CASUALTIES BY RASH

Herewith a copy of a review I posted on Goodreads in 2013 on Casualties by Ron Rash, one of my favorite writers.

Ron Rash is rapidly rising as one of my favorite short-story writers. His prose is different from other Southern writers I love (Conroy, Frazier, O'Connor) and less dark (McCarthy), but the stories are no less powerful or enjoyable. This collection is sterling, nearly every story a gem. The common theme, as reflected in the title, is loss. . .of family, futures, faith, played out by men and women in stories spanning two centuries. The characters often struggle, reflecting the hard lives of people from the Appalachians and the South, though their experiences may also be affected by life outside the region (as in service overseas). His stories often touched me personally, as I know these people, or know people who have related their stories to me, and the South with all its blemishes will always be a part of me. Rash is one of a handful of South Carolinian writers that transcends his region while plowing up the historical loam of this special and unique land, with all the pain and effort and sacrifice sweated into the soil, but does so with a keen eye and a sympathetic---yet still critical---voice. These are people on the edge, often rough survivors fighting to maintain dignity and carve out a place for themselves and their families, often against stiff odds. Rash's tales are straightforward and decidedly outside the current rage for fantastical and weird, yet they are every bit as good and worthy of an audience. In "Last Rite" a middle-aged mother seeks a final piece of the puzzle to obtain closure in the loss of her son. Several characters deal with serious health issues, as in "Chemistry" (told through the eyes of a son) and "Casualties and Survivors." A combat nurse and an infantryman struggle with their experiences in "Cold Harbor" and "Return," respectively. Many stories have characters who are well beyond their prime, looking back reflectively on their high school years as jocks (football, basketball) and the scars brought along or the failure of expectations. One young man deals with disillusion as he earns his manhood in the eyes of his kin in "The Projectionist's Wife." George Saunders would have approached life in a carnival sideshow far differently than Rash, though "Dangerous Love" is just as good a story as one the former would have presented. Rash often tackles class division, regret, moral failings, disappointment. A revengeful prank gone wrong. A promotion turned punishment. A few stories caused me real pain and were hard to read. There is rich diversity in the stories, even as common themes and backgrounds color the paragraphs, but do not expect lightness or humor, as they are meant to reveal a more hardscrabble existence. Still, I'm not being rash when I say I have, and will continue to, recommend this book and others by Rash.

HARE WITH THE AMBER EYES

Collecting. It is a disease. Granted, it is often a lifelong dance of warmth and madness, not unlike a narcotic addiction I imagine, though I was lucky to early recognize my collecting gene and figured that any dalliance with illegal substances would be an undoing. So I didn’t. And perhaps God knew my predilections as well, and made me poor so that I could not indulge my collecting passion on a grander scale. Nevertheless, I am always searching, hoping, and on lucky occasion, even finding and purchasing a bauble or piece of art that thrills my heart and soul. And I collect many things: native art primarily, such as carved items, molas, kachinas, and the like. But probably my most favored addition is to the netsuke. I could sit and look at them forever, handle them (if allowed), and dream of owning them. I have only a few, but they are special to me, particularly one given to me by my mother not much before she passed, a knickknack that she had discovered while hiking in the Appalachians at some small shop. But my very first netsuke I discovered in a flea market stall, a wooden bear, lightly worn with nice patina, for $40, which for me then was a substantial sum. And I was smitten.

It is this same compulsion that De Waal seems to get at in his The Hare with the Amber Eyes (2010), though the story he tells is more one of a wealthy Jewish family that also tells the story of Jews in Europe from the 1800s into the anti-Semitic rise of Nazism and the destruction of so many lives and fortunes. It is partly a biography of a family, starting with Charles Ephrussi, as well as personal memoir, especially a chronicle of the infection (although I mean infatuation) of collecting, and the search for information on his family’s collection of 247 exquisite netsuke. I know it is not a good quality, because I envy him his collection and storytelling ability. He blends art history, culture, politics, juicy gossip, familial love and pride, even, as he follows the collection from Paris to Vienna, and describes the individuals who remarkably managed to keep the collection whole. Even down to the gentile family maid who in the midst of German raids of the rest of the family’s magnificent prizes of art and literature, manages to ferret away the carvings and then return them after the war. True, some will be fascinated by the life of wealth, or horrified by the persecution, or warmed by the story of an unconventional love affair (at least for the time), but when taken as a whole the story is a wonderful and interesting tale of a family, and perhaps, one of loss and then perseverance.

I have seen many of the items in the collection, and I love them all. I think I like best the firewood bundle, though any carving of nature is great. I love netsukes so much that one of the very first posts in this blog are of a netsuke I particularly liked.

HULSE'S BLACK MOUNTAIN

I don't often post reviews that I already put on Goodreads, but in this case I thought the book is worthy of added exposure.

