Elegy for Eddie

Elegy for Eddie is another Maisie Dobbs mystery, this one set in 1930s London teeming with costers and the last of the horse-drawn vehicles, which are rapidly losing ground to the fast-rising motorcar. Maisie is in the early(ish) days of her agency, and Elegy for Eddie focuses as much on Maisie, and her finding her place in the world and being comfortable in her own skin, as it does on the mystery of Eddie Pettit’s demise. So.

A group of costers come to Maisie to request that she investigate the “accident” that befell Eddie Pettit, a man whose “simple” mind, coupled with his uncanny talents, would likely see him placed somewhere on the autism spectrum. Maisie investigates, but – unlike other Maisie Dobbs books I’ve read – this one feels rather unsatisfying, both in the resolution of the mystery(ies), as well as the amount of ink devoted to Maisie’s personal life. I realize this is necessary to create the plot elements that allow for a full series, but I’m less interested in Maisie than I am in the “cozy mystery” aspect of Jacqueline Winspear’s work. To that end, I’m not sure how many more Maisie books I will read.

Three stars.

The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared

The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared is the story of, what else?, a 100-year-old man who climbs out the window - and hilarity ensues. Absolute, side-splitting hilarity. I have not laughed this yard since I read Owen Meany some 15 years ago.

Allan Karlsson climbs out of his window at an assisted living facility on the day of his 100th birthday with an eye toward escaping as far and as fast as he can. Unfortunately, he's 100, not terribly nimble, and doesn't have much cash. Fortunately, the bus station is quite close and he's not picky about where he goes. When another passenger requests Allan to look after his suitcase, it sets in motion a series of (hilarious) events that unfolds for the rest of the book.

Jonas Jonasson weaves together the story of Allan's present-day adventure with his many, many previous adventures: life as an explosives expert, experience on both sides of the Spanish Civil War, time in a gulag, and first-name familiarity with a host of world leaders from Harry Truman to Chairman Mao.

Although the fictional lives of the geriatric has become a genre unto itself (think Ove or Arthur or Hendrik), Jonasson has turned the genre on its head and, in doing so, created a masterpiece that will leave you clutching your sides and gasping for breath.

Five stars.

Age of Ambition: Chasing Fortune, Truth, and Faith in the New China

Evan Osnos’s Age of Ambition is part Shark’s Fin and Sichuan Pepper, part Factory Girls, and part Strange Stones-esque travelogue (particularly when Osnos joins a group of Chinese tourists on a whirlwind trip through Europe, in one of the most amusing chapters). From exploring the evolving nature of the Chinese communist party, to gambling in Macau, to the impact of the Beijing Olympics on the blueprint of the city, Osnos leaves no stone unturned in recounting his years as an expat journalist in China. 

Osnos is a serious journalist (he was the Beijing correspondent for The New Yorker), and he covers a lot of heady material, from corruption to forced sterilization to freedom of the press, but what makes Age of Ambition so eminently readable are the stories of everyday life – Osnos’s American-in-China-everyday-life – that he sprinkles throughout. For example, a family of weasels colonizes Osnos’s roof. He calls an exterminator, who informs him that weasels are good luck. 

Age of Ambition is a clear-eyed look at life in China, one that anyone who wants to understand more about this rising power should read.

Four stars.

We Hope for Better Things

I absolutely devoured this book. Undoubtedly, I am somewhat biased because the book is set in Michigan and so, in many ways, simply feels like home. More than that, though, I am in awe of the way that Erin Bartels essentially writes three separate stories about distantly-related women living in different times (the 1860s, the 1960s, and today) but in the same house (in Lapeer) and deftly weaves them together.

Regular readers of this blog will know that I frequently complain about books that have even two parallel storylines because too often one or the other suffers. Bartels manages all three beautifully, so that the reader reaches the end of We Hope for Better Things with an equal appreciation for all three. What's more, she doesn't insist on tying up every possible loose end for the sake of offering up a clean resolution by the closing pages. Her book is like life: beautiful and messy, warm and heavy, seldom with easy answers.

