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Book 175: The Sisters Chase



“The Chase girls stayed the next morning until it was time to check out, lying on the bed and basking in the infinitude of being nowhere. The motel served Saran-Wrapped Danish, hard-boiled eggs, and orange for breakfast, and Mary and Hannah ate them in their room, Hannah feeling the optimism of going somewhere, Mary feeling the relief of having left. The Chase girls were always happiest in those brief moments of in-between, when neither of them was sacrificing, neither of them being sacrificed.”

Dates read: September 6-9, 2017

Rating: 2/10

To be honest, I was not very excited about my sister when she arrived. I’d been perfectly happy as an only child, thank you very much. When she was about 6 weeks old (I was 4 and a half), my mom caught me carrying my sister towards the kitchen. She asked me what I was doing, so I told her that I was throwing her away because all she did was cry. When I was informed that I couldn’t actually toss her in the trash, I tried to bargain down to returning her to the hospital. No dice. We fought like crazy growing up, but now that we’re all grown up, she’s someone I love and cherish. Thanks for not letting me bin her, Mom.

The titular sisters of Sarah Healy’s The Sisters Chase couldn’t be more different. Fourteen years older, Mary has dark coloring and a corresponding dark personality…she’s ruthlessly pragmatic, manipulative, proud and ungovernable. Hannah, however, is blonde and takes after the nursery rhyme in that she seems to be made of sugar and spice and everything nice. Their single mother owns and runs a hotel in a seaside town on the East Coast and has a night shift at a nearby casino to keep their family going during the off-season. But when she’s killed in a car crash, Mary and Hannah find themselves on their own. Back taxes on the hotel and no life insurance mean that they’re broke, and so Mary takes Hannah and leaves the only home they’ve ever known to try to take care of her.

After Mary successfully prises some seed money from wealthy relatives in Florida, she and Hannah (who Mary calls “Bunny”) connect with an old acquaintance of hers in New England. Things seem stable, and even like they might end up happy, but Mary’s past shows up to bite them and they leave. As Hannah grows up, they continue to travel, Mary refusing to put roots down anywhere for too long, until they wind up in California. Hannah, now on the cusp of her teenage years, wants desperately to stay in one place and so several months pass, but the idyll can’t last and eventually tragedy strikes.

All of that is super vague, I know, because I do try to avoid spoilers and this book is very much “about” its plot and its mysteries. You’ll notice above that I’ve rated this book quite poorly, and part of that is that is just because the kind of book that it is: plot-over-character is not my cup of tea, but this was a book club pick after a couple months of heavier, slower material so I gave it a shot. Turns out, I still don’t get a lot out of this style of novel, and that’s okay. Not every book is for every person, and my ratings are intended to be a reflection, at least in part, of my own experience of reading the book and the enjoyment I got out of it. But my ratings are also informed by my opinion of the quality of the book and how well it did what it was trying to do, and this is where The Sisters Chase really took a nosedive.

One of the reasons I tend to be personally pro-spoiler is that I feel like if “the twists” are all you have, you don’t have a story. The Sisters Chase indulges heavily in one of the ways I find most irritating of shielding “the twists”…it deliberately hides information known to the characters from the reader. It’s not that this can’t be done well (the way Gone Girl “hides” that Nick Dunne’s mysterious calls are actually from his mistress because he’s a bad husband, not from a conspirator because he’s a murderer, for example), it’s that this book doesn’t do them well. I guessed the big twist long in advance and I’m awful at guessing the twist. And I had a huge issue with characterization, too. The book actually has very few characters it spends any significant amount of time with (primarily Mary and Hannah), so should be able to round them out more fully. Instead, both the girls are flat. Mary is the kind of “she’s beautiful…but wild” stereotype I’ve always found deeply irritating, and Hannah is so milquetoast that she’s barely there. I’ve always thought that the three most important elements of a novel are plot, character, and writing, and a book needs two of three better than average to be good, and all three to be truly great. This book was not successful, for me, in any of those areas. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.

Tell me, blog friends…do you try to rate books? If you do, are your rankings purely objective or is there subjectivity there too?

One year ago, I was reading: Sophia of Silicon Valley

Two years ago, I was reading: Moonglow

Three years ago, I was reading: Suspicious Minds

Book 174: Boys And Girls Together



“But there was, because over in the far corner a man was sitting, a lone man, and for just a moment he looked at Aaron, and Aaron saw the look and he saw what it meant. The man in the corner knew; you could fool all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time, but you couldn’t fool the man in the corner.”

Dates read: August 31- September 6, 2017

Rating: 3/10

I took my first trip to New York City in high school. I did a little bit of theater stuff, and the teacher who headed it up did an annual trip to go see a bunch of Broadway shows during Spring Break. I begged my mom to send me and she did, and I had a blast. I saw Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane in The Producers, and Mary Louise Parker in Proof. I also got my first taste of the big city without parental supervision…we were chaperoned, of course but we had free time to go explore a little and it was so fun. I’ve been back several times, and while I’ve never had the personal desire to live there full-time, I totally understand why some people fall in love with it.

William Goldman’s Boys and Girls Together tells the story of five different young people who all end up in the Big Apple, and whose lives come to intersect. This is a novel that focuses very intensely on its characters, and so we get not just the story of the principals, but their parents as well. Wannabe writer Aaron is the son of a New Jersey lawyer and his Southern bride, who is his father’s delight until his untimely death of a heart attack, and winds up being the afterthought to his mother’s favorite, his lovely but impetuous older sister. Aaron is cruel and proud, and when he’s drafted into the military, crosses paths with Branch. Branch is the offspring of an Ohio mother who managed to trap his mostly-uninterested father into marriage and dominated him until he fled into the military and died while fighting overseas. Branch is mostly weak-spirited and lives under his mother’s thumb until he flees to New York to try to become a producer. There’s he’s reunited with his college friend Walt, who directed plays and goes to the city to try his hand at it there rather than be trapped in the lucrative business his father built up and maintained both before and after Walt’s mother died, having ignored her breast cancer until it was too late in an attempt to punish her husband for his infidelities.

