“The Lost Girls: Love and Literature in Wartime London”, by D. J. Taylor

 

336 pages, Pegasus Books, ISBN-13: 978-1643133157

Sonia Brownell, Lys Lubbock, Janetta Parladé and Barbara Skelton are amongst only a few of the subjects of D. J. Taylor’s The Lost Girls: Love and Literature in Wartime London. These swinging dames cut a swath through English literary and artistic life, with World War II barely slowing them down. All found themselves drawn into the orbit of Cyril Connolly (the most unlikely ladies’ man imaginable) and his literary magazine Horizon. Three of them had affairs with Lucian Freud, one of them married George Orwell while another became the mistress of the King of Egypt. No shrinking violets here, make no mistake. Equally at home in Bloomsbury and SoHo (or Cairo, for that matter), along with the couture studios of Schiaparelli and Hartnell, these “Lost Girls” would inspire the work of Nancy Mitford, George Orwell, Anthony Powell and Evelyn Waugh, and afford the missing link between the Lost Generation and Bright Young Things and the cultural revolution of the damnable 60s. And if you’re like me, you never even heard of any of them.

And there’s a reason for that. Taylor describes these women as chic, glamorous and bohemian and, for the most part, all of that is true. But as you read on you discover that these trailblazing women were actually rather conventional, seeking domesticity, albeit on their terms. They fell into and out of relationships, fought with their lovers, had abortions, married unsuitable men who cheated on them, divorced and tried again. Toward the end of their lives, some lived in penury, succumbed to alcoholism or died friendless. Not a hell of a lot to celebrate, one would argue. When I got this book, I somehow imagined that these Lost Girls were part of a wider movement in which women expanded their opportunities during an unprecedented catastrophe – but mostly, it was a record of an elite set of women and the clothes they wore, parties they attended and gossip they spread. Even though these Lost Girls hovered ‘round and worked with a bevy of famous literary people, they seemed more focused on status and fame, and snagging a rich husband. How very pedestrian.

All were comely, their beauty noted upon by critics in that era, and they tended to have a middle-to-upper middle-class upbringing in which they frequently became estranged from at least one of their parents. They often remembered their school years less than favorably, were members of the first generation of women to become independent in their 20s and take jobs that involved war effort work or in offices. According to Peter Quinnell, a staffer at Horizon, the Lost Girls seemed to carry a “sense of personal trauma” with them, and others noted their “air of waywardness and loneliness”, but also called them “courageous”. Another similarity was their relationship at different times with Cyril Connolly, who acted as the hub of the literary world in London then (yet another was that they all seemed to place a high premium on not being “boring”). Taylor states that “any attempt to label them ought to be resisted”, but throughout the book, he employs the “Lost Girl” label to explain their lives.

“The Devil’s Due”, by Bonnie MacBird

 

384 pages, HarperCollins, ISBN-13: 978-0008348106

Bonnie MacBird’s The Devil’s Due is her third interpretation of Arthur Conan Doyle’s immortal detective, and just like in her two previous outings, she succeeds in breathing new life into this most famous of sleuths. Under her keyboard, Holmes and Watson are believably drawn, so much so that one would like to believe the conceit of the author that she did not write this tale but that it was gifted to her by person or persons unknown and that the true author is in fact Dr. John Watson, just like Conan Doyle always maintained. Her Holmes/Watson dynamic is believable, so much so that the whole Watson-One-Step-Behind-Holmes thing comes across as natural rather than tedious (and which becomes necessary in the denouement). The Devil’s Due circles around the narratives of an alphabetical killer of philanthropists with dark secrets, a new Chief Commissioner of police and budding fascist, French terrorists, and a girl’s school that is more than it seems. Through it all Holmes, naturally, sticks to his guns and follows the clues where they lead him though the Heavens fall, Watson, naturally, staying doggedly alongside him.

The Devil’s Due moves along at a brisk pass and never flags due to overwrought dialog or melodrama, two things Holmes would never countenance. MacBird does a fine job of leading the reader astray with a red herring or two throughout, so much so that I was kicking myself for not seeing who the perp really was. The story also contains an eclectic mix of eccentric characters that always populate a Sherlock Holmes mystery, whether they be an illiterate street urchin-come-spy or needy society widow. With that being said, a little more development of these characters would have served the story better, considering the roles that some of them end up playing by the conclusion. And MacBird does a fine job of leading the reader astray with a red herring or two throughout, so much so that I was kicking myself for not seeing who the perp really was. Also, the book is freighted with a lot hyperventilating about modern problems, especially immigrants and the prejudices around them; while this was indeed an issue at the time, MacBird seemed to come at the issue with a modern sensibility that was grating and, worse, inaccurate.

But it is the dialogue MacBird employs that is the highlight of not only The Devil’s Due, but of all of her other Holmes books, as well. The Watsoncentric ambiance of her books is true to Conan Doyle and adds a kind of credibility and continuity to all of the works. For all of those Sherlockians the world over for whom the original run of stories is simply not enough, MacBird has done a masterful imitation of the master’s voice and style nicely, and this book provides true satisfaction to any fan of the Baker Street fiddler. The mysteries are good, the characters, old and new, are excellent and the experience is uplifting. While having Holmes being (literally) demonized in the London press didn’t pass the London fog smell test, and having Holmes be entirely too deferential to some of the other main personages is out of character for this genius who can’t help but look down on those not as brilliant as he (which is most of humanity), The Devil’s Due still made me long for yet more tales from MacBird; as a true heir to Conan Doyle she has no competitor, and one can only hope for yet more Holmes stories in the very near future.

“The Last Action Heroes: The Triumphs, Flops, and Feuds of Hollywood’s Kings of Carnage”, by Nick de Semlyen

 

352 pages, Crown, ISBN-13‏: ‎ 978-0593238806

While I read for any number of reasons, it is knowledge and self-improvement that tops my list – but man cannot live on salad alone, or steak, or poultry and so on; now and again a slice of cheesecake or dish of ice cream is called for. So when I saw The Last Action Heroes: The Triumphs, Flops, and Feuds of Hollywood’s Kings of Carnage by Nick de Semlyen at the Clinton-Macomb Public Library I thought “Ah, what the hell. Ice Cream is back on the menu”. Semlyen’s book is rather like Caseen Gaines’ We Don’t Need Roads: The Making of the Back to the Future Trilogy (reviewed on March 19^th, 2024), in that neither is very challenging or enlightening; many of the tales he tells are familiar and are simply rehashed in this volume. Indeed, while de Semlyen does better than Gaines by in fact interviewing the subjects of this book, the vast majority of those interviews were cribbed from earlier sources, and so The Last Action Heroes resembles a movie montage in which our Hero becomes stronger and faster after five minutes of training.

