I'm taking a break from talking about books this week to celebrate an anniversary. Last year at this time I participated in Robert Lee Brewer's Platform Challenge: How to Build (or Improve) Your Writer Platform in 30 Days. Each day in April 2012, he posted an assignment and explanation on his My Name Is Not Bob blog. I am a writer as well as a reader, and writers these days are told they must have the dreaded P-word. However, details of what it actually means to have a platform are pretty fuzzy, so Robert's challenge came at a good time for me.

Each day I and others pushed ourselves, sometimes far outside our comfort zone, to complete the assignment. In the comments section of each blog post, we documented not only our accomplishments, but also our questions and confusion and fears. In further comments we comforted each other and shared what we knew, always supplemented by Robert's encouraging and clarifying comments. Many of the tasks I'd already done—joining Facebook, starting a blog—while others I hadn't yet attempted. I learned a lot during that month, but what came afterwards really astounded me.

The group of us who came through the challenge continued to stick together, following each other on Facebook and Google+, connecting on LinkedIn and GoodReads, commenting on each other's blog posts, continuing the Twitter chats—all assignments from the Challenge originally that took on a life of their own. We decided to formalize the group, originally naming ourselves the Not-Bobbers and then—returning Robert's name to him—Wordsmith Studio. People created a Facebook page, a Google community and a website. We've continued to use these fora to stay in touch, ask and answer questions, celebrate successes, and commiserate with the inevitable rejections.

If I have a mission driving my various activities, it is to build community by bringing people together and finding common ground. Writing and reading are a compelling way to do that, sharing our stories, seeing the world through someone else's eyes. But I never expected a community like this! Before this year I would not have believed that a group of men and women who had never met in 3D (as one of my friends says) could form a community as tight as any I've been a part of.

Why does it work? Because of everyone's openness. In the original challenge, any competitive instinct was set aside as we helped each other untangle the technology and confront our doubts. We wrote openly in the comments to Robert's blog posts about the dread that comes with attempting new territory. Then we continued to write blogs and Facebook/Google+ posts about our struggles as writers.

The only reason it's continued to work, though, is because people volunteered to be part of the Steering Committee. People set up the fora mentioned above, as well as twice-weekly Twitter chats, a couple of virtual book clubs, and the beginnings of critique groups. This is one community that I had very little hand in creating, so I want to take this opportunity to thank all those volunteers who made it happen.

Members of the group have enjoyed tremendous successes this year, winning blog awards, getting published. I myself have a new collection of poetry, Terrarium, coming out in May 2013. I've been invited to speak about my memoir, Innocent: Confessions of a Welfare Mother at festivals, bookstores, libraries, universities and book clubs. I've continued to lead memoir-writing workshops and will be teaching an extended, week-long version at Common Ground on the Hill in July 2013. I've also taken what I've learned about book promotion over the last few years and created a workshop which I've been presenting. So it's been a sensational year for all of us wordsmiths.

The good news is that Wordsmith Studio has opened to new members. You don't need to have participated in Robert's Platform Challenge to join. Check us out here.

The book's full title, Bloody Falls of the Coppermine: Madness and Murder in the Arctic Barren Lands, captured my attention as I was perusing the shelves after a reading at my local bookstore. Although the title seemed a bit lurid, I was pleased to find the book itself a well-written and -researched narrative of two Catholic priests undertaking a mission to convert a group of Eskimos, as they were then known. In 1913, when this journey took place, this particular group had met few white men, trappers mostly, and scraped a living in their harsh environment as previous generations had: gathering in large communities, sharing everything, migrating with the seasons.

One of the priests, Father Rouviére, had come north the previous year with a trapper who had agreed to guide him and three men who were investigating the rumor of copper deposits. His bishop had sent him on a race to convert the “heathen” to Catholicism before the Anglican missionaries got there. Father Rouviére's contacts with the native people were generally friendly, though limited by his inability to learn their language. He and Father LeRoux who joined him in 1913 were spectacularly unprepared for their journey to the north. They had no wilderness skills, having grown up in France's well-settled and gentle land. Unable to hunt and lacking appropriate clothing, they were forced to rely on the very people they hoped to convert for sustenance and support. Even though this additional strain on their meager resources represented a grave danger to their community, the people were hospitable and generous to the priests, at least at first.

