Wolfsbane (Sianim, #4) by Patricia Briggs
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
A fun, solid read with characters you end up caring a lot about without even noticing, just a touch of action, a splash of romance, and at least one character who switches between species. In other words, it’s a Patricia Briggs novel.
Like its predecessor Masques, this was written pretty early in her career, and it shows. It’s still a heckuva story, and I’d jump right into a third adventure of Wolfe and Aralorn.
A Stained White Radiance by James Lee Burke
My rating: 1 of 5 stars
Elmore Leonard famously quotes Steinbeck saying, “Sometimes I want a book to break loose with a bunch of hooptedoodle. . . . Spin up some pretty words maybe or sing a little song with language. That’s nice. But I wish it was set aside so I don’t have to read it. I don’t want hooptedoodle to get mixed up with the story.”
I sincerely wish Burke would follow Leonard’s urging to get rid of the hooptedoodle, or as he puts it later, “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.”
There’s a whole lot in here (and most of this series) that sounds like writing. Once you take all that away, there’s not a lot in this book. Horribly thin plot, from the get go everyone knows who did what and pretty much why, there’s just a few hundred pages of wheel spinning, hooptedoodle, and moments intended to be tense that really aren’t.
Not sure if I’ll keep going with Burke.
When the Sacred Ginmill Closes by Lawrence Block
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
I’ll be honest, I’m sticking with this series primarily because of the author’s reputation, though Eight Million Ways to Die did impress me. I was fairly dismayed when I started this book and it looked like all the progress that Scudder made during his outing was tossed out without explanation or comment. A relapse, or backslide, etc. would’ve been acceptable if Block had done it right (obviously), but to just start off the book without noting that he’d fallen off the wagon was just horrible.
Thankfully, he didn’t waste too much time before he had Scudder inform us that this was an extended flashback. That done, we could see Scudder not at his alcoholic worst, just pretty bad–probably before the first book in the series, now that I think of it. Then he brought us back to the present at the conclusion of the novel, making the whole exercise mean something. What made me ready to toss the whole series at the beginning, in the end made a pretty effective novel. It’s not a trick that he can use more than once, I think–and my gut says Block wouldn’t try.
As far as the mysteries that make up Scudder’s cases? Marginally interesting, at best. I’ve yet to be really impressed by the whodunit aspect of Block’s books, it’s how Scudder interacts with the suspects/victims/survivors that makes them interesting–especially as he interacts with himself. But one of the two mysteries here is about as strong as he gets, and the other is about as weak as he gets. So…eh, whatever.
If you like Matt Scudder, this book will satisfy you. If you’ve never encountered him before, I’m not sure this is the book to start with.
The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms by N.K. Jemisin
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I put off writing this review, because I was pretty sure if I’d done it right away, it’d have been filled with all kinds of hyperbole. With a few days’ worth of distance, I can honestly say most of it would’ve been deserved. I’m going to keep this short and vague, because that’s the only way I think I can keep myself from gushing and rehashing this book in detail.
The story, while solid, feels like something I’ve read more than once (tho’ I honestly can’t say where, it just feels that way). A lot of the characters aren’t that novel, maybe even a bit stock-ish. But not all of them. There are four or five characters for whom the term “multi-faceted” doesn’t seem adequate, so that more than makes up for it.
But what truly, truly makes this book great is the way the story’s told–both the structure and the voice. As much as I wanted to find out what happened to Yeine and the rest, I didn’t want to walk away from the Jesmin’s voice and style.
Great debut novel. Sooooo looking forward to the rest of the trilogy.
Dear Stieg Larsson,
Until you become a much, much better writer than you are, you really need to get to the hook earlier than page 245 of 640. Dude, that’s 40% of your book.
Just sayin’,
Me
sorry for the rushed nature of this one, but I wanted to get something up today and didn’t have time to polish it right.
You just have to love this concept. An illiterate cowboy in 1890’s Montana hears about Sherlock Holmes due to the republication of some of Watson’s accounts in American periodicals. He’s drawn by what Holmes does and sets about getting his hands on all of Watson’s reports he can. And then he makes his brother read them to him over and over and over so he can learn how to do what Holmes does. At some point he thinks he’s learned enough to start, and puts himself in a situation to put his skills to the test. And presto, you’ve got yourself a novel.
So much for the concept–how was the execution? Ehhh, not as good. It was dull, downright slow, filled with a bunch of cliched Western types. It was interesting enough to keep me reading, but man, did it get sloggy in parts. I’m glad I persevered, because the conclusion was satisfying (even if it’s pace was 200% of what preceded it) and the central characters were amusing.
