A friend recommended Year of Wonders to me recently and so, particularly having read Geraldine Brooks's most recent novel, March, I thought I would give it a go. Year of Wonders has going for it the fact that it's historical fiction (which regular readers will know is my prefered fiction genre), as well as Brooks's wonderful prose and dialogue. These are the real strengths of the book. Brooks notes in the author's note the extent of research she did for this book, not only on the plague (more on that in a minute), but on the minutiae of rural, English, seventeenth century life.
Year of Wonders is the story of a small English village infected by the plague in 1666. The protagonist, Anna Frith, is an 18-year-old widow with two small boys and a position as a parlourmaid at the rectory. As the cases of black death mount, the town's citizens make the bold and unselfish decision to seal themselves off from the rest of world, lest the plague reach other villages. This part of the story is based on the true story of the English village of Eyam, as Brooks explains. The characters, however, from Anna to the Rector Michael Mompellion and his wife Elinor are fictional.
As I've said both the writing and the research are impeccable. My complaint, however, lies with the character of Anna Frith. A few years ago, I read Annette Vallon: A Novel of the French Revolution, which I enjoyed immensely, except for the way in which Annette consistently got herself into (and out of) situations that absolutely beggared believe and also made her seem a bit too self-righteous and/or martyresque for me to be deeply invested in her as a character. I have the same issue with Anna Frith. From taming wild horses to delivering premature, breech babies, Anna does it all, when if she'd done just a bit less, I might have liked her more. (The midwifery scenes brought to mind The Midwife of Venice, set slightly earlier than Year of Wonders, but with many similarities.) Also, although this may be splitting hairs, Anna's obsession with Elinor was definitely weird.
Finally, and I've heard this from the friend who recommended Year of Wonders to me as well, but the ending simply does not make sense. The last 10-15 pages seem to belong to another book, which is a shame because there are any number of more believable endings Brooks could have conjured and still kept with the overall story.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Monday, February 24, 2014
Chronicles of Avonlea & Further Chronicles of Avonlea
Monday, February 17, 2014
The Assassination of the Archduke: Sarajevo 1914 and the Romance That Changed the World
One must wonder what might have been had Gavrilo Princip's bullet not found Franz Ferdinand in June 1914. Only months earlier the archduke, afterall, had observed presciently that war between Russia and Austria would "encourage revolution in both countries and thereby cause both Emperor and Tsar to push each other from their thrones. For these reasons, I consider war to be lunacy..." He did not live to see the prophecy fulfilled.
I'm getting ahead of myself, though, for Greg King and Sue Woolmans's Assassination of the Archduke is not another geopolitical what-might-have-been as much as it is an intimate look at the private side of Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie. Make that his morganatic wife. I first learned of morganatic marriage when I read the Duke of Windsor's memoirs. As presented by that duke, it didn't seem so terrible - Wallis Simpson would have become his wife and consort, but not held the title of queen and the crown could never pass to any children they might have. Morganatic marriage in the House of Habsburg was an entirely different matter, with open insults heaped upon Sophie for the entirety of the 14 years of her marriage to her Franzi, and then continued upon their death. Suffice it to say, in 19th century Vienna, Prince William wouldn't have even been permitted a morganatic marriage to Miss Middleton!
If the Vienna aristocracy comes in for the worst of it from King and Woolmans (with Emperor Franz Josef and his lackey Montenuevo bearing the brunt of the criticism), the Serbs fare only slightly better. The reader cannot help but feel they are a violent and wretched people, deserving of every misery the twentieth century heaped on them. This is undoubtedly an over-broad portrayal, and one that feels rather unfair, at least based on the evidence presented here. Yes, they killed their king and queen in a midnight raid on a palace, but then again, so did the French (although it took them a bit longer to actually do the killing), and yet the French are seldom, if ever, portrayed as barbaric and backward.
In the same way that I wondered whether the authors were too unkind to the Serbians, I also wondered whether they might have been overly generous with Franzi and Soph. Much of the material for this book comes from statements and memories shared by their children who, one imagines, may not have been entirely unbiased. The eldest was but 13 when Franz Ferdinand and Sophie were assassinated; moreover the insults borne by the mother were also suffered by the children. It seems possible in the circumstances then that they might have then felt their parents rather more perfect and heroic than they were in life. (The grandchildren have engaged in a prolonged effort to get tour guides to be "kinder" in describing the Archduke to tourists. When such are your sources, your story can only go in one direction.) I'm not suggesting they were bad people, but the portrait painted by King and Woolmans suggests the Archduke and his wife were near saints. More surprisingly, is the Kasier's appearance as a warmheared friend to the archduke, warmhearted not being an adjective I've ever considered in connection with the Kaiser before.
