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WordPress reminds me that I’m a dinosaur. 8 years blogging today, my goodness! My life was different in many ways when I started this blog, but one thing remains: reading is always an important part of my life.
Writing comes and goes, as is posting. Sometimes this place goes awfully quiet, sometimes I post three days in a row. But reading always continues far from the screen. There has been nifty little technological additions to the reading part, like the audiobooks (at some point I’m sure I said that they weren’t real books) and the e-reader (which at some point I said I’d never buy), but I’m still addicted to the old printed book.
I often feel that I should be posting, or should be writing more. But in eight years, I have learned that nothing good comes from apologizing about something not done. I certainly need to get back to some writing routine, but with a baby (and a still-rather-new job), routines are short-lived and perpetually evolving.
Still, this place is an anchor I keep returning to, because it feels like a place where I share a cup of coffee with old friends (I hope you don’t mind being called old!), rave about new bookish discoveries, make plans, vent about bad books (sometimes), show off my latest bookish shopping, share highs and lows and look back on those great books I’ve read in those 8 years. That would be a huge bookshelf indeed!
So make yourself comfortable here, friends, and have a cup of coffee with an old dinosaur!
The core of this book is the famous Bayeux Tapestry, a 70 meters-ong (224 feet) embroidery from the Middle Ages showing in dozens of small scenes the Norman conquest of England. The Tapestry itself is one-of-a-kind, a sort of gigantic graphic novel, complete with characters, plot, subplots and twists, but as its origin and content have been studied and disputed by historians for centuries, it was only a matter of time until a writer would make a novel out of it.
Here, Adrien Goetz weaves lots and lots of layers around the tapestry: a sympathetic young curator freshly arriving at the museum, Penelope, a thriller about the last few meters of the tapestry that have never been found, a mystery about the authenticity of the piece, different interpretations about who commissioned it, how they did it, what some passages mean etc. Even Princess Diana and Hitler have been thrown into the lot. I have read this novel over summer and it was very pleasant, but now I really struggle to let you know what exactly was the main storyline and the whole point of the book.
The thriller / mystery plots themselves were not very believable, just a concession to the genre. So I guess Goetz mostly wanted to be informative under the cover of fiction, which he did with some success. I am grateful for getting to learn a lot of anecdotes about the Tapestry that I hadn’t picked up when visiting the official museum a few years ago, and the book mostly made me wish to go back to Bayeux for another visit, which is not so bad after all.
I’m not saying that the book was downright bad, but the piece of art itself stands no comparison. So the best conclusion may be: the Bayeux Tapestry is wonderful, just go and see it for yourself, online or in real life if possible.
This is my third Haller book and now I have to pause and consider what’s gone awry.
First book? Terrific, couldn’t put it down. Second one? ditto. Third one? Wham, I just couldn’t put myself in the mood. It took me more than 2 months from start to finish, with lots of other books in between that all took the precedence.
Maybe it’s the language. The first two were translated to French, this one in the original language. Normally I always prefer original language, but I also take what’s available to me at the library or bookshop. And so, the voice of Mickey Haller inside my head was simply not the same anymore. More jaded, more fatigued (that also has to do with the story, but shh… I don’t want a spoiler… just yet.)
Maybe it’s the media. The first two were audiobooks, this one in print. I realize that I am much more enthusiastic with audiobooks than with printed books because the talent of the actor / writer, his/her voice and rhythm, all this kind of hypnotize me, puts me under a charm, and my critical eyes are just off duty while my ears are doing all the work. Weird, isn’t it? I wonder if I’m the only one.
Maybe it’s the story itself. I didn’t find it as addictive as the others. Mickey Haller, a criminal defense attorney has fallen on tough times and has to take foreclosure cases because the economy’s bad. But soon enough crime comes back to the foreground, when a client of his, a woman who was going to lose her home, is accused of having murdered the bank manager in charge of the loan.
The Haller series is a tricky one for Connelly, trickier than the Bosch series where the good ones are the cops, and all is well once the bad guys are behind bars. To have a criminal defense attorney as a hero is difficult to pull it off because his clients aren’t always nice and innocent. Maybe they are, but there’s about as much chance that they’re the bad guys, and so how can the hero succeed both in the courtroom and in moral terms? Haller is typically cynical but with a nagging moral conscience, that’s why we love him. In previous episodes the twists of the plot made sure to reconcile the contradiction (Haller wins yet the bad ones are back to jail, somehow), but with every new case the difficulty increases.
So, major spoiler here, I felt it was such a huge let-down when at the end of this book Haller said that he didn’t want to defend bad guys anymore and that he was running for D.A.. Whaaat? Mickey? How can you just crossing onto the other side? No, don’t do this to us…
With that kind of ending, Michael Connelly has me standing in line for his next book, just to know what happens next. It might not be his best book ever but this man knows how to do cliffhangers.
