Caroline lives with her father, Samuel, a writer and educator whose career and reputation have been sullied by a younger man that Samuel mentored many years ago. But Samuel is determined to revive his career by starting a school for girls. Girls can think. Girls can learn. They needn’t be limited to the traditional lessons that make young ladies into gracious hostesses. They can rise in this world, as long as he is there to guide them.
I read this book free and early thanks to Doubleday and Net Galley. It’s for sale now.
As the story opens, just a few ladies are signed up for the boarding school that will be run by Samuel and Caroline from their home. A former protegee, David, comes to join them also, and will teach the sciences. Running errands in town, however, Caroline and David run into Eliza, the daughter of the man that ruined Samuel’s career. Her father is now deceased; Eliza wants to attend the school. In a moment of mischievous rebellion that she will come to regret, Caroline accepts her.
At the outset, The Illness Lesson seems to be feminist fiction, and as school begins and I see Samuel mansplaining to his female charges about the things that women can and cannot do, should learn to do, should want to do, I lean in, ready for a rapier-sharp tale in which—I hope—the father and teacher that believes himself to be an educational gift to womankind will learn a powerful lesson.
Alas, not so much.
Before the halfway mark is reached, the story has wandered in various directions and has lost its cohesion and focus. I check my notes and change the genre for it over and over again; feminist fiction becomes historical fiction becomes romance becomes magical realism becomes horror and what the heck is this author trying to achieve? If the plan is to keep the reader guessing, I can honestly say that I am genuinely surprised (in the second half) by what Caroline finds in the woods. However, I am not a fan of surprise elements that fragment the plot. It almost feels as if it was written by a half dozen writers drunkenly passing a story around late at night. “Okay, now YOU write a chapter! Surprise me.”
I might not have been so disappointed if I hadn’t expected such great things. The premise is a wonderful one. Beams could have done so much with it, and I can’t figure out why she didn’t.
Perhaps if you read it, you’ll come away with a more charitable viewpoint. My advice, however, is to get it free or cheap, or else give it a miss entirely.
“It’s the admirals, sir, playing with us like this is their own big-assed bathtub and we’re just toys.”
Jeff Shaara has written some of the best war stories ever published, and he’s done so for almost 25 years. I have read every last one of them. When I was invited to read and review his new novel about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor by Random House Ballantine and Net Galley, I was delighted, but also slightly apprehensive, because even after all these years, the subject remains an incendiary one; I needn’t have worried. This may be Shaara’s best book, and that’s saying a lot.
I’ll share a brief note about my own biases going in. My father was among the last men called to serve during World War II; he never left the U.S., however, where he was tasked with training new recruits to the still-new U.S. Air Force. But I grew up hearing about Japanese atrocities, and many of the bizarre stereotypes and misconceptions based on pseudoscience were told to me as fact. When as an adult I announced that I was about to marry a Japanese citizen, I sounded the waters with my family to see if there was resistance. I was told that my parents “still remember Pearl Harbor.” Meanwhile, my husband’s father also served during World War II—in the Japanese army. The topic was never raised by his parents around me, or at all as far as I know; but I asked my spouse a few questions to help me understand the Japanese perspective about this horrific conflict, and then I understood exactly how erroneous most of what I’d been raised to believe actually was.
So I was primed to read this book, and also a little afraid of what I might find. My internal map of Pearl Harbor was studded with emotional landmines, and at the book’s conclusion, none of them had been tripped.
Shaara tells this story primarily through the eyes of three people: Cordell Hull, U.S. Secretary of State under President Franklin Delano Roosevelt; Admiral Yamamoto, the Japanese architect of the invasion; and Tommy Biggs, a 19-year-old naval recruit from an impoverished Caucasian family in rural Florida.
Shaara faithfully incorporates a character from the rank and file in every story; he does this even if there is nobody on record that he can report on, and so often, he is forced to create a fictional character based on experiences and characteristics from several people. When I saw no such disclaimer in any of his notes, I grew curious and wrote and asked him whether this is the case with Biggs. He replied that this time there is a Tommy Biggs (though the name is not the same), but that he did add the experiences of others in order to flesh him out. So this time, each of the three chief characters is based on an historical figure.