Drawing on primary and secondary sources, Jenkins lays out and substantiates the shifting relationships between the priests and the people, between their different cultures and assumptions, between their languages. I especially enjoyed the details of the traditional way of life and how it had adapted to an environment where it seems inconceivable that anyone could survive. The people the priests set out to convert had no religion per se, though Jenkins describes their superstitions and use of shamans. They lived in the far north, migrating between Great Bear Lake and the mouth of the Coppermine where it empties into the western corner of Coronation Gulf, in the Barren Lands of the Northwest Territories.

The murder referred to in the title results in a trial, which gripped my attention just as much as did the account of the priests' encounter with a foreign culture. The questions raised by the trial rebound on all of us. Those of us who have sat on juries and been baffled sometimes by the logic behind some of the deliberations in the jury room will be interested in how the concept of a “jury of our peers” plays out here.

I have long been fascinated with hard places, desert sand and polar ice. I've read many of the books Jenkins refers to and am as fascinated as he with the interaction of place and people, “the relationships that human beings develop with the land on which they choose to live.” The blurbs inside say the book reads like a mystery novel. While there are mysteries, I would describe the book differently. Jenkins's measured tone and clear prose makes him a reliable narrator whom I felt I could trust to give me the story undistorted by prejudices and polemic. There may not be any car chases here, but the book is as compelling as any novel.

Note: Although we have read some of the same books and, according to the acknowledgements, apparently frequent the same coffeeshop, I am not acquainted with the author.

This is not a memoir. Memoirs are nonfiction, and Jhabvala makes it clear that these stories are fictional. Each features a different cast of characters, different conflicts, different settings. As she says in her “Apologia”, “The central character—the ‘I' of each chapter—is myself, but the parents I have claimed are not, or hardly ever quite my own.” However, she does say that these stories are tales of a life she might have lived. “Every situation was one I could have been in myself, and sometimes, to some extent, was.”

It's an intriguing premise. Perhaps we all wonder what other lives we might have lived given a different decision casually made long ago. I'm reminded of the alternate paths the children follow when they go through the mirror in A Diamond in the Window and of Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead where the two courtiers wonder when and whether they made a choice that thrust them into their current predicament. I, myself, have derived great entertainment from the Google Alert set up on my name, which enables me to follow the careers of a jazz singer, a professional hockey player, and someone in Yorkshire who competes in sheepdog trials.

In one sense, then, we can listen to the resonances between Jhabvala's stories to discover where they chime, teasing out the person who has sent out these messages to us. In another sense, though, every story written is a possible life. Writers imagine ourselves into our characters, imbuing them with some sliver of ourselves, or our possible selves.

It may be that these stories are a joke pulled on those earnest readers who pull apart novels looking for the author, who interpret fiction by way of the author's life. I sometimes do that, not on the first reading which is for pure enjoyment or the second which is for reading as a writer, but on the third or fourth because I'm curious as to how other writers conjure stories from all the bits and pieces of our lived lives. I also like to read a favorite author's entire oeuvre, not so much to hear the books in conversation with each other—though that may happen, just as poems change when placed next to each other in a collection—but to see the author's development as a writer.

The stories themselves bear up well under this burden of expectation. I enjoyed all of them, whether sad or happy. The first, aptly named “Life”, is narrated by an elderly woman who has returned to India. Rosemary, a name she never felt suited her, first ventured there while working on her PhD thesis about an Indian woman poet, in company with Somnath, a clerk she met in her native New York City. This is a story of family, her film-star mother Nina and sturdy father Otto, Otto's second wife Susie, Somnath's family in India. Rosemary struggles with the conflicting demands of family and desire; even when she is in “the remotest part of a remote province, trying to decipher the inscription on a Sufi poet's grave,” a phone call makes it through to the single phone in the village, located in the hut that serves as the post office, with a plea from Susie that she return immediately. Somnath's great gift to her is “that sudden leap of recognition—as when listening to poetry or music—that this is how life could be and maybe, somewhere else, really was.”

