Passing the time...

After the heft of Trollope’s The Way We Live Now, I needed something a bit more light – in weight if not in content. So I tripped lightly over to re-read some of my favorite Edith Wharton short stories in Roman Fever and Other Stories (#30). “Roman Fever” itself is one of my favorite short stories ever – marvelous characters created in just a few sentences, a beautiful setting, delicate yet powerful emotional value, and even a gasp of surprise at the ending. I don’t adore all the stories in the book as much as the title one, but they are all great reading.

I followed Edith up with a murder mystery for #31, Ruth Rendell’s A Guilty Thing Surprised. I don’t think I’ve ever read one of hers before, at least not in the last few years during which I’ve kept my book list. It had a great setting – a wealthy couple in their grand country home – and even though the book is set in 1970, it feels remarkably like an Agatha Christie manor house mystery. It’s well written, definitely a cut above many mysteries I’ve read, and Chief Inspector Wexford, her recurring hero, is a decent enough fellow to spend a murder investigation with. Not sure I’ll read too many more of hers, but maybe just one to say I’ve given her a real chance. 

#32 was a not-very-good Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford. The story is fairly interesting, set in Seattle in 1986 with flashbacks to the main story set in the years of World War II. The main character is a middle-aged Chinese-American man who is looking back on his first love, a Japanese-American girl he met in school when he was 12, in 1942. She and her family are interned during the war, and learning some more about the Japanese internment was interesting. But Ford’s writing is pedestrian and his characters are not compelling. They walk through emotions like puppets, and repeat the same words and actions. Henry, our main character, is emotionally constipated, formal and constrained. Keiko, his love, has almost no personality, just a collection of traits. Henry and his grown son Marty have the same stiff, formal relationship that Henry had with his own – surprise – distant father. It’s all pretty predictable and pretty dull, but easy enough to read. I wouldn’t pick up anything else by this author, though. 

So long, Anthony, so long

#29 definitely took longer than any book I've read for a while. I've been keeping fairly successfully to my book-a-week schedule, with the occasional one taking slightly less and the less occasional one taking slightly more. But book #29, The Way We Live Now, by Anthony Trollope, was a monster, a massive, heavy, 825-page, 100-chaptered, tiny-type killer of a book. Fortunately it was also wonderfully entertaining, so I don't regret getting slightly off schedule because of it.

If you overlook the Victorian language and references, The Way We Live Now could have been published this year. It's the Victorian version of Tom Wolfe's Bonfire of the Vanities, which in itself refers back to the serialized satirical novels of the Victorian era. (Round and round and round we go.) The book is a story of financial scandals, Madoff-like frauds, greedy society swells and social climbers, amid a general atmosphere of scandal, dishonesty, and moral decline. See what I mean about it being published yesterday?

Trollope wanted to make a moral point by satirizing what he saw as a society in moral ruin. He said, "If dishonesty can live in a gorgeous palace with pictures on all its walls, and gems in all its cupboards, with marble and ivory in all its corners, and can give Apician dinners, and get into Parliament, and deal in millions, then dishonesty is not disgraceful, and the man dishonest after such a fashion is not a low scoundrel."

David Suchet as the great Augustus Melmotte

There are multiple plots and sub-plots, and while much of the action revolves around the great financial wizard Augustus Melmotte, the man himself doesn't make much of an appearance until the final third of the book. Melmotte has a shady background (he might be--horrors!--a Jew), lax moral behavior, and a very modern way of doing business. He invests in an American railway concern without actually putting any money into it, then sells the shares that increase rapidly in value simply because the great Melmotte has invested in it. He buys an elegant London home from a desperate and nearly penniless Lord, takes title, then turns around and mortgages it for more money than its worth. He's a powerful character, compellingly ugly and low. Unfortunately for Trollope, but lucky for the reader, it's a low characters in the book who are far more interesting. The moral points of view belong to only a few, and they are a rather dull bunch. I found Melmotte's daughter Marie, who he is assiduously trying to marry off to a future Marquis, a wonderful character. She goes from being in love with a simpleton, just because he's pretty, to standing her ground against her strong-willed, abusive father, and marrying finally, the man she chooses.

