Blair
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So, I'm a little disappointed that I didn't enjoy this book more, and I feel a bit guilty about this low rating. But that's just the way it goes sometimes, I suppose, especially if you have high expectations. I found the previous two books in this se...more
So, I'm a little disappointed that I didn't enjoy this book more, and I feel a bit guilty about this low rating. But that's just the way it goes sometimes, I suppose, especially if you have high expectations. I found the previous two books in this series, Mistress of Rome and Daughters of Rome, extremely enjoyable, but Empress just didn't grab my attention in the same way. It's a semi-sequel to Mistress: the main characters are the children of the first book's protagonists. Having grown up in Britannia, Vix (son of Thea and Arius) returns to Rome at the age of nineteen, where he becomes entangled with Sabina (daughter of Lepida). This sets the scene for an epic tale which has these two characters at its heart, and also prominently features scheming empress Plotina and soft-hearted tribune Titus.
I'm still not entirely sure why I liked this so much less than its predecessors, but somehow I just couldn't get into the story. Quinn's writing is as enjoyable as ever, but I've always seen these books as fun romps rather than literary novels, and the prose really needs to be wrapped around an exciting plot. I wasn't enormously keen on Vix or Sabina and didn't care much for their romance (although I would have preferred (view spoiler)[to see them end up together rather than what actually ended up happening, which seemed like a waste of their relationship earlier in the book (hide spoiler)]), and while Plotina was well-portrayed as a devious and powerful character, she lacked that deliciously hateful edge that characterised (for example) Lepida and Domitian in Mistress. I can't say I was truly rooting for any of the characters, but there wasn't anyone I loved to hate either. With the other books, I was gripped throughout and was constantly kept entertained by twists and cliffhangers, but here there were chapters upon chapters that dragged and seemed to be either dull, or full of pointless developments that didn't come to anything.
Empress of Rome was diverting enough in parts, but where Mistress and Daughters were juicy and action-packed, this book felt a little bit... limp. If you haven't heard of Kate Quinn before, please don't let this review put you off her other books, because they really are a lot of fun. I just wouldn't recommend this one.(less)
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Beginning this book, there is something you should know. This is not a confession. This is something I am writing; something I am making out of something that happened. Ten years ago I had an affair that ended badly... With these irresistible lines b...more
Beginning this book, there is something you should know. This is not a confession. This is something I am writing; something I am making out of something that happened. Ten years ago I had an affair that ended badly... With these irresistible lines begins the troubled, fragmented, and unreliable account of Rachel, the narrator of this melancholy and brilliant little book. Her story is a series of memories charting her emotional history, primarily focused around the affair she had with an unstable colleague, Carl, while (and after) she was in a serious relationship with Johnny, a calm, gentle man she met in her teens. But what really happened, why has Rachel ended up living alone in a high-rise flat where she writes and watches the workmen in the building opposite, and why does she feel compelled to write this 'non-confession'?
I don't always like writing reviews of books I adored. Really, all I want to do is spew out a stream of incoherent babble, culminating in 'this is AMAZIIIIING, read it NOW' - I think the best qualities of great books are sometimes indefinable, or at least very subtle, and it's easier to be coherent about something that has glaring flaws. This is, quite simply, a beautifully written book with a fascinating narrator and an original, inventive structure. Rachel's recollections skip back and forth through time, moving through her relationship with Johnny, the affair with Carl and her present-day situation in an apparently random fashion. The narrative is written as one might really recount one's past - it seems like Rachel is writing down memories as they come back to her, but as the story progresses, a pattern of hidden secrets and uncertain details emerges. Rachel even admits that she is embellishing her tale at points, and although there are few surprises due to the non-linear nature of the book, there are choice moments when shocking revelations are delivered in a calm, cool tone. The book is rich with sumptuous, poetic prose and striking imagery, while remaining totally believable as a personal account.
I should qualify my review with a warning that I don't think other readers will necessarily love Signs of Life as much as I did. There's a bleak undercurrent to everything that happens, illustrated most obviously in the time Rachel spends with Carl, but subtly pervading the rest of the story too. I took to Rachel straight away because she seems so human - flawed, uncertain, full of guilt, more vulnerable than she realises but sometimes selfish and devious too - but I doubt everyone will have the same reaction to her. The book has been much compared to Zoe Heller's Notes on a Scandal, and I can certainly see the similarities, though I wouldn't say Rachel is anywhere near as calculating as Barbara Covett - she is sucked into events surrounding her rather than having a hand in controlling their outcome. I've found it very interesting to read through other reviews of Signs of Life and see that so many people found Rachel unlikeable. Did I feel differently because I saw something of myself in the character (as was the case with Barbara in Notes on a Scandal) - or is it simply the fact that she's a woman who is unfaithful, something that so many find so repulsive, that has turned other readers off?
