justin

The title and the cover photo of a little girl in a red coat skipping through autumn leaves told me what this book was going to be about. I didn’t want to read it, the emotional journey being one I didn’t want to take. So I hesitated there in the aisle of my favorite used bookstore, holding the book in my hand, not opening it; just looking at the cover.

It’s a lovely cover. Since I’ve been learning about book design, I took a moment to analyze why it was so pleasing. First off, it is uncluttered. As in most book covers these days, the photo takes up the whole space. Your eye is drawn first to the figure of the girl in the top third of the cover. Her bent back leg exactly parallels the band of leaves which slight curves across the center. Her downward glance, her straight front leg, and the curve of the leaves all lead your eye to the author’s name and title at the bottom third. The palette is limited to the greyish white of the ground and stone wall, shades of tan and brown in the leaves and the girl’s skin and hair, and the red of her coat which is echoed in the leaves and in the color of the text. It’s a glorious cherry red, not strident as red can sometimes be.

I hesitated further because I’d enjoyed an earlier Helen Dunmore book, Love of Fat Men, which I picked up at an International Festival of Authors solely because of the title. Some might say that selecting a book because of its title or its cover design, even allowing myself to be influenced by this packaging shows how superficial my judgment is. I’m okay with that criticism. I am affected by packaging. The quirkiness of the title appealed to me. It told me that the book would be something out of the ordinary.

You have little else to guide you in selecting a book if you aren’t already familiar with the author’s work. You could open it up and read the first paragraph. Writers agonise over that first paragraph, the first sentence, to make it something that will capture your interest. Design experts say you have only six seconds to grab a potential reader’s attention.

Titles are important. They can intrigue you enough to make you pick up the book. They can hint at the contents or—as in the case of the book I held—tell you too much about them. I almost never use my working titles as final titles. Instead, for me, they function as reminders of the core of the story or of the original impulse. I think titles and the description on the back cover are the hardest things to write. They are so short and so important. There’s no chance to blather on and fix or supplement them in the next paragraph.

I did buy Mourning Ruby and read it. It was not as harrowing an experience as I’d feared: sad, often, but quirky, moving back and forth in time, exploring Rebecca’s life, introducing odd characters such as Mr. Damiano, originally a carnie but now creator of hotels where people find what they most want. Rebecca and her husband, Adam, a neonatologist, have a lovely marriage. The sensual descriptions of their life together are just delicious, captured in short chapters that read like prose poems, and the scenes of passion are the best I’ve read in a long time.

As in the Anne Michaels book, Rebecca and Adam are expelled from their paradise, not hand in hand, but separately, taking divergent paths. There is mourning, yes, but also recognition that we would not be who were are without these griefs. And then there’s love.

Images from this book linger; some I will carry for a long time: a blue and gold tent, a view of rooftops in St. Ives. I’m glad I read it, in spite of the cover.

The loss of blue-collar jobs in the U.S. has been widely documented, as more jobs have moved overseas or been eliminated due to automation. For decades, we have been told that the job market requires knowledge workers rather than skilled mechanics, machinists, plumbers, etc. Reacting to this trend, school systems across the country began in the 1970s to abolish shop classes in favor of increased classroom time.

Crawford musters arguments against this trend from many sources. Not only do some children learn better through working with their hands, but many blue-collar jobs have not, in fact, gone away. When your refrigerator stops working, a repair person from China or India is not going to show up at your house. When your car needs a new muffler, you are not going to take it to Indonesia for service.

What sets this book apart is that Crawford goes beyond these arguments to talk about his own experience as an electrician and a motorcycle mechanic. He describes the intrinsic rewards that working in such trades brings. For one thing, there is the self-confidence provided by a growing mastery of a skill few people can claim. For another, you don't need your self-esteem boosted, as so often happens in the classroom, by being rewarded based on some vague criteria that cannot be quantified. No, you get all the reward you and your pride need when that engine starts or the lights come on. The proof that you have done a good job is obvious for anyone to see.

Crawford persuasively makes the case that troubleshooting an engine takes as much if not more knowledge than cranking out a report on a computer. Also, diagnosing a mysterious ping in an engine or using a piece of wood with its own unique grain and flaws requires you to go outside yourself and pay attention to what the engine needs, what the wood needs. The narcissism rampant in our consumer culture will only get in your way here. You cannot make rules for how your car's engine will behave and expect that it will follow them. No. The engine follows its own rules. I was amused to learn the word “resistentialism”, the belief that machines are out to get you, but once you understand how a machine works, you can trace cause and effect, which relieves you of the need for such magical thinking.

