Channel: Tina Siegal – Sudbury Living

Writerchick on How to be Good by Nick Hornby

May 8, 2015, 9:18 am

Tina Siegal is Writerchick

What do you do when you hate your husband, want desperately for him to change, then hate the new version even more?

Apparently, you end up trying to end homelessness.

I’m being a bit reductive, of course, but that’s a very quick sketch of Nick Hornby’s How to Be Good. Katie and David Carr have been married for a quarter of what feels like forever. She’s a physician with the NHS; he’s an arts columnist for the local newspaper, a would-be novelist, and (occasionally) a corporate brochure writer. Together, they raise their kids, Tom and Molly. They’ve got a house, cars, income, friends – a good life.

Unfortunately, they can’t stand each other.

The book starts with Katie blurting out that she wants a divorce. She assumes David wants the same thing, but – much to her surprise (and chagrin) – he gets stubborn. Refuses. While Katie is trying to figure out her next move, a seismic shift occurs. The annoying, hurtful, cynical, childish David is replaced by a patient and thoughtful man who genuinely wants to save his marriage.

Katie is confused, at first, then cautiously optimistic. But it turns out that getting what you wish for is not all it’s cracked up to be. David’s new outlook turns life upside-down and inside-out for the Carrs (and their neighbours). The resulting chaos raises questions of individual guilt for collective sins, and the practical implications of living as our best selves.

(Sidebar: the implications aren’t always pretty.)

Now, this could be heavy to the point of over-powering. But Hornby lightens and illuminates his themes through the lens of pop culture. Katie often compares her life to books or TV or films, but they’re all old because she has no time for any of it. Movies, museums, galleries are things of the past. She’s lost touch with music.

Katie’s few cultural indulgences – a Tom Stoppard play, for example – ‘nourish her soul.’ In fact, these experiences become a barometer of her mental and emotional health.

David, on the other hand, is surrounded by culture in his work. Unfortunately, he detests most of it. His only professional pleasure is ripping apart other people’s creations, and it makes him a small, nasty person.

If you’ve read Hornby’s non-fiction, this obsession is a familiar one. He derives immense joy from pop culture, and it plays a pivotal role in most of his novels. In How to Be Good, it acts as an aspiration, a metric, a remedy, a redemption, an identity, and a catalyst.

I, personally, love Hornby’s thoughtful, affectionate, laser-like focus. It’s almost as enjoyable as his writing. He’s tart and truthful and funny without being precious or dismissive. He’s smart. He empathizes with his characters while satirizing their faults. And he illustrates it all with stellar metaphors.

Here, for the record, is my favourite. Katie is trying to decide whether or not to end her marriage, and she says:

“You don’t ask people with knives in their stomachs what would make them happy; happiness is no longer the point. It’s all about survival; it’s all about whether you pull the knife out and bleed to death or keep it in, in the hope that you might be lucky, and the knife has actually been staunching the blood. You want to know the conventional medical wisdom? The conventional medical wisdom is that you keep the knife in. Really.”

Stunning, yeah?

The only problem I had was with the ending. All of a sudden, the plot descends into a hurried summary and half-hearted prognosis. I didn’t expect a neat resolution – Hornby is too talented, too smart for that – but I didn’t expect a race to the finish line, either. It felt rushed and unsatisfying.

I loved the whole so much, though, that I’m willing to forgive a minor transgression.

So read this book. Immediately. Then go out and read Hornby’s non-fiction because, no matter how much I enjoy his novels, I’m totally smitten with his Believer columns.

Either way, Hornby is a writer not to be missed.

Tina Siegal is a Sudbury-born, (temporarily) Toronto-based writer, ESL teacher, and PR professional. She loves writing, reading, animals, music, and chocolate chip cookies.’

Read more Tina at https://writerchicktj.wordpress.com/

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Life After Life review

May 25, 2015, 1:41 pm

≫ Next: Second Deadly Sin disappointing

≪ Previous: Writerchick on How to be Good by Nick Hornby

I’ve been hearing about Kate Atkinson’s Life After Life since it was published in 2013. It’s been called ‘dazzling’, ‘elegant,’ and a million other glowing adjectives.

The premise is this: Ursula Todd is caught in a cycle of reincarnation. Every life alters pivotal moments in minor ways, setting her along an alternate path. As the book progresses, Ursula develops an intuition about these moments. She recognizes them as significant, often dangerous, and manipulates them in an attempt to improve the outcome. She isn’t always successful.

Then there are the small details that echo and reverberate through each existence. Rabbits and foxes, for example. The family home is called ‘Fox Corner’, after the fox that matriarch Sylvie sees when they move in. The name ‘Todd’ is British slang for fox. During the life Ursula spends in Germany, she marries a man who’s last name is Fuchs – the German for fox.

Rabbits appear, too, as pets and pests and prey. They come under the protection of Ursula and her siblings, who can’t always save them. Sylvie often discovers the rabbits, and her reaction is unpredictable – some times they’re allowed to stay, sometimes they aren’t.

These two animals play such a big role in the book that I got curious, and researched their significance. Turns out that foxes represent the afterlife, wisdom, and trickery. Rabbits, meanwhile, symbolize fertility, abundance, and the cycle of seasons. Obvious metaphors, I know, but Atkinson approaches them from the side, rather than head on, allowing her to avoid ham-handedness.

A confession: I researched Life After Life before reading it, so I knew a lot of this. I wasn’t entirely convinced I’d enjoy the book, though - I didn’t think Atkinson could maintain momentum, keep things interesting, within a necessarily redundant structure. But she’s talented enough to balance the heft of repetition with a light touch.

There’s also the inevitable and constant suspense of Ursula’s impending death. We know it’s coming, but not when or how. And because she’s such an engaging character – intuitive and intelligent and odd – we care. We want her to make it just a little big longer this time.

The structure is jolting, sometimes, but it also allows Atkinson to revisit events and characters, shed new light, approach the narrative from a different perspective. The result is a novel richer and more layered that a linear plot would allow it to be.

I was almost envious of Ursula’s perpetual second chances – who doesn’t need a do-over, once in a while? It pained me, too, because sometimes the results went from bad to worse…

…which, now that I think of it, makes me wonder if I really would want a do-over.