In “Gopis” Diane, a successful New York publicist, befriends young Lucia who is studying Indian dance over the fierce objections of her WASP parents in Connecticut. Lucia says that Indian dance is about “love in spite of, love in absence—all that Krishna and gopi stuff.” She wants her new friend to persuade her father to send Lucia to India, but then Diane's former lover, the larger-than-life Vijay arrives for a visit. A shopkeeper in New Delhi, Vijay also seems to be involved with “murky politics”, a past that catches up with him, reaching halfway round the world to Diane's apartment.

Other settings include London, a country estate outside New York City, and a remembered Germany. Many revolve around the unexpectedly persistent influence of someone from the past or the complicated relationships with parents and siblings. Jhabvala's prose is wonderfully clear and, as one would expect from the screenwriter of films such as Howard's End and A Room with a View, she builds drama effectively. From the first page I felt myself in the hands of a storyteller who knows what she is doing. She doesn't reveal too much; by the end of the book I had some sense of her preoccupations but not of the author's own life. I'm still intrigued by the idea of these stories that she says are “potentially autobiographical”.

Robert suggested this book to me, and I'm glad he did or I never would have found it. Published in 1949, this first novel explores the hold memory has on us, those earliest memories, of childhood's dark cellars and magical woods, of the family that looms like a race of giants. Snippets of memory repeat and repeat, creating our own personal mythology.

These are the memories of Boy Ganchion, called up on a dark night in strange city. Walking in rain turning to snow, he falls into his past, into his childhood in an large old house in Charity, Texas, filled with family: Swimma, Malley, Berryben, Folner, Christy, Granny Ganchion. He gives them to us, allowing some of them to tell their own stories, in their own voices, of the war between the yearning to go out into the world and the pull of the voices calling them to come home, of the loneliness and despair of sitting in a rocking chair doing the calling.

Goyen's descriptions are compelling. “Christy was big and had dark wrong blood and a glistening beard, the bones in his russet Indian cheeks were thick and arched high and they curved round the deep eye cavities where two great silver eyes shaped like bird's eggs were set in deep—half-closed eyes furred round by grilled lashes that laced together and locked over his eyes.” Christy, the hunter, ventures into the woods and returns garlanded with small birds, speckled with their blood. Isolated with a deaf mother, “He had just talked so long into deafness that he came to judge the whole world deaf, and so he no longer said anything much . . . It was what he didn't say that said what he said.”

The unusual style of Goyen's prose captures the confusion as one memory calls up another, while the voice echoes like a preacher repeating ancient phrases. Folner, who had to leave Charity to indulge his love of spangles and tap shoes, comes home in a cheap coffin. “At your funeral there was a feeling of doom in the Grace Methodist Church, and I sat among my kin feeling dry and throttled in the throat and thought we were all doomed—who are these, who am I, what are we laying away, what splendid, glittering, sinful part of us are we burying like a treasure in the earth?”

The place is a character, too, and Goyen brings alive the creaking house with shelves of old preserves in the cellar, the fields around it full of bitterweed, and the bird-crowded woods. He gives us the town of Charity, the tiny Bijou Theatre, and the City Hotel that burned. “You had this little river, Charity, that scalloped round your hem like a taffeta ruffle. It glided through your bottomlands (that could be seen from the gallery of the house) winking with minnows and riverflies and waterbugs. It was ornamented with big, drowsy snap-turtles sitting like figurines on rocks; had little jeweled perch in it and thick purple catfish shining in it and sliding cottonmouth watermoccasins.”

