Happiness is a copy of 'The Swan Thieves' for the weekend

Today's weather is grey, rainy and cool, just the kind of Friday afternoon that makes one consider starting the weekend a bit early--especially if they have an interesting book to read.

I'm on page 123 of Elizabeth Kostova's The Swan Thieves that begins, "Kate had set her coffee cup, with its ring of glazed blackberries, on a table at her elbow. She made a small gesture, as if asking me to let her stop talking. I nodded and sat back at once; I wondered if there were tears gathering in her eyes."

The end of the book is on page 561. Good, there's plenty of the story left to read.

This is a story of obsession. The characters are well developed: Andrew the psychiatrist; his patient, the artist Robert Oliver; Kate, Oliver's ex-wife. The prose is carefully handled, especially in the descriptions of artists and their works. Kostova uses the device of letters to help tell her story; a little bit of this goes a long way, and I think she's gone a letter or so too far. But, no matter, I'll grant her that stylisitc device and keep reading anyhow because the story is pulling me along.

In the HuffPost Books review, M. L. Johnson writes that As in "The Historian," Kostova's visual images are stunning. She uses words to paint the pictures crucial to the plot and then carefully directs readers' attention to background characters, facial expressions and colors important to uncovering the novel's central mystery. The mental images she evokes in some cases linger longer than images seen in real life. It's difficult to believe the paintings don't really exist.

The mysteries behind patient Robert Oliver include: Why did he attack a painting of a woman and a swan at the art gallery? Why does he remain silent when Andrew Marlow offers him multiple opportunities to talk?

If you read this novel, did you like it? How does it compare to Kostova's debut novel "The Historian"?
-

You May Also Like: The first time I drove to the lake it was a lake - This is my Earth Day post about a once pristine lake that now exists only in my memory.

--Malcolm