Rebecca Moll's Blog, page 3
March 1, 2023
Killer Angels by Michael Shaara, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
I have a habit of trying to place myself back into history, see myself in the troubles and triumphs of the past, walk the footsteps of those at the time and imagine what it was like. What were they thinking? Did they feel love and compassion, jealousy and hatred like today? Were they happy? Did they live in the present or pine for tomorrow?
How different the world was in the late 1800s. But how different were the people? If only I could step back in time.
The Civil War looms large in our history, a renting of a nation and its people, brother against brother, father against son, friend against friend, lover against love. If I think back to that time, it is Gettysburg, those four days, that especially comes to mind, for it is remembered as not only one of the bloodiest battles with the largest number of casualties, but also the turning point in the war.
If you love history for those that were involved, long to feel what they felt, know their thoughts, then take a turn with Killer Angels. Michael Shaara dives not only in the movements and strategies, but into the minds of the men who made the decisions and carried them out.
Men of grey: Robert E. Lee, the beloved, James Longstreet “Old Pete”, Ambrose Powell Hill, Bad-tempered, moody & wealthy, Lewis Armistead, “Lo”, shy & silent, J.E.B. Stuart, laughing banjo player & a fine soldier, George Pickett, a pretty man who knew it, Richard Ewell, egg-bald & one legged, Jubal Early, cold, icy & bitter.
Men of blue: Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, a professor of Natural & Revealed Religion, fluent in seven languages & sings beautifully, John Buford, loves the great plains & knows the value of ground, George Gordon Meade, a gentleman courteous & marvelous horseman, George Gordon Meade, vain & bad tempered, full of self-pity, and Winfield Scott Hancock, Armistead’s old friend, magnetic, a fighter.
North, south, east, west, vastly different, unique. Educated, pugnacious, brilliant, talented, creative, irritating, vain, villainous and loved, these men of our past, fought for what they believed in and paid the price in body and soul for what we hold today.
Beautifully written and expertly portrayed, Shaara has created an unforgettable novel about an unforgettable battle and all the unforgettable men who fought, survived and died, those Killer Angels who brought justice and destruction, unity and suffering all in the name of freedom.
How different the world was in the late 1800s. But how different were the people? If only I could step back in time.
The Civil War looms large in our history, a renting of a nation and its people, brother against brother, father against son, friend against friend, lover against love. If I think back to that time, it is Gettysburg, those four days, that especially comes to mind, for it is remembered as not only one of the bloodiest battles with the largest number of casualties, but also the turning point in the war.
If you love history for those that were involved, long to feel what they felt, know their thoughts, then take a turn with Killer Angels. Michael Shaara dives not only in the movements and strategies, but into the minds of the men who made the decisions and carried them out.
Men of grey: Robert E. Lee, the beloved, James Longstreet “Old Pete”, Ambrose Powell Hill, Bad-tempered, moody & wealthy, Lewis Armistead, “Lo”, shy & silent, J.E.B. Stuart, laughing banjo player & a fine soldier, George Pickett, a pretty man who knew it, Richard Ewell, egg-bald & one legged, Jubal Early, cold, icy & bitter.
Men of blue: Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, a professor of Natural & Revealed Religion, fluent in seven languages & sings beautifully, John Buford, loves the great plains & knows the value of ground, George Gordon Meade, a gentleman courteous & marvelous horseman, George Gordon Meade, vain & bad tempered, full of self-pity, and Winfield Scott Hancock, Armistead’s old friend, magnetic, a fighter.
North, south, east, west, vastly different, unique. Educated, pugnacious, brilliant, talented, creative, irritating, vain, villainous and loved, these men of our past, fought for what they believed in and paid the price in body and soul for what we hold today.
Beautifully written and expertly portrayed, Shaara has created an unforgettable novel about an unforgettable battle and all the unforgettable men who fought, survived and died, those Killer Angels who brought justice and destruction, unity and suffering all in the name of freedom.
February 28, 2023
The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
Once again, Steinbeck captures the perfect snapshot of American life, the dream, the struggles, the inner war waged within our souls and with the vestiges of the very forefathers that delivered us to this land of opportunity.
