Rhonda Farr was hypnotised by the scene before her, or at least that’s what she told herself later. How else could she explain watching a six-foot rabbit (or at least, a man in a rabbit costume) hop up to Trudy Florruci’s car, approach Trudy’s daughter, escort Ernie into a gold VW bug and drive away?
Distraught at her inaction, Rhonda involves herself in the subsequent investigation, and the more she sees the more strongly she’s reminded of the disappearance of another young girl from the small town of Pike’s Crossing, her childhood best friend Lizzy, and the more she thinks about that summer, viewing events through the filter of youth, and complicated by her still unrequited feelings for Lizzy’s brother Peter.
While the hunt for Ernie shapes and propels the plot, it is many ways a secondary storyline, as McMahon explores Rhonda’s personality, in many ways stunted, her life unexamined and on hold without her realising. This unique and interesting novel combines mystery with a more literary pastiche of past and present, as Rhonda uncovers truths about herself, about those closest to her, and as she begins to fear that there’s nobody she can truly trust.
The writing is certainly accessible, but though not an overtly heavy or ponderous book, Island of Lost Girls is far from light reading. I really liked McMahon’s voice and her interweaving of past and present. She was able to reveal truths to the adult eyes of readers that could be easily unseen by a child and by inattentive adults, and the emergence of facts if oblique and covert, making the reading experience rewarding. I anticipate tracking down her other works - Alex
Showing posts with label update tags. Show all posts
Showing posts with label update tags. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 23
Sunday, November 30
Addition – Toni Jordan
Numbers bound Grace’s life – they give her days structure and solidity. Grace counts everything, from the steps she takes to the number of letters in peoples’ names, and her hero is inventor Nikola Tezla who, like Grace, loved numbers. Unlike Grace, who likes tens (a preference she thinks is natural and obvious, as ten is the number of digits we have), Nikola loves threes – he would only stay in a hotel room if the room number was divisible by three, and when he dined he had to have eighteen napkins folded beside him. ”Why 18? Why not 6 or 9 or 27? I’d love to roll over in bed one morning, see his next to my pillow, and ask him.”
Everything in Grace’s life is defined, clear, in its place. She has routines for each season, each month, each week and each day of the week, from her wardrobe to how she washes. She rises at the same time every day, and every day has a routine. On Saturdays she goes shopping after breakfast. On one Saturday everything goes as usual – two packs of chicken thighs, a carton of eggs (with two removed, to make ten):
This is a fascinating novel about the power of obsessive-compulsive disease, but it’s more than that. Grace is intelligent, quirky, quick-witted, imaginative, and disabled. When Seamus, the original possessor of that tenth banana, lands in her life all that begins to change. Seamus is an ideal leading man – sensitive, kind, handsome, potent, intelligent – and after some initial bumps they get together, and Grace stops counting.
I was at first dismayed by the idea that Grace’s condition could so easily be cured by the presence of a man in her life, though distracted enough by the romance that I kept reading. But then things become more complicated, and Grace’s numbers are not so easily ousted. The risk of spoilers is too high to say any more about this aspect of Addition, except that is Grace’s struggles with the therapy designed to free her mark the most interesting twist in a well-written and absorbing novel. And, as Grace points out, side effects are only minor if they’re happening to someone else’s sense of self.
Intertwined into the main plot are Grace’s relationships with her female relatives (mother, sister and niece), the back story of why she’s on extended sick leave form her job as a teacher, and the disclosure of the pivotal event that began Grace counting. This last element could, in less skilful hands, have been simplistic but Jordan imbues it with full weight and depth.
Addition’s popularity is reflected by the slip the library inserted when I borrowed it - this is the first book I’ve borrowed that flags it as a popular item that they’d like me to read first and return promptly – to give you an idea of how rare this is, over 80% of my reviews are on library books.
As a disorganised person who would like more order in my life, and (though not at all to a Gracian degree) a counter, I was instantly captured by the routine of Grace’s life. I mentioned to a friend that Addition made me feel like this and she (a type A who I think is a little too tightly structured and wound herself) was amazed that I would want to be more (her emphasis) OCD, which I thought was a little uncalled for. For me the book certainly made me reflect on how slender the line is between eccentricity and insanity, how culturally mediated that line is, and how we view the quirks of those around us. As Grace points out, irrationality about numbers (and in general) is everywhere –
Everything in Grace’s life is defined, clear, in its place. She has routines for each season, each month, each week and each day of the week, from her wardrobe to how she washes. She rises at the same time every day, and every day has a routine. On Saturdays she goes shopping after breakfast. On one Saturday everything goes as usual – two packs of chicken thighs, a carton of eggs (with two removed, to make ten):
100 beans (that’s a pain), 10 carrots, 10 baby potatoes, 10 small onions, 100g of salad mix…and 9 bananas.Grace doesn’t want to leave her spot in the line – after all, she was there first – but she can’t possibly buy only nine bananas. When she spots a lone banana in the basket of the distracted shopper behind her, Grace diverts his attention and pops the banana in her own pile. And just like that, Grace’s ordered world begins to fray.
What?
Count again.
How the fuck did I get 9 bananas in my trolley?
This is impossible. I look behind the eggs, behind the bag of beans. This is not possible.
This is a fascinating novel about the power of obsessive-compulsive disease, but it’s more than that. Grace is intelligent, quirky, quick-witted, imaginative, and disabled. When Seamus, the original possessor of that tenth banana, lands in her life all that begins to change. Seamus is an ideal leading man – sensitive, kind, handsome, potent, intelligent – and after some initial bumps they get together, and Grace stops counting.
I was at first dismayed by the idea that Grace’s condition could so easily be cured by the presence of a man in her life, though distracted enough by the romance that I kept reading. But then things become more complicated, and Grace’s numbers are not so easily ousted. The risk of spoilers is too high to say any more about this aspect of Addition, except that is Grace’s struggles with the therapy designed to free her mark the most interesting twist in a well-written and absorbing novel. And, as Grace points out, side effects are only minor if they’re happening to someone else’s sense of self.
Intertwined into the main plot are Grace’s relationships with her female relatives (mother, sister and niece), the back story of why she’s on extended sick leave form her job as a teacher, and the disclosure of the pivotal event that began Grace counting. This last element could, in less skilful hands, have been simplistic but Jordan imbues it with full weight and depth.