Trollope apparently agreed about his immoral characters being of greater appeal to the reader. "The interest of the story," he once wrote, "lies among the wicked and foolish people."

Melmotte is a low scoundrel, but he's an entertaining, vivid, low scoundrel. He's a man with juice, and I'd rather read a story about a juicy low scoundrel than a dull and proper man of morals.

I'm looking forward to watching the 2001 BBC mini-series made of the novel, with a great cast (David Suchet, Cillian Murphy, Matthew Macfayden (Mr. Darcy!), and Miranda Otto, among many others).

The Writing Process Blog Tour Q&A

Jackie Clark Mancuso, the uber-talented author and illustrator of Paris-Chien, Adventures of an Expat Dog and the upcoming Hudson’s French Vacation: Paris-Chien in Provence invited me to join the Writing Process Blog Tour. It’s my turn this week, next week you can check out another mega-talented friend and author Amy Kathleen Ryan (the Sky Chasers trilogy—Glow, Spark, and Flame—as well as Vibes, Zen and Xander Undone, and other books), on her blog, amykathleenryan.blogspot.com.

Since I’m still reading book #29 (it’s 800 pages, thank you very much, and I’ve had a lot of company lately) (thank goodness I built in some extra days), I’m glad to have something to write about in between booking and cooking posts. Stay tuned for the recipe for the super-simple and super-delicious clams with escarole and bacon that I made a couple of nights ago. And another book soon, I promise.

What am I currently working on?

I think it’s a jinx to talk about anything I’m working on, so I won’t be specific. Also, since it took me 10 years to get my first book written and published, I’ve got a rather loose definition of “upcoming.” Suffice it to say that I write occasional poetry (which no one but me reads), blog posts, and I’m working on a novel loosely based on real life.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Jessica Lost, my memoir, differs greatly from most of its genre because it is two stories, intertwined, by two authors. Written in alternating chapters by my birth mother and me, the book tells her story of how she found herself at 20, alone and frightened, pregnant with a baby she could not keep. It also tells my story of finding her four decades later, and what it meant to both of us to lose and then regain these missing pieces of ourselves.

Why do I write what I write?

I have to give an answer appropriate to a blog about books. I write what I write for the same reason I read what I read: to understand the world and learn how to live in it better. I choose books based mainly on strong, compelling, well-crafted characters, and that is what I hope to write. I also like to be moved—to laughter, tears, anger, any emotion, really—and look for vivid emotions in books I read and books I write.

How does my writing process work?

Slowly. There are always so many better, more interesting things to do, like reading, or Candy Crush, or washing my hair. I struggle with narrative, with character development, and with endings. Beginnings are easy, middles somewhat less so. But endings…endings are misery. I try to write every day, even if just a diary entry, but I don’t always achieve it. The world calls…I must answer. 

Remember to visit Amy's website next week for her responses to the questions at amykathleenryan.blogspot.com. And check out her terrifically entertaining books. 

The Sky Chasers trilogy by Amy Kathleen Ryan

Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderley again…

That’s one of the most famous opening lines in all of literature, the first sentence of book #28, Rebecca, by British author Daphne du Maurier. In fact, that great opening line (so rhythmic, so melodious, so pull-you-in creepy) is on this website’s list of the top 20 opening lines in literature, sandwiched between The Hobbit and 1984. But Rebecca is so much more than just an opening line. It’s deep and mysterious, dark and passionate, a tale of secrets and hauntings. The rich, handsome, and haunted estate of Manderley is as much a character as its owner, the rich, handsome, and haunted Maximillian de Winter. Manderley is filled with the ghost of its former mistress, the perfectly elegant, accomplished, stunningly beautiful Rebecca, a woman beloved by all, admired by all. She’s dead, but her spirit lives on in the house, its beautiful grounds, and, most of all, the memory of the hostile, evil housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers. The unnamed second wife, the narrator of the tale, walks timidly into this dark, twisted world, and we walk with her, the tension building as we compulsively turn the pages. I’ve seen the movie many times (Hitchcock did a terrific job translating the spirit of the book into celluloid) but even though I knew every reveal, every surprise, and the ending, I couldn’t put the book down. What a story, what a writer. Read the book, see the movie.