I thought this book was absolutely brilliant, sublime, near-perfect. It's quite short and could be read in one sitting, but I preferred to work my way through it bit by bit, savouring the gradual uncovering of the truth. I found both style and content so delicious that it was much more satisfying to read a chapter at a time than to power through it. It's a shame that this is a debut, because I'm desperate to read more of Raverat's work... But on the other hand, this just gives me something to really look forward to when she publishes her next book. Please let it be soon.(less)
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This is a fairly short, ostensibly simple story about a group of survivors, most of them female, who are cast adrift in a lifeboat after their ship, the Empress Alexandra, sinks. It's narrated by Grace Winter, a young, newly-wed woman. The book opens...more
This is a fairly short, ostensibly simple story about a group of survivors, most of them female, who are cast adrift in a lifeboat after their ship, the Empress Alexandra, sinks. It's narrated by Grace Winter, a young, newly-wed woman. The book opens with the revelation that Grace is on trial for her life, accused of murder: the narrative cuts between her trial and the journal she is asked to write by her lawyer, charting her experience in the lifeboat. Via the journal, we discover Grace has recently escaped the awful (to her mind, at least) fate of becoming a governess by marrying a wealthy banker, Henry. However, in the lifeboat she is without Henry and without friends, and struggles to bond with her fellow survivors. When a hierarchy inevitably starts to emerge, Grace must choose whether to side with experienced but shifty sailor Mr Hardie or the imposing Mrs Grant.
Grace is a fantastic character, a devious, evasive and untrustworthy person who is an arch manipulator of men but flounders when it comes to female friendships. She's not entirely unsympathetic, though, and it's easy to be swept up in her story. One of the strengths of a book like this is you can't help but wonder how you would have fared in the survivors' circumstances. Who would you have trusted in the lifeboat? What would it have been like to find yourself in this situation as a woman in the early 19th century, given the attitudes of the time? How far would you go to save yourself, and can people in this predicament, starving and half-insane with exhaustion, really be held wholly responsible for their actions? The flashbacks to Grace's past are also intriguing, offering a greater sense of her personality and an insight into the unreliability of her personal account.
The narrative avoids too much repetition by cutting back to Grace's trial and her memories of Henry every now and again, but as her journal is structured in 'day' and 'night' form, there's no avoiding the fact that some of the descriptions of her time in the lifeboat are a bit dull. Conversely, in a sense I felt they weren't long and detailed enough, so that when Grace starts talking about everyone in the lifeboat being emaciated and going mad with hunger, it doesn't feel like they've been there long enough for this to be the case. I'm nitpicking here, I suppose: on the whole, there's a good balance and, this being a short book, the story never drags for too long. My final criticism is that I didn't feel Rogan went as far as she could have with the unreliable-narrator trope. I felt the flashbacks could have been fleshed out further, particularly with regards to what happened on the ship before it sank, and I'd have liked some further resolution as to who, if anyone, was telling the truth.
The Lifeboat is smart, thought-provoking and keeps you guessing all the way through. It's almost everything you could want from historical fiction, really, and I can understand why it's creating a bit of a buzz at the moment. Personally, I think it could have been a lot meatier, but the brevity keeps it readable and compelling. Recommended.
A note to other readers who enjoyed this book: if you haven't already, please, PLEASE read Gillespie and I by Jane Harris. It's also historical fiction told from a female perspective, and as twisted, devious, unreliable narrators go, I promise you, Grace Winter has absolutely nothing on Harriet Baxter.(less)
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I've mentioned before - on numerous occasions, I think - that I'm not keen on love stories. This doesn't mean I'm a killjoy about romance: I like reading about love, but it has to be realistically portrayed. To enjoy a fictional romance, I have to be...more
I've mentioned before - on numerous occasions, I think - that I'm not keen on love stories. This doesn't mean I'm a killjoy about romance: I like reading about love, but it has to be realistically portrayed. To enjoy a fictional romance, I have to believe in the characters, feel for them, root for them: get this right and it's one of the best things fiction can do. But too often I feel like authors think they can just tell their readers the relationship between two characters is a great love story, rather than doing anything to prove it. Too often books feature 'star-crossed' relationships that just wouldn't happen in real life. Too often these elements ruin or at least taint the rest of the story. Every Contact Leaves a Trace, a book I had sky-high hopes for, is, sadly, no exception.