I learned a great deal. Though it’s well known that this attack profoundly crippled the U.S. Navy, sinking or badly damaging most of the fleet, I had never considered it from the Japanese perspective. Looked at in that way, it was not only audacious, it was immaculately planned and wildly successful. I also had never considered what a blunder it was on the part of the U.S. military to leave its equipment, ships, planes, and more so unguarded. In the fallout after the attack, we learn that the Navy considered security to be the job of the U.S. Army and vice-versa. What a colossal bungle.
Japan had emerged victorious from the Russo-Japanese War, and its leadership was suffused with overwhelming confidence. Japanese racial superiority would lead to Japanese dominance throughout the China, Indochina, and across all of Asia, they claimed, because they were meant to dominate their portion of the globe. Japanese leaders were convinced that the U.S. would not seek retribution following an attack on its soil because American isolationist sentiment was so strong. They genuinely hoped that this attack would result in an end of the U.S. embargo that crippled Japan, and which existed in order to halt Japanese expansion and force Japan to withdraw from its alliance with the Axis powers. Americans, the Japanese brass told one another, were too big, too slow, too lazy to retaliate. There were voices of dissent, however:
“For any of you who believe the Americans are not worthy of a fight, that they do not have the stomach for blood, perhaps you are familiar with the American Civil War? In the 1860s, they divided and fought each other in the bloodiest war in their history. They did not require any enemy to inspire them. They fought each other. Are you familiar with football?”
Meanwhile the U.S. military, press and popular culture treated the Japanese as a bad joke. One myth dressed up as science suggested that Japan would never be able to build an air force because of an inherent defect in the inner ear of all Japanese. It was physically impossible for them to become pilots! The condescension was rife, everywhere one turned. Hollywood depicted the Japanese as ridiculous, rodent-like creatures with minds that didn’t function properly. The Chicago Tribune stated that for Japan to attack the U.S. was “a military impossibility.” Japanese were said to be too myopic to be effective against a military target. And it goes on.
There’s all sorts of blame to spread around. Nobody in Washington, D.C. had told the top brass at Pearl Harbor, Admiral Kimmel and Lieutenant General Short, about the project named Magic, which intercepted and broke Japanese code. They had no idea that Japan was rattling its sabers to such a degree. And these two men appear to have been lazy, bureaucratic fools that ignored what little intelligence came their way. For example, shortly before the attack, the man on watch sees a Japanese sub in the water. Kimmel immediately assumes that the guard has seen a whale, and he goes back to bed.
There are three aspects of this novel that keep the pages turning for me. The first, of course, is my interest in military history. Shaara’s research is meticulous. The book is historical fiction at its best, which is when the contours of the story, even fairly detailed aspects of it, are correct, but the fictional genre is chosen so that dialogue and inner monologue can be added. Second is Shaara’s perceptive nature, and it’s this that permits him to choose the best details to include and cut what is inessential so that pacing never flags. And finally, his capacity to develop a character so that we feel we know him is matchless; in particular I bond to poor Tommy Biggs, a guy that can’t catch a break, until he can.
Nothing I can say will serve as well as what Shaara says himself. Get this book, even if you have to pony up full cover price. This is hands down the best fictional representation of Pearl Harbor on sale today. Believe it.
Sometimes what I really need is a feel-good story. Had I ascertained that this was that sort of book, I would have had it read by the publication date. I read the beginning twice, decided it was going to fall into the grim duty category since I had accepted a review copy, and I set it aside. My apologies go to Net Galley, Crown Books, and the author for my lateness; my heartfelt thanks go to Jayne Entwistle, the reader for the audio version of this lovely tale, for rekindling my interest. I procured the audio version from Seattle Bibliocommons and listened to it while I rode my stationary bike and prepared dinner in the evenings. I began listening to it because I owed a review, but soon I found that I preferred this novel to the other good book I had been listening to just for pleasure.
