better wages, an eight hour day, and an end to the treacherous one man
drill, Big Annie leads the women’s auxiliary, and her role makes headlines
around the world. This magnificent novel, which holds closely to events as they
unfurled, came to me free and early, thanks to Atria Books and Net Galley. It’s
for sale right now.
The Quincy mine is owned by Calumet and Hecla, and it is one
of the deepest underground—and therefore one of the most dangerous—in the
US. It’s on the upper peninsula of
Michigan, an isolated location closer to Canada than to other states or even
the rest of Michigan; the winters are fierce. The only thing crueler than
winter there is the heart of the general manager, James McNaughton, a vicious,
vindictive man, who vows that “Grass will grow in the streets of Calumet before
C&H recognizes the Western Federation of Miners.”
Charlie Miller is our union organizer, traveling from camp
to camp, gathering support from working families. He intends to attack the
smaller, more outlying mining companies first and save the huge, wealthy ones
like Calumet for after inroads have been made around them. But miners are angry
about the one man drill, a recent change that saves the company on wages, but
leaves a single miner at risk of being injured or buried without a second miner
present to help get him out of there. The company won’t send workers in after
the injured, so working in pairs is a critical part of what little safety
exists. Too many have gone home dead or maimed, and emotion is high. The women’s
auxiliary organizes the wives and other family members of miners, and the women
are rising up as well. Miller doesn’t see a strike as winnable right now, but
if the union doesn’t get behind them soon, it may well become a wild cat
strike, one in which the workers strike without union backing; that would
embarrass the WFM.
Russell combines beautifully woven prose with careful attention
to historical detail; not much has been changed here, but in her end notes she
explains what has been altered and why. Where possible she uses direct quotes,
and this is above and beyond what most novelists will do.
Although the story is about Big Annie Clements, my favorite
part is when Mother Jones comes to Calumet. (Those interested in labor history
should also read Mother Jones’s autobiography, which is shorter and better than
what any biographer has done for her.)
This is the first time I have read Russell’s work, but it won’t be the last. A measure of how much I love a book can be found in how much I read, quote, and carry on about it right here at home. My husband could scarcely enter a room without my demanding whether we have any other materials about the copper strikers, and does he know about (this, that, the other thing)? I was reading ten different books, but he was hearing about only one of them. My own grandfather was a miner and died of Black Lung many years ago, but I felt him beside me as I read; I find myself hungry for pasties, the recipe preserved from my Finnish great aunt. But I digress.
Finally, readers should also know that this is a tragic
read, positively miserable in places. There are dead and dying children, and
the ending isn’t heartwarming. Yet it contains elements—an unlikely romance,
and in James McNaughton, a villain of monstrous proportions—that could not be
written into a purely fictional tale because nobody would believe them; and
yet, these are aspects that stick closely to historical reality.
For those that love excellent historical fiction, this is a
must read. For those that love both historical fiction and labor history, it
provides the sweetest of crossroads. Highly recommended.
Randy Susan Meyers wrote The
Murderer’s Daughters and The Widow of
Wall Street. Her new novel, Waisted is
a fiercely feminist story that skewers the weight loss industry and a society
that “treats fat people like out-of-control horrors” and the war against women
with its “intersectionality of misogyny, fat shaming, [and] faux health
concerns.” Thanks go to Atria and Net
Galley for the review copy. You should read this book.
Alice married Clancy when she was “break-up skinny,” not
knowing that he isn’t attracted to any woman that isn’t thin. Daphne is
tormented by her 108 pound mother, whose toxic monitoring and obsession with
Daphne’s eating have nearly driven her daughter over the edge. Alice and Daphne meet at Privation, a live-in weight loss program in rural
Vermont. They and five other women sign on because they are promised rapid
weight loss free of charge, with the caveat that they must agree to be filmed
24 hours a day for a documentary. The program is not only extreme; it is cruel
“Welcome to hell, ladies, where we recognize
that life is unfair, and you pay the price for every action you take…You’ve
eaten your way through pain, through loss, through happiness, and just for the
plain pleasure of crunching calories between your teeth. Not one of you knows
how to live with privation. So you landed here. The last stop.”
The women don’t know that there are no doctors here, or that
they are part of a nasty experiment to see what women will tolerate in order to
become thinner, even when it is obvious that such a program cannot be
sustained. Each time one or another of them considers decamping, there’s a
weigh-in that shows them to be even lighter than they were earlier in the week,
and with dreams of a new, sleek, lovable body ever nearer realization, they
The readers that will relate to this story best are also the
ones that will have a hard time getting through the first half of it. Meyers
drives home so many uncomfortable truths that overweight women like me have
trained ourselves not to think about most of the time because they are painful.
Do it anyway. It’s high time someone wrote this book.
Apart from its very real underpinnings, the story is
far-fetched and features an unlikely outcome, but that doesn’t matter. A more
nuanced or realistic version would fail to deliver the message in as brilliant
This is urgent, angry, and at times darkly funny prose. It
will be available Tuesday, May 21, 2019. Highly recommended.
Purely by serendipity, Backman’s collection of essays came
out in the US as my own son is initiated into fatherhood. My thanks go to Atria
Books for the review copy; it’s for sale today.
Backman is known to me as a fiction writer, and I have read
most of his novels, which are beloved worldwide. Here he delivers nonfiction
with the same gently philosophical voice. Despite the title, the essays are written for
adults; this is not a children’s book.
Backman waxes eloquent on diverse topics, and it sounds
sweetest—as always—when he focuses on what real men do. For example, all his
life, he says he has been told to stand up like a man, but he wants his son to
know that a real man should also know how to “stay seated, shut up and listen.” Women the world over, myself among them,
cheer this, and in saying it Backman helps make the world a better place. Other
parts are funny as heck, as when he describes trying to change a diaper on an
The book’s only weakness is the overuse of the words “stuff”
and “crap,” throughout the text, and knowing the author’s signature style, I
suspect that this began as deliberate repetition for emphasis and as a form of
figurative language that somehow didn’t translate effectively.
That said, it’s a sweet little book and a good read, and its
timing begs for it to be a reverse-Father’s Day gift in the US, from fathers –or
better still, grandfathers—to sons.