Second Deadly Sin disappointing

June 17, 2015, 1:42 pm

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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 A�- 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

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Jonasson leaves readers wanting more

September 17, 2015, 7:38 am

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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:

Everyone should read Road Trip Rwanda

December 21, 2015, 10:18 am

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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.

 

The Imposter Bride is a bit boring

February 25, 2016, 7:52 am

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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.

Book by Daily Show host ‘absorbing’

February 14, 2017, 9:37 am

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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.

A second chance at life

June 8, 2017, 11:24 am

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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).

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).

REVIEW: UNREASONABLE DOUBT BY VICKY DELANY

September 25, 2018, 11:27 am

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So I’ve read this entire series, and I’ve been lukewarm on it since the beginning. Still am, although a little less luke and a little more warm, after this instalment.

I’m a sucker for crime fiction. Unreasonable Doubt brings us back to Trafalgar along with a former resident who spent decades in prison for a horrific crime. New evidence has exonerated him while revealing corruption in the Trafalgar police department. Molly Smith ends up in the middle of a very heated local response, and is forced to question her personal and professional ethics.Meanwhile, the police are also investigating a series of violent attacks on women. 

The most appealing thing about Delany’s books, as always, is the setting. She does a wonderful job of making Trafalgar real, both the landscape and the atmosphere. It’s cozy and slightly pretentious, close-knit and creepy. Perfect for a murder mystery. 

The least appealing thing, again as always, is the lack of nuance. Characters are either good or bad; likeable or hateful. There’s no in-between, and it’s just not realistic. You’re always aware that you’re Reading A Book, which flattens out the narrative and distances the reader.

There’s also a motivation problem, here. Molly makes a very serious decision regarding her perennial nemesis, Dave Evans, and she provides a very specific reason for making it. Then, towards the end of the book, she offers a totally different reason for making the same decision. A small thing, I suppose, but it’s sloppy and it irritated me. 

Still, Unreasonable Doubt is an entertaining read, so long as you’re not looking for anything remarkable.

Tom Wilson memoir is rough and ready prose

December 6, 2018, 11:55 am

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Turns out I do like memoirs. Particularly ones by slightly wild man-boys who were bad news in their 20s. 

‘Beautiful Scars’ is Tom Wilson’s straightforward account of a raw, memorable childhood with a mother he lovingly describes as a she-warrior and a father who flew in the Second World War and came home damaged but determined to provide for his family. 

He grew up in Hamilton, and after reading the book, I understand why they call it Steeltown. Wilson describes a rough post-war town where the kids kicked your ass, the neighbours judged you, and people took care of their own. 

Wilson always felt like he didn’t belong, that there was something about himself that he didn’t know, which set him on a decades-long path of self-destruction and self-indulgence. Sex. Alcohol. Drugs. A music industry that accommodated his worst instincts – that encouraged them, in fact – made matters worse. Wilson did it all, and it nearly killed him. 

Once he tamed his demons – which was, of course, much more difficult than I’m making it sound here – he went looking for the truth that his parents would never tell him. I won’t spoil anything (though there are plenty of clues in the book), but it leads to a Mohawk reserve in Quebec and a re-thinking of an infamous incident in Canadian history. 

There’s lots in the book about Wilson’s addictions and rehab, what it did to his family, how he nearly lost everything, how he got it back. It’s a well-known story, iconic, even, and that’s satisfying. Fans of Wilson’s music will appreciate it as a window into the experiences that shaped him and his work; Canadian music fans will appreciate it as a piece of our collective artistic history.

What makes ‘Beautiful Scars’ special, though, is Wilson’s rough-and-ready poetic prose. It’s a combination of Hamilton street kid and Hemingway – like nothing I’ve ever read before. I just love it.

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REVIEW: THE WITCH ELM BY TANA FRENCH

June 4, 2019, 10:07 am

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I’m still digesting this book. It was completely unexpected, which was fantastic because the series (much as I love it) has become predictable. What saves it as a whole is the drastic shifts in perspective.