These three all converge around a play, and their lead actors are Jenny and Rudy. Jenny is a tall, curvy girl from Wisconsin whose body seems to create most of her problems: she’s nearly raped as a preteen by a stranger, and then is nearly raped again by her only friend in high school, who becomes her steady boyfriend. She follows him to New York and ends up working at a publishing firm, where she becomes embroiled in an affair with her boss. Rudy’s story is the most focused on his parents of all: the two are both young, confident, and good-looking kids when they meet in Chicago and try to out-stubborn each other, which they continue into marriage and parenthood. Rudy is a sweet-natured and shy child who loses the only person in his life who really cares about him when his grandfather dies, and then becomes a pawn in his parents’ struggles. He has no real ambition to act, but when Branch spots him, he’s convinced.

I love a character-driven novel, so I expected to love this. Starting with the stories of the parents is an interesting device, and one I appreciated because it enriched the environment into which these personalities were planted and grew. The only problem: no one is actually interesting or compelling. Aaron is a raging asshole, Branch is pathetic, Walt’s boring, Jenny’s affair cycles through the same will-he-or-won’t-he-leave-his-wife conflict so many times that I literally rolled my eyes at my Kindle, and Rudy’s cardboard martyrism (apparently he literally can’t say no to a direct request?) makes it hard to get invested in him. The only part of the book I really enjoyed reading was about the relationship between Rudy and his grandfather, who is the only person who views him as something more than an object. Goldman also wrote The Princess Bride, and it’s easy to see the seeds of the grandpa-grandson relationship he depicted there in that portion of the book.

I usually try to think of an audience that might potentially like a book, even if I didn’t. Every book isn’t for everyone, of course. But it’s hard to think of a particular group of people that might like this novel…it’s definitely character-over-plot, but like I said, I didn’t find the characters worth spending the time with (and this is a long book, over 700 pages, so there’s lots of time). Apparently it had some notoriety when it came out because two of the main characters are gay, but neither of them is depicted particularly well, so I wouldn’t say it’s a good LGBT read either. Goldman is clearly a talented writer, based on his other work, and even in this one he has a knack for dialogue, but I can’t in good faith recommend that anyone read this work.

Tell me, blog friends…have you ever been to New York?

One year ago, I was reading: Of Human Bondage

Two years ago, I was reading: The Love Song of Jonny Valentine

Three years ago, I was reading: Yes Please

Book 172: The Idiot



“I wrote her phone number on my hand, while she wrote mine in her daily planner. Already I was the impetuous one — the one who cared less about personal safety and tradition, while Svetlana was the one who subscribed to rules and inherited systems, and wrote things in the designated spaces. Already we were comparing to see whose way of doing things was better. But it wasn’t a competition so much as an experiment, because neither of us was capable of acting differently, and each viewed the other with an admiration that was inseparable from pity.”

Dates read: August 23-29, 2017

Rating: 8/10

Sometimes I feel like I’m learning in reverse: when I was a teenager, I was sure I know pretty much everything, and the older I get, the less I feel certain of. I think many other teenagers are the same way…at least, the ones I’ve known. Sometimes I almost miss that blazing moral clarity, the certainty that I was right and someone else was wrong. But letting it go (for the most part) has made me an easier person to get along with, and a better one overall.

Selin, the protagonist of Elif Batuman’s The Idiot, has the opposite problem. She’s a freshman at Harvard, and she’s overwhelmed by all she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know where her life is going, really, she doesn’t know what classes she wants to take, she’s not sure how to help the students she’s been assigned as a part of her volunteer work doing adult education. She can’t even figure out how to fall asleep regularly, adding exhaustion on top of her confusion. She kind of drifts along, and one of the places she drifts is into a beginner Russian class, where she meets two people that change her life.

One is Svetlana, an immigrant from the former Yugoslavia, who decides she’s going to become Selin’s friend and does so with aplomb, quickly becoming the dominant force in Selin’s social life. The other is Ivan, a senior from Hungary, who becomes Selin’s conversation partner for Russian class, and correspondence partner over the then-new medium of email outside of class in English. Their conversation gradually turns into them spending time together, and Selin develops an intense crush on him. Even after she learns he has a girlfriend (and while he’s giving her very mixed signals), she takes up an opportunity to teach English in Hungary over the summer in the hopes of getting to spend time with him.

This book, like last week’s Stoner, has a very passive central figure. Selin’s unsureness about virtually everything means that she mostly reacts to the world around her instead of being proactive. This makes her simultaneously very relatable (who hasn’t felt paralyzed with indecision, especially in a new situation?) and quite frustrating. If you’ve ever lived through the experience of having feelings for someone who wasn’t quite sure what they wanted, you find yourself wanting to reach through the pages and shake her by the shoulders while telling her that this isn’t going to end well. But you also know there’s no way to learn that lesson except living through it, because you probably ignored the person who shook you by the shoulders and tried to warn you off.

Batuman is an incredible writer…I highlighted so many things on my Kindle that she wrote that just seemed to perfectly capture the essence of being young and lost and desperately self-conscious. And she creates a very real, sympathetic-even-as-she’s-irritating character in Selin. The plot structure, though, could have used some work. While she’s at school, the book meanders along slowly and had a hard time holding my interest despite the lovely prose. Once she gets to Hungary, however, and starts interacting with host families and students, the book gets much livelier and there were several moments that were actually laugh-out-loud funny. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the portion of the book that takes place at Harvard, but I enjoyed the last quarter-or-so so much more. I wish Batuman had figured out a way to disperse some of that levity more equally throughout the book, because it’s like 3/4 a good book and 1/4 a really good book. As is, though, I’d recommend this book, to recent-ish college grads in particular (I feel like if I were too much older than I am now, I’d be too annoyed by Selin to really enjoy what it had to offer).