Don’t like the classics? Find them too heavy? A bit boring? Not relevant to today?
Well, shelve your judgement for a moment and un-shelve that torn and worn paperback - no slugging through this one. Clever, witty, with a plot that turns pages. A quick read. A worthy read. Ethan Allen Hawley, Steinbeck’s classic founding-father-once-upon-a-time-a-rich-and-prominent-family-gone-complacent-gone-financial-ruin has a way with words and a way with the truth that will keep you on your toes and keep you wondering, right up to the very last page.
Don’t be surprised if you begin to see yourself on Elm Street in the early morning hours looking for Mr. Baker’s loyal companion, Red Baker, First National Bank and Joey Boy. New Baytown could be your town, Alfio Marullo’s store your grocery store and Ethan Allen your funniest neighbor and favorite clerk.
Light, funny as hell, and yet, bittersweet, it rings pitch perfect, blending harmoniously with Ethan’s morning serenade ritual to his shelved goods. The great American values, our country’s foundations and all our history books hail. And yet, there is always those rose-colored glasses, that gilded sepia that softens edges and sweetens regard for those years gone by. Somewhere in the corner stands the truth.
Are we that different from our ancestors? Those that hailed honesty, truth, and wisdom? Those that stood for righteousness and integrity? Take off your pretty pink glasses and perhaps we are not all that different. What is the price for mitigating morals? Do the ends justify the means? Where do you draw the line between what is right for your family and what is just right?
I surely don’t have the answers and neither did Ethan Allen Hawley, that is, until the end of the story. And oh, what a web did he weave.
Caught your interest? Happy reading.
Don’t like the classics? Find them too heavy? A bit boring? Not relevant to today?
Well, shelve your judgement for a moment and un-shelve that torn and worn paperback - no slugging through this one. Clever, witty, with a plot that turns pages. A quick read. A worthy read. Ethan Allen Hawley, Steinbeck’s classic founding-father-once-upon-a-time-a-rich-and-prominent-family-gone-complacent-gone-financial-ruin has a way with words and a way with the truth that will keep you on your toes and keep you wondering, right up to the very last page.
Don’t be surprised if you begin to see yourself on Elm Street in the early morning hours looking for Mr. Baker’s loyal companion, Red Baker, First National Bank and Joey Boy. New Baytown could be your town, Alfio Marullo’s store your grocery store and Ethan Allen your funniest neighbor and favorite clerk.
Light, funny as hell, and yet, bittersweet, it rings pitch perfect, blending harmoniously with Ethan’s morning serenade ritual to his shelved goods. The great American values, our country’s foundations and all our history books hail. And yet, there is always those rose-colored glasses, that gilded sepia that softens edges and sweetens regard for those years gone by. Somewhere in the corner stands the truth.
Are we that different from our ancestors? Those that hailed honesty, truth, and wisdom? Those that stood for righteousness and integrity? Take off your pretty pink glasses and perhaps we are not all that different. What is the price for mitigating morals? Do the ends justify the means? Where do you draw the line between what is right for your family and what is just right?
I surely don’t have the answers and neither did Ethan Allen Hawley, that is, until the end of the story. And oh, what a web did he weave.
Caught your interest? Happy reading.
January 12, 2023
Of Women and Salt by Gabriela Garcia, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
Illegal immigration. Drugs. Alcohol. Capitalism. Communism. Isolationism. Tough issues that divide countries, communities, families, and friends. And then, there is the other divide, those who know only too well the pain and suffering and those who only know of such suffering. Yet regardless of the juxtaposition, there is a constant that connects: Women.
Of Women and Salt.
But what about the men? Clearly minor characters in this narrative, mostly antagonistic, they are the lover that turns vicious, the father that betrays, the friend that falls off the wagon once again, dragging you along with soft, sweet murmurs under the guise of love. They are revolutionizing societies, warring nations, capitalizing countries, while beating wives, starving children, all in the name of progress.
Growing up alongside a mostly matriarchal culture, I know this dynamic. I have seen the suffering, witnessed the strength and perseverance, the infusion of grit – courage, resolve, that passes from one woman to the next, mother to daughter, sister, friend, generation to generation. Single mothers, grandmother-mothers, aunties, cousins, they are the sand beneath your feet. This grit, it is what fell out of solution, what is left behind when all else abandons, it is permanence, purity, and perpetuity. It is loyalty. It is fidelity. Salt.
