I’m still not willing to completely give up the idea, though.

So, I guess the next strategy is to let this become a bit more organic.  I’ve tried to keep all of my entries very formal and focused on reviewing a particular book, but maybe I just need to set myself a goal of so  many posts so often where I can just ramble about whatever book I’m reading, or try to unpack the meaning of particular passages that I’m struggling with.

Who knows, maybe there’s even some sort of value in simply charting my progress through the ideas a book presents to me.  Maybe it will all be worthless drivel.  At least I’ll feel like I’ve accomplished something.

I guess this can’t count as the first post in the new style, though, if I don’t actually talk about a book, so here goes.

I’m currently reading Labyrinth  by Kate Mosse.  I’m actually really enjoying it, even though it’s kind of a mystery, which I don’t typically go for.  I guess I don’t typically go for the formula mysteries…the ones where an author maintains a steady source of income by creating a detective-type character who gets into the same sort of scrapes, just with slightly different details.  (Sure, I believe there is a place for that sort of stuff in literature…just not on my shelves.)

The novel, however, caught my interest with (yet again) a rather interesting narrative device.  The novel is part historical fiction, part modern mystical mystery.  (Try saying that five times fast.)  I have found myself completely caught up in both plots.  Mosse expertly switches between the two with just enough to tie them together and quickly enough that you haven’t lost the thread of the one you just took a break from.

I love how she has woven church history into the earlier plot.  Very fascinating stuff.  Not sure yet how I’ll feel about the sort of alternative theology she is building up, but I’ll give her props for keeping me reading despite the sort of “all monotheistic religions trace back to some deeper, mystical religion that only an elite few have maintained.”  But I guess you can’t have a grail quest without something like the Knights Templar, can you?

Surprisingly, with only a hundred pages to go, I’ve sort of stalled out on  my progress.  I don’t think it has anything to do with the book, since every time I do pick it up, I want to keep reading.  I think it is more of an indication that my life is simply too busy right now.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to slow down a bit soon and knock out these last few chapters.

That will also mean that I have officially reached my reading goal for the year.  Now, do I relax for the rest of the year and focus on other things, or do I try to read ALL of the California Young Reader Medal nominees over the holiday?

I think what I love about Chevalier’s writing is that she certainly knows how to use metaphors and symbolism.  I read so much fiction aimed at young adults, that I tend to miss the finer points of literature.  But Chevalier’s writing is literary and sophisticated without being pretentious and difficult to follow.  She is not full of herself, but loves the craft, and while I didn’t enjoy this book as much as Girl with a Pear Earring, it didn’t fall far short.

The book is set in late 18th Century London and follows a family newly arrived from the country, particularly focusing on the boy and a girl he meets in London who tries to help him adjust to life in a big city.  One of their neighbors is the poet/printer/artist William Blake.  (I like that Chevalier focuses on the lives of those around artists, not on the artists themselves.)  While Blake does not figure heavily into the story, he provides the extended metaphor that illuminates the entire novel: the tension between innocence and experience.  Although I love how this concept is developed throughout the story, the rest of it just didn’t engage me quite as much as Girl With a Pearl Earring…still enjoyable, just not quite as powerful.

At any rate, it is still definitely worth a read (I’m sure I’ll be passing on my copy to someone soon), though there are some bits that are not appropriate for children, despite the young main characters.

Salerni teases you along with an intriguing tale until about two thirds of the way through the book when she finally rivets you.  The story is centered around the sisters who are credited with starting the spiritualism movement in the mid-nineteenth century.  (For those who might object to a book about spiritual mediums communicating with the dead, there’s nothing to fear from this book; the main narrator makes it very clear that the “communication” started as a prank and then became a business once her older sister discovered there could be a profit made from it.)