Tell me, blog friends…did you ever have one of those flirtations with mixed signals?

One year ago, I was reading: Stiff

Two years ago, I was reading: Green Girl

Three years ago, I was reading: To Die For

Book 168: The Sense Of An Ending



“We live with such easy assumptions, don’t we? For instance, that memory equals events plus time. But it’s all much odder than this. Who was it that said that memory is what we thought we’d forgotten? And it ought to be obvious to us that time doesn’t act as a fixative, rather as a solvent. But it’s not convenient—it’s not useful—to believe this; it doesn’t help us get on with our lives; so we ignore it.”

Dates read: August 10-13, 2017

Rating: 8/10

Lists/Awards: Booker Prize, 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, The New York Times bestseller

Like many siblings, my sister and I squabbled a lot growing up. One time, and I can’t remember what she said or did that prompted it (if anything), but I was mad at her and I told her that her teeth were yellow. It wasn’t even true, they were pretty much the same color as mine. Years later, I asked her why she usually smiled with her mouth closed in pictures, and she told me that she’d been self-conscious about the way her teeth looked ever since I said that to her. I apologized and told her I was just being a jerk, of course, but I’ve made an effort since she told me that to really think before I snap back at someone I’m upset with. You never know how the words you toss off without thinking can really impact someone’s life.

Julian Barnes’ The Sense of an Ending illustrates the same principle on a much more profound scale. The book tells the story of Tony Webster, a deeply ordinary person. He went to school, worked a normal office job, got married, had a kid, got divorced, and remained on good terms with his ex into their retirement years. But a mysterious bequest drags him back towards most tumultuous time of his life. As schoolboys, Tony and his friends absorbed into their ranks the new kid in town, Adrian. Adrian was different than them: smarter, more serious. The group starts to fracture after graduation, everyone going their own separate ways to different schools or workplaces. At university, Tony meets and starts dating Veronica.

It is this ultimately short-lived relationship that changes lives. Veronica is mysterious and aloof, and Tony has a hard time knowing where he stands with her. They get serious enough that she takes him home to meet her family, but the only one that’s nice to him once he gets there is her mother. They break up shortly after that trip, and not a particularly long time later Adrian writes to Tony to tell him that he’s started dating Veronica. Tony is hurt, and writes back angrily. Then he goes on an extended jaunt to America, and it’s not until he gets back to England that he hears that Adrian has committed suicide. Tony is, of course, upset, but his life goes on fairly smoothly until that bequest arrives: Veronica’s mother has passed and left him a small sum of money and Adrian’s diary. The money gets to Tony, but the diary is with Veronica.

Tony’s journey to try to understand why he was left anything at all and attempts to get the diary comprise the balance of this slim novel. In its less-than-200 pages, it explores powerful themes: the difference between what we chose to remember and the truth, the impossibility of taking back something that’s been said, how we change even though we feel like the same person we’ve always been. Barnes is a talented writer, and reflects on these with clear, emotionally resonant language that puts into words things that we (or at least I) have thought about but never really been able to distill. The mystery behind it all keeps the plot moving forward, but it never feels tantalizing just to inspire page-turning. Rather, the interesting thing is how Tony reacts to each new twist.

Barnes does brilliant characterization work with Tony, by the time things are wrapping up he feels like an old friend who has a way of dropping wistful bon mots about life. Both Adrian himself and Margaret (Tony’s ex-wife) likewise feel realized despite appearing relatively infrequently in the narrative. But Veronica, who winds up being a significant factor, never really came together for me. The “clues” she gives Tony are maddening…if she really doesn’t want to engage with him, she could have avoided him entirely, but for her to make just enough contact with him to drop cryptic references doesn’t make sense. Either tell him what’s going on, because he clearly doesn’t get it, or ignore him. Her remoteness and Tony’s inability to comprehend her are one thing, but I can’t understand her own motives at all, which took away from my enjoyment of the book. As for the final resolution itself, I’m not sure I go all the way there with it. That being said, this is a lovely and powerful book, and I’d recommend it very highly.

Tell me, blog friends…have you ever said something to someone that you wish you could take back?

One year ago, I was reading: Wonder Boys

Two years ago, I was reading: Zealot

Three years ago, I was reading: Ahab’s Wife

Book 164: Notes On A Scandal



“People like Sheba think that they know what it’s like to be lonely. They cast their minds back to the time they broke up with a boyfriend in 1975 and endured a whole month before meeting someone new. Or the week they spent in a Bavarian steel town when they were fifteen years old, visiting their greasy-haired German pen pal and discovering that her handwriting was the best thing about her. But about the drip, drip of long-haul, no-end-in-sight solitude, they know nothing. They don’t know what it is to construct an entire weekend around a visit to the launderette. Or sit in a darkened flat on Halloween night, because you can’t bear to expose your bleak evening to a crowd of jeering trick-or-treaters.”

Dates read: July 29- August 2, 2017

Rating: 8/10

Arbitrary age guidelines are…well, arbitrary. A person isn’t suddenly mature and responsible enough to drive a car the day of their sixteenth birthday if they weren’t the day before. They don’t suddenly understand all the implications of a contract they sign the day they turn eighteen if they didn’t previously. There’s no magic power to being able to handle your liquor at 21. But since it’s enormously impractical to examine these kinds of milestones on a case-by-case basis, we develop a shorthand. Most 16 year olds are in a better headspace to drive than those younger than them. By the time someone hits 18, they’re more mature and responsible than they were even a few years ago, more able to make adult decisions. And your brain is more developed by the time you get to 21, better able to absorb the impact of alcohol.