But so what. De Semlyen has written a memoir of my youth when giants walked the earth, movies were entertaining and an expansive VHS collection was a status symbol. All of these titans of the multiplex are here, along with other, less statuesque stars. Chuck Norris. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Sylvester Stallone. Bruce Willis. Jackie Chan. Jean-Claude Van Damme. Steven Seagal. Dolph Lundgren. One could argue that not all of these names belong, but one cannot argue that each left an impact on popular culture – even if only as punchlines. This testosterone and patriotic fueled era of American movies (not Chan) was a once-a-millennium phenomenon, never to be repeated, and pity the poor fools of later generations who missed out on all of the fun. To be alive and a movie fan at this time meant to be spoiled for choice as to what movie to see every week, even if you were young and broke (like me) and had to wait for HBO to broadcast it or Blockbuster to rent it to you. You know: The Good Old Days.

And we learn a thing or two about these muscle-bound celluloid gods. Chuck Norris was actually a non-violent Christian who would rather talk than fight. Arnold Schwarzenegger is as driven as you have heard with a never-say-die attitude and an immigrant’s faith in America. Sylvester Stallone is as resilient as Rocky (or Rambo) who never lets a bomb get him down. Bruce Willis was as ordinary as you would think who seemed just happy to be mentioned in the same breath as these others. Jackie Chan was an international star who struggled to make it in America but whose stunt innovations influenced others well outside of China. Jean-Claude Van Damme, for all his ridiculousness, is an unfiltered quote-machine who has struggled with his demons and seemingly come out on top. Steven Seagal is truly the humorless asshole he comes across as and one wonders how more successful he’d be with a little self-awareness. Dolph Lundgren is fluent in five languages and was on his way to becoming a scientist before Stallone discovered him.

The Last Action Heroes was a fun read and allowed me the pleasure of reliving my youth when popular culture sought to entertain and not indoctrinate, when movies could be unabashedly patriotic and movie stars were bigger-than-life personalities for all the right reasons.

“Patton, Montgomery, Rommel: Masters of War”, by Terry Brighton

 

480 pages, Crown, ISBN-13: 978-0307461551

Patton, Montgomery, Rommel: Masters of War by Terry Brighton is a kind of broad, triple biography of perhaps the greatest American, British and German generals of World War II (let the arguments begin on that declaration). The book is broadly chronological as it follows its three subjects while they maneuver through their relative country’s military structures and serve the same in peace and war. As is shown, Patton, Montgomery and Rommel served three quite different nations with quite different military establishments and quite different ways of shimmying up the greasy pole of promotion. And I have to say that Brighton, a British military historian, does not shirk his duty in showing us his subjects, warts and all.

While many historians have tried to explain away Johannes Erwin Eugen Rommel’s fascination with and support for Hitler, Brighton shows that the Generalfeldmarschall supported his Führer up to the final moments of his life. His complete acceptance of the Nazi program and belief system (even though he never joined the actual party) is well laid out, and there can be no doubt that he was a fervent supporter of the same and was not just being a “good German soldier” who did not have all of the facts. While no doubt a military genius who did the best he could with his limited resources, Rommel made his share of blunders, although Brighton shows the Desert Fox continuously learning from his mistakes. One can only thank whomever that Nazi Germany never got its act together and fully supplied Rommel with whatever he needed.

George Smith Patton Jr. was beyond just bombastic and profane, as his well-known episodes of losing control and slapping soldiers in hospitals for being cowards are described. Without question the most privileged of the three, Patton had his share of obstacles to overcome, not least of which was dyslexia. And his love affair with the M4 Sherman medium tank over the M26 Pershing heavy tank is inexcusable. But as a tank commander his only equal was Rommel or, more controversy perhaps, Guderian, the true inventor of the Blitzkrieg. As an armor strategist with a clear-eyed view of what the tank could (and couldn’t) do, and what the Allies needed to do to win the war, Patton was brilliant, forceful and without remorse. One can see why Eisenhower tolerated him as he did and why the Germans were right to count him as Enemy Number One.

Surprisingly, coming from a British author, Bernard Law Montgomery comes across as the worst of the bunch, a general who managed to win one battle in one setting and then applied that same philosophy the rest of the way, whether or not such tactics fit the situation at hand. When he does not get the resources he wants, or is denied the command he seeks, he purposely slows his progress down and causes numerous casualties to his fellow commanders as a way of showing that he should have been given this support or command all along. How many thousands of unnecessary casualties were caused by this self-absorption? How long was the war extended by this prima donna? Perversely, Montgomery was the most successful of the three post-war, only because he was the only one to survive the hostilities.

Patton, Montgomery, Rommel illustrates all of this and shows how and why these gifted if difficult leaders of men succeeded and failed, and all without any obvious prejudice. Would that all histories were this enlightening.

“Vengeful”, by V. E. Schwab

 

480 pages, Tor Books, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-0765387523

Vengeful by V. E. Schwab is the second in her “Villains” series and the sequel to Vicious (reviewed on January 26^th, 2026); it is also the second V. E. Schwab we reviewed for the Fraser Public Library Books on Tap book club – after my original choice, the brilliant The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher: A Shocking Murder and the Undoing of a Great Victorian Detective by Kate Summerscale (reviewed on April 8^th, 2021) was nixed by my crew. Harumph. Anyway, in short, Vengeful continues the tale of Victor Vale and his ragtag gang of EOs – short for ExtraOrdinaries…that is, beings with superpowers – as they attempt to carve out a place for themselves in an ever-more-dangerous world. Oh, Eli Ever is still about, imprisoned and the victim of sadistic experiments, and we are introduced to other EOs who make an impact, along with the government agency EON – ExtraOrdinary Observation and Neutralization – that seeks to track and capture EOs. The structure of Vengeful follows that of Vicious, switching back and forth between past and the near-present and forcing the reader to stay on his toes, but I never once found it to be confusing.

Let’s face it: most sequels suck, but Vengeful does that which all sequels attempt to do; remains sufficiently loyal to the original work to bring the loyal fanbase back while being satisfactorily different to justify its existence. The key elements are back, with new Villains added to our returning characters and an expansion of the world Schwab has created. EOs are a recognized thing now by the powers that be (and their reaction is about what you’d expect) and everyone tries to maneuver through a new world in which the rules are still being written (oh, and Schwab manages to make Eli Ever sympathetic, if you can imagine). But if Vengeful has a theme, it is desperation. Victor is desperate to be himself again, his resurrection at Sydney’s hands having broken him. Eli is desperate to be free, having been in prison since the end of the last book. Sydney is desperate for her sister’s company and contemplates her resurrection. Marcela is desperate for power and the respect she has been denied her whole life. June is desperate for revenge against those who wronged her. Stell is desperate to capture EOs and see them tamed and broken.