This river acted as “a kind of Beulah Land for everybody: people gathered at you, gathering at water like creatures. You were known to be treacherous after rains and in your deep places, where it was quietest, were dread suckholes sometimes marked by the warning of a whirlpool, but not always.”

I had to adjust to reading this memory-packed stream-of-consciousness style, so the first few chapters went slowly. I felt that, like Boy, I was struggling to sort out and make sense of the overwhelming rush of memory. However, a semblance of structure emerged, and the power of the prose grew on me. The last few chapters are simply magnificent, culminating in a celebration of what it means to be alive in the world, carrying our own particular past.

Another of my book clubs reads two short stories each month. Reading “Another, Better Otto” by Eisenberg, a new author for me, was one of the most satisfying reading experiences I've ever had. Immediately I hustled to the library and laid my hands on this collection, which includes that story along with five others, and sat down to savor them. Eisenberg's tales stretch out to give us a complex world with characters who tantalise the reader with their many facets. I am going to discuss the story I read for book club, but the other stories rise to the same level.

As we meet him, Otto is agonising over spending Thanksgiving with his family, meaning his siblings and their spouses and children. He and his partner, sweet and gentle William, have successfully avoided familial holiday gatherings for years. He's not sure how he got trapped this time by his somewhat bossy sister, Corinne. Otto congratulates himself for having freed himself from his family. But has he? He and William visit his other sister, Sharon, to pass on the invitation. He loves this damaged girl whose brilliant mind somehow slipped, but it is William who thinks to bring flowers.

Smudged as Sharon's brain has become, it is Otto's mind that we follow down dark and sometimes tortured paths. “Humans were born,” he thinks, “they lived. They glued themselves together in little clumps, and then they died . . Let the organisms chat. Let them talk. Their voices were as empty as the tinkling of a player piano.”

One member of my group suggested that the story shows the evolution of the modern family. What is the role of family today, when women can be both breadwinners and chief nurturers? Protection, perhaps, or mutual support. I have long said that it is the family we choose that matters, not necessarily the one we're born into.

Yet, as Otto says, “they had been one another's environs as children . . . there had been no other beings close by, no other beings through whom they could probe or illumine the mystifying chasms and absences and yearnings within themselves.” He goes on to acknowledge that “one did have an impulse to acknowledge one's antecedents, now and again.” I remember my aunt on her deathbed laying aside her lifelong quarrel with my mother, saying that my mother was the only person she wanted to see because she was the only one who remembered the things she did.

Even more mysterious is what ties two people together over the decades of our changing, growing selves. At first it's hard to see why William tolerates irascible Otto. Even here, Eisenberg delicately treads the edges of the bond between Otto and William.

Otto's need for connection to William is obvious even as he berates him for his addiction to pop psychology platitudes, but as one person in my group suggested, perhaps that grows out of or relates to his need to connect to himself. Not to be outdone in the platitude department, yet somehow touching what matters, another person said that love is the answer.

How does Eisenberg do it? There is the particular voice of each narrator, the net of images and references unique to each story, the subtlety of language. Most of all, she brings intelligence and much thought to ideas that matter, giving them a depth and complexity I see only too rarely. I have added Eisenberg to that pantheon of authors whose every book I intend to read.

The first couple of pages of this novel made me chuckle and look forward to a great read. However, round about page 50 I debated about giving up on the tedious plot. At page 100, terminally bored, I put the book down. I picked it up again a few days later only because it was my book club's pick for the month.

I've learned that if a book's cover trumpets that it is a National Bestseller and has pages of ecstatic rave reviews just inside, I won't like it. Blame the raised expectations that keep me from giving a mediocre book the benefit of the doubt or the feeling that I've been tricked by a bait-and-switch. As one member of my book club said, what does it say about the state of today's fiction that such a poorly executed novel could be nominated for so many prizes? But read on, because we may both be wrong.

