I often turn to John Clare’s poetry when I am restless and need grounding. I love his close observation and evocative descriptions of a bumbarrel’s nest in a “close sheltered hedge”, of evening crows and starnels that “darken down the sky”, and snow that turns hedges to “one white sweep of curving hills”. So I eagerly sought out this fictional-but-based-on-true-events account of his stay at High Beach, a mental institution run by Matthew Allen, and Clare’s descent into madness.

The novel, which was a finalist for the Man Booker Prize, may start and end with Clare, but his experiences constitute only a fraction of the book. Instead, we jump from character to character: Matthew Allen, his wife, his two daughters, his son, various inmates and employees, a visiting Alfred Tennyson. There is some lovely writing, especially in sections capturing the thoughts and perceptions of the mad, such as this passage:

The wind separated into thumps, into wing beats. An angel. An angel there in front of her. Tears fell like petals from her face. It stopped in front of her. Settling, its wings made a chittering sound. It paced back and forth, a strange, soft, curving walk that was almost like dancing It reached out with its beautiful hands to steady itself in the mortal world, touching leaves, touching branches, and left stains of brightness where it touched. Slowly, unbearably, it turned its face to look at her.

Foulds’s great achievement is to imagine each person’s view of the world—no matter how cockeyed—so thoroughly and to describe it with such precise detail that the reader cannot help sharing it, however briefly. And therein lies the problem. The point of view skips from one character to another, often within the same scene where it may stay for only a paragraph or two. In one scene, we flit from one head to another seven times in four pages. Perhaps this disorienting mish-mash is meant to replicate the experience of the inmates, but none seems confused in this way. Each is fixated on a particular idea, though Clare does take on different identities—in one scene thinking himself a boxer named Jack Randall—but he stays with that identity rather than bouncing from one to another.

In Andrew Motion’s review in The Guardian, he says that Foulds “frames questions about the nature of selfhood” in this book. True, each character is fiercely individual and as isolated as the planets each spinning in its own orbit in Allen’s orrery. Yet by not staying with any one character, the author gives us only fragments of their perception of themselves and their place in the world, not enough to understand it in depth and no time to see it grow or change. Each character is given a code, a particular obsession which becomes shorthand for that character. However, a character must be more than a one-dimensional cipher to hold the reader’s interest.

I cannot tell who the main character is. Seven or eight share equal real estate, from the doctor’s teenaged daughter Hannah to Alfred Tennyson, who is staying nearby while his melancholic brother is being treated while struggling with his own grief over the death of Arthur Hallam, to Matthew Allen with his Victorian optimism to Clare himself. Phantom antagonists are set up—one of the workers abuses the inmates; the doctor won’t allow Clare out to visit the gypsies—but these are not the conflicts driving the book. The only conflicts are against the real-world restrictions on the unreasonable desires of the characters, inmates or not.

I love poetry. I love literary fiction. I love much experimental fiction. However, if an author wants to dispense with the basics of the novel (a main character, an antagonist, conflict, plot, character growth, resolution), for me, there must be something more than lovely images and deeply imagined moments to compensate.

Why are we so intrigued by Lisbeth Salander? I'm not quite sure why some things—books, YouTube videos, tv shows, celebrities—go viral and others, perhaps more deserving, do not, though I understand there are several books on the subject out now. There's no doubt that Larsson's Millennium trilogy has captured the attention of readers and spots on best-seller lists. Certainly these Swedish mysteries featuring crusading journalist Mikael Blomkvist are action-packed, with plenty of twists and turns. And my sympathy couldn't be greater for Blomkvist's battles against the forces that degrade women in modern society. There are also plenty of interesting minor characters. In the first book, I was initially most interested in Henrik Vanger with his collection of pressed flowers and the way he was held captive by the past. I was also interested in editor Erika Berger. But once Salander came on the scene, it was all over. Wanting to find out what happens to her is what keeps me reading.