Addition’s popularity is reflected by the slip the library inserted when I borrowed it - this is the first book I’ve borrowed that flags it as a popular item that they’d like me to read first and return promptly – to give you an idea of how rare this is, over 80% of my reviews are on library books.
As a disorganised person who would like more order in my life, and (though not at all to a Gracian degree) a counter, I was instantly captured by the routine of Grace’s life. I mentioned to a friend that Addition made me feel like this and she (a type A who I think is a little too tightly structured and wound herself) was amazed that I would want to be more (her emphasis) OCD, which I thought was a little uncalled for. For me the book certainly made me reflect on how slender the line is between eccentricity and insanity, how culturally mediated that line is, and how we view the quirks of those around us. As Grace points out, irrationality about numbers (and in general) is everywhere –
At Melbourne international airport there is no gate 13. The gates go up to 11 in odd numbers and to 14 in evens. They say I’m the fucking nutcase but everyone has it. The fear of 13 is deep inside people, in that part of them that’s more animal than human. Imagine the announcement: ‘Attention please. Flight number 911 to New York is now boarding at gate 13.’ How many people would get on that plane? Rational people. Educated people. The fear of the number thirteen is called triskaidekaphobia. Almost everyone has it. They work, they have friends, partners. No one tries to make them take drugs.
My life, by the way, is more notable for its chaotic disorganisation than order. – Alex
Friday, November 28
Anything Goes – David Stove
Science studies as a discipline, or field of inter-related disciplines, arose shortly after the Second World War. Not a hard science in itself, science studies explores cultural aspects of the hard sciences, and was designed to: impart an understanding of the sciences to arts students, and to encourage science students to think about the cultural aspects of their work.
The social science perspective is that, though scientists think of themselves as wholly driven by rationality, in reality what causes the majority of scientists to shift paradigms is more complex.
Philosopher David Stove, who died in 1994, counters the dominant discourse in science studies by examining the writings of the most influential academics in the field – Thomas Kuhn, Paul Feyerabend, Karl Popper and Imre Lakatos. In Anything Goes (subtitled Origins of the Cult of Scientific Irrationalism) he first disassembles their arguments and points out the way their positions are made credible – utilising tricks to neutralise the meaning of words (by, for example, enclosing them in quotations), and failing to use consistent and logical arguments (in the philosophical sense). Stove then goes back to the source of the discipline, identifies and discusses the underlying premise on which all work in the field is based (David Hume’s scepticism about inductive arguments, one of the cornerstones of science).
At least I think that’s what he does, but I may have it all completely inverted. Rarely have I felt as stupid as I did trying to work my way through Anything Goes – I think the last time was when I slogged my way through Mouse or Rat. In this case it was particularly disappointing because, as it deals with some of my favourite topics (social science, popular science, irrationalism and philosophy), I was looking forward to reading it.
The introduction, by Keith Windshuttle, was readable, accessible and interesting. In it he lays out the broad structure of Stove’s book, as well as providing the useful background of the origins of science studies. Though I did not agree with everything he wrote, I was interested. However, shortly after beginning the section by Stove I became mired in a dense morass of prose. Opening at random, I give you this example:
I have a background in philosophy and a smattering of social science – I am well aware of the wankiness of parts of academia, and Stove illustrates aspects of this well (at least up to the point I stopped reading). However, he is clearly writing for an audience with a strong philosophical background, and an audience who are already well aware of the divide – there is little in the way of introduction or explanation, and he launches straight into the arguments section (which, for those of you unfamiliar with the structure of philosophical arguments, looks a lot like algebra).
I believe that there are faults on both sides – from what Stove (and Windshuttle) write, some of the science studies academics cited make ludicrous claims that deny science any objective truth, that deny any kind of progress, and argue as though the scientific paradigms that replace their predecessors are any better or more valid than those they replace.
On the other hand, scientists are mistaken if they believe that objective truth is the only basis for accepting or rejecting new theories – from Copernicus revolutionising astronomy, through Semmelweis’ theory that microbes not miasmas caused childbed fever, to the rejection of Marshall and Robin's idea that gastric ulcers are caused by bacteria not stress, every field of science has examples where valid theories were denied by the majority despite their truth. While some scientists may indeed be open to new theories that overthrow everything that comes before them, relinquishing a position occupied for ones’ entire academic life, the foundations of ones’ prestige, is not easily done.
It is also true that culture affects the direction science takes, the mindset of the scientists themselves, and the kind of information that can be released – very few of us are truly capable of being objective, and instead view the world through the filter of our preconceptions and beliefs, and this influences the theories, experiments and proofs produced. These cultural blinders are not recognised at the time, but in hindsight their influence is obvious – all the work ‘proving’ non-white races were inferior to white, or that women had less intellectual capacity than men, for example. It is presumptuous and delusional to believe that any of us today are more independent of these ideas and ideologies than our forebears, but that is what the objective concept of science incorporates unspoken.
And somehow I have strayed far from the book. In summary – interesting, valuable, biased, dense, unfinished. - Alex
The social science perspective is that, though scientists think of themselves as wholly driven by rationality, in reality what causes the majority of scientists to shift paradigms is more complex.
Philosopher David Stove, who died in 1994, counters the dominant discourse in science studies by examining the writings of the most influential academics in the field – Thomas Kuhn, Paul Feyerabend, Karl Popper and Imre Lakatos. In Anything Goes (subtitled Origins of the Cult of Scientific Irrationalism) he first disassembles their arguments and points out the way their positions are made credible – utilising tricks to neutralise the meaning of words (by, for example, enclosing them in quotations), and failing to use consistent and logical arguments (in the philosophical sense). Stove then goes back to the source of the discipline, identifies and discusses the underlying premise on which all work in the field is based (David Hume’s scepticism about inductive arguments, one of the cornerstones of science).
At least I think that’s what he does, but I may have it all completely inverted. Rarely have I felt as stupid as I did trying to work my way through Anything Goes – I think the last time was when I slogged my way through Mouse or Rat. In this case it was particularly disappointing because, as it deals with some of my favourite topics (social science, popular science, irrationalism and philosophy), I was looking forward to reading it.