Our protagonist and narrator is Alex, a successful lawyer who studied at Worcester College, Oxford. While there, he met a fellow student named Rachel, with whom he enjoyed a brief affair one summer. After graduating, Alex doesn't see Rachel again for over a decade, although he constantly thinks about her and hopes to see her on the streets of London, where he now lives. Then, at a friend's wedding, he finds himself seated across from Rachel. The next day, they decide to get married. Some months after their wedding, Rachel is brutally murdered during a visit to their old college. Devastated, Alex sets out to discover the truth behind how this came to happen to her, and in the process he discovers there was much he did not know about his wife.
I surely can't be alone in thinking that isn't romantic for a successful, wealthy, highly intelligent, cultured and presumably attractive man to remain fixated on a girl from university for so many years afterwards. It's weird, and kind of unbelievable. It isn't romantic that Rachel would want to marry him so suddenly and then appear to be so deeply in love with him immediately. Again, it's weird, and very unbelievable. And there's absolutely nothing strange or mysterious about Alex discovering that Rachel had a lot of secrets - it's a fact that he barely knew her. Aside from which, we're told that Rachel a) refused to ever discuss the past and b) snapped and shouted at Alex whenever he tried to ask her about the ONE family member that's a part of her life. All of which left me wondering what, exactly, it was that he expected? I found this 'romance' so odd and unbelievable that I could barely believe it was supposed to be taken seriously; adding to this negativity was the fact that neither Alex nor Rachel were portrayed as likeable people. At an early stage, I began to suspect that (view spoiler)[Alex's narrative was meant to be a complete fabrication and his relationship with Rachel had only ever existed in his mind. Later, I wondered whether he was a different type of unreliable narrator, and was concocting an elaborate theory to mask the fact that he was Rachel's murderer. In the event, neither of these theories turned out to be at all correct - the reader is, I presume, supposed to sympathise with and believe Alex, more's the pity (hide spoiler)].
Enough of the bad points. I'm dwelling on them perhaps a little more than is necessary because I'm angry that they tarnished a story that might otherwise have become a genuine favourite. Every Contact Leaves a Trace is a rich, atmospheric book, filled with layers of intrigue and emotional turmoil, set against a meticulously detailed background which is a tantalising mixture of academia and debauchery. When Alex listens to the tale told by Harry, Rachel's former tutor, the author's style really comes into its own - I found this past narrative, in which we learn about Rachel's student days as part of an exceptionally close-knit group of three, far more engaging than the present-day narrative.
In spite of its one big flaw, this was absolutely my kind of book, and I really did savour reading it. This is a narrative that takes its time to unfold, lingering over small details and lengthy ruminations, but this is in no way a bad thing. The slower-than-average pace suits the twisting journey of the plot, told in suitably elegant prose. Every Contact Leaves a Trace is a great debut, and being a debut, I'm willing to forgive its imperfections. The main issue, in fact, is that the rest of it is so good, the problematic 'love story' stands out all the more. Despite the fact that this review has probably ended up sounding more negative than positive, I do thoroughly recommend this book.(less)
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Told mostly in flashbacks to the early 1980s, this coming-of-age novel focuses on Hayat Shah, a young Pakistani boy growing up in the American suburbs. Much of the plot revolves around his first crush on his 'auntie' Mina, his mother's best friend, w...more
Told mostly in flashbacks to the early 1980s, this coming-of-age novel focuses on Hayat Shah, a young Pakistani boy growing up in the American suburbs. Much of the plot revolves around his first crush on his 'auntie' Mina, his mother's best friend, who comes to stay with the family having fled her parents and husband in Pakistan. With Hayat's Westernised family lacking in any strong religious convictions, it falls to Mina to teach him about Islam, and a combination of youthful confusion and his burgeoning 'love' for Mina results in the boy becoming obsessed with the teachings of the Quran. When Mina becomes involved with Nathan Wolfsohn, a Jewish friend of the family, Hayat's jealousy, emotional confusion and religious fervour lead him to take actions which - as you might expect - have terrible consequences for almost everyone.