Philosophical conundrums aside, what’s really remarkable about Life After Life is – as always – the language. Atkinson’s prose is quite evocative without being ornate (which is more difficult than it sounds), and generally quite clean and fresh. It’s a subtle backdrop, against which her genius for choosing words shines bright when she lets it.

Early on, Atkinson writes: ‘Ursula’s first spring unfurled.’ Later, she describes Sylvie as having ‘a laugh like a hiccup,’ and likens a new-born baby to the pink pads on a kittens paw. My favourite metaphor, though, is this one: ‘She had an accent like cut-glass.’ Brilliant.

The only quibble I have with Life After Life is it’s length. I got restless, particularly when what seemed to be Ursula’s most significant life ended, and the story continued. It felt superfluous, flabby. About 75 pages too long.

Still, I would recommend this book unreservedly. To anyone. I don’t often do that, because literary taste is so subjective. But this was such an immersive, transporting experience, that I think everybody should at least try it. So, go. Find a copy and read it. You won’t be sorry. And if you are, you can blame me.

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Second Deadly Sin disappointing

June 17, 2015, 1:42 pm

≫ Next: On Russell Brand’s Revolution

≪ Previous: Life After Life review

I think I expected too much.

I remember loving Asa Larsson’s other books – getting totally lost, and devouring them obsessively in two or three sittings. But that was a while ago, a few years, and I think I invested the stories with more power than they actually had. In my head, they were spectacular.

‘The Second Deadly Sin’ had little to no chance of measuring up.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s a fine book. We re-connect with Rebecka Martinsson and Anna-Maria Mella and Krister Ericksson, and meet some new characters who cast a proverbially long shadow. It’s a nice blend of familiarity and the spine-tingling noir we’ve come to expect from Scandanavian crime fiction.

Larsson structures the book around two plots – one is the story of a murder committed decades ago; the other is a series of contemporary crimes. It quickly becomes clear that they’re linked and, as things progress, the tales converge.

A synopsis: in the early 1900s, an intelligent, free-spirited teacher named Elina Pettersson comes to Kiruna and falls in love with a wealthy local man. The affair ends tragically, with Elina dead in her classroom. No one is ever prosecuted.

In modern-day Kiruna, Martinsson and Mella come across a family whose members suffer more than their fair share of fatal accidents. As the detectives dig, they begin to realize that these deaths are rooted firmly in the past. Specifically, Elina Pettersson’s past.

Now, none of this is ground-breaking or even particularly innovative. But it works. Both threads are suspenseful and engaging, and Kiruna – with the added texture of history – emerges as more three-dimensional than some of the characters.

I’m beginning to recognize this as a pattern: much of the Nordic noir I love stumbles over characterization. Specifically, antagonists. There’s almost always someone – colleague or acquaintance - who is so selfish, so rude, so insufferable, that they become absurd.

In ‘The Second Deadly Sin,’ that someone is Carl Von Post. He’s so ridiculous that I can’t take him seriously. He’s not the actual villain, of course – they’re more carefully drawn. But he is meant as a foil for our heroes and, at that, he fails miserably. He did nothing but leave a bad taste in my mouth. I wish he’d been left out altogether.

On the other hand, many characters are deeply enjoyable. I’d forgotten how much I like Ericksson, for instance. He’s sweet and empathetic, but also capable of defensive violence. And jealousy. Larsson makes him a remarkably good man, but not boring.

I also loved Elina. She’s smart and progressive and fun and – more significantly – an unrepentant bookworm. I could have spent much more time with her than I did.

Perhaps that’s why I felt like Larsson spent too much time in the present. Whenever we came back to Martinsson and Mella, I was disappointed and a little restless. The contemporary half of the book fell flat – it was a little too familiar, a bit worn. Same tune, different key.

So, the inevitable quesiton: should you read ‘The Second Deadly Sin?’ The short answer is: probably. It’s a nice, light book and, if you enjoy crime fiction, it’s worth your time.

But if you’re picky – as I tend to be – then consider starting with one of Larsson’s earlier efforts. (Surely my glowing memory of them can’t be entirely invented?) Or you can stick with the always-superlative-never-disappointing Jo Nesbo.

Either way, reading more Scandanavian crime fiction can only be a good thing.

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On Russell Brand’s Revolution

June 24, 2015, 10:47 am

≫ Next: Review: The Forever Girl

≪ Previous: Second Deadly Sin disappointing

The Link: http://bit.ly/1e3MyX2

Oh, Russell. You know I love you. You’re smart, and funny, and aware, and you can pull off eyeliner and chunky rings like no other man. But parts of this book really tested my devotion.

It’s not that I didn’t like it. In fact, I loved it. Sometimes. So let’s start there.

I loved how passionate Brand is about his beliefs, and how it comes across in every word.

I loved that he’s specific, that he demonstrates exactly how the current political, economic, and social systems are screwing us (he uses a saltier term), and what our options are.

I loved how deftly he weaves humour with criticism to illustrate the tragic, deadly, fun-house-absurdity of it all.

I loved how seamlessly his voice moves from bratty, glam-rock comedian to compassionate insurrectionist to recovering addict and back.

I loved the way he distills cultural and political theories into quick-but-complete guides to the revolution.

I loved the manic cadence of it, and the bits where he gets carried away on a stream of consciousness that feels like Beat poetry.

I loved how his sexuality and bawdy humour comes through in the metaphors he chooses, even when the context is serious.

I love how he takes the piss out of himself.

Most of all, I loved the bits that sound like his stand- up.

If you’ve ever seen Brand perform, you know how engaging and persuasive he is. He skewers power on the tip of a well-chosen fact or statistic, and delivers it with hilarious, horrified irreverence – it’s funny and concise and intelligent and completely convincing.

Unfortunately, that didn’t always translate onto the page.

I think Brand might have tripped over his own earnestness, here. He’s a smart man, and he understands that a lot of people view him as hedonistic and self-indulgent – not necessarily someone you take seriously. So he spends a lot of time explaining the spiritual journey he’s been on, and supporting his arguments.