Our story begins with Mrs. Braithwaite feeling injured and put upon. Her husband is divorcing her, and the women in the local charity club have banded together and ousted her from her treasured position of leadership. She is miserable. Betty, her only child, has run off to London, intent upon aiding her country now that the second World War is upon them, and she isn’t answering her calls. Mrs. Braithwaite decides to visit her, but upon arrival, she discovers that Betty is missing. The story flows from her effort to find her daughter and also herself.
Those seeking an espionage thriller won’t find it here; the story is character based, and in this Ryan succeeds richly. Mrs. Braithwaite enlists the reluctant assistance of Mr. Norris, Betty’s milquetoast landlord, and it is these two characters that are wonderfully developed. None of this would have been achieved without the spot-on cultural insights regarding the World War II generation. The shallower pop-cultural references to music are well and good, but Ryan goes deeper. The fact that the character is known only by her formal title, with the salutary “Mrs.” in place of a first name, speaks not only to the protagonist’s dignified, somewhat cold façade, but also to the practices of the time. Use of first names was considered an intimacy among the elders of this time period; women addressed their peers by it unless they were close friends or family members. Even the way that the plot develops is reminiscent of the fiction and movies of that generation. As in most good historical fiction, the setting mingles with the characters to move the plot forward.
I am not much of a cozy mystery fan, but I think this story would please cozy readers. At the same time, I appreciate the careful balance the author uses; the touching moments are deftly handled, never becoming cloying or maudlin. At other times there’s a playful, spoofing quality to it, as Mrs. Braithwaite and Betty search for each other, each fearing the other is in danger and thus placing herself in it.
I recommend this book to cozy readers, fans of historical fiction, and anyone in need of a boost in morale. It’s for sale now.
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.
It’s World War II, and the Blitz has begun. The Royals are torn, wanting to remain with their subjects and share their misery, but not wanting the risk the well beings of their daughters. It’s decided that the girls must be moved, but with the shipping lanes and skies fraught with peril, where can they go and be safe? Ah, a fine idea: they’ll send them to a cousin in Ireland.
My thanks go to Net Galley and Henry Holt for the review copy. This book is for sale now.
As historical fiction goes, this is lightweight material, based on almost no historical event other than the war itself. However, as general fiction goes it’s terrific, immensely entertaining and droll as heck. I figure it’s 3.5 stars for historical fiction, 4.5 stars as general fiction; thus my 4 star rating.
Our protagonist is Garda Strafford-With-An-R, a marginally competent Irish detective who resembles Stan Laurel, tasked with the security the estate where the girls will be housed. Secondary characters are Celia Nashe, a British cop equivalent to a Secret Service agent, who is assigned to serve as personal security for the princesses; an arrogant, sleazy ambassador named Laschelles; and Strafford’s boss Hegarty, who resembles Oliver Hardy. We also have clueless but entitled Sir William, the girls’ host; two bored princesses that get up to things when nobody’s looking; some household servants that know more than they are supposed to; and a few local people that also know too much.
The fact is that I’m entirely burned out on World War II fiction, and that fact nearly prevents me from requesting this galley. But the spin—Ireland, which remained neutral and flirted with taking the side of Germany, what with its enmity toward the British—proves irresistible. The greatest surprise is how much wit is employed and how fast the story moves. I have never read Black’s work before, and this guy is hilarious. He shifts the point of view often, always from the third person omniscient but varying several times within a single chapter, so we get snippets of the person that’s bored, the person that’s nosy, the person that’s confused and so forth. The word smithery is so original and clever that I cannot put my highlighter down. Highlighting is pointless when I highlight close to half of the text, but I can’t help myself. And best of all, the cliched ending that I think I can see a mile away isn’t happening.
Those of us in the States have a three day weekend right around the corner, and the weather will be too miserable to want to go anywhere. This novel might be just the ticket. If you’re lucky enough to be planning a vacation soon, this would also be a fine beach read. But the humor will be a terrific pick-me-up for those stranded indoors with a case of the grumps. I recommend this book to you, and I would read this author’s work again in a heartbeat.
