Girl With A Pearl Earring

Girl With A Pearl Earring

By Tracy Chevalier

Hi there.

Please allow me to apologize. You see, I have lured you here to my blog under false pretenses.  You have, most likely, come to my blog in search of a review of Tracy Chevalier's charming novel Girl With a Pearl Earring. And while it is most assuredly the most recent novel I have finished, I have very little to say about it that hasn't already been said. It was, after all, a New York Times Bestseller and hardly needs my help as a reviewer. It was a fine novel. I enjoyed it. You might too. Read it. If you only came here for the review, hopefully the above words have satiated your need for literary criticism. I suspect they haven't and therefore the apology. I don't care about this book, but I care about you because I'm hoping you might help me. Please bear with me as I explain.

See, my blog has a certain consistency to it. Every single entry save two (Year in Reviews) have been posts pertaining to the book I have most recently finished. I read one book at a time and blog about it after I finish. Each post title is the name of said book and it is accompanied by an image of the cover of the book and I try to write something witty along the way. I like the consistency. I've been doing this for almost two years now and I've never stopped along the way to introduce myself or explain exactly why my blog is the way it is. It would have ruined the continuity. I don't intend to break that so I've been waiting patiently for a book to come along that prompted minimal feelings for me. I planned to co-opt that book's blogpost and use its space as a way to ask a question to all who visits.

That blogpost just happens to be Girl With A Pearl Earring. Fine book, like I said.

Anyway, enough about all that. I have an agenda today and I need your help. So let me get right to the point:

I'm thinking about changing the name of my blog.

When I first started this blog I was totally unaware that there was an entire world of book bloggers out there. In my blissfully ignorant mind I was a pioneer! I would be the first person to read books and write about them when I finished. I was going to bring literature to the unwashed masses of the Internet. When Blogger asked me to type a name, I did so without much thought and barreled forward toward posting. I had a mission, people, and it did not wait for a witty title! My Life in Books. Good enough.... moving on!

Since then, of course, I have discovered the multitude of wonderful book blogs out there, I realized how entirely inadequate both my blog and my blog name really was. My Life in Books? Atrocious. I aspire to greater creative heights that that! The name simply has to go.

Worse still is that it doesn't reflect what I do here, which is read any and all books that I can get my hands on.

For those unaware, I live in Taiwan. I'm neither Taiwanese nor ethnically Asian. I'm Canadian by birth and identify myself as such, but I live here nonetheless. How that came to be is a decidedly longer and more personal story so it may have to wait for another book that elicits zero feeling in me. I promise, however, that I will write it at some point. Rest assured that it's not important to our task at hand.

Taiwan has very few English bookstores or libraries. Most of the few are relegated to the largest urban centers: Taipei, Kaohsiung and Taichung. I do not live in any of those cities. I live about as far away from those cities as one can on this island (Hualien if anyone is Google Mapping it). The closest city with an English bookstore is Taipei, three hours north by train or 2.5 hours by car... if the road is open. There are no English bookstores in my town. Imagine that.

There are, however, English speakers in my town, many of which read. So there is a good collection of novels that have trickled down to my town via current and former expat residents as well as books left behind by tourists making the circuit of the island (it pays to befriend the owners of local hostels!). A lot are cheap romance novels, a fair amount of science fiction and way too many Penguin classics. So finding books in my town isn't impossible, but you rarely find exactly what you want.

I do go to Taipei a couple times a year and always buy books. I get shipments of books from my family back home a couple times a year, which is really sweet of them to do and I have a Kindle which means I can get books online. So, if I really want something, I can get it. It will just take more time (this is why I tend to read books that are a bit older than the books most other book bloggers read). I do miss browsing book stacks, though, and I develop fits of jealousy when I see other book bloggers blogging about their trips to bookstores, book shows or libraries and showing off their stacks of new books. I miss that a lot. For those counting, I have seven unread books on my shelf right now. That number will get much smaller before it gets bigger. But don't cry for me or anything. It's not as bad as it sounds. Just different.

Anyway....

I need a new name for this blog!

I would like a blog name to reflect my circumstances but I have not, as of yet, thought one up. This is disconcerting to me because I pride myself on my ability to be creative and yet...

I have been toying with the name Just Reviews to reflect my affinity to posting reviews only (and my attempt to be honest about everything I read), but it's just not capturing me. I thought I'd open up to everyone who visits to see what you think and whether you have a name suggestion. I can't promise I'll use it, but I'll take each and every suggestion seriously.

So, what do you think? Please take the time to offer your comments or suggestions. I'd greatly appreciate it...

In Patagonia

In Patagonia

By Bruce Chatwin

Bruce Chatwin's book In Patagonia is a minor classic in the genre of travel literature. Initially written in 1977 as a series of magazine articles, Chatwin's travels through the Argentina and Chile are chronicled in a mesmerizing freeform style that intertwines his own travels with the unique, and often bizarre history of the region. Furthermore, In Patagonia confirms to me that a certain element in the art of travel has been lost in recent years, but I'll get to that soon enough.

In the course of this book, Chatwin travels from Buenos Aires in the north as far as Tierra Del Fuego in the south (which would be the entire length of Patagonia, in fact). Rather than simply cataloguing the sights and events of his travels Chatwin entrusts himself with a host of locals, depicting the area as one of the most ethnically diverse areas of South America. Not only does he chronicles the stories of the indigenous people in Patagonia but also the surprisingly large numbers of immigrant populations: Aside from the obvious Spanish population, Patagonia is rife with Welsh, English, German, North American, Italian and Jewish families. Chatwin, who has the sort of detached writing style you expect from a British big game hunter in Africa circa 1870. There is a certain laconic wit that pervades through the entire narrative giving it an airy, formless feel.

And that's what's so wonderful about In Patagonia. It encapsulates that wondrous sense of unstructured excitement and discovery that comes from travel. The book ambles along, randomly picking up the travel narrative between nuggets of esoteric history (I had absolutely no idea that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had any connection whatsoever with Patagonia. As it turns out, they have a significant connection). In Patagonia brings us face to face with outlaws, cannibals, con-artists and unicorns. There are a host of eccentric men and women who dazzle us with their stories and Chatwin delivers simply by engaging in conversation and dinner.

Chatwin dishes the story in utmost style. I especially liked the way in which Chatwin bookends his narrative with his own personal story about a piece of skin from an extinct giant sloth that his grandmother kept at her house. The skin fragment was the only surviving piece from the remnants of a giant sloth uncovered from the ice in Patagonia years earlier by Chatwin's grandfather and would go on to the the physical impetus for Chatwin's wanderlust.