Joan Fontaine and Laurence Olivier in Rebecca

Judith Anderson as the creepy Mrs. Danvers

What is more important than Truth and Beauty, #27?

Lucy Grealy was a poet, essayist, and memoirist who had lost part of her jaw to childhood cancer and suffered through years of chemo, radiation, and failed reconstructive surgeries. Ann Patchett, author of Bel Canto and other novels, was Lucy’s best friend. This beautiful book covers the 20 years of their friendship, their fame, and their pains, loves, and losses. Grealy was not an easy friend; filled with joy and life at times, at other times overwhelmingly needy and demanding. Even if Patchett only did half of the things for Grealy she claims, even if she only gave half of the love and the loyalty she writes about, she was still one of the most giving, loving, and loyal friends ever. I was moved to tears and also cries of frustration at times, and the book made me question the extent I am willing to sacrifice for a friend. It made me want to be friends with Ann Patchett (which I already wanted to be because she owns a bookstore in Nashville, where she lives!) and it also made me want to read Grealy’s memoir, Autobiography of a Face.

An American Classic: Crossing to Safety, #26

]

Beautifully crafted, wise and moving, Crossing to Safety is a book for grown-ups. It’s the story of four lives, two couples, following them from their twenties as beginning academics in the depression through 40 years of trials and joys. And despite covering forty years and moving from Wisconsin to Vermont to Italy and back again, the entire book actually takes place in just one day. Wallace Stegner wrote Crossing to Safety late in his career and it is a quiet, compassionate, powerful look at friendship, marriage, youthful optimism and hard-won wisdom.

“How do you make a book that anyone will read out of lives as quiet as these?” the narrator Larry Morgan asks. You make it just like this.

Keeping up, catching up

A somwhat unexciting threesome:

#23 How to Be Good, by Nick Hornby. I enjoy Hornby's writing, especially About a Boy (like the movie too) and High Fidelity (ditto), but this one lacked his usual charm. Perhaps he isn't as comfortable in the skin of a woman, particularly this very unlikable woman. Katie Carr, the narrator, is a family doctor, a profession she seems to think warrants her immediate promotion to sainthood. She is a "good person," as she tells us over and over, as if palpating tummies and checking for ear infections makes her Mother Teresa. Her husband David is a professional crank, who works (quite minimally) as the writer of a column in their local paper. In his column, "The Angriest Man in Holloway," and in their daily life, he carps and complains about everything that's wrong with their lives, their town, and their world. Katie is desperate for David to be nicer, happier, less impossible to live with. She's pretty cranky and miserable herself, which she blames on him. But when he undergoes an almost magical conversion into a kinder, gentler person, she is even more miserable, complaining and criticizing constantly. Is it because if David is the good guy in their marriage, she becomes the bad guy? Is it because she's impossible to satisfy, no matter how David behaves? Those questions go pretty much unexplored, as do so many things in the book -- questions aren't answered, characters flit in and out, people behave in absurd ways and their behaviors are never explained. It's a cool premise, but an unsatisfying book, and the writing often feels thin and rushed. I wish that the really good writer of About a Boy would step in and do a better version of this story. Where did he go?

#24 Whose Body? by Dorothy L. Sayers. Seems like re-reading books I once loved is a theme lately -- and it's doesn't always pan out (see here). But I was in the mood for a good old-fashioned British mystery, something with a little more heft than an Agatha Christie, but a little less sturm und drang than a current Elizabeth George. So I picked up the first of the Lord Peter Whimsy mysteries by Dorothy Sayers. I had read the entire series years ago, long enough that I don't really remember much about any of them, except that I thoroughly enjoyed them. And, wonderfully, this book didn't disappoint. Lord Peter was just as I remembered him: charming, urbane, flippant with a tragic dark side. And his wonderful manservant Bunter was also just as loyal, intelligent, and crafty as I remembered. And I had completely forgotten the solution to the mystery, which made it all the more fun. Book number two in the series, Clouds of Witness, will be coming soon. Good beach read, I think.