As each book unfolds, we learn a bit more about her background and what effect those early traumas may have had on her. Staying away from any spoilers, I'll just say that she is a damaged young woman, whose determined self-isolation and prodigious intellectual gifts at first made me consider Asperger's Syndrome, but she doesn't quite fit the profile. She possesses the strong moral courage of my favorite heroes, be they in fairy tales, westerns or crime fiction. However, she doesn't have the self-deprecating nonchalance of many of those heroes; her intensity burns too strongly for that. Her moral code is absolute and her courage sometimes verges on recklessness.

She fascinates me because she is such a bundle of contradictions. Tiny, skinny to the point of appearing anorexic, her physical courage is stunning. Her response to any attack on herself or those few people about whom she cares may be immediate or planned out for maximum punishment. Perhaps readers get a vicarious thrill when her violent response seems out of proportion to the crime, at least according to our social rules. It is hard not to cheer when she buries an axe in someone who has been abusing powerless women. She does act out my fantasies of revenge for all the ways that men demean and abuse women.

Mystery writer Kathleen Ernst said characters that are compelling have three characteristics: spunk, vulnerability, and a strong need or desire for something. Salander of course is not spunky or sassy, but when faced with the onslaught of forces attacking her, she surely has the inner strength and fierce survival instinct to validate Ernst's formula. My reaction to Salander is also in line with writer Maureen Stack Sappéy's belief that readers become interested in characters because we envy and admire (or hate) certain traits that they possess. I admire Salander's computer skills and her puzzle-solving brain. I admire her self-reliance, even if it seems too extreme to be considered psychologically healthy. Larssen himself said in an interview that “she is a sociopath with psychopathic traits, and does not function like ordinary people.”

But most of all, what most keeps me reading—and I'm a little embarrassed to say this—is my maternal protectiveness. I feel as though she is my wayward, hard-headed daughter. I worry from one page to the next about what trouble she will next bring down on herself, what past trauma will soak up her resolve, what depths of resourcefulness and courage she will have to find to survive.

I'm not unacquainted with wayward, hard-headed children (not to mention having been one myself, under my demure veneer), though none of us, thankfully, were quite like Lisbeth Salander. Spunky or not, I can't help caring about her and devouring the pages as fast as I can to see what will happen to her.

Full disclosure: Deborah and I are online acquaintances and agreed to exchange books. This short story collection is her first book, but I certainly hope it won't be her last.

Since I've been trying to learn more about book cover design, I first studied this one and my reactions to it. The title and the graphic of high-heeled, pointy-toed white satin slings decorated with braid and glitter would seem to indicate something in the chick lit genre. However, the way the flat, black background almost overbalances the shoes and white text tells me that these stories will be much darker than the usual froth of boyfriends and diets.

Sure enough, however innocuously these stories start—a mother's shoe collection, cleaning a new apartment, setting off to visit parents—they end up drilling deep into the characters' psyches and releasing unsuspected emotional truths. I found each story profoundly moving in its own way. Never having been a girly girl—I was a tomboy right from the start and didn't really know what to do with a jar of fingernail polish, much less a pumice stone or clay mask or other beauty accoutrements—I don't get chick lit. But I do know what it's like to lose someone dear to me and be overwhelmed with grief mixed with guilt. I do know what it's like to do without a parent and make the best of what I have.

Batterman excels at capturing the small details that make a character in a story seem like a real, if quirky, person you might meet in a grocery queue or at a bus stop. For example, there's a mother who dabs at things, dabbing her eyes or her children's cuts so that it's the father who has to take a child with a stitch-serious cut to the doctor. There's the man who thinks the sympathetic woman sitting next to him at a burger joint must be an alien from outer space: “The aliens always ask the right questions and always know what you're thinking.”

She's a master with images, too, and how they reinforce the story. The items named in the title each has its own story in which the image plays a part but does not intrude on the story, not an easy balance to achieve. For example, the narrator of one story has just moved out of her boyfriend's place into a much less desirable apartment. One of the features he first criticises is a partial wall extending halfway into the living room “Like an unfinished thought”. The hesitant half-wall placed me right in that space, that scary, can-I-make-it-on-my-own space.