The structure of the book alone is worth the price of admission, but the way in which Chatwin weaves the narratives of the local people along with the history into one long, meandering river of words and meaning, it is so much more than a simple travelogue. In fact, I wouldn't use this book if I ever traveled the same course. In Patagonia is just as much about it's time as it is its place, which is why I loved it so much. It's a snapshot into the heady days of Peronist Argentina and the Chile of Allende. While many of the people Chatwin spoke with during his time in Patagonia have since denied much of what he published in In Patagonia, it hardly seems to matter. Such controversial issues don't dissuade from the enjoyment of a good story. It is travel literature the way it is supposed to be written.

See, I love aged travel literature. I have no interest in reading current travel literature. It's all the same. Fly here, see time, talk with him, eat that, lesson learned. Much like travel itself, travel literature has fallen into a predictable rut. This blog is not the place to discuss the pros and cons of globalization but Thomas Friedman's The World Is Flat mentality has done irreparable harm to the travel industry. I don't mean tourism, which is alive and well and relaxing on a beach in Cancun. I mean travel. The make-your-way-however-and-with-whoever-you-can mentality of seeing the word. Hitting the road with a pack over your shoulder and no idea where you will be spending the night. Packing light and traveling hard. Travel is supposed to be about discovering the world and all it has to offer. Culture, food, people, ideas, experience. Travel used to offer it all. Now it's been reduced to tracks.

Nowadays you get off the airplane in Beijing, Budapest or Buenos Aires and you have the same stuff waiting for you. The same Starbucks coffee and the same Subway sandwiches. Travelers are given a menu of routes to take and it it increasingly difficult to skip you way off the well-travelled trail. Sure there are out-of-the-way places that you can visit to experience "authentic XXXXX culture," but one more often than not comes away from those experiences feeling as though they duped into yet another culture-for-profit display. It can all be a bit unsettling.

Even those who travel in search of extreme adventure have found themselves pigeon-holed, classified and market researched. Given the popularity of hiking to Everest base camp in Nepal, Arctic adventures and the parade of tourists who climb Kilimanjaro every day, even though who excel at finding out-of-the-way places are having trouble finding themselves off the beaten track.

This isn't to say there aren't places on this Earth that don't offer the real deal for travelers in 2012. Certainly I can think of dozens of locales that have not fallen prey to McTravel, but the ability to travel and immerse yourself in a culture off the tourist track becomes less and less likely as cultures trade their uniqueness for a pair of Adidas shoes and an iPhone. Perhaps my next vacation will be to Antarctica. The cooping of that experience is still a few decades away, one hopes.

But I digress.

In Patagonia is a travel story that would be extremely difficult to write today. Much of Chatwin's narrative would be stories about arguing with taxi drivers and the throng of touts that lurk in the shadows of train stations and descend on people with backpacks like a pack of wolves. I'm not hating on travel, I adore traveling, but it's not the same anymore.

And this is why In Patagonia is a classic. It's a glimpse into what used to be.

A Storm of Swords: Book Three of a Song of Ice and Fire

A Storm of Swords

By George R.R. Martin

1216 pages later...

Who needs a drink?

I remember when I first started the Harry Potter series. I enjoyed the first and second book but it wasn't until the third and fourth books in which I thought J.K Rowling really hit her stride. In The Prisoner of Azkhaban and especially in the Goblet of Fire, I felt that Rowling had finally developed a sense of comfort and maneuverability within the mythological world she had created. By the fifth book in the series she had done away with the tedious recaps that plagued the opening chapters and was freed from constantly reminding her readers the personality quirks of specific characters. While these interludes and decidedly necessary, especially in the early books of a series, they tend to slow the narrative to a grinding halt at times just because the author needs to get the reader up to speed. Fair game, of course.

In turn, by the third book in any series, the reader has invested time, money and emotion into the characters, narrative and themes. By this point, the author doesn't need to grind the narrative to a halt nearly as often because you know that Hermione always studies hard or that Gryffindor really doesn't get along with Slytherin or that Snape really dislikes Harry. What was necessary backstory in book one becomes tacit understanding in book three. If the series has a cast of hundreds, one must logically assume that the reader has them (for the most part) figured out and doesn't need to be constantly reminded by the writer about their history and allegiances.

George R.R. Martin is such a writer.

While I am certainly not taking anything away from the first two books in Martin's epic saga A Song of Ice and Fire, A Storm of Swords is head and shoulders above its precursors largely because Martin, by this point, is free from the constraints of explanatory writing and can concentrate on simply moving the plot along at breakneck speed. Anyone picking this novel up more than likely understands the world of Westeros and the politics therein. Any minute detail that one has forgotten is wriggled into the narrative as deftly as possible without resorting to flashbacks or recaps.

And what a narrative it is!

For fear of spoilers, I will speak in generalities that are known for anyone thigh deep in this series but not yet at the end of this installment. A friend of mine scolded me after reading the second novel that George R.R. Martin obviously hates women given the way in which he treats his female characters throughout the narrative. While I would agree that many, if not all of the women in this series are treated rather harshly, it seems to me that the women neither give nor receive more or less punishment than the men and children in these books. Martin seems to be equally evil toward all his characters as if he's siting in his writing room thinking to himself: "You've had your leg cut off, your husband was butcher in front of your eyes and your newborn baby was skewered and cooked while you watched... what other atrocities can I heap onto your already frail psyche?"

Those familiar with the series know that Martin has no hang-ups with killing his most central characters. We've known that since the first novel, but it is here in the third novel where Martin's bloodbath really begins. Since Martin's story is populated by scores of characters, they often appear, disappear and die with jarring regularity. If you are gearing up for this book, do not get comfortable with anyone. Martin will only break your heart.

As with the previous novels, Martin divides the chapters by character. A Storm of Swords is told from the perspective of ten characters interacting in four distinct theaters of action: The South (King's Landing), The Riverlands, The Wall (and beyond) and Essos. This was the first book in the series in which I enjoyed each and every narrative strand (I was bored to tears by Sansa Stark's story in the first novel and Theon Greyjoy's story in the second novel, while obviously necessary, lacked any real excitement). In A Storm of Swords I especially liked the character progression for Jon Snow and Arya Stark who are rapidly gaining on Tyrion Lannister as my favorite characters in the series (Alas, Tyrion's story in this novel was my least favorite, though it was still damned good). And Jaime Lannister turns out to be a far more complex character than I could have ever assumed. At this point, I desperately hope Martin uses Cersei Lannister as one of his character perspectives in the next novel, A Feast for Crows. Or Varys....

Varys.

Frightening character.

Anyway...