All of this desperation leads people to make some morally gray decisions, and Schwab really gets inside of her character’s heads in order for You the Reader to truly understand their motivations and what drives them along. Really, it is a writer of rare talent that can make Villains sympathetic, but Schwab does it time and again, making you consider and reconsider their moral values – and your own. Her characters don’t necessarily want to cause death or destruction (well, not all of them, at any rate) but really just want revenge on the people who hurt them and security in a world that hates them. All of which are very human and all-too recognizable motivations (minus the superpowers, that is). This moral ambiguity leads to many a deep discussion, both with others and yourself, and the fact that there are no easy answers to any of these questions just adds to the book’s appeal. I have no doubt that Schwab will be writing about more Villains in the very near future and I, for one, look forward to reading more about these utterly fascinating and very maddening (and recognizable) people very soon. Even if they are the “Bad Guys”.

“1913: The Year before the Storm”, by Florian Illies

 

268 pages, Melville House, ISBN-13: 978-1612193519

Back on August 10^th, 2022, I reviewed 1913: In Search of the World before the Great War by Charles Emmerson, and said that “I wanted this lost world to be brought to life once again, even if briefly, but it wasn’t. There are facts and figures and allusions and discussions and so on and so forth, but this is just dry knowledge…While 1913 is an interesting global tour of the world of 1913, it in no way brought this world back to life, and it sadly remains hidden still”. And so it was with this in mind that I got 1913: The Year before the Storm by Florian Illies, a German writer and art historian – for free, for reasons too opaque to go through here. Ask me about it sometime.

1913: The Year before the Storm is divided in twelve chapters, each corresponding to a month in this last full year of peace; each chapter in turn is made up of a series of vignettes of something interesting that happened at that time, many in Germany and Europe (well, what did you expect from a German author?). No verse. No poetry. Just a chronology of stuff, much like the aforementioned and maligned 1913. And so I am seemingly right back to where I started, with a dry recording of facts in which this happened and then that happened with no magic occurring and no spirits lifted by a lost world brought back to life, even if only in our minds.

Only…this 1913 does what the other 1913 did not; brings this world, dead by mass suicide committed on a global-scale, to life once more. You wouldn’t think that this was so, seeing as all it is are accounts of mostly famous people doing their things: politicians politicking, artists painting, singers singing, musicians playing and on and on – but somehow Illies accomplishes that which Emmerson failed to do: breathe life once more into a world long dead. Perhaps it is because Illies allows his subjects to speak for themselves, as it were; he steps back and observes their goings-on while narrating what is happening, never interfering with his own input.

Or perhaps it is because Illies chose to go small scale rather than large: by focusing on the lives of persons – not ordinary persons, but all the same – rather than on places or policies or politicians, he made his book more intimate and relatable to you and I. As these folks go through their days with Armageddon mere months away, we see them as we would ourselves, with their concerns both sacred and profane dominating their lives and motivating their actions. Just like us, today. This, I think, is Illies’ secret: by focusing his tales on the small he in fact encompasses so much of this lost world and makes it breath again, if only in our imaginations.

1913: The Year before the Storm resurrected this lost year and made me yearn for a world long dead – and I don’t know why, seeing as there is little to recommend this dead place to a fella such as I. Perhaps on some level I am fascinated by an entire society that saw cultural seppuku as preferable to the way things were, all without knowing the blood and terror that would ensue when this (admittedly unjust and flawed, though stable) culture imploded. Or maybe it’s just that I miss all of that Edwardian fashion. Regardless, Illies has done us all an invaluable service in making 1913 live once more, if only briefly.

“The NHL: 100 Years of On-Ice Action and Boardroom Battles. A Centennial History” by D’Arcy Jenish

 

448 pages, Anchor Canada, ISBN-13: 978-0385671484

Hockey has been a part of my whole life thanks to my Dad; he was a dyed-in-the-wool Detroit Red Wings fan from the day he was born and thrived and suffered with his team through thick and thin. I was never much of a sport fan growing up – indeed, for many years I was actively hostile to sports of any kind – but that changed upon my maturity, and I’m glad I was able to share in another of my Dad’s passions before he passed (the others were Formula 1 racing and the American Civil War). But I was still ignorant of so much, and so when I stumbled upon The NHL: 100 Years of On-Ice Action and Boardroom Battles. A Centennial History by D’Arcy Jenish I saw it as a way of correcting this particular flaw and jumped at it.

Published in 2016 as a celebration of a century’s worth of professional hockey, Jenish’s book traces the foundations of the NHL from before it’s official founding a decade later (with ten teams, no less; “Original 6” refers to the six teams that survived past that date). It’s all there, too, as the league fights to establish itself, grow the sport in the States, suffers contraction and promotes expansion, struggles with the aspirations of players versus the motives of owners, expands again and tries to adapt to the modern entertainment market. Somehow, Jenish manages to make all of these off-ice machinations interesting – or at least not-boring; thankfully he spares us the minutes of board meetings or lawyerly jargon.

And I must stress that The NHL is a history of the business of hockey; on-ice developments and rule changes are mentioned but typically in passing. The men who made the League – the owners, the coaches and even the players – are what Jenish focuses on, so if you wanted to know how the Icing rule came about or why fighting is tolerated then you won’t like it. I, for one, was engrossed by the backstage shenanigans these hockey-mad businessmen and players got into and how and why the League became what it is today. I may not like all the decisions that were made or the arguments that were launched, but after I finished this book I at least understood why things turned out the way they did.

The NHL was as interesting as it was informative, as I learned how North America’s 4^th Sport was founded and grew and contracted and suffered and thrived and survived. The culture of hockey, the fan base, the history of how the sport came about and developed – these are topics for another book, one I will have to track down.

“I, Strahd: The Memoirs of a Vampire”, by P. N. Elrod

 

309 pages, TSR, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1560766704

If you’re not a hopeless geek then much of what I’m about to relate will be simply obtuse to you. Deal. So, I, Strahd: The Memoirs of a Vampire by P. N. Elrod is the tale of Count Strahd von Zarovich, the big baddie in D&D’s Ravenloft Campaign Setting, as told by himself (and read by Dr. Rudolph van Richten, TSR’s answer to Prof. Abraham Van Helsing). Within, we discover just who and what Strahd is and how he came to be. Essentially, young Strahd, frightened by his own mortality and driven by jealously of his younger brother, commits a horrific crime to achieve both immortality and his one true love, only to be denied both by the evil powers he dealt with (well, whataya want; they’re evil, aren’t they?). And all told by Elrod, a modern-day master of the fantasy horror genre (circa 1993).