These brothers offer a great take on Holmes/Watson, and I’m sure I’ll get to the sequels pretty soon. Hoping that now that the series has been set up, the next ones will pick up a little faster.
I’m not big on the short story form. Outside the Nero Wolfe short story collections, I could count on one hand the number of short stories I’ve read in the past 5-10 years. Lately, there’s been a decent number of my favorite Urban Fantasy writers contributing to short story collections–usually on a theme, and usually using characters I really want to read about. But being short fiction, and being surrounded by stories about characters I don’t care about/don’t know/don’t have time to get to know even if I wanted to, I don’t get around to getting my hands on them.
From what I can tell, that’s resulted in me missing some interesting stuff–even the start of a series I’m invested in (maybe more than one, come to think of it, but I’m not going to double check now).
Which is a whole lotta rambling set up to saying why I was very happy to hear that Jim Butcher was going to release a collection of previously published and new Harry Dresden stories. And even happier to get my hands on it last week.
Being short works of fiction, basically every story was this–some sort of problem, Harry investigating rather quickly and then moving right on to the fireworks, usually dazzlingly so. Wham, blam-o, thank you, sir. Each of them also tended to focus on at least one member of the supporting cast in a way we don’t get enough of in the novels. I really appreciated getting to spend a little time with each of these people in this setting.
It was, admittedly, a mixed-bag. The first story, “Restoration of Faith,” was the first Dresden story, and it’s clearly that. There’s a lot to our favorite wizard PI that is recognizable here, and a lot that get’s tossed before Storm Front. A fun read, but I’m glad Butcher tweaked things the way he did.
The rest were better executed–mostly because Butcher’s grown a lot as a writer since then, all were good reads, some better than others.
A couple of other stand-outs for me were the lighter, “Day Off” about Harry’s fruitless quest for a quiet, relaxing day; “The Warrior” in which we get to see post-Small Favor Michael in action–even if it was a tad preachy, Butcher pulled it off, and I was so, so glad to see Michael like this; and “Love Hurts,” which is the kind of story we’ve seen/read countless times about what happens when two will-they/won’t-they friends fall under a spell/temporary delusion/whatever and fall madly, temporarily in love–it’s been done a lot, frequently poorly, but not here.
“Love Hurts” was also a perfect set-up to the novelette Aftermath, which starts up hours after the jaw-dropping/rage-inducing last page of Changes and was, for me, worth the purchase price. If I’d remembered that this was going to be at the end of this collection, I’d have finished the thing in one setting, rather than over a period of days. Great, great story, both for the plot/characters itself, and for what Butcher shows us about how these characters will act without the man in the duster around. Loved it.
Now, this hasn’t convinced me to get these other collections I mentioned earlier–but I just now have hope that some of my other favorite authors will get in gear and publish collections like this one.
On Oct 23 in Chillicothe, Ohio, Archie Goodwin entered this world–no doubt with a smile for the pretty nurses–and American detective literature was never the same.
I’m toasting him in one of the ways I think he’d appreciate most–by raising a glass of milk in his honor.
Who was Archie? Archie summed up his life thusly:
Born in Ohio. Public high school, pretty good at geometry and football, graduated with honor but no honors. Went to college two weeks, decided it was childish, came to New York and got a job guarding a pier, shot and killed two men and was fired, was recommended to Nero Wolfe for a chore he wanted done, did it, was offered a full-time job by Mr. Wolfe, took it, still have it.” (Fourth of July Picnic)
Long may he keep it. Just what was he employed by Wolfe to do? In The Black Mountain he answers the statement, “I thought you was a private eye” with:
I don’t like the way you say it, but I am. Also I am an accountant, an amanuensis, and a cocklebur. Eight to five you never heard the word amanuensis and you never saw a cocklebur.
In The Red Box, he says
I know pretty well what my field is. Aside from my primary function as the thorn in the seat of Wolfe’s chair to keep him from going to sleep and waking up only for meals, I’m chiefly cut out for two things: to jump and grab something before the other guy can get his paws on it, and to collect pieces of the puzzle for Wolfe to work on.
In Black Orchids, he reacts to an insult:
…her cheap crack about me being a ten-cent Clark Gable, which was ridiculous. He simpers, to begin with, and to end with no once can say I resemble a movie actor, and if they did it would be more apt to be Gary Cooper than Clark Gable.