The latter works in his favour. The former does not.

When Brand addresses the physical world – facts, consequences, real policies and real people – he’s irrefutable. His points are coherent and well-articulated. But then he turns to spirituality. A new consciousness will spontaneously manifest, he argues, and inspire us to collectively adopt a more compassionate, progressive politics.

Clearly, this is what motivates Brand. That’s great. The problem is that he pins the larger goal – collective and co-ordinated co-operation that ends in Revolution – on a faith that not everyone shares. We’re not all as enlightened as Brand is, or motivated by spiritual considerations. It isn’t universal, so how is it going to inspire universal action?

This takes up a lot of the book’s first half. I found it alienating and poorly conceived, and I wasn’t sure I’d get to the end. But the spiritual drum-banging lets up eventually, and things improve.

Three pieces of advice: first, give it until the half-way mark. You need that long to get past the spiritual awakening, and to settle into Brand’s manic rhythm.

Second: read it as a series of essays – it’ll help you make sense of the intellectual chaos.

Third: once you’ve finished ‘Revolution’, watch Brand’s stand-up. It’s all over YouTube, and nobody does it better than he does.

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Review: The Forever Girl

July 16, 2015, 12:29 pm

≫ Next: Review: The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden

≪ Previous: On Russell Brand’s Revolution

http://bit.ly/1Somh2U

As always, McCall Smith creates a gentle, endearing story with gentle, endearing characters, written in gentle, endearing prose. Everything is gentle and endearing. Sometimes, it makes for the ideal before-bed read. Other, it makes you want to scream Quick synopsis: Clover lives in Cayman with her parents and little brother. Life on the island is idyllic, if predictable, and children have to make their own fun.

Clover and her best friend, James, particularly enjoy spying on their neighbours – their dearest wish is to discover an undercover agent among the well-mannered, well-bred, well-funded Caymanian ex-pats. They don’t (though another, jucier secret comes to light). Clover is a smart girl, and self-aware – she knows she’s in love. But before she musters the courage to tell James, they graduate high school and go their separate ways. Their paths cross infrequently over the next decade. Between times, Clover attempts to move on – even develops another relationship. It doesn’t take, though. Padraic isn’t James, and that’s that. Don’t worry – I won’t spoil the ending.

All I’ll say is this: after all the McCall Smith books I’ve read, I should have known. There was so much promise, here. I enjoyed the exploration of unrequited love, of how damaging it can be, and the way it moves forward with you no matter how much you try to put it down. There’s an honesty about the book – or the beginning of it, anyway – that was bracing. I also liked Clover. Maybe empathized with her, is more accurate. She doesn’t whine or wallow, nor does she deny her pain. And she really does do her best to forget James. Frankly, she hit a deeply personal nerve and that’s what kept me reading. I just wished I’d stopped about 20 pages from the end. That’s where it gets maudlin.

So should you read The Forever Girl? That depends. If you like Harlequin romances, then this is a step up – give it a go. Otherwise, skip it.

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Review: The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden

August 13, 2015, 6:58 am

≫ Next: Jonasson leaves readers wanting more

≪ Previous: Review: The Forever Girl

I can’t believe it took me this long to read Jonas Jonasson’s The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden – it’s delightful!

The first thing you need to know is that this is a fairy tale, and it’s written as such. But – rather than a cloying, happily-ever-after-taste – there’s a lovely, tart cynicism lurking beneath the pretty simplicity. It makes for a gratifying contrast between form and content.

You should also know that it’s completely unbelievable, from beginning to end. The plot revolves around Nombeko, a young South African sanitation worker who’s smarter than nearly everyone else around her, a regicidal Swede, his non-existent (but brilliant) twin, a very angry young woman, and an unsecured atom bomb.

(I warned you: unbelievable.)

We begin in South Africa, where Nombeko (through a series of events that I won’t spoil here) gains possession of an nuclear bomb. She manages to evade some of the most notorious security agencies in the world and get to Sweden, where she meets (and confides in) Holger Two. They fall in love and are very happy together. Unfortunately, Holger Two is inextricably linked to his ultra-Republican brother, Holger One and the perpetually furious Celestine.

In the short-term, the bomb is hidden away in a safe place. But what about the long term? Nobmeko and Two start working on a permanent solution. Their first thought is to contact the Swedish government, but they’re dismissed as crackpots. Meanwhile, One and Celestine are desperately trying to depose the King. This not only drives Nombeko and Two crazy; it raises concerns about the security of the bomb.

(I told you you’d have to suspend your disbelief.)

As for the characters, I fell totally in love with them – well, with Nombeko and Holger Two. Nombeko is clever and capable and sarcastic and totally comfortable with her own power. Holger Two is sweet and smart and far too nice to be saddled with the family he got. Their partnership is endlessly satisfying.

Holger One and Celestine I could have done without. They’re loud and thoughtless and abrasive and silly. But even they had their roles to play, like salt in food. I don’t enjoy salt on it’s own but, properly applied, it’s delicious.

And finally, the language. Jonasson emulates the tone and archetypes of traditional fairy tales, grafting them onto a modern political-drama-come-dramady. He winds up with a story that’s both fantastic and fantastical. And so do we.

This book that works in a million ways. It’s intelligent and entertaining and subtle and familiar all at the same time. None of it feels natural, or entirely real. The people and dialogue and events are all slightly over-exposed, a little too bright. But the whole is perfectly lit and framed and composed. A total treat. Highly, highly recommended. I can’t wait to read more.

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Jonasson leaves readers wanting more

September 17, 2015, 7:38 am

≫ Next: Lionel Shriver is an enormous talent

≪ Previous: Review: The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden

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

Jonas Jonasson

My problem is that I have no self-control. When I buy a bag of those sour soothers, I eat them all at once. Find a good cereal? That’s my breakfast every day for the next three months.

I’m incapable of moderation.

So after reading (and loving) Jonas Jonasson’s The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden, I immediately craved more. Specifically, his first book, The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out a Window and Disappeared.

Did I give myself time to digest The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden? No. I wanted that warm, loose, twisted-fairy-tale feeling again. So I moved right on to The 100-Year-Old-Man.

