A Reconstructed Corpse

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Brett, Simon. A Reconstructed Corpse. Toronto: World Wide Books, 1996.

Just to hold this book in my hands was fun. It’s one of those pocket-sized paperbacks with a loaded cover. Depicted is a foggy night. A not so put-together man walks by an overturned metal garbage can. A large brown paper package tied with white cords and blood dripping from it has presumably spilled from the canister. Among the debris is broken egg shells, a worn shoe that has seen better days and an empty bottle. As if the title can’t tell you, you know by the illustration it’s a murder mystery.

Simon Brett’s A Reconstructed Corpse is a fun mystery. Charles Paris, a down and out actor, has been hired to play the role of a missing man on a true crime series called “Public Enemies.” Think re-enactment shows like “Unsolved Mysteries” or more recently, “America’s Most Wanted.” Charles’s role goes from that of a missing man to a presumed murdered man when body parts start showing up each week…right before airing. It’s a little too mysterious for Charles and soon he finds himself not only playing the dead man, but amateur detective on the side.

Phrases that caught my attention: “…fastidiously groomed and languid to the point of torpor” (p 9). “he put everything grittily – he was constitutionally incapable of speaking without grit” (p 29). He shoehorned a smile on to his face” (p 31).

I think my only complaint would be the silliness over identifying the body parts. The missing man’s wife was asked to look at the arms through plastic and she made an affirmative identification based on a fake Rolex watch. Whatever happened to DNA evidence?

 

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “All the World’s a Stage” (p 8).

I am Not Who I Say I am

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I am not who I am say I am…or rather my mother isn’t who she says she is. At least not last Monday. I now know where I get IT from. Those closest to me will know exactly what I mean when I say, “I just had IT a minute ago!” or “I can’t find my…[fill in the blank]!” I am notorious for losing things despite having them in my possession moments before. I’ve mastered the ability to lose things so well it’s become an art form for me. No one is surprised to see me dig through a bag for minutes on end looking for misplaced keys; wander around the apartment looking for shoes; search cabinets and counters for lost cups of coffee. I think that’s the real reason I don’t wear a watch.

But, here’s the thing. I now know where I get it from. I always had my suspicions it was a genetic thing – handed down from matriarch to daughter. Now I have the proof. This weekend my mother came to visit. Managed to get herself here by bus without an ID. Sweet talked the bus driver in little ole Maine, I’m sure. Somehow she got herself here without having to prove who she was to anyone. Her excuse? She left her ID in “the other bag.” My words exactly. I say that all the time. I could have been standing before her and admitting the same thing. We had a little laugh over the forgotten ID, added an eye roll and an “Oh mom!” and forgot all about it. Until Sunday night when mom asked, “Now, how do I buy a ticket back?” Ummmm….Errrr…Hmm. I don’t know.

We ended up doing the old bait and switch. I have never been one to be tied down to identity. A name doesn’t mean all that much in my view of the world. So when mom became me and I became nobody it was if I had been born to play the part. I handed the ticket to the driver. I got on the bus. And someone else drove away.

Not a Day Goes By

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Harris, E. Lynn, Not a Day Goes By. New York: Anchor Books, 2000.

Since I chose a book from the chapter, “African American Fiction: She Says” (p 12 Book Lust), it was only fair I chose one from the “He Says” side as well. From everything I heard about Not a Day Goes By two words stood out, “sassy” and “sexy” – two of my favorites.

In a word, Not a Day Goes By is about secrets. Former professional football star John Basil Henderson has some big ones he’s hiding from his fiance, Yancey. But, broadway star Yancey Harrington Braxton has even bigger ones she’s keeping from “Basil”. With their relationship chock full of lies, together they make the perfect couple. On the surface they are both beautiful, driven, talented individuals, but beneath those perfect facades hides homosexualty, a child out of wedlock, greed and old lovers who refuse to go away. Sexuality and sin ooze from nearly every page. Definitely a guilty-pleasure read! 

Favorite line, “I still got my tough-guy swagger (when needed). The only difference between two years ago and today is I realize that a tough-guy swagger looks just as dumb as a robe and halo” (p 11).

BookLust Twist: As before mentioned, from Book Lust in the chapter called, “African American Fiction: He Says” (p 11).

To Hell With It

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If only I could be in a video game...
If only I could be in a video game...