At year's end, S. M. Hulse's Black River better be on the annual list of best debut novels. Simple as that. An amazing achievement for a writer, even if it wasn't their first, and any author would be proud to have written this story. Not only is the English beautiful and the story nuanced, but the delivery is at times mesmerizing. She refused to take the easy road, delivering subtle twists and riding down paths that perhaps the reader may not want to follow but that make the story stronger. Not once did I feel that the dialogue from any of the characters seemed out of place or inconsistent. Even the few stretches of the story told from the protagonist's wife's point of view (and all one can do is nod your head in acknowledgement of her feelings) strengthen the whole. If I could assign it 4.5 on the GR scale, I would. Perhaps even a 5. Probably better than any writer I have taken up recently, she captured the intense anger, hurt, sadness, uncertainty held within a basically good, intense man who experienced horrible brutalization and deepest loss, brought to head by an even greater shot to his heart. A difficult, taciturn, laconic, god-fearing man, who once was a master fiddle player, Wesley Carver struggles with his strained relationship with his now-grown stepson, place in a changed world, memories of the worst day of his life, attempt to reach out to a troubled soul. . . losses and experiences that would unmoor almost any person. Even when there is awful symmetry in the narrative, it doesn't seem forced or contrived. This is not an easy read, as one will wrestle with questions of faith, familial conflict, fury, and forgiveness. There are some paths the overly sensitive may not want to tread. People who have been bullied, incarcerated or served as corrections officers, suffered from the inexplicable actions of others, lived through the passing of loved ones may have to put the book down at times. Right from the start she sends the reader down a melancholy trail. And yet, when finished, you realize you have read what might be a small masterpiece---definitely a superior piece of art---and I encourage you to read this book. If there are weaknesses (and what effort doesn't), I didn't readily see them. A few paragraphs, in my opinion, were damned near personal and perfect.

HANGING TOGETHER, SEPARATELY

I can only imagine the instructions from the editors (Matt Weiland and Sean Wilsey) of State by State: A Panoramic Portrait of America to their contributors: “Yeah, sure, do what you want!” And that is what they got, a lovely, often lively, compilation of essays (in many forms, including traditional, graphic, faux interview) that delve, at least in part and often selectively, into the cultures of states that comprise this wonderful country. Of course, they are a far cry from the books that inspired the effort (and I have read many of the WPA volumes), but there also remains a spirit there too, to open doors to the familiar to them to let outsiders get a peek within. Although there is a little criticism, what mostly shines through is a love of place, especially in essays from writers who spent significant or emotional periods in the states in question. Essentially most of them are impressionistic vignettes struggling to provide a mere taste of some corner of a larger whole. A common theme is memoir, and the best selections intertwine memory with history, geography, and culture. Even better are the narratives delivered with humor and wit, as many certainly are. Surely many are skewed snapshots of personal experiences, reflecting their own interests or backgrounds, but overall in most cases there is warmth, a fondness for the areas described (even if done by mere tourists), lives led---a stretch of road, a slice of nature, a remembrance of family or childhood. Common themes emerge, such as community resistance to outsiders (an insularity of sorts) that seems to eventually collapse and grudginlgy allow newcomers, opportunity (especially for immigrants), the importance of sports (recognized if not always loved), and weirdness as well. Some authors I hadn’t read before and I now am determined to try and have added to my to-read list (such as Joshua Ferris). Others are familiar and favorites. . .Erdrich, Horwitz, Lahiri, Vowell. Some excelled in focusing on the newcomer looking in and hoping to stake their claim or who were well treated: Mohammed Naseehu Ali, Dagoberto Gilb, Ha Jin. I loved the essays by Susan Choi, Paul Greenberg, Barry Hannah, John Hodgman, Heidi Julavits, Rick Moody, Tara Smith and others. Alison Bechdel’s graphic essay on Vermont was good. Of course, I enjoyed essays on the states that meant most to me---Florida, South Carolina, Hawaii. Really, for such a wide representation, you’d think I wouldn’t have liked as many as I did, but I enjoyed nearly all of them, which speaks well either of the choices the editors made or guidance they gave. I suspect many will just read the entries for which they are personally attached, but that would be a shame, because the others might induce people to spend time visiting other parts of the country, homogenized as it has become, to search out a taste of difference that still lurks.