There was a time when most everyone could do simple repairs. Owner's manuals had exploded views showing how to take things apart and put them back together. Crawford makes the point that by hiding from us how our cars and computers work, manufacturers leave us less in control of our lives and more like the automaton factory workers and complacent consumers envisioned by Henry Ford and Frederick Taylor and their successors. Crawford goes on to point out that even artificial intelligence and knowledge management efforts—meant to capture the knowledge of corporate experts and make it available to all—have the unintended consequence of making us mere cogs in the machine, with no expertise of our own.

These arguments all resonate with me. I learned to fix my first car, a 1966 VW bug, partly because it was cheaper to fix it myself, partly because I like knowing how things work, but mostly because I didn't want to be out on some highway far from home with two babies in the back and not know how to get us out of a jam, such as the Sunday night we got off the ferry from Martha's Vineyard, got in the car, and the brakes went right to the floor. I had a can of brake fluid in the trunk, and I knew what to do with it.

Unfortunately the book is marred by paragraphs full of ponderous academic prose. Much of it is almost unreadable, which is too bad because Crawford's arguments are good ones and important not just for educators, but also for parents who want their children to have the opportunity to live their best lives.

Ricci's fifth novel presents an interesting conundrum. Throughout the book I found myself wondering if I should keep reading because the prose is so well-crafted or toss it aside because the main character is so unpleasant.

A graduate student in Montreal in the 1980s, Alex is a mess. His apartment is a shambles, full of boxes he's never bothered to unpack. Constantly short of money, he seems incapable of feeding himself or otherwise attending to the basics of life. Late for the tutoring sessions he is supposed to lead, he is equally unprepared for his own classes. He cannot get started on his dissertation, having lost the impetus of his original notion of tying evolutionary theory to theories of narrative. He is haunted by the memory of the trip to Galapagos that started him down that path. He has no close friends, terrified as he is that someone will expose him for the fraud he believes himself to be. He cannot accept responsibility even for himself much less for the effect of his actions on others.

In the lobby of his apartment building, Alex meets Esther, a young woman trembling on her cane who asks him for a cigarette. She has none of the self-consciousness that plagues Alex, and immediately subjects him to a stream of personal information. It's not all give, though. She's equally intense about listening to Alex go on about his problems. Although it makes him late for his counseling session with Dr. Klein, whom he has been seeing since the breakup with his girlfriend, Liz, and a little put off by Esther's emotional neediness, Alex nevertheless spends several hours with her, going for a cappuccino and then shopping.

I can remember a time when I was as self-conscious as Alex, holding back in social situations to see what others did first, so wrapped up in my own insecurities that I could not begin to imagine what was going on in the other person's head. However, that was when I was a teenager, not in my mid-thirties like Alex. Reading this book, I could summon no sympathy for his maudlin narcissism. Alex squirms his way through life, casually and thoughtlessly damaging everyone he meets. Even the final redemption promised by one reviewer fails to convince; there is no reason to believe that he will begin to recognise that other people actually exist, not just as minor characters in his personal drama, but as stars in their own right.

And yet, there's the writing. Ricci's prose is not poetic, like Anne Michaels'. Rather it has a clarity that pulls you in and along until before you know it another hundred pages have flown by. One device that starts out hilarious but becomes quite moving as the story progresses is Alex's habit of maintaining a dialogue in his head with a number of interviewers, but primarily the television journalist, Peter Gzowski. These dialogues are part of an interview in some fictitious future when Alex's genius has been recognised by the world. They enable Alex to understand what is happening to him, while at the same time recasting it to make himself appear in a more positive light to his imaginary public. Of course, they also keep him from actually experiencing his own life.

I very much liked the structure of the book. One of the challenges of writing a novel is figuring out how to incorporate the back story—what has happened in the past—without bogging down the main narrative. Ricci's allusions to certain events in the past, such as the breakup with Liz and the trip to Galapagos, had me so curious that I was thrilled when he finally just plunged into the past to give us the whole story. In the hands of a less subtle writer, these hints and references could have been annoying, but Ricci judges perfectly how much is enough without being too much.