One of the more controversial age guidelines (and one that tends to vary depending on place and circumstance) is the age of consent. In the US, it tends to vary between 16-18. Europe skews slightly younger, with most between 14-16. Again, there’s no hard and fast way to assess if someone is “ready” to give knowledgeable consent, so you just have to set a standard and go with it. What is always inappropriate and often illegal is exploiting a relationship of power. So when Sheba Hart, an art teacher at an English school in Zoe Heller’s Notes On A Scandal, begins a relationship with 15 year-old student Steven, she’s clearly in the wrong. Sheba’s story is told through the voice of fellow teacher Barbara Covett, as a manuscript that Barbara is writing in the wake of Sheba’s deeds becoming public. At the beginning of the events that the book recounts, she’s a bitter, lonely older woman who has had no real bonds with anyone besides her cat. When Sheba, lovely and ditzy, makes her teaching debut at St. George’s, Barbara sets out to befriend the soon-overwhelmed younger woman.

Well, befriend isn’t really the right word. She wants to become a necessary part of her life, the way she’d been closely enmeshed with a different younger woman years earlier who got married and will no longer speak to her. There’s an implication that Barbara’s interest is more than platonic, but I think making too much of a “repressed lesbian” angle is overstating the case. As I read it, Barbara’s not trying to get into Sheba’s pants, she’s trying to get into her head and exert control over her. And the way Heller writes it (through Barbara’s not-exactly-unbiased narrative voice), Sheba isn’t exactly in control of her affair with Steven, either. The deeper Sheba gets in, the more he pulls away until he eventually ends it. And then it all comes tumbling down, leaving Sheba cast off from her family with no one to stand by her side. No one, that is, besides Barbara.

Heller has written a book with a lot of moral complexity. Barbara is certainly manipulative, but she’s also desperately lonely, and is understandably very hurt when Sheba throws her over after she’s had to put her cat down to go cavort with Steven. Fundamentally, she wants to be important to another person, which is something most of us want (although most of us aren’t as manipulative as Barbara). Sheba is the one crossing the boundary with Steven, but she met her much-older husband when he was her professor in college, when she was only a few years older than her teenage lover, and Steven proves to be the party less emotionally invested in their relationship. Both women are predators, but neither is purely evil.

It’s a book that may prove difficult for some people to read as it deals heavily with a adult-teenager, teacher-student relationship. Barbara, for all that Heller has given her some sympathetic qualities, is a negative character and given that the book is told from her perspective, I’d classify it as “dark” in tone. But it’s undeniably compelling. Even though I watched the movie (years ago, when it came out) and remembered the “twist”, as it were, I still found it interesting and enjoyable, in its own way, to read. I’d recommend it for people prepared for the subject matter.

One year ago, I was reading: An Untamed State

Two years ago, I was reading: The Wars of the Roses

Three years ago, I was reading: The Woman Who Would Be King

Book 161: Valley of the Moon



“It is naive, I know, but you never think the unspeakable thing will happen to you. That is something that happens to other people. That is the accident you watch from the side of the road, unable to tear your eyes away from the mangled body in the street, a stranger, somebody’s mother, somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister, somebody’s wife. Somebody’s beloved, but not yours. Never yours.”  

Dates read: July 17-20, 2017

Rating: 7/10

What is “women’s fiction”? It seems to mean mostly books written by women with a primarily female audience in mind. It concerns things like relationships and marriage, family and friendships. Basically, it treats women and the things that are important to many of us as serious topics worthy of literary output. But there’s an undeniable prejudice against women’s lit: books by and about women are considered books for women, while books by and about men are considered books for everyone. Women are asked to think critically and empathize with the viewpoints of men, and that’s great, but why isn’t the reverse true?

I started thinking about my own bias about female-driven books when I read Too Fat, Too Slutty, Too Loud a while back, and I resolved to do better. And so I picked up Melanie Gideon’s Valley of the Moon, a book about time travel with a romance element. The story is told in alternating viewpoint chapters: that of Joseph, living at the turn of the 20th century in Greengage, a kind of commune in the Bay Area, and that of Lux, a single mother of a biracial child living in 1975 San Francisco and working as a waitress to make ends meet. Joseph’s community in the Valley of the Moon experiences the earthquake that rocked San Francisco in 1906, but in a very different way: they find themselves surrounded by a thick, poisonous fog, cutting them off completely from the outside world. Until one day, when Lux walks out of the fog and into their lives.

Lux, for her part, has just reluctantly shipped off her young son Benno to visit her estranged parents in New England for a month. She decides to go camp in the Valley of the Moon one night, and awakens to find herself surrounded by fog. She walks through, and meets Joseph, his wife Martha, his sister Fancy, and the rest of the people who make up Greengage. Joseph left his wealthy life in Europe and founded the community based on the principles his warm-hearted, egalitarian mother lived by: everyone works, and everyone’s work is valued. Lux finds herself enjoying her time in the past, and develops a rough estimate of how time passes in Greengage relative to the real world, allowing her to make periodic visits without being missed.

Well, mostly. Two major developments in the book stem from time working differently than it was “supposed” to. If you’re a reader who wants a logical explanation for the events of the books you read, this will likely be bothersome. But for me, I found it kind of refreshing that there was never any real attempt at an explanation of how or why the time travel happened or worked. It’s a device that can cause many a plot hole if there’s too strong an attempt to get into the mechanics of it, and I think that for all practical intents and purposes, you either have to buy into time travel in a story or put it down. Besides, Valley of the Moon isn’t trying to tell a story about particle physics or whatever it might be that would make time travel possible. It’s a story about two people, from two different times, building a connection.

The immediate comparison to be made for any time travel relationship story is The Time Traveler’s Wife. Which is a high bar to clear, because many people (myself included) really liked that book. And while this one isn’t as good, I was still surprised at how much I did enjoy it. It’s not the type of book I’m usually drawn to, but Gideon paints interesting, complex characters (particularly Lux) and tells a compelling story about them. I liked the way she handled the romance, neatly sidestepping the insta-love that drives me up the wall about a lot of books in the genre and instead giving it time to develop organically. I also liked that it wasn’t the most important element of the narrative: Lux’s relationships with her family, friends and co-workers, and her own personal development, are all given plenty of space to grow. This novel isn’t going to change anyone’s world, but it’s easy and pleasurable to read, and that’s what counts at the end of the day. I’d recommend it to anyone.