I also love the way Martin toys with his readers. He spent two novels urging his readers to hate the House Lannister only to turn the entire series on its head in the third book and paint the family in a more sympathetic light as it disintegrates under the crushing reality of power. At this point in the story I couldn't even begin to guess who will rule Westeros at the conclusion of this conflict but for the first time I can honestly say that it doesn't matter. Each and every candidate for the Iron Throne has their merits (though I'm still throwing my hat in the ring for Daenerys).

My only real complaint about this novel and the series as a whole is its realism. It's a small complaint and has no bearing on my enjoyment of this series but it's worthy of a rant, so here goes:

When I reviewed the first book, A Game of Thrones, I commended the novel and the series for being the most realistic fantasy novel I have ever read thereby intently becoming the only fantasy novel (and series) I have ever enjoyed.  Martin downplayed the traditional ingredients of the fantasy genre and focused primarily on the human story rather than dragons and warlocks and spells. While these ingredients are ramped up in the second and third novels, they are still incidental elements to the broader story and haven't yet made much difference in the narrative (though it's coming, one can plainly see). Furthermore, Martin has thrown in enough non-traditional fantasy fare (reanimation, wargs and wights) to entice non-fantasy readers such as myself. More succinctly, Martin a capable writer and doesn't need to crutch on gimmicky elements to tell his story.

However, his ultra-realism is beginning to bite him in the ass. With such a crippling (economically, socially, demographically, psychologically and ecologically) war of succession raging throughout Westeros and as many as six kings claiming the throne and maintaining influence over particular parcels of land, what of the common citizens of Westeros, or as Martin calls them: the smallfolk? Kings are only kings because the majority of people allow authority in return for protection of their rights. It's what Thomas Hobbes calls the Social Contract. Without said contract, society reverts to a "state of nature" which is "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short." This defines the current state of Westeros perfectly, but Westeros is a society with a Social Contract (or one presumes). So what gives?

In Martin's version of Westeros, not a single king has ever once discussed a matter of state. You know things such as the rising price of grain or price tariffs or the impact that this devastating war should be having on seasonal harvests and, in turn, their food supply. There is a modicum of justice but it seems to exist only for those involved in the War (i.e. those committing crimes against the state). Rarely, if ever, do any of the kings, queens, hands or greatjons hold court for the grievances of their populations. Hell, rarely are their populations mentioned. You know, the populations from which they gain their legitimacy. In short, these would-be kings spend all their time conniving to consolidate their power via war, intrigue and subterfuge and absolutely zero time attending to the affairs of the state or the rights of their citizens. What is this, North Korea?

What of the common people? Are they starving? Are they scared? Are they being butchered? Are there mass migrations of refugees moving toward safer territories in the Free cities or the relatively safe lands of the Eyrie? If the land is not being tilled or pastured and entire villages and towns have been abandoned (or slaughtered), where is the food coming from? Are taxes being levied and collected? If so, by who? Knights have zero regard for the lives of the people they are supposed to protect. Why are these guys vying for the throne anyhow? Not a single one of them seems to have a grasp on how to rule over actual people. People with jobs and trades and families and such.

Isn't it plainly obvious to a blacksmith or a farmer or a shepherd or a prostitute that their government quite obviously doesn't give a shit about them, whatsoever? Doesn't it gall them that the people who supposedly rule over them plot and counter plot against each other without a single thought about their people's welfare? By the third of fourth political assassination, wouldn't the common innkeeper in the local ale tavern say: "Anon, methinks yonder royals want not heed our grievances. Perchance we could undertake improved governance." Wouldn't the people of this realm have risen against such blatant corruption? Why isn't there a people's revolution against the stifling and brazenly prejudice tradition of entitlement in Westeros? Christ, if you are not born into one of the ruling families (either major or minor), your life is worthless. It's oligarchic apartheid for chrissakes!

Certainly there are one or two low-born or bastard-born people in Westeros that see the complete disregard for governance and would begin a grassroots organization to bring rule of law and justice to the land. Sure, it took Medieval Europe a couple of thousand years and more than their fair share of war to get to that point, but the war in Martin's series makes the shenanigans between the Carolingians and Merovingians look like a lesson in state diplomacy and bureaucratic prudence. And we all know what happened to them, don't we...

/end rant

Anyway, like I said, it's a small complaint and one I am more than happy to overlook. Despite it's realism, A Song of Ice and Fire is fantasy and one is supposed to suspend their disbelief. If you haven't yet read this series, get going. You won't be disappointed.

Other reviews from A Song of Ice and Fire:

A Game of Thrones
A Clash of Kings
A Feast for Crows

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

By Helen Simonsen

I had no business taking as long as I did to finish this novel and this novel had no business being as good as it ended up being.

First, I'm sorry for the extended time lapse between books. I may have been excused had it been a 1000 page opus or something by Thomas Pynchon but alas, Major Pettigrew's Last Stand is a solidly average 360 pages and not terribly difficult to understand. I'd like to say I've been busy but the fact is, July and August are my slowest months at work and I've had heaps of time to read. I felt like I was reading my usual amount but it never seemed as if I was getting anywhere in this book.

Anyway, I'm done now, so let's see what's what.

Part of the blame for my slow read is that I initially despised this book. Major Pettigrew's Last Stand is, loosely, the story of a retired British major named (you guessed it!) Pettigrew. Major Pettigrew is a widower who lives modestly in a seaside English village in Sussex. He is a stereotype of the colonial variety. Stiff upper lip, rigid spine and calculated remarks ("Good show, old chap! Hup, hup!"). He dislikes much of modern society and diminutives. The rest of the characters in the novel (Major Pettigrew's fellow villagers) didn't seem any less simplified. Characters from a bygone age of honor, title and Empire. Characters with ridiculously outdated notions propriety as they mindlessly live out their orderly lives in bigoted conceit.

Superimposed over the village is a community of modern British citizens of Pakistani descent and more recent immigrant arrivals from the subcontinent (all the same to the English-born villagers, of course). These two communities have developed a symbiotic working relationship (a mutual respect for distance) in town but don't much mix. Despite their differences, the two communities have much in common but interaction between the two communities remains nothing more than an updated version of the colonial system in British India (where Major Pettigrew's father served). The relationship is understood... that is until Major Pettigrew falls for the lovely Mrs. Jasmina Ali, owner of a downtown shop.

As I read, it was precisely the things I disliked about the book, the oversimplified characters, the impossibly elitist antagonists, the over-the-top snobbishness and the sheer pretentiousness of it all that finally sucked me in. Once I found my bearings in this novel and realized that Helen Simonsen was taking the Major about as seriously as I was, I began to fall for him. It was a riot reading about how ultra-traditional colonial era English townspeople would handle the complex problems of modern society, specifically the risks undertaken by individuals in the face of tradition and family.