That might have been a mistake.

It’s not that I didn’t enjoy The 100-Year-Old-Man. I did. In fact, I loved it. How can you not enjoy a that revolves around a smart, laid-back, occasionally-crotchety centaurian whose resume includes (accidentally) helping the Soviet Union create a nuclear bomb, and bouncing a young Kim Jong-Il on his knee?

More specifically, Allan Karlsson disappears from a nursing home on his 100^th birthday. Anxious to protect his new-found freedom, Allan heads for the local bus station where he impulsively steals a suitcase that turns out to be more trouble than it’s worth. Fortunately, his unique combination of equanimity and intelligence guides him – and the friends he makes along the way – through a series of potentially hairy situations.

The problem is this: after The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden, this book feels very, very familiar. There’s the accidental acquisition of an object that catalyzes the action. There’s the quirky supporting cast and the savvy, main character who can solve any problem. There’s the weaving of major historical events over a fake infastructure. Jonasson has a formula. It works – well – but it’s a formula nonetheless.

Even the things I like most about The 100-Year-Old-Man are familiar – the slightly over-exposed characters, the just-this-side-of-fantastical plot – these are exactly the same things that charmed me about The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden. I was charmed this time around, too, but a little less so.

So here’s my recommendation: read The 100-Year-Old-Man Who Climbed Out a Window and Disappeared. Read The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden, too. But be careful about which one you pick up first, because that’s the one you’ll really love.

See the movie:

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Lionel Shriver is an enormous talent

November 13, 2015, 8:24 am

≫ Next: Everyone should read Road Trip Rwanda

≪ Previous: Jonasson leaves readers wanting more

Lionel Shriver

The more Lionel Shriver I read, the more I want to be her.

I’m simultaneously awed by and envious of her stupendous talent. It’s not so much her plotting – I enjoy the stories Shriver tells but those, I think, are conjured from the real magic: her characters.

Shriver has this deft, delicate, inimitable touch that allows her to balance the scales of personality just so. Her characters are familiar and fascinating and rooted and totally bizarre. We never encounter people like these, but it feels like we could.

You don’t necessarily want to, mind – Shriver is not a sentimentalist about her characters and they’re not all appealing. In fact, I suspect she actively dislikes some of them. I certainly do.

Eaton Striker, for instance, is a cold bastard. Probably sociopathic. I knew he was trouble the second he showed up to hear the band. And I was right.

Then there’s Checker Secretti. He’d get on my nerves, if I ever had to spend any time with him in the flesh – that effortless genius; that constant, careless, grinding cheer. I’d beat him with my shoe. While Eaton remains unredeemed, though, Checker can be forgiven. It’s easier to see his quirks as part of a whole, a human being, because he’s the main character. We see the world through his eyes.

Besides, his earnest optimisim is charming. Sometimes. And we all have our faults. Glass houses, and all that.

Shriver takes these two very different people – one an immovable object, the other an irrisistable force, as she puts it – and sets them against each other.

Checker is the center of this universe. He’s young and beautiful and a transcendent percussionist. Life fascinates and beguiles him; he fascinates and beguiles everyone else. His band, the Derailleurs, is a local institution with a passionate, if limited, following.

And that’s all Checker needs. He doesn’t want to record an album or headline bigger gigs. He just wants to play. And the other Derailleurs bow to his deeply-rooted, deeply-felt instincts.

Enter Eaton, all discipline and manicured, manipulative cunning. He’s the only one who doesn’t fall under Checker’s spell; in fact, he immediately sets about undermining Checker’s power. Eaton is easy to hate – you want Checker to be as charming as he seems to be. But Eaton is also the only one to recognize the darkness inherent in Checker’s manical light.

Now that I’m finished Checker and the Derailleurs, I miss every one of those nihlistic songbirds. Shriver makes them so specific that, once you’re done, the absence resonates with their words and actions, their flaws and foibles and surprising strengths. And whether any of it jives with you, a bond is forged. Makes you reluctant to turn that last page.

But once you start, you just have to know how it ends. Shriver is that good.

So read Checker and the Derailleurs. Then read everything else Shriver has ever written. Trust me.

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Everyone should read Road Trip Rwanda

December 21, 2015, 10:18 am

≫ Next: Review: The Nature of the Beast

≪ Previous: Lionel Shriver is an enormous talent

What a difference a few books makes.

I’ve always been a fan of Will Ferguson’s work – broad, punny humour amuses me, and I like the way he panders to my Canadian-ness. But I would hesitate to recommend, say, ‘Why I Hate Canadians’ to anyone. All the groaners might annoy them.

‘Road Trip Rwanda’, though? Everyone should read this book.

Here’s the premise: Ferguson’s friend, Jean-Claude Munyezamu, narrowly escaped the Rwandan genocide. After volunteering in Somalia and Sudan, Munyezamu settled in Calgary with his family. He and Ferguson met through the soccer league their kids belonged to and, after years of cajoling, Munyezamu finally agreed to guide Ferguson on a trip through Rwanda.

The genocide is addressed. Often. At some length. It’s impossible to ignore, so Ferguson faces it head on. But this isn’t a book about genocide – not even close. Rather, he uses it as infastructure, a starting point. Through Munyezamu’s personal experience, Ferguson examines the political, economic, and social conditions that lead to the genocide, individual stories of horror and healing, and how the country is putting itself back together.

The result is part tragedy, part inspiration. After being torn to shreds by ethnic definitions – which colonial powers drew out of thin air – Rwanda is now one of the safest, most prosperous countries in Africa. It’s improving by almost any measure you care to name. GDP. Infant mortality. Women’s rights. It’s remarkable.

But Ferguson is a thorough researcher and an honest writer. Not all is well. The most serious, and potentially dangerous, issue facing Rwanda is President Paul Kagame. He is seen by many as a saviour, and by others as a dictator. Critics describe Kagame as tyranical and accuse him of assassinating his rivals. Supporters credit him with saving the country. How much of Rwanda’s resurrection, Ferguson asks, is due to the sheer force of Kagame’s personality? And what happens when his last presidential term expires in 2017?