Tell me, blog friends…which genres do you shy away from that you think you should give another chance?

One year ago, I was reading: Rebecca

Two years ago, I was reading: The Guineveres

Three years ago, I was reading: Hood

Book 160: Crazy Rich Asians



“Annabel knew at that moment she had made all the right decisions for her daughter- enrolling her at Far Eastern Kindergarten, choosing Methodist Girls’ School over Singapore American School, forcing her to go to Youth Fellowship at First Methodist even though they were Buddhists, and whisking her away to Cheltenham Ladies’ College in England for proper finishing. Her daughter had grown up as one of these people- people of breeding and taste. There wasn’t a single diamond over fifteen carats in this crowd, not a single Louis Vuitton anything, no one looking over your shoulder for bigger fish. This was a family gathering, not a networking opportunity. These people were so completely at ease, so well-mannered.”

Dates read: July 14-17, 2017

Rating: 5/10

Meeting the parents for the first time is always a little unnerving. I remember being crushed when my first serious boyfriend’s parents didn’t really like me. In retrospect I think it was less about me and more about the fact that I was the first girl he’d really brought home and his mom was a little overprotective, but either way I felt the sting of disapproval. Other parent-meetings went generally better, and my in-laws I’ve gotten along with since I first met them, so it all turned out fine in the end. But that moment you’re knocking at the door, holding your boyfriend’s hand, waiting to see if the people on the other side are going to think you’re good enough for their kid or not is pretty scary.

Kevin Kwan’s Crazy Rich Asians takes that scenario and turns it up to 11. Rachel Chu and Nick Young, both professors in New York, have been dating for about two years when Nick’s best friend invites him home to be the best man in his wedding, and he decides to bring Rachel along. Rachel knows that home for Nick is Singapore, but knows precious little else about what she’s getting herself into. You see, Nick isn’t just another guy from Singapore. He’s the scion of an incredibly, obscenely rich family, and when you combine that with his good looks, he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in Asia. And his mother’s plans for him don’t really feature a future with an Chinese-born but American-raised daughter of a middle-class single mother.

The focus of the book is Rachel living a deeply fish-out-of-water scenario among the jet set elites of the island, but it’s structured in an alternating-chapter format, so we see the perspectives of Nick, his mother Eleanor scheming, and his best friend/cousin Astrid struggling with the decline of her own marriage to someone outside their class, and other players in the drama as well. There are twists and turns and more designer name-dropping than you can shake a stick at as the action propels toward the central wedding and its aftermath. While this does keep the plot moving forward and keeps any one storyline from getting too bogged down, it also makes it hard for there to be much character development, especially of our leads Nick and Rachel.

While this novel, with its satire and fluff, was a great palate-cleanser from the deep and meaningful Kavalier & Clay, it indulged far too much in one of my least favorite plot devices: relying on people not talking to each other to fuel the drama. In order to buy into the entire premise of the book, you have to believe that Rachel knew virtually nothing at all about Nick’s family before she landed in Singapore…which means you’d have to believe that after two years in a serious, committed relationship, they’ve never actually discussed his family once despite the fact that he’d met her mother long before. And while I could buy that someone coming from a rich, private family wouldn’t have splashed out all the details to his latest weekend fling, the idea that he wouldn’t tell (and she wouldn’t push, frankly) doesn’t really hold up. There’s another giant plot hole where we’re meant to believe that even though Rachel has been bullied by a group of girls at a weekend retreat INCLUDING SOMEONE LEAVING A SLICED OPEN DEAD FISH IN HER ROOM AND THREATENING HER, that she never told her boyfriend because they were boning and she didn’t want to “spoil the mood”. That is not a healthy relationship and I do not want those people to end up together.

I know that this trope doesn’t necessarily bother everyone though, and besides my own personal beef, it’s a fun, sharp, biting satire about the lifestyles of extravagantly wealthy people. And as much money as those people have, they’re still at the end of the day dealing with the same problems anyone is: figuring out family, wrestling with love and heartbreak, trying to find happiness. They’re just doing it in outfits that cost more than most of us make in a year. I actually found Nick and Rachel’s story pretty boring (which is why I doubt I’ll pick up any of the sequels) but did really enjoy Astrid’s parts of the narrative. The movie version of this got great reviews over the summer and even though I did not love the book, I’m interested in seeing it! It sounds like the virtues of the book translated well to the screen. While it didn’t work for me, this would be a great book for someone that wants something fluffy that does hit some emotional points but never too hard.

Tell me, blog friends…what’s your plot pet peeve?

One year ago, I was reading: The Power

Two years ago, I was reading: The Red Queen

Three years ago, I was reading: Occidental Mythology

Book 153: Spoiled



“Brooke closed her eyes and exhaled. It was bad enough that Ginevra’s pleasantly nasty little shoe-related blind item had been canceled out by Molly’s popular appearance in the latest issue of Hey! Between the fact that her actors were operating at straight-to-DVD levels and all the gushy comments she’d heard lately about Molly’s eyes, or her clothes, or that heinous backpack, Brooke’s nerves were as frayed as a pair of tights on Taylor Momsen. She’d even been seen eating chips in public. Like a commoner.”

Dates read: June 18-21, 2017

Rating: 6/10

My sister is one of my best friends. But it wasn’t always that way. When I first found out I was getting a sister, I was…not excited. As a pathological attention seeker from the very beginning, I was perfectly happy to be an only child thank you very much. Not too long after she was born, my mom saw me carrying my sister toward the kitchen. When she asked me where I was going, I told her I was going to throw Amelia in the garbage can because she cried too much. Informed that this was not an option, I argued for a return to the hospital. The presiding judge/my mom ruled against me. It didn’t get a lot better until I went to college and we were out of each other’s hair and then we realized we actually rather liked each other and though of course we still fight because we’re sisters and I’ve never been one to let someone be wrong without making sure they know they are, she’s a deeply important part of my life.

