New Look for Eight Bookcases!

So you might have noticed that things look a little different around here than before!  With my blog's anniversary coming up, I wanted to do something to celebrate and, since I'm off on vacation this week, I thought 'what a good time to drive myself crazy with the minutia of a re-design!' 

I enjoy the cleaner and more personalized look, and I hope you do to!

Happy reading!

For the King, by Catherine Delors

I should probably mention at this point that I’m on a vacation from work.  However, since I work for a Not for Profit, money’s tight and I can never seem to afford to get away.  But I’m okay with that, since it gives me an opportunity to have a staycation, where I get to stay home and catch up on my reading and blogging!  That’s why there’s so many posts going up these days, and it’s likely to continue for the rest of the week.

So, that brings me to my latest read, For the King, by Catherine Delors.  For the King is the story of Roch Miquel, a young police officer in Napoleon Bonaparte’s early Paris.  Roch is working to determine who it was that planned to assassinate Bonaparte on Christmas Eve 1800 with a bomb as he made his way to the opera (which actually did happen).  Roch’s investigation involves a complex web of politics, personal ambitions, and his own personal life.

I found this book to be ho-hum.  It was fast paced enough, but it just wasn’t engaging.  Roch, as a main character, had some serious flaws that were hard to overlook.  Worst of all, I didn’t find him to be very well developed to buy into his ending.  The secondary characters had no development at all – we were just asked to accept them as they were without understanding really where the came from.  Admittedly, Delors was working largely from a cast of real people, but still…. a little more insight into her characters would have been appreciated.

In the author’s historical note, Delors claims that the investigation into the assassination attempt was the first modern police investigation.  I have read this claim about different cases so often that I now doubt it every time I do see it.  If that was the case, why didn’t Delors play on that theme more in the work?  It seemed like Roch’s actions were well understood and accepted, and his superiors didn’t questioned him – so had he always worked like that?  If so, than all his previous cases would have been done with modern techniques.  Maybe Delors made this claim to justify why her work reads like a script for one of the CSI television shows; I wouldn’t have been surprised if, at any point, we were informed that Roch slowly removed his sunglasses while making a pithy witticism about one of the victims…  I’ll admit this isn’t my historical area of expertise, but it seems to me that there were a lot of historical anachronisms that Delors included into her investigation.

So, final verdict?  Feel free to skip this one.  It’s a quick read, but it’s not really worth the time and effort.  

The Amityville Horror, by Jay Anson

If you ask my parents to give you a potted history of my childhood, I’m sure they’d eventually come to the part where I was a bundle of nerves that could never watch a horror movie, or hear a scary story, without being reduced to tears at bed time.  Some of my most poignant childhood memories involve being unable to close my eyes in the dark for fear of the things that go bump in the night.  Oddly enough, my concerns were never about the earthly boogiemen, it was always fear of those things supernatural (except for Robert Stack – I was terrified of Robert Stack).  So, I learnt how to work around these fears; I never watched scary movies or read scary books, I crawled into bed with my parents (when they would let me), and the rest of the time I’d put on a brave face during the day and cry at night.  As a grown-up, you’d think this fear would have been alleviated; not so.  For the most part, I still avoid scary movies and TV shows about ghosts and other things supernatural.  But, while reading Northanger Abbey, the main characters are fanatical for gothic ghost stories, and it encouraged me to pick up one of our own modern ghost story to give it a try: The Amityville Horror.

The Amityville Horror is the story of the Lutz family who, in December 1975 moved into a beautiful home on Long Island at 112 Ocean Avenue.  The history of 112 was a bit of a mixed bag; the book purports that it had been built on an Indian burial ground/insanity ‘hospital’, and in more modern times, it had been the site of the grisly murders of the DeFeo family in 1974.  When the Lutz family bought the home, they weren’t concerned with any of this, but were instead thrilled with the rock-bottom price the house was being offered for.  Shortly after moving in, however, strange and unsettling things began to happen – inanimate objects were moving around, the Lutz family began experiencing personality changes, apparitions were seen, strange noises were heard, and foul odors were unexpectedly be smelt.  Through all this, the book also tells the story of a priest who, as a family friend, blessed the home with the Lutz’s moved in; he also experiences unsettling phenomenon, such as ill-health, dangers, and a personality change.  Throughout the Lutz’s residence at 112, the situation quickly deteriorates to the point where the Lutz’s fear for the physical safety of themselves and their children, and so they abandon the house after a 28 day residency.