By now, nearly everyone that loves reading has heard of this debut novel by one of the century’s most celebrated writers. Not every strong journalist can also write fiction, but Coates can. I read it free and early thanks to Net Galley and Random House. It’s for sale now.
The concept is a strong one. Why have we seen so little historical fiction set during the period just before the American Civil War and from the point of view of a slave? In an earlier essay Coates has pointed out that African-Americans need to reclaim this time period, that shrinking back from studying it is in a way a concession that shouldn’t be given. That’s the perspective on which this novel is built. It isn’t an easy read by any means; readers need strong literacy skills and a cast iron gut. The level of pain and violence—especially at the outset—is wrenching, and it should be. I took a long time to read this book because I could only swallow it in small portions. You may not want it for mealtime or bedtime reading.
Our protagonist is Hiram Walker, and he is the progeny of an enslaved mother and the plantation’s owner. Hiram is strong, capable, and attractive. When his father pulls him from the “tasked” and brings him home, other slaves warn him to be on his guard; he will never be considered a full member of this family, and he’ll never be considered an equal with Maynard, his Caucasian half-brother whose work ethic, talent, and intelligence could fit together in a thimble with room to spare. Hiram is assigned to prevent Maynard from going off the rails; however, since the authority runs in the opposite direction, Hiram is ultimately unable to save Maynard, who drowns after overindulging.
Hiram has an unusual gift, a supernatural talent that lends interest to the story without becoming its central focus.
Ultimately our protagonist is going to have to run for his freedom. During the years just before the Civil War, owners of large plantations in Virginia and the Carolinas find themselves in desperate straits. The land has been badly over farmed, and both cotton and tobacco are demanding crops. The soil is used up; farmland that once produced bountifully is no longer productive. The solution that most of the large owners seize is to expand their holdings westward. Vast numbers of slaves are either sold and sent to the deep South “Natchez Way” or moved there to work for the same owner on different land. Those that go are treated severely, and their families are fragmented without a moment’s hesitation. While some slaves were able to negotiate for their own manumission in earlier years, this option is no longer on the table. Coates does a stellar job keeping this aspect of his story consistent with historical fact.
Hiram’s escape is ultimately successful after a number of nightmarish experiences, but he is persuaded to return and to assist in the Underground Railroad, and he does so partly with the goal of freeing those that mean the most to him. Along the way he meets Harriet Tubman, and the way Coates depicts her is credible and fascinating. But the thing I love most, apart from the story’s basis and the eloquent word-smithery that shines here and there, is the way Coates condemns the hypocrisy, the culture of the slaveowner that makes the most horrible men able to look at themselves in the mirror and like what they see:
For it is not simply that you are captured by slavery, but by a kind of fraud, which paints its executors as guardians at the gate, staving off African savagery, when it is they themselves who are savages, who are Mordred, who are the Dragon, in Camelot’s clothes. And at that moment of revelation, of understanding, running is not a thought, not even as a dream, but a need, no different than the need to flee a burning house.
My one concern is with the dialogue. This historical tale will spin along beautifully, but then one person will tell another, “Trust me on that,” or “Sounds like a piece of work to me,” and the effect this has on me as a reader is that the spell is broken, and I am no longer transported to the time and place of the story. And to be sure, everyone that writes historical fiction has to decide how much language of the period to use, and when to use current grammar and sentence composition so that the modern reader can follow it. But this is something that jumps out at me at the beginning, in the middle, and even at the end. I tell myself to forget about it and I immerse myself in the story once more, but then there it is again. No other reviewers seem to have noted this, but a part of me thinks that the braver course would have been for Coates to write this story under a pseudonym, because I suspect that without the famous name attached to it, more genuine criticism about this single, pervasive glitch would have been forthcoming.
Be that as it may, this is one hell of a fine story, and it’s told just when readers need to see it most. I recommend it to you without reservation.
I expected to love this book, and I wanted it to be great.
