It’s the best of books, but it’s the worst of books. K-Ming Chang has made her mark on modern literature, and her debut novel, Bestiary, has already made a number of prestigious lists. My thanks go to Net Galley and Random House for the invitation to read and review; sadly, its twisted edginess is too intense for me.
This much-buzzed-about book is for sale now.
How many triggers are packed into this one little book? All of them. Every trigger you can possibly think of, plus she may have made a few more up on the spot. There is violence a-plenty here, and the graphic child abuse and elder abuse provide such visceral imagery that I may never get it out of my head. I abandoned this book faster than just about any I can recall, and although I was certain it was the right thing to do for myself, I nevertheless experienced a twinge of regret along with it, because it is obvious from the first page that this author can write.
My gut hunch is that younger adult readers with cast-iron stomachs and level dispositions will be the most appreciative demographic for this one, but wimps like me will need to give it a pass. It is to the former that this book is recommended.
The year seems to be riddled with novels that are brilliant conceptually, but whose execution falls short of its promise. Such is the case with My Mother’s House. My thanks go to Net Galley and Bloomsbury for the review copy.
The story is told in the third person omniscient, and the most interesting character by far is the house itself. The house has had it with its inhabitants, particularly with protagonist Lucien, a man that’s evil and demented from the top of his pointy head down to the toes of his nasty loafers. Think of the worst thing one human being can do to another, and whatever you’ve come up with, Lucien has done it.
Our rotten old man is an immigrant, a resident of a mostly Caribbean neighborhood in Queens, New York. He brought with him the wife—nearly a child-bride—that he had set his cap for early on, for she is a descendant of the Duvalier family that ruled Haiti ruthlessly for decades. Once he has married her and moved her, however, he abuses her in much the same way he does every other female in his life, including the daughters they have together.
Do I need to tell you there are triggers all over this thing?
The house can’t take it anymore, all of the ugly within its walls. It decides that the only way to get rid of this bastard is to go down with him, and it sets itself ablaze.
One of the three stars is for this aspect of it, the animation of the house. This is where the story begins, with the house’s thoughts and actions, and I sigh contentedly, sure I am in possession of a great novel.
Alas, not so much.
I love a good horror story, but what makes such a story work is when there is an underdog to cheer for, or a victim to be rescued. This is part of Stephen King’s magic; not only does he provide visceral, original bad guys and monsters, but also some ordinary person that sees what is going on and tries to stop it. Whoever his good guy is, he develops the living heck out of them, and I feel as if I would know them on the street.
In contrast, Momplaisir gives me no possible good outcome; the only hope we have comes from the defeat and death of Lucien. That’s not enough to keep me turning the horrible pages of horrible deeds. I don’t just want to see the bad guy lose; I need a good character that might, against impossible odds, win.
Character development is also lacking. Although I learn about Lucien’s early life and the trauma that he’s endured, and which we know is often part of what warps a person, I never see him change internally. He is static all the way through, and since he’s the only important character, apart from the house, I feel cheated. His distinguishing characteristic is the need to count, because “I am nothing unless I count.” So all the way through, we hear him enumerating one thing after another, and to be honest, this device, though original, leaves me cold, and eventually it just becomes redundant. MAD Magazine—the original, from the 1960s and 1970s—would have had a field day here.
Unable to push myself all the way through the text, I seek out an audio book from Seattle Bibliocommons, and just to top all of it off, I dislike the reader intensely. The over-the-top dramatic voice would work in very small, shocking increments, but instead it is the main voice used, and by the end I just wanted to tell it to shut up. (Full disclosure: I actually did, not that anyone was there to hear it.)
In the end, I am left with a tremendously clever premise, a fantastic book cover, and then a whole lot of nothing. How dare the publicist or whoever wrote the teaser compare this work to those of Tana French and Jesmyn Ward? For shame!
You can buy this book now, or you can take that same exact amount of money and burn it in the fireplace. Same thing, either way. Or you can do the smart thing, and go find another book by someone else.
A Private Cathedral is the twenty-third in the immensely popular Dave Robicheaux series, which began in the early 1980s. James Lee Burke has been called “America’s Best Novelist” by the Denver Post, and his books have been made into movies. Lucky me, I read this one free and early; thanks go to Net Galley and Simon and Schuster for the review copy. This book is for sale now.