I know of these things.
Yet I do know that salt is not elemental. It, like humanity, takes two to tango. It, like men and women, are polar opposites, binding in attraction, holding fast as beautiful crystals take shape. And as through the ages, the sagas of man and woman, there are impurities that compromise, minimize, marginalize. In the yin and yang of life all things fall out of solution, good and bad. And yet, are we our experiences? Must we fall prey, identify and convey, the Y that marks our DNA? The Phoenix, too, rises from its fires.
As for me, I am blessed with a wonderful father, loving husband, brothers, son. But for those whose lives fall from an alternate solution, I see a different sort of salt. And Oh, does it shine!
Gabriela Garcia inspires, sets hearts on fire with Maria, Dolores, Gloria. Carmen, Jeanette, Maydelis, Ana. They are the salt that is left behind – pure, permanent, perpetual. They are the survivors, the thrivers. They will cross your borders, wade your rivers, bear your hard right, and still get up and fight.
Cuba. America. Salt itself.
If you like strong women who can bleed and still feel, curse and weep, Of Women and Salt is a book for you. Cross borders and find freedom in the pages of this visceral and heart-wrenching drama. And when you set foot upon distant shores remember the women whose lives led to yours, the sacrifices they made, and the salt that they gave - that which will always remain.
Of Women and Salt.
But what about the men? Clearly minor characters in this narrative, mostly antagonistic, they are the lover that turns vicious, the father that betrays, the friend that falls off the wagon once again, dragging you along with soft, sweet murmurs under the guise of love. They are revolutionizing societies, warring nations, capitalizing countries, while beating wives, starving children, all in the name of progress.
Growing up alongside a mostly matriarchal culture, I know this dynamic. I have seen the suffering, witnessed the strength and perseverance, the infusion of grit – courage, resolve, that passes from one woman to the next, mother to daughter, sister, friend, generation to generation. Single mothers, grandmother-mothers, aunties, cousins, they are the sand beneath your feet. This grit, it is what fell out of solution, what is left behind when all else abandons, it is permanence, purity, and perpetuity. It is loyalty. It is fidelity. Salt.
I know of these things.
Yet I do know that salt is not elemental. It, like humanity, takes two to tango. It, like men and women, are polar opposites, binding in attraction, holding fast as beautiful crystals take shape. And as through the ages, the sagas of man and woman, there are impurities that compromise, minimize, marginalize. In the yin and yang of life all things fall out of solution, good and bad. And yet, are we our experiences? Must we fall prey, identify and convey, the Y that marks our DNA? The Phoenix, too, rises from its fires.
As for me, I am blessed with a wonderful father, loving husband, brothers, son. But for those whose lives fall from an alternate solution, I see a different sort of salt. And Oh, does it shine!
Gabriela Garcia inspires, sets hearts on fire with Maria, Dolores, Gloria. Carmen, Jeanette, Maydelis, Ana. They are the salt that is left behind – pure, permanent, perpetual. They are the survivors, the thrivers. They will cross your borders, wade your rivers, bear your hard right, and still get up and fight.
Cuba. America. Salt itself.
If you like strong women who can bleed and still feel, curse and weep, Of Women and Salt is a book for you. Cross borders and find freedom in the pages of this visceral and heart-wrenching drama. And when you set foot upon distant shores remember the women whose lives led to yours, the sacrifices they made, and the salt that they gave - that which will always remain.
January 4, 2023
Little Mercies by Heather Gudenkauf, A book Review by Rebecca Moll
As a mother of three now adult children, I often slip into the past, those hectic, crazy days when the kids were small and really needed me. Their lives depended on me and their father, literally. And crazy it was. Work, school, doctors, sports, bills, groceries, family. It was hard to keep it all together and I know, at times, it was far from all together. I forgot things. Like soccer shoes and doctor appointments, permission slips and whole milk. I used to joke when faced with yet another thing I forgot, that at least I haven’t forgotten a child. Humor is healing. And yet, I know laced between my thinly veiled attempt at redemption was a little bit of truth and a whole lot of fear.