The premise is terrific: Larkin, a wounded warrior home after falling apart
while on tour in Afghanistan, finds the diary of Emily, a woman that fought in
the American Civil War (albeit in drag.) It’s a cool idea, and between the
feminist moxie and my enthusiasm for local writers, I was ready to be wowed. It
didn’t work out that way, but my thanks still go to Net Galley and Sourcebooks
Landmark for the review copy.
The contemporary component is the part I found strongest and most appealing. I haven’t seen a lot of novels featuring women in uniform (or freshly out of one,) whether in the Middle East or elsewhere, and the pain that Lark carries for her best friend, Sarah, is visceral and in places, haunting. Sarah served with Lark and died in an ambush that Lark believes she could have prevented. Lark sees her die, and then has flashbacks and nightmares that make my gut roil. Lark’s mama is dreadful, and I am heartily weary of seeing mothers take it on the chin in fiction, but I like the relationship between Lark and her grandmother and the way it is developed.
I had hopes for the second thread, the one about Emily
fighting alongside her brother in the Civil War, but this part is unfortunately
plagued by historical revisionism and too much convenient coincidence. For a
woman to be as forward-thinking as the politically correct Emily—and this is
the first time I have ever used this term in a negative way, leaning much
farther to the left than your average American—would have been very unusual
indeed, and for Emily to have slipped beneath the social radar in other regards
would have been nearly impossible. Emily thinks at one point that her brother
David is gay, for example, but she worries only for his safety, because she
herself is sure that gay people are just made that way by God. And while this
is a lovely sentiment, a researcher could turn under every historical rock and
go through every collection of Civil War diaries and letters, and she would probably
not find this sentiment in any of them. And in another case, Emily is sympathetic
toward a runaway slave, not only in the sense that slavery is wrong or that the
runaway is toast if his pursuers find him; she views him as her social equal.
Aside from the late and admirable John Brown, and possibly his sons, it would
be a hard thing indeed to find such a Caucasian person in the early 1860s,
North or South. Many that fought against slavery assumed that former slaves
would be deported to Africa; nearly nobody is on record during that period
suggesting that Black folks were equal to whites, or that they could become
friends and neighbors on equal footing.
I imagined Ta-Nehisi Coates reading this novel and howling
with laughter at its naiveté.
To round it out, Emily virtually trips over another
woman-disguised-as-a-male soldier, and given the vast numbers of men fighting
in the Civil War, even the most generous estimate of women that served covertly
makes this unlikely enough to be ludicrous.
I am not sure whether the pacing of the novel is also slow,
apart from these inaccuracies and inconsistencies, or whether it was slowed by
them, that sad moment akin to one in which Toto has pulled the curtain aside
and revealed that Great and Powerful Oz is actually just a little dumpy bald
guy talking into a microphone. All I know is that by the thirty percent mark, I
was forcing myself to continue reading because I had a review copy and an
obligation. I actually like having one galley with a sedate pace that I can read
before I turn out the light, but my frustration with the issues noted above
prevented me from reading it and then dropping off into peaceful slumber. At
the sixty percent mark, I let myself off the hook. I took a quick look at the
denouement to check for mitigating developments at the end, and then closed the
Estes is a talented writer, but I believe she has tried to
do too much here. A simpler novel focusing exclusively on Lark would likely
have been stronger. However, she is a writer to watch, and I believe she will
do fine work in the future.
This memorable novel is my introduction to Tea Obreht, and I
read it free and early, thanks to Net Galley and Random House. The combination
of word smithery and whimsy creates the purest literary magic, and I recommend
it to anyone that has a high vocabulary level and stamina. It is for sale now.
The tale takes place just after the American Civil War, and
the narrative is divided between two characters, Lurie and Nora. Lurie begins
his life in Arkansas; he is orphaned early and the man that takes him in is a
grave robber that uses Lurie and other boys to assist him in his nightly plundering.
Lurie grows up hard, fast, and mean; he wishes that he did not see and feel the
dead, but he does, and most of all he senses their cravings. I am immediately drawn by his second person
narrative as he relates his memories to someone named Burke. You don’t see many
writers use the second person, and I am curious as to who Burke is. When I find
out, I am even more fascinated.