It begins as Tassie, a college student in Troy, New York, is looking for a job that will start at the beginning of January term. Coming from the small town of Dellacrosse, Troy seems dazzlingly cosmopolitan to her, and there are funny snippets of her appreciation its glories—Chinese food! a man wearing jeans and a tie!—and mocking recollections of her hometown's charms. She eventually lands a job as a babysitter for a couple who don't yet have a baby.

The plot meanders around as she goes home for Christmas, returns, goes on scouting expeditions with her employer, Sarah, and sometimes Sarah's creepy husband, Edward, to check out prospective babies for adoption. Eventually, a baby is acquired as a foster child while the adoption proceeds. Other than the baby, none of the characters is particularly likeable. Tassie is—so I am informed—like many young people today (though none of the many I know): sad, discouraged, drifting through life, substituting humor for thought and impulse for decision. The title is explained early and often.

Although a couple of people in my book club liked the book, others shared my two main concerns: plot and character. The plot is all over the place, wandering off in different directions and getting bogged down in lengthy scenes that add nothing to the story. People pop up at the beginning and then disappear until the end. The climaxes seem tacked on to provide drama. As for the characters, they start out rather two-dimensional with a quirk or two pasted on, and then do not develop in the course of the story. A couple of them get sadder.

One person suggested that perhaps these seeming flaws were deliberate on the part of the author. Since the book is from Tassie's point of view, it is only too likely that she experiences the world as chaotic and unstructured and people as cardboard with amusing quirks. It's an interesting idea. If true, well, it takes a lot of courage to write such a poorly crafted novel. Perhaps the idea was that the humor would make up for the lack of narrative structure and character development. It certainly is very funny. Moore also employs amazingly original yet apt metaphors.

Perhaps the most interesting comment from my book club was from a person who compared Sarah and Edward to the characters in The Great Gatsby. As Fitzgerald famously said, “They were careless people, Tom and Daisy — they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made…” I would say this is true of all the characters, not just Sarah and Edward. Perhaps, then, it is appropriate for the book to be carelessly crafted. Perhaps it is indeed deliberate.

Baffled by how such a book could have garnered so many awards and ovations, I broke from my usual practice of waiting to read reviews until I had completed this blog post. The critics universally seemed to praise it as an extraordinary book, even as some noted the problems I've mentioned. Readers were less forgiving, awarding many one-star reviews. Most of the four- and five-star reviews started out by saying the reader was a huge fan of Lorrie Moore. Maybe what is at work here is something like what used to happen in figure skating when a champion put in a poor performance in the finals and the judges still gave him or her a 6, based more on the entire career than that performance.

What do you think? Do you find reviews helpful? Do you find a significant difference between reviews by critics and by readers?

I attended a book club this week who read my memoir, Innocent: Confessions of a Welfare Mother. The attendees were mostly lawyers or law students, and we had a lively and wide-ranging discussion. I especially enjoyed hearing people's personal stories; as always there was a mix of people who had been in the system themselves at some point (even if just getting food stamps) and people whose eyes were opened to a world foreign to them.

One question that stumped me, though, came when we were discussing the chapter on the Welfare Rights Organization that so changed the system in the 1960s and 1970s, making it more consistent and fair. We agreed that with all the cuts in eligibility and services, the time was ripe for a new wave of activism to support those in poverty, both on public assistance and the working poor so dramatically brought to the limelight by Barbara Ehrenreich in Nickel and Dimed. Why, I was asked, isn't this happening? Where is the outrage? Where are the activists?

I don't know what happened to all of the energy of the 1960s and 1970s activism. Maybe we just got older, busy with jobs and children. Maybe our early successes made us complacent. I do know that, contrary to the media stereotype, nearly everyone I know has remained true to those ideals of peace and freedom, of fairness and equal rights. Recently the Occupy Movement has given me a glimmer of hope that the long sleep is finally ending.