The answer could be ugly.

Heavy stuff, and a far cry from ‘How to be Canadian.’ There’s a maturity, here, a finely-tuned restraint, that I love. Ferguson’s jokes are more precise; his writing is leaner; his plot is more nuanced.

And he’s still funny as hell. Ferguson combines intellect and curiosity with a keen appreciation of the absurd like nobody else. His attempt to cross the Congolese border is one shining example; his adventure with the mountain gorillas is another.

Through it all, Munyezamu is set up as the straight man. Ferguson uses himself to highlight Munyezamu’s bravery, compassion, and common-sense. Munyezamu, meanwhile, underlines Ferguson’s self-deprecating, well-meaning, clumsy Canadian-ness. It’s a terrific bit of comedy in the form of literature.

So, should you read it? I’m not sure. I adored this book, but there’s a lot of disturbing content. There’s an incredible redemption story here, too, shot through with warm, wry humour. Which means, I suppose, that I’m telling you to give it a try. I can’t imagine you’ll be disappointed.

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Review: The Nature of the Beast

January 20, 2016, 12:41 pm

≫ Next: The Imposter Bride is a bit boring

≪ Previous: Everyone should read Road Trip Rwanda

I started this book at exactly the right time – a few days off for Christmas, and cold weather settling in. Perfect conditions for appreciating a murder mystery. Particularly one of Louise Penny’s Chief Inspector Gamache novels.

Of course, he’s not Chief Inspector anymore. Gamache and his wife, Reine-Marie, have both retired to Three Pines. For peace and quiet, one assumes, although one would also assume that they should know better by know.

Three Pines has a shockingly high number of murders per capita. Overlook that, though. Suspend your disbelief. Ignore Penny’s obsessively detailed descriptions of food, while you’re at it. Focus on the textured relationships between the characters, and carefully woven plot, and – in this case – intricate global intrigue. Frankly, that’s my favourite thing about ‘The Nature of the Beast.’ The espionage.

Penny’s writing normally revolves around the quiet details of quiet lives which, in her hands, become not-so-quiet. But in this book, she widens her lens. It begins – as it always does – with a death in Three Pines. The police rule it an accident. Gamache is unconvinced. He asks his former colleagues to investigate further and sets them off on their latest man hunt. Along the way, they discover something terrifying in the woods surrounding the village. Soon, Three Pines is swarming with engineers and CSIS agents. None of them are being honest about their motives or their history.

They all, however, want the same thing. Gamache is determined to find it first. What he doesn’t realize is that his investigation will lead him straight back to one of the most horrifying cases he’s ever worked. This is one of Penny’s darker novels – she delves into mass murder, war crimes, child abuse. She anchors it all in Three Pines, while expanding well beyond it’s idyllic borders.

It’s a chance for her to take these familiar characters out for a spin on unfamiliar roads, and broaden her plotting horizons a bit. She also takes the opportunity to elaborate on Gamache’s past. Turns out it’s more tortured than we anticipated – perhaps than even Penny anticipated. We still get everything that makes this series great – steady, relentless pace; powerfully stripped-down language; Ruth and her bitchy wit. (I love Ruth deeply and unapologetically.) But ‘The Nature of the Beast’ feels bigger that its predecessors, more ambitious.

Like Penny and all her characters are stretching their muscles a bit. I think what I’m reacting to is the book’s factual underpinning. There really was a Canadian engineer named Gerald Bull. He really did construct a long-range missile launcher called Project Babylon. He really was assasinated outside his apartment in Brussels on March 22, 1990. Penny takes that piece of historical infastructure and grafts the world of Three Pines onto it. Then she uses Gamache’s former profession, and his colleagues, to weld them together. The result is a cross between a high-octane thriller and your favourite slippers. Highly satisfying on all levels. Read it, then try to fill the time until Penny’s next book.

Louise Penny is a Canadian writer.

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The Imposter Bride is a bit boring

February 25, 2016, 7:52 am

≫ Next: Lackberg’s short stories are a feast for crime fiction buffs

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The Imposter Bride, by Nancy Richler, revolves around a Jewish family living in mid-20th century Montreal. The Holocaust casts a long shadow over them, as it does over so many in their social circle, most notably in the absence of Ruth’s mother, Lily.

Lily left one day when Ruth was a baby. Called her sister-in-law over for coffee, then pretended she had to run to the corner for cream, and never came back. In the fridge was a shelf of bottles, and an apology.

Ruth, fortunately, was surrounded by a large, close-knit family who loves her and whom she loves in return. She’s a happy girl – she has friends, does well in school. Eventually, Ruth meets WHO, gets married, and has children of her own. But the mother who left runs beneath her skin, like blood in her veins. Slowly, over many years, Ruth pieces together the story of why and how Lily left.

Richler paces herself, and that’s good – this is a lush, textured novel that doesn’t require any sprinting. The prose is pretty and polite. Takes its time while Richler guides us slowly from character to character, POV to POV. I think that might be my favourite thing about The Imposter Bride - the way we get to see people and events from one perspective, then another. It’s an effective way of layering reality, and manifesting Ruth’s complicated reaction to her mother (or lack thereof) – it’s neither maudlin nor hard-hearted. Just honest.

But my attention drifted towards the end. I got bored. The stakes simply weren’t high enough. Ruth is a happy, functional woman with a happy, functional family. She makes friends, loves her father, finds a husband, has children of her own – all without her mother. So Lily’s absence, while clearly painful for Ruth, is essentially background noise. It doesn’t have enough of an impact to carry an entire novel, and certainly not one as long as The Imposter Bride.

I’m not saying don’t read it – this is a good book, and Richer is a good writer. She just missed the ending.

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Lackberg’s short stories are a feast for crime fiction buffs

June 3, 2016, 10:24 am

≫ Next: Tales of two worlds fascinating reads

≪ Previous: The Imposter Bride is a bit boring

Confession: I’m an easily courted reader.

I knew I was going to pick up Camilla Lackberg’s book of three short stories, for instance, as soon as I saw the title: The Scent of Almonds and Other Stories.