What's interesting is the way in which Simonsen compares the fierce traditional values of a Muslim family with those of a traditional English family. Despite the fact that we tend to identify one culture as free and democratic and the other as oppressive, at their hearts both traditions have the ability to stifle and suppress. There is a correct way in which to deal with specific situations and rarely does one stray from these social expectations.

What's more, once I got suckered into these characters I found myself sympathizing with them more often than not. Turns out these crown and country folk (well, the Major in particular) have a lot to say and much of it makes a lot of sense. I especially enjoyed the relationship between the Major and his hopelessly modern son Roger (another juxtaposition of culture: generational) who seems to think he knows exactly what is good for his elderly father. I particularly love the way in which Simonsen sets up her characters for their comeuppance. If you are going to write stereotype, make sure they are treated as such.

At its heart, Major Pettigrew's Last Stand is a wonderful comedy of manners in the style of P.G. Wodehouse and Noel Coward. There are enough slapstick antics throughout to appease Oscar Wilde (or Basil Faulty) himself. Although the tone finds a more serious track in the final third of the novel where the realities of the dysfunctional Muslim family infiltrate the narrative with more force, Simonsen never loses sight of her comedic objectives and maintains enough humor and dry wit to counterbalance the shifting tone. It's the literary equivalent of walking the edge of the chalk cliffs of Sussex. In lesser hands I fear that the story might have slipped and lost its footing.

As it turns out Ms. Simonsen has as much stiff upper lip as the Major.

Good show!

Gathering Darkness

Gathering Darkness

By Chris Allinotte

(Full disclosure: I was given a copy of this book by the author who also happens to be an old university buddy).

It seems to me that Chris Allinotte is writing in the wrong era.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting that Mr. Allinotte will be unsuccessful in our own age, but his stories, collected in anthology form, are reminiscent of the sort that populated the golden age of science fiction and horror magazines. One can picture a wide eyed little boy reading these tales under the covers of his bed with a flashlight circa 1948. In fact most, if not all of Allinotte's stories would look right at home in magazines such as Amazing Stories! or Weird Tales. While I'm certain that comparable magazine exist today in the form of e-zines (I'm positive in fact, since a lot of Allinotte's work has been published in such places)

In fact, it's not too difficult to trace the inspiration for Allinotte's anthology of 28 spooky, gory and, often hilarious tales back to the sort of campfire stories we used to tell each other around the campfire when we were kids. Many of the tales in this book reminded me so much of those found a little book I have loved and lost more time than I can count: Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. So much so, that I kept turning the page, hoping to see one of Stephen Gammell's highly disturbing illustrations (I didn't, but it would have been cool).

From there I can only guess that, like me, Allinotte grew up on a solid diet of campy 70s and 80s horror and slasher films. Anything from Sleepaway Camp, Evil Dead II and Return of the Living Dead (or any other combination of low-budget horror goodness). While my tastes tended to gravitate toward the work of George Romero and Lucio Fulci, Allinotte seems to have taken a wider approach to horror. Inspiration ranging from Stephen King to Sam Raimi is evidenced in his work which has made for a more eclectic and diversified collection. Within this collection there are aliens, monsters, giant insects, ghosts, zombies, Satan, and any number of other demonic concoctions. It's a veritable cornucopia of horror traditions.

As with any collection of short horror stories (and like the horror magazines of the 1950s and 60s), Gathering Darkness is hit and miss. Given the length of some the stories, it doesn't much matter because if a mutant killer built by the military isn't your thing, the next story isn't far away. Some of the highlights for me included "Postage Due, Pandora", a story about a mysterious box that houses all sorts of madness and "The Cabin Sleeps", a traditional-style urban legend that would be perfect for a recitation around a campfire.

What I liked most about this collection is Allinotte's playful style. What a lot of horror writers of the Creepshow variety tend to forget is that horror in this style doesn't work well without comedy. Gathering Darkness exudes a playful cheekiness that dares the readers to simultaneously gasp in disgust and squeal in delight. The sort of of campiness that has been lost on the current generation of horror writers (though, admittedly, I don't read as much horror as I used to, so I might be entirely wrong with that assumption).

Throughout the collection the characters and setting remain of the two-dimensional variety that all horror junkies understand. There's no sense in broad characterization and setting. It's a waste of time. Why bother when it's a good bet that character will be eaten by a puss oozing blob of goo in three pages. Keep to the essentials and keep the pace lively. The readers can for the blood and Allinotte delivers quickly and efficiently.

I also liked the short interludes between stories. The collection has several centerpiece stories peppered with short shots that are often tongue-in-cheek shots at the horror genre as a whole. I thought these brief interludes added to the collection by breaking it up and jolting the reader away from traditional pacing.

While I enjoyed the collection as a whole I did have a few reservations. Some of the stories do fall off the rails a bit. One in particular, "Devil's Night", tries to throw every possible horror convention at the reader in the span of a few dozen pages and left me a little perplexed as to what had happened. But that, I suppose, is the plight of the horror writer. Throw your ideas at the wall and see what sticks.

Another thing that I felt was missing (and perhaps this is my own problem rather than the author's) was the absence of that one scare that keeps me awake at night. One story, "Kittens for Sale" came very close (and I will probably carry that particular story around for a while) and "Tempting Morsels" did remind me of the very real scare I suffered the first time I read Stephen King's short story "The Jaunt." But the scare never did occur, but I was ever hopeful throughout my reading.

Overall, however, Gathering Darkness is a strong collection of short horror and worthy of a look. If you are a fan of horror fiction, especially of the camp variety, keep an eye out for Chris Allinotte. His brand of horror may be reminiscent of a bygone era of magazines but horror is timeless and we all need a good, rollicking scare from time to time. I'm looking forward to reading his next work.

Second Person Singular

Second Person Singular

By Sayed Kashua

I ran across this title only a few months back over as The Boston Bibliophile. It was among a pile of books she has received and the cover caught my eye. How could it not? Look at that masterpiece! The designer should win some sort of award for that cover. Given the narrative, even more so. Upon reading the blurb, I was intrigued enough to put it near the top of my Kindle purchase list. And now I have finished reading it and have begun writing my blogpost on it.... but that's first person singular.

Anyway....