Could I? But for little mercies, I did not.
Accidents happen. To everyone. To good parents and bad parents. The courts know this, banning outside evidence immaterial. And yet, consequences are consequences and after that fact, what you have done is what you have done, what you have failed to do.
Gudenkauf explores this theme with a twist that hits you in the face full-force, makes you fall humble pie upon your knees as you wonder, Could I? Parallel stories alternate the telling as you race through the next chapter to find closure where the prior left off. It is a fast read. Very fast. And expertly done, laying bare all sides, the good, the bad, the unbelievable, the terrifying possibilities, the hard truths, and the little mercies.
Soul searching, painfully honest, Little Mercies offers redemption with a hot stab of what could have been, what almost was, all because of you, your fault, your failings, your failures. It is not possible to do it all, to be all. No one is perfect. And when things get too hectic, too crazy, take a moment to hug your children, kiss your husband, thank your mother, and count your blessings. Think of the mothers and fathers who have failed and pray for them.
And if you’re lucky, one day you’ll slip back into the past and remember - mercy.
Could I? But for little mercies, I did not.
Accidents happen. To everyone. To good parents and bad parents. The courts know this, banning outside evidence immaterial. And yet, consequences are consequences and after that fact, what you have done is what you have done, what you have failed to do.
Gudenkauf explores this theme with a twist that hits you in the face full-force, makes you fall humble pie upon your knees as you wonder, Could I? Parallel stories alternate the telling as you race through the next chapter to find closure where the prior left off. It is a fast read. Very fast. And expertly done, laying bare all sides, the good, the bad, the unbelievable, the terrifying possibilities, the hard truths, and the little mercies.
Soul searching, painfully honest, Little Mercies offers redemption with a hot stab of what could have been, what almost was, all because of you, your fault, your failings, your failures. It is not possible to do it all, to be all. No one is perfect. And when things get too hectic, too crazy, take a moment to hug your children, kiss your husband, thank your mother, and count your blessings. Think of the mothers and fathers who have failed and pray for them.
And if you’re lucky, one day you’ll slip back into the past and remember - mercy.
January 3, 2023
Thin Air by Rebecca Moll
Rebecca Moll
Sit high you do
That’s all you do
Indolent condemnation.
Sit high upon your lofty chair
I hear the air is thin up there.
And thus, you rose with those who posed
In mirrored pontification.
Your judgement sticks, except for this:
Your hands so idle they do remain
No toil, no soil, no strain or stain.
How sweet must be
Such luxury.
Your hair that grows to touch the floor
While rivers rush beneath your door
To fill the shoes you never wore.
And still you sit
Look down upon
Those who fail to rise
and sell yourself the same old lies,
Of things and wings and whirly things we never get to try.
Bread don't rise when compromised,
Oh, but does it try.
Yet know this true:
Tho’ hard to see
Perched high as thee
These feet they too walk ‘long the shore
The sand does part and rent the score
If only for a moment more
‘Til waves that wash forevermore.
‘Til waves that wash forevermore.
Sit high you do
That’s all you do
Indolent condemnation.
Sit high upon your lofty chair
I hear the air is thin up there.
And thus, you rose with those who posed
In mirrored pontification.
Your judgement sticks, except for this:
Your hands so idle they do remain
No toil, no soil, no strain or stain.
How sweet must be
Such luxury.
Your hair that grows to touch the floor
While rivers rush beneath your door
To fill the shoes you never wore.
And still you sit
Look down upon
Those who fail to rise
and sell yourself the same old lies,
Of things and wings and whirly things we never get to try.
Bread don't rise when compromised,
Oh, but does it try.
Yet know this true:
Tho’ hard to see
Perched high as thee
These feet they too walk ‘long the shore
The sand does part and rent the score
If only for a moment more
‘Til waves that wash forevermore.
‘Til waves that wash forevermore.
December 14, 2022
The Forty Days of Musa Dagh, a Book Review by Rebecca Moll
It is only fitting such an epic story should be an epic read. And, so it was.
