fiction

Matrix, by Lauren Groff

by

matrix

In 1148, Marie de France at 17 has been running her family’s estates since the death of her parents and trying to avoid coming to the attention of Eleanor of Aquitaine, with whom she has a familial connection. When Eleanor does notice her, she declares the tall, sturdy girl with a rural accent too gauche for marriage or life at court, and sends her to England to be prioress of a run-down abbey.

Initially homesick and shocked by the poverty and near-starvation of the nuns, Marie summons the strength of her predecessors: a long line of women warriors and crusaders.

Fine then, she thinks with bitterness. She will stay in this wretched place and make the best of the life given her. She will do all that she can do to exalt herself on this worldly plane. She will make those who cast her out sorry for what they’ve done. One day they will see the majesty she holds within herself and feel awe.

She sets herself to rebuilding the abbey’s prosperity, its fields and sheepfolds, its income-producing business of copying illuminated manuscripts, and its body of nuns. These new sisters—some prickly older women, some giggling girls, some laborers—support her as she finds their hidden talents and sets them to work that best uses their strengths. Later she begins to have visions, which call on her to create an “island of women” protected from men and the corrupt world by a massive labyrinth: Marie hiding once again from a misogynistic world, this time with her sisters.

Fueled by Groff’s energetic prose, the book traces Marie’s entire life at the abbey, her many successes and rare failures. The world of the abbey comes alive, the texture of its life, the cold of early-morning prayers, the taste of a rare treat, the ways of healing. The handful of nuns we get to know are presented as memorable individuals with their own strengths and flaws.

In this fictional Marie, Groff combines two historical characters: Marie de France, a 12th century French poetess who wrote a collection of lais about courtly romance, and Marie d’Anjou, Abbess of Shaftesbury. There is a theory that they might be the same person, but it is unproven. I would have liked to hear more about Marie the poetess, but accept that is not this book.

Here Groff instead gives us a model of a powerful, indomitable woman, canny and visionary, much like Eleanor of Aquitaine but with a Christian moral code. While I love seeing a strong woman succeed, Marie’s accomplishments strain my credulity. Building the maze that protects the abbey like Briar Rose’s castle is one thing, but going on to design and build new machines, roads, dams, and fortifications with military precision?

Where the book started to lose steam for me was when challenge after challenge is met and defeated by Marie immediately. I love her bent for management, her practicality. I love her foresight and the political acumen that leads her to create an international network of spies (often women) and protectors. I appreciate the narrow path she walks between power and pride.

Yet, after a while, the stakes begin to seem very low once we know that Marie’s superpowers will resolve every issue within a few pages. I found it particularly hard to believe that an incipient cult among the young nuns and, later, a revolt about Marie’s going against the church’s teachings would both simply evaporate.

Still, the powerful writing carries the book. As a utopian vision, it reminds me of Groff’s Arcadia which I read recently, about a commune. That book dealt closely with the interpersonal tensions and rivalries that warred with the communal ideals of the families. I expected more of that here, more of the interactions between the sisters, the inevitable conflicts that arise among a group of people living together, but Marie’s iron hand seems to preclude them.

In the end, I’m glad I read this story of a powerful woman. Marie will stay with me for a long time.

Have you read anything by Lauren Groff? What did you think of it?

The Great Alone, by Kristin Hannah

by

the-great-alone-kristin-hannah-hi-res

Thirteen-year-old Leni Allbright is used to her family picking up and moving on the spur of the moment. Now, her father Ernt, having lost yet another job, has decided to move them to Alaska where they will live off the grid on land he has suddenly inherited from his Vietnam War buddy. Leni hopes this will be the new start that will make everything okay and—a great reader—she’s excited to be going to the place Jack London called the Great Alone. Her frail, former hippie mother Cora will follow her husband anywhere.

Mama had quit high school and “lived on love.” That was how she always put it, the fairy tale. Now Leni was old enough to know that like all fairy tales, theirs was filled with thickets and dark places and broken dreams, and runaway girls.

Leni knows that her parents have a deep and abiding love for each other, a bond that held up during Ernt’s long absence in Vietnam and through his often violent behavior since his return. The small family has no homesteading skills, other than Ernt’s mechanical aptitude, and as assets only the rundown VW bus Ernt has bought with almost the last of the money.