The story begins with an Arab lawyer (who remains unnamed throughout the novel) living in Jerusalem. He's got a perfect life with a sickeningly perfect family. He does his best to assimilate into Israel's fractured society and spends an inordinate amount of time cultivating his intellectual image via books, and cultural exchanges. He is determined not to look the fool in front of his peers and therefore visits his local bookstore regularly in order to consume the literature that he things a man of his stature should read not for any personal reason, but simply in order to say he has read them. Shallow depth, if I may coin a phrase.

It is on one of these visits to the bookstore that the lawyer purchases a used book only to find a note in his wife's handwriting inside the book. The note reads vaguely like a love letter and it is not addressed to the lawyer. The book was previously owned by someone named Yonatan (Jewish). What follows is a very personal account (and a very odd detective story) of how the note ended up in that novel, the lawyer's irrational reactions to the note and a very honest depiction of the human condition under stress.

But before we get into the thematic deconstruction, what struck me most about this novel was its depiction of life in Israel and the relationship between Jews and Arabs as well as the relationships between the ethnicities, gender and age groups. Kashua paints a fascinating picture of everyday life in Jerusalem. It is a Jerusalem populated by educated lawyers, preoccupied professors and ironic art students, none of which harbor any particular ill-will toward each other. While I cannot say for certain whether it is an accurate depiction of modern Jerusalem, it is the only novel I have to go on and I'll assume it is correct until I'm told otherwise. Kashua treats the reader to a surprisingly (to me, anyway) cohesive society which displays far more tolerance and acceptance than I could have ever expected. While religious fervor is hinted at in reference to those living in the Strip and the settlements, Jerusalem is depicted as a cosmopolitan city rife with cultural nuance. For this reason alone, Second Person Singular is worth a look.

Kashua's prose is versatile, shifting between two diametrically opposed voices with each a as well as skillfully oscillating his tone in reference to the lawyer who, as the novel progresses, increasingly falls off the emotional and psychological rails. Furthermore, Kashua toys with the chronological order of events within the narrative. While many readers find this tactic to be needlessly ambiguous, it adds a certain idiosyncratic appeal that places the reader square within the midst of the swirling narrative. The novel becomes an interactive experience whereby the reader is constantly reassessing their position, never allowed to find a comfortable place within the story.

Admittedly, Second Person Singular is not an easy read. It drags the reader through some serious emotional themes including the nature of apathy and the disappearance of the self. But the emotional theme that seems to tie the entire novel together (especially within the narrative concerning the lawyer) is the way in which jealousy can compromise a person's entire belief structure. Throughout the novel the lawyer struggles to maintain his well-crafted system of beliefs in the face of his jealousy. Principles and personal politics seem to fall by the wayside as the story progresses, leaving the reader to question how firm the lawyer is in his convictions and how much is simply a construct of his image. In fact, the lawyer's narrative often borders on the absurd.

This theme in particular was difficult for me since I have a profound lack of sympathy or empathy for those who suffer from jealous rages (no offense intended if you are one of those sufferers, but I just don't get it). For the record, I'm not a sociopath. I do, in fact, experience the full gamut of emotions, but I've never understood jealousy so I found it extremely difficult to identify with the lawyer's irrational and ofttimes inexplicable behavior in relation to the note. I do understand that jealousy, to a certain extent, is cultural. In Taiwan for example, jealousy is often seen as a visual display of love and devotion. One often sees men or women fly into jealous rages (sometimes in public) in order to express their love. Conversely, a lack of jealousy is often perceived as emotional ambivalence and often leads to behavior expressly designed to generate jealousy, which can only end badly, of course. I can only ascertain that Arab culture must have a similar relationship with jealousy given the lawyer's behavior throughout the novel.

Second Person Singular has a lot going for it. As a piece of literary fiction coming out of Israel it has a certain cultural currency for those who enjoy armchair tourism into worlds they may never visit. Furthermore, the intimate nature of the narrative allows the reader access to the psychological core of Jewish and Arab culture in Israel, which is worth something, I suspect. Is Second Person Singular worth the effort? Yes. Should you be rushing out to find a version in hardcover for your personal library? Probably not. Unless you, like me, really get suckered in by cool covers.

It really is a cool cover.

The Postmistress

The Postmistress

By Sarah Blake

Disclaimer: Forgive this review... Despite the fact that I understand that The Postmistress is a well written novel and a fine example of what a good book should be, I actually had very little feeling for this book. I think it shows in this review. Not my best showing.


If a reviewer is allowed to get away with one word reviews, my review for the Postmistress would be thus: Good.

Good. In all its mundane glory. Good. Not "great" or "fabulous" or, as the bloggers say: "awesome sauce." Just plain, workman-style, meat-and-potatoes "good." So let's see if I can elaborate a bit on its all-around goodness...

The Postmistress is Sarah Blake's second novel (that's Sarah Blake the writer not Sarah Blake the porn actress... I should have been a bit more specific when I did my Google search... I truly... didn't.... know). The Postmistress is a well-paced, interlocking tale of personal tragedy and perserverence in the years preceding America's entrance in World War Two. Although there is no shortage of novels set during the Second World War, I have read very few that concern themselves with America during that inter rum period following the outset of war and America's entrance. Few people realize that America remained neutral for a long while after the beginning of the war and opinion was very much divided about whether America had an obligation to get involved. This division is adequately emphasized in Blake's narrative.

Historical quirks aside, The Postmistress is the concurrent story of three American women, two living in Franklin, Massachusetts (Emma and Iris) and one, a war correspondent based in London (Frankie). All three are loosely connected through various degrees of separation and their lives invariably collapse upon each other.

Through the eyes of Frankie, Blake is able capture the migratory chaos in Europe in the early years of the war, prior to the sealing off of the European coastline. Blake's descriptions of Blitz-torn London and war-torn France is well-done. Through Frankie, the reader gets a series of snapshots from across Europe as Jews from all over were frantically attempting to get off the continent. Thousands of people migrating toward the ports of Lisbon and Bordeaux in the hopes of gaining access to the dwindling number of ships en route to anywhere not under fascist rule. Frankie serves as both the ears and the conscience of the novel. Also, I couldn't help read her bits with a hard-boiled, transatlantic accent a la Jennifer Jason Leigh in the Hudsucker Proxy. I liked that.

Emma, the wife of Franklin's young doctor is frail and uncertain. She seemed to me to perpetuate the stereotypical young wife of the pre-war era (or perhaps Sarah Blake as a novelist?). When Emma loses contact with her husband who has volunteered to serve as a doctor in Blitz-ridden London, Emma stays behind and seems to progressively disappear once contact with her husband ceases (I'm skirting perilously close to spoilers here, so I'll pull back). In my mind's eye Emma has wide, staring eyes and finds spaghetti and meatballs to be exotic cuisine. I liked that, too.