I’m so not ready for fall! Three days into the new schedule and I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed (How come I could master the evening routine, bathe, feed and tuck everyone in and now I can’t anymore?). Yet I’m posting, because I’d feel even guiltier if I didn’t even take the time for that.
The good news that came in the middle of my vacation was a message from lovely Michelle, from Pieces and Necessary Fiction, to let me know of her upcoming novel, which won a prize (the 2013 Christopher Doheny Award from the Center for Fiction, no less!) and will be published in the fall with Tantor Publishing: Fog Island Mountains (I also see that the book is already available on pre-order from Audible.com.
At least one thing to sweeten my fall! She sent me a ARC and I’m glad to start reading her novel right away. I expect some strong emotions and deep issues, as her novel deals with grief. It is set in a small Japanese town where an expatriate, married to a Japanese and settled there for many years, has to face a terminal cancer diagnosis.
I’m just 20 pages into the novel but I already like Michelle’s writing a lot, the way she handles multiple points of views and her description that makes people so foreign to my own experience immediately alive and understandable under my eyes.
Strangely, I was reminded of a melancholy song I love very much, from Norwegian jazz songwriter Silje Nergaard. The song actually has nothing typically Japanese in it, but it is called “Japanese blue”, and I feel it goes well with the mood the novel starts with.
I plan to read it slowly as it is a difficult subject, but I’ll let you know how it progresses!
Usually, when French people come back from holidays in late August (the entire country sort of shuts down from 08/5 to 08/25, except for the tourist industry), there are bad surprises in the mail: the tax sheet and lots of invoices. That makes you get back in the (grumpy) mood right away, believe me.
Some years ago I wrote a review of this book after I fell in love with these evocative poems full of those tiny moments daily life and mundane emotions. Machi Tawara had used a very old poetry form to express herself and created a huge success in Japan.
Some 5 years later I opened the book afresh (the one I’d read was a library copy) and I enjoyed it again. Here a few lines that resonated with me this time, from the poem Hashimoto High School (Machi Tawara is a teacher):
Proctoring the exam,
Suddenly I think of each one’s mother,
The day she conceived this child
Parents claim to raise their children,
but garden tomatoes turn red
In case you need a refreshing break from fall’s hectic schedule (back-to-school! new projects at work! budgets! the end of year already looming! arggh…) and the noise of social media, a book of poetry (in paper with a clean design and a cute cover) is a good place to start.
Oops, she did it again… Draw me into a totally implausible story, mixing contemporary murder with an old folk myth, And I fell for it from the first few pages on, like with (all) the previous ones (I have reviewed 6 of them here).
I guess you have to love Vargas or hate it, and I stand firmly in the first group. Killjoy might argue that this is getting formulaic, that her stories are so unrealistic that there is no point in them. It just like saying Snow White and the dwarves can’t be true so there’s no point in reading it.
In fact, it’s like a playful tale, with lots of inventive uses for language. Not only is the plot full of twists and turns, but the language itself is also fun to read. People in Vargas’ novels are contemporary, but they are so weird and one of a kind that it is agreed from the start that they only exist in fiction. Yet, they are alive and kicking! At least, for those who don’t cross the path of an evil criminal…
After a short introduction where Adamsberg solves a murder whose weapon is white bread (of all things!), the scene moves progressively from Paris to Normandy, where the Wild Hunt, a horde of devils, ghosts and zombies, ride through the woods by night to steal away those who have committed an unpunished crime. At first Adamsberg is tempted to shrug it off as superstition, but when a real corpse shows up in the woods, he settles down in a local hotel and investigates the local gossips and old grudges, convinced that someone is using the old tale to scare people and settle old scores in blood.
As in previous books, this myth is not invented by Vargas, it’s a popular European myth that seems to exist in England, France, Germany and Scandinavian countries as well. It was interesting to discover this story, just like many tiny bits of knowledge that Vargas likes to disseminate from page to page.
The book has been translated to English and published as The Ghost Riders of Ordebec.
I have a childish love for Margaux Motin’s girly-with-attitude designs. I have read her previous solo books (“J’aurais adoré être ethnologue” and “La théorie de la contorsion”), and I laughed out loud every single time.
Not a classy, delicate laugh. The kind that hesitates between a big belly laugh or a snort. With a quick side glance to check if your dear husband looks over your shoulder or not.
It’s actually a collection of short scenes, perfect for a blog, even though I have discovered her through books and not through her blog (which is delightful). Sometimes those scenes are poetic (especially when she mixes photos with sketches), sometimes it’s a quick everyday-life scene I could totally relate to.