Hayat is an engaging, likeable narrator and his journeys, both personal and religious, are related in a believable style. The naive purity of his adoration of Mina is touching, and his relationship with his parents, often awkward but full of love, is sensitively portrayed. His religious awakening, too, is carefully handled - he experiences great enlightenment, but is also exposed at an impressionable age to extremist views which threaten to warp his mindset and damage those he cares for. As a backdrop, the multiculturalism of the local community is very interesting, although there were times when I wished I could step outside Hayat's first-person viewpoint and learn more about his family, neighbours and acquaintances.
I found American Dervish a pleasurable enough read: however, it moves at a leisurely pace to say the least. Nothing dramatic happens until halfway through the book, and even then, the 'action' is very subdued. Although I liked the story throughout, I often found it difficult to summon up any motivation to keep reading, and spent chapter after chapter wondering exactly where it was going. The prose style is nice, and flows well enough, but it's occasionally clumsy: I did feel at some points as though the book could have benefited from better editing.
This is not a story in which the characters are given neat, happy endings - Hayat is the only one whose life appears to reach a positive conclusion, and even then it's bittersweet. The sometimes bleak story arc is admirable, but it can make what happens seem dull at points, and the reader is denied the dramatic showdowns, romantic reunions etc that could have been portrayed in a less realistic version of this story. In the end, the realism of American Dervish is both a plus and a minus. It makes the book feel 'better', more literary, more of an achievement - but it also makes it far less compelling than it could have been.(less)
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At the beginning of chapter two of A Common Loss, Kirsten Tranter writes: This isn't going to be one of those stories about a suburban boy seduced into a picturesque world of wealth and charm by a group of high-class eccentrics. And I think, 'damn, w...more
At the beginning of chapter two of A Common Loss, Kirsten Tranter writes: This isn't going to be one of those stories about a suburban boy seduced into a picturesque world of wealth and charm by a group of high-class eccentrics. And I think, 'damn, why the hell not?!'
Kirsten Tranter's excellent debut, The Legacy, was very much one of those stories, or at least in the tradition of that kind of story, enough that I drew comparisons with both Brideshead Revisited and The Secret History when writing my review of it. (It still bothers me that I didn't give The Legacy five stars - when I think of how it stands out in my memory, and how the other four-star books I've read since compare to it, it certainly deserves them, but I believe in letting reviews stand as they are. If I ever re-read it, the rating will most likely go up.) With A Common Loss she makes departure from the themes of her debut, with a story that's also about a group of close-knit friends, but with a dramatically different feel.
Elliot, Brian, Tallis, Cameron and Dylan became good friends at university and have remained close ever since, although their bonds have started to break down over the years: two of the group barely even speak anymore. Still, all of them feel duty-bound to take a yearly trip to Las Vegas, a holiday without girlfriends or other friends that's become something of a tradition. When Dylan dies in a car accident, the need for this trip is stronger than ever, even as the others fear they've lost the glue that held them together. However, it soon becomes apparent that Dylan was harbouring many secrets, both about his own past and about bad things - from the minor to the potentially life-ruining - his friends had done at various points during their acquaintance.
You know how people will sometimes describe a book as being a 'love letter' to the city, town etc it's set in? Well, A Common Loss is an anti-love letter to Las Vegas. It emphasises everything that's sleazy, dirty, cheap and fake about the place. On top of that, every single one of the characters is horrible, from the Nice Guy™ narrator Elliot, to stereotypical womaniser Tallis, to Natasha, Elliot's featureless and offhand love interest. This is not always an easy read, since it's hard to summon any sympathy for the main characters and the antagonist is equally hateful. But A Common Loss isn't really the mystery it presents itself as. It's not about the secrets the friends are trying to hide - not really about what those secrets actually are, anyway - or the question of Dylan's honesty, or the consequences of the group being blackmailed. It's about loss, reality versus artifice, the routine disappointments of life, how relationships are formed, how much we really (don't) know about those close to us, and ultimately, most of all, the disintegration of friendships. The little incidents that slip between the lines and appear irrelevant to the major plot points are far more important than anything else.