The characters, too, are brilliant, from Alex's young student, Miguel, who often seems to know more than Alex to the mysterious and slightly sinister Desmond who offers him a ship and a job on Galapagos. The female characters are less well-drawn, but that seems appropriate for a book from Alex's point of view.

I've often heard the proposition that while both men and women read work by men, men tend not to read work by women. Generalizations usually put me off, making me rush to think of exceptions, but I did find myself wondering if a male reader might be more sympathetic to Alex as a character. Not that men have cornered the market on irresponsible narcissism by any means, but when I was in my mid-thirties, I was a single parent working two jobs and still struggling to pay the bills and raise my children properly—not a position many men find themselves in—so maybe that was why I couldn't be bothered with this kind of whinging at the time and now find it so shocking in a man of Alex's age.

When the story focuses on action, such as in the Galapagos section, rather than on Alex's self-pitying maunderings, the story becomes far more interesting. The book has won many kudos, including the usually reliable Governor General's Award, so perhaps others were not so bothered by Alex as I was.

I have heard people complain about literary fiction, saying that a particularly felicitous image or turn of phrase throws the reader out of the book as she pauses to appreciate the author’s artistry. More commonly this complaint refers to an isolated literary bit in a book whose overall tone is directed to a more general, a.k.a. popular, readership.

While I agree that consistency of tone is important, I love those moments when something on the page spreads wings and carries me off, astonished and enchanted. I suppose this predilection is why I love poetry with its empty spaces and the surprising leaps that launch my own imagination.

Michaels is a poet with three poetry collections out, and she brings all of those skills to building this story. The tone is consistent throughout: a deeply sensuous language with layers of thought and imagery. Emotion runs deep as well, in sentences of almost unbearable beauty.

Young married couple, Avery and Jean, are living on a houseboat on the Nile while Avery works on a high-profile engineering project. It is 1964 and the flooding of the desert at Abu Simbel due to construction of the Aswan dam threatens the great tombs of Ramses and Nefertari, with their towering stone figures. Avery’s responsibility is to compute stresses and strains to ensure that the figures and the temple they guard are safely disassembled and reassembled on higher ground.

In short swells of prose that sing like poetry, each word carefully considered and placed, Michaels leads us backwards and forwards in time, building up resonances around what it means to flood this huge area. We learn about the blind man who climbs unassisted onto the knee of the Pharaoh every day and sings. We hear tales about the building of the tombs and about their discovery. We meet the sympathetic Hassan Dafalla, who is responsible for relocating the people of the villages that will be drowned. We learn of the date trees that the villagers have nurtured for hundreds of years that supply not just food, but also material for baskets, thatch for roofs, every necessity. We hear how shares in each tree have been split and split again until only the oldest woman in the village can determine how the harvest should be divided.

Avery considers his own responsibility in this endeavour, wondering if the reconstructed temple can ever be more than a simulacrum of its former self, like a recording of birdsong. He remembers a similar project back in Canada on the St. Lawrence where he met Jean. The stories of their separate lives and their coming together are nuanced and profoundly moving. Running through all the narratives are themes of loss and love, of change and the art of living, the hard work of sorting reality from illusion. “‘We become ourselves when things are given to us and when things are taken away,'” Avery’s mother tells Jean.

The story of these two people and their life together rides gently on these emotional and philosophic currents; it is engrossing by itself, but deepened by being rocked within these layers of meaning.

A stunning and beautiful book, one that made me breathless with wonder and left me thinking about the questions it raised: that is what I thought about Michaels’s first novel, Fugitive Pieces. This one is even better.

First published in 1990, this book consists of short stories that build up a picture of a ground soldier's experience in Vietnam and after returning home. O'Brien, a Vietnam veteran himself, speaks from experience.

The first story is almost unbearably good. O'Brien uses descriptions of the tangible things carried by a soldier to illuminate the intangible things that weigh them down. The specific weight of each item—the 26-pound radio, the 5-pound helmets, the 6.7-pound jacket, the 23-pound M-60—hits the reader like a hammer. I felt my own shoulders bowing. And then there are the good-luck charms—a letter, a photograph, a pebble—that sustain them.

As a stand-alone story, this piece has deservedly won many awards. The remaining stories expand upon this one, focusing on a single story and exploring how his destiny plays out. Some of the stories are the narrator's own present-day musings.