When they finally arrive at their land, they find a tiny cabin with no electricity or running water, set in a yard full of old animal bones, rusty machinery, and other junk. Ernt’s friend never had a chance to start fixing the place up before leaving for Vietnam where he died.

It’s 1974. Kaneq is barely even a town. Its people, mostly living in far-flung homesteads, are fiercely independent even as they pull together to help each other when needed. And help is often needed in this unforgiving environment. Luckily for the Allbrights, their neighbors, especially the family of Ernt’s buddy, show up to sort out the cabin and get the family started on a garden, chicken coop, woodpile, and other necessities. Winter will be coming all too soon.

And with it, Ernt begins to fall apart, undone by the darkness—eighteen-hour nights—and cold. He becomes increasingly paranoid and jealous of a wealthy neighbor who is attracted to Cora. He drinks too much and prepares for the coming collapse of society by accumulating guns. His abuse accelerates, but Cora and Leni always forgive him and keep his violence a secret. At the small schoolhouse, Leni meets the son of the neighbor—the only other child her age—and they become best friends.

While much of the prose is rich with detail, especially of the landscape, I found the story lacked subtlety. The characters are all stereotypes: the violent and alcoholic Vietnam vet with PTSD, the brainless hippie who thinks love will cure all, the emotionally and physically strong (despite her obesity) Black woman who runs the general store and cares for Leni in ways her parents don’t, a Romeo and Juliet couple. Every character is either all good or all evil.

And the stereotypes are dangerously naïve: you should give up everything for true love; Black mammies exist to save/serve White people; abused women love their partners too much to leave them; all vets are dangerous maniacs. The author even perpetuates the urban myth that people called vets baby-killers when they got back from Vietnam. It’s possible that happened once or twice, but the people I knew protesting the war would never have done that. We cared about the soldiers; we wanted to bring them home, out of danger. The right-wing media played the baby-killer tape for their own purposes the same way they did Benghazi and the Welfare Queen.

This could have been a fascinating story about the tension between being independent—the U.S.’s cowboy myth—and being part of a community. It could have been a thoroughly interesting story about the process of learning about the land, making mistakes, finding ways to survive. Instead we get a story about abuse and crazy preppers. The story entirely skips over the part about adapting to Alaska, jumping from the initial cluelessness to a comfortable existence with all systems humming.

Thus the family’s success seemed unrealistic to me, not just their ability to survive the winters, but also their finances. They have no money, yet Ernt always has cash for whiskey.

Aside from the characters and stereotypes, I found the plot lacking nuance. The first half is fairly slow, which didn’t bother me, but the second half turned into a whirlwind. Writers are told to constantly make it harder for the protagonist, but this story goes too far: disaster piled upon preventable disaster, bad luck and bad choices, misery and pain.

I found there wasn’t much to hold me. The story became more and more sentimental, which actually made it harder to engage emotionally. I didn’t sense the love for Alaska; characters talked about loving Alaska, but that’s not the same thing. The cartoonish characters left me cold; I didn’t ever sense the love between the young couple, much less between Ernt and Cora—their famous love that was supposed to excuse everything, including the damage to their daughter.

The one emotion I did feel was the pain: Cora’s and even more Leni’s. I know there are complicated reasons for staying in abusive relationships, but True Love as an excuse makes me roll my eyes. Self-centered parents who ignore how they are damaging their child make me want to spit. Leni, like Jane Eyre and countless other unloved children finds her refuge in books.

Books are the mile markers of my life. Some people have family photos or home movies to record their past. I’ve got books. Characters. For as long as I can remember, books have been my safe place.

I wanted to like this book. Stories about people confronting a new and challenging environment interest me, and Alaska as a setting is a plus. I did find the writing engaging enough to keep reading it, though I set it down often. Ultimately, though, I was disappointed. Of course, your mileage may vary, and many reviews praise this novel.

What stories about Alaska have you read?