Virgin Soil, Turgenev's last novel, is about the Populist movement in Russia a hundred years before my experiences, in the late 1860s and 1870s. These idealistic revolutionaries want to awaken the slumbering people and help them take back their country from the ruling classes. The story focuses on Alexey Nezhdanov, a young student in St. Petersburg, who wants to devote his life to the cause, condemning as elitist the poetry he cannot keep himself from writing.

So much of this is familiar! Nezhdanov and his friends go among the poor, hoping to blend in and teach them to expect more, with the result you would expect. There's paranoia about possible infiltrators and dissension over which leaders to trust. Some advocate a violent uprising while others work within their own small sphere to create change. Some show common sense while others seem more concerned with self-aggrandizement. There are witting and unwitting betrayals. Nezhdanov falls in love with a young woman from a good family who shares his ideals and commitment to the cause.

The most interesting characters to me were two of his friends, minor characters whose loyalty is tested, and the aristocrat for whom he works, whose charming duplicity drives much of the action. This dramatic story helps me understand what happened to the movements of my youth, the disillusion and disarray they fell into. In these troubled times, with many people suddenly furloughed from work without a paycheck and others still bearing the brunt of losing most of their savings in the banking fiasco, perhaps the awakening has begun. What do you think it will take to create a new movement for change?

This early novel by Brookner is about Frances Hinton, a not-young woman who works in the reference library of a medical research institute and does not like to be called Fanny. Her life is a lonely one, lightened only by her friend and co-worker Olivia, a woman who is never discomposed. Frances says that “Problems of human behavior still continue to baffle us, but at least in the Library we have them properly filed.” She shares with us the antics of the regular patrons of the library, including reticent Dr. Simek and the blowsy Mrs. Halloran.

Then there's Nick Fraser. “‘That,' says Mrs. Halloran heavily after every other one of Nick's disruptive visits to the Library, ‘is one hell of a man.'” Nick and his wife Alix are a lively, charming couple who add a new dimension to Frances's life by unexpectedly taking her up, inviting her to dinner and other outings with them. They call her Little Orphan Fanny and carelessly bring her into their circle of friends.

For Frances, it is more than their charm and brilliant sheen that attract her; she wants to learn how to be selfish. She says that she never wants to be loved by the sort of men who loved her mother: “kind, shy, easily damaged.” She says, “In a way I prefer them to be impervious, even if it means they are impervious to me.” Later she says, “I needed to know that not everyone carries a wound and that this wound bleeds intermittently throughout life.” Yet the title betrays a fundamental human need that cannot be ignored.

The premise for this story seemed a familiar one to me, having recently read A Note in Music, by Rosamond Lehmann, where lonely Grace's life is similarly changed by the entrance of a glamorous and carelessly chic couple. As in that novel, I found deep satisfaction in the deliberate development of characters who side-stepped my preconceptions, surprising and delighting me.

As always with Brookner, the joy is in the details. We gradually get to know Frances and the people in her small canvas, layers built up gradually with a fine brush. I have long been a fan of Brookner's work, ever since Christine gave me a copy of Hotel du Lac several decades ago. This novel seems to me one of her best; certainly it moved me profoundly and I will not soon forget it.

What is your favorite Brookner novel?

The title is a bit misleading since these linked short stories about a woman named Adrienne start when she is 28. However, they do follow her into her 50s, and they are about finding love and finding a place for herself in the world. And I do mean the world. It's refreshing to read stories set in locales ranging from Amsterdam to the south of France to Canada's Northwest Territories.

What I've learned from participating in critique groups and my poetry discussion group, as well as from writing this blog, is how very different people's tastes are, and even how different mine are depending on my mood and the circumstances. Sometimes I want an exciting thriller; sometimes a puzzle to work out. But sometimes I want something less challenging. The easy flow of van Zanten's narrative was the perfect thing for a long day of travel, changing flights and enduring layovers in listless airports.

As I say, the narrative flow is good, and the voice interesting, if mild. The stories contain some unusual events such as a canoe trip on the mighty McKenzie River to attend a Native American pow wow. But mostly the stories catalogue the ups and downs of an ordinary life: love found and lost, the death of a parent, difficulties with teenaged children. I particularly enjoyed the humorous story about Adrienne's adventures with starting a matchmaking business.