#25 Lady Susan, by Jane Austen. I think I've run out of good Jane Austen stuff. I've read all her books a zillion times. I've seen the movies so many times that I can recite Keira Knightley's or Emma Thompson's lines along with them. And I've even read books about the books (see here and here). I can't bear the thought of reading her unfinished works, The Watsons and Sandition, which feels like it would be so unsatisfying. So I finally turned to Lady Susan, her short, early epistolary novel, and the only complete Austen work I hadn't sampled. While as much (or nearly as much) of a pleasure as all of Jane's work, it seems obvious that this is an early attempt, particularly in the abrupt conclusion, that steps in when the letters seem to become too complicated for the youthful author to continue, and ties all the little plot strands up in a neat bow. But while they continue, the letters are a pleasure to read, particularly the ones from the Lady herself, who is a heartless, compassionless adventuress. She is cruel to her daughter, first ignoring her, then forcing her to marry a man she does not care for. She is cruel to her "friends," stealing a husband from one, enticing another's foolish brother to fall in love with her against his family's wishes and his own good judgement. Her letters are divinely nasty; here's a sample from one to her friend Alicia, bemoaning her disappointment that because of Alicia's husband's illness, Lady Susan will not be able to come stay with her in town: "My dear Alicia, of what a mistake were you guilty in marrying a Man of his age -- just old enough to be formal, ungovernable and to have the Gout -- too old to be agreeable, and too young to die." How's that for heartless? It's a short, light, fun read, but really only for Janeites who need to complete their collections.

Moules, marvelous moules

It's been such a long time since I posted a recipe, and for that I apologize to my hungry army of followers. All eight of you. But this recipe is worth the wait, I promise. It's easy, cheap, delicious, impressive, and, just for emphasis...really yummy.

There are lots of easy ways to make mussels. They don't need much more than some garlic and white wine and a sprinkling of fresh parsley. But this recipe requires only a teensy bit more effort, and is worth those three or four additional minutes, especially if you like the bright, tongue-tickling flavors of Thai cuisine.

You start by adoring mussels. Go get yourself some plump pretty coral ones (local, if possible, but please not farm-raised) and just do this:

Coconut Curry Mussels


Serves 2 as a main course, 4 as an appetizer

3 tablespoons unsalted butter


3 stalks lemongrass, dry parts removed


3 garlic cloves, minced


2 tablespoons minced peeled fresh ginger


1 can (13.5 ounces) unsweetened coconut milk
 (not cream, and not skim)

3 tablespoons red or green Thai curry paste
 (I prefer red)

3 pounds mussels, rinsed (discard open or cracked mussels and any beards you find)


2 tablespoons fresh lime juice (about 2 limes)


1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro

1. In a large pot with a lid, melt the butter over medium high heat. Pound the lemongrass with the back of the knife to bruise it, cut it into 1-inch pieces. Add the lemongrass, along with the garlic and ginger, to the pot, and cook until fragrant, 1 minute. 
2. Whisk in coconut milk and curry paste, stir to combine, and bring to a simmer over high heat.
3. Add the mussels, stir to combine, cover, and reduce heat to medium-high. Cook until mussels open, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in the lime juice and cilantro. 
4. Serve in bowls, along with lots of country bread or baguette (there will be much dipping). 

Be sure to discard any mussels that don't open or that open slightly but refuse to budge any more without a lot of force. Accompanied by a salad and crisp white wine, this is the perfect simple summer supper. The broth is so delicious, you definitely will need to serve it with spoons so you can slurp up every last drop. 

Maybe she's a good lawyer

The author of #22, A Book of Salt, Monica Truong, is a lawyer specializing in intellectual property. I hope she hasn't given up her day job.