Fans of this series—and there are many—will recognize all of Burke’s signature elements. Set in New Iberia, Louisiana, a small working class enclave about an hour from New Orleans, we find the usual wealthy, sleazy bad guys, in this case the Shondell family and the Balangie family; their victims, ordinary people with no money that scrape by the best they can; a pair of grizzly murders; and in this instance, a case of human trafficking. There’s always a woman or two ready to fling herself into Dave’s arms, even though he and Clete are supposedly getting old, and as usual, one of the women stands on the tops of his feet before she seduces him, or vice versa. (This has got to be some sort of private joke or reference on the author’s part, because you know that a writer with this level of skill cannot be inadvertently ascribing the identical quirky behavior to all of his protagonist’s romantic interests across over three decades of a series.)
And of course, best of all perhaps, we have Dave’s fiercely loyal best friend, Clete Purcell, a man that looks “like an albino ape” and whose impulse control is even worse than Dave’s, at least most of the time. He shows up in his pink Cadillac wearing his signature porkpie hat, and I smile. I can’t help it. Clete does this to me every single time, and I’ll bet a whole lot of other readers feel just the same way.
“He was the trickster of folklore, a modern Sancho Panza, a quasi-psychotic jarhead who did two tours in Vietnam and came home with the Navy Cross and two Purple Hearts and memories he shared with no one. Few people knew the real Clete Purcel or the little boy who lived inside him, the lonely child of an alcoholic milkman who made his son kneel all night on rice grains and whipped him regularly with a razor strop…Nor did they know the NOPD patrolman who wept when he couldn’t save the child he wrapped in a blanket, ran through flames, and crashed through a second story window with, landing on top of a Dumpster…He hated evil and waged war against it everywhere he found it. I sometimes wondered if he was an archangel in disguise, one with strings of dirty smoke rising from his wings, a full-fledged participant in fighting the good fight of Saint Paul. “
My sole complaint, a key one I probably wouldn’t give any other writer a pass on, is the way the author deals with his female characters. All the women and girls are mothers, whores, lovers, or children, and in some cases more than one of the above. No woman comes into the stories on the merit of her occupation, her character, or her abilities, aside from Helen, a long-running character that is exempted by virtue or being a lesbian and androgynous in appearance. (God forbid she be gorgeous and gay, or gorgeous and straight and completely sexually uninterested in Dave.) But the fact is, Burke has been writing and publishing great novels since 1965, and now he’s an 83 year old author and it seems unfair to expect him to change direction with regard to his female characters, or to suddenly regard them as equals in all respects rather than to nurture the whole pedestal package.
The story commences with Dave suspended from the sheriff’s department, and he’s behaving badly, embarking on a series of “dry drunks,” a term used liberally throughout this series and that I’ve never seen or heard of anywhere else. He’s so far out of line that Clete has to reel him back, when more often it’s the reverse. A teenager named Isolde is being sold by her parents, and Dave is attempting to rescue her. But it’s a useless endeavor because there is so much money and power buffering the offenders. Meanwhile, Clete is kidnapped and hung upside down and tortured by a being that seems otherworldly to him—mostly because it is. And this is a departure for Burke, a good one, as it turns out.
Those familiar with the series and the author know that redemption is at the core of every story he writes, and given the amount of mystic imagery that appears in his prose, it isn’t a long stretch to go from imagined spiritual beings to actual ones, which is what he does here. And I can only bow in awe at a writer—even one with residual sexist attitudes—that can take a long-running, iconic series like this one, a series that has run for more than 30 years, and decide to expand it across genres now. This would be remarkable for anyone, but for an octogenarian, it’s jaw-dropping.
I also enjoy the way he develops the side character, Father Julian, who is heroic and who pursues pedophiles and brings them to justice. Way to fight stereotypes.
I love the ending.
Highly recommended to Burke’s many fans, and to new readers as well.
A heartfelt tribute, featuring a lot of famous writers:
I’m late to the party, so by now this book has a pile of accolades; every one of them is earned. I received a review copy courtesy of Net Galley and HarperCollins. I am fond of short stories, all the more so when the stories are as riveting and suspenseful as these. How else could the reader get any sleep at all, if there wasn’t a natural stopping point at the end of each story? If you like this author’s work, or if you like horror stories—not all of them, strictly speaking, fit into the genre, but we can consider the collection horror, nevertheless—or if you just like a good short story collection, reach for this one.