Batterman also knows how to circle around a story and, as Emily Dickinson said, “tell it slant”. I regard as failures nearly all of those stories that have tried to address that terrible day in September when I lost two friends in the World Trade Center and the U.S. lost its sense of security. The only one that has worked for me so far only referred to it in the most oblique way. Batterman's final story succeeds because she approaches that day indirectly, through the emotions of one woman and her particular, small slice of the tragedy.

There's an element of forgiveness in many of the tales that I found particularly moving. I enjoyed these stories and even went back and reread a few of them. They seem true to me and to say something about our shared life as humans in this crazy world.

Another of my favorite authors, Lee writes about silent and detached men, left isolated by their disconnection from their past. In this, his most recent and most harrowing book, Lee gives us three characters who draw us deeply into their lives, their hurts and small triumphs, their pasts. June is a middle-aged Korean antiques dealer, near death from stomach cancer and searching for her estranged son. Hector, who worked in the Graves Unit during the Korean War, is a janitor in a New Jersey mini-mall and spends his free time propping up a bar. Sylvie is the missionary’s wife whose fragile beauty illuminates the orphanage where June landed after the war and where Hector worked.

Lee gives us plenty of warning that their stories will twist around each other and their fates depend on each other as much as in any classical tragedy. June hires a private investigator to find her son, sharing with him the sprinkling of postcards that show he’s still alive in Europe somewhere. The PI asks her if she really wants to find him, saying, “‘Sometimes people think they want something when in fact they don’t.'” He first finds Hector, the man who rescued June during the war as, starved almost to delirium, she follows him to the orphanage. Hector has his own demons, as does Sylvie who comes with her husband to run the place. All the children love her and vie to be the one adopted, but none more than June. Sensing the traumas behind June’s stoic manner, Sylvie spends extra time with her and allows her free run of the bungalow. The question, though, becomes whether giving in to such benevolent impulses is ultimately helpful.

We all want to be good. We want to be heroic. We’d like to think that we’d jump in the river to rescue a child, go into a burning building to save a baby. But in reality we are—most of us—paralysed in that first moment and then subject to the temptation to avert our eyes and move on. When I first read the play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead back in college, I was deeply affected by their predicament. It’s a terrifying thought that there is only one decisive moment when you can step up or step aside. These days I understand that there can be many such moments, large and small, in a lifetime. What Lee brings home to me in this book, though, is that the guilt of turning aside at a critical moment can twist your life and haunt you forever.

All of these people are damaged, as I suppose we all are to some extent. As Lee describes a man Sylvie knew during college: “Jim was gentle and soft-spoken and obviously bighearted, but there was something ruined about him and it was this that she always saw in his face when he opened the alley door, his expression pleased but with the shattered eyes of a man who could see perhaps only the drenching sadness in beauty.” Understanding their pasts and the burden of guilt they carry, we can begin to understand who they are now and why they behave as they do. In thinking about the significance of the title, I was reminded of Ishiguro’s The Unconsoled, a massive novel structured by dream logic that I found difficult to read. The two books couldn’t be more different except that, just as in Ishiguro’s book a character can go through a door and find himself in an entirely different part of town, so here the characters encounter unexpected minefields in each other, booby traps laid down years before by their own particular and horrific experiences, forgotten perhaps, unmapped, but still armed and lethal.

I found this book difficult to read because of the moving evocations of “the horrors of war and the sorrows of survival”, as Terrence Rafferty said in his review in the New York Times Sunday Book Review, the hunger and thirst that drove June to eat the stinking mud of the ricefields, the ripping away of her family one-by-one. What is ultimately explored here is the thirst for connection, denied, ignored, surrendered to. Perhaps it is the being there at the end that matters most.

Pearl of China is actually the story of a woman named Willow growing up in the rural village of Chin-kiang where Pearl Buck’s father, Absalom Sydenstricker, works as a missionary. The two girls become friends after an initial misunderstanding. Pearl’s mother, Carie, becomes especially close to Willow, teaching her music.

