An Instance of the Fingerpost

Really excellent Iain Pears that I read maybe 7-10 years ago. I picked up a used copy a little while ago and was all set to dive in again, and had gotten about 50 pages in, when J finished up the O'Brian series. He was bereft, and wouldn't be satisfied with Mystic River which, while a very decent thriller, is nothing more.

So I gave up Instance and moved on to Thunderstruck, Erik Larson's story of Marconi and Crippen, and how their worlds intersected on Crippen's transatlantic flight from justice. Really really great.

But then J kept making reference to his book, and since I did read it probably a decade ago, I have no memory of who did what or why. So I got my own copy yesterday and will read along, so we can discuss.

Toupydoops

Graphic novel by Kevin McShane. The inane title, the two-bachelor-guys-trying-to-break-into-showbiz plot, the fairly predictable setbacks -- let's say it didn't do much for me. I have to say, the grating names of both the protagonist (Toupy) and his pal (Teetereater) never became less irritating as the book went on. And while Toupy is some kind of blue insect and Teeter is a bear/human hybrid, every female in the work is a busty, tanktop-wearing clone. Oh, except for Toupy's teacher colleague, who actually wears shirts with sleeves. Not surprising, but no less annoying for it.

In fairness: the book is really well-drawn, and the sensibility is sweet. But overall -- yawn, ick, boring.

Arthur and George

I had great hopes for this Julian Barnes, in which he documents/novel-izes the story of how Arthur Conan Doyle defended the wrongfully convicted George Edalji, son of a Parsi vicar and a Scots mother, who was found to have sent threats to his own family and mutilated cattle -- railroaded due to racial prejudice.

George's bewildered p.o.v. was just too heartbreaking. I couldn't bear to watch his downfall, so after around 100 pages, I quit. Barnes did his job too well.

My French Whore

A novel by Gene Wilder, with a hero as sweet and bumbling, and of course ultimately triumphant, as one of Wilder's movie characters. In fact, the novel reads almost as a sketch for a movie script. It's short and poignant, and very economical with its language. It's the story of Paul Peachy, who joins up to fight WWI and then deserts almost as soon as he gets to Germany -- as soon as he realizes that "trench warfare" means "run right into the enemy's machine-gun fire with absolutely zero protection, and watch both your closest friends get killed within seconds."

Luckily for Peachy, he's an actor, and has recently met a very famous spy. An elaborate hoax saves his life, but for how long.

Really, a lovely, graceful, delightful work. Way to go, Gene.

The Year of Magical Thinking

I think I read this back in January and never wrote it about it. Joan Didion's account of the year her husband died and her daughter was hospitalized with a mysterious, devastating illness.

The only non-depressing thing about this truly grim work -- because all of this horrible stuff really happened, all at once, and there's no making it un-happen -- may be that the book has been a top seller. I like it when the good, smart books sell.

This entry isn't exactly "writing about it", but at least I have down that I read it, which is the point of this blog, since I always forget what I've read.

A Body to Die For

Mystery-thriller fluff, but a half-step up from the rock-bottom mass-market airport pulp. Maybe I only think that because I know it's written by Kate White, editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan, and I feel like that confers some kind of reflected intellectual glow. Yes, it's Cosmo, not Harper's, but I haven't met a dumb E-I-C yet. Although, to be fair, I don't know many who work at the glossies.

Anyway, the point is, this book was just that much better than crap that I finished it. In this one, freelance writer and sleuth Bailey Weggins investigates a murder at a spa owned by a family friend.

Blue at the Mizzen

Sigh. The final, complete O'Brian novel. It was published in 1999, and he died in 2000, at age 86. Can't really fault him for slacking. Still, it's depressing to get to the end. The only consolation is that now we own all the books and when I next feel like working my way through -- in five years, say? -- they're all there, waiting.

I wonder how many pages, more or less, there are in total? Say around 350 pages each, times 20 books. A 7,000-page novel, conveniently broken into commuter-portability-friendly chunks.

Even though O'Brian was supposed to be, in his personal life, perhaps less than admirable, I'll still say a little prayer of thanks for him, so grateful am I for the marvelous world he created.

The Hundred Days

The penultimate, number 19. I see from Wikipedia that O'Brian didn't coin this phrase, but that in fact it refers to the few months between the time when Napoleon got to Paris after escaping from Elba, and King Louis XVIII was returned to the throne. Amazing what you can learn if you actually look something up, even unintentionally.

Aubrey and Maturin are dispatched to North Africa to pick their way through the complexities of local rule and prevent a shipment of gold, provided by one Sheik Ibn Hazm, from reaching Napoleon's forces.

The Yellow Admiral

Aubrey-Maturin number 18, in which the specter of "yellowing" -- being promoted without possibility of a squadron -- appears and haunts Jack for a couple of books to come.

J and I took a break from these, but once we got started on the final four, we raced through. They're all, basically, the same book. As many reviewers have pointed out.

The Commodore

Number 17 in the Aubrey-Maturin series, in which our heroes suppress the slave trade. The particular heartstrings-tugging moment in this one is when Stephen returns home to find that his daughter is apparently autistic, and his wife has fled.