Beneath Elrod’s pen, Strahd becomes more than just a one-dimensional answer to Dracula. We see the young Strahd, powerful warrior and brilliant leader, slowly succumb to the doubts and shadows that plague all men as he proves to be mortal after all. As he relates his tale to us, the Reader, we follow his thinking, relive his agony and share his doubts until, quite surprisingly, one finds themselves sympathizing with the monster and almost urging him on. It is a rare feat indeed to make a sympathetic villain, but Elrod succeeds. Incredible read for any fan and, I would argue, for anyone looking for a fresh vampire story. Yes, yes, yes, I, Strahd plays on every vampire trope under the sun (heh), but there is something to be said on how much this novel encourages one to sympathize with the devil.

If you familiar with Curse of Strahd – perhaps, like me, as the module’s Dungeon Master – you already know how this story ends. But that doesn’t stop you from savoring every scrap of hope Strahd allows himself, and you join him desperately wishing for an impossible happiness.

“The King Whisperers: Power Behind the Throne, from Rasputin to Rove”, by Kerwin Swint

 

336 pages, Union Square Press, ISBN-13: 978-1402772016

The King Whisperers: Power Behind the Throne, from Rasputin to Rove by Kerwin Swint is about those shadowy figures who lurk in every government, whispering in the king’s ear and all but ruling the kingdom in fact, if not in name (I would love to know the names of the people who did so in the Biden Administration). Swint has subdivided these whisperers into ten distinct types: The Machiavellians, Empire Builders, Kingmakers, Spies, Silver-Tongued Devils, The Generals, The Rebels, The Truly Evil, The Fixers and Schemers; he further provides thumbnail sketches of forty-one examples of men (and some women) to illustrate each type.

Swint’s format should find broad appeal for the novice historian, although I expect that the expert will be rather bored, if not offended by the many mistakes (it was never “The Empire of Germany” but rather “The German Empire” is but one of many examples). But the unique subject matter should appeal to both, seeing as those bright, shiny crowns so easily distracted us poor peons from who were really calling the shots. And, seeing as this is but a primer on the subject, this book also sparked interest in finding out more about these shadowy figures for whom pomp and circumstance were anathema, but who craved power and influence all the more.

These types of individuals are fairly good representatives of the archetypes named in each chapter and, if I may be so bold, I found I was more interested in those I had never heard of versus the more famous names. Swint also doesn’t confine himself to one era, nation or region, but likewise attempts to spread the blame around to all and sundry. The one problem I had with this approach was his inclusion of more modern figures; while many of these persons may, in fact, fit the profiles he has established, it seems to me that he was hurrying things and not allowing the flow of history to sweep them along – perhaps he was trying to be relevant?

Anyway, The King Whisperers works as an introductory work that, hopefully, will whet your thirst for more detailed, meatier faire.

“Child Star: An Autobiography”, by Shirley Temple Black

 

546 pages, McGraw-Hill, ISBN-13: 978-0070055322

Shirley Jane Temple Black was born on April 23^rd, 1928, in Santa Monica, California, the third child of homemaker Gertrude Amelia Crieger Temple and bank employee George Francis Temple after their boys, Jack and George. Black was an American patriot and had a diverse career in public service, first as a delegate to the 24^th United Nations General Assembly from September to December 1969, then as the 9^th United States Ambassador to Ghana from December 6^th, 1974 to July 13^th, 1976 before becoming 18^th Chief of Protocol of the United States from July 1^st, 1976 to January 21^st, 1977, then the President of the Commonwealth Club of California from February to August 1984 before becoming the 27^th United States Ambassador to Czechoslovakia from August 23^rd, 1989 to July 12^th, 1992. In this last role she witnessed first-hand The Velvet Revolution and the end of 41 years of one-party Communist rule in Czechoslovakia that ended peacefully, whence a parliamentary republic was established and the command economy dismantled…

Ah, who am I foolin’? You and I know Shirley Temple as an American child actress, dancer and singer who began her film career in 1931 and continued successfully through 1949. Over that time she starred in over 40 films for Fox (saving the studio from bankruptcy during the Great Depression), Paramount, MGM and Warner Brothers, said films ranking number One at the box office from 1935 through 1938, in addition to her work in television and radio. Temple danced in her films with some of the most famous and accomplished entertainers of her era, such as Buddy Ebsen, Jack Haley, Alice Faye, George Murphy, Jimmy Durante, Charlotte Greenwood, Jack Oakie and Bill “Bojangles” Robinson (whom she said was her favorite partner). At the 7^th Academy Awards in 1935, Temple was honored with the first Academy Juvenile Award., while later that same year her hand and foot prints were immortalized in cement at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. She received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame on February 8^th, 1960.

Much of this and more we learn from Shirley herself in Child Star: An Autobiography – and make no mistake: this is an authentic autobiography written by the woman herself with nary a coauthor or ghostwriter in sight. Technically, this is her second autobiography, the first being My Young Life from 1945, but Shirley has stated before that that book was actually cribbed from past published quotes; this work is the real deal, written by herself alone and ending in about 1954, when she was just 26 years old. And what an autobiography; Shirley’s personality shines through with every sentence, whether describing her family, famous costars, directors, producers or studio heads. Her intelligence, verve and wisdom are all on display and, mores the point, described in her own words. I had never before been a fan of Shirley; oh, I had nothing against her but, under Mom’s influence, had rather drifted towards Margaret O’Brien, instead. But that changed upon completion of Child Star; I can now be counted among the legion of Templeholics.

But if Shirley’s book has any overarching thread it is the relationship she had with her mother and how “[s]he was not only my best friend, but we had a partnership”. I suppose that it’s a good thing that Shirley thought so well of her Mother (and her Father, although George Temple’s influence on his daughter pales next to his wife’s). But it is hard not to realize just how manipulated our little curly-top dynamo was by the parents she so obviously loved and adored, her Mother especially. That Shirley made a great deal of money cannot be disputed; that she could have made so much more if only she had proper representatives who knew how to negotiate and read a contract likewise cannot be disputed. Her parents just weren’t up to the task. Also, Shirley’s adored parents took advantage of their child to advance their worldly ways and ignored others who misused her as well if it boosted her monetary value; but judging by our author’s words, she either didn’t or couldn’t face this fact (the last words of her autobiography are “Thanks, Mom”).

But this is about the worse thing I can say about this book, as Shirley wrote a rambling recounting of her extraordinary life in which the sun seemed to always shine and nothing ever went wrong – well, not exactly. She mentions plenty – the discrimination suffered by Bill “Bojangles” Robinson because he was black, the exploitation of actors of every stripe by the studios, the sexual harassment of female stars and starlets that was rampant under the “studio system” (like her own, when Arthur Freed exposed himself to Shirley when she was 12-years-old; or when she was raped by another, unnamed producer) – but all of it told from her viewpoint and in her own words, with nothing spared us. But she managed it all in ways that newer stars today can’t, because she had a strong, supportive family to back her up. While her parents pocketed much of the money she made over the years, it was used to support the family and not some lavish lifestyle – a small concession, perhaps, but meaningful nonetheless.