At first I feared that these stories were mere padding, designed to create an additional product (a full-length book) out of a successful story. But the tales that seemed complete in their first telling actually do bear further examination. O'Brien comes back again and again to certain incidents and each time they yield something further, just as rereading certain books, I've found, always provides new insights no matter how often I go back to them.

I also appreciated when, late in the book, O'Brien turns to the marshy area between truth and fiction. Just as I began to wonder if this book shouldn't be classified as a memoir, the author steps back and parses what's true from what's invented in the previous story. Sometimes, he explains, only fiction can get to the emotional truth of an experience.

I agree. I wish everyone would read this book and pause before plunging us into a war to weigh the true consequences.

Geraldine Brooks comes up with great ideas for her books. Year of Wonders is set in a small village cut off from the world by the plague. March follows the absent father in Louisa May Alcott's Little Women as he joins the army during the Civil War. One of my book clubs read the first and found it disappointing in spite of its intriguing premise; they declined to read the second when it was suggested. Our disappointment may have been in part a result of the tremendous hype around Year of Wonders. Most of us expected something pretty spectacular, so what seemed pedestrian might have struck us as rather good if we hadn't known anything about the book.

I had thought I would not read another of Brooks's books, but then I heard her speak last year about the genesis of this, her newest book. It sounded marvelous: based on the true story of the Sarajevo Haggadah, perhaps the greatest treasure in that beleaguered city. A holy book used in the celebration of Passover, this particular Haggadah dates from the 15th century. Most unusual are its illustrations which depict the figures of people from the holy stories, such as Adam and Eve, this during a time when it is thought that Jewish artists, like Muslims, believed that creating images of people was forbidden.

What drew Brooks to the story was that during the 1996 bombardment of Sarajevo, the book was rescued—under fire—by a Muslim librarian. Nor was he the only person of another faith to save the book at risk of his own life. An inscription in the book shows that a Catholic priest during the Inquisition had approved the book as containing no blasphemy, though it clearly did, and by doing so saved it from burning. Thus the book symbolises the multi-ethnic harmony and cooperation that Sarajevo had been known for and which made the city's fate during the Serbo-Croatian war all the more heartbreaking.

The title is the Muslim term Ahl al-Kitab, which describes non-Muslims whose faith includes a book of prayer. The Qur'an specifically mentions Judaism and Christianity, though other faiths have been added to the list as well. Those designated as people of the book are, according to Islamic law, inferior to Muslims but superior to other non-Muslims, and thus candidates for tolerant treatment.

As Brooks further investigated the art of book conservation, she learned that breaking apart the folios in order to restore the cover often brought to light small bits of things caught in the folds, and that these could be used to discover more about the book's history. She uses fictional items from the Haggadah's binding to anchor her imagined stories about the book's past, while using an overarching narrative about Hanna Heath, a young Australian who is brought to Sarajevo to restore the book's cover in 1996, when the city is still so unstable that she must be escorted by armed guards.

A great premise, excellent plotting, marvelous settings ranging from Venice to Seville: I thought this was going to be one terrific book. And it is good. Brooks's prose is very readable, and the pages flew by for me. Her obviously extensive research is fairly well integrated into the story. The historical narratives are credible and engaging, more so than Hanna's story.

What kept the book from being a “wow” read for me was that, although the characters seemed real enough to me as I read, they did not touch me. The one exception was a scene when the librarian in Sarajevo lambastes the U.S. and other western nations for ignoring the city's plight. Strong emotions honestly expressed: finally I was moved.

As readers, I believe we can tell when a writer has plunged wholeheartedly into the emotional life of his or her characters. As a writer, I find this difficult to do. So I celebrate Brooks's achievement as a good read and a thought-provoking one.

These books were just what I wanted after a stressful week: familiar characters, a much-loved place, and a mildly challenging story. Some of the mysteries I love have a powerful emotional effect; others exercise my mind with their complicated puzzles. But sometimes I only want a comfortable read.

These mysteries feature J. W. Jackson, former Boston policeman turned fisherman. Marriage to Zee motivated him to convert the fishing shack where he lived into a real home for her and their children. So he is justifiably incensed when, in the first of these books, a real estate developer from the South threatens to take it away from him. After only a few pages, I realised I'd read A Vineyard Killing before, but went ahead and read it again anyway. Donald Fox is using predatory tactics to cheat long-time Martha's Vineyard residents out of their land. When someone fires on Donald and his brother, J.W. gets involved.