Hill begins with the title story, “Full Throttle,” a gritty tale of parenting gone wrong. I couldn’t put it down, and friends, I can always put a book down. I read too much to obsess over my fiction, but this story owned me till it was over. The next story, “Darkened Carousel,” a story of slightly thuggish teens encountering carousel horses with unusual powers was every bit as strong. Another favorite is the one about wolves on a train, and I especially appreciated the line, “You smell like privilege and entitlement…this is first class, after all.”
In fact, all of these are excellent. I had read “In the Tall Grass,” and to be honest it isn’t my favorite, so I skipped it this time. That’s the only story I don’t wholeheartedly recommend, and the collection gets all five stars from me because I consider the book to be worth every red cent it costs, even without it.
The only downside of a collection like this—and this only applies for reviewers and others with a finish date in mind—is that it’s easy to set the book aside whenever a story ends. I sidelined this collection after the first two stories in order to conquer a pair of 700 page tomes that were on the brink of publication, and eventually this book became the one that made me feel guilty every time I looked at it. Recently I checked out the audio book from Seattle Bibliocommons, and since I had enjoyed the first two stories so much, I decided to begin again from the start. There’s a string of excellent readers, some of them famous, and those that like listening should consider this version.
As is generally true of the genre, there are triggers all over the place, and there’s some R rated material. If in doubt, read it yourself before handing it off to the middle schooler you are trying to home school during this pandemic.
To those that love the genre, this book is highly recommended.
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.
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.
It was the best of books; it was the worst of books. Big
thanks go to Net Galley and Grand Central Publishing for the review copy. This
book is for sale now.
Chbosky met fame twenty years ago with The Perks of Becoming a Wallflower. He takes a bold step—and I
would still argue, a good one—in switching genres with Imaginary Friend. The whole thing is written in accessible language
and mostly short, simple sentences with the overall effect of the world’s
creepiest bedtime story. At first I wasn’t sure I was down for 720 pages of
simple sentences, but he makes it work. I like the horror of it, and I like the
voice too. And so when I saw the mixed reviews, I was preparing my heated
defense of this work before I was even halfway in. And halfway, sadly, it where
the thing begins to weaken.
The premise is that seven year old Christopher is learning
disabled, but his mother urges him to keep trying. Nothing much works until the
day he is lost in The Mission Street Woods. He is called by a friendly face in
the clouds; once he is there, he is incapacitated and held for six days. When
it’s over, The Nice Man leads him out. He goes home; the perpetrator is never
identified because Christopher recalls none of the six days nor who took him.
But suddenly he is the world’s cleverest kid. His grades rise, and he graduates
from the special classroom. Later in the story, he is called again to build the
tree house to end all tree houses; he must do it furtively at night, because he
is no longer allowed in those woods, and naturally that’s where the project
This aspect of it is very cleverly conceived and executed.
Christopher does all manner of things that no seven year old child, however
advanced intellectually, would be able to do but it is plain to us that this is
part of the supernatural effect that is part and parcel of The Nice Man and
that face in the clouds. Likewise, there are many areas where he infers adult
meanings and feelings, but we know that these are also supernaturally bestowed.
Meanwhile, he is in most ways the way one would expect a child his age to be.
As his friends—the twins and Special Ed—are drawn into the project, they too
become capable students with unusual talents. But as to the tree house, that’s
a big damn secret. Parents and the public are not in the loop for a long, long
As the story unfolds we have numerous subplots and several
characters that have significant roles here. They are largely bound together by
the children’s school, although we also have the sheriff and a handful of
people from the nursing home where Christopher’s mother, Kate works. I have no
difficulty keeping up with this large cast of characters, and Chbosky deserves
kudos for creating so many distinct characters that stay consistent throughout
the story. We see the ways that people become warped, often by the
disappointments that life has meted out, and sometimes by mistaken goals,
particularly where the children are concerned. I liked this a good deal too. We
see a great deal of kickass figurative language, although I would have
preferred to see a lighter hand with regard to the repetition. At first when the
song “Blue Moon” is used, it gives me chills, but by the end of the story,
whenever music enters a scene I find myself grumbling, “Oh let me guess. I bet
I know what song is playing.” (The MAD Magazine of the 1970s would have had a
field day with this book.)