Any crime fiction buff worth their salt will recognize the allusion to death by cyanide which – as Agatha Christie taught me – gives off the distinct odour of bitter almonds.

It was a bit of a dog whistle, and I went running.

The book itself – to mix my metaphors – is like a four course meal. Two courses are excellent, one is edible, and one could have been skipped altogether.

The first story – the eponymous ‘The Scent of Almonds’ – takes us back to Lackberg’s familiar stomping grounds of Fjallbacka. I enjoy her full-length novels, so I enjoyed visiting that world again. In this bite-sized trip, we focus on Martin, who usually takes a back seat to Patrick Hedstrom. Here, though, bad weather strands Martin on an island with his latest girlfriend’s family. Someone is murdered and, cut off from his colleagues on the mainland, Martin is forced to head up – and, essentially, jerry-rig – his first solo investigation.

No spoilers, I promise, but I loved the ending of this one because most of the characters are despicable human beings and Lackberg makes them squirm.

The second story – ‘An Elegant Death’ – was predictable and full of people I didn’t want to spend any time with. Nothing else to say about it, really.

Lackberg hits her stride again – somewhat – with the third story, called ‘Dreaming of Elisabeth’. In it, we descend into the maddening fear of a woman convinced her husband is trying to kill her. It becomes a him-or-me survival story with an ending you kind of see coming, but is all the sweeter for the anticipation.

‘The Widow’s Cafe’, though – the last story – is my favourite. It’s masterful. Quick and clean, almost flash-fiction, this piece weaves unthinkable abuse together with the power of redemption and revenge. There’s very little mystery – it becomes clear quite early on what’s happening – but Lackberg is in her element. She walks the line between horror and small-town gentility with a sure step. The result is one of the best short stories I’ve ever read.

I would recommend this book to Lackberg fans and greenhorns alike. I think it represents both the best and the worst of her work, which makes it a perfect introduction. So get it. Then sit back and enjoy.

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Tales of two worlds fascinating reads

November 18, 2016, 12:45 pm

≫ Next: Book by Daily Show host ‘absorbing’

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So I don’t often read memoirs. No particular reason – it’s just that they don’t generally call me. But a few weeks ago, I was trolling the Toronto Public Library’s e-books and found two of them.

I started with The Reason You Walk and loved it. Adored it. Devoured it, until I got to the last 20 pages, when I tried to slow down so I wouldn’t finish it too quickly. But I couldn’t.

Did I mention I loved this book?

The first 30 pages or so were a little awkward. Kinew starts with some family history, which is interesting and relevant, but the voice is off. He refers to all his relatives by their given names, rather than their relationship to him. It isn’t difficult to figure out, so it’s not confusing, but it does feel like an affectation.

Once Kinew himself enters the narrative, though, he uses ‘my uncle’ or ‘my father’, and it becomes much more natural. It’s a small thing that looms large – for me, at least – because it’s been promoted as a memoir of his relationship with his dad.

Beyond that, though, I have no complaints. The Reason You Walk is tough reading at times – I’m thinking specifically of the parts where we hear from residential school survivors – but Kinew folds the horror of cultural genocide into a larger tale of redemption and forgiveness. It’s gut-wrenching, but never gratuitous.

Well, I could also have done without the graphic accounts of piercing ceremonies. Free advice: skip those parts if you have trouble with blood or needles. Or pain.

Either way, The Reason You Walk is wonderful. Kinew’s prose alternates between evocative and spare, and he uses it to lead us through his transformation from a dark, difficult youth into a strong Anishnabe man rooted in the spirituality and culture of his ancestors.

The prose is also carefully chosen, particularly when it comes to Kinew’s father. Their relationship was far from easy, for many years, and he makes that clear. But he writes as a grown man, with a grown man’s understanding and compassion, so that his father emerges as a fully-formed man, with virtues and vices, and a great deal of love for his sone, which he doesn’t always know how to express.

I’m not sure why this book touched me so much. All I know is that it was imperfect and touching and human and it moved me to tears more than once.

You’d think that would make me eager to read Ta-Nahisi Coates’ Between the World and Me. It hits many of the same notes, and critics have been rhapsodized about it since it was released. But I was reluctant. Reading Kinew’s book was such an extraordinary experience that I worried Coates would suffer by comparison. And he kind of did.

Don’t get me wrong. Between the World and Me is wonderful, and Ta-Nehisi Coates is a smart, articulate, poetic, angry writer. I enjoyed retracing the steps of his intellectual evolution, and the way he links thinkers and activists to his own development.

I also love how deeply personal everything is – even the irritatingly academic bits. Coates carries these ideas and debates and experiences around with him every day of his life, which lends them the intimacy of the familiar.

And yet.

Between the World and Me is ostensibly a letter to Coate’s adolescent son, and there are times when that relationship becomes central. These are the best parts of the book, but they’re only parts – Coates seems to abandon the conceit for pages on end, reinserting it when he rememberes to.

I also found the beginning sterile. Coates’ intense focus on the academic foundations of his experience is interesting; unfortunately, it also leeches the energy from what should be a highly-charged topic.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have read this immediately after reading The Reason You Walk – that book hit me the way it did in part because it feels like a conversation. This is wonderful in it’s own way, but entirely different.

How about this? Read both, and tell me which you prefer. Because they’re both worth reading.

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Book by Daily Show host ‘absorbing’

February 14, 2017, 9:37 am

≫ Next: A second chance at life

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Review: Born a Crime by Trevor Noah

In the spirit of full disclosure, a confession: I’ve met Trevor Noah.

Well, met might be a bit strong. I enjoyed a 30-second encounter with him while he signed my copy of his recently-released memoir, Born a Crime.

I’d already finished the book, though, so my opinion was not coloured by his charming demeanour. Or his dimples.

The short version is that I loved it. The book is funny and sad and harrowing and touching. Not a surprise, given that Noah is articulate and savvy, and grew up as a mixed child under apartheid in South Africa. It would be hard to have a boring childhood, under those circumstances, or write a boring memoir about it.