The lynchpin of the story is Iris, the postmaster of Franklin's post office who stands at the center as the stories in the novel weave in and out of her hands via letters and visits to the post office. As postmaster (America does not make any gender-based distinction for the title therefore the title of the novel gains a certain irony), she performs with the diligence and attention of a bygone era, something that always makes me smile. I love characters that take their work seriously and perform their tasks with weight. It's a quality you so rarely find in anyone these days, outside of books. She also probably wears turtle necks and drinks copious amounts of Earl Grey tea.

A series of interesting secondary characters (including a fictionalized Edward R. Murrow) colors the novel in nicely. While this is not going to make any of my year end lists (best of or worst of) it is a very competent novel that had me locked in from the earliest pages. My only complaint is the title. While there's nothing wrong with The Postmistress per se, it felt like there needed to be some sort of relation tacked on the end such as The Postmistress's Daughter or Cousin or Accountant or some such thing. Perhaps I'm a littler jaded by all those similar titles that have over-populared bookstore shelves for far too long.

Regardless of my sarcasm, If you are looking for something nice for your late-summer reading, you could do a lot worse than pick up a copy of The Postmistress. Blake's narrative is satisfactory. While it rarely takes any great leaps or chances, it holds its ground like a steady bass line. Blake allows the story unfold with the patience of a much older, more experienced author. She avoids the temptation of surging through scenes that deserve careful attention, she savors each scene as a pristine moment in history. These are the habits of an effective fiction writer and she executes well. Through her three main characters she serves up a neat slice of life on the Atlantic Rim circa 1941.

Like I said, it's good. Is it worth reading? Sure. Could you pass it by? OK. Would you be missing anything? Maybe. It's interesting that The Postmistress is often compared to Kathryn Stockett's The Help. Neither book offended me but both will be long forgotten by this time next year. But, if nothing else, this novel has me intrigued about what Sarah Blake might have to offer over the next few years. She has certainly stakes a certain claim on the literary landscape, despite my sardonic take on The Postmistress and its characters.

The Song of Achilles

The Song of Achilles

By Madeline Miller

Where to start concerning Madeline Miller's Orange Prize winning novel, The Song of Achilles. Well, I guess I should begin by saying that I enjoyed this novel. I say that because the rest of this blogpost is going to sound like I didn't enjoy it because I have a bit of a bone to pick with it. But rest assured, it was a thought-provoking novel that deserved award consideration (I can't say it deserved to win the Orange Prize since I have not read the other nominees nor have I read a large enough cross-section of 2012 novels to say anything otherwise). And since it seems to be getting universal acclaim (deservedly, I suppose) I thought I'd concentrate on the negatives for a change.

The Song of Achilles is very much an updated version of Homer's epic poem, The Iliad. Written in the same vein as the classic novel by Mary Renault, The King Must Die (about Theseus and the Minotaur), Miller has taken a well-known Greek myth, humanized it, personalized it and then turned the myth on its head.

In the original Iliad, it is the death of Patroclus (although a minor character in the actual poem, he is described as Achilles's most beloved companion) at the hands of Hector that rouses Achilles from his vain refusal to go into battle into a maelstrom of rage and despair that culminates in the slaying of Hector, Achilles dragging Hector's body around the walls of Troy for several days and the ultimate demise of the "greatest of all heroes" by the bow of Paris. But what was so special about Patroclus that would send a professional warrior into a blind rage so intense that he performs atrocities that even his compatriots and the gods find excessive and repulsive. Warriors watch their friends fall on a daily basis. What of Patroclus? In The Song of Achilles, Miller supposes that Achilles maintains a lifelong homosexual love affair with his Patroclus.

In an election year that sees gay marriage as a major talking point, it's no surprise that this novel has gotten a lot of media exposure. Gay issues are fashionable and a book depicting a popular literary character as gay was bound to cause a stir. But the notion of homosexual relationships among Greek (and Roman, and Persian) warriors is hardly anything new. Homosexual affairs are alluded to throughout the Iliad and Odyssey and mention of homosexual love is rife throughout Greek and Roman history from the Sacred Band of Thebes to the inhabitants of the island of Lesbos. While the most common form of homosexual relationship was pederasty (what is commonly referred to today as pedophilia), homosexuality enjoyed far more acceptance in the Athenian agora than it does in the modern western world. Hell, all of these words (homosexual, pedophilia, lesbian, etc...) descend to the modern English language from ancient Greek. It should hardly come as a surprise that the Greeks were tolerant of same-sex relations in all their various colors.

Which gets me to my first problem with The Song of Achilles. While Achilles and Patroclus don't face any overt persecution for their relationship, there exists an undercurrent of shame and secrecy about their relationship from the start. Achilles mother, the goddess Thetis is openly disgusted with the relationship (OK, she's a goddess and his mother so perhaps we can go easy on her) and more than one character tries to reason with Achilles to cut such nonsense out. Only Odysseus hints at the historical acceptance of homosexuality in the military when he notes that it is customary for young boys to take on a male lover during adolescents. But, he adds, once men come of age, they should not engage in such activities.

The hell?

As far as I knew, homosexuality was not only accepted in the Greek military it was actually condoned. Many armies (Thebes for example) encouraged homosexuality as a morale booster among their troops. And since the Trojan War dragged on for ten years even with the spoils of war one has to wonder whether Achilles was the only Greek king who maintained a relationship with another man. Sure Achilles was a beautifully vain mommy's boy and dressed in drag and had a retinue of girl besties (all in the novel, I'm afraid), but stereotypes hurt us all. Just because he fits a certain demographic doesn't me he should be centered out. There's no reason not to think that Menelaus or Ajax or Diomedes weren't into shopping for designer armor, gossiping about how Agamemnon is such a slut and sashaying down the front lines. I highly doubt Achilles and Patroclus were the only soldiers sharing a bed.

OK, sorry. I got carried away there.

My second problem with this novel is Patroclus himself. He's such an dependent, needy git. The guy can't spend a single moment out from under Achilles's shadow without threatening suicide. A weekend apart once in a while can be revitalizing to a relationship. C'mon dude! Achilles might be the son of a goddess but he's still human. Let's not put the guy up on such a pedestal. You studied with Chiron. You must have learned that all Greek heroes possess a fatal flaw. Unless of course Patroclus is, in his own way, a Greek hero and his fatal flaw is abject blindness to the bleeding obvious. Patroclus is the Bella Swan of Ancient Greek myth.