3 Years and 23 days.
It is also fitting that such a part of history should never be forgotten. What man has done to man in the name of race and religion is beyond the boundaries of belief and hardly containable within bindings of books.
And yet, it must.
Franz Werfel's spellbinding account draws you into time and place, 1915 Turkey, right along with thousands of persecuted Armenian Christians to the very top of Musa Dagh. For forty days you live, breathe, fear, weep, starve, pray and fight for your life. You cannot fathom what has brought you to this precipice, nor the outcome that strikes such incomprehensible fear. With what grows such hatred? Such unabashed cruelty? Such cold indifference to the suffering of others?
Your loved ones perish and still you must go on. Inhale. Exhale. The very conduit of life commits you to endure.
I cannot begin to put to paper the emotions Werfel's account brings to heart. 40 days. 40 years. 400 years and still, words would fail.
To understand, you must read the book. And read the book please do.
Superbly written, expertly crafted, Werfel brings history to life with Gabriel Bagradian, his wife Mademoiselle Juliette, their son, Stephen. With Avakian the dwarf, Ter Haigasun the priest, Pastor Aram Tomasian, Krikor the Russian, and Oskanian the teacher, Maris Gonzague lover and tailor, Hapeth Shatakhian the linguist, Altouni the agnostic, and Marik Antaram the mid-wife. Names, at first, with which I struggled but now will never forget. Their struggle, their torment, their triumph, their journey.
Step back in time and into the shoes of Musa Dagh. Hide behind the Howitzer, kneel before the altar, slip inside the tent. Smell the raging cook fires, pungent goat gristle, sumac, cumin, and cinnamon, the mix and mesh of thousands of unwashed bodies, the sweet wash of rain, the wet dew of morn. Feel the rough hew of dirt-caked rugs, the pinch of cold, rocky crags, the itch and burn scrub brush. Swallow hopes and dreams like deep pangs of hunger.
Take your time, a long journey ahead. An easy read it is not. The nights are cold and dark. But do not be afraid. For up on the mountaintop, the very strata between heaven and hell, this life and the next, the sun also rises. And oh, what a glorious sight to see.
A special thanks to my dear friend ZGH for the worthy recommendation. R.I.P.
3 Years and 23 days.
It is also fitting that such a part of history should never be forgotten. What man has done to man in the name of race and religion is beyond the boundaries of belief and hardly containable within bindings of books.
And yet, it must.
Franz Werfel's spellbinding account draws you into time and place, 1915 Turkey, right along with thousands of persecuted Armenian Christians to the very top of Musa Dagh. For forty days you live, breathe, fear, weep, starve, pray and fight for your life. You cannot fathom what has brought you to this precipice, nor the outcome that strikes such incomprehensible fear. With what grows such hatred? Such unabashed cruelty? Such cold indifference to the suffering of others?
Your loved ones perish and still you must go on. Inhale. Exhale. The very conduit of life commits you to endure.
I cannot begin to put to paper the emotions Werfel's account brings to heart. 40 days. 40 years. 400 years and still, words would fail.
To understand, you must read the book. And read the book please do.
Superbly written, expertly crafted, Werfel brings history to life with Gabriel Bagradian, his wife Mademoiselle Juliette, their son, Stephen. With Avakian the dwarf, Ter Haigasun the priest, Pastor Aram Tomasian, Krikor the Russian, and Oskanian the teacher, Maris Gonzague lover and tailor, Hapeth Shatakhian the linguist, Altouni the agnostic, and Marik Antaram the mid-wife. Names, at first, with which I struggled but now will never forget. Their struggle, their torment, their triumph, their journey.
Step back in time and into the shoes of Musa Dagh. Hide behind the Howitzer, kneel before the altar, slip inside the tent. Smell the raging cook fires, pungent goat gristle, sumac, cumin, and cinnamon, the mix and mesh of thousands of unwashed bodies, the sweet wash of rain, the wet dew of morn. Feel the rough hew of dirt-caked rugs, the pinch of cold, rocky crags, the itch and burn scrub brush. Swallow hopes and dreams like deep pangs of hunger.
Take your time, a long journey ahead. An easy read it is not. The nights are cold and dark. But do not be afraid. For up on the mountaintop, the very strata between heaven and hell, this life and the next, the sun also rises. And oh, what a glorious sight to see.