Somehow I knew this would happen. I celebrated too early. Wished well too quick. Happiness not. I ended up being wrong. To push out my anger I turned to the tread. Not to walk. To hell with that. I turned to the tread to do what I do best; to do what I have sorely missed. I turned to the tread to run. Simply run. Screaming to ‘Paint It Black’ and angry sirsy songs and songs about Stupid Mouths I pushed my tired body and seething heart to pick up the pace and pick up my feet. I’m out of shape. I’m way out of touch with what it means to really movemovemove. It hurt. I hated. I should have had something to bite down on. Bear my teeth and draw blood. Instead I looked at a purple sticker and thought about the pain. A 12 minute mile soon became 11.5 and then 11. Still slow as molasses, but able to stick with it for three measly miles 35 minutes later.

So. So, it was only three miles but I stepped off the tread feeling vindicated, feeling somewhat stronger. I still have the hate and the hurt but the run has brought back the healing.

Coming to a Halt

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According to the time line we are almost at the end of the ride. This thing I’ve called roller coaster is finally coasting to a stop. We are nine days away from being home owners. Nine days and three steps closer to a new craziness. I’m okay with that because it’s different from the old craziness. Anything is better than the old craziness. All that is left is packing and signing. Packing and more signing. Three days and the ride comes to a halt.

According to the time line I can stop celebrating the craziness that was my landmark birthday. This thing I’ve called turning forty is finally finished. I’m now forty and a few days. Soon it will be forty and a few weeks; a few months. Old news. I celebrated with my husband hunting for house wares and making homemade brownies. I celebrated with the ladies and got to hear my favorite drum solo. I celebrated with my mom with steamed lobsters, chocolate whoopie pies and a big 4 candle. It was perfect – all of it – but now it’s time to move on.

There are other things coming to a halt in my life. Things that have run their course and run out of time. Promises made, promises broken. I should be bothered but I’m not. I’ve been here before. The path is not new. I don’t need a map. While it all makes me sad I am not surprised.

Guns of August

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Tuchman, Barbara. The Guns of August. New York: Dell, 1971.

My copy of The Guns of August is a squat, 576 page, dirty, and torn paperback. It has been taped several times over and written in much, much more. Nothing drives me more nuts than a library book with someone’s scrawl all over it. Donated or not, it never should have gotten into the collection that way. But, back to the actual book.

The Guns of August is nothing short of impressive. It should have won a Pulitzer for history but because Pulitzers for history can only be handed out for U.S. history, it got one for nonfiction. Same diff in my book. It was a national best seller, John F. Kennedy referred to it on more than one occasion as the end all-be all for political strategy and it was made into a movie. In other words, the critics have weighed in – it’s a good book.

Lines that (oddly) made me laugh: “Systematic attention to detail was not a notable characteristic of the Russian Army” (p 78).
“Messimy telephoned to Premier Viviani who, though exhausted by the night’s events, had not yer gone to bed. “Good God!” he exploded, “these Russians are worse insomniacs than they are drinkers”…” (p 109).

BookLust Twist: In More Book Lust in the chapter, “Barbara Tuchman: Too Good To Miss” (p 225). Indeed.
Confession: because of the length of The Guns of August I read it for the entire month of January.

Fool

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Dillen, Frederick G. Fool. Chapel Hill: Algonquin, 1999.

Fool is the kind of book that initially makes you squirm. Its main character, Barnaby Griswold is such the train wreck that you cannot help but be embarrassed by him, and worse, for him. You pity him because he is the epitomy of loser in addition to fool. He cheats. He steals. What he does not have in morality he makes up in enormous ego. Middle aged and homeless. Paunchy and divorced, Barnaby seems like the ultimate lost cause. While the book has a predictable ending and there are no stun-the-reader moments you cannot help but fall in love with Barnaby and root for him as the underdog, even in his worst moments. Sort of like the Cardinals in the superbowl…

Favorite quote: “Then he flared his shins to bend his knees, because evoking the gym on a good evening made him feel like an athlete” (p 132).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust twice. In the chapter called, “Friend Makers” (p 95) and in the chapter called, “You Can’t Judge a Book By Its Cover” (p 238).

Good Patient

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Duisberg, Kristin Waterfield. The Good Patient. New York: St Martin’s Press, 2003.

I am a sucker for first books. I seriously love that first attempt that gets published; the I-Made-It book. The Good Patient is not only Waterfield’s first book, it’s a great first book. I loved nearly every word of it (and yes, I will get to the “nearly” part of that statement in a moment). But, first the general overhaul:

Darien Gilbertson reminds me of Brenda Leigh Johnson only in the extreme. Like Brenda, Darien is a force to be reckoned with in her professional life. She is successful enough to outshine the big boys. Yet, her personal life is a mess. Despite having a husband who adores her Darien has this insatiable need to self destruct. If she isn’t breaking her own bones, she is cutting and burning herself. She has more than come undone. When her husband forces her to seek professional help Darien is quick to accept, thinking she can do what she’s always done – outwit the therapist and beat the world of psychiatry at its own game. Little does Darien know she has met her match the moment she sits on Dr. Lindholm’s couch. In her own right Dr. Lindholm is a force to be reckoned with. There are times when The Good Patient gets a little extreme, a little over the top but for the most part, I enjoyed Darien’s first person account of how she puts herself back together. Filled with wit, sarcasm, humor and humility, I devoured The Good Patient in an afternoon and has been put on my “read again” list.