Upon coming to the end of Child Star I was a fan and admirer of this cultural icon who, upon the end of her career, did not pine for a life that was over, but instead launched a new career as wife, mother and, later, diplomat (if only other stars would follow her lead, rather than cling to fame like grim death). But I was also left a little vacant, for Shirley had intended this work to be the first of many volumes that would have recorded her service in the State Department, books that were never written. Which is a damn shame, for I would love to have read what she thought of Republican power brokers and foreign statesmen, especially Václav Havel, the leader of the Czech Velvet Revolution with whom she interacted with during the same. But it was not to be. Shirley Jane Temple Black lived an extraordinary life, most of it in the public eye, and she always carried herself with dignity, charm, intelligence and vigor. Would that all stars these days would do the same while showing a basic respect for the nation that made them rich.

God Bless You, Shirley.

“Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey”, by Douglas Hunter

 

408 pages, Triumph Books, ISBN-13: 978-1572433502

William Scott “Scotty” Bowman is the winningest coach in NHL history, with 14 Stanley Cups as a coach and/or executive (behind only Jean Béliveau’s 17) to go along with his 1244 regular season wins and 223 wins in the Stanley Cup playoffs. We here in the Motor City will always be grateful to him for ending our 42 year Cup drought in 1997 and winning 3 Stanley Cups to give the Detroit Red Wings 10 total (upped to 11 after Mike Babcock won in 2008). But in many ways the man is a cypher whom few can ever get close to, especially those of us in the cheap seats. And so when I discovered Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey by Douglas Hunter…somewhere, I picked it up to see what could be learned about this fascinating and maddening hockey guru.

Be warned, however, for this book was written without any input from Bowman at all; indeed, it would appear that several of his past and current players also refused to cooperate, seeing as the book did not have Bowman’s authorization and thus, did not have his blessing (I, for one, would not want to be on Scotty’s bad side, and I don’t even know how to skate). For all that, Hunter still manages to dig deep and uncover all sorts of gems from the life of this most private and inscrutable man, partially by providing such density of information – over 46 years of coaching, Bowman crossed paths with damn near everyone in the NHL – that one can, at times, feel rather buried in hockey tales, statistics, player bios and so on and so forth.

But it is still Scotty who is the subject of this work and, in spite of his subject’s noncooperation, Hunter managers to uncover several hidden gems. Such as Hunter’s idea that Bowman’s playing days were not cut short when that sonovabitch of a Frenchman Jean-Guy Talbot cracked his skull with a flailing stick; rather, it was the impetus Scotty needed to hang up the skates on a mediocre career at best and instead move behind the bench – a fact Bowman new all too well. This revelation says a lot about our subject and his clear-eyed, unsentimental view of things, especially of All Things Hockey. Since he could see that he would never prosper as a player he segued into coaching without muss or fuss; if anything, the frog Talbot did him a favor.

And it was as a coach that the legend of Bowman would take root and grow. While coaches come and go in the league, Bowman thrived and survived when so many around him faltered and fell. As to how he managed to last and succeed for so long, Hunter posits that Bowman, almost alone amongst his peers, could adapt faster than a chameleon to the fluctuating world of professional sports, be it changing tactics, adapting strategies, or massaging the egos of all of those big-name millionaire athletes who have killed many a coaching career. All this, as well as his ability to take advantage of other teams and their struggles on-and-off the ice to advance the cause of whatever club he happens to be with at the time.

I don’t know about other leagues, but hockey is rather notorious for the revolving-door appearance of so many coaching positions, something that not even the Legendary Bowman has been immune to. That he has achieved the success and longevity despite not having a playing career worth talking about makes his many achievements so much more extraordinary. And to think, when this book was published in 1998, Bowman still had one more Stanley Cup to win as the Red Wings Coach, along with three others as senior advisor of hockey operations to the Chicago Black Hawks. While at times rather dense and turgid, Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey goes far in capturing the personality and drive of this man as traditional trailblazer.

“The Watchmaker of Filigree Street”, by Natasha Pulley

318 pages, Bloomsbury, ISBN-13: 978-1620408339

The Books on Tap bookclub that I run for the Fraser Public Library is an opportunity for me to introduce the Reading Public at large to all sorts of different books and subjects that are, perhaps, outside of their typical experience – like Longitude: The True Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time by Dava Sobel (reviewed on June 13^th, 2012), for example – only the members of the bookclub had no interest AT ALL in reading about longitude, so I substituted it for The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley, instead. Ah, well; their loss. Not that I really minded, in the end, for The Watchmaker was as interesting and intriguing book as any I’ve read – that it was also Natasha Pulley’s first ever novel makes her accomplishment that much more triumphant.

So, what’s it all about? Set in 1883, we follow one Thaniel Steepleton who, after returning to his tiny London apartment after a day of work as a Telegraphist, finds a golden pocket watch on his pillow, its provenance unknown. Six months later, the mysterious timepiece alarm function goes off as he is in a pub – minutes before a hidden bomb explodes, thus saving his life while destroying Scotland Yard. This prompts Thaniel to go off in search of its maker, one Keita Mori, a genius who creates ingenious clockwork creations who informs Thaniel that the watch had been stolen months before. A whole chain of unexplainable events soon suggests he must be hiding something, and when Grace Carrow, an Oxford physicist, unwittingly interferes, Thaniel is torn between opposing loyalties.

The Watchmaker kept me interested the whole time I was reading it. Pulley pulled out just enough facts to keep the story moving while hiding her Big Reveals in such a way as to make them intriguing rather than irritating. The main characters – Thaniel, Mori and Grace – were interesting enough to keep me intrigued, while the motivations of all concerned were clear-cut – well, except for Mori, whose decisions were decidedly opaque. Until, that is, we discover more about the man and what he is all about, whence all those strange things he said and did make perfect sense. There is a plot hole or two I could mention. But won’t. For The Watchmaker of Filigree Street kept me engrossed in its tale and its characters enough for me to overlook much, and to look forward to the continuing adventures of Mori et. al

 

“A Wrinkle in Time”, by Madeleine L’Engle

 

248 pages, Dell, ISBN-13: 9780812422917

A Wrinkle in Time is yet another book that Mrs. Roberts read to us in the 4^th Grade that came to mind while perusing the children’s shelves at the Fraser Public Library. In a nutshell, Meg Murry, Charles Wallace Murry and Calvin O’Keefe embark on a journey through space and time and from galaxy to galaxy as they endeavor to rescue the Murry’s father and fight back The Black Thing that has intruded into several worlds. It also offers a glimpse into the war between good and evil as the young characters mature into adolescents on their journey. Pretty heady stuff for 10-year-olds to stomach but, hey, after surviving Old Yeller (reviewed on February 5^th, 2025) I think we found we could survive anything. It also turns out that A Wrinkle in Time is but the first in a series of seven other books (and one short story) in which all sorts of themes are explored and discussed.