As I’ve mentioned before, I dislike stories that use real people as characters. I think it’s an invasion of privacy, and also can’t help but feel the author is being a bit lazy not creating his or her own characters. So, feeling as I do, why did I read this book? For the same reason I read any book: something about it intrigued me. Also, I knew the next book I read would also feature a missionary in Asia and wanted something to get me in the mood. The use of a real person didn’t bother me so much here because Pearl is not only treated respectfully, but is also is not the main character. She’s really more of a foil for Willow.

Although covering the sometimes horrific events of 20th century China, I found the book a pleasant read. Min’s spare prose flows well. Her sentences are short and simple, nearly always employing the same structure: subject-verb-object. I’m surprised this book wasn’t in the Young Adult section. Certainly the simple prose is easy to absorb and the protagonist, at least in the beginning, is herself young.

The character I found most interesting was Willow’s father. Handsome and educated, a bit of a rascal, he prefers reciting poetry to working as a coolie, but everything he turns his hand to seems to end disastrously. Eventually he is reduced to stealing to provide for his family which, as the story opens, consists only of his ailing mother and seven-year-old Willow, but he is too clumsy to be a successful thief. He pretends to convert to Christianity in order to get meals and later employment in Absalom’s church. His attempts to mediate between the church’s conventions and those of the Buddhist villagers are endlessly entertaining, as he increases attendance until Absalom has the largest Christian community in China. However, it is his evolution from scamp to true believer that I found most moving.

Pearl struggles to get her stories published also aroused my interest. The prevailing norm in China at the time was didactic: to publish edifying works that would raise the peasant mind. Pearl’s stories about the world from the peasant’s point of view are repeatedly rejected by Chinese publishers. Her real success as a writer comes only after she returns to America although, as Willow says, “When she talked of home, she meant China.”

Willow’s childhood is the most fully dramatised section of the book. Later sections move rather quickly through her adult life, where Pearl’s influence on Willow becomes minor compared to the effects of the political changes shaking China. Willow’s childhood conversion to Christianity and her memory of her friendship with Pearl are repeatedly challenged, particularly after her husband becomes Mao’s right-hand man. Madame Mao alternates between wanting Willow to woo the Nobel Prize winner’s support for the new regime and castigating her for not denouncing Pearl as an enemy of the revolution.

In a way, I wish Min had done away with Pearl Buck altogether. A note in the bio says that she was ordered as a child to denounce Buck, and I don’t doubt that Min’s interest in the writer, piqued by this event, became the initial impetus for writing this book. Writers are often told to throw out the first paragraphs or pages of their work. It’s true that it sometimes takes a bit of dithering about and scene setting to get to the meat of the matter. It’s also true that sometimes, perhaps more often than not, the original impetus does not really belong in the final version. As Faulkner said, “In writing you must kill all your darlings.” Here I believe Min’s book might have been stronger with a fictional missionary’s daughter. Perhaps putting Pearl’s name in the title sells more books, but in a way it is false advertising since this isn’t her story so much as it is Willow’s. Willow emerges as a brave and believable woman whose life gives us an unusual view of China’s transformations in the 20th century.

As the book begins, Esther remembers her childhood and her Great-Aunt Eileen telling her to be where she is. An old woman now, Esther faces her last day and night in her home on Lake Ontario. She uses that time, interrupted as it is by the sounds and imagined actions of the shift workers at the quarry next door as they work around the clock, to recall and relive once more the sequence of stories that Eileen told her so long ago.

The tales start with Mary, Eileen's mother and Esther's great-grandmother, who in 1842 stumbles upon a shipwrecked sailor on the storm-strewn beach of Rathlin, a small island off the northern coast of Ireland. This brief encounter marks Mary, such that all the islanders and Mary herself believe that she has been “away”, that is, taken by the otherworldly “them” and returned changed forever. The priest, Father Quinn, finds Mary a husband on the big island where she manages to lead a semblance of a normal life until the Hunger forces them to emigrate to Canada.