FEELING CHEATED

A short review of George Saunders' Congratulations, By The Way:

"George," his publisher asked, "We need something for the pipeline. Got anything?" Came the reply, "Well, I did a little convocation speech that has been getting attention online, what about that?" "Hmmmm, I bet we could produce it cheaply and sell it for fourteen dollars, and your name alone would compel people to buy it. At least the libraries." And so, there you are. . . a new book. Does it really contribute anything groundbreaking, uniquely delivered, worthy of the expenditure? No. But it is a nice, quick read and the message is worthwhile. I have enjoyed his work and am likely to read anything that he puts forth---kind of like when I picked up Pat Conroy's cookbook and was pleasantly surprised---so I say, "Go ahead, spend a few minutes with this," even if I feel somewhat offended that it is a bit of a sham that put a few bucks in Saunders' pocket and a lot more in Random House's. Kind of like hearing your favorite musician is coming to town and you scrape up the money and even though their set was wonderful, they only stayed on the stage for fifteen minutes and three old standards. I even felt a little cheated by the illustrations.

KNOCKEMSTIFF

“Order. Order!! I call the emergency meeting of the Blackheart Hollow School Library Committee to order. That includes you, Bobbie Sue.” Tawnee Patricia “Tea Party” Patterson waved her ceremonial gavel over her bouffant hairdo and glared menacingly at the assembled hoard, hot and bothered by the latest attack on the Bible, Country, and the American Way. “We are here to discuss this abomination, this communist, liberal, soul-deprived description of life in these here hollars, Mr. Pollock’s Knockemstiff, God-rest the souls of the poor folk who lived there way back. Amen.” So began last night's meeting at the All Saints Sinners’ Repent Holiness Church, as witnessed by your faithful reporter.

A voice from the back of the hall rang out, “Did you read it, Momma?”

T.P.’s eyes narrowed and focused on the mullet, then dipping down behind some shoulders in the back row. “Hell, no! But Fannie Lou at the library did, and she gave me a full report on this literary garbage. I want to call for an immediate BAN of this here book from our public and school library. And from the county and country, God willing.”

“Now wait a minute, T.," drawled Junior Junior, Jr. “I think we should discuss this here book.”

Despite holding pitchforks, placards, and burning tar-covered sticks, the assemblage nodded their reluctant approval. T.P. let out a huff, then a sigh, as she discovered her speedy railroading was slighted derailed. “You’ll see, you’ll see,” she shouted.

Minister Deacon Blackheart, of the forefather founding Blackhearts, raised his ample girth up from his committee chair and exclaimed: “This heretical collection of putrefaction makes people like us look as if we are all overweight poverty-ridden, drug-addled, sex-crazed, misogynistic, backwoods hillbillies with missing teeth and no ambition, reluctant to leave our insulated world, prejudiced and judgmental, gossipy and mean spirited, and eager for any scrap.”

“Tell it, preacher.”

“I mean, we gots some folks like that, for sure, but do we need to read about it in such terrifying stark and reviling detail, and with all those bad words besides? And many of the characters are kids! Just more proof that we need to come down harder on our chillums.”

“Amen, brother.”

“Of course, I probably would have conked a few of the sinning reprobates depicted in these stories myself. But, lawdy, people get away with murder and thieving and all sorts of affronts to the Good Book. Our chilluns do not need to read this type of offensive material. Older ones neither.”

T.P. looked with satisfaction at the assembled crowd, but was then forced to recognize Warner Reading, local English teacher. “Now, now folks,” he said, “this is actually a wonderfully written collection of fiction. Fiction, people. No doubt this excellent writer took some liberties, engaged in a bit of fantasy and exaggeration, and tried to capture a small smattering of sentimentalities common to our own hill folks. We may not be Kentucky or West Virginia, but we have some common types. And in the recent rampant rampage and decay of drugs and poverty and community destruction, that we are all aware of, his words often ring quite true, even if a little strident.” After rubbing the developing sunburn blistering on the back his neck, from x-ray glares of his neighbors, he continued, “Why, Pollock's writing is very strong, and perhaps should be a welcome metaphorical and insightful critique of life in SOME hollers. Perhaps we are afraid of seeing the victims for what they are. I liked the story of the young man who abuses the doll, only to be turned into a living doll himself. The actual Knockemstiff has been a ghost town for many years, so the folks Pollock populated it with are figments of his fertile imagination, though I hope his family and friends are forgiving.“

A voice from the crowd asked, “What is the sudden interest in us anyway. Have you seen that Justified? Or read that Winters Bone guy? This stuff is bleak, bleak, bleak! Yeah, he writes purty good and tells a good yarn for some late-to-the-party author, but is there no happiness to be found? Other than an occasionally spark of drug-induced thrill? One wonders if the reader should be mortified or laughing his ass off. Excuse me, T.P.”

The professor replied: "Well, he sure is well grounded in the area and the hardships of low paid employment at rough work. I can't speak to his knowledge of the sordid side of life, but a lot rings true. One can certainly be horrified by the way supposedly God-fearing people treat their spouses and family and friends. I think these shorts stories, even if they raise concerns, are a wonderful addition to the growing body of Appalachian literature."