The Lincoln Highway, by Amor Towles

by

Lincolh

In this entertaining new book from the author of A Gentleman in Moscow, 18-year-old Emmett Watson is returned to his family’s farm in June of 1954 by the warden of the work farm where the young man has just served a brief term for involuntary manslaughter. Emmett has a well-thought-out plan for how to create a stable life for himself and his younger brother. The boys’ mother has long been out of the picture, so since their father’s death, eight-year-old Billy has been staying with neighbors, Mr. Ransom and his daughter Sally who is the one who does the brunt of the work.

Emmett wants to sell the farm and, with Billy, leave Nebraska and drive to California where he’ll build a business buying and rehabbing old houses. Billy, a great reader, particularly of a book with capsule lives of real and fictional adventurers, wants them to take the Lincoln Highway to San Francisco.

Unfortunately, Emmett’s plans are derailed by two stowaways from prison: his friends Duchess and Wooley who have their own plans for Emmett and themselves, which involve heading in the opposite direction. Duchess is a scamp, sometimes a scoundrel, while Wooley appears to be on the spectrum, scion of a patrician New York family who never could measure up in that world.

What makes each character interesting, for me at least, is that they have each worked out their own moral code. Of course these codes vary wildly, and seeing how the young men try to stay true to their code and their vision creates suspense. The other interesting aspect is the strong ties of friendship between the three young men and how each comes up with what they think is the best way to help each other while helping themselves.

The book is narrated from multiple points of view, which lets us follow the different characters as they separate and come together. However, it makes it hard to feel invested in any of the characters. Initially I was ready to engage with Emmett and care about his quest, but began to lose interest when his story is sidelined.

If you are sensing echoes of Huckleberry Finn and The Odyssey, you’re not alone. These implicit—and sometimes explicit—references add texture to the story.

As in the Moscow book, some parts are simply unbelievable. Fantastic elements are all well and good, but when they pop up once you’re well into what purports to be a realistic book, it can feel like a betrayal.

My book club mostly found it a light read. We discussed what the book was about, perhaps the idea that we may think we’re in control, but we’re not, either because of destiny or chaos theory. Certainly it’s about human connections. We loved how the characters took care of each other, their tenderness and hopefulness. It’s essentially a “band of brothers” story.

There’s a jaunty tone to the book, even during episodes of danger and great violence, along with a sense that every risky move turns out okay. The combination made me feel that this was actually a middle grade book. A quick read despite its length, it’s a pleasant bit of fluff.

Do you have a favorite Amor Towles book?

The Magician, by Colm Tóibín

by

9781476785080

Tóibín has long been one of my favorite authors. This new story of the life and times of author Thomas Mann rises to an even higher level. Born in a provincial German town in 1875, Mann navigates his birth family’s dynamics, formed by his conservative and proper father and his lovely and unpredictable Brazilian mother. His much older brother Heinrich is the favored one, expected to become a famous writer, so Thomas keeps his own ambitions to himself. He must also hide his homosexual desires.

Thomas becomes the most famous writer of his time, author of novels such as Buddenbrooks, The Magic Mountain, and Death in Venice. Winner of the Nobel Prize, his private life remains secret. In captivating prose, Tóibín unravels these secrets, detailing the life of his family—his unruly children, his abiding marriage to Katia, daughter of a wealthy Jewish family—and the times in which they live—the Great War, the rise of Hitler, the Second World War, the Cold War.

Although written in close third person point of view, Tóibín adopts an authorial voice that conveys Mann’s personality: deliberate, insightful, alert to nuances of character. And each character in this story is multi-faceted, complex and contradictory, a combination of flaws and gifts.

What I love most is the way Tóibín enters the mind of Mann the writer, understanding the workings of inspiration, drudgery, and fame as only someone who has experienced it themselves can truly understand. For example, in one section, Thomas’s mind wanders as he listens to a performance of Beethoven’s Opus 132 quartet.

There were two men that he did not become and he might make a book from them if he could conjure up their spirits properly. One was himself without his talent, without his ambition, but with the same sensibility . . . A man, all conscience, who would have stayed in Germany even as Germany became barbaric, living a fearful life as an internal exile.

The other man was someone who did not know caution, whose imagination was as fiery and uncompromising as his sexual appetite, a many who destroyed those who loved him . . . A man who had been brushed by demons . . .