A special thanks to my dear friend ZGH for the worthy recommendation. R.I.P.
December 4, 2022
Waiting, A Novel by Ha Jin, A book review by Rebecca Moll
Any novel that sheds light on an unknown corner of our world is worthy of a read. Pearl S. Buck, one of the first to do so in early 20thc China with The Good Earth, shocked the world with both disparity (cultural differences) and parallel (rural life/connection to land/depression). Ha Jin adds color to the evolving picture of this great nation with his novel, Waiting and, we see once again, the human connection.
I have often wondered what my life would be if I was born into another culture, country, another time? Would I be a good Muslim? Buddhist? Communist? Revolutionist? It is too easy to shake our heads at those who are different, whom we are taught are less enlightened, less gifted, less chosen. Yet, what would we do if our feet were within their shoes? For what say did we have in our place and time upon this earth? It is a question that begs more than a few steps.
A compelling novel with many underlying currents, I found Waiting an interesting story. The complexities of Chinese culture and society, its expectations and limitations, the changing tides of communism, propaganda, and personal thought, the basis that the community holds more value than the individual, and still, the overwhelming desire for personal fame and fortune are woven into the oldest story known to man: forbidden love.
It began with the garden of Eden and continues today. When the apple is plucked from the tree, the first bite taken, the question taunts, “Was it worth the risk? Was it all as it promised it would be?
The grass is always greener, the ending so much sweeter when the odds are against us. Or is it? What we cannot have, we think we must have. Desire is the true master of deceit.
Bridging time and place, Waiting reminds us that regardless where our feet root deep, we share the same wants and needs, the same fears and tears, enough to seed respect, foster friendship, and hopefully, one day, peace.
I have often wondered what my life would be if I was born into another culture, country, another time? Would I be a good Muslim? Buddhist? Communist? Revolutionist? It is too easy to shake our heads at those who are different, whom we are taught are less enlightened, less gifted, less chosen. Yet, what would we do if our feet were within their shoes? For what say did we have in our place and time upon this earth? It is a question that begs more than a few steps.
A compelling novel with many underlying currents, I found Waiting an interesting story. The complexities of Chinese culture and society, its expectations and limitations, the changing tides of communism, propaganda, and personal thought, the basis that the community holds more value than the individual, and still, the overwhelming desire for personal fame and fortune are woven into the oldest story known to man: forbidden love.
It began with the garden of Eden and continues today. When the apple is plucked from the tree, the first bite taken, the question taunts, “Was it worth the risk? Was it all as it promised it would be?
The grass is always greener, the ending so much sweeter when the odds are against us. Or is it? What we cannot have, we think we must have. Desire is the true master of deceit.
Bridging time and place, Waiting reminds us that regardless where our feet root deep, we share the same wants and needs, the same fears and tears, enough to seed respect, foster friendship, and hopefully, one day, peace.
October 28, 2022
Morgan’s Run by Colleen McCullough, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
Few writers can fictionalize history like Colleen McCullough. Careful to truth, hours of research, McCullough took the raw lines of history and created a story that mesmerizes, compels, and inspires. For it is the trials of our forefathers that bear us up above and beyond today’s troubles.
When troubled, I often think of my Grandma Sawyers, born in 1902, and the arduous task of just putting food on the table. Not to mention laundry. Polio. The Spanish Flu. The Great Depression. No tv. No cell phone. No Google. No car. No modern medicine. he was courageous. Not only did she and her family survive, but they thrived.
Generations and generations. I think of her and then, suddenly, my burden is lighter. I can focus on what I can do and forget about what I can’t do.
Morgan’s Run is the account of one man’s life, Richard Morgan, a testament to one of Britain’s worst experiments, an ostracized penal colony, true to the cruelty of the 18th century and Her Majesty’s iron fist. Yet, it is also one of overcoming odds, forging one’s way through an unfair and unjust world, and making something out of nothing. Or, out of wilderness.