The debate was off and running and continued for several more hours, with no satisfactory accord, and the topic was tabled until the next meeting. Expect an even bigger crowd then. The only other business discussed was Mary Alice Childerstick's pigs breaking out of their pen and devouring the Bickerstaff's green garden. The aforementioned promised to replace the lost veggies with plant from her own garden (but not the wacky tobbacky).

Getta Write, editor, Blackheart Bugle

[I recommend ya’ll run over to Bridget’s Book Swap and Bawdy Boutique and buy you a copy.]

WHITE SHADOW

Few people outside of those who have lived in Tampa seem to know of its vibrant, diverse culture and violent, often troubled past. A unique mix of Latin (Spanish, Cuban), Italian, Cracker, African American (with a sprinkling of other backgrounds thrown in) produced a special place regionally and historically. Racist, conservative whites shared the streets with radical, leftist cigar workers. A thriving port, nearby farms and groves (strawberries, guava, citrus, cattle), and industrial city (initially cigars) attracted as well thousands of tourists and travelers. And during the early twentieth century Tampa’s loose control of gambling, liquor, and prostitution garnered interest from organized crime, ranging from Mafia types, homegrown toughs, and  international interests. Corruption was rampant from the highest levels of government on down. With such an interesting and varied milieu, it is strange that so few novels have set their action in the city and county (Hillsborough).  From 1970 until 1989 I lived in this wonderful town (actually just outside of it), and was captured by its history and people. Not to mention Cuban sandwiches that I passionately love. In college I studied history, and my master’s covered the Depression era on the west coast of Florida (primarily focusing on Tampa, however). I love Ybor City. It is this background that almost guaranteed that I would read Ace Atkins’ White Shadow (2007), a historical thriller that closely follows the investigation into the murder of bolita (gambling) kingpin and local legend Charlie Wall in 1955. Almost every page brought to mind a sight, sound, or taste to my memory, and even included individuals I had met or knew about. Atkins obviously did a lot of research to get the background right, and even when he takes liberties with the actual story (for literary purposes) he reveals a complicated time and place as accurately as any I have read. The story is told through the eyes of a young newspaperman, as well as in third person following the detective who is determined to catch the culprit(s). Into the mix is thrown a young radical Cuban girl, who after seeking revenge for the murder of her father, gets mixed up in gangster activities and lands among the colorful community carved out by retired carnival workers (many of them sideshow performers) in the southern boundary of the county. Some of the action also takes place in Havana. Real-life larger than life characters from Santo Trafficante, Fidel Castro, to lesser-known cops, bartenders, reporters and prostitutes fill the pages. Although locals will enjoy this book, I also think snowbirds and other northerners will like it as well. I think it is time to go back home for a visit.

MORE JLB

Just finished Creole Belle. James Lee Burke, one of my favorite writers and responsible for nearly twenty volumes in the Dave Robicheaux series, still commands a wonderful array of descriptive language and usually tells a good story and people who love his characters probably don’t quibble about his prose, but he seems to be aging in style and power somewhat, now unable to avoid repetition both from previous volumes and even within these pages. In fact, I think it is time to wrap up the series, perhaps. There was a part of me that kept saying that he simply doesn’t have that much more to explore, even if new characters are added. And OMG, the “ands” rush by like a heard of deer in front of a firestorm (in one sentence I counted six). I suspect the publisher, knowing any new Burke would have good built-in sales, forgoed assigning an editor to his best-selling producer, and no one apparently calls Burke to account. Sometimes the infractions are minor, such as having two characters include “over the hurdles” just pages apart to more egregious problems of retelling information the reader should be able to retain on their own. Sometimes characters, not directly connected and at varied points, bring up the same historical events or remembrances (door gunner who couldn’t wait to get back to a free-fire zone). He is consistent with his former novels in the series (and outside as well) in his toilet and scatalogical references (someone always seems to be killed or beaten in a bathroom and something---often repeatedly--will be referenced going up a rear or spit in someone’s mouth or an item will be needed to be removed from a mouth). His dialogue is almost always angry: hardly ever can two characters, no matter when in the book, have a peaceful or genuine conversation, as they seem to be bitter and distrustful and dishonest and hateful and (wait, I’m sounding too much like JLB). And they all talk the same. Burke simply is unable to give characters unique tone (with the exception of some of the minor characters with local color). Still, I liked the story. I actually thought a favored character might be headed for his demise, but no. I am thinking about not reading any more of his books, but I would be willing to bet I’ll be first in line when another comes out.