What would happen if these two men met? What energy would then emerge? What sort of book would that be? . . .

As the players drew near the final stretch, he felt the excitement of having been taken out of time and also a resolve that on this occasion the thoughts and ideas that came to him would mean something, would fill a space that he had been quietly creating.

Tóibín subtly gives us the experience of a writer’s children feeling abandoned in favor of the work, of friends and family feeling betrayed at his using details from their lives, of himself becoming a pawn in other people’s machinations.

I think this has become my new favorite book by Tóibín. Whether you are a fan of Thomas Mann’s writing or not, there is much to enjoy in this brilliant evocation of a writer’s life, of a German and part-Jewish family during this fraught period of history, and of the mysterious process of creation.

What is your favorite book by Colm Tóibín?

The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

by

garden

I played hooky today, lured by the beautiful weather to work in the garden instead of writing the blog post I’d planned.

As I dug in the dirt, I was reminded, as I always am this time of year, of this wonderful children’s book. Ten-year-old Mary Lennox, orphaned by a cholera epidemic in India where she lived with her parents, is sent to Yorkshire to live with her cantankerous uncle in his gloomy house on the moors. There is a walled garden that has been locked and hidden ever since her aunt’s death.

Spoilt and headstrong Mary is miserable until she meets Dickon, 12-year-old brother of Mary’s maid. He teaches her about the wild things on the moors and gardening as well. The two search for the hidden garden by day, but at night Mary hear strange cries.

I first learned about the book when Miss Lewis, my fourth grade teacher, began reading it to us. Unfortunately, she passed away shortly into the term, and the substitute who took her place was not interested in reading us the rest of the book. I knew even then that librarians were the smartest people on earth, and sure enough, the woman at my neighborhood branch recognised my description and found the book for me.

Little did I know then that it would change everything for me, making me a gardener for life. Not only have I put in a garden everywhere I’ve lived, but my first overseas trip was to Yorkshire. Of course.

Burnett’s book is one of nine that I can point to as having made me the person I am today. Three I read as a child; three as a teenager, and three as an adult. While every book I read changes me to some extent, these books shaped my philosophy, my values, and my identity.

I hope that when a day is this gorgeous you, too, set aside your to-do lists and go outside. Listen to the birds. Dig in the dirt. Find or make your own secret garden.

What book changed your life?

Miss Benson’s Beetle, by Rachel Joyce

by

Miss-Bensons-Beetle-A-Novel

London in 1950 is still recovering from World War II, with food rationed, ruined buildings being cleared, another generation of men wiped out, and women chucked out of their wartime jobs. Middle-aged spinster Margery Benson finally cracks and quits her job teaching domestic science in an elementary school with out-of-control children. She decides to set out on the adventure of a lifetime: an expedition to New Caledonia to find a mythical golden beetle.

She became fascinated with the golden beetle in 1914 when she was 10, and her father showed her a book of unknown creatures, meaning those referenced in ancient books but not yet found in real life. Later she met an entomologist at the Natural History Museum who taught her about beetles and collecting, making her long for the kind of journey she now has the training for.

Advertising for a French-speaking assistant, Margery gets only four responses, one an ex-POW still suffering from physical and psychological wounds, and two women who drop out, leaving her with the most unlikely assistant of all. Enid Pretty is a bleached blond woman in a pink suit and pompom sandals who never stops talking. Her French is limited to a mangled bonjour; her knowledge of entomology is nil, and she has no passport.

With much finagling and last-minute surprises, the odd couple manages to make it onto the ship to New Patagonia. Margery is not sure she can bear even one day in Enid’s company, much less weeks on the boat and months in the field. What she doesn’t know is that they are being followed by Enid’s shady past and the ex-POW who believes he should be leading the mission.

This book was the vacation I didn’t know I needed. Sure, there were moments that strained my credulity, but I was happy to go along for the ride.

Much as I enjoyed the scene setting, whether in a crowded ship stateroom, a British consulate tea party, or a remote jungle village, what fascinated me most was how the author managed to bring together the most incongruous elements. We have a dangerous adventure that’s also a madcap comedy. We have a woman with no credentials trying to mount an independent scientific mission, while beset with lost luggage, visas held up by recalcitrant bureaucrats, and tropical illnesses. Most of all, we have an unlikely friendship that grows organically throughout the book.