J.W. is a joy to hang around with. Easy-going but unafraid to stand up for what he thinks is right, he carves his own path. I love his sometimes acerbic observations of life on the island and the various layers of its inhabitants.

In the second book, J.W. looks into two murders among the wealthiest stratum of Vineyard society. In his casual way, J.W. distinguishes between the old rich who tend their farms in worn clothes and the new rich who throw up the most ostentatious mansions they can get away with. One of these partially-constructed mansions has been vandalised and then the security guard hired in response by the owner tumbles over a cliff. To solve these crimes, J.W. has to break open the secret lives the islands most privileged residents.

Craig's descriptions of Martha's Vineyard and the lives of its permanent residents make me feel as though I too live there, as though I know the island far better than I do. I love the descriptions of fishing trips, drives around the island pursuing clues and suspects, and all the small chores J.W. undertakes at home, such as fixing dinner for his family. Each book has a few recipes in the back. They are nothing fancy, but “All delicious”.

Zafón's first book The Shadow of the Wind entranced me from the very first page. I was mesmerized by his imaginative descriptions of post-World War II Barcelona and the story of the boy, Daniel, who sets out to find books by an author whose book, also titled The Shadow of the Wind, has taken possession of him. However, it seems that someone is systematically finding and destroying all copies of books by this author. Utterly charmed by the imaginary place described in the opening pages, I probably would have forgiven the author anything after that. Reading that first page was like falling in love.

Often editors and agents say they only need to read one page of a novel to know if it is worth continuing, a claim that aroused my skepticism until I attended a workshop at the International Festival of Authors in Toronto. The workshop was run by, if I remember correctly, a professor from the Humber School and one of the IFOA authors. All of us were given a packet containing the first page from each of our novels, and together we read each one and decided if we wanted to read on or not.

To my surprise, I found myself giving a thumbs-up or -down without any hesitation. One page was enough to decide. Mulling over this experience, I recalled the few, precious times when I have fallen in love with a book after the first page. Sometimes it is just the gorgeous writing that makes me stop and read more slowly to savor the prose. Cold Mountain and Deborah Crombie's Dreaming of the Bones come to mind. Sometimes it's the humor, as in Kate Atkinson's Behind the Scenes at the Museum. And just as one may, instead of falling in love at first sight, find love developing unexpectedly over time, there are stories that have grown on me, such as Out Stealing Horses and Stoner.

However, this second book from Zafón, so eagerly anticipated, disappointed me. I found the story hard to follow. Rambling, surreal, and disconnected, this prequel to the first book tells the story of young David Martin who wants to be a writer. A retelling of Great Expectations, the author pounds the point home by having a friendly bookseller give young David a copy and then reminding us by bringing up the Dickens book again at intervals throughout the story. David is helped by his older, wealthier friend, Pedro, first to a newspaper job and then to a contract with a publisher of pulp novels. He moves into a long-abandoned tower, a Gothic monstrosity where he's wanted to live ever since he was a child, and buckles down to his writing, trying to meet the absurd deadlines demanded by his publisher. Then a mysterious French publisher with the Italian name of Corelli approaches him with an offer that seems too good to be true.

The descriptions of Barcelona's fantastic streets and graveyards are wonderful, but the twists and turns of the story struck me as contrived. They appeared to be deliberate complications padding the book instead of growing organically from the characters themselves. The first half of the book seemed more internally consistent and interesting, while the second half, with murders piling up and the supernatural elements taking over, became a jumble of increasingly violent and bizarre scenes. Also, David is not an attractive narrator, full of the passions of youth, but also youth's self-centered cruelty.

My discontent makes me wonder if I really liked that first book. Perhaps I simply fell in love with the title and that opening image. Second books are often disappointing, perhaps because they are pushed into print without the long gestation of that first book, lovingly revised over and over during the long years of seeking a publisher. But it is equally possible that I am the one who has changed, and this book is not so different from the first. Certainly coming into this book my expectations were much greater.

In 1865, a train carrying Charles Dickens, his young inamorata, and her mother suffered a serious accident near Staplehurst involving a broken viaduct. Many passengers were killed and many more injured. As he tries to help the survivors, Dickens becomes aware of a gaunt, black-clad man also ministering to the survivors.