The introduction, by Keith Windshuttle, was readable, accessible and interesting. In it he lays out the broad structure of Stove’s book, as well as providing the useful background of the origins of science studies. Though I did not agree with everything he wrote, I was interested. However, shortly after beginning the section by Stove I became mired in a dense morass of prose. Opening at random, I give you this example:
In fact, of course, as is obvious, nothing could be more trivial. That the premises of an argument entail the conclusion is not enough to make them a reason to believe it. And if the premises of the arguments are to succeed in being a reason to believe the conclusion, not every validator R of the argument from P to Q is available to every arguer as an additional premise. Such an R, to be available to an arguer as an additional premise must at least be such that it can be part of a reason to believe Q.And that’s not even from a tricky bit.
I have a background in philosophy and a smattering of social science – I am well aware of the wankiness of parts of academia, and Stove illustrates aspects of this well (at least up to the point I stopped reading). However, he is clearly writing for an audience with a strong philosophical background, and an audience who are already well aware of the divide – there is little in the way of introduction or explanation, and he launches straight into the arguments section (which, for those of you unfamiliar with the structure of philosophical arguments, looks a lot like algebra).
I believe that there are faults on both sides – from what Stove (and Windshuttle) write, some of the science studies academics cited make ludicrous claims that deny science any objective truth, that deny any kind of progress, and argue as though the scientific paradigms that replace their predecessors are any better or more valid than those they replace.
On the other hand, scientists are mistaken if they believe that objective truth is the only basis for accepting or rejecting new theories – from Copernicus revolutionising astronomy, through Semmelweis’ theory that microbes not miasmas caused childbed fever, to the rejection of Marshall and Robin's idea that gastric ulcers are caused by bacteria not stress, every field of science has examples where valid theories were denied by the majority despite their truth. While some scientists may indeed be open to new theories that overthrow everything that comes before them, relinquishing a position occupied for ones’ entire academic life, the foundations of ones’ prestige, is not easily done.
It is also true that culture affects the direction science takes, the mindset of the scientists themselves, and the kind of information that can be released – very few of us are truly capable of being objective, and instead view the world through the filter of our preconceptions and beliefs, and this influences the theories, experiments and proofs produced. These cultural blinders are not recognised at the time, but in hindsight their influence is obvious – all the work ‘proving’ non-white races were inferior to white, or that women had less intellectual capacity than men, for example. It is presumptuous and delusional to believe that any of us today are more independent of these ideas and ideologies than our forebears, but that is what the objective concept of science incorporates unspoken.
And somehow I have strayed far from the book. In summary – interesting, valuable, biased, dense, unfinished. - Alex
Sunday, November 23
The Protector – David Morrell
Former Delta force commando Cavanaugh now works with a highly trained team as a protector for the rich. Hired by Daniel (not Dan) Prescott, an unfit, overweight and paranoid scientist who has discovered a highly addictive drug, Cavanaugh teaches him the fundamentals of escape and evasion, including creating a new persona. Pursued by two, apparently separate, teams, Cavanaugh’s base is attacked and most of his crew is killed – and Prescott seems to have been colluding with them. Now Cavanaugh has to track own his own client, uncover the truth, and take him out.
It’s been a long time since I’ve read one of Morrell’s novels, though I’ve in the past thoroughly enjoyed his work (from First Blood, the basis for the Rambo movies, to my favourites, Fraternity of the Stone and Brotherhood of the Rose), and I wasn’t disappointed – in The Protector Morrell delivers a non-stop, action-packed, cleverly plotted tale of espionage and secrets within secrets, populated by fully developed characters. The details are clearly well researched but subtly inserted – the description of Prescott as an elicitor (the tradecraft of extracting information without people realising) is a great example of Morrell imparting information that illuminates what went before and supporting what comes next without clumsily dumping exposition on the reader. And he convincingly depicts reactions – the training scene in a swamp that takes place in the prologue is particularly good, at least as far as I (who’ve never been in anything like that situation) could tell, and I found my own pulse speeding up in sympathy.
There isn’t anything new and ground-breaking here, but The Protector is an above-average addition to the genre and well worth the trip. - Alex
It’s been a long time since I’ve read one of Morrell’s novels, though I’ve in the past thoroughly enjoyed his work (from First Blood, the basis for the Rambo movies, to my favourites, Fraternity of the Stone and Brotherhood of the Rose), and I wasn’t disappointed – in The Protector Morrell delivers a non-stop, action-packed, cleverly plotted tale of espionage and secrets within secrets, populated by fully developed characters. The details are clearly well researched but subtly inserted – the description of Prescott as an elicitor (the tradecraft of extracting information without people realising) is a great example of Morrell imparting information that illuminates what went before and supporting what comes next without clumsily dumping exposition on the reader. And he convincingly depicts reactions – the training scene in a swamp that takes place in the prologue is particularly good, at least as far as I (who’ve never been in anything like that situation) could tell, and I found my own pulse speeding up in sympathy.
There isn’t anything new and ground-breaking here, but The Protector is an above-average addition to the genre and well worth the trip. - Alex
Sunday, November 16
Gagged and Bound - Natasha Cooper
When barrister Trish Maguire is called on by her superior to handle a distraught author whose been confronted by a libel suit, she expects the matter to be easily dealt with. Bea Bowman’s usual subjects are nineteenth century figures, but she’s just published a biography of 70’s bomber Jeremy Marton, who served twenty years in jail. On his release he set up and ran homeless shelters, but when it was discovered that they were being used to disperse drugs, without his knowledge, Jeremy committed suicide. The discovery of his diaries, and a mysterious, heretofore unknown conspirator, Baiborn, open an old case wide open. Unfortunately for Bea, Baiborn is the private nickname for the newly minted Lord Tick of Southsea, and Lord Tick is enraged.
When Trish’s friend, DI Caro Lyalt, is contacted by an old friend, whistle-blowing cop Stephanie Taft, about an extremely sensitive matter – corruption at the very highest levels of the London Metropolitan Police, she’s a little suspicious. Although Steph’s had a number of successes, she’s seen as being out of control and unsubstantiated. The man she accuses is not only Caro’s rival, and front-runner, for a hush-hush liaison role Caro’s on the short list for, he’s also Steph’s ex. But when Steph lays out what lead to her suspicions, Caro becomes at least partly convinced, and when Steph’s shot and killed during a raid, her suspicions increase.