I also appreciated the way the author respects the voice of even the minor characters, such as the wife of the consul and the mousy woman who stands up to her, the French police and the native storeowner, not to mention the ex-POW himself. These could easily have been sketched in as stock characters, but Joyce presents them with care and insight.

If you’re looking for a break, join Margery and Enid on the adventure of a lifetime. You’ll find thrills and chills and a lot of laughs.

What books do you read when you want a virtual vacation?

Harlem Shuffle, by Colson Whitehead

by

harlem

While all Colson Whitehead’s novels are well-written, their subjects and genres vary widely, much as Graham Greene wrote literary novels like The Power and the Glory and what he called “entertainments.” After The Underground Railroad and the wrenching Nickel Boys, Whitehead seems ready for something a bit lighter. Harlem Shuffle is entertaining, for sure, with serious undertones.

Ray owns a used furniture store in late 1950s and early 1960s Harlem. He’s always on the alert for an angle, milking his network of friends and contacts for deals like trading an outdated radio for a used television. The son of a legendary gang leader, Ray wants to play it straight; as we learn in the book’s first line: “Ray Carney was only slightly bent when it came to being crooked.”

So he turns away the serious capers he’s offered a part in and concentrates on making his business a success, hard as that is for a Black man in mid-twentieth century America. He wants a better life for his wife and children and that takes money. And it means he has to keep his nose clean, not be like his father. Adding to the stakes for Ray, his in-laws never let him forget that he is not good enough for their daughter.

But he has this nephew. Ray feels responsible for Freddie who keeps getting into trouble, finally getting in deep enough to call on Ray for help, endangering both of them. Thanks to his father, though, Ray knows who to call on for backup. He’s also adept at navigating the treacherous waters of Harlem’s dual economy, the one that’s above-board and the one that isn’t. Of course, as in any life, race is always a factor in Ray’s dealings with others, explicitly or implicitly.

It’s a light story on a serious theme: Is breaking the law the only way to lift yourself and your family out of poverty? One thing that struck me, reading Ray’s story, was just how easy it is to slip into a pattern of minor grift, no matter what your race or socio-economic status. Do a favor for a friend, bend the rules a little to help someone out, and there you are: on the other side of the line. You may say, I’d never fence stolen goods, but it’s only a matter of degree.

While some in my book club were disappointed that the story wasn’t as weighty as The Nickel Boys, we were all entertained. We liked the elaborate schemes Ray comes up with to get Freddie and himself out of trouble or to revenge a slight. I was especially amused by Ray’s rhapsodies about furniture: memorising the ad copy for a new line of furniture or appreciating the details of a particular recliner.

One person noted that we get to see the softer side of people who in other stories might just be stereotypical thugs or prostitutes. One assassin-for-hire dreams of owning a farm someday, while a kept woman turns out to have an extraordinary sense of drama and design. I appreciated the care taken to fill in even the minor characters, though several of us still had trouble keeping them straight. The few women play very minor roles in the book; I guess that too is true for someone like Ray in that time and place.

Through the three time periods of the novel, we see Ray drawn deeper into the life he’d sworn to avoid, betrayed by his love for his family and his loyalty to Freddie. I admire the structure of the novel: the three sections, the pacing, the well-spaced turning points, and the resonance between the heists at the beginning and at the end.

One member of my book club was surprised that the “heist” parts weren’t more suspenseful, as in some of the heist movies we’ve seen. I, on the other hand, enjoyed the measured unfolding of Ray’s plans, his ingenuity and resilience. In this “entertainment,” Whitehead has given us a slice of life: realistic characters responding to real-life challenges.

What is your reaction when a favorite writer switches between genres from one book to another?

Wrecks and Ruins, by Eric Goodman

by

wrecks-and-ruins-arc-front-cover-final

The Japanese concept of wabi-sabi values the beauty of things that are imperfect, unfinished or ephemeral. Drawing on Buddhist concepts of the fleeting nature of this world and life’s inescapable suffering, the wabi-sabi aesthetic differs from Western ideals of beauty and perfection, based on those of ancient Greece.