On the whole, I found The Assassination of the Archduke to be highly readable and an entirely fresh take on the events leading up to World War I. Certainly King and Woolmans provide wonderful insight on the last days of the Habsburg empire and the intrigue of what was once Europe's most glittering court. I highly recommend it for history lovers or those who are looking for World War I era nonfiction that isn't simply another recounting of all the battles won and last and both sides of the war. Four stars.
I'm getting ahead of myself, though, for Greg King and Sue Woolmans's Assassination of the Archduke is not another geopolitical what-might-have-been as much as it is an intimate look at the private side of Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie. Make that his morganatic wife. I first learned of morganatic marriage when I read the Duke of Windsor's memoirs. As presented by that duke, it didn't seem so terrible - Wallis Simpson would have become his wife and consort, but not held the title of queen and the crown could never pass to any children they might have. Morganatic marriage in the House of Habsburg was an entirely different matter, with open insults heaped upon Sophie for the entirety of the 14 years of her marriage to her Franzi, and then continued upon their death. Suffice it to say, in 19th century Vienna, Prince William wouldn't have even been permitted a morganatic marriage to Miss Middleton!
If the Vienna aristocracy comes in for the worst of it from King and Woolmans (with Emperor Franz Josef and his lackey Montenuevo bearing the brunt of the criticism), the Serbs fare only slightly better. The reader cannot help but feel they are a violent and wretched people, deserving of every misery the twentieth century heaped on them. This is undoubtedly an over-broad portrayal, and one that feels rather unfair, at least based on the evidence presented here. Yes, they killed their king and queen in a midnight raid on a palace, but then again, so did the French (although it took them a bit longer to actually do the killing), and yet the French are seldom, if ever, portrayed as barbaric and backward.
In the same way that I wondered whether the authors were too unkind to the Serbians, I also wondered whether they might have been overly generous with Franzi and Soph. Much of the material for this book comes from statements and memories shared by their children who, one imagines, may not have been entirely unbiased. The eldest was but 13 when Franz Ferdinand and Sophie were assassinated; moreover the insults borne by the mother were also suffered by the children. It seems possible in the circumstances then that they might have then felt their parents rather more perfect and heroic than they were in life. (The grandchildren have engaged in a prolonged effort to get tour guides to be "kinder" in describing the Archduke to tourists. When such are your sources, your story can only go in one direction.) I'm not suggesting they were bad people, but the portrait painted by King and Woolmans suggests the Archduke and his wife were near saints. More surprisingly, is the Kasier's appearance as a warmheared friend to the archduke, warmhearted not being an adjective I've ever considered in connection with the Kaiser before.
On the whole, I found The Assassination of the Archduke to be highly readable and an entirely fresh take on the events leading up to World War I. Certainly King and Woolmans provide wonderful insight on the last days of the Habsburg empire and the intrigue of what was once Europe's most glittering court. I highly recommend it for history lovers or those who are looking for World War I era nonfiction that isn't simply another recounting of all the battles won and last and both sides of the war. Four stars.
Monday, February 10, 2014
The Colonel and Little Missie: Buffalo Bill, Annie Oakley, and the Beginnings of Superstardom in America
A friend send me her local library's list of recommended readings recently and I was intrigued by several of them, not least Larry McMurtry's The Colonel and Little Missie: Buffalo Bill, Annie Oakley, and the Beginnings of Superstardom in America...even though I really, really meant to stop reading about the wild, wild west after my adventures with Billy the Kid, the railways, Wyatt Earp, and most recently, Lewis & Clark (and company).
In fairness (to me), The Colonel and Little Missie was much more about the west than I expected - the shows that made Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley famous take second billing to the places and adventures that made them. In some ways, this was disappointing, as I found the most interesting parts of the book were those that dealt with the mounting of Buffalo Bill's Wild West - the 80+ car train, the hundreds of performers borne across the ocean and through Europe, the show that stole a bit of thunder from Chicago's World Fair.
A far greater amount of ink is devoted to "the colonel" than is devoted to "little missie," but in fairness (to McMurtry), Annie Oakley seems to have done her best to live as quiet a life as possible for a mega-star, and despite her skill with a gun, McMurtry clearly had less to work with as pertains to Phoebe Ann Moses Butler. As an aside: is it any wonder she adopted a stage name?
The Colonel and Little Missie is a very quick read, enriched by the many photographs McMurtry has included. I enjoyed it, event if I really am done reading how the west was won. I think.