So, Elizabeth Balsam is an investigative reporter for the Free Press when an elderly gentleman contacts her out of the blue to return some old photos to an equally-elderly relative, Nora, that Elizabeth didn't know existed. Elizabeth learns from other relatives that Nora, in fact, may have a touch of dementia and, down on her luck and out of options in Detroit, Elizabeth agrees to move into Nora's remote farmhouse to determine whether Nora can remain on her own. Once there, she becomes fascinated by the history of the house and her family, particularly Mary, who presided over house and farm in the midst of the Civil War. Slowly, as Elizabeth and Nora get to know one another better, Elizabeth pieces together the stories of her family's history.

But not all of it. As I said before, Bartels doesn't wrap everything up and tie it with a bow. There's an acknowledgement that after so much time and so many generations, some of that history would be lost, and what hasn't been lost may still be distorted. In the end, she allows her reader to fill in the blanks, or not, all of which makes for an outstanding work of fiction.

My only criticism is that, as best I can calculate, Bartels's dates are slightly off. I'm just not convinced that Nora is quite as "elderly" as she's made out to be, and I'm also having a bit of difficulty with the math that would have have Nora's grandfather, George, born in the 1860s. Not impossible, but enough to set me to calculating more than one, with pen and paper, how these characters were all related and when they appeared to be born. In the grand scheme of things, though, that is but a minor quibble.

Five stars.

The Brain That Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science

Norman Doidge's The Brain That Changes Itself is my latest neuroscience read, and, focusing as it does on neuroplasticity, also the most relevant. (It's not everyday that pyschopaths or the evolution of brain function enter into my thoughts or conversations. Neuroplasticity, though, now that's a serious buzzword around here.)

In a nutshell, Doidge presents case studies of several patients with serious brain injury (such as stroke, early childhood trauma, or other congenital condition) and explores how their brains process different types of information including sight, sound, language, and tactile sensation. Through these examples, Doidge walks the reader through the ways in which these cases support previously known information or - more frequently than not - how science advances by the ways in which these cases upend what doctors and scientists thought they previously understood.

All of the examples showcase the remarkable plastic features of the brain and the use-it-or-lose-it principle that underpins much of neuroscience. The cases here explain much to me about the obvious neuroplasticity we've seen with our son, and fill me with hope for how far neuroplasticity might extend.

Unless you've got a particular and personal interest in neuroscience, this book likely won't be on your reading list - and you needn't feel compelled to add it. If, on the other hand, a reader is specifically seeking an accessible (i.e., non-medical) volume on neuroplasticity, The Brain That Changes Itself has much to recommend it.

Carnegie's Maid

Clara Kelly is not Clara Kelly. Or rather, this Clara Kelly - sent by her family to America to hedge against the possibility of losing their farm in Ireland is not the Anglo-Irish Clara Kelly traveling from Dublin to serve as a ladies maid in one of the leading houses in Pittsburgh. But when that Clara Kelly succombs to conditions on the voyage to America, this Clara Kelly takes her place, accepting first the carriage ride over the Allegheny Mountains and then the position as maid to Mrs. Carnegie, mother of Andrew and Tom. Clara Kelly was not, after all,  an uncommon name for an Irish girl.

I liked the set up of the story, the swapping of identities, and our protagonist's quick study of what it would take to be successful in her role. Author Marie Benedict imbues Clara with pluck and spunk and her writing feels true to the times. Unfortunately, I found Clara a bit too obsessed with her family, her family, her family...which, yes, I understand is the reason she's there, but Clara's concern with being found out appears to border on paranoia, especially after the point at which, presumably, she could parlay her position with the Carnegies into a different position where she wouldn't need to live in constant fear of being found out.

However, Benedict is virtually forced to create this aspect of Clara's character by virtue of the fact that Clara is a fictional character in the midst of actual men and women and events. Had this obsession not driven her every moment, Clara would not be able to make her final choice, which Benedict must make Clara make in order to retain historical accuracy for the events that followed. Still, I found this aspect of the book distracting, and it detracted from my overall enjoyment.

Three stars.