The story itself is absorbing and moving. Noah’s mother features prominently as a strong, stubborn, loving woman who takes no shit from anyone, including her son. As a black woman under apartheid, there are many things she’s told she can’t do, but she proceeds to do them all (while, I suspect, giving the regime a long, loud middle finger).

Noah seems to have inherited his mother’s indomitable spirit. This made him hell on wheels as a child which, like everything else, becomes a fraught racial and political issue. His grandmother can’t discipline him because – as she puts it – his skin changes colour when she spanks him, and it makes her nervous. His cousins’ skin doesn’t do that – it stays black. That, his grandmother understands. Him, she doesn’t.

This is presented as a funny anecdote, which it is. But it’s also a theme that runs through the book. Noah exists between worlds, languages, identities, and people rarely know what to make of him. He manages by finding common ground with all of them, partly through language. Noah speaks English, Xhosa, Zulu, Sotho, Tswana, Tsonga, Afrikaans, and some German. This, he argues, is how he survived – speak with someone in their own language, and you are no longer the other.

If you watch The Daily Show, you have a sense of Noah – the vocabulary he uses, the way he structures his thoughts, his favourite turns of phrase. He’s smart, and funny, and self-aware, and that voice is all over Born a Crime – no ghost-writer here. Outside the structure of late-night tv, though, Noah lets loose with introspection and idiosyncrasies that he generally reigns in. And I’m glad he does.

I devoured this book, and I was actually sad when it ended. It isn’t just for fans of Noah, either – anyone who’s at all interested in South Africa, apartheid, or race relations will love Born a Crime. I can’t recommend it highly enough.

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A second chance at life

June 8, 2017, 11:24 am

≫ Next: REVIEW: THE UNDERGROUND GIRLS OF KABUL BY JENNY NORDBERG

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REVIEW: THE POST-BIRTHDAY WORLD BY LIONEL SHRIVER

I dated someone several years ago. A musician. It didn’t work out, and there’s this one moment that I still think about sometimes because I’d like to go back and do it over. Do it better. See what was waiting down the road I didn’t take.

Truthfully, I doubt it would change anything much. But I want to know.

We all have those moments, right?

In Lionel Shriver’s The Post-Birthday World, Irina McGovern gets just such a do-over. The first few chapters follow her and her long-time partner Lawrence through a warm, well-worn relationship. At a crucial moment, Irina makes a decision which alters the course of her life. We see the consequences, and how Irina deals with them.

Then, when the chapter ends, we go back.

Shriver returns to that fateful choice, and allows Irina to try again. The next chapter shows us what happens when Irina chooses door number two. The chapter after that returns us to door number one.

And that’s how the rest of the book unfolds – each chapter alternating between the first reality and the second, and Irina’s place in them. Both are happy and sad, in their own ways, and there’s no way to tell which was the better choice – it’s like comparing apples to oranges, if you’ll forgive the laboured simile.

It isn’t spoiling much – but if you’re a purist about these things, skip the next two paragraphs – to say that Irina’s decision revolves around two men. In the beginning, I was certain I knew which one I’d choose (hint: it’s the sexy, raffish one).

Truthfully, I doubt it would change anything much. But I want to know.

We all have those moments, right?

Then, when the chapter ends, we go back.

Shriver returns to that fateful choice, and allows Irina to try again. The next chapter shows us what happens when Irina chooses door number two. The chapter after that returns us to door number one.

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REVIEW: THE UNDERGROUND GIRLS OF KABUL BY JENNY NORDBERG

November 17, 2017, 7:20 am

≫ Next: Writerchick on How to be Good by Nick Hornby

≪ Previous: A second chance at life

What a fascinating read!

Jenny Nordberg is a Swedish journalist who goes to Afghanistan in search of one story, and finds something completely different. What she uncovers, bit by bit, is an ancient custom that bends all the rules of this highly stratified society and allows its most oppressed, suppressed, abused members a few years of freedom.

The book follows several Afghani women who’ve lived part of their lives – usually young childhood – as boys. The reasons are varied and complex. Sometimes, it’s like a good luck charm meant to ensure that the next child will be a boy. Sometimes, it’s a mother’s attempt to give a daughter self-confidence. Sometimes, the family needs money for food and there’s nobody else who can work.

It’s a sad book, made absolutely tragic when we meet one woman’s father and see how difficult his choices were, too.

I love how, in typically Nordic fashion, Nordberg states hard truth bluntly. She gives no quarter or concession. Nothing is sugar-coated. Naturally, some of the hardest are about Afghanistan, and deservedly so. Equally deserved are the hard truths she also tells about Europe and North America. It’s jarring, in a refreshing, wake-you-up kinda way, to be reminded that the comfortable line we draw between ‘them’ and ‘us’ isn’t as well-defined as we might think.

Nordberg blunts that edge a bit with individual stories to help us connect. She wastes no effort on the fiction of journalistic objectivity, choosing instead to immerse herself and us in a totally compelling phenomenon.

Don’t get me wrong: Nordberg journalistic rigour shines through in every question she asks, every fact she checks, every lead she chases down. Somehow, she balances the two – the personal and the professional – with exquisite precision.

I didn’t have high hopes for The Underground Girls of Kabul, based on descriptions. But I loved it. Absolutely worth a read.

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Writerchick on How to be Good by Nick Hornby

May 8, 2015, 9:18 am

≫ Next: REVIEW: CHRISTMAS AT THE VINYL CAFE BY STUART MCLEAN

≪ Previous: REVIEW: THE UNDERGROUND GIRLS OF KABUL BY JENNY NORDBERG

Tina Siegal is Writerchick

What do you do when you hate your husband, want desperately for him to change, then hate the new version even more?

Apparently, you end up trying to end homelessness.

Unfortunately, they can’t stand each other.

(Sidebar: the implications aren’t always pretty.)

Katie’s few cultural indulgences – a Tom Stoppard play, for example – ‘nourish her soul.’ In fact, these experiences become a barometer of her mental and emotional health.

Here, for the record, is my favourite. Katie is trying to decide whether or not to end her marriage, and she says:

Stunning, yeah?

I loved the whole so much, though, that I’m willing to forgive a minor transgression.