LAST DAYS (Brian Evenson)

There were times while reading this novella that I entertained notions of severing my hand so that I couldn't pick up the book again, but like a spectator frozen in a crowd at a French execution, my eyes remained riveted to the stilled guillotine, waiting for it to slice flesh and bone. Ahhh, can you imagine if people felt inspiration at a sight such as this and then made lopping off body parts a fetish, and then for it to morph into a religious experience with a fellowship turned cultish and schismatic, who in their ecstatic frenzy turned to murder and mayhem to promote and protect extreme ideas? (No, not the Taliban) Well, Brian Evenson has. Methinks this is one story that people have to go into with their eyes firmly attached to their sockets, because as riveting as it is (kudos to the author), its carnage and violence may not be suited to everyone's taste. I kept telling myself that it was a satire on religious extremism, and I might be right, or it was just a noir detective romp designed purposely to shock. Either way, it works. Don't judge me! I couldn't help if I, like Kline, pined for answers to the mysteries of cutters gone wild. Like prey caught in a giant spider's web, he struggles to understand his plight while feverishly trying to extricate himself. Some will really enjoy this tale, but take cautionary heed and tread lightly. . .or you might lose something.

SANDMAN SLIM

This weekend I finished the first entry in the fantasy fiction genre, Richard Kadrey's Sandman Slim. Having been (and still) an avid reader of Jim Butcher's Dresden series, all I can say is move over Harry, at least a bit, because I enjoyed this series as much as I enjoy that one. James Stark (Sandman Slim) is an angry, revenge-seeking mythological human/something else who returns from Hell to eliminate the miscreants who sent him to the underworld in the first place. There, as the first human, he is forced to fight in the arena, where surprisingly he finds he cannot die and does well in defeating his Hellion opponents. The result of his battles is that he becomes increasingly stronger and proficient in battle, and he yearns to avenge the death of his beloved Alice. Like Jim Butcher, Kadrey has constructed a world filled with unusual and vibrant characters who infest a major city, this time Los Angeles instead of Chicago, who clash and connive like the demons and angels they are. Slim's sidekicks include Candy, a blood-drinking Jade (kind of like a violent, seductress vampire); Vidocq, a several century old French alchemist; Allegra, a smart video-store employee who is brought into his new circle; Kinski, an otherworldly (I don't want to ruin it for you) magical healer; and a host of lesser characters who are interesting and destined to continue to play roles, I am sure, in the future books. Kadrey is a bit more blasphemous and violent than Butcher, but entertaining in much the same way. There are frequent references to pop culture and witty observations on the dark side of life in the City of Angels (which seems apt). I really couldn't put down the volume, and I know I will be spending a lot of time with Sandman, much in the same way I did when I came under Butcher's spell.

MORE BURKE BASHING

There was a time when I considered James Lee Burke one of my favorite authors, and I still read his books, having finished two recently while waiting for the latest Robicheaux to hit my desk. He can be downright expressive with description, positively lyrical in fact, but he is also like that super-bright student who just slides by on talent because he can, taking the C rather than working for the A. Yes, I am reluctantly saying that Burke is a lazy writer. I am starting to feel about him like a spouse of forty years who you love and never plan to leave, but you know their every tick and repetition by heart and can see through personal screens others cannot. Although you let them get by with the irritations, they sometimes grind at you. Nevertheless, at the end of the day you crawl into the bed and hope for another day. I've written about some of these issues before (see BURKE BASHING), but while reading Cimarron Rose and Heartwood, a competing series Burke engaged in that may just have been his way to get some distance from Robicheaux or perhaps to just make some more cash, but I found weaknesses and repetitions that kept popping up with irritating regularity. Some would say that I am nitpicking, and why even comment on these matters when no one really cares, especially since I will likely keep on reading his books anyway. And I will. . . I truly enjoy Robicheaux, Cleve, and the world Burke created for them. Some writing problems may be because Burke has gotten to be such a bestseller than publishers don't put editors on his books. Or perhaps not, but then that means we have a writer who is unable to change the temper and design of his words or stories, despite the often wonderful descriptive rifts, especially in developing the dialogue. Every character from the littlest to eldest, male or female, domestic or foreign, cop or civilian, ghost or seer, good or bad, talks and thinks as if they are one. True, like so many serial writers, there is little alteration of basic plot, solutions and action seldom develop beyond a well-worn path, but in Burke's work his characters practically all have the same brains and delivery---heroes, villains, and others. Action, plot, and pacing will often mirror that of previous books. You can be almost certain that someone will get beaten in a bathroom (often with a head put in a toilet, or the threat of such); some character, often the protagonist, will pick up an object and sucker punch a rival; a mystical spirit or individual will provide guidance and/or pithy commentary from beyond; one (or more) women will be constantly irritated with the main character (and often have a short life span to boot), with conversations tortured and angry; and someone will always be told to take something out of their mumbling mouth (in Heartwood it was "brown mule", and there is also a reference to taking shit out of one's teeth---a two-fer---but in other books multiple characters say distinctly similar words, with only the item changing, be it mashed potatoes, mud, marbles, etc). It was aggravating enough in his earlier books, but redundancy escalated in the Billy Bob Holland series. Repeatedly Burke employs familiar phrases, or outright retells information, as if the reader is an idiot. In some cases he does it literally within a few paragraphs, three times in two pages ("a Berkeley graduate, in Vermont"). He insists on spelling out every name, almost as if he is a high schooler padding his term paper. He employs favorite words ad nauseum, such as dimpled, flecked, marbled, flopped, fecund, rippled and a host of others, as well as scenes regular readers of have become all too comfortable with. In one he had a thing for organdy. In both BBH books, I think he mentioned his horse was a Morgan about three times, apiece. And his narrator's voice occasionally veers toward the racist, sexist side, particularly when several characters as well use objectionable words (which I do not believe reflects Burke's actual beliefs, as evidenced by occasional sermons that take a liberal bent). When a reader tackles only one or two of Burke's books, he can get away with it, but his loyal fans deserve better. I wonder if this is part of the reason he is not placed amongst the higher pantheon of writers, adored but not respected at the same level.