A Wrinkle in Time begins when 13-year-old Meg Murry meets the family’s eccentric new neighbor, Mrs. Whatsit, who refers to something called a tesseract (if you’ve seen a Marvel movie lately you know what that is). Meg finds out that it is a scientific concept her father was working on before his mysterious disappearance. The following day, Meg, her genius brother Charles and classmate Calvin visit Mrs. Whatsit’s home, where the equally strange Mrs. Who and the voice of the unseen Mrs. Which promise to help Meg find and rescue her father. From there the game is afoot as the kids and their mysterious benefactors teleport by “tessering”, a fifth-dimensional phenomenon explained as folding the fabric of space and time, and – well, read the book, will ya? What I remember as a kid was being spellbound by the tale and where it would take us next.

There are several themes throughout the book that L’Engle brings up in a subtle manner, which, to my mind, made them that more powerful. One is religion (just not in the organized sense), in which divine intervention plays a part in many of the passages of the book. Madeleine L’Engle has made no secret of her (rather liberal) Christianity, and it shows in the many instances in which the kids are subject to a spiritual intervention they don’t necessarily understand, but which signals the presence of God in the everyday world, to say nothing of the reach of His power and love (well, according to L’Engle, it is His universe in which all of this action is taking place). This religious viewpoint is also evident in the fight against The Black Thing, which represents Evil, and the desire for Light, which is shorthand for God and the love he spreads.

Another theme touched on in the books is the fight against conformity, which has been read as an allegory over the fight against Communism. In the novel this takes the form of IT, the dominate power on the planet of Camazotz, in which the phrase “created equal” is warped to mean that everyone is uniform in appearance, attitudes and abilities; even Charles Wallace Murry conforms to the dictates of IT and is only rescued by his sister Meg. But there’s more to this concept as, in a three-page passage that was cut before publication, L’Engle understood that all totalitarian regimes of the Left or the Right needed to press conformity on their populaces in order to maintain their grip on power – while in democratic societies the desire for security led to the same impulses, as the passage of the Patriot Act in the US has demonstrated.

Besides all that, L’Engle’s books are important for young readers because, amongst children’s authors at least, she was one of the first to expose them to deep, dark subjects that other authors were unwilling to broach, like the meaning of truth, the perils of choosing individuality over conformity, and death. But for all of these Deep Thoughts, L’Engle still managed to be positive and uplifting. In true Christian fashion she managed to delve deep, underneath the surface values that most people can see, and perceive them in a manner more complete than other authors; at both light and dark, good and bad, joy and pain. Her faith allowed her to see all of this and to transcend mere mundane qualities and instead uncover the absolute nature of human experience that we all share – something I think I grasped at the time, even if I couldn’t express it.

So A Wrinkle in Time is many things, but it is especially brilliant, hopeful, dynamic and a worthy way in which to introduce the young to concepts they must learn about eventually.

“The Dante Club”, by Matthew Pearl

 

372 pages, Random House, ISBN-13: 978-0375505294

The Dante Club by Matthew Pearl was the first book he wrote and concerns a club of poets who are translating the Divina Commedia by Dante Alighieri into English in 1865, only to discover parallels between a recent spate of brutal murders and the punishments described in Dante’s Inferno. The poets in question are in fact historical personages, as was their club: James T. Fields, Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and James Russell Lowell. These men set out to solve the murders, fearing as they do that, seeing as they are among a handful of Americans who are familiar with the work, that they would also be the only suspects should the police discover their interest; also, scholars that they are, they worry that the truth of the murders would ruin Dante’s still-burgeoning reputation in America, thus damning the Italian poet in the minds of their countrymen while also dooming their translation.

While the first corpse is discovered quickly in the book – and a more gruesome description one would be hard-pressed to find (not a complaint; merely an observation) – the second takes much longer to turn up, as does the third. Meanwhile, the stage is set by Pearl as Old Boston comes back to life, these long-gone poets are resurrected and their quest to translate and bring Dante to the benighted masses of their countrymen – as the Civil War winds down, mind you – is given life once more. For Pearl is in no hurry to get the story going as he rebuilds this lost world and makes it real. While at times the depth of detail can make one wish to skip ahead to the good stuff, don’t do it; Pearl’s writing is a masterclass is descriptive detail and world-building. When the story begins to take off and the poets follow the clues (oh, and the police too, as they carry on their investigations independently of Fields, Holmes, Longfellow and Lowell) the game is afoot.

Pearl’s strength is his descriptive prowess, with seemingly inconsequential details coming forth and men and places breathing once more. The mystery surrounding the murders unravels slowly as the poets piece together what is going on without help from the police – well, there is Sergeant Rey, the first (half) black officer on the Boston police force, but the higher ups are AWOL through most of the book. As mysteries go it’s alright; while one is ever wondering who is going to die horribly next and discover just how Dante’s Inferno fits into everything, there was never any real suspense through the book. Rather, this is an intellectual story in which a bunch of Long Hairs play detective and delve into the mysteries of medieval poetry in the Modern (to them) world. All good stuff if that’s your bag (and it is mine), but if a mystery filled with suspense and red herrings and craven criminals is your thing then The Dante Club isn’t for you.

After finishing I had learned a good deal about Dante Alighieri – to say nothing of James T. Fields, Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and James Russell Lowell. In an “Historical Note” at the end of the book, Pearl helpfully tells us that he recreated the speech of his protagonists from the “poems, essays, novels, journals, and letters of the Dante Club members and those closest to them”, so perhaps in reading of their exploits we are again hearing the voices of Fields, Holmes, Longfellow and Lowell after having been silenced by time. Perhaps that is enough reason to read The Dante Club.

“Island of the Blue Dolphins”, by Scott O’Dell

 

177 pages, Houghton Mifflin, ISBN-13: 978-395069629

Hey, you remember me mentioning Mrs. Roberts 4^th Grade class? And how she’d read us stories now and then, like Old Yeller, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, James and the Giant Peach, and a bunch of others I have yet to remember? ‘member that? Well, as I was walking the shelves of the Fraser Public Library the other day I came across Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell and was once more transported back to the Glorious 80s and the 4^th Grade. And once more I was listening to Mrs. Roberts tell the tale of Won-a-pa-lei (secret name Karana) after she and her little brother are left stranded on an island off the coast of California for years when her tribe is relocated, and how this young girl managed to survive on nothing but wits and grit.