Later, Eileen herself, having traveled from the backwoods homestead of her childhood to the house on the lake, is touched in turn by a fleeting relationship with a man who is described by the men around him as “the best of us”, a man who could dance the world into being.

Urquhart is one of my favorite writers. Her prose sings with poetry, not just the songs the women compose and sing in their altered states, but everyday sentences imbued with a bardic lilt that makes me hold my breath and listen. This is Mary in the northern Ontario forest: “The woods suggested, in their uncertainties of space, transparencies of light—their rumours of entities glimpsed, then lost—that some magnificent event was always on the edge of taking place . . . “

If I had read this book when I was twenty, I would have seen only romance. In those days I read Faulkner's Wild Palms and grasped only a woman setting her eyes on a man for the first time and saying yes. I managed to ignore all that came later. Reading this book now in my cynical late middle age, it is old Eileen's voice that rings true to me: be where you are. I take this to mean: don't be seduced by all those lovely stories.

Subtly Urquhart expands that idea beyond the usual “First comes love; then comes marriage” to include all the romantic stories we use to frame our lives: the islanders with their myths, the two elderly brothers in Puffin Court living out an Anglo-Irish aristocratic fantasy and not perceiving the blight destroying their tenants' crops, the immigrants with their fight for Irish nationalism, the Canadians with their dream of a dominion that will magically wash away all inequity.

The book has won many awards, deservedly so. I have a few minor quibbles, disappointment, for example, at how skimpy and unmemorable Esther's own story is, surprise that a mother would do what Mary did, but these are minor indeed. This lovely story, with its warnings about the ability of stories to enchant those who believe them, will stay with me for a long time.

Those who follow this blog know I'm a fan of Parker's work (see http://bmorrison.com/blog/210/robert-b-parker-an-appreciation). In recent years I've heard complaints about his later work, that it lacks the narrative complexity of his earlier work, that the brusque dialogue with its recurring booms of he said/she said makes the stories impossible to listen to on cd. Opening this book reinforces these criticisms: there's a lot of white space on these pages and only an abnormally large font gives the book enough heft to seem like a full novel. Yet I continue to read Parker's work, and not just out of loyalty or nostalgia for the days when I could bury myself in his world and come out changed. I still delight in these books. No matter how slender, they are still full of heart.

We say of some crime fiction that it is hard-boiled. Resolution seems to me boiled down to the essence of what makes a western. A man with a gun comes to town and is hired to keep the peace. He is the kind of person others look to. As Elmer Kelton said of one of his characters: “He knew what to do and was man enough to do it.” He is joined by a friend, and together they face the anarchy of a town where there is no government yet, no one to keep the peace, no one to turn to when you are in danger, no rules or laws to appeal to.

Everett Hitch is hired to sit lookout in the saloon owned by Amos Wolfson, who also owns the store, the bank, and much of the land outside of town. Yet he wants more. Not content with building a community that will become steady customers, Wolfson plans to extract every penny from the farmers, whom he contemptuously calls sodbusters, foreclose their mortgages and resell their land to a new crop of gullible marks.

His competition for richest and most powerful man in town is O'Malley, owner of the copper mine, who uses intimidation to take what he wants. Stark, owner of the sawmill, is different in that he takes the long view of investing in building a town and a community. The story reminded me of Deadwood, a tv series that Jake recommended to me which brilliantly traces how a society is created and how people and the town must change to accommodate the new social structures that evolve. I was curious as to how a group of strangers thrown together in a place with no society, no culture to dictate roles and behavior, would organise themselves, how a leader would be chosen or emerge, how mores and laws would develop. I don't think Lord of the Flies is the last word, that we would turn to crude violence and power-mongering.

Hitch's friend and former mentor, Virgil Cole, is the most interesting character to me. A former lawman, he wrestles—mostly silently—with issues around when it is right to use his gun. When he was a lawman, even if he and Hitch mostly wrote the laws themselves, it was easy for him to justify shooting men who broke those laws. Now, being just a man with a strong sense of right and wrong and skill with a gun, it is less clear.

