Reading Overdose

I have been chewing through books lately, and not keeping up with notes. I polished off three Martha Grimes novels - Hotel Paradise, Cold Flat Junction, and Belle Ruin. In all fairness, billing them as mysteries is a bit deceptive, because the mystery is only a fraction of the plot and the suspense is non-existent. There was something appealing about them, though - some writers move slowly through their material and you feel as though you're swimming through molasses - you just want to read the last ten pages and be done with it all already. Some writers move slowly through their material and you feel as though you're lounging around in an innertube on a lazy river - you know you're going somewhere, but the ride is so nice that you're in no hurry. I can't articulate why this works for some people and not for others, but I can say that it certainly works for me and Martha Grimes. Once I accepted the mystery misnomer, I was happy to just loll along with the plots.

Before vacation I also finished The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff, and I can't say enough good things about it. It's a model of what historical fiction should be. By anchoring his modern-day story with the history of the Mormon Church and the built-in mystery of Ann Eliza Young's fate, David Ebershoff makes you want to dig around for more historical dirt and more stories that are just waiting to be told. I'm sure many Mormons aren't thrilled with the story, as his "dressed-up" retelling of Ann Eliza's story doesn't always deify Brigham Young, but he manages to handle polygamy in a non-National Enquirer fashion. By the end of the novel, I was convinced that truth is so individual that there really is no truth. Personal truth becomes a burden when you feel that part of that truth is the need to hang it on others. A number of good novels leave me thinking about the characters, but few left me mulling over philosophical issues the way The 19th Wife did.

On vacation, I tore through Douglas Preston's The Monster of Florence, written in connection with journalist Mario Spezi. It was better than run-of-the-mill true crime, well-written and reading like a travelogue with quirky bits of information about the history and personality of Florence, although I have to say my heightened awareness of the Italian legal system has made me wary of travel. Truly, after finishing it, I found myself dwelling less on the unsolved horrific nature of the case and more on horrific lack of basic rights that we erroneously assume are part of all advanced nations.

After that was Charlatan by Pope Brock, a odd tale of the growth of the American Medical Association and the fame of quack doctor John Brinkley. Brinkley made a fortune from a number of questionable ventures, but none more questionable than his transplants of goat glands into humans, complete with promises of renewed youth, vitality and longer life. Medicine has come a long way in an amazingly short time, apparently, and so has common sense.

Oh, and Tana French's The Likeness. She's an amazing writer. Story is conveyed through plot, setting, character and language, and so many modern writers get by without the full package. (In fact, any number seem to get by on just one of the four, but that's not what we're here to talk about.) Language is sadly so neglected, and to be honest, many writers known to be gifted with the use of language never make the transition from "literary" to "popular," simply because they fail to create a compelling plot. Tana French is one of the few writers who shapes an addictive story, but uses language in such a way that I'm jolted with an awareness of it that occasionally overpowers my interest in her plot, her setting or her characters. In the Woods, her first novel, got a bad rap, because the publisher needed to pigeonhole it to market it, and it got stuck in the "mystery/suspense/police procedural" category. It is those things, but it presents two mysteries, and only solves one (the less intriguing one, you could argue). I'd read enough raging reviews to align my expectations before starting it. The Likeness is just as compelling, but more traditional - one mystery, one solution, and I'm already waiting for her next book.

The Dangers of Sentiment

Also known as Family Vacation. It always seems like a good idea, right up until the moment that it doesn't, but will magically seem like a good idea again by the time a vacation deposit is due. I've no idea how that happens. It's like my friends describe childbirth - nature intentionally allows you to develop amnesia, probably because family (like children?) is a necessary evil. Nostalgia and sentiment are always painted in folksy sepia tones, but those of us ensnared by them know otherwise!

Actually, vacation was okay. It was SO hot, with the heat index reaching 100+ nearly every day, but as with all things vacation, this has only served to make being home, where it is a comfy 80 degrees, delightful. We ate well, although a little morosely, as vegetarians. Fresh seafood was a powerful temptation, but we managed. We read lots. Lay about like beanbags, snoozing in the air-conditioning when the heat was too much. Found hundreds of shark teeth. Corrupted a small child as much as possible. Avoided my 15-year high school reunion. All in all, a success.

Cats and tomato plants are happy we're home. Both have been sprawling about in a disreputable, disorganized fashion in our absence, and I'm now whipping things back into shape. Am obviously having more luck with tomato plants than cats, but perhaps I should try binding them up with twine as well....