If normal circumstances like mine lead to sibling rivalry, finding out when you’re already 16 that you have a sister you never knew about, who’s the same age as you, would be rough. In Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan’s debut novel, Spoiled, they introduce us to Brooke Berlin, only daughter of Hollywood mega-star Brick Berlin. Brooke longs to be an actor and see her face in all the magazines like her dad and is gleefully planning the Sweet 16 party that will be her social debut…when she finds out that she’s not actually Brick’s only daughter. Right before he met and married Brooke’s mother, Kelly, he had a fling with Laurel, a costume designer on a movie set, and only found out about her pregnancy after Kelly was pregnant too. Laurel went back to Indiana and raised her daughter, Molly, to believe that her father was a military man who died before she was born. But Molly finds out the truth just before Laurel passes away, and finds herself on her way to Los Angeles to live the father and sister she never knew.

That all probably makes this sound kind of heavy, but it’s really not. What transpires from there is straight out of 90s/00s high school movie mashup heaven…Brooke and Molly squabble, and Molly finds herself in the middle of a long-standing rivalry between her spoiled brat of a sister and Shelby, the daughter of a tabloid king. She also finds herself torn between her long-time, on-again-off-again hometown boyfriend and the cute boy at her tony new prep school. All this set against the sisters being forced to work together on a production of My Fair Lady. The drama!

I’ve been a longtime reader and fan of Cocks and Morgan, who write one of my favorite blogs on the internet: Go Fug Yourself. They’re very steeped in Hollywood and fashion, given that they write about those things literally every day, and have developed an irreverent, snarky-without-being-mean tone that worked perfectly for this little snack of a YA novel. There are all kinds of little details that are delightful: that Brooke’s best friend is named Arugula, Brick’s dim-bulb bon mots, a daft football player and his perky blonde girlfriend that are obviously heavily inspired by Kevin and Brittany from Daria. Coming off of reading two heavily-fact-based nonfiction books about Serious Issues, the breeziness of Spoiled really hit the spot. It’s kind of like a candy bar: tasty and gone quickly and not especially memorable.

I know they were trying to ground their story in real emotions, but that the whole story takes off from Molly’s mother’s relatively sudden death from cancer doesn’t really work. That this is very much a secondary plot point kind of strains credulity. A 16 year-old just mostly moving on from the death of her only parent without much in the way of emotional trauma? Although it’s their feelings about their missing mothers (Brooke’s mother has had no contact with her daughter at all in the years since her divorce from Brick) that ultimately forms the glue that bonds Molly and Brooke together in the end (spoiler, but not really because if you can see their reunification coming right from the beginning of their feud), I wish they’d found another way to force Molly out to California because it’s jarring every time you’re reminded of it. It’s a significant false note in what’s otherwise a catchy little ditty. Otherwise, this is a fun, silly, light book perfect for when you need an easy read.

One year ago, I was reading: The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter

Two years ago, I was reading: The Queen of the Night

Three years ago, I was reading: Primitive Mythology

Book 149: Mrs. Dalloway



“How much she wanted it- that people should look pleased as she came in, Clarissa thought and turned and walked back towards Bond Street, annoyed, because it was so silly to have other reasons for doing things. Much rather would she have been one of those people like Richard who did things for themselves, whereas, she thought, waiting to cross, half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves, but to make people think this or that; perfect idiocy she knew (and now the policeman held up his hand) for no one was ever for a second taken in. Oh if she could have had her life over again! she thought, stepping on to the pavement, could have looked even differently!”

Dates read: May 29 – June 4, 2017

Rating: 7/10

Lists/Awards: Time All-Time 100 Novels, 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, Newsweek Top 100 Books

Our lives are the series of hundreds, even thousands of choices that we’ve made day by day. Sometimes those choices are the obvious, life-changing kind: where to go to school, who to date, the career path we pursue. But sometimes they’re little things that we couldn’t imagine having big ramifications. Going out instead of staying in one night, or vice versa. Like Sliding Doors. But it’s all the choices, taken together, that really make up having a life.

Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway takes place over the course of just one day, as the titular Clarissa Dalloway prepares for and throws a party, but its scope is really her whole life and the choices she’s made. Most importantly, the summer when she rejected the suit of her friend Peter and instead chose to marry Richard Dalloway, a minor politician with whom she has a daughter who’s now a young woman herself. Peter is suddenly back in town, in pursuit of a divorce for the younger-but-married woman he’s been courting, and comes by Clarissa’s home that morning, spurring her to think about that time of her life, when she was more passionate and free-spirited.

There’s a parallel story going on as well, that of Septimus Warren Smith. Once an idealistic student studying Shakespeare, he joined up to fight in World War I without really thinking about what he was getting into. He ended up with what we’d probably now diagnose as PTSD, and when he was sent to the villa of an Italian hatmaker to recover from his shellshock, impulsively married Lucrezia, the hatmaker’s lively daughter. Although the pair has been married for several years by the time the book takes place, they have not yet had children, much to Rezia’s chagrin. Septimus’ mental state, always delicate, has taken a turn for the worse and his wife is desperately trying to find him adequate help. Although the stories at first seem disconnected, it becomes obvious that Clarissa and Septimus are foils for each other. Each is reflecting back on their lives and choices and the consequences of decisions long-since made, and teetering between hope and despair.

This is one of those literary classics that I’m glad I came to outside of the typical “high school English” setting. Like The Great Gatsby (which I hated when I read it in high school, but loved once I read as an adult), it’s steeped in themes of remembrance and regret and reflecting on the choices made or not made that have shaped your path. And I’m sure I would have been disgusted that Clarissa had decided to marry steady, boring Richard who struggles to even just tell her he loves her because he’s so uncomfortable with feelings instead of Peter, who struggles to contain his wellsprings of emotion and with whom she clearly has a more natural chemistry. But adult me understands that sparking passion isn’t the same thing as love, and that Peter has not been able to make a steady relationship last, while Richard and Clarissa are still married, indicates that her instincts had merit.