In fairness (to me), The Colonel and Little Missie was much more about the west than I expected - the shows that made Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley famous take second billing to the places and adventures that made them. In some ways, this was disappointing, as I found the most interesting parts of the book were those that dealt with the mounting of Buffalo Bill's Wild West - the 80+ car train, the hundreds of performers borne across the ocean and through Europe, the show that stole a bit of thunder from Chicago's World Fair.
A far greater amount of ink is devoted to "the colonel" than is devoted to "little missie," but in fairness (to McMurtry), Annie Oakley seems to have done her best to live as quiet a life as possible for a mega-star, and despite her skill with a gun, McMurtry clearly had less to work with as pertains to Phoebe Ann Moses Butler. As an aside: is it any wonder she adopted a stage name?
The Colonel and Little Missie is a very quick read, enriched by the many photographs McMurtry has included. I enjoyed it, event if I really am done reading how the west was won. I think.
Friday, January 31, 2014
The Men Who United the States: America's Explorers, Inventors, Eccentrics and Mavericks, and the Creation of One Nation, Indivisible
I was initially skeptical of Simon Winchester's organization of the origins of this country around the five classical elements (wood, earth, water, fire, metal). However, upon finishing The Men Who United the States, I will say that it worked. It really, really worked and it's hard to envision to better framework to tie together such disparate seeming developments as Lewis & Clark's expedition, the interstate system, and television.
Winchester works his way forward, from Jefferson's charge to Merriwether Lewis through the building of the canals, then the railways, the roads, and aviation, transportationally speaking, to the telegraph, radio, television, internet, in terms of communication. Indeed, this book is the story of the country's connection both physically and culturally. Many of those he profiles have long graced the pages of elementary social studies books: Lewis & Clark, Alexander Graham Bell, Thomas Edison, for example, but many others have otherwise been lost to time. Henry McKinley built the first road in America, a turnpike out of Cumberland, Maryland. DeWitt Clinton, mayor of New York City, owns much responsibility for the Erie Canal. And so on and so forth.
Winchester includes great imagery of the American West, particularly when he writes of the railways and the roads. The book is filled with photographs, documents, and maps that give further life to his writing. He also intersperses the historical storytelling with more modern stories of how own travels in America. Occasionally, he seems rather too pleased with himself (as when relating a treacherous crossing of the Donner Pass), but the stories do serve to illustrate the changes to various regions and technologies.
Ultimately, The Men Who United the States is best enjoyed by history buffs, but if you're looking for a refresher course on much of U.S. history (from Pocahontas to Ike and beyond), you won't be disappointed.
Winchester works his way forward, from Jefferson's charge to Merriwether Lewis through the building of the canals, then the railways, the roads, and aviation, transportationally speaking, to the telegraph, radio, television, internet, in terms of communication. Indeed, this book is the story of the country's connection both physically and culturally. Many of those he profiles have long graced the pages of elementary social studies books: Lewis & Clark, Alexander Graham Bell, Thomas Edison, for example, but many others have otherwise been lost to time. Henry McKinley built the first road in America, a turnpike out of Cumberland, Maryland. DeWitt Clinton, mayor of New York City, owns much responsibility for the Erie Canal. And so on and so forth.
Winchester includes great imagery of the American West, particularly when he writes of the railways and the roads. The book is filled with photographs, documents, and maps that give further life to his writing. He also intersperses the historical storytelling with more modern stories of how own travels in America. Occasionally, he seems rather too pleased with himself (as when relating a treacherous crossing of the Donner Pass), but the stories do serve to illustrate the changes to various regions and technologies.
Ultimately, The Men Who United the States is best enjoyed by history buffs, but if you're looking for a refresher course on much of U.S. history (from Pocahontas to Ike and beyond), you won't be disappointed.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Burial Rites
Agnes Magnúsdóttir was the last person executed by Iceland, in 1830, for a crime committed in 1828. That crime, which Agnes was accused of committing along with one other man and one other woman, was the murder of two farmers at Illugastaðir. At the time, and since, Agnes was largely regarded as the epitome of a murderess, motivated, perhaps, by a combination of greed and revenge. Some went so far as to brand her a witch. Iceland, like much of the world at that time, was a poor and often brutal place to live; the cold and darkness that reach through the pages and grab the reader only magnify this. By her own admission in the author's note, Hannah Kent has tried to create a more ambiguous portrait of Agnes.