New South Wales. Norfolk Island. A vast wilderness. Ships laden with convicts, convicts rendered dispensable. And despite the immense odds, Richard Morgan not only survived, but thrived. It is an amazing story in itself, but given McCullough’s pen, it became a great novel. Characters come to life and you find yourself amongst the many trees felled, the soldiers, sailors and convicts, their wives and lives, the crash and heave of an angry sea, chaos and crime. Yet, somehow order is established, freedom afforded. And, with the grace of courage, hope is born.
Settled next to other McCullough favorites, Morgan’s Run is destined for a permanent place upon my bookshelves. I look forward to a second reading in the years to come.
When troubled, I often think of my Grandma Sawyers, born in 1902, and the arduous task of just putting food on the table. Not to mention laundry. Polio. The Spanish Flu. The Great Depression. No tv. No cell phone. No Google. No car. No modern medicine. he was courageous. Not only did she and her family survive, but they thrived.
Generations and generations. I think of her and then, suddenly, my burden is lighter. I can focus on what I can do and forget about what I can’t do.
Morgan’s Run is the account of one man’s life, Richard Morgan, a testament to one of Britain’s worst experiments, an ostracized penal colony, true to the cruelty of the 18th century and Her Majesty’s iron fist. Yet, it is also one of overcoming odds, forging one’s way through an unfair and unjust world, and making something out of nothing. Or, out of wilderness.
New South Wales. Norfolk Island. A vast wilderness. Ships laden with convicts, convicts rendered dispensable. And despite the immense odds, Richard Morgan not only survived, but thrived. It is an amazing story in itself, but given McCullough’s pen, it became a great novel. Characters come to life and you find yourself amongst the many trees felled, the soldiers, sailors and convicts, their wives and lives, the crash and heave of an angry sea, chaos and crime. Yet, somehow order is established, freedom afforded. And, with the grace of courage, hope is born.
Settled next to other McCullough favorites, Morgan’s Run is destined for a permanent place upon my bookshelves. I look forward to a second reading in the years to come.
Girl with a Pearl Earring, A Novel by Tracy Chevalier, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
Ever wished to time travel? Walk amongst history alive? See the colors, hear the laughter, touch the people, places, and things of yore? If so, then Girl with a Pearl Earring is your ticket to time gone by. Thrown into 17th century Holland, culture and class come alive through the eyes of sixteen-year-old Griet. Forever known as the girl with the pearl earring, the inspiration to one of Vermeer’s most famous paintings, Griet’s fiery determination inspires more than a rendering of color to canvas.
Reduced to a life of hard work as a maid to Vermeer’s wife, Catharina, Griet holds fast to her dignity and pride, forging her own way despite the harshness of Catharina, the brusqueness of Tanneke, the dominance of Maria Thins, and the cruelty of Cornelia. Cooking, cleaning, and hours and hours of harsh laundering are destined to age her beyond years. Navigating the moods and wants of the Vermeer women requires all her energies, leaving little for her poor parents, her sister, her brother. Griet soon decides this is not a life for her. Not yet eighteen, she bides her time.
For there is a boy at the meat stall whose beautiful blue eyes are for Griet only. He will wait, but not forever.
Yet, Vermeer himself, intrigued by Griet’s quick mind and creativity, becomes the hurdle to her freedom. To be noticed by such a great painter. His attention and interest hold her in orbit and soon, she is under his tulliage learning how to render colors from the natural world, learning the secrets of such a master, sitting for a portrait herself, his wife’s prize earring and Griet’s future hanging in the balance.
In a coming-of-age story, Griet learns lessons of life and love, one step at a time, her footprints today long gone with the winds of the Netherlands. Yet, if you close your eyes and listen, you can hear the sounds of the market, see the beauty of 17th century Holland, Delft Blue porcelain, green fields and windmills, smell the cookfires burning and travel along.
For what’s history if it isn’t alive?
Reduced to a life of hard work as a maid to Vermeer’s wife, Catharina, Griet holds fast to her dignity and pride, forging her own way despite the harshness of Catharina, the brusqueness of Tanneke, the dominance of Maria Thins, and the cruelty of Cornelia. Cooking, cleaning, and hours and hours of harsh laundering are destined to age her beyond years. Navigating the moods and wants of the Vermeer women requires all her energies, leaving little for her poor parents, her sister, her brother. Griet soon decides this is not a life for her. Not yet eighteen, she bides her time.