The Witch Elm shows us the law enforcement through civilian lives – the narrator is Toby, a young, handsome, successful thirty-something with two best friends, a loving family, a job he enjoys, and a girlfriend too good to be true. He takes all this for granted, always has, so when his safe and comfortable world is shattered, so is he. 

Toby has a warm and strong support system but, just as he seems to be on the mend, another devastating discovery is made that blows it all up again. Everything he thought he knew about himself, his family, his past is suddenly suspect. Toby can’t trust himself or anyone else. 

I’m being deliberately vague, here, because the plot is so intricate that there are a hundred ways to spoil it. So I’ll say this: it’s a very satisfying double-barrelled mystery that ends so tragically it might as well be an opera. 

In a good way.

What the book is really about, though, is memory, the way we perceive ourselves and others, and how those things intersect. Sometimes disastrously. 

The Witch Elm felt entirely different from anything else French has written, in part because none of the main characters are police officers or detectives. It’s also much more introspective and philosophical than the others.

My one criticism is that it’s too long. There are a series of twists at the end that feel tacked on for the hell of it, and that annoyed me.

Other than that, I loved it. Highly recommended.

 

I have a love-hate relationship with post-apocalyptic fiction

June 17, 2019, 11:03 am

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I have a love-hate relationship with post-apocalyptic fiction. I love the combination of high-stakes melodrama and practical, earthy problems; I hate how possible it all feels.

So I hesitated before picking up Moon of the Crusted Snow by Waubgeshig Rice. (He is the host of the CBC Radio afternoon show out of Sudbury.)

I read his first book, skimmed a few summaries of this one, and made two abortive attempts before finally screwing up my courage enough to get past the first five pages (which, incidentally, feature a hunting scene that isn’t graphic but bad enough for an animal lover with a weak stomach).

The book is set in an Anishinaabe community where people fall into two general categories: those who know the old ways, and those who don’t. Evan, his wife Nicole, and their friends belong to the first category, so when the power suddenly goes, they aren’t concerned. In a remote community, the grid is often unreliable, and their cell tower is only two years old. They can live without TV and the internet for a while, or longer.

But hours turn into days, and days turn into weeks, and it becomes clear that something has gone seriously wrong. It’s just that nobody knows what. With no communication devices, they can’t send or receive information. Eventually, two young men make it home from down south and confirm everyone’s worst fears: chaos and anarchy. The lights aren’t coming back on.

For those who know how to hunt and trap and build shelters, it’s not so bad. They can provide for their families, the young, the elderly. And band council has provisions for those who can’t. As the winter wears on, though, and people start dying, tempers flare into desperation. Things get ugly. The community rallies as best it can, and some bonds do hold. Others fall apart.

Rice strikes an impressive balance between extolling the virtues of Indigenous traditions, and facing the sad consequences of cultural genocide. He also trusts his readers to be familiar with Indigenous history – he alludes to residential schools, for instance, acknowledges the horror and the trauma, but doesn’t talk down to us – which is satisfying. And smart. The suggestion, with everything it implies, is more than powerful enough.

The prose is clean and straightforward, which I always love. There are moments of terror and levity and togetherness that create a wonderfully textured story. I did feel like the point of view wasn’t always entirely consistent, and I’m not a big fan of the third person omniscient – I prefer a more distinct, character-focused point of view. But none of that stopped me from finishing the book, and loving it.

Moon of the Crusted Snow was a surprisingly quick, easy read, which is not to say it was light. Waubgeshig Rice has created a very specific, very thorough, very believable end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it scenario in which traditional Indigenous teachings might save the human race. If you’re looking for a true apocalypse, you may be disappointed – this is more a gradual and complete breakdown (and, to me, all the more horrifying for it). But for fans of speculative fiction crossed with small-town drama and Indigenous Canadian literature, I recommend it highly.