In this engaging story, Stuart goes beyond wabi-sabi. Having decided that “some items held more weight—more meaning—when distressed or damaged,” he collects shards of brick from torn-down buildings and twisted scraps of metal from car crashes. As a young man, Stu has experienced enough loss to recognise the impermanence and sadness that come with living.

He finds the ideal job for someone who collects broken things: a claims adjuster in an insurance office, doing inspections and appraisals. Through his work, he begins taking photographs of the broken or ruined things he encounters. With the camera he explores how isolating something we might consider trash from its context forces the viewer to appreciate the purity of its shape, and perhaps reevaluate what we consider art.

Believing that everything eventually breaks makes him wary of commitment, at least when it comes to romance. He wants to continue hanging out with his three lifelong friends, but with women he prefers playing the field. Then he meets Tiffany.

The characters are well-drawn, especially the three friends whose different paths provide a contrast to Stu’s. When one friend drops out of high school to marry his pregnant girlfriend, Stu’s reaction is “‘Don’t you guys realize we’re too young for a life sentence?’”

Through Stu’s story, Goodman gently probes the way identity is formed and its fluidity. As Stu navigates the currents of his life, his turning points seem to occur when the Brood X cicadas appear every 17 years. Whenever the cicadas sing again, he finds himself reevaluating his decisions. He returns again and again to the identity he forged when young, an identity that rests on his determination to live in the moment because nothing lasts.

Part romantic comedy and part coming-of-age story—as long as you understand that we are coming of age throughout our lives—this is a story that is particuliarly apt for our time. The COVID pandemic brought many unexpected changes to our lives, and as we emerge from it, many of us debate what we will keep and what we will discard, or if we have a choice about it. We ponder whether it is time to change the way we live or even if it is possible to do so.

As the world changes around us, have you been thinking about what to keep and what to leave behind?

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received a 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.

Another Country, by James Baldwin

by

another country

Baldwin’s third novel starts with Rufus Scott, a jazz musician, standing near Times Square, broke with nowhere to go. We don’t need to be told he is Black; Baldwin accomplishes that with a simple, economical sentence: “The policeman passed him, giving him a look.”

Once well-known with many friends, a loving family, and numerous lovers, now he is “one of the fallen—for the weight of this city was murderous.” He believes he has only one friend left, Vivaldo, a writer laboring over his first novel.

With lyricism and passion, Baldwin indicts the city’s inhabitants, always hurrying somewhere, careless of themselves and others. And then there are the artists, like Rufus’s friends who are writers, actors, musicians, singers. Divided into three parts, this novel immerses us in their world: their ambitions and weaknesses, their kaleidoscope of lovers, their fallible selves.

We learn that they know little of themselves, much less of others. Several, including Rufus, are bitterly confused about their sexuality: identifying as heterosexual while occasionally giving in to overwhelming attraction to other men. For the main characters, the ones whom we get to know, are all men. There are women but they are just devices to drive the men’s plot lines. Which are deeply painful.

Set in the U.S. and France, there are countries within countries: Harlem, Greenwich Village, Riverside Drive, various locations in the Deep South. And each person is a country unto themselves, ultimately unknowable. The story shifts between Rufus, Vivaldo, and several other characters, each trying to find their footing after unimaginable loss, sometimes driven to sex work and other degrading activities in order to survive.

The shifting relationships between them drive this long novel, as the characters make connections and then destroy them in a desperate fight for power. Perhaps a kinder word is control; they try to assert control over the other to shore up the crumbling relationship. “But it was only love which could accomplish the miracle of making a life bearable—only love, and love itself mostly failed.”

Coming to this book from the two earlier novels, I found new power and resonance in Baldwin’s use of language. Passionate, yes, and often lyrical, each sentence is weighted with meaning, pulling us ever deeper into these characters. Here is Vivaldo:

He walked out of the phone booth into the bar, which was a workingman’s bar, and there was a wrestling match on the TV screen. He ordered a double shot and leaned on the bar. He was surrounded by precisely those men he had know from his childhood, from his earliest youth. It was as though, hideously, after a long and fruitless voyage, he had come home, to find that he had become a stranger. They did not look at him—or did not seem to look at him; but, then, that was the style of these men; and if they usually saw less than was present, they also, often, saw more than one guessed.