Although it’s only about 200 pages long, Mrs. Dalloway is a dense novel that I read at about half of my usual pace. The narration skips around, following mostly Clarissa and Septimus but also Rezia, Richard, Peter, and others. As a book focused on memory, it’s presented in a more stream-of-consciousness style and demands close attention. It’s one of those books that you read and immediately know you’re going to get more out of every time you go back through it because there’s a lot there, and I’m sure this is a book I want to revisit. Woolf’s writing is lovely, not flowery or excessive but still packed with powerful themes and emotions. Since I wasn’t an English major, this is actually the first time I’ve read her work and I walked away wanting to read more. I’d recommend this book to everyone.

One year ago, I was reading: The Royals (review to come)

Two years ago, I was reading: Sophie’s Choice

Book 148: The Panopticon



“It’s the same in the nick or the nuthouse: notoriety is respect. Like, if you were in a unit with a total psycho and they said you were sound? Then you’d be a wee bit safer in the next place. If it’s a total nut that’s vouched for you, the less hassle you’ll get. I dinnae need tae worry about any of that. I am the total nut. We’re just in training for the proper jail. Nobody talks about it, but it’s a statistical fact. That or on the game. Most of us are anyway—but not everybody, some go to the nuthouse. Some just disappear.”

Dates read: May 26-29, 2017

Rating: 7/10

In identical twin studies, the incidence of schizophrenia, if one twin has it, is 50% for the other twin. Obviously, the rate of schizophrenia in the general population is much, much lower (only about 1%), so clearly there’s a strong genetic link. But at only 50%, there’s clearly something else going on as well: ye olde Nature v. Nurture. There are probably thousands of people walking around who have risk factors for this or any number of other mental or physical disorders, but because they’ve been placed in the right environment, will never develop them. And the inverse is also true…there are probably thousands of people for whom a genetic predisposition might as well have been fate, because their environments are going to make it all but impossible for the disease to NOT take its toll.

If anyone should be damaged, it’s Anais Hendricks, the teenage heroine of Jenni Fagan’s The Panopticon. Born in a mental hospital to a woman who disappeared soon afterward, she’s shuffled through dozens of placements by the time we meet her as a 15 year-old getting shoved into the back of a police car with blood all over her, not able to remember what just happened. What she does know is that a policewoman is in a coma and that she’s being blamed for it, and that she’s headed toward a group home for wayward youth called the Panopticon. As Anais settles in and gets to know the staff and residents, we learn more and more about her background, about the places that she’s lived and the ways (sex and drugs, mostly) that she’s tried to escape and find a little happiness for herself. Even as she gets more comfortable, though, there’s a constant axe hanging over her head, since she knows if the injured policewoman takes a turn for the worse she’ll be sent to a secure facility to be under constant lock and key.

The book takes place in Scotland, and Fagan peppers the dialogue with dialect. It’s a little hard to wrap your head around at first if that’s not something you’re used to, but it’s pretty easy to tell what the words mean by context clues and after a while it becomes part of the rhythm of the novel. The plot itself is slightly off-kilter in a way that fits the story being told…there’s a pretty clear “peak” near the middle of the plot after which things begin to fall apart, but there’s not really a climax per se. And the people it shines a light on, teens that have lived through the kind of horrifying conditions that leave them in a group home, don’t really have lives that follow the linear path we might expect either. There’s a lot of very dark stuff here: drug abuse, rape, disease, cutting, parental abandonment, death, but it somehow comes together to end on a surprisingly hopeful note.

What really shines in The Panopticon is the characterization, especially of Anais. At first she’s an off-putting character, a violent and drug-addled teenager who seems practically feral and certainly dangerous. But as her layers get peeled back, you come to see how her life has necessitated the hard shell she wears around herself and why she acts the way she does. Slowly, you begin to care about her and root for her and by the time there’s a court proceeding where she’s dismissed as a hopeless case who can never be trusted to live outside of custody you’re offended by how smugly they assume they’ve seen all they need to know about her. Many of the other kids and some of the staff in the Panopticon are given strong personalities despite relatively little “page time”, so to speak, but Anais is a bold and surprisingly winning heroine. As long as you can deal with the rough places the book goes, I’d definitely recommend it. Please don’t do what I did originally, though, and assume it’s YA. It is very much a book for a more mature audience.

Tell me, blog friends…what do you think about reading novels with large portions of dialect?

One year ago, I was reading: The Bonfire of the Vanities

Two years ago, I was reading: The Circle

Book 146: If We Were Villains



“Ten years of trying to explain Dellecher, in all its misguided magnificence, to men in beige jumpsuits who never went to college or never even finished high school has made me realize what I as a student was willfully blind to: that Dellecher was less an academic institution than a cult. When we first walked through those doors, we did so without knowing that we were now part of some strange fanatic religion where anything could be excused so long as it was offered at the altar of the Muses.”

Dates read: May 15-20, 2017

Rating: 7/10

For someone who’s been dead for over 500 years, William Shakespeare’s still pretty damn popular. It seems like there’s at least one major screen adaptation every year. And everyone reads at least one of his plays at some point in high school, right? They’re probably the only plays which most people have actually read all the way through in their lives (I include myself in this number, I don’t particularly care for reading plays). While some people hate his stuff and most feel more-or-less indifferent, there are also some people who REALLY love it. I’m not one of those people, but I do have a favorite of his works (Much Ado About Nothing) and still regret that I didn’t get a chance to take a course focused on Shakespeare in college from a legendary professor.

It’s a group of people who are super duper into Shakespeare that is the focus of M. L. Rio’s If We Were Villains. The book mostly follows seven Shakespearean acting students in their senior year at an exclusive arts college. We know something big and bad happened, because the book opens with one of the seven (Oliver, our protagonist) being released from prison after a decade. He agrees to return to his alma mater and speak to the detective who put him behind bars to finally reveal the true story of what happened all those years ago.