I hoped that by humanizing these characters, Miller might provide a little light as to why Achilles acted the way he did. While the Iliad remains one of my favorite stories of all time, there are more than a few moments in the story where I questioned the decision-making logic of the characters. I thought The Song of Achilles might shed so light on some of the quirkier moments in the narrative. Alas, I finished the novel as confused about the decision making process of both Achilles and Patroclus. Oh, sure, one might simply dismiss these decisions as the meddling of the Fates, but that seems like the easy way out, especially since the Fates aren't even established as characters in the novel.

But I digress. Like I said at the top, I actually really enjoyed this novel. Much like The Coen Brother's take on The Odyssey via O Brother Where Art Thou?, The Song of Achilles a fresh and innovative retelling of an old story. Don't let my overly critical, armchair intellectual curmudgeonliness hold you back. Madeline Miller can write.

By the way: If you liked The Song of Achilles, pick up a copy of Mary Renault's classic novel The King Must Die. You will not be disappointed.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

By Amy Chua

Ah, the Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. Reminds me of a story...

One Christmas during elementary school my parents bought me a guitar. I was ecstatic! My mother signed me up for lessons at a place downtown called Hi-Note and I hauled my new guitar in a pillowcase down there week after week to get private lessons with a teacher there. Problem was, I hated, hated, HATED my teacher. She scared me and didn't really inspire me to play. I was too embarrassed to tell my mom that my teacher scared me so I simply told her I wanted to quit.

She let me.

To this day, it is one of my greatest regrets. I wish I had had the vocabulary to express that it wasn't the guitar I wanted to quit but rather the teacher. But there is a part of me that also wishes that my mother had forced me to continue. I would have done so kicking and screaming, but it would have worked out in the end (or at least I imagine it would have). Long story short, with all due respect to my mum, I suspect that there are advantages to having a tiger mother.

I heard about this book about a year ago when the media circus surrounding Amy Chua's "defense of the Chinese parenting technique" sent Western parents into a feeding frenzy of contempt and scorn. Having spent the past decade living in Taiwan and dealing with parents of Chinese decent (Taiwan is 98% ethnically Chinese), I was more than a little intrigued about what Chua had to say and was curious to see how close she was to what I see from the parents of my students. More on that in a moment.

First, the nuts and bolts of this book have been discussed to death in the media and on blogs all over the Internet and I have no intention of summarizing the book here. The crux of Chua's argument (at least in the first two thirds of the book) is that, by and large, what she calls the "Chinese Parent" is far superior to the Western parent in producing math whizzes, musical prodigies and all-around model children. In the beginning, Chua lays out the checklist of things Chinese parents simply never allow their children to do:

• Attend a sleepover
• Have a play date
• Be in a school play
• Complain about being in a school play
• Watch TV or play computer games
• Choose their own extracurricular activities
• Get a Grade less than an A
• Not be the #1 student in every subject except gym and drama
• Play any instrument other than the piano or violin
• Not play the piano or violin

I can say with a degree of certainty that the above checklist describes a good number (though not all) Chinese parental expectations in Taiwan. So if anyone out there who doesn't live in or near a Chinese (or Taiwanese or Korean or Japanese) society and is appalled at that list, check yourself at the door. She's right. It's true. This is not tongue in cheek humor. This is very much the expectation for all Asian parents, more or less. Deal with that and let's move on. 

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother is a very interesting and often thought-provoking memoir about Chua's experiences as a Chinese-American mother raising her children (Sophia and Lulu) in the traditional Chinese fashion. Sophia and Lulu were brought up in a strict, no nonsense environment that stressed excellence and achievement over all else (happiness included). This included five to six hours of piano (or violin) per day, every day, even when they went on vacation and a strict and unbendable academic schedule that allowed the children absolutely no time for social engagements.

But one must remember that it is a memoir. A humorous memoir. A humorous memoir about parenting.  Sure, it's a humorous memoir rife with the sort of family tumult and turbulence that one only sees in the most dysfunctional families in film. But it is humor and it is a memoir. Furthermore, the last third of the book is an open admission that the Chinese parenting model isn't necessarily the best (I am a firm believer that theoretical models, especially those of the social science variety are best left in textbooks and classrooms. They never work in practice. See: communism, Chinese and Soviet application of, but I digress). It is not a guide on how to raise your child in the Chinese fashion no matter what .

Despite what so many media hounds and angry soccer moms seem to think, Chua's book, while often pretentious and snobby, isn't a validation of the Chinese model nor is it a crusade against Western methods. Rather it is one woman's experience as a mother. Chua started out with a particular goal for her children and dedicated herself and her children's childhood to achieving that goal and I believe her when she says that she did it all for her children. I know because I see it every day with the parents of my students. 

That being said, I think Chua went overboard, even by Chinese standards. I'm not vilifying her, I'm just expressing what I think based on what I've seen. While I have absolutely no doubts that Amy Chua is not even close to the most ambitious Tiger Mother in the world (the worst example most definitely lives somewhere in Mainland China and I would never, ever want to meet her or her mutant, freaky children) she is not a typical example of a Chinese mother, either. The checklist above is most certainly standard fare among Chinese parents, however I have never met a parent during my decade in Taiwan that took excellence, achievement and perfection so seriously or so far. Nor have I ever met any parent that has dedicated so much time, effort and money toward their children's education.

What Chua fails to mention is the aloofness that Chinese parents often have for their children. Succeed, yes. Parents will give children the resources in which to achieve that success. But children must do it by themselves. Parents are busy. They have jobs working for bosses that couldn't give a damn about Junior's piano recitals and I don't think I have to explain that Asians tend to work longer hours and take less vacations (if any). This system works because of the ingrained system of shame inherent in Asian cultures (guangxi). Parents push their children because they don't want to lose face among their friends and neighbors (also because until recently, there was no notion of pension in Asian countries and children were seen as insurance policies for aging parents. Push the children into high paying jobs so that the parents can live in relative comfort in their old age. Furthermore, children lose their hair and become suicidal while studying because they do not want to shame their parents or lose face among their peers. Simply put, Lulu (Chua's second, rebellious daughter) wouldn't exist in a traditional Chinese society. Lulu is a product of the west. And that's OK.

Although I have never seen a parent as involved as Chua, during my years in Taiwan I have seen glimpses of what she describes. Parents in Taiwan have the capacity to drive their children to levels of excellence that one rarely sees in Western children of the same age (especially in math, science and classical music). Much of this is rote learning, something that is very much shunned in the West in favor of making learning fun. As well, Taiwanese parents view their children as an investment for the future and therefore spend lavishly on their education. Parents enroll their children in endless after-school programs (cram schools) to give them a leg up among their classmates in everything from English, science and math to music, sports and logic. Due to this over-emphasis on study many Taiwanese children lack basic social skills and have trouble thinking critically, but that's a rant for another book.