MISTER PIP

A powerful book told by a good storyteller can enchant young minds and transport them to other worlds, in the process firing their imaginations and filling their minds. Such is the case in the somewhat melancholy novel Mister Pip, by New Zealand author Lloyd Jones. It is a fine tale about a young Solomons Island (probably Bougainville) girl named Matilda, who is swept away as a middle schooler by the reading by her white teacher Mr. Watts of Dickens's Great Expectations. The story is set during the rebellion on the island, in which unspeakable horrors are inflicted on the locals, the cruelty of which is repeatedly carried out against Matilda's village. Oddly enough the soldiers appear to be Australian aborigines, ruthlessly subjugating a darker population. As Matilda (and in fact the rest of the class) becomes more engrossed in the story, Watts faces increased opposition from Christian villagers, headed by Matilda's mother. Before he takes over the teaching position (as all whites and others have fled before a blockade), Watts was little more than an oddity, somewhat despised there (as he had been in New Zealand) for having had an affair with a young island woman, though the love seems deep for him as he deals with his depressed love (which I will not spoil the reasons for). Matilda has a tough life, but she really connects with Dickens. The book deals with the clash of cultures, the cruelty of imperialism, the senselessness of war, the conflicts between mother and child, teacher and parent,rebels and soldiers.
I loved several passages in the book. "I already knew that words could take you into a new world, but I didn't know that on the strength of one word spoken for my ears only I would find myself in a room that no one else knew about." Later the little girl is told: "But you know, Matilda, you cannot pretend to read a book. Your eyes will give you away. So will your breathing. A person entranced by a book simply forgets to breathe. The house can catch alight and a reader deep in a book will not look up until the wallpaper is aflame." Yep, those are the tomes I wish to find.
Mister Pip is not quite that caliber, but it was a nice story and it has got me interested in this author. It is somewhat sad, and will anger readers, and it certainly got me interesting in finding out more about this rebellion that was not so long ago. I recommend it.

THE PRISONER OF HEAVEN

The best part about The Prisoner of Heaven is the certainty that there will be another forthcoming volume to continue the story of Daniel and Fermin, and the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, and the wonderful story first deleved into in the delicious Shadow of the Wind. Oh, how I wish I could get an invite to this secret library, this cache of wonderous tomes. But alas, I will have to live vicariously through the words of Carlos Luis Zafon, who is one of my favorite writers. I am delighted that more people are now reading the books of this Spanish author. We learn a lot in this book about the stalwart Fermin, who is on the cusp of ending his bachelorhood to the beautiful Bernarda, and how he came to be involved with the Semperes. Although there may be a tad less mystery here than in Shadow, it is a great bridge toward what I know will be a knockout fourth book. Pray the literary Gods do nothing to derail Zafon. The only mysterious literary disappearance I seek is the one on his pages. I was less pleased with the last offering, The Angel's Game, but I really enjoyed this book, and I think his followers will as well. He also covers many of the horrors Spain endured in the 1930s & 1940s.

WIMPY

Heard today through a nice report on NPR that a seventh entry in the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series by Jeff Kinney is expected in November. This half cartoon/half narrative tale of a put-upon sixth grader and his friends has made its way to the big screen too. Both my sons devoured the series. Joey, who enjoys a dystopian and fantasy bent, stopped to read these books and then introduced them to his little brother, who was a far more reluctant reader. And Chimo fell in love with them, and easily fell into their spell, and therefore, although I haven't read them (I did go to the movies) I still rate them highly on my list of favorite books for what they provided my sons. . .reading enjoyment. And a lot of laughter. There are many who bemoan and predict the death of books, and I simply don't see it. Good books will find readership.