There is a curious evenness of tone which under other circumstances might not have held my attention, but provided the restful interludes I needed during that long, difficult day. The lack of strong dramatic ups and downs building to a climax in part comes from the preponderance of narration. The stories are narrated in a calm and assured voice, with a few half-scenes (narration interrupted with some lines of dialogue). Where there are fully dramatised scenes, they tend to be mostly dialogue without the actions and reactions that ratchet up the dramatic emotion. Actions, as the cliché goes, speak louder than words.

To understand the difference between narration and scene, consider Tennessee Williams's The Glass Menagerie where Tom stands at the edge of the stage narrating the story, and then he stops and is silent while Laura, her mother, and the Gentleman Caller actually act out a scene. The percentage of narration to scene has changed over time. Lengthy narrative passages are common in the 19th century novels I grew up on. These days, perhaps due to the influence of movies, most novels tend to minimize narration and go from scene to scene. The writer's challenge is to find the correct balance of narration, scene, and half-scene for the particular story she is telling.

Although at first I was disconcerted by the absence of the dramatic structure I've come to expect, this collection of stories turned out to be the ideal thing for me on that particular day, and I enjoyed the quietly intelligent voice accompanying me on my travels.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received a digital copy of this book free from the author. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own.

As the title declares, this novel retells the story of The Tempest. Set in 1961 on Trinidad and the small island of Chacachacare off its coast, Prospero's Daughter portrays the intersection of a handful of lives as England's empire withdraws. Assistant commissioner, John Mumsford, has come to Trinidad because as a white man and an Englishman he can live the life of a lord that his middle-class birth could not provide at home. Change is in the air, though, with calls for independence, and Mumsford is not certain he can trust his Trinidadian commissioner, whose white skin does not preclude the African blood most people assume runs in the veins of Trinidad's French Creoles.

Mumsford is sent to Chacachacare to investigate an alleged rape of a white girl by her black servant, the Englishman's worst nightmare. But he has also received a note from Ariana, the other servant in the household, who says that there was no rape and that the two are in love. The household is run by Peter Gardner, a disgraced and reclusive scientist, who came out from England with his young daughter, Virginia, several years earlier. He took over the house from Carlos, then a young, newly orphaned boy, claiming that he had bought it from the dying servant who had been caring for Carlos and the servant girl, Ariana. The only other inhabitants of the island are a small leper colony and a doctor who serves them.

In secret the educated Carlos calls Gardner by the magician's name because, like Prospero, Gardner has used his botanical knowledge to create a world of his own, with grass that does not need watering and polka-dotted flowers. To make space for this fragment of England made even better by his successful experiments, he has destroyed the native habitat, cutting down the fruit trees planted by Carlos's father and taming the terrifying jungle to remain at a safe distance.

I was recently in St. Croix where the native trees were cut down to create sugar plantations, plantations that failed when the bottom dropped out of the sugar market. I'd never thought of The Tempest in terms of ecology, but of course it is the story of an outsize ego believing that his power is absolute; he can do whatever he wants on his island. But we are not islands, and the outside world intrudes. As we have learned, the effects of ecological disasters are not limited to the area where they occur.

This story is enthralling, keeping me up nights to finish it. Nunez's descriptions are gorgeous, evoking the tangled beauty of the island, the cold precision of Gardner's house, the delicate carvings of birds and flowers made by Carlos's father. The relationship between Carlos and Virginia is delicately traced, believable and sweet. Brave Ariana is the one my heart aches for, but it is Mumsford who most interests me. He may start the story as a rigidly prejudiced and fearful Englishman, but he reveals unexpected strengths. Like its precursor, this is a story about power, the power of knowledge, the power of love, the power of courage, the power of integrity. It brilliantly brings out the relationship of power to class and race buried in Shakespeare's play.