From this first meeting, Dickens is obsessed with the mysterious Drood who seems to possess supernatural powers. Wilkie Collins, the narrator of this book who notes with regret that people always call him Wilkie and never Collins, begins to worry that the balance of his friend's mind has been affected. The two are not just friends, but also collaborators and rivals. No matter what kudos Wilkie receives, he can never seem to surpass Dickens, who calls himself the Inimitable. Dickens receives all the credit for their joint work and remains unperturbed by Wilkie's The Moonstone outselling Dickens's own books.

Admittedly, horror stories and tales of the supernatural are not my cup of tea, but I found the Drood storyline boring and unconvincing. Perhaps it is Drood's over-the-top facial disfigurement—so grotesque that Drood has to wear a veil over his face to walk among people—that caused my suspension of disbelief to collapse. The truly terrifying monsters are those who smile at you from a perfectly pleasant face, like the high school principal in Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. Another alternative might have been never to reveal the carved-up face that lies behind Drood's veil, as in the Hawthorne story. But to lay it all out immediately in monstrous detail and then add the revolting descriptions of Drood's underground realm, well, it was too much for me to swallow, even knowing Wilkie Collins's reputation for sensationalism.

Although the Drood storyline is meant to be central to the book, it is actually not necessary. A fine and far more interesting book could have simply focused on the relationship between the two writers: by far the best part of the book, in my opinion. I also very much liked the period details and atmosphere, and admired the author's research. However, too often I felt that incidents and descriptions peripheral to the story were jammed in because the author wanted to include everything he'd learned.

Quite simply, the book is too long. At nearly 800 pages, it is not only uncomfortable to hold but wearies the reader (this one, anyway) with much repetition. There are many descriptions of the normal dinners of the time, each easily five times as much food as we expect, even with today's inflated portions. There are many descriptions, too, of Wilkie's opium habit, his cravings, the quantities he ingests, the resulting tortured dreams. These are but two examples.

I came away feeling that the author was being self-indulgent. Yes, cutting is hard, but necessary. It's also true that books of the era in which this book is set were often quite long but they were published in installments (serialised in magazines) or in multiple volumes. This huge lump of text is hard to digest. Simmons does a masterful job of varying the pace, maintaining the momentum, and keeping the story interesting, but it would have been a much better book at half its length.

I looked forward to this book, having read two Wilkie Collins masterpieces in recent years, as well as The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher about the detective who is in this book called Inspector Field. The writing is too good for me to be disappointed, but I was certainly ready for the book to be over long before the end. I'm not put off by long books—I even reread War and Peace earlier this year—but felt this one could have been tighter.

I like mysteries and I like short stories, yet I've been disappointed in the dozen or so mystery short stories I've read. Their fine plotting, characterization and setting draw me in, but their abrupt endings always take me by surprise, without the twists and false trails and doublings-back that I expect from a mystery. The fault was clearly with me and not with the stories themselves, so I decided to adjust my expectations by reading this collection of 26 mystery short stories.

I further handicapped myself by choosing historical mysteries, which I tend to be wary of. Writing stories set in the distant past requires considerable research and scholarship in order to include period-appropriate details and avoid anachronisms.

However, I'm pleased to report that the stories in this collection are very good and have persuaded me to become a fan of mystery short stories. All of the authors represented here are adept at sketching a character with very few words and drawing the reader into the story quickly, often through our sympathy with the main character. The cast of characters in each is necessarily limited, so sometimes the solution is not so much who did it, but how or why.

Another of my quirks is that I dislike stories that use real people as characters. It seems like a failure of imagination to me, a case of the author taking a shortcut by using some historical personage instead of dreaming up his or her own characters. It also seems to me unfair to the people themselves, making up tales about them when they are no longer around to defend themselves, as Milan Kundera argues so eloquenty in Immortality. Unfortunately, several of these stories fall into this trap, featuring Heroditus, Hildegarde of Bingen, Chaucer, and Ben Franklin.

However, reading a very good story featuring Leonardo Fibonacci, the great mathematician, made me reconsider. Perhaps including such relatively unknown figures may encourage readers to learn more about the real person and thus help keep their names alive, just as—I confess—reading Classics Illustrated comics as a child predisposed me to enjoy these books when I came to read the originals.

Perhaps this is as good a time as any to confront more of my entrenched likes and dislikes, before I harden completely into an old curmudgeon. I will certainly be looking for other books by the authors I've enjoyed here.