In case you’re wondering if this post was simply an excuse to go through some collections of Archie Goodwin quotations, you wouldn’t be totally wrong…he’s one of the fictional characters I like spending time with most in this world–he’s the literary equivalent of comfort food. So just a couple more great lines I’ve quoted here before:
I would appreciate it if they would call a halt on all their devoted efforts to find a way to abolish war or eliminate disease or run trains with atoms or extend the span of human life to a couple of centuries, and everybody concentrate for a while on how to wake me up in the morning without my resenting it. It may be that a bevy of beautiful maidens in pure silk yellow very sheer gowns, barefooted, singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” and scattering rose petals over me would do the trick, but I’d have to try it.
I looked at the wall clock. It said two minutes to four. I looked at my wrist watch. It said one minute to four. In spite of the discrepancy it seemed safe to conclude that it would soon be four o’clock.
“Indeed,” I said. That was Nero Wolfe’s word, and I never used it except in moments of stress, and it severely annoyed me when I caught myself using it, because when I look in a mirror I prefer to see me as is, with no skin grafted from anybody else’s hide, even Nero Wolfe’s.
What’s this? Chick Lit here?
Sure, why not?
I’ve actually read a piece or two lately about how useless the term is, and where people like Franzen or Tropper or Hornby can write about the same themes that appear in the better Chick Lit works and not be dismissed with a label quite as easily. Maybe that’s true, probably is. At the same time, it’s a label that works pretty well most of the time–and like all genres, the better works don’t get the recognition they deserve, but those who are up on things will get rewarded.
Anyway, I do read Chick Lit–at least a couple of titles a year. I’d read more, but I try to be picky. So this weekend, I finally got around to taking my wife’s advice and tried Jennifer Weiner’s Good in Bed (probably helped by seeing it set forth as an example of the better Chick Lit being ignored in the articles I mentioned). I’m glad I did, and will likely read more of her. Not anytime soon, nothing against her, it’d just take time away from the mysteries I’m binging on lately.
Wow, I’m rambling today, eh?
So on with the book…our protagonist is Candace (but call her Cannie), an entertainment reporter for a Philadelphia newspaper. She’s funny, smart, has good taste, a neat dog and is…well, fat. On the whole, she’s okay with that–she’s healthy and active, and though she’s tried a few diets/diet programs, none of them has stuck. Still, overall, she has a nice life. Until her ex gets a new column in a Cosmo-like mag and starts off with an article called “Loving a Larger Woman” (or something like that). It’s actually a pretty decent piece, fairly considerate–and everyone who isn’t Cannie or her best friend really likes it.
This launches Cannie on a quest for self-improvement–emotionally, professionally, and physically. And honestly, I’m not sure how to go on from here without a lot of spoilers.
There’s a big fairy tale ending here, but it’s quickly derailed into something still unrealistic, but far more satisfying. Funny, insightful, touching (without being obviously sentimental), and charming. It’s a satisfying read (and would probably hold up to a repeated read or two), no matter what label gets attached to it.
I’ve often felt conflicted about my appreciation for protagonists/leading characters who are murderers–professional hitmen (Peter Brown, Jimmy the Tulip, Martin Blank, Hawk, Jules Winnfield) or serial killers (Dexter Morgan, early Hannibal Lecter), but I can usually get over it because of what their creators do with them. But Angela S. Choi’s Fiona Fi Yu, from Hello Kitty Must Die, doesn’t get to join their ranks in my book. There’s little to commend her, or the book, if you ask me (which is sort of implied if you’ve read this far).
Fi is a successful, thirtysomething Chinese-American lawyer, living with her parents, who stumbles into serial killing (I’ll leave the details to those who read it). An unpleasant childhood, filled with overbearing parents, a strict Catholic school, and one sociopathic friend primes this perpetually single (and proud!) woman for an adulthood that’s even more unpleasant. Until the aforementioned stumbling, anyway. She’s a whiny, selfish, me-first person all the way, with a personality only a parakeet could love. Essentially, she’s a very unpleasant person–beyond the murdering. Sure, she can mix pop culture references into her narrative like Dennis Miller in his prime, but in a post-Tarantino/Whedon/Apatow/Abed Nadir age, is that really so noteworthy? Besides, if Humbert Humbert taught us nothing at all, he taught us that “You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.”
What about the story itself? It starts off semi-promising, and then goes straight downhill from there. Well, let me amend that. It starts off offensively, but it’s a staged, calculated offensiveness. Choi trades in an actual narrative hook for a hook constructed of shock value. But a few pages later, it gets semi-promising. There’s no redemption of the character–not even growth. Nothing commendable about the events, characters, or cultural commentary.
On the other hand, it was a quick read.
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