But for every overachieving child prodigy I meet and teach in Taiwan there are dozens and dozens of entirely mediocre students. And beyond that there are just as many lazy, incompetent students who would rather sleep through class, flip the bird to their teachers and waste time until they can get home and play online games until they die in front of their computer screen at the age of 26. I would even hazard a guess that the proportion of overachievers, regular achievers and slackers is virtually the same in Asia as it is in the West. We often forget that China, alone, has over a billion people. It is over four times larger than America alone. Add Japan, Taiwan and Singapore to that mix and the numbers are staggering. Of course it produces more prodigies. It's a simple numbers game.

So I'm not sure whether Chua is entirely correct in her assertion that she raised her children in the traditional Chinese way. It is a Chinese way, but not the only way. There are variations. I would hazard a guess that what she has mistaken as the Chinese method is in actuality an immigrant method or a lower-class method. A section of parents who whether for geographical or social reasons feel the need to horse whip their children toward greatness in an attempt to drag their families from what they perceive as the margins of society into the limelight. I don't know. I'm not a social scientist, but I do know that I've never met a tiger mother of Chua proportions anywhere in Taiwan and there's more Chinese people here than anywhere in America.

But I liked this book and I learned a lot. And despite the fact that I am not the product of a tiger mother (far from it) nor do I see either myself or my (Taiwanese) wife being tiger parents I have taken a lesson or two from this book and intend to implement them, namely choosing their extracurricular activities and not allowing them to quit simply on a whim. A little pressure and a little coercion never hurt anyone and acquiring a skill is an invaluable asset later in life whether it's violin, tennis or flower arranging.

But if there is one single lesson I learned after finally reading Amy Chua's parenting memoir, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother it is that Americans (especially those in the news media industry) seem to have problems with reading comprehension, nuance and irony. The shit storm and fallout that pulsed, radiated and mutated from the pages of Tiger Mother seem so unwarranted and completely fabricated once you actually read the entire book (which leads me to assume that a good amount of people who did raise a fuss about this book didn't finish it). Chua's memoir is an truthful account of how she raised her children and she should be commended not only for her candid honestly but also for her ability to change gears mid-race. Furthermore, it is not a vilification of Western parents. I suspect that much of the furor this book garnered has more to do with Western fears about China than it does about Chinese parenting and that's a different issue altogether. If Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother had been written by Amitava Battacharya, it would not have generated the volume of bad press Chua's book did.

Toward the end of the book Chua seems to be obsessed with finding a  way in which to conclude, but I figure that her conclusion is embedded in the narrative. Aside from the fact that the book must have been a therapeutic exercise for Chua and her daughters, whether she intended it or not, Chua seems to suggest that parenting cannot be boiled down to models or tradition or theories. I couldn't agree more. Parenting (I imagine) is an organic process and it's fundamentally uneven, unjust and unscientific. You can impose certain ideals, but in the end each experience, each ordeal is going to be entirely different from the last. Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother has little to do with raising children the Chinese way and far more to do with the human adaptability, acceptance and love.

Tears of the Giraffe

Tears of the Giraffe

By Alexander McCall Smith

For anyone unfamiliar with this title, it is the second in the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series written by Rhodesian-born, Scottish author Alexander McCall Smith. Smith spent a significant portion of his life teaching at the University of Botswana and subsequently immortalized the overwhelming quaintness of the southern African nation in this series of novels. There are twelve of these novels now with a thirteenth installment expected this year, so I'm terribly far behind in my reading. My apologies to those who like their book blogs to be up to date. As of press time, I've only seen the first three in town.

For those unfamiliar with the first novel, the series centers around Mma Precious Ramotswe, a middle-aged woman who, upon the death of her father, sells the family cattle and sets up the only private detection agency run by a woman in all of Gaborone. The first book in the series used a mixture of episodes (individual mysteries) and flashbacks woven into a larger, over-arching mystery about human body parts and witch doctors. It was a great introduction to one of modern literature's great detectives.

The second novel strays from the episodic tone of the first and concentrates more on the development of characters introduced in the first, namely Mma Ramotswe's impossibly wonderful fiancé, Rra J. B. L. Matekoni,  and Mma Makutsi, the overachieving secretary at the agency (who gets the promotion she has always craved). A host of new characters are also introduced which will, no doubt, become reoccurring characters in the subsequent novels (If you've read the subsequent, forgive me if I'm wrong and it turns out that Mma Ramotswe sells the agency to become Botswana's No. 1 Ladies cricket batsman or something).

While there are still cases to be solved, unlike the first novel, each of them weave themselves into a larger, more developed plot line. Each of the main characters (Mma Ramotswe, J.B.L. Matekoni and Mma Makutsi) follows their own narratives which connect and diverge throughout the novel. I suppose this was a calculated tactic used by Smith to expand his fictional world in Gaborone. I suppose it was a good idea since had he concentrated entirely on Mma Ramotswe he would have accomplished little else than creating an African version of Sherlock Holmes or Miss Marple.

what I liked about both the first novel and Tears of the Giraffe is the extraordinarily simple English used in the narrative. I can totally understand why someone might find this sort of language use grating and borderline insulting toward the people of Botswana, it has a certain folksy charm that reminds me a whole lot of Mark Twain (that is, if his frog jumping contest occurred in Molepolole rather than Calaveras County). I always tell my advanced students to write in their own voice and Smith's voice is so much his own I could identify it from a hundred paces.

My only qualm about this novel is an offshoot of it's strength. In an effort to be quaint, Smith rarely puts his characters in the face of any real danger. Perhaps it is a purposeful attempt to over-state the traditional values and peaceful demeanor of Batswana, but I never really felt like any of the main characters were confronted with anything resembling a real conflict. The greatest threat to Mma Ramotswe's position as the No. 1 Lady Detective is foiled before she ever finds out about it. Both J. B. L. Matekoni and Mma Makutsi's conflicts resolve is similarly unremarkable fashion.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not asking for a shootout at the Okavango Delta or anything, but dialing up the drama just a little wouldn't compromise the quaintness of the story. I got the impression (and will continue to believe so going into book three) that the sun shines out these people's asses.

Overall, I dig this series. I have used book one with my more advanced novel study students in Taiwan and they always like it (plus, it goes a long way toward dispelling a billion, trillion myths that Taiwanese people seem to have about Africa). My issues with the series are minor and, who knows, perhaps things will heat up on the Kalahari in books three through thirteen. I'm sure to find out. I'm entirely sucked into this series at this point.

Just what I need.

Another series.