Baldwin needs only two details to set the scene. Then there’s the quick one-two: we think Vivaldo is comfortable among men he has know all his life, and then—boom—we get the one word “hideously” to show us how dreadfully wrong we are. The next sentence gives us the synthesis: his knowledge of them helps him interpret their actions, or inaction in this case, and regain his footing after the terrible blow of feeling alone, not just a stranger but someone who has lost what once supported him.

The characters’ actions and interactions testify to Baldwin’s shrewd understanding of the human heart. Each flawed character, each cruel or selfish act is treated with love and compassion. As one character says, “‘…what can we really do for each other except—just love each other and be each other’s witness?’”

Which book by James Baldwin is your favorite?

Even Dogs in the Wild, by Ian Rankin

by

even-dogs-in-the-wild-by-ian-rankin

In this twentieth book in the Rebus series, the detective himself has retired from the force. A team from Glasgow has come to Edinburgh out of concern that the crime family they have been building a case against is looking to move into the vacuum left by Edinburgh crime boss “Big Ger” Cafferty’s imprisonment. Now released, supposedly due to ill health, Rebus’s long-time nemesis is watching the jockeying of those trying to take his place.

Meanwhile, Rebus’s protégé Siobhan Clarke is investigating the murder of an important former prosecutor that looks like a burglary though nothing has been taken. Clarke discovers that the victim received a threatening note just before the murder. When a shot is fired at Cafferty while he’s at home, and a similar note is put through the door, the only person Cafferty wants investigating the threat is Rebus.

My introduction to the Rebus novels came in the early 1990s when I found Knots and Crosses in a Toronto bookstore. Rankin’s books were not yet available in the U.S. and online bookstores were not yet a thing. I’ve followed the series ever since, often rereading earlier books, enjoying the complexity and ever-deepening characterisation.

Writing any series, much less a long-running one like this, must be enormously hard. Of course, you have a steady group of characters and a setting. But you can’t let either get stale.

Then there are technical issues. Not only do you have to keep track of what has already happened in previous books, but you must find a way to make each book new. Plus there’s the challenge of providing enough information in each book so a new reader isn’t lost while not so much that a dedicated reader gets bored.

Rankin excels on all counts. It helped having John Rebus be a policeman, so there would be new cases to solve for each book. However, Rankin made the choice to have Rebus age in real time, so eventually the detective hit mandatory retirement age. The author’s solution has been to bring forward Clarke while having her still consult with Rebus on cases. And of course the ex-cop can’t resist tinkering.

Rankin also introduced another character who works in the Complaints division, the equivalent of Internal Affairs, even having him investigate Rebus. Now assigned to assist the Glasgow team, Malcolm Fox brings his attention to detail to the team while struggling to gain the trust of the other detectives who consider anyone who has ever worked in Complaints a traitor.

By the time of this book, Fox, Clarke and Rebus have forged an informal alliance despite their very different ethical codes. Rebus came of age in a time of much looser policing which puts him at odds sometimes with Clarke and even more so with Fox.

My enjoyment of the series has been enhanced by a visit to Edinburgh itself. The city seemed familiar after being there so often in my imagination. I enjoyed tracking down places from the stories and even went in search of the tiny dolls from an earlier book. Rankin has said that he started the series as a way to get to know Edinburgh; through it he has succeeded in introducing others to the city as well.

What I like best about this particular book is the way Rebus’s relationship with Cafferty is developed. Because Cafferty is targeted as well, Rebus must consider him a victim. Plus both of them are older and have been more or less forcibly retired, so they have more in common that just their history with each other. The nuances of the relationship shift throughout the story, adding shades to what we know of both characters from previous novels.

As always in Rankin’s books, even rereading one, I found myself wondering how in the world he would bring all the different strands to a conclusion, yet trusting that he would. If you like mysteries, if you want a challenging puzzle and complex characters, delve into Rankin’s Rebus series.

Have you read any of the Rebus books? Do you have a favorite?