The dialogue is terse. These are not men who talk a lot. There’s not a lot of description of waves of grain and purple mountains. Instead, there is the matter-of-fact building of tension as the various characters become more and more themselves.

A couple of other themes are relevant for today. What could be more contemporary than Wolfson’s desire for instant gratification, his desire to scrape every cent out of the people around him, even though he has no place to spend it? Also, there is much here about what it means to be a man. Men like Boyle, the rookie gunman, and Redmond, the farmer, brag about their courage and ability, wanting respect but unwilling or too impatient to develop the skills that will earn it. Much has been written lately about how boys are failing in our society, outpaced in education and achievement by girls. The Women’s Movement has done a good job of freeing girls from past restraints and opening doors. Attention now needs to be paid to our boys, and a conversation begun about how boys become men and what it means to be a man in our society.

Parker’s work, as always, goes to the heart of these important questions. What are our responsibilities to each other, what makes a man a man, how do we build communities when the greedy few are determined to take all the wealth and power for themselves: these are questions that affect how we envision what our society will look like in the future. I will miss him.

O'Faolain is the author of the well-regarded memoir, Are You Somebody? I haven't read it yet but will. Her prose is gorgeous, absorbing. I can't remember when I last lost myself in a novel as I did in this one.

My Dream of You is another novel about a woman who journeys far from her native Ireland. Kathleen de Burca is a middle-aged travel writer based in London who, when not scouring the world for material for her articles, lives in a dark and dismal basement flat off Euston Road. Where she really feels at home, though, is the small office on the top floor of a Victorian building “right up under the slates”, with its big window looking out over the rooftops of London and the green of the linden trees in the square below.

Kathleen shares the office with Jimmy, her fellow writer and best friend, Roxy the secretary who fills the window with Busy Lizzies and geraniums, and their boss Alex, whose constant presence and meticulous consistency grounds them all. Kathleen and Jimmy are so attuned to each other that they carry on elliptical dialogues of gestures and code words that baffle Alex completely. The two of them come up with off-the-wall ideas for articles (reminding me of the bizarre tours suggested in The Biographer's Tale). At Christmas, Jimmy takes her home to his family in Scottsbluff, Nebraska, where being gay isn't half so bad as not being a jock. Kathleen does not take him to Ireland. In fact, she hasn't been back since boarding the ferry at 20, carrying away her anger and tears.

Although confident and assured while exploring foreign cities, Kathleen is curiously passive when it comes to men. She reminds me of some women I knew in the first flush of the sexual revolution in the 1960s who seemed to feel obliged to sleep with any man who asked. However, Kathleen's behavior seems unbelievable now when we know so much about HIV and other STDs. Yet so much rings true: her recklessness, her lack of concern for herself, her belief that going to bed with a man is the only way to truly know him. Being in the body is for her being alive.

When a sudden loss throws her world into disarray, Kathleen takes refuge in the idea of researching an old court case from the 1850s, just after the worst of the Hunger. Richard Talbot, a wealthy Anglo-Irish landlord, sought a divorce from his wife Marianne on the grounds of adultery with a servant. A note at the beginning of the book tells us that the excerpts from the Talbot Judgment are quoted from the actual Talbot divorce case.

The case has interested Kathleen for years, ever since her first love, Hugo, casually handed her a copy of the Judgment. What fascinates her is the larger picture of a young, pampered Englishwoman taking up with a rough Irish stablehand. Did he even speak English? During this time when landlords were evicting their Irish tenants wholesale and razing their cottages, whole villages were emptied, the strong emigrating, the weak dying, and the few survivors dug into holes in the ground for homes, out by the bogs. Within this larger picture of the relationship between their two countries, the image of a sweet and enduring love that emerges from the legal papers seems to Kathleen worth pursuing. She abandons her job and goes to Ireland to research what she hopes will become a book.