The Lutz family’s story is one that has captivated modern pop-culture since it first emerged; the book itself had gone through 21 individual printings in the first three years after it was published, it’s been the inspiration for several movies, and with the advent of the internet, it’s been the subject of many web pages, some that debunk it and others that support the claims made by the Lutz family.

So, while the book itself makes repeated claims that it tells a true story, the question remains – did the events at 112 Ocean Avenue really happen as George and Kathy Lutz tell us they did, or were the Lutz’s looking for a pay-day?  Many of the conspiracy theorists seem to have found some rock-solid facts to dismiss a lot of the assertions made in the book; claims of foul weather and snow aren’t substantiated by the local meteorologists, reported calls to the police and the priest who original blessed the home have been denied by those individuals, and neighbours report nothing out of the ordinary happened while the Lutz’s lived in the area.

Now, far be from me to deny another person’s truth.  If the Lutz’s truly believed that these events happened to them, then maybe they did.  However, when you start reading about how the story and book came together, I start having doubts; apparently, the Lutz’s never worked directly with the book’s author, Jay Anson, rather, they sent him hours of audio tapes that recount the events.  In my opinion, when you’re trying to get an accounting of events out of people, they should be separated so you can compare stories – rather, George and Kathy collaborated on the audio tapes, each telling their story, each supporting and validating the other’s account, and finally agreeing on a series of events.  I don’t think we can discount the psychological ability for humans to accept as fact suppositions when they are supported by a second person.  However, Shakespeare’s words, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy” ring true as well – something might have happened in that home; whether it all happened as the Lutz’s purported it to, or if it was built upon during the recounting, I can’t say.

So, final verdict?  I’d say read this book.  It’s a massive piece of our modern literary tradition.  However, if, like me, you’ve got a fear of things that go bump in the night, this one might not be for you.  You would think, at my age, I’d be able to get over my fears.  But, in the interest of full disclosure, I’ll admit that I had a hard time falling asleep the last couple of nights – I kept having the urge to open my eyes to make sure nothing untoward was in my room with me….

Northanger Abbey, by Jane Austen

Fun fact: even though I live in downtown Ottawa (the national capital of Canada), I hate going to Parliament Hill for the Canada Day celebrations on July 1^st.  It’s usually too hot, too crowded, and the government department that plans the show on the Hill is apparently either high or grossly out of touch with the average Canadian.  So, in light of all this, I’ve developed my own Canada Day tradition; I generally read until 6pm-ish, then I’ll watch the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice.  Having just recently read P&P, I was inspired to pick up another Austen work, and settled on Northanger Abbey.

Northanger Abbey is the story of Catherine Morland.  Catherine, as might be expected from an Austen work, is a young woman on the look out for a husband she could love.  After accompanying a family friend to Bath, Catherine becomes fast friends with Isabelle and is introduced to her brother John; Bath is also where Catherine meets Mr. Tilney, and almost immediately falls in love.  However, John (who’s kind of a douche.  No, wait, he’s a douche), fancies himself as the prime contender for the roll of Catherine’s husband, and does what he can to upset the Catherine/Tilney apple cart.  In the mean time, Isabelle has fallen in love with James, Catherine’s brother, and accepts his proposal.  All this happens at Bath, but the climax and most of the dénouement of the novel happens at Northanger Abbey, the Tilney family home, where Catherine is invited to visit as Tilney’s sister’s friend.  It’s an Austen novel, so I’m sure you can guess the end, but there’s a minor twist in the climax of the story, so I won’t say any more here.

I was pleasantly surprised to see that this work had more of Austen’s innate sense of humour than my last Austen read, Mansfield Park.  Right off the bat, Austen opens with a tong-in-cheek assessment of her main character.  This frank and humourous bent continues throughout the entire work as Austen continues to introduce her other characters, who are in fact archetypes in the Austen/Georgian world; we have the pompous (John), the well-meaning (James), the dastardly character (Captain Tilney), and the true gentleman (Mr. Tilney), just to name a few.  Austen’s pen at once lambasts her characters and yet makes them all highly engaging, if not endearing.