The two main plots, and a few secondary ones, combine in a convincing and richly detailed novel that is one of Cooper’s best, in a series that’s fast paced, well plotted and peopled with strongly characters. I’ve sadly read this out of order, making some of Trish’s personal life (the inclusion of her young half-brother in her household, and the solidification of her relationship with partner George) a little disjointed, but Cooper includes enough background that I was easily able to grasp the gist, and it’s with a sufficiently deft hand that I suspect readers who tackle the series chronologically wouldn’t be jarred by the reminder. Next, please! - Alex
When Trish’s friend, DI Caro Lyalt, is contacted by an old friend, whistle-blowing cop Stephanie Taft, about an extremely sensitive matter – corruption at the very highest levels of the London Metropolitan Police, she’s a little suspicious. Although Steph’s had a number of successes, she’s seen as being out of control and unsubstantiated. The man she accuses is not only Caro’s rival, and front-runner, for a hush-hush liaison role Caro’s on the short list for, he’s also Steph’s ex. But when Steph lays out what lead to her suspicions, Caro becomes at least partly convinced, and when Steph’s shot and killed during a raid, her suspicions increase.
The two main plots, and a few secondary ones, combine in a convincing and richly detailed novel that is one of Cooper’s best, in a series that’s fast paced, well plotted and peopled with strongly characters. I’ve sadly read this out of order, making some of Trish’s personal life (the inclusion of her young half-brother in her household, and the solidification of her relationship with partner George) a little disjointed, but Cooper includes enough background that I was easily able to grasp the gist, and it’s with a sufficiently deft hand that I suspect readers who tackle the series chronologically wouldn’t be jarred by the reminder. Next, please! - Alex
Friday, November 14
The Flight of the Iguana – David Quammen
This collection of essays, subtitled A Sidelong View of Science and Nature, is at the softer end of the genre, mixing a sizeable amount of the writer into the writing. Almost necessarily dated (the collection was first published two decades ago), most of Quammen’s essays are still relevant and interesting today.
Sometimes this is because of the timeless subject matter- “Thinking About Earthworms,” for example, looks at Darwin’s lifelong (and unknown to me) interest in worms, an interest that trumped his far more well known writing on evolution, segues into a reflection on the disadvantages of a population that thinks about the same things rather than one composed of people interested in a diversity of things. “Talk is Cheap” explores our concept of what makes something human, a question we’re no closer on – at least by consensus – than we were then, and also looks at our lack of regard for the chimpanzees researchers taught to sign, brought up alongside humans, and then abandoned. Two essays - the title essay and a companion piece - look at why evolution on islands is so different, an observation no less true now than when Darwin first noted it.
Other essays caught my attention because, though contemporary when published, they reminded me of things I’d long forgotten – the plague of Crown of Thorn starfish along the Great Barrier Reef, for example, or the 1985 rescue of a pod of whales trapped in ice by a ship full of Russian sailors
Other essays are chilling in their relevance to today - an essay on African bed bugs foreshadows the ‘intelligent design’ vanguard currently rampaging through the US, another on piranha clearly depicts that unforeseen effects of disrupting native habitats, and “Island Getaway” explains why saving wildlife can be an exercise in futility. “The Bearded Lizard” and “The Desert is a Mnemonic Device” discuss Salvadoran and Guatemalan refugees, and when Quammen observes that the State Department and the Immigration and Naturalization Service frame their desperate flight from tyranny so as to undermine the validity of their status, involving “a trick of perspective,” I was reminded of how far a distance we’ve travelled – sadly in the wrong direction.
Throughout it all Quammen maintains a wry tone – in “The Lonesome Ape” he discusses a book by anthropologist Jeffrey H Schwartz, where a key theory is presented “at much greater (somewhat tedious) length” than can be done justice in an essay. A little later Quammen observes that much of the book is “intently disputable. It is also fresh, imaginative, torturous in its logic, abundantly researched, turgidly expressed (The Red Ape can’t be recommended, alas, as bedtime reading)…” The Flight of the Iguana is also fresh and imaginative, lucid in its logic, substantially researched but inspiringly presented, and is not recommended for bedtime reading only because it’s difficult not to read ‘just one more’ essay before switching off the light. - Alex
Sometimes this is because of the timeless subject matter- “Thinking About Earthworms,” for example, looks at Darwin’s lifelong (and unknown to me) interest in worms, an interest that trumped his far more well known writing on evolution, segues into a reflection on the disadvantages of a population that thinks about the same things rather than one composed of people interested in a diversity of things. “Talk is Cheap” explores our concept of what makes something human, a question we’re no closer on – at least by consensus – than we were then, and also looks at our lack of regard for the chimpanzees researchers taught to sign, brought up alongside humans, and then abandoned. Two essays - the title essay and a companion piece - look at why evolution on islands is so different, an observation no less true now than when Darwin first noted it.
Other essays caught my attention because, though contemporary when published, they reminded me of things I’d long forgotten – the plague of Crown of Thorn starfish along the Great Barrier Reef, for example, or the 1985 rescue of a pod of whales trapped in ice by a ship full of Russian sailors
Other essays are chilling in their relevance to today - an essay on African bed bugs foreshadows the ‘intelligent design’ vanguard currently rampaging through the US, another on piranha clearly depicts that unforeseen effects of disrupting native habitats, and “Island Getaway” explains why saving wildlife can be an exercise in futility. “The Bearded Lizard” and “The Desert is a Mnemonic Device” discuss Salvadoran and Guatemalan refugees, and when Quammen observes that the State Department and the Immigration and Naturalization Service frame their desperate flight from tyranny so as to undermine the validity of their status, involving “a trick of perspective,” I was reminded of how far a distance we’ve travelled – sadly in the wrong direction.
Throughout it all Quammen maintains a wry tone – in “The Lonesome Ape” he discusses a book by anthropologist Jeffrey H Schwartz, where a key theory is presented “at much greater (somewhat tedious) length” than can be done justice in an essay. A little later Quammen observes that much of the book is “intently disputable. It is also fresh, imaginative, torturous in its logic, abundantly researched, turgidly expressed (The Red Ape can’t be recommended, alas, as bedtime reading)…” The Flight of the Iguana is also fresh and imaginative, lucid in its logic, substantially researched but inspiringly presented, and is not recommended for bedtime reading only because it’s difficult not to read ‘just one more’ essay before switching off the light. - Alex
Thursday, November 13
Odd One Out – Monica McInerny
It makes sense that Sylvie Devereaux would work for her mother and sisters. Talented they may be, but her flamboyant artist mother, bohemian Fidelma, fashion designer Vanessa and jewellery designer Cleo, are far too busy creating to get their own dry-cleaning or organise events. Just how the genius that everyone else has missed her is a mystery to all; after all, even her long-estranged father is a respected academic and poet, and her beloved brother Sebastian has won awards for his lighting. The youngest of the family, Sylvie is used to being ignored and taken for granted. Besides, she knows that deep down Fidelma and her sisters appreciate the unique qualities of organization and understanding she brings to her role.