Aside from the sheer beauty of her prose, what O'Faolain does so brilliantly is to work in scenes from the past so that they become a seamless part of the narrative. Knowing where to place parts of the backstory, how much to reveal at one time, what transitions to use to ease readers in and out of the past: many writers, including me, struggle with these issues. Yet O'Faolain pulls it all together, seemingly without effort, dipping back at just the right moment to give us tales of Hugo, adventures with Jimmy, Kathleen's mother, and what went wrong with Alex. Every time I go back and try to analyse how she does it, I get caught up in the story again, enchanted, engrossed.

Toibin is one of my book club's favorite authors. We've read The Master and before that The Heather Blazing which I picked up in a used tools and books sale in a small town in England. We are impressed with his versatility, but what we really love is his ability to pack so much meaning and emotion into a single scene, a single gesture. We selected his most recent novel for October, a safe choice I thought until I read it. Then I feared that this unassuming story of a young woman who emigrates from Ireland to the U.S. in the 1950s would not provide much fodder for discussion. However, it prompted one of our liveliest and most sustained discussions.

Eilis Lacey lives in a small town with her widowed mother and older sister Rose. At 30, the lovely and self-confident Rose works as a bookkeeper at a local mill and plays golf with her many friends. Eilis herself is taking accounting courses and is obviously quite smart but held back by the limited employment opportunities in town. Rose conspires with Father Flood, visiting from New York, to arrange for transportation, lodging and a job in Brooklyn for her younger sister. Faced with leaving her home and friends and the life she has always assumed she would have, Eilis is miserable but complies.

This setup for her life in the New World contains what I saw as the main flaws in the book. First, whenever the slightest hint of a problem or conflict arises, a solution immediately presents itself. Second, everyone, even people who don't know her, go out of their way to help her: the priest, her cabinmate on the ship, her landlady in New York. Third, Eilis herself seems passive, allowing other people to make the major decisions in her life, not just Rose, but her boyfriend in New York, her supervisor, Father Flood.

Many in the book club loved the story, one saying that it was the kind of book she used to read, that made her love reading: a linear narrative with one point of view and a slow pace. “No bling” as she put it. He lets the story tell itself. It's true that we've read a number of more or less successful experimental novels lately. However, I disagree with my friend. I think that in spite of its traditional format, Brooklyn is a very experimental novel. It seems to me that Toibin has challenged himself to write about an ordinary young woman leading a life that—outside of her journey to America—is remarkably uneventful, and still make it an interesting, readable story. He succeeds. One person mentioned that nowadays when authors are steeped in Chekhov, we expect every plot point to be significant, but life isn't like that.

Others in the book club talked about how much they liked Eilis. She has a moral compass which gives her strength in spite of her apparent passivity. She is not judgmental in a time when people in the U.S. were very judgmental. She stays true to herself and does the right thing, such as taking a new boarder to the dance. One person suggested that her apparent passivity is really just the way life has of turning you one way or another. A different person pointed out that most of the people in this book don't actually talk to each other; they don't say the important things. Eilis doesn't tell her mother and Rose that she wants to stay. Rose doesn't share her own plans and problems with Eilis. Choosing not to talk about things was only too common in those pre-let-it-all-hang-out days.

Where I most felt a hole in the book was the lack of conflict. Whenever a difficulty arises, such as a locked bathroom door, someone provides a solution. Gifts fall into Eilis's lap: the first man she meets turns out to be Mr. Right; his family loves her even though they are not Irish; all potential roadblocks dissolve. Conflicts that could have generated entire books in themselves—integrating the store where she works, a suggestion of sexual harassment—are no big deal and immediately dropped. Everybody loves her. Is it really possible to have so charmed a life?