Nora is one of the early (Caucasian) Western settlers, and
here Obreht uses the third person omniscient. Nora is unlike any Western protagonist
I have ever read, and it is delightful to see the way this author turns
stereotypes and caricatures squarely upside down. Nora has her hands full,
trying to care for the aged, wheelchair bound Gramma; fighting a political
battle in the press that is run by her husband and sons, none of whom she has
seen lately; and carrying on a running dialogue with the ghost of her daughter
Evelyn, who died in infancy. To add insult to injury she is saddled with Josie,
a relative Emmett insisted they must take in. Nora is carrying a heavy emotional
load, but the slow revelation of the secrets that weigh her down and the way
that these impact the decisions she makes and the way she solves problems is
completely convincing. Whereas Lurie’s
narrative is mostly about setting, Nora’s is about character. Both are rendered
I initially rated this novel 4.5 stars because of a few
small areas where historical revisionism has crept in, but ultimately it is too
fine a work to deny all five stars. I am reluctant to say more because the
surprises start early, so to relate details that occur even twenty percent of
the way in feels like a disservice both to the reader and the writer.
One feature that is present throughout both of the
narratives is thirst, and it’s related so well that I found myself downing
extra water in sympathy and thanking my lucky stars that I live in Seattle
rather than somewhere dusty and drought-stricken. In fact, there are places in
Nora’s narrative where she is busy with other tasks or discussions of an urgent
nature and I find myself telling Nora to just go ahead and ask the person she’s
talking to for a sip of water. Nora won’t do it because she is proud and
self-reliant, and the fact that I am already talking to the character instead
of the author tells you how convincing the story is.
The reader is also advised that it’s a violent, gritty tale,
particularly in the beginning but in other places also, and it’s loaded with
triggers. To tell it otherwise would be to deny history, but if you are a mealtime
reader or avoiding harsh prose for other reasons, it’s worth knowing. But I
also think that the whimsy is all the sweeter for it.
Perhaps one of every ten novels I read becomes that book,
the one that I can’t stop talking about. My spouse understands that to pass
through a room when I am reading it is to guarantee he will be hijacked, at
least momentarily, because I am either going to paraphrase an interesting tidbit or
read a particularly arresting passage out loud. This works well for me, though,
because I find myself with more uninterrupted reading time. Inland is that sort of book. Highly recommended.
I received a review copy of this book courtesy of Net Galley
and Bloomsbury. It’s for sale now.
Winslow’s debut is set in 1941 in North Carolina. Our
protagonists are Azalea Knot, an alcoholic school teacher in an
African-American community, a woman shunned by her neighbors and kinfolk for
her unconventional behavior and obnoxious personality. Otis Lee has family
troubles of his own, but seeks redemption by helping Knot, who has two babies
out of wedlock at a time when you really could not do that without terrible
social repercussions. Otis is a helpful sort, and ultimately, the story becomes
one about the family we choose.
I abandoned and restarted this book three times, and in the
end, I never did engage with it much. I read the first thirty percent, the last
twenty-five percent, and skimmed the middle. The writing style didn’t speak to
me, and I couldn’t understand why Otis would care about Knot. But to be fair,
Southern fiction has been a competitive genre for several years, and I was
reading books by Attica Locke and Jesmyn Ward at the same time I read this.
I have a hunch Winslow is just warming up. He’ll be one to
watch in the future.
I am always on the lookout for something different, and so I
leapt at the chance to read this publication free and early. Thanks go to Net
Galley and Henry Holt. It’s for sale now.
The story is set in and around Chicago, back when the city
was first born. It tells a tale of shifting alliances and double crosses; yet
in other ways it is an old story, one in which a Caucasian interloper cannot
bear to see a Black man rise to a position of wealth and influence. It’s not an
Conceptually the story is strong, but the author tries to do
too much at once. Shifting points of view; development of disparate characters;
and an old time dialect that is challenging all by itself serve to render the
story muddy and confusing. Too much is lost, and at the halfway point, I gave
it up and commenced skimming.
Despite this, I believe Carr is a talented writer and I like
his ideas. I would read his work again.