While Austen is busy harpooning her characters, she’s also busy doing the same to herself as the author.  There are numerous passages where Austen mocks the contemporary novelist; this can distract from the plot, but it’s also quite telling of her own assessment of her chosen profession.  During my last year of undergrad, I wrote a seminar paper of the gender-dynamics of the Victorian author (of which Austen doesn’t quite fit, admittedly, with the time frame), and many of the complains and observations that Austen makes with her own words were supported with the research; novels were considered trite ways to pass time for uninformed women, novels gave women un-reasonable expectations of every-day life, and most damning of all, novels created in women an impression of the men in their lives that just weren’t reasonable.  Austen plays on all these criticisms with her characters, while also addressing them head-on.

So, final verdict.  Read this book.  It’s one of the few works that Austen left to the world, and it embodies so much of the classic Austen world-view that it’s worth the read.  While I’ve yet to find an Austen book that lives up to the Pride and Prejudice of it all, Northanger Abbey is a close second with its wit, characters, and self-awareness.  

Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier

About a year and a half ago, I took over a job from a young woman who was always portrayed to me as the cream of the crop – everything I did was compared to her and her abilities.  I’ve spent the last 18 months trying to live up to the expectations she set, and then trying to exceed them.  Finally, about a month ago, my Executive Director turned to me and said, “I think you did this better than she ever did.”  My heart almost stopped.  Finally!  So, maybe that’s why I related so much with my latest read, Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier.  So much so, that I think it’s fare to say that I have a new favorite book!  I wasn’t looking to add to my rotation of books to read every year of so, but I think I found one regardless.  Rebecca was a pleasant surprise in terms of writing style and plot.

A word on the plot: this book revolves around the de Winter family, specifically Maxim.  When we meet Maxim, he’s vacationing in Monte Carlo after loosing his wife (Rebecca) in a sailing accident.  While in Monte Carol, he meets a young woman who’s a paid companion to an older woman; they quickly fall in love, marry, and return to Maxim’s family estate of Manderley in England.  Maxim’s new wife, however, finds her fit at Manderley to be an awkward one – continually living up to the memory of Rebecca, all her natural insecurities and inabilities are magnified, and she feels like an unmitigated failure.  However, as she learns more about life at Manderley, it becomes clear that not all is as it seems….

So, that’s a little wishy-washy as far as a plot summary goes.  There are two reasons for that: 1 – I don’t like to ruin plots and the give-away is a great twist, and 2 – I can’t give you the name of the main character of this book (Maxim’s new young wife), because du Maurier never names her; it’s a brilliant piece of writing that she goes over 350 pages without giving her book’s narrator (because this is told in the first person) a name!  There’s a brief reference to it in the early chapters, but the only comment made is that it’s a unique name.  But that’s it.  Hats off to du Maurier for that slight of hand, because it doesn’t impact the flow of the book at all.

The more I think of this book, the more it comes as no surprise that I enjoyed it so much, as it parallels one of my all-time favorite books very closely – Jane Eyre.  Both are about young women who meet, love, and marry older men, then have to come into their own in order to fit in with their worlds.  I made the connection the first time by comparing Maxim and Rochester – on the surface, the comparison doesn’t stand, but the more you read, the more it does.  And, just like Jane Eyre, Rebecca is about a twisted love-triangle.  I found it wholly engaging. 

The love triangle at the heart of this book leads to a collection of wholly engaging characters.  Trying to figure out who is the ‘good guy’ and who is the ‘villain,’ I found myself rooting for some characters and disliking others, but in the end, coming to terms with all of them for who they were and what they did.  I think that’s the sign of a great book – when you have acceptance even for those characters whose actions hurt the ones you’re rooting for, it means you’ve been wholly engaged in the characters the author has created, and you’re enjoying your read thoroughly.  

In terms of writing style, at first I was a little turned off – there are long passages describing settings and plants, but I quickly realized that these passages were so well written that it was no burden to get through them.  In fact, it became a pleasure in and of themselves to have du Maurier describe her Manderley and surrounding areas in a such a compelling fashion.