Without conflict a character doesn't change, and indeed while her outward appearance changes, Eilis is the same person at the end as in the beginning. So why did everyone like the book so much? It is a good read; Toibin's marvelous prose made me want to read just one more paragraph, one more chapter. We like spending time with Eilis. One of our members, an emigrant herself, talked of how true to life the description of the emigrant experience is, particularly the way when you are in one world, you have no connection with the other world. The slower pace and lack of big scenes made us more aware of subtle successes, such as a scene in a bookstore where Eilis is overwhelmed by the number of books, and the brilliant, understated portrayal of the first two women of color to enter the store. Middle-aged, glamorous, wearing cream-colored woolen coats, they chat with each other, never looking directly at the salespeople. They have the same self-sufficient dignity and integrity that Eilis has.

Toibin still manages to create tension, even without apparent conflicts. The unspoken truths add tension. Also, at any moment her life could go either way. I guess I was the only one who was a bit disappointed, but I applaud Toibin's accomplishment. The book is loving portrayal of a person and a time, all the rough edges smoothed away, nostalgic without being sentimental.

This is not the book for a casual reader looking for a good yarn. As with most of Byatt’s books, this extended rumination on the art of biography repays thoughtful attention and rereading. Admittedly, I am occasionally an inattentive reader, but it is only on this, my second reading, that the book begins to yield up its treasures.

It opens as Phineas G. Nanson realizes that he cannot bear to continue his graduate work in postmodern literary theory. He needs facts, things, not semiotic theories picking away at the veins of intentional and unintentional meanings underlying words and phrases, most of which come to seem an imposition of the analyst’s privileged thoughts on those of the writer.

Uncertain what to do next, he consults a professor, one of the heads of the department, Ormerode Goode, who suggests he read Scholes Destry-Scholes’s three-volume biography of Sir Elmer Bole. Nanson marvels at the breadth of knowledge that Destry-Scholes attains in order to—literally and figuratively—follow in Bole’s footsteps, reading everything that Bole read, going everywhere that Boles went, mastering languages, becoming an expert in Byzantine mosaics, tulip cultivation, and Madagascan lemurs.

Elmer Bole himself devoted at least part of his life to following a 17th century Turkish traveler, Evliya Chelebi, even taking on Evliya’s nickname, Siyyah, the Traveler, thus opening an intriguing hall of mirrors of endless reflections. We are never able to identify the ur-life that started this endless trail of study and imitation. Nanson determines to write a biography of Scholes Destry-Scholes and, like his subject, he plans to read everything Destry-Scholes read, go everywhere, and so on. “But no string has an end. Like spider-silk unreeling.” Therefore, Nanson thinks that he will be satisfied—thrilled—to add a few footnotes, a clarifying tidbit based on more recent science to Destry-Scholes’s storehouse of knowledge.

Byatt’s book is short on story and long on jumbled snippets of scholarship as Nanson discovers fragmented research notes on three historical figures, presumably in preparation for writing a joint biography. As Nanson struggles to order and understand these fragments, we are given them intact to make of them what we will, just as we were given chunks of transcripts and stories, and even Frederica’s cut-up journals in earlier books. The mind struggles to hold all the disparate bits and invent a narrative to tie them together, all the while wondering if it is just a fool’s game, like Destry-Scholes’s niece spending hours comparing his collection of marbles to the list of their names, trying to determine which name belongs to which marble.

Such a style of writing reflects our frenetic and fractured world, its hyperlinks and jump cuts challenging our attention and attempts at sustained and critical thought. Since this whirlwind is precisely what I wish to escape when I pickup a novel, it may be obvious that this is not my favorite style. However, I am, as always, seduced by the intelligence behind the games and by the perennially fascinating question of what in fact we can know about another person.

I turned to this book a second time because of its focus on 19th century natural historians and arcane collections, thinking still about cabinets of curiosities. I also wanted to reread it because I have been thinking a lot about the shape of a life and the legacy left behind. We may have the bits and pieces we can learn about a person. We can rearrange these tesserae trying to form a pattern, trying to recreate the person’s thoughts. But ultimately the past is a foreign country and its people strangers to us. We impose our own thoughts on the tracings left behind, creating a palimpsest that may bear no resemblance to the actual person. And of course it is not just the past. Everyone is a stranger to us, even those we think we know well, with stories our only way into their minds and hearts.