The Book of Salt is a slog. A dreary, overwritten, underplotted slog through the "adventures" (which mainly consist of remembering his unfortunate past) of the cook employed in the 1930s in the Parisian household of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. Finding out the "B" in Alice B. Toklas stands for "Babette" may be the most interesting thing in the book.

Binh, the cook, who narrates the tale, has a tendency to apply a minimum of three adjectives to every noun. He applies cutesy names to the other characters (I think it's meant to be poetic), like his lover, Sweet Sunday Man. And then he repeats the name endlessly, so half of the paragraph is really just his lover's three word name over and over again. The writing is dense and opaque, to the point where I had no idea what the narrator was talking about, even when he's describing something as simple as making an omelet. Some of it is so pretentious, so absurdly overwrought, that it made me burst out laughing. One of my favorites, a description of Toklas's arrival at Stein's door in Paris: "Why ask whether there were other hearts fluttering, racing, at 27 Rue de Fleurus before she walked through the door, before she slid through the vivid red, the scarlet-curtained walls of her second birth canal?"

Gertrude and Alice

Her second birth canal? Oy.

Or this: "The empty clotheslines of her lips." Or: "Skin the color of slowly pouring cream." Or: "Hair the color of properly brewed tea." And those are all from just one paragraph!

There are no interesting peeks into either Stein or Toklas's lives and characters, or any mention of the other artists and writers who frequented their famous Parisian salon. There's not much of a portrait of Vietnam (which is why I read the book in the first place) or even Paris. It's so hard to glimpse anything through the "slowly pouring cream" of the language that the main thing the book left me thinking about, was why I read the whole darn thing in the first place.

Mysterious disappointments

I'm a very picky mystery reader. I loved Elizabeth George's Inspector Linley series, until she completely lost it -- really, the woman's writing ability fell off a cliff somewhere. I like, although a little less with every new book, Deborah Crombie's Duncan Kincaid/Gemma James series. I loved all of Ngaoi Marsh and Dorothy Sayers (Lord Peter!). Is there a theme here? Is the Pope Catholic? Mystery + a charming, sardonic, pretending-to-not-care detective + a tough, smart, superficially-disinterested-but really-madly-in-love-romantic interest = bingo! I like the mystery to be just as much about will-they-won't-they as it is about will-he-solve-the-crime.

The interesting locales, like Venice or Sicily or the backwoods (backfjiords?) of Norway don't really grab me. Put it in England, please. Preferably London, please. Country houses are nice, especially if there's a rose garden and a nearby Vicar. (This is so making me want to go and re-read Sayers, start to finish).

But I keep trying. This week's attempt to find a new mystery writer was another look at Kate Atkinson, whose Life After Life was so wonderful. But Case Histories (#21) was just middling, the kind of book that's interesting enough while you're reading it, but almost instantly forgettable, as if the words and lines just slid right off the page and out of your brain. Case Histories is the first in Atkinson's series of four (to date) Jackson Brodie mysteries, all of which have been adapted by the BBC starring Jason Isaacs (Lucius Malfoy!) as Brodie.

Lucius Malfoy as Jackson Brodie?

Brodie's an interesting but somewhat unformed character. There are assumptions made in his personality that made the book feel more like the third or fourth in an established series, where there could be some shorthand in his characterization, than in the book that introduces him. There are three (three!) mysteries -- case histories -- being investigated, one the disappearance of a little girl from her backyard, one the murder of a young husband by his wife, and one the seemingly random murder of a young woman at her father's law office. The book moves back and forth in time, roams from place to place, and incorporates a large cast of characters. It isn't confusing, it more has the effect of watercolors, a canvas thinly covered. Atkinson, as she does in Life After Life, has an amazing ability to get a lot across very economically, like a good short story writer. But there are too many balls in the air here, and there's a sense that she's stretched herself too far.

I enjoyed reading it just enough to maybe give book number two in the series a shot. But I think I'll go find my old Ngaoi Marsh first.