A number of other reviewers have suggested that the second
half of the story could do with some serious editing down, and I echo their
concern. It would be stronger if it were tighter. But there are two other more
serious concerns that dropped my rating from four stars to three. They have to
do with mixed genre, and with Chbosky’s depiction of women and girls.
It is a brave thing to combine horror and literary fiction,
but there is such a thing as trying too hard. The last twenty-five or thirty
percent of this story becomes tortuous, confusing and overlong with the heavy
use of allegory along religious lines. There are multiple places where the plot
just doesn’t make sense at all, but because the author is determined to provide
us with a virgin birth, stigmata in multiple characters (what?), sacrifice and redemption
and yada yada yada, what has been a good horror story becomes a little
ridiculous and a lot pretentious. It’s a crying shame. Had the author let the
horror story be a horror story, or had he been satisfied with a more subtle
level of allegory rather than the screaming-red-flags variety that is
shoehorned in here, this would have been a much better book.
The other aspect , the one that made my feminist heart
simmer is the way that women are depicted here. We have several important
female characters, and none of them is developed in even the tiniest way beyond
their relationship to men and their capacity to be nurturers. Our greatest
female hero is Kate, mother of Christopher, and I have not seen as
two-dimensional a character in many a year. The only thing that matters is her
child. The only. The only. Gag me with a stick, already. And had the author been content to have a
horror story that is just a horror story I would cut him a little slack,
because most horror stories do not have brilliantly developed characters. Even
so it’s ham-handed, but I might have been tempted to call this a 3.5 star read
and round it upward. But this is the most reactionary treatment of women—the girlfriend
that feels filthy because she rendered oral sex; the women coming unstuck
because of husbandly inattention; the stereotypical mean-old-broad at the
nursing home—that I have seen in decades. It’s appalling, and it bothers me
that other reviewers haven’t mentioned this at all. What the hell, guys? And with literary fiction, a responsibility
for nuance and character development is conferred in a way that horror novels
do not require.
In other words, don’t talk the talk unless you’re gonna walk
Should you buy this book? Probably not, unless your pockets
are deep and you have a good deal of free time. For the curious, I recommend
getting it cheap or free. But if you are going to read it, read it critically,
and don’t hand it off to your middle-schooler until you have read it yourself.
I am late to the party, but it’s still going strong. Stuart
Turton’s masterful debut generated so much talk that I couldn’t not read this
book, and it lives up to the buzz. Big thanks go to Net Galley and Sourcebooks
Aiden wakes up stranded in the woods, and he has no idea who
he is. Strangers rescue him and he’s taken to an aging English manor house,
where a party is taking place. Everyone recognizes him but he doesn’t know any
of them, and in time he realizes that he is living inside the body of another
person at the scene of a murder. Every time he wakes up, he is in the body of a
new host at the same party in the same
house, often someone he has already seen from the outside while he inhabits a
different body; he lives through the same day he has just experienced, but
through a different perspective. He will never be permitted to leave the manor or
be restored to his own body until he is able to solve the mystery; he is in a
competition with others in more or less the same position. At the outset, he is inside Jonathan Derby,
and everyone obsequiously attends to his needs. He is injured. He needs rest.
This story has a house-that-Jack-built quality, because each time Aiden wakes up, he can recall everything he learned when he was inside someone else. This advantage is offset by the fact that each host is more difficult to occupy, with the personality of the host warring for control over the body that he shares with them. Several curves—including more murders—are added to the mix. The reader has to decide which events are related to the murder, and which are extraneous; on top of that, some of the characters Aiden encounters are liars.
When I began reading I tried to keep track of the
information, but soon it became obvious that I would need a flow chart to stand
even a small chance of solving this thing, so I gave up and rode along,
enjoying the progress of the story, but clueless as to how it would work out.
Even so, it is a complex enough tale that I learned quickly not to read it
after I took my sleeping pill.
Not only is it cleverly conceived and well paced, but there
is character development, made possible with Anna’s back story and the
humanizing of the Plague Doctor. I can only tip my hat in awe.
So Turton has a monstrously successful debut novel, but the
pressure is on in terms of what he writes next. Can his second effort live up
to the reputation he has created for himself? Whatever he writes, I want to