SACRE BLEU

I feel a little blue right now. Not the blue of depression, but a glowing amethyst hue of fulfillment after having finished the delightfully humorous historical-fantasy crafted (or should I say painted) by Christopher Moore, his recent gift, Sacre Blue. His convoluted story follows the long existence of the gnome-like hellion Colorman and his sidekick, a devilishly beautiful muse with the ability to shift time as she inspires, who together stalk artists in order to create a special blue used in the arts. The novel takes place mostly in late-nineteenth-century Paris, and incorporates the true art and lives of a host of well-known artists and even some other historical figures into his fantastical tale. Moore employs his familiar wit, especially in his dialogue, and stays true to his usual fare of naughty repartee and imagery, as well as other witty banter. Fans of Moore will not be disappointed, and I would place this work closer on his spectrum of works at the end anchored by Lamb. Moore seems to have done a lot of excellent research on the arts, especially painting, and anyone with a love for the giants of this period will find the book amusing. Also, try to get the first edition, with the blue print and color reproductions.

HOMEBOY

HOMEBOY, the only work by the sadly tragic writer (he was Janis Joplin's last boyfriend) Seth Morgan, is a wonderful, warped, wild foray into the drug-addled, sex-infused, violence-ridden criminal world of 1980s San Francisco and the penitentiary system of California during the AIDS explosion. Writing about what he knew---drug addiction, strip-club barking, robbery, and prison life---from personal experience, Morgan crafted a tough, eye-opening look at a world few would want to visit, and even fewer would wish to become trapped in. Morgan's prose cannot be sprinted through though; it is best bitten off in chunks and chewed. At times his words come together in beautiful rhythms, paragraphs that frankly are spine-tingling, while it can also become weirdly cramped and slang-filled. And he loves his alliterations, almost too much, like it was some sort of addiciton itself. No doubt the book was meant to shock, although in these jaded times there is little here that will startle anyone but the most isolated or overprotected (though certainly I would refrain from giving the book to anyone under 21). A colorful cast of cavorting criminal characters---including prostitutes, addicts, pimps, dealers, gamblers, convicts, brutal prison guards and thugs, lawyers, strippers, homosexuals, and just about anything you can think of from the denizens of vice---populate these purple pages of pain [Yeah, you see what I am doing! He is guilty, ad nauseum, of this prose, a wild poet gone amuk at times]. The basic story follows the convoluted tale of a small-time barker (Joe) who accidentally steals a diamond during a robbery. The rock was formerly in the possession of a brutal prostitute-killing pimp bent on using it for blackmail, and the pursuit of the stone by (among others) a single-minded hardboiled detective determined on putting the bastard on death row. Unfortunately, Morgan died not long after the publication of this book, and the world most likely lost some amazing literature had he lived to craft more tales, but this effort crackles with energy, opens doors on alternative lifestyles, and questions penal institutions. A brave book. I recommend it for those wishing a challenge, with an open mind to human behavior in all its cravings and perversions, but who also like an interesting tale, well told.

INSANITY

My brain hurts. It is a weird throbbing pain, as if I had just glimpsed (while experiencing a massive acid overdose) into the collective brains of Neil Gaiman and Stephen King (with Christopher Moore thrown in for good measure) with glasses whose prisms were ground by whoever directed the movie Phantasm. The drug that caused this mental state is David Wong (Jason Pargin)'s wildly weird, yet funny and grotesque, John Dies @ the End. Like some rubbernecker driving past the scene of a massive pileup, I simply couldn't look away. This fantasy/horror/humor offering is like nothing I have tried before, and am not sure I want to try again. Please someone, let me have the antidote! Still, it is an engrossing read, and you want to find out the reason for the madness (almost like a self-medicating bipolar). No doubt Kafka and Heller are laughing at me right now. Do not pick up this book if you are squeamish, or a member of PETA. For those who enjoy their brains being turned inside out, and smacked with a wit bat, well. . .read at your own peril. Enjoy.