She’s getting quite popular in France and has done a lot of advertising design. You can easily see why: her girls are slim with long limbs and long lashes. They are fashionable and fresh, full of energy and zing. The epitome of the Parisian 30-something urban woman with a little cute girl in tow.
But the difference between her advertising gigs and her own books is blatant when you open them: the design is very prim and proper, but you really should brace for the text: the number of f-bombs by page is quite impressive, and no large company would be ok with that.
Now, I see that reviewers are very divergent on her books: either they love it or hate it. I would say that most male bloggers I’ve seen find it totally superficial, self-indulgent and don’t see the point of it, and most female bloggers just can’t get enough of it!
I didn’t read all in one sitting, because I think it might have felt too repetitive and a tad vulgar, but browsing for a few pages at a time was just fine. It’s really the portrait of young woman who tries very hard, who goes through a divorce, new dates and breakups, single-parenthood, a cross-country move and freelance gigs, who keeps her sense of humor and her style.
Space is scarce in Paris. Not as scarce as in Hong Kong, but still. We are pretty lucky to live in town, but there is no way I can have an office to myself (or even shared with my husband) anytime soon.
I know that Virginia Woolf has advocated a room of one’s own, but this is only a dream, not a financially sustainable reality for the moment for me.
The awkward arrangement we had, until recently, was that our writing desk remained in our big boy’s room (because it was originally the office, back when we were childless). It was indeed convenient for Smithereens Junior in case he wanted to check some YouTube Lego videos, but that much for my writing sessions where I had to move the computer to the dining table.
Now that the baby boy has left his crib, the boy’s room has become the boys’ room, and the writing desk is obviously out.
So we moved the writing desk into our parental bedroom and I have now my small reading nook! Over the weekend I also changed the internet wiring so that the wi-fi connection works there too.
Can you believe that when googling “reading nook”, it comes up with 9.4 million hits (and counting, I bet)? (“writing nook” has more hits, but apparently there’s a software named this way). These pictures are often nothing more than eye-candy, but I am ready to add my personal little corner, even if it’s nothing too fancy.
I really like having a blank wall in front of me and a large window on the side. I am at the opposite side of the flat away from the children room and TV, so it should be quiet. I have tried it yesterday evening for the first writing session and it felt great!
I discovered Sherlock in my early teens and it was love at first sight. I read all the stories and novels in one breath and watched the Jeremy Brett series with a critical yet totally addicted eye (I bet this gives away my age), and like all the readers of the turn of the (20th) century, I was inconsolable at the Reichenbach falls and so thankful that Doyle had decided to cave in and write some more stories.
I had not revisited this childhood favorite ever since, but the recent TV show made me yearn for some Sherlock again, and as it seems that we won’t be getting any Cumberbatch before 2015 (?), I downloaded the original on my Kindle.
Oh man. It’s tough. It’s not anywhere as good as I remembered it. Some stories are downright laborious, and several times I’d guessed the truth well before the end. There’s not that many baffling deductions like in the first series of short stories (as I recall), but rather some deus ex maxima and a few implausible explanations.
I hope and suspect that the first collections were much better than this one, but I won’t try to read it again for fear of disappointment. I want to preserve the memory of being amazed. I tried to remember how old I was when I started them and I can’t, but I was obviously young and naive. I guess the TV show has surpassed the original, and I’ll just have to be patient.
I still look forward to the day when my sons will be big enough to read it by themselves (what age? I once again wonder), but beware when revisiting childhood favorites: it’s a double-edged sword.
Mica has recently lost her father, Regina’s son. It is Mica’s first trip to Poland, and she doesn’t know what to expect there. Her grandmother is cantankerous and quite moody, and at times it seems to Mica as if this whole journey has been in vain.
Grandmother and granddaughter barely understand each other, they don’t speak about the father, don’t even mention their grief. Yet it is soon obvious that there are some family secrets lying around in the past, and probably still lurking in the streets of Warsaw.
Rutu Modan’s art is deceptively simple (comparable to Tintin’s style) and people are drawn rather flatly (not very flattering), but nothing in the book is as simple as it seems. Feelings are subtly evoked, characters are richly layered and never black-and-white. People may be blunt, and sometimes misunderstand each other because they don’t speak the same languages (Hebrew, Polish and Yiddish are rendered through different typographies), but most of the times the silences tell a lot more than the words. There are no good people, no poor Jewish victims and bad Poles or the other way round. The grandmother is at times deeply moving, at times unbearable.
I knew Rutu Modan from her NYT blog, and I knew she was able to convey rich feelings in very simple portraits, but I’d never imagined that a graphic novel would be able to go that deep. If you want a “serious comic book”, I warmly recommend it.