Turns out this story was based on a tale told by the inhabitants of San Nicholas Island about one Juana Maria, the last of the Nicoleño Indians, who lived all alone for twenty years. In 1939 her hut, made of whalebones, was discovered, and in 2009 several more artifacts of Juana Maria and the Nicoleño were uncovered, as well, giving credence to the tales told about the Lone Woman and making O’Dell’s story so much more believable (it just goes to show that the best tales ever told really happened). So just like that this tale of a Native American answer to Robinson Crusoe (which was likewise based on a true story) gains credibility. I knew none of this back in the day as Mrs. Roberts regaled us with the adventures of Karana, only that I was engrossed and couldn’t wait for the tale to continue.

And what a tale, too. Island of the Blue Dolphins was published in 1960, when adventure tales starring Indian girls taking on traditional male roles weren’t a thing. But it is told with verve and motion as we follow Karana and her quest just to live. From finding food, to building canoes, to fending off the wild dogs of the island, to just survive being alone all the time, we root for Karana and wonder what we would have done in her place. And none of it is condescending, either; O’Dell was a white man who crafted an engrossing story starring an Indian girl who is as alive, forthright, engaging and inspiring as any Eurocentric story one could mention. And O’Dell shows us just how she does it, too; through intelligence, guile, and sheer stick-to-itiveness, not because Karana is some unstoppable girlboss who can do no wrong.

Island of the Blue Dolphins is yet another story from my youth that has stayed with me because it was an excellent tale expertly told without ulterior motives or personal politics involved. Imagine that: a story about a strong woman that neither denigrates others nor makes its protagonist into a super-being. Would we had more such stories today.

“Driving Like Crazy: Thirty Years of Vehicular Hell-Bending, Celebrating America the Way It’s Supposed to Be – With an Oil Well in Every Backyard, a Cadillac Escalade in Every Carport, and the Chairman of the Federal Reserve Mowing Our Lawn”, by P.J. O’Rourke

 

267 pages, Grove Press, ISBN-13: 978-0802144799

Patrick Jake “P.J.” O’Rourke passed away from lung cancer on February 15^th, 2022, and the Conservative movement in particular and American humor in general lost one of the most original and acerbic voices ever to breath air. I have read and reviewed several of his books, such as Age and Guile Beat Youth, Innocence, and a Bad Haircut: 25 Years of P.J. O’Rourke (reviewed on August 10^th, 2016), Parliament of Whores: A Lone Humorist Attempts to Explain the Entire U.S. Government (reviewed on January 25^th, 2019), Give War a Chance: Eyewitness Accounts of Mankind’s Struggle against Tyranny, Injustice and Alcohol-Free Beer (reviewed on April 20^th, 2021) and All the Trouble in the World: The Lighter Side of Overpopulation, Famine, Ecological Disaster, Ethnic Hatred, Plague, and Poverty (reviewed on July 16^th, 2021). I will now have to hunt down the rest of his books, for the only way in which we can still enjoy P.J. is by reading and honoring and laughing at all he left behind.

Like Driving Like Crazy (you can read the full title above) which was published in 2009 and collects his many articles featuring cars, driving and fighting the good fight against the regulatory Man. While driving cars and enjoying cars and wrecking cars and celebrating cars is notionally what this book is about, it is also as politically subversive as anything O’Rourke wrote. With tongue firmly in cheek, he recounts many escapades of his wild youth, middle-aged fantasies and crazy trips in a strange mash-up of adolescent political incorrectness, childish silliness and near-religious reverence for American chrome, steel and horsepower. In O’Rourke’s telling, cars are quintessentially American because cars equal freedom: freedom to go where you want and when you want without some busybody central planner telling you NO. Which is why busybody central planners love public transportation and want to kill the oil industry, just so that we all can be more easily under their green totalitarian thumbs.

All of which is recounted across 18 articles and one interview. Driving Like Crazy is, like all of the Late Great P.J.’s work, subversive, entertaining, enlightening and energetic, and makes one miss the man all the more.

“The Police: 1978-1983”, by Lynn Goldsmith, introduced by Phil Sutcliffe

 

192 pages, Little, Brown and Company, ISBN-13: 978-0316005913

I stated before that I was never really a fan of The Police (in my review of Strange Things Happen: A Life with The Police, Polo, and Pygmies by Stewart Copeland, as it happens, published on August 25^th, 2025); while liking many of their songs I just wasn’t rabid for them, like I am for The Beatles, Rush, Queen and Kate Bush. But when I saw that I could have The Police: 1978-1983 by Lynn Goldsmith (introduced by Phil Sutcliffe) for a mere $1 from the Fraser Public Library Book Sale well, I mean c’mon, who wouldn’t buy it?

In a nutshell, photographer Goldsmith had almost full access to the band, from their founding in 1978 until their separation in 1983; the whole of this book, published in 2007 to commemorate the band’s 30^th anniversary and their subsequent reunion tour, captures their rise to fame until the final curtain call. Also found within are a series of quotes by Stewart Copeland (drummer), Andy Summers (guitarist) and Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner (lead singer and bass guitarist), all taken from the books The Police L’Historia Bandido by Phil Sutcliffe and Hugh Fielder and One Train Later by Andy Summers, and from Rolling Stone, The London Sunday Times, The New York Times and sundry other magazines.

So, what do we have her, then? If many of these pictures look familiar to you, it is because Lynn was responsible for so many of the most famous, iconic images of The Police that we have known for decades. This book has sections of images devoted to singular portraits of Stewart, Andy and Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner, along with sections devoted to the band as a whole. And while the inclusion of quotes from the band members themselves help tie this volume together, none of the photos are captioned; sometimes one can puzzle together just where this or that pic was taken – especially if one has seen any of the band’s music videos – but a little insight as to just what we were looking at would have been nice.

But so what. The Police: 1978-1983 was made for fans of Stewart, Andy and Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner to celebrate their long-lost band and to reminisce on their youth when the world was better and brighter.

“Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald”, by Therese Anne Fowler

 

375 pages, St. Martin’s Press, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1250028655

Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald was more than just the wife of Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald; she was also a novelist in her own right, a painter, a playwright, a dancer and Southern socialite who, sadly, died before her time in a fire in a hospital, widowed and all but forgotten, after living in a series of sanatoriums and undergoing a decade worth of electroshock therapy and insulin shock treatments. Sad, tragic and pathetic. And so we owe Therese Anne Fowler a debt of gratitude for reviving this most interesting of women in Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald and letting her live and frolic once more – if only in our imaginations.