So read this book. Immediately. Then go out and read Hornby’s non-fiction because, no matter how much I enjoy his novels, I’m totally smitten with his Believer columns.

Either way, Hornby is a writer not to be missed.

Tina Siegal is a Sudbury-born, (temporarily) Toronto-based writer, ESL teacher, and PR professional. She loves writing, reading, animals, music, and chocolate chip cookies.’

Read more Tina at https://writerchicktj.wordpress.com/

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REVIEW: CHRISTMAS AT THE VINYL CAFE BY STUART MCLEAN

January 15, 2018, 9:22 am

≫ Next: In Glass Houses, we find Gamache at professional crossroads

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This is not going to be a very objective review.

I loved McLean’s CBC radio show The Vinyl Cafe – listened to it every week, read every book. Followed Dave and Morley and Stephanie and Sam for years, and cried when Arthur the dog died.

You’ve all had something like that, right? A book, a TV show, a movie? So you can imagine how sad I was when McLean succumb to cancer last year. And how happy I was when I found out all his Christmas stories were going to be released in a new book.

This is that book, and I don’t have the heart to criticize it. Not yet.

Is it saccharine in places? Sure. Is it predictable? Sometimes. Does it romanticize the world we live in? Absolutely.

It’s also warm and funny and utterly delightful.

We get to spend time with all our favourite Vinyl Cafe folks – my personal favourite is the tight-assed, prissy, good-hearted Mary Turlington, though I couldn’t tell you why. And revisiting classic stories – Dave and the turkey, for example – has become an annual tradition for thousands across Canada.

These stories may not be perfectly structured, or perfectly written. But they’re gentle and loving, and they understand the importance of appreciating small victories and daily blessings. I wouldn’t recommend it as a staple of your literary diet – it’d rot the teeth out of your head – but we can treat ourselves once in a while, right?

RIP Stuart.

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In Glass Houses, we find Gamache at professional crossroads

February 14, 2018, 9:55 am

≫ Next: Carol Off’s book is highly recommended

≪ Previous: REVIEW: CHRISTMAS AT THE VINYL CAFE BY STUART MCLEAN

I’m always happy to spend time with Gamache eat al. Particularly Ruth. I adore Ruth. I want to be her when I’m old. So I’ve been looking forward to this book for quite some time.

From the beginning, Penny has done a remarkable job of creating Three Pines – the sights and smells and tastes. Particularly the tastes. She spends a remarkable amount of time detailing the food her characters eat. Like it’s a little obtrusive. Charming, but obtrusive.

In ‘Glass Houses,’ we find Gamache at a professional crossroads. He’s now the head of the Surete, and he’s gambled his reputation – his entire career – on a dicey plan to take down the most powerful criminals he’s ever encountered. Jean-Guy and Isabelle are, as always, at his side, but there are others who wonder whether Gamache is corrupt or inept or both.

At the same time, a strange presence descends on Three Pines, setting everyone – including four regular, long-time visitors – on edge.

Turns out nobody knows those visitors as well as they thought they did. Turns out those visitors and Gamache’s grand plan are not unconnected.

I was shocked, I tell you. Shocked.

The problem with having a successful 13 book series is that it’s hard to keep things fresh. You inevitably become a little too well known to your readers. A little predictable. And that’s what’s happening here.

There’s no way any faithful Penny reader didn’t predict the outcome, or at least most of it. It was like a freight train speeding through a tunnel right towards you. But I’ll say this for her: there was at least one genuine surprise. Perhaps one and a half (you’ll know the half when you read it). And, after thirteen books, that’s not bad.

Plot aside, I’m beginning to find Penny a bit too self-consciously poetic. Over-sophisticated, with no humour to cut through. Except, of course, for Ruth, the hatchet-mouthed old poet who rescues this entire literary universe from drowning in it’s own tasteful restraint.

Have I mentioned that I love Ruth? More than Armand or Jean-Guy or Clara or Olivier, or anyone else. Ruth is the one bright, fresh note in Three Pines. Among such nice, calm, thoughtful people, she’s like salt to caramel. Entirely necessary. If it weren’t for Ruth, I don’t think I’d have made it this far in the series.

But she is there. And so I can’t wait to visit her again.

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Carol Off’s book is highly recommended

April 20, 2018, 7:24 am

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I’m picky about the non-fiction I read. Not much of it tempts me, I enjoy few of the ones that do, and I rave about even fewer than that.

This is worthy of a rave.

All We Leave Behind tells the harrowing, heart-stopping, gut-wrenching tale of one man and one family’s fight to live with integrity in an increasingly chaotic, corrupt world. It begins with Carol Off’s work as a foreign correspondent in Pakistan and Afghanistan, where she interviews a progressive and thoughtful man named Asad Aryubwal.

Aryubwal has lived through some of the most turbulent times in modern Afghanistan. He loves his country and, at first, the American efforts after 9/11 give him hope. But he soon sees a familiar pattern emerge, old mistakes being repeated, and he tries to warn the West by speaking with foreign journalists like Off. Specifically, he acts as the main subject of a documentary Off is making about Afghanistan.

Unfortunately this draws the attention of a very powerful, very dangerous warlord, putting the entire Aryubwal family in danger. When Off finds out, she plunges in to the murky world of the Canadian refugee system and the United Nations High Commission on Refugees.

In the beginning, both the family and Off assume that – given all the evidence and documentation they have to support the Aryubwals’ claim of asylum – the family will have no problem getting to Canada. The reality is very different. It takes a few dozen people working together in three countries, countless roadblocks, miscommunications, and delays, a few close calls, and many, many years before the story finally ends.

As I read this over again, I realize it doesn’t sound terribly exciting. But Off, as a journalist, has a knack for putting things into context, and this context is just fascinating. She also does an excellent job of summarizing the political, social, and religious forces at play for and against the Aryubwals in a way that highlights the personal, human price being paid.

Woven through the whole book is the question of journalistic responsibility: as in, what responsibility does a journalist have to the subjects of her story once it’s finished? And does how does the answer to that question impact her ability to do her job?

There were times when this book made me proud to be Canadian, and times when it made me ashamed, but I was always engaged.

Highly recommended. Very highly.

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