In this, she succeeds thoroughly. Awaiting her execution - beheading by axe - Agnes is transferred to a small, poor farm to be housed with a farm couple and their two daughters. The family has had no say in the matter and their treatment of Agnes reflects this. Slowly, though, as they come to know her, the reader understands that they also begin to question what they believed of the woman in their midst.
The characters in Burial Rites are the novel's strength. Each is distinct and well-developed and Kent should be thanked for giving the main characters names that, if still Icelandic, are easy enough on the eyes, mind, and tongue of an English speaker. In addition to Agnes, there are daughters Steina and Lauga and their parents Jon and Margret (who seems pretty clearly to be suffering from a bad case of consumption). If the characters are the strength, the organization is the weakness. The viewpoints shift constantly, within chapters and without warning. Initially this nearly drove me to distraction; I became used to the style.
Burial Rites exudes darkness and cold, illness and sadness. Yet, it manages not to be steeped in depression, a fine line that Kent has navigated deftly. In the end it is a fine work of historical fiction with strong undercurrents of ambiguity.
In this, she succeeds thoroughly. Awaiting her execution - beheading by axe - Agnes is transferred to a small, poor farm to be housed with a farm couple and their two daughters. The family has had no say in the matter and their treatment of Agnes reflects this. Slowly, though, as they come to know her, the reader understands that they also begin to question what they believed of the woman in their midst.
The characters in Burial Rites are the novel's strength. Each is distinct and well-developed and Kent should be thanked for giving the main characters names that, if still Icelandic, are easy enough on the eyes, mind, and tongue of an English speaker. In addition to Agnes, there are daughters Steina and Lauga and their parents Jon and Margret (who seems pretty clearly to be suffering from a bad case of consumption). If the characters are the strength, the organization is the weakness. The viewpoints shift constantly, within chapters and without warning. Initially this nearly drove me to distraction; I became used to the style.
Burial Rites exudes darkness and cold, illness and sadness. Yet, it manages not to be steeped in depression, a fine line that Kent has navigated deftly. In the end it is a fine work of historical fiction with strong undercurrents of ambiguity.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Twenties Girl: A Novel
I do not normally read books like Twenties Girl. It's straight up fiction, modern day, set in London. The last couple of times I've read similar fiction have not, honestly ended well. There was The Spoiler, which left me wondering how all of the reviews (and NPR - NPR, for God's sake!) had gotten it so wrong; I could not even bring myself to finish Last Night at Chateau Marmont. But Clio wrote a fantastic review and since she (almost) never steers me wrong, I figured, why not? Twenties Girl is absolutely laugh-out-loud hilarious. It is the funniest book I have read since Good Book and that was a year ago.
Here's the set-up: Lara Lington's life is a trainwreck. Her boyfriend has inexplicably walked out on her, and her business partner has decided to stay in Goa somewhat indefinitely. Lara has no money, no life, and she's desperate to remember which lies she's previously told her parents so not to confuse the story line when they come to pick her up for the funeral of 105-year-old Great Aunt Sadie, whom Lara has never met.
Life goes from bad to worse at the funeral when dead aunt Sadie, whose casket is just there, feet from Lara, refuses to go to her grave quietly, but rather begins to haunt Lara. See, she has lost her necklace and she's in a sort of purgatory unless Lara can find it. She's also rather bossy and saucy and reappears at the most inopportune times. In addition to finding her necklace, Sadie is obsessed with the Charleston and determined that Lara will learn.
Twenties Girl is completely and utterly over-the-top. It is ridiculous in the best sense of the word and it is hilarious pretty much from start to finish. Sophie Kinsella has created a lighthearted masterpiece here and I'm sorry I doubted for a minute whether I should read it.
Here's the set-up: Lara Lington's life is a trainwreck. Her boyfriend has inexplicably walked out on her, and her business partner has decided to stay in Goa somewhat indefinitely. Lara has no money, no life, and she's desperate to remember which lies she's previously told her parents so not to confuse the story line when they come to pick her up for the funeral of 105-year-old Great Aunt Sadie, whom Lara has never met.
Life goes from bad to worse at the funeral when dead aunt Sadie, whose casket is just there, feet from Lara, refuses to go to her grave quietly, but rather begins to haunt Lara. See, she has lost her necklace and she's in a sort of purgatory unless Lara can find it. She's also rather bossy and saucy and reappears at the most inopportune times. In addition to finding her necklace, Sadie is obsessed with the Charleston and determined that Lara will learn.
Twenties Girl is completely and utterly over-the-top. It is ridiculous in the best sense of the word and it is hilarious pretty much from start to finish. Sophie Kinsella has created a lighthearted masterpiece here and I'm sorry I doubted for a minute whether I should read it.
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