I must admit that the themes of this book, and the unpleasant characters, were a bit of a disappointment to me after The Legacy, but the more I think about A Common Loss, the more I love it. While I didn't enjoy reading it as much as I did Tranter's debut, it's a more complex and nuanced work. The language is clear and lucid: the devil is in the detail with this story, and the detail is beautifully rendered. A melancholy, contemplative story that won't be to everyone's taste, this book confirmed my belief in the author's talent and her very distinctive voice.(less)
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Following the deaths of their parents in a freak accident, Grace and Billy Hooper - thirteen and nine years old respectively - go to live with their grandfather on his farm. It's a remote and lonely place: no shops for fifteen miles, no other childre...more
Following the deaths of their parents in a freak accident, Grace and Billy Hooper - thirteen and nine years old respectively - go to live with their grandfather on his farm. It's a remote and lonely place: no shops for fifteen miles, no other children, no mobile phone reception - there isn't even a television. On top of that, their grandfather has little idea of how to deal with them and they are often left to fend for themselves, roaming the surrounding farmland for the whole of this strange, baking hot summer. Grace is confused by the encroaching onset of womanhood, Billy becomes obsessed with killing 'vermin' such as rats and pigeons, and both children struggle to come to terms with their grief.
Summer is a strange but effective mixture. It reminded me very strongly of a lot of the children's fiction I used to read when I was about 10 years old, about kids living in these idyllic but oddly lonely countryside homes (although those books did usually have talking animals in them as well). There is something about the style, though, that's clearly reminiscent of the hazy, romantic nostalgia of those stories. At the same time, there are elements to what happens that are most definitely adult in nature, even if they're not wholly understood by the child protagonists. The narrative flows well: Darling's style is accomplished, more so than you would expect from a second novel by a young author, and creates a palpable atmosphere.
I did, I'll admit, expect more from this book. When I first read the plot synopsis, the outline reminded me of Ross Raisin's God's Own Country, a favourite of mine, which also features an isolated young person on a remote farm, but is much darker. I was therefore anticipating a twisted and perhaps disturbing plot with a lot more action. In fact, Summer is quite a gentle read, and until the very end, the disturbing content is confined to a few small incidents and a general uncomfortable feeling pervading the children's aimless days. The ending is strong, although not exactly unexpected - it isn't difficult to guess what kind of conclusion the story is leading up to.
I read this quickly because it was easy to read and possessed a certain clarity of prose, not because I found it enormously interesting. There's a restricted, stifling feel to the plot, and though this is partly balanced out by the writing, the fact remains that little happens, the setting never changes and interaction between the characters is minimal. I didn't quite find it boring, but at points I was quite keen to get to the end. Overall, the idea was better than the execution.(less)
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In 19th-century London, Catherine Sorgeiul is living an isolated life in Spitalfields, where she is confined to her uncle's home. An insular and slightly disturbed young woman, she has a troubled history which always seems to be threatening to rise t...more
In 19th-century London, Catherine Sorgeiul is living an isolated life in Spitalfields, where she is confined to her uncle's home. An insular and slightly disturbed young woman, she has a troubled history which always seems to be threatening to rise to the surface. When a serial killer, nicknamed 'the Man of Crows' by the press, starts to strike around Catherine's home, she becomes convinced she can get inside the heads of both murderer and victims, and that she is the only person who can solve the riddle of who the killer really is. The narrative progresses through Catherine's attempts to identify the Man of Crows, and as it does, the secrets of her own past are uncovered.
This book was an odd one. It's hugely derivative, for a start: it's been compared to Sarah Waters by a lot of reviewers and critics, but then how could it not be when it features: lots of dank, dreary settings in Victorian London; a young woman with a troubled past being confined to her home by a cold, sinister uncle; lesbian liaisons between mistresses and servants; potential implications of supernatural goings-on which may actually be in the protagonist's head; a disturbing murder mystery, etc etc. I was quite surprised by how blatantly the story seemed to be inviting comparisons to Waters' work, and when I began reading, I didn't think there could possibly be anything truly original about it. Indeed, I found the first few chapters somewhat dull. Then, slowly but surely, I found myself being reeled in. Although some elements (including the ending) were rather pedestrian, the book had some sort of mysterious allure which kept me hooked. The narrative voice is fragmented and sometimes disjointed but somehow it works, perhaps because it's so effective in communicating the disturbed state of mind experienced by Catherine. If you're willing to stick with it, this is a delightfully dark piece of historical fiction filled with complex characters and an unsettling, twisted plot which slowly reveals a number of dreadful secrets. Weird, but unexpectedly good.(less)
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