That is until Vanessa’s second wedding, where embarrassing Aunt Mill loudly announces, just as the reception noise dies down, that Sylvie should come and live with her, two spinsters together. Not even thirty, Sylvie’s outraged and humiliated in front of Sydney’s elite. When Seb encourages her to housesit in Melbourne while he’s away, reassuring her that the family won’t be left on the lurch, Sylvie agrees, and in the breathing room provided she finds love and a clear picture of who she is in her own right, out of the shade of her famous family.
Considerably more slender than McInerny’s usual novels, and without her trademark combination of Irish and Australian influences, Odd One Out is nonetheless a great read. The central characters are clearly and sympathetically drawn, the secondary characters reveal pivotal aspects of themselves through dialogue rather than omniscient observation (all show, no tell), and the family history unfolds naturally, with a total absence of clumsy exposition. The relationship between Sylvie and Seb is warm and loving, and the descriptions of his thoughtfulness at a time when Sylvie’s needs were unmet by her distracted, self-absorbed mother and clannish, unpleasant sisters, are like balm.
There’s romance, but it plays a secondary role to Sylvie’s journey of self-discovery and emancipation. Even so, McInerney avoids the obvious – a potential stumbling block in the relationship is removed early and easily (“Much as I’d love to be your brother-in-law, Sebastian and I bat for different teams”), and provides fodder for jokes between the couple.
Most importantly, the reasons for Sylvie’s outlook are uncovered, with sensitivity and subtlety – how betrayals in past relationship make her wary now, how her parents’ divorce and the disappearance of Sebastian affected her, and her transformation is both realistic and unexpected. It was this last that I think I enjoyed most of all – it would have been easy for McInerney to wrap Sylvie up in a bow of romantic happiness, but she chose instead to launch Sylvie on a path of independence and self-reliant power that I found deeply satisfying.
Although my childhood was in many ways quite different from Sylvie’s, I found a lot in Odd One Out that I connected with. McInerney portrays particularly well the layered complexity of familial relationships that are the glue holding this perfect novel together. - Alex
That is until Vanessa’s second wedding, where embarrassing Aunt Mill loudly announces, just as the reception noise dies down, that Sylvie should come and live with her, two spinsters together. Not even thirty, Sylvie’s outraged and humiliated in front of Sydney’s elite. When Seb encourages her to housesit in Melbourne while he’s away, reassuring her that the family won’t be left on the lurch, Sylvie agrees, and in the breathing room provided she finds love and a clear picture of who she is in her own right, out of the shade of her famous family.
Considerably more slender than McInerny’s usual novels, and without her trademark combination of Irish and Australian influences, Odd One Out is nonetheless a great read. The central characters are clearly and sympathetically drawn, the secondary characters reveal pivotal aspects of themselves through dialogue rather than omniscient observation (all show, no tell), and the family history unfolds naturally, with a total absence of clumsy exposition. The relationship between Sylvie and Seb is warm and loving, and the descriptions of his thoughtfulness at a time when Sylvie’s needs were unmet by her distracted, self-absorbed mother and clannish, unpleasant sisters, are like balm.
There’s romance, but it plays a secondary role to Sylvie’s journey of self-discovery and emancipation. Even so, McInerney avoids the obvious – a potential stumbling block in the relationship is removed early and easily (“Much as I’d love to be your brother-in-law, Sebastian and I bat for different teams”), and provides fodder for jokes between the couple.
Most importantly, the reasons for Sylvie’s outlook are uncovered, with sensitivity and subtlety – how betrayals in past relationship make her wary now, how her parents’ divorce and the disappearance of Sebastian affected her, and her transformation is both realistic and unexpected. It was this last that I think I enjoyed most of all – it would have been easy for McInerney to wrap Sylvie up in a bow of romantic happiness, but she chose instead to launch Sylvie on a path of independence and self-reliant power that I found deeply satisfying.
Although my childhood was in many ways quite different from Sylvie’s, I found a lot in Odd One Out that I connected with. McInerney portrays particularly well the layered complexity of familial relationships that are the glue holding this perfect novel together. - Alex
Tuesday, November 11
The Tea House on Mulberry Street – Sharon Owens
Daniel and Penny Stanley have run the teahouse on Mulberry Street since they were first married, and though Penny scours glossy magazines for ideas on decorating, Muldoon’s Tea Rooms is unchanged from the days her parents ran it. Every morning Daniel makes the cakes and scones and light meals that keep Belfast citizens coming in, and the little shop connects a widely disparate group of people. There are the Crawley sisters, charity fund-raising spinsters who have a somewhat jaundiced view of the world and a high regard for the Queen; Brenda Brown, an unsuccessful artist convinced that she’d get the recognition her work deserves if only she had a better name and was from another town, who writes unsent letters of admiration in gold pen on red paper to her idol, actor Nicholas Cage; housewife Sadie Smith escapes from her loveless marriage to conservatory salesman Arnold, and his determination she ceaselessly diet, by diving into Daniel’s superlative cheesecake; and successful ex-pat and magazine editor Clare Fitzgerald hopes to find her lost love, Peter, in the tea rooms where she first fell in love with him. In the mentime retiree Henry Blackstaff’s beloved garden is being taken over by wife Aurora’s plans to extend her Brontë Bunch reading group by building a huge conservatory – perhaps his Uncle Bertie’s monkeypuzzle tree will have to be felled, and all his carefully tended plants moved, but surely he wouldn’t begrudge her this for the sake of a few old twigs! Besides, the BBC might be going to film a documentary.
Although complicated, intricate and intertwining, I warmed not at all to this Irish tale of frustration and dissatisfaction. Though it ends satisfactorily enough, with resolution for all and just punushment for the few genuinely unpleasant characters, the unceasing misery of so many people was exhausting. Not only that, but not a single one was prepared to change their lives themselves, despite their deep unhappiness, and change comes only when the decision is made for them. Sadie, for example, is clearly miserable in her marriage, but instead of addressing it she drowns her sorrows in cheesecake until she by chance sees Arnold with a glamorous woman unmistakably his mistress.