ZAHRA'S PARADISE

Blessed are the truthseekers and truth tellers, especially those who risk not only their own lives and voices, but those of family and friends, in the pursuit of the real story, particularly in the face of vicious, oppressive tyrannies, whether religiously fanatical or simply power hungry. The people of the great country of Iran have suffered enormously under the rule of the mullahs and their basij stormtroopers, and the world was stunned by the execution of Neda on a Tehran street on 20 June 2009. But many more were disappeared that day, both before and after in fact, hidden away in torture chambers of Evin and other terrible dungeons (where assaults included rape and murder), many never to return. In Zahra's Paradise, a graphic novel of power and emotion, the artists expose the ruthless attack against democratic sentiments, as thousands of citizens (many students) have been killed or locked away, and any hints of free thinking squashed. Although the main character, Mehdi, is most likely a composite figure, he stands for all who suffered, and the story of intrepid journalists, citizens, and family members in uncovering the truth and fighting for justice, at great cost to themselves, is a powerful statement. Along with the powerful and better-known graphic work of Marjan Satrapi, two anonymous men have produced a biting, sarcastic, and straightforward critique of the current regime in Iran. No dought a fatwa for their heads would be issued should the Iranian authorities discover their true identities. I wonder if any copies will make it into Iran, but it is a story citizens there are all to aware of any way. No, this is for the rest of the world, so ignorant is it of the true life of average Iranians. The sentiment in the United States is often to demonize Iranians, but I know that in truth a huge segment of the population hates what the mullahs have done. While many ignorantly follow the mullahs's lead, thousand push back against oppression in a myriad of ways, from small gestures to life-risking protest. There will always be brave protestors, who continue to fight for freedom. Allah bless them in their struggle. May freedom one day shine on all Iranians. I strongly recommend the novel to readers everywhere.

WANDERING FALCON

Life is truly cheap and difficult for tribal people, especially women, who live in the rough, mountainous areas along the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Although interest in and knowledge of this area has peaked with the war against radical Islamic elements, much of the culture of this region is lost on Americans. Into the breach comes a delightful collection of short stories from the pen of an eighty-year-old insider, Jamil Ahmad, whose tales are loosely tied together by the appearance, often peripherally, of Tor Baz, orphaned at a young age and handed from caretaker to caretaker until he becomes a roving presence on the margins of society. In The Wandering Falcon the reader gets a taste of the precarious nature of life, where one can easily be snuffed out for crimes of a long-lost relatives, or sold away (especially girls) in times of economic distress (which is just about always), or simply killed during frequent raids and feuds. People are kidnapped in an almost ritual manner, bringing money and status to the thieves. These are tough, proud people, steeped in their traditional ways, struggling against change and western incursions. There is humor too, and one also senses beauty. While the book is entertaining and educational, mostly it reminds me just how lucky I am to be born in America.

MONSTRESS---FILIPINOS AND THE AMERICAN DREAM

Few Americans could likely name a well-known Filipino-American short-story writer. Perhaps Bienvenido Santos or Carlos Bulosan, or the short works of Jessica Hagedorn, but I can’t think of other possibilities right off the cuff. I know they exist, but they seem eclipsed by better-known immigrant novelists such as Julia Alvarez, Oscar Hijuelos, Jamaica Kinkaid, Jumpha Lahiri, Chang-Rae Lee, Amy Tan, and Bharati Mukherjee. Well, a new writer has emerged who deserves attention and is destined to gain literary recognition well beyond that of being simply another immigrant writer, if his first collection is any indicator of what he will produce in the future. Lysley Tenario’s Monstress is a delightful first book, eight wonderful tales of life in the Philippines and America that are light, funny, and revealing. Not only does he open windows to worlds that many Americans cannot fathom (although the immigrant experience is central to a large portion of us, including me, who is the son of a Ukrainian-American woman), but he tackles as well larger issues of family, loyalty, heartbreak, and pain. Unlike some collections, I liked every one of his stories, each crisply told with little extraneous material to weight them down. One common underlying theme is the attraction of the United States for Filipinos, strong enough to draw individuals away from their families and homeland. Tenario is excellent at revealing the immigrant experience. The title story focuses on how the desire for movie success can dissolve an otherwise loving relationship between a low-budget monster-movie director and his lover/main actress; “The Brothers” covers the heartrending tale of a man thinking over both his mother’s and his reactions and treatment of his brother, who discovered he really was a woman inside and shocked them with the revelation; the desire to forge a new life while rejecting false promises of a beloved faith-healing grandfather is the core of “Felix Starro,” ; in “The View from Culion,” Tenario tackles the relationship of two inmates, both with ties to America, in a Filipino leprosy colony; “Superassassin” follows the comic-induced actions of a young man who struggles against racism in his new home; “The Help” addresses the reaction of a faithful employee of Imelda Marcos, who feels The Beatles have dissed the first lady and who seeks revenge as the singers prepare to leave the country after a tour stop; in “The I-Hotel” two old men face eviction from the only home they have known for thirty years and one remembers his immigrant experience and his relationship with his friend; and in “L’Amour, CA,” a young Filipino boy faces new surroundings as his family moves to America and his sister rattles their relationship. One line seems to encapsulate much about the Filipino-American experience: “being in America---a thing that just happens, a thing you learn to live with.” Although some of the themes may bother close-minded readers, this collection is a must read for anyone interested in the immigrant experience, as well as for Filipinos. I strongly recommend it and hope this book earns Tenario a strong following.