For there is a boy at the meat stall whose beautiful blue eyes are for Griet only. He will wait, but not forever.
Yet, Vermeer himself, intrigued by Griet’s quick mind and creativity, becomes the hurdle to her freedom. To be noticed by such a great painter. His attention and interest hold her in orbit and soon, she is under his tulliage learning how to render colors from the natural world, learning the secrets of such a master, sitting for a portrait herself, his wife’s prize earring and Griet’s future hanging in the balance.
In a coming-of-age story, Griet learns lessons of life and love, one step at a time, her footprints today long gone with the winds of the Netherlands. Yet, if you close your eyes and listen, you can hear the sounds of the market, see the beauty of 17th century Holland, Delft Blue porcelain, green fields and windmills, smell the cookfires burning and travel along.
For what’s history if it isn’t alive?
September 26, 2022
A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
I am a little late to this party, I believe. A Gentleman in Moscow has been on my to-read list for way too long, long enough that I will be singing to the choir when I shower nothing short of praise.
So clever this story. I found myself nodding in agreement over and over as the pages turned, smiling, as if, in cahoots with Towles himself. And did the pages turn. So much so, that I gave myself a six-week hiatus to savor the ending. Even the “Afterwards” and “And Anon” were tied up pretty in pink just like when my mother would tie a beautiful ribbon around a box, my little finger pressed in place until the loops were expertly secured.
Never has there been a more charming, sweet, and compassionate protagonist, his few faults forgotten like an old Russian aristocrat relegated to the attic. And as for the antagonist, no single person could embody the full wrath like that of a regime.
Slightly whimsical, elegantly portrayed, don’t be fooled by the easy read and warm overtures. There is a message. Much like the label-less bottles of red and white wine that prove their uniqueness, their true colors, just by being what they are, the Russian people cannot be reduced to sameness, regardless of good-of-the-public ideals or adherence to uniformity and conformity.
And as the world turns the old out and the new in, Rostov observes from his hotel perch under house arrest some of the most notable and heartbreaking history of his beloved homeland. Regardless, Rostov loves his Mother Russia. For while the emperor has a new robe, a Russian is still a Russian, and proudly so.
Towles created a beloved persona in Alexander Rostov. Witty, charming, inventive…if only I could invite him for tea. And mind you, my tea table is only set for two, for but a few.
Alas, all good things must come to an end and I bid farewell to that Gentleman in Moscow with much regret. Yet, not for long, for I understand there is a mini-series in the making. Fingers crossed that the production does justice to a novel that will always hold a place on my permanent shelves.
So clever this story. I found myself nodding in agreement over and over as the pages turned, smiling, as if, in cahoots with Towles himself. And did the pages turn. So much so, that I gave myself a six-week hiatus to savor the ending. Even the “Afterwards” and “And Anon” were tied up pretty in pink just like when my mother would tie a beautiful ribbon around a box, my little finger pressed in place until the loops were expertly secured.
Never has there been a more charming, sweet, and compassionate protagonist, his few faults forgotten like an old Russian aristocrat relegated to the attic. And as for the antagonist, no single person could embody the full wrath like that of a regime.
Slightly whimsical, elegantly portrayed, don’t be fooled by the easy read and warm overtures. There is a message. Much like the label-less bottles of red and white wine that prove their uniqueness, their true colors, just by being what they are, the Russian people cannot be reduced to sameness, regardless of good-of-the-public ideals or adherence to uniformity and conformity.
And as the world turns the old out and the new in, Rostov observes from his hotel perch under house arrest some of the most notable and heartbreaking history of his beloved homeland. Regardless, Rostov loves his Mother Russia. For while the emperor has a new robe, a Russian is still a Russian, and proudly so.
Towles created a beloved persona in Alexander Rostov. Witty, charming, inventive…if only I could invite him for tea. And mind you, my tea table is only set for two, for but a few.
Alas, all good things must come to an end and I bid farewell to that Gentleman in Moscow with much regret. Yet, not for long, for I understand there is a mini-series in the making. Fingers crossed that the production does justice to a novel that will always hold a place on my permanent shelves.