The motivation is often simplistic (Daniel, abandoned by his glamorous, feckless mother, was raised by a dour aunt who was only ever interested in saving money and watching every penny, so he is unwilling to spend on anything unnecessary or frivolous), and none of the characters rang true for me. I found The Tea House on Mulberry Street both too complicated and heavily peopled, and too superficial and miserable to enjoy, though I did read it to the end. - Alex
Although complicated, intricate and intertwining, I warmed not at all to this Irish tale of frustration and dissatisfaction. Though it ends satisfactorily enough, with resolution for all and just punushment for the few genuinely unpleasant characters, the unceasing misery of so many people was exhausting. Not only that, but not a single one was prepared to change their lives themselves, despite their deep unhappiness, and change comes only when the decision is made for them. Sadie, for example, is clearly miserable in her marriage, but instead of addressing it she drowns her sorrows in cheesecake until she by chance sees Arnold with a glamorous woman unmistakably his mistress.
The motivation is often simplistic (Daniel, abandoned by his glamorous, feckless mother, was raised by a dour aunt who was only ever interested in saving money and watching every penny, so he is unwilling to spend on anything unnecessary or frivolous), and none of the characters rang true for me. I found The Tea House on Mulberry Street both too complicated and heavily peopled, and too superficial and miserable to enjoy, though I did read it to the end. - Alex
Saturday, November 8
The Devil’s Bones – Jefferson Bass
Still recovering from the traumatic events in Flesh and Bone, Body Farm creator and forensic anthropologist Dr Bill Brockton has a fresh challenge. The charred body of a middle-aged woman has been found in a burned out car on an isolated farm; the prime suspect is her husband, but he was in Vegas when the flames from the car were seen by a passing motorist – could he have killed his wife, and if so how?
Just as he’s getting underway, Brockton’s contacted by his former lawyer, Burt DeVreiss – now it’s his turn for help. DeVreiss’s beloved aunt was recently cremated, but though the family specifically asked for her titanium knee replacements to be returned along with the ashes, all they received was a light bag of grainy powder and what look like small rocks and detritus. Can Brockton help reassure his family that Aunt Jean was taken care of appropriately?
As if this were not enough, Brockton’s nemesis, the man who framed him for murder in Flesh and Bone, has escaped and will stop at nothing to wreak harm and revenge on the venerated scientist.
Inspired by the real events in Noble, Georgia, The Devil’s Bones combines real anthropological detail with three mysteries - what happened to Aunt Jean? How did Stuart Latham burn his wife to death when he was in another state? And when will the psychotic killer strike at Brockton?
I found The Devil’s Bone more melodramatic and less tight that its predecessors, with pointless meanderings (like a whole page on the superior quality of Hardee hot biscuits – which I believe are scone-like – over those at Cracker Barrel, institutions I imagine are chain restaurants). The pathology detail, which focused primarily on the differences between burns to bone freshly dead and fleshed versus defleshed and dried, were more compelling than this summation makes it sound, and I found the detail about cremation processes very interesting.
It was, however, still streets ahead of many other novels in the genre, including the later works of Patricia Cornwell. I’ll be interested in reading the next instalment when it comes out, in hopes that the writing team of anthropologist Bill Bass and writer/journalist Jon Jefferson continues to deliver. - Alex
The Bill Brockton series:
Carved in Bone
Flesh and Bone
The Devil’s Bones
Bones of Betrayal
The Bone Yard
The Bone Thief
Just as he’s getting underway, Brockton’s contacted by his former lawyer, Burt DeVreiss – now it’s his turn for help. DeVreiss’s beloved aunt was recently cremated, but though the family specifically asked for her titanium knee replacements to be returned along with the ashes, all they received was a light bag of grainy powder and what look like small rocks and detritus. Can Brockton help reassure his family that Aunt Jean was taken care of appropriately?
As if this were not enough, Brockton’s nemesis, the man who framed him for murder in Flesh and Bone, has escaped and will stop at nothing to wreak harm and revenge on the venerated scientist.
Inspired by the real events in Noble, Georgia, The Devil’s Bones combines real anthropological detail with three mysteries - what happened to Aunt Jean? How did Stuart Latham burn his wife to death when he was in another state? And when will the psychotic killer strike at Brockton?
I found The Devil’s Bone more melodramatic and less tight that its predecessors, with pointless meanderings (like a whole page on the superior quality of Hardee hot biscuits – which I believe are scone-like – over those at Cracker Barrel, institutions I imagine are chain restaurants). The pathology detail, which focused primarily on the differences between burns to bone freshly dead and fleshed versus defleshed and dried, were more compelling than this summation makes it sound, and I found the detail about cremation processes very interesting.
It was, however, still streets ahead of many other novels in the genre, including the later works of Patricia Cornwell. I’ll be interested in reading the next instalment when it comes out, in hopes that the writing team of anthropologist Bill Bass and writer/journalist Jon Jefferson continues to deliver. - Alex
The Bill Brockton series:
Carved in Bone
Flesh and Bone
The Devil’s Bones
Bones of Betrayal
The Bone Yard
The Bone Thief
Tuesday, November 4
Maximum Security – Robert Muchamore
In an international cooperative project, James Adams is inserted into an Arizona jail for underage offenders who’ve been sentenced as adults. His mission is to break out the jail, along with Curtis Oxford, the son of one of America’s most wanted, and secretive, criminals. The mission is high risk – the jail itself is predominantly run by the inmates, with factions and weapons rife, and none of the armed staff will know that James is an agent. Part of the plan’s design is to broadcast that a staff member died during the jail break, and none of the police will know that James isn’t a cop killer.
Once again, Muchamore has created a gripping, compelling and textured novel. The jail scenes are chilling, the sense of danger palpable, and the pace relentless. At the same time the character development progresses, layering not only our understanding of James but of his target, too.
Though not as graphic as its predecessor, Maximum Security would also be distressing for younger readers, predominantly because of the violent lawlessness and injury in the jail scenes and during the escape.