So, final verdict?  Read this book.  It’s amazing.  I love it.  I read a borrowed copy, but the next time I’m at Chapters, I’ll be buying my own copy.  This one is going into rotation with Jane Eyre and Alice in Wonderland, no doubt.  

Oh, and one last word on why I think I love this book so much and can relate: the girl who I replaced at work?  No word of a lie, her name was Rebecca.

A Child Called It, by Dave Pelzer

With a title like A Child Called It, I think we can wrap this up with the final assessment: humanity sucks.

Catherine the Great: Love, Sex, and Power, by Virginia Rounding

When I first read Anna Karenina, I was at the impressionable age of 15, and I became obsessed with all things Russian.  I finished AK, and immediately picked up biographical fiction on Catherine the Great, I watched the 1997 version of AK so much we all feared for the ability of the tape in the VHS to withstand my obsession (wow, talk about dating myself!), and when the Catherine Zeta-Jones biopic about Catherine was shown on History Television, it was appointment viewing for me.  Like all things at that age, I burned hot and fast for the Russkies, then things calmed down.  My decision to take Russian history and language classes in my undergrad was definitely influenced by that period in my life, and every so often, even today, I get the urge to read about Russian history.  And that’s what led me to my latest read, Catherine the Great: Love, Sex, and Power, by Virginia Rounding.

Like most biographies of rulers, Rounding is stepping into some well-trod ground.  Beginning with a potted history of Catherine’s parents, and ending with a brief assessment of how Catherine’s immediate heirs handled taking over the Russian Empire from such a power-house ruler, Rounding’s assessment of Catherine’s life appears to be a tops-to-tails version.  (I freely admit this isn’t my area of expertise, so I don’t have an eye for any of the nuances.)

What, then, sets Rounding’s works apart from the countless other biographies on Catherine?  This work focuses mainly on Catherine’s own words to tell her story.  Catherine was a prolific author and a truly reasoned ruler; the results are a series of letters and writings that span the gamut from silly little love notes, to posterity writings, to formal diplomatic tracts.  It’s interesting to read Catherine’s words to her morganic husband, then pieces of correspondence to men like Voltaire, followed by her opinions as they were shared with the crown-heads of Europe.  Kudos to Rounding for collecting all these disparate pieces of evidence and bring them together, and breathing fresh life into a story that’s been told many times.

My one complaint is that Rounding hops from idea to idea without any sort of break to allow the reader to follow.  She’ll be going along swimmingly telling the reader about some aspect of Catherine’s life, then in the next paragraph (with no physical break, or a lead-in/introductory sentence) switch to a subject related to global politics.  These hops are very distracting, and become frustrating when they occur in quick succession.

All told though, this biography is exactly what I expected it too.  With the subtitle of Love, Sex, and Power, Rounding delivers.  So much of Catherine’s personal and professional history is wrapped up in brokering power dynamics between those she loved, those she slept with, and those who could bring her a measure of control in the Russian court.  It would be impossible to remove the power question from Catherine’s love life, and Rounding does a good job at demonstrating the balance that was created in the Court to accommodate this reality.

What this biography also did was set out to right a school-yard wrong done to Catherine by history.  Often times, when you ask someone who’s not well informed (about anything) what they know about Catherine, they’ll often give you a graphic summary of her sex life and how it led to her death; of course, I’m talking about that old stand-by story that Catherine died while having sex with a horse.  I myself often use that story to judge just how off-base (or dumb) a person is while talking about history.  I happen to agree with Rounding, who sees this rumour as almost a personal insult; intelligent people shouldn’t/don’t believe it, but it’s one of those rumours that persists, mainly (I think) because less intelligent people aren’t comfortable with attributing greatness to a woman like Catherine.  Okay, feminist rant over.

So, final verdict?  If you’re looking for an interesting write-up on Catherine, this is a good book.  While there are some flaws that can be hard to ignore, Rounding’s methods and primary documents are really quite interesting and offer a unique look at Catherine’s personal and professional life.  I’m not saying this perspective is enough to over-look the flaws in Rounding’s style, but I enjoyed it enough to power-through.  I guess what I’m saying, is that this isn’t a work for the casual reader – you don’t have to be obsessed with all things Russian to get through it, but it might take a bit more dedication than the average read to finish.