Favorite places: Darien taking about her own birth, “Broke my collarbone and tore a hundred-stitch hole in my mother, just to get into the world” (p 4). A quote I think my sister can relate to, “The truth is there’s something wrong with my wiring that makes me smile at the most godawful things, at the most inconvenient times” (p 28). A quote that reminded me of me, “I am suddenly angry in a way I can’t explain, small tidal licks of irritation building under my skin” (p 143).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter, “Shrinks and Shrinkees” (p 221). I would have also included it in More Book Lust in the chapter, “Maiden Voyages” (p 158) because it is a worthy first book (IMHO).

No Wine But Roses

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I didn’t get my wine last night. After working all day, stressing about the house (or lack there of), the upcoming accreditation, and going out with the girls,  wine never seemed right. I thought about it. For a second.

We got to the place and it was busy. Finding a table for four was a feat unto itself – until they made us a table right in the middle of the dance floor. Center of attention. A table that easily sat eight had half. Then we were told the table would be going away in 45 minutes…so eat fast. Great. No problem. Until they took forever to take our orders and even longer to deliver the goods. We decided it was my fanned pear salad that caused the hold up (either that or they had to make the bread for my friend’s grilled cheese sandwich).

Wine would have been impossible after dinner as well. Jostling girls in show-it-all- outfits, boisterous boys with big (beasty?) feet, loudloudloud music. When the band started I slipped away from my girls to watch my drums. A minute showcase was worth millions to me. Even thought there were two all I cared about was the talent of one. It was good to see smiles. Even better to see laughs.

Here’s the thing. Three beautiful women came out with me to celebrate a milestone in my life. We couldn’t share conversation. We couldn’t share a taste for the music. Hell, at some point, we could even share eye contact it was so crowded. But, they stuck it out for what matters to me. So, no wine but three perfect roses.

Extraordinary Voyage of Pytheas the Greek

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Cunliffe, Barry. The Extraordinary Voyage of Pytheas the Greek. New York: Walker & Co,. 2001.

I have to admit that this little 178  page book took me by surprise. If the photographs and maps were removed it would be shortened to 166 pages. Take out the “further reading” section and all the quoted text and you would be left with only 156 pages (approximately) which meander just as much as Pytheas’s exploration. A good chunk of those remaining pages have large segments on periphery details like tin smelting and the electrostatic qualities of amber. Unfortunately for ancient history enthusiasts there isn’t much to refer to for first hand accounts of the travels of Pytheas. Unlike Cook or Columbus, the writings of Pytheas did not survive to present day. All that is left are the numerous documents either quoting Pytheas or written about Pytheas. Such as this book.

Favorite lines: None.

BookLust Twist:  From Book Lust in the chapter called, “Here Be Dragons: The Great Explorers and Expeditions” (p 111). Note: On The Ocean by Pytheas is also mentioned in this chapter. For obvious reasons I won’t be reading it.

Besides Being Late, February Is…

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February is the Superbowl. February is forty. February is rock and roll and houses. February is family. February is putting the mourning behind.

For books, February is a lot of really fun reading. All of them are relatively short (as compared to last months):

  • The Cult of Personality by Annie Murphy Paul ~ in honor of National Psychology Month (nonfiction)
  • The Good Patient by Kristin Waterfield Duisberg ~ in honor of National Psychology Month (fiction)
  • Fool by Frederick G. Dillen ~ in honor of Friendship Month (TBEL)
  • The Color Purple by Alice Walker ~ in honor of Alice’s birthday
  • The Extraordinary Voyage of Pytheas the Greek by Barry Cunliffe~ in honor of Expect Success month
  • Inn at Lake Devine by Elinor Lipman ~ in honor of Massachusetts becoming a state in February (Lipman is a Massachusetts writer).
  • Bedtime for Frances by Russell Hoban ~ in honor of Russell’s February birthday

If there is time I will add:

  • Powers That Be by David Halberstam ~ in honor of Scholastic Journalism Month

And. Because I forgot to include this in the January Was post – I have read a total of 217 books since starting the project. Seven were in the month of January 2009.