This review is brief only because it's the third Muchamore review I've written in a row, and it's getting hard to think of new and inteesting ways of saying I think this is a killer series. Fortunately there'll be a bit of a break because my CHERUB-series supplier doesn't have book four and so I'm on the library waiting list (eigheenth and waiting), so the next review should be invigorated! - Alex
Once again, Muchamore has created a gripping, compelling and textured novel. The jail scenes are chilling, the sense of danger palpable, and the pace relentless. At the same time the character development progresses, layering not only our understanding of James but of his target, too.
Though not as graphic as its predecessor, Maximum Security would also be distressing for younger readers, predominantly because of the violent lawlessness and injury in the jail scenes and during the escape.
This review is brief only because it's the third Muchamore review I've written in a row, and it's getting hard to think of new and inteesting ways of saying I think this is a killer series. Fortunately there'll be a bit of a break because my CHERUB-series supplier doesn't have book four and so I'm on the library waiting list (eigheenth and waiting), so the next review should be invigorated! - Alex
Sunday, November 2
The Recruit – Robert Muchamore
James Choke is almost twelve, and his life is starting to spiral out of control. After he responds to one of his classmates teasing him about his fat mother he’s suspended, not something Gwen Choke will take well. Although she often seems more interested in her shoplifting empire than him, she takes school seriously. When he finds his mother’s dead body, though, James has bigger worries than school – he’s placed in a home, separated from his half-sister Lauren, and his slide into criminality accelerates.
Until James is recruited by CHERUB, a super-secret organisation of child spies. Aged between ten and seventeen, CHERUB agents are smart, tough and well trained. If James makes it through basic training he’ll go out on missions, infiltrating organizations that adults can’t. In the process, he’ll be drilled in a variety of martial arts, critical thinking, endurance training, espionage tactics, and be expected to maintain a decent grade in regular subjects.
This is the first in a blockbuster series, and Muchamore hits the ground running. James is a strongly drawn, flawed character with believable motivation, and once you grant the underlying premise the novel is convincing. The other characters, particularly the other CHERUB agents, are equally well portrayed and the adults cover a spectrum of personalities. I enjoyed The Recruit so much I went straight to the second in the series, and only regret I’m writing the review so much later I can’t give any specifics about what made it so enjoyable. - Alex
PS If you're wondering what CHERUB is an acronym for, get in line - nobody knows, but Muchamore's very interested in hearing from anyone who has ideas!
Until James is recruited by CHERUB, a super-secret organisation of child spies. Aged between ten and seventeen, CHERUB agents are smart, tough and well trained. If James makes it through basic training he’ll go out on missions, infiltrating organizations that adults can’t. In the process, he’ll be drilled in a variety of martial arts, critical thinking, endurance training, espionage tactics, and be expected to maintain a decent grade in regular subjects.
This is the first in a blockbuster series, and Muchamore hits the ground running. James is a strongly drawn, flawed character with believable motivation, and once you grant the underlying premise the novel is convincing. The other characters, particularly the other CHERUB agents, are equally well portrayed and the adults cover a spectrum of personalities. I enjoyed The Recruit so much I went straight to the second in the series, and only regret I’m writing the review so much later I can’t give any specifics about what made it so enjoyable. - Alex
PS If you're wondering what CHERUB is an acronym for, get in line - nobody knows, but Muchamore's very interested in hearing from anyone who has ideas!
Tuesday, October 28
Say When – Elizabeth Berg
Griffin knew that Ellen was seeing something, knew as he watched her prepare herself more elaborately for her auto mechanics course every week, but it still comes as an enormous shock when his wife tells him she wants a divorce. Okay, their marriage had problems, but what marriage doesn’t, and he was mostly happy. If it were just him affected maybe things would be different, but he’s not going to ignore the effect of this on their daughter, and so Griffin decides he won’t make things easy for Ellen – if she wants out of the marriage, she’ll have to be the one to move out of the family home, and he’s not going to cede custody.
As the months pass, Griffin refects on the relationship he has with Ellen, and with their daughter Zoe – on the history of their marriage and the parts they both played:
As the months pass, Griffin refects on the relationship he has with Ellen, and with their daughter Zoe – on the history of their marriage and the parts they both played:
Griffin had his own relationship with [their parakeet] that was in no way inferior to the one Ellen had. It was just different. Did she ever think of that, that things experienced in ways different from hers were equally valuable?This is a story about people, love, self-awareness and growth. Berg articulates the divide between men and women, as well as the things that unite them, and despite the topic the novel is gentle and embracing. It’s also exceptionally well written and satisfying. - Alex
That the way he chose to love her was, in fact, loving her, that the face of love depended on the person giving it? Couldn’t she see that the difficulty came not from her Griffin withholding but hr unwillingness to receive? But he would not confront her with this. Even a he tried to convince himself that it was true, he was aware of his own self-deception. He admitted, now, if only to himself, his catalogue of intentional slights, his moments of soft cruelty, his awareness of complicity in creating a relationship that could not work.
Saturday, October 25
Flesh and Bone – Jefferson Bass
Body Farm creator Dr Bill Brockton has been given an interesting crime scene to recreate – the body of man was found tied to a tree, in full drag, significantly decomposed and predatised from the knees down but barely touched from the chest up. More pressing, though, is the furore sparked when he embarrassed a religious student in class – the University has been picketed by ‘intelligent design’ proponents calling for his suspension. Had the debate been germane to the class subject matter the University would be unambiguously able to defend him, but it wasn’t and the legal team are conflicted.
When Brockton discovers his crime scene appallingly contaminated – the experimental body has been lewdly strapped to the body of someone he’s close to – none of this seems important. Still reeling from the loss, and the shock of discovery, Brockton can not believe it when he’s the main suspect. Abandoned by his university and the object of suspicion to almost all his friends, Brockton cannot even turn to his son Jeff, as his grandsons are afraid of him. In desperation Brockton does something he never expected to do – he hires the city’s least reputable lawyer to represent him. Although personally repelled by the clearly guilty clientele Burt DeVreiss has got off previously, Brockton sees no other choice.
As in Carved in Bone, this second in the series combines real forensic detail with a fast-paced, involving plot and strong characterisation. It’s clear that this authorial partnership combines the best of both men – the clinical detail rings true but isn’t overly detailed, and is usually well integrated into the plot, and maintains readability in a way expository writers would do well to emulate. While the focus is on plot over character development, the primary characters are well rounded, and Brockton is particularly nuanced.