The novel begins when 17-year-old Zelda meets the dashing young Army officer F. Scott Fitzgerald and continues on to document their lives together until their ultimate, tragic ends, all told from Zelda’s point of view. Not being at all familiar with the life of Zelda, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of this telling, only that Fowler follows her subject as she traipsed all over America and Europe, as she and Scott (and their daughter, Scottie) enjoyed the privileges of being young and relatively well-off in the Roaring 20s. One wonders at Fitzgerald’s view of this time, seeing as he and his bride seemed to enjoy it so much.

While their lives of the Fitzgeralds are documented and brought back to life for us, I have to say that they and their world remained flat throughout; I mean, Zelda’s voice was never in stereo in Fowler’s telling, only ever in mono, a strange situation for this opinionated and passionate woman. New York, Paris, the American South and even Minnesota never came alive in this telling, as all the colors Fowler paints in are faded pastels rather than the vibrant oils a woman like Zelda deserves. Not badly written, as the book moves along at a brisk and interesting pace, but I couldn’t help but feel that there were depths there being left unexplored.

And Zelda herself never really seems fully realized. While her friends wish her to latch on to the then-nascent feminist cause she never actually does, as she was then enjoying all the freedoms her predecessors could only dream of (this in spite of the fact that many of her stories were published under her husband’s name). But her works – novels, short stories, paintings, etc. – are never named or described, and her accomplishments are mentioned – by herself, mind you – only in passing. Thus, even in a novel in which Zelda Fitzgerald is supposed to be the main protagonist, she plays second fiddle to her more famous husband. Strange…and disappointing.

I had circled this novel for several months at the Fraser Public Library before adding it to the Books on Tap book club schedule; having finished it, I wonder if the other participants will like it more or less than I did (whenever a book I have chosen falls flat I always have a feeling of guilt, like I let them down). Maybe they’ll have a better opinion than I, but overall while Z was an enlightening look into the lives of a golden couple of the Lost Generation, it was an outsider’s view rather than an insider’s. Zelda guides us through her life before-and-after Scott, but she never truly comes alive in Fowler’s telling.

But I have to say that Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald has at least kindled my interest in this fascinating if maddening couple, so much so that I think I will seek out a biographies of Zelda and F. Scott, and read their many, storied works. So all was not lost reading Fowler’s flawed if still interesting work – so there’s that.

“Turn of Mind”, by Alice LaPlante

 

320 pages, Grove Press, ISBN-13: 978-1594135798

Turn of Mind by Alice LaPlante centers on Dr. Jennifer White, retired orthopedic surgeon, and the murder of her friend, Amanda O’Toole (whose fingers were surgically severed after death, to boot). Dr. White is the prime suspect but, complicating matters for her and the police is the fact that she is suffering from advanced-stage Alzheimer’s and can remember nothing or, when memories do spring to mind, are always fractured and out of sorts. The structure of the book is told from the viewpoint of the unfortunate Dr. White, a viewpoint that, as one can well imagine from a person with dementia, is out of sorts and unreliable. It also serves to make the book smaller in fact than it purports to be, as it is written as a series of small, brief, paragraphs separated by a blank line or two (to say nothing of a very fast read).

One thing that suffuses this book is the loss of Jennifer; not literally, or course, as she is the narrator and principle voice of the book. But hers is a broken voice, spoken by a woman who is no longer there, mentally. When she is most cognizant is when she remembers the past – the far past, if you will, rather than the recent, which she cannot grasp. This woman was so much more than what she is now and to see such an accomplished and respected woman brought low by a disease that robs one of their intellect and dignity is a damn shame (it also proves that there are, in fact, fates worse than death). In this state we learn more about Jennifer and discover that she is flawed; indeed, one of her sins especially proves that her late husband, James, was a saint for putting up with her in her normal, pre-Alzheimer condition.

As mysteries go, however, Turn of Mind is not very…mysterious. The murder of Amanda is supposed to be at the center of the book but, in fact, Jennifer’s Alzheimer’s is the engine of this car. Seeing as it is told from Jennifer’s fractured and unreliable point of view this makes sense, as we puzzle along with her what is real and what is misremembered fantasy; what are relevant facts and what are irrelevant meanderings. The suspect list is thin and the final reveal – dealing as it does with our demented heroine fleeing the facility she was placed in and attempting to solve the crime on her own – is rather shocking (to me at any rate). Whenever I finish a mystery that fools me I usually go back and reread certain portions to try and determine why I didn’t sniff it out; Turn of Mind was no different, and I kick myself for not having uncovered the perp.

So Turn of Mind requires patience on the part of the reader as you try to puzzle out Jennifer’s thoughts and the motivations of those around her. But stick with it, as the final reveal will make it all worthwhile.

“Relic”, by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

 

382 pages, Forge, ISBN-13: 978-031285630X

Relic by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child is set in the New York Museum of Natural History (now the American Museum of Natural History) and follows the opening of a new exhibit called “Superstitions”, about native and obscure religions and beliefs from around the world – only to be plagued by a series of brutal murders in which people are savagely mutilated and their brains partially eaten (the 1997 movie The Relic was also based on it, but that bombed so you probably didn’t see it). It turns out this book was the first to feature their reoccurring characters Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast and Detective Vincent D’Agosta.

So, anyway, Relic was okay. The mystery at the heart of the story is over the relic in question that is the center of the new exhibit, the culture from which it was taken and its connection to the bloody murders. As the scientists and researchers study the history and mystery surrounding the whole, bits and pieces fall into place as the novel barrels headlong. All of this was fine as these Very Smart People try and piece together the strange findings that come their way. If you are not a geek then much of this may be dull, but any library rat worth their salt will find all of this techno-digging to be well worth the read.

The real problems lay in the wooden characters; not once while reading Relic did I feel any dread or suspense, a damning critique for a book that purports to be a thriller. This is mostly because I couldn’t give a damn for any of these posts masquerading as people. Then there is Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI who is investigating these murders due to their similarity to deaths that had occurred in New Orleans a few years before. While Aloysius brims with personality – especially in relation to the blocks of wood all around him – he also knows…everything and has had just the right unreal life experiences to make him indispensable.

And the ending is LONG, as everything comes to a head and all hell breaks loose and there’s blood and guts and – hell, just wading through the last several chapters was a chore when it should have been a suspenseful hell-ride as we bump and jostle towards the conclusion. The Epilogue, however, was good, as the writers wrap everything up and answer all of your unanswered questions – and set up the sequel. The character through which they do it was always present and, while arrogant, was not very malevolent, until he reveals his ultimate plans. If I had enjoyed Relic more then I think that this last chapter would have gotten me excited for the next book.

The Relic was a ‘B’ Movie, which should come as no surprise, seeing as the book it was based upon was also subpar. An entertaining enough read that occupied me for a week, I shan’t be reading any more Preston and Child books and must bid adieu to Special Agent Pendergast and Detective Vincent D’Agosta.