Based on the length of sentence alone, it shouldn’t be surprising that what happened was that someone died. The who and the how I’ll leave for the reading of it, because the bigger issue is what happened after that person died. The way the remaining members of the group deal with the death, and how it changes their relationships with each other, both on and off the stage. They’d each developed a little niche over their years together (the king, the femme fatale, the good guy, the ingenue, the villain, etc), and the removal of one of the spokes of the wheel renders the structure unstable.

If you’ve read The Secret History, a lot of that will sound pretty familiar to you. Indeed, it’s pretty obvious that Donna Tartt’s debut novel was a significant source of inspiration for Rio for her own. And that’s fine, Tartt doesn’t own the concept of a tight-knit group of students studying an obscure subject at an exclusive private college dealing with the fallout from the death of one of their own. But here’s the thing: if you’re going to write a book with strong parallels to a novel that’s been consistently popular since it was published 25 years ago, you have do it at least as well or better. And although I want to make it clear that I did enjoy reading If We Were Villains (I did love The Secret History, after all), Rio didn’t quite hit that mark.

The characters fall a little too neatly into the roles they fill onstage: Richard, the king-type, really is a raging egomaniac; Meredith the femme fatale really is a sexpot; Wren the ingenue really is demure and sweet, etc etc. Where this fails most problematically is that the “background player” types are kind of underdeveloped, and that’s Oliver and Filippa. Oliver, you’ll remember, is the main character and while it’s not unusual for a reader-insert-character protagonist to be kind of bland, Oliver never really captured or held interest for me. Filippa is the only other member of the group that doesn’t come from privilege and the small peeks we get at who she is make her easily the most potentially interesting character, and it’s frustrating that she’s given the short shrift. The plot developments, too, weren’t handled especially deftly. I’m generally not good at anticipating plot twists, but I called nearly all of the major ones easily. Rio’s prose is solid, though, and I’d definitely be open to reading more from her in the future. I’d recommend this to people who loved The Secret History and want to read something similar, but if you haven’t read that book yet, it’s better than this one.

Tell me, blog friends…are there “if you liked that, you’ll love this” books that you feel pulled off being better than the inspiration?

One year ago, I was reading: Valley of the Dolls

Two years ago, I was reading: Smoke

Book 143: The Highest Tide



“Olympia rain rarely calls for hats, much less umbrellas, but this was a waterfall. And by one forty-five in the morning I saw the auras of the remaining biologists, or maybe it was just backlit mist. What I do know is that I saw a blue light around every one of their heads. And Florence had taught me that people with blue auras are relaxed and ready for anything, which suited these people perfectly.”

Dates read: May 1-5, 2017

Rating: 4/10

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with dogs. OBSESSED. Like, I bought a copy of the AKC breed manual and read it like a book, cover to cover, over and over. I also went through a phase of intense obsession with mythology, even writing a letter to The Detroit News when they published a piece that misgendered Osiris. It seems like that’s something we lose in adulthood, the ability to become passionately wrapped up in a single topic like that. We have so many other things to think about, it makes sense, but it still feels like kind of a loss, realizing those days of throwing myself wholeheartedly into something new are behind me.

In Jim Lynch’s The Highest Tide, 13 year-old Miles O’Malley is a budding marine biologist. Not in the way of like, teenagers who think that means getting to play with dolphins all day for a job. But in the way where he reads and re-reads Rachel Carson’s works on oceans, cares about the ecosystem, and regularly sneaks outside to kayak along the Puget Sound beach he lives on to explore what the animals who live in the water are up to. On one such adventure, early in the summer before he begins high school, he discovers a giant squid washed up on the shore. And so begins a season that will change his life forever.

Like so many adolescents, everything is changing for Miles. His parents seem headed toward an end of their long-shaky marriage, he nurses a desperate crush on Angie, the older, bipolar girl next door who used to babysit him, he becomes a figure of devotion for a local cult-type group, he feels queasy about the older man he sells aquarium specimens to, and he faces the increasing deterioration of his best friend, the old lady who lives next door. Miles is confused about virtually all of the above, not quite knowing how to handle any of it. On top of it all, he’s extremely self-conscious about his diminutive stature and has very few friends his own age.

This is a fairly slim book (only about 250 pages), and the feeling I was left with at the end was that it tried to take on too much without doing any of it particularly well. There are too many plot threads and none of them are developed properly. Lynch sketches Miles as a sensitive, observant boy, and I wish he’d dropped some of elements he piled on (the shady animal dealer and the cult group in particular don’t resonate well) and given the rest some room to breathe. In particular, I felt like Angie got the short shrift…I can see what the appeal of her would be to Miles, but I never got much of a sense of what the appeal of Miles would be to her. She’s given an interesting story: daughter of a prominent local judge with not-adequately-treated mental health issues and a wild streak, but she’s never realized as an actual character. Lynch’s prose is adequate, but doesn’t do anything in terms of making up for the plot issues.

Reading books like this, though, makes me reflect on the enduring popularity of the coming-of-age genre. I think the appetite for books in this sphere explains a lot of the appeal of the YA boom: people really like stories about growing up. In part, I think this is because even the culturally-recognized “growing-up” period has gotten extended…just look at how much later my generation is doing things like getting married and buying houses, in large part, that our parents’ generation or even Gen X. And even now, firmly in undisputed adult territory, I still feel like I’m not done growing and changing yet. Maturing is a process that feels like it’ll never really be done, and stories that reflect the sometimes-painful but always-necessary movement forward are very appealing. I wish The Highest Tide were a better example of the type, but not every book does it for every one. There’s good stuff in this one, it’s more frustrating than bad, but I still wouldn’t recommend it when there are so many in this category that do it better.

Tell me, blog friends…what were your childhood obsessions?

One year ago, I was reading: The Idiot

Two years ago, I was reading: The Last One

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