There are deft touches of humour (when his assistant Miranda pulls out a pocket knife and Brockton asks “What is that, a six-inch blade?” Miranda relies with a snort “Do men really believe that’s what six inches looks like? Try three and a half”), and I like Brockton’s incredulous take, which I suspect is also Bass’s, on forensic dramas like CSI. He also has a similar disdain as me for semi-literate signage, exemplified in his commentary on the picket:
“BROCKTON MONKEY’S WITH GODS CREATION, read a few others, combining dubious theology with appalling apostrophe usage.”
One of the elements I particularly enjoyed was the incidental information I picked up. Although I’ve never had any interest in visiting Tennessee to date, the aquarium in Chattanooga sounds amazing, and I want to visit it, even though I’d never heard of it before this. Although I knew Inherit the Wind, the film about the Scopes trial, was a Hollywood dramatisation, I had no idea the trial itself was so contrived and choreographed.
There is a strong sense of genuine frustration and anger about the cult of ‘intelligent design,’ and Bill Bass has included some exceptionally strong facts supporting not only evolution in the abstract but evolution as an active, current force. Not just design flaws in the human body (aspects extending beyond the well-used ‘what’s the point of an appendix is we were created this way?’) but information about the changing dimensions (height as well as weight) of Western humans in the last quarter century, the increased prevalence of caesarian births (beyond the convenience factor) and the growing need for orthodonture (due to jaw size evolving more quickly than tooth number). These are topics I’m already interested in, but the writers integrate the facts so seamlessly into the plot that I suspect readers who don’t already have an interest won’t feel bashed over the head by the information.
Flesh and Bone is smart, literate and aware forensic crime fiction that knocks the socks of more well established writers at their best. - Alex
The Bill Brockton series:
Carved in Bone
Flesh and Bone
The Devil’s Bones
Bones of Betrayal
The Bone Yard
The Bone Thief
When Brockton discovers his crime scene appallingly contaminated – the experimental body has been lewdly strapped to the body of someone he’s close to – none of this seems important. Still reeling from the loss, and the shock of discovery, Brockton can not believe it when he’s the main suspect. Abandoned by his university and the object of suspicion to almost all his friends, Brockton cannot even turn to his son Jeff, as his grandsons are afraid of him. In desperation Brockton does something he never expected to do – he hires the city’s least reputable lawyer to represent him. Although personally repelled by the clearly guilty clientele Burt DeVreiss has got off previously, Brockton sees no other choice.
As in Carved in Bone, this second in the series combines real forensic detail with a fast-paced, involving plot and strong characterisation. It’s clear that this authorial partnership combines the best of both men – the clinical detail rings true but isn’t overly detailed, and is usually well integrated into the plot, and maintains readability in a way expository writers would do well to emulate. While the focus is on plot over character development, the primary characters are well rounded, and Brockton is particularly nuanced.
There are deft touches of humour (when his assistant Miranda pulls out a pocket knife and Brockton asks “What is that, a six-inch blade?” Miranda relies with a snort “Do men really believe that’s what six inches looks like? Try three and a half”), and I like Brockton’s incredulous take, which I suspect is also Bass’s, on forensic dramas like CSI. He also has a similar disdain as me for semi-literate signage, exemplified in his commentary on the picket:
“BROCKTON MONKEY’S WITH GODS CREATION, read a few others, combining dubious theology with appalling apostrophe usage.”
One of the elements I particularly enjoyed was the incidental information I picked up. Although I’ve never had any interest in visiting Tennessee to date, the aquarium in Chattanooga sounds amazing, and I want to visit it, even though I’d never heard of it before this. Although I knew Inherit the Wind, the film about the Scopes trial, was a Hollywood dramatisation, I had no idea the trial itself was so contrived and choreographed.
There is a strong sense of genuine frustration and anger about the cult of ‘intelligent design,’ and Bill Bass has included some exceptionally strong facts supporting not only evolution in the abstract but evolution as an active, current force. Not just design flaws in the human body (aspects extending beyond the well-used ‘what’s the point of an appendix is we were created this way?’) but information about the changing dimensions (height as well as weight) of Western humans in the last quarter century, the increased prevalence of caesarian births (beyond the convenience factor) and the growing need for orthodonture (due to jaw size evolving more quickly than tooth number). These are topics I’m already interested in, but the writers integrate the facts so seamlessly into the plot that I suspect readers who don’t already have an interest won’t feel bashed over the head by the information.
Flesh and Bone is smart, literate and aware forensic crime fiction that knocks the socks of more well established writers at their best. - Alex
The Bill Brockton series:
Carved in Bone
Flesh and Bone
The Devil’s Bones
Bones of Betrayal
The Bone Yard
The Bone Thief
Sunday, September 14
Extreme Ironing – Phil Shaw
This is for Lynn, devotee of the sport. For those of you unaware of EI, it began in Leicester just over a decade ago. Ironists combine “the thrills of outdoor activity with the satisfaction of a well-pressed shirt... in dangerous or unusual locations,” and Extreme Ironing describes how it came about, how it took off, and where EI is going from here.
The book is divided into four sections, starting with an introduction, which includes how EI began, how to get started, and technical questions about iron and fabric selection and the importance of a good board.
Part two describes variations of the sport, along with ratings of popularity and difficulty level - my favourites are the water-styles, from under water and rapids ironing to under ice, but other options include forest, urban, under ground, rocky and free styles. The third section is essentially a photo gallery of prominent ironists in this fledgling sport, categorised by nationality (I’m glad to see Australia relatively well represented), before concluding with coverage of the world championships (up to 2003). Illustrated with photos of ironists in a variety of locations, it’s everything the interested newcomer could want. – Alex
The book is divided into four sections, starting with an introduction, which includes how EI began, how to get started, and technical questions about iron and fabric selection and the importance of a good board.
Part two describes variations of the sport, along with ratings of popularity and difficulty level - my favourites are the water-styles, from under water and rapids ironing to under ice, but other options include forest, urban, under ground, rocky and free styles. The third section is essentially a photo gallery of prominent ironists in this fledgling sport, categorised by nationality (I’m glad to see Australia relatively well represented), before concluding with coverage of the world championships (up to 2003). Illustrated with photos of ironists in a variety of locations, it’s everything the interested newcomer could want. – Alex
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