January Was…

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January started off and ended with a head cold (damn you, kisa), a really nice dinner party, a re-commitment to the houses HOUSE (glutton for punishment that I am), a re-commitment to charities with a big one – training for a 20 mile walk for Project Bread, a huge re-commitment to friendships and huge changes at the library. For books it was:

  • Death Comes to the Archbishop by Willa Cather in honor of New Mexico becoming a state in January.
  • Red Death by Walter Mosely in honor of Walter’s birthday being in January
  • Biggest Elvis by P.F. Kluge in honor of both Elvis and P.F. celebrating their birthdays in January.
  • Devices and Desires by P.D. James ~ in honor of mystery month.
  • The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer by Carol Hill
  • Edith Wharton: a Biography by R.W.B. Lewis ~ in honor of Edith’s birthday on January 24th.
  • The Guns of August by Barbara Tuchman ~ in honor of Barbara’s birthday.

For fun:

  • The Letters by Luanne Rice and Joseph Monninger ~ a story that partially takes place on Monhegan. How could I resist? This is the blog that was plagarized by some dumb-azz.
  • 30 pages of Nutritional Wisdom ~ a Christmas gift from my sister.

So I didn’t get a LibraryThing Early Review book in January. That’s not a big deal. I have certainly gotten my fair share over the course of the program so I’m not complaining. I do have to admit, I feel a little guilty. For the first time ever, I am really late publishing the review for the last ER book. Maybe that had something to do with it…who knows?

ps~ I did get one for February, or so I am told! 🙂

Blogger without a Brain

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Some say imitation is the highest form of flattery. Well, what do you call plagarism? A friend came up with the perfect word, asinine. In my world it’s “I am not smart enough to write my own sh!t.” In my world it’s “I’m so stupid I need to take other people’s ideas and call them my own.” Colin Deslage, if that’s even his real name, fits this description. IQ of a sand flea. Or, more accurately, a sand flea’s fart. Why else would he take my book review and post it on his blog? I don’t think he’s an azzhole. I think he’s just floundering in a sea of smart people and doesn’t want to drown looking like a dolt. When you are that obtuse looking intelligent is a really, really hard thing to do.

When I was first alerted to this odd occurrence I seethed. I thrashed around with so much anger I couldn’t sit still. Not long enough to write anything anyway. Then I considered the blog Colin Deslage stole – it’s an odd one to steal. Consider the facts: it’s a freakin’ book review (a very unprofessional one at that), it’s about chick lit (which says something about Colin’s reading preferences, or maybe I’m mistaken and he is really a SHE), and it mentions my hometown, a place where few people have ever heard of (let alone visited).

What does anyone have to gain by posting something that obviously isn’t original? Sand flea fart credibility.

Anyway, the rant is over.

Edith Wharton: a Biography

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Lewis, R.W.B. Edith Wharton: a Biography. New York: Harper & Row, 1975.

I had always know Edith Wharton was gifted even as a child. I think I was 16 the first time someone told me she was of my age when she first published. What they failed to tell me was that her literary voice fell silent for over a decade after that. I thought she had published all along and as a result I have always been impressed by her lifelong success.

Beginning with Wharton’s genealogical background and ending with her funeral R.W.B. Lewis’s  Edith Wharton: a Biography is at once both extensive and entertaining. Wharton begins her life as Edith “Pussy” Jones, the daughter of a socially well-to-do family. Her life is surrounded by all the things the culture of 1870s cherished – multiple family estates, social gatherings with citizens of good standing and trips abroad to places like Italy and France. With access to letters, diaries and manuscripts Lewis is able to give animated details to Wharton’s upbringing and subsequent literary career. It is no wonder he won a Pulitzer for his work. It also is easy to see how Wharton was drawn to a writing career when you consider the wealth of influences in that era: Henry James, Theodore Roosevelt, William Vaughn Moody, Charles Dickens, Gustave Flaubert, and George Eliot to name a few. What is amazing is her inability to stay the course of confidence. The slightest criticism could send her career out of commission for months at a time.

On a personal note – because Edith’s marriage failed and she never had kids there was on and off speculation about her sexuality. Rumors ranged from lesbian to frigid and everything in between. Edith did her best to remain privately passionate despite the talk, but I think, in the end, there was some overwhelming desire to prove something to her critics. At least, that is the explanation I am taking away with me when it comes to the incestuous, slightly pornographic appendix C.

Favorite Edith Wharton realization: During World War I, otherwise known as The Great War, Edith started up charities to help displaced refugees and war victims. Some if her tireless crusades were taken up by the Red Cross when they became too much for her.

Favorite passages: “She had learned from Bernhard Berenson…to take a professional librarian’s attitude towards her own private library, and the disposition of books..” (p 4).
“…but at this stage it was almost as important for her that the young Bar Harborites excelled at the art of flirtation” (p 39).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “Literary Lives: The Americans” (p 144).