At the beginning, the book simply seems to be a story about how these girls came into the public eye and the various obstacles and dangers they faced even as their fame grew.  About half way through the book, it abruptly turns into a love story.  The first person narrator really seems to come into her own at this point, which I suppose is by design, but it makes the earlier narrative seem a bit mechanical.  While the earlier part of the book is mildly interesting, it almost ends up feeling disconnected from the later narrative.

What I truly love about the last part of the book is that it was entirely unpredictable for me.  By this time, I had realized that this was based on historical events, but refused to look up the real characters themselves, as I wanted to be surprised.  This meant that all my preconceptions of how a love story should be crafted could not be relied upon.  I found myself trying to gain reassurance from the idea that these types of stories always have some sort of happy ending, or at least morally fulfilling if not entirely happy.  Then I’d remember that if the Salerni was following real life events, she was not bound by the unspoken rules of the genre, making this a real nail-biter for me.

I also appreciated the afterward in which Salerni saved me the trouble of digging up what later became of my intrepid narrator.

Unfortunately, while I couldn’t put the book down once I got to the end, it left me with that sad longing feeling in my heart that I feel when either I want the story to continue or wish I could rewrite history for my new literary friends.

The other topic this book touches on that would make for some great discussions is how Christianity can be twisted to serve some pretty diabolical ends.

Unfortunately, as an adult, this book was a pretty dry read for me.  It didn’t really engage me until the very end, and even then I found it a bit predictable.

The novels follows three young girls that are all tied to the factory in some way.  Bella is a recent immigrant from Italy.  Mostly on her own, she has come to America in an effort to save her family from starvation, but finds herself exploited and cheated at every turn, both by her bosses and by her landlady.

Yetta is a young Jewish immigrant from Russia.  She and her sister are working to bring the rest of their family to America to save them from the increasing pogroms.  However, Yetta is determined to be treated fairly and is one of the first girls on the picket line when the strike begins, suffering frequent beatings and imprisonment.

Jane is a budding socialite from a family climbing its way to the top of New York society.  She has been brought up to wear pretty dresses, attend teas and balls, marry a wealthy man who will fatten her father’s assets and/or esteem, and have absolutely nothing but fluff between her ears.  But when she meets Yetta and Jane on the picket line, she sees in them a freedom that she has never known and yet longs for.

Haddix really does a lovely job of intertwining the stories of these three girls as well as weaving in the facts of the strike and the fire that so quickly followed the end of the strike and resulted in the deaths of so many young girls.  The novel provides some fantastic historical elements that tend to get glossed over in most public school history courses, where there is a race to finish the course in time for state testing.  It is a great starting point for conversations about women’s and workers’ rights, the historical need for unions, the ethical obligations of business owners, and the discrepancy between the poor and the wealthy and how much money they each think is “enough.”

I am starting to feel a bit repetitive lately, but this is yet another book that had a superb concept, but poor execution. The story is set in Medieval Europe where Nell, a commoner, serves as Princess Joan of England’s double. When the princess dies en route to her wedding to the Spanish heir, the Black Prince, determined to forge the alliance with Spain at all costs, forces Nell to take her place.

Now, up to this point, the story was rather interesting. Where it falls apart entirely is when we start to see the dark side of the prince. There are hints and suggestions that he is some sort of sorcerer, that he can control the group of rats that keep attacking Nell, her brother, and her protectors as they try to flee from the Prince, that the prince can somehow track their movements using an amulet that he gave Nell’s brother, and that her brother also has some sort of ability to heal those suffering from the plague.

While I have absolutely no problem with a magical bent to the stories I read, the problem here was that it was never developed. Everything was left at the level of superstition, which, while common at the time, ends up being highly unsatisfying in a plot.

I was also left disappointed when I actually did a little research into the time period. I wondered about the depiction of the prince–entirely made up, it appears. In the book, everyone seems to fear him and cower in his presence, including his own soldiers. He is depicted as a heartless, manipulative, evil man. Even a cursory glance into what is really known about the man himself turns up a prince who, while fearsome in battle and hot-tempered, was generally loved and admired. Again, while I don’t mind historical novels taking some liberties, this was a little too much for me.

Overall, as a story, this one isn’t bad. I can see young readers enjoying the adventure, but no one is going to fall in love with the characters or get excited about what happens to them.

I found Bloody Jack a bit difficult to read at first, because of Jacky’s broken English, but she cleans up her language soon after she joins the crew. How does the language we use define where we are accepted socially? I think that’s a great commentary in itself about becoming what you surround yourself with.

There are pirates in this book, but they are definitely the bad guys–enemies of the Royal Navy. A great read to mix in with all the other pirate-fantasy-adventure stories floating out there.

That said, this novel is incredibly sympathic towards Marie Antoinette. I suppose this is the same trend that I’ve noticed in novels about Anne Boleyn I’ve been reading. Of course, there is no way of really knowing what went on in the minds of these women, and much of what we do know about them is through a male lens. As a result, modern writers tend to Romanticize them, depicting them in a way that will appeal to our modern sensibilities. Thankfully, Naslund doesn’t go overboard with this. There are a few moments in the novel that are a bit more frank about Louis XVI’s and Marie Antoinette’s contributions toward the revolution. However, for the most part, Antoinette and Louis are depicted as charmingly naive.

In any case, it was a fun read. There is quite a bit of sexual content, though not inapproriate since it primarily focuses on the married couple. (Their marriage was not consumated for years, so much of the novel deals with Antoinette’s attempts to “inspire” her husband.) Surprisingly, Naslund is very careful to keep Antoinette’s relationship with Axel von Ferson strictly on the platonic level. I know there is a lot of controversy about this, but Naslund never even hints that there was anything inappropriate about their relationship.

Throughout the novel, there are hints of faith. Of course, Marie Antoinette was catholic, and it is touching to see how the events towards the end of her life draw her deeper into her faith. Part of this movement towards God is due to her devotion as a mother; her desire to protect her family was always a much stronger pull on her than the temptations of court life, but even more so when that life disolved.

Those Who Save Us by Jenna Blum is an amazing fictional account of a woman’s experience in
WWII Germany and the modern day story of her daughter’s attempts to reconnect with her unknown past. The story is horrifying, gritty, realistic, and heart wrenching from the very beginning. I’ll warn you straight off, this novel is not for the younguns unless, as a parent, you are prepared to do a lot of explaining. In addition to the physical and emotional violence inflicted on characters, the book deals with sexual topics and describes some rather disturbing sexual encounters. That said, I don’t feel that any of the scenes described in the novel are anything other than what is necessary to communicate the very real conditions that Anna faced during the war, and what many women like her probably faced as well.

Without giving too much away, the story revolves around the past experiences of Anna as well as the modern day search of the daughter, Trudy, who was born to her during that time. Trudy has only fleeting memories of her childhood in Germany and has only one memento of that past: a photograph of her mother and herself with a high-ranking SS officer. Her mother refuses to speak about the past, even nearly fifty years later, leaving Trudy to wonder about the nature her mother’s relationship with this man, a relationship that has given Trudy a sense of guilt her entire adult life. Anna’s silence on this and anything else to do with the war drives Trudy, a university professor of German history, to seek out the war stories of other Germans now living in the Twin City area of Minnesota.

Perfectly interspersed with this story, accenting it perfectly, Blum slowly develops Anna’s story. From her brief, illegal relationship with a Jewish doctor to her Resistance work, to her affair-of-survival with the SS officer of Trudy’s picture, Anna’s story is perhaps not typical, but certainly exemplifies both the possibilities and many of the realities German woman faced in the face of Nazi brutality. Yet, even with all the sacrifices Anna makes to keep herself and her daughter safe, they not only faced near starvation towards the end of the war, but were left with deep emotional scars that Trudy can’t even begin to let heal until she begins to unravel her mother’s past, and which her mother continues to hide under a veil of silence.

The interesting theme that Blum develops in the novel is silence as a form of self-punishment. She suggests that many German’s have remained silent about what went on during the war from their own sense of guilt and complicity. Although they lived through those years is crippling fear of the Nazi’s, they feel guilty for what that fear and deprivation prompted them to. While for some the verbalization of those experiences releases them from that burden of guilt, some do not want that freedom.

I should insert another warning here. Not all of the stories that Trudy collects are filled with regret or hidden resistance. Blum realistically displays some of the opposing attitudes of apathy and out-and-out anti-Semitism that some Germans still harbor. She also does not shy away from the reaction of some Jews against the Germans, which includes the belief that all were culpable because they remained silent and that their stories should not be told at all. (This again goes back to the idea that verbalizing the experience brings a sense of expiation, which some feel the Germans do not deserve.) Honestly, some of the interviews that Trudy collects are rather disturbing.

In addition to her excellent story-telling ability, I must praise Blum’s writing. She isn’t too fussy or presumptuous, but also hasn’t simplified her diction to make this an “easy read,” which I appreciate. I also delighted in her occasional literary allusions, which weren’t terribly obvious and fit with the story, but also weren’t so obscure that it would take an English teacher to recognize them.

Okay, enough said. I really can’t praise this novel highly enough. I was impressed with the fluidity in which the two plots were developed and revelled in the writing itself. Granted, I may be slightly biased, as I’ve had a longstanding fascination with books about the Holocaust and WWII Germany. As a Christian, I’m interested in the history of God’s chosen people, and I have familial connections with Germany, though the majority of those relations immigrated to Canada between the wars. At any rate, the bias is only slight, and even then, I think this novel is an exceptional sample of the genre.

If you’re looking for something a little more kid-friendly try The Devil’s Arithmetic for young readers (upper elementary and junior high) and Briar Rose for young adults, both written by Jane Yolen. Keep in mind that even these books contain disturbing topics, which you simply can’t get around when talking about the Holocaust. Young readers will certainly need some guidance in dealing with these topics. Also, if you are interested in a Christian’s first-hand perspective of the Holocaust, high highly recommend The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom, a Christian who hid Jews until she was caught and sent to a concentration camp; she was an incredibly amazing woman who certainly still sets an example of Christian love and self-sacrifice that we should all follow.

What I absolutely loved best about this book was the unusual narrative approach. Some sections are written from a third person limited point of view, some from first person. The changing perspectives deepen the sense of mystery as Atwood slowly reveals the circumstances surrounding the case of Grace Marks, while simultaneously developing a second plot concerning the young doctor attempting to get to the bottom of the murders she was convicted of. Though it lacks the intensity of a true murder-mystery, the writing and the ingenuity are riveting.

Maybe at this point I should back up a bit and explain the premise of the book. Atwood bases the story on trial and interview transcripts as well as newspaper and magazine articles surrounding the murder of two people in Canada in the 1840′s. The novel is set over a decade after the murder and trial, after Grace has spent nearly half her young life in prison, and part of it in an asylum. In an attempt to make a name for himself and perhaps help her petition for a pardon, Dr. Simon Jordan conducts a series of interviews with her, hoping to jog her memory of the murders, which she claims to have no recollection of. At the same time, his lack of initiative in his own personal life begins to draw him into a rather complicated and compromising position. The novel is ultimately a very interesting blend of fact, fiction, and speculation.

Now, obviously, as a story about a real life murder, there is plenty of pretty objectionable content. Some of the objectionable content is of a sexual nature, occasionally a bit on the explicit side. There is also a botched abortion and two very grisly murders. None of this, however, detracts from the powerfully told story of an accused murderess, neither does most of it, in my opinion, go beyond what is reasonable. (There are two particular scenes involving Dr. Jordan’s landlady that I felt were unnecessarily descriptive.)

Overall, this book was a very good read and kept me constantly engaged and interested. It completely reaffirms my high regard for Atwood’s skill as a writer and a storyteller.