Level Up by Gene Luen Yang and Thien Pham

Level Up
by Gene Luen Yang, illustrated by Thien Pham
First Second, 2011
160 pages

I was so charmed by this graphic novel, though it occurs to me that "charming" is maybe not a word that fits, exactly. "Satisfied" is maybe closer, but doesn't quite fit, either, because it doesn't convey the warmth of the way I feel about this story. Perhaps we should just stick with "I'm very glad I read it."

My experience of this book was interesting, too. Usually I blow through graphic novels; really, there are few that have taken me more than a day to read, and those are usually long (the Cardcaptor Sakura omnibus editions, for example.) This one, due to various things (including, ahem, video games) I took several days to get through. But I think this was maybe a good thing. It allowed me to think about what I was reading, rather than just inhaling it.

Dennis loves video games. Perhaps a bit too much. He's just been kicked out of college (the gaming's not the only reason) and he's got no idea how to tell his widowed mother; he knows his father, who passed away just after Dennis finished high school, would be extremely disappointed. In fact, he keeps thinking he's seeing his father's disapproving face on every statue he passes... and then the angels show up. It turns out they've arrived, straight out of a greeting card and with his father's blessing, to help Dennis achieve his destiny: go to med school, and become a gastroenterologist.

It's a little hard to describe, but when you're actually reading the book, it's pretty straightforward. It's also not all that much about video games or about the angels. It's about Dennis wrestling with his internal demons, coming to terms with his father's death, trying to figure out what he wants to do, and what duty to family, friends, and self has to do with any of it. He's an incredibly smart kid, he knows how to work hard, and he loves video games. What's more, he's actually pretty good at them. (His gamer friend, Takeem, suggests that Dennis' brain was made by Nintendo.) But his father always viewed them as a total waste of time and money, and Dennis still feels the weight of his disapproval, and his hopes and expectations for Dennis, too.

If I had any complaints, it's that things do seem to come across as a bit too easy. Dennis is a stellar gamer, able to win tournaments regularly. When he's at school, he's got four angels hanging out and doing his laundry, his dishes, feeding him, and so on, so all he has to do is concentrate on his studies. That said, it is a graphic novel and he's got four angels doing his housework... so, no expectations of gritty realism here? And he does work hard, at whatever he chooses to do. There is also a bit of an either/or dichotomy happening with gaming/living a real life, but let's just say that someone like me probably has no place criticizing that. I know some people seem to be able to cultivate a healthy balance, but lord knows I'm not one of them. Perhaps that's why I liked this book as much as I did.

Overall, the tale is told with simple but lovely artwork, gentle (often very funny) humour, nostalgia for the great games (Bubble Bobble makes a brief appearance; Pac Man figures heavily) and huge sympathy and respect for Dennis' character and his challenges. Well worth a read, particularly for those interested in contemporary coming-of-age stories for teens and young adults.

Thirty-Three Teeth by Colin Cotterill

Thirty-Three Teeth

by Colin Cotterill

Soho, 2005

195 pages

This book grew on me. It had to; at the beginning, I wasn't at all happy with the direction things were taking after the first scene (which was excellent). I wasn't exactly bored, but I wasn't getting what I wanted to get out of the book. And yet, something kept me reading. By the time I was done, I was totally, happily satisfied.

Thirty-Three Teeth is the second in Colin Cotterill's series about Dr. Siri Paiboon, Head Coroner in Communist Laos in the seventies. We start with the disappearance of an old, abused bear from her cage at the local "luxury" hotel (the scene I loved) and subsequent maulings -- an open-and-shut case, one might think, except that nothing in a Siri Paiboon mystery is as it seems. And just when things are getting interesting in Vientiane, Siri is spirited off to Luang Prabang in the north of the country to investigate a couple of very, very crispy corpses under the direction of one nasty, rude governor. Then it's back to Vientiane to save his friend Inspector Phosy, Dtui the nurse gets to do some investigation of her own, a close call with the fledgling justice system, and righting various wrongs, both spiritual and mundane.

What worried me at the beginning was twofold: there was some rather clumpsy recapping of earlier events (necessary, perhaps, though I'm not even sure of that; I think Cotterill could trust his readers to hang on even if they're not quite sure what's going on, because he writes that well.) The second problem is that a chunk of this book is spent with Siri learning more about his newfound spiritual powers, and we edge pretty firmly across the line from magic realism to outright fantasy, except that... well, I don't want to spoil much for you, but the explanations for many of the happenings turn out to be less magical and more mundane than I expected. And where they are magical, they are still rather mundane, and always deeply rooted in the culture and beliefs of the Laotian people. A favourite scene: the obnoxious general in Luang Prabang tries to get the shamans to let the royal spirits know that they're expected to conform under the new communist rules (take up residence as working spirits in designated temples, that sort of thing, or be exiled to the north) -- which simultaneously says an awful lot about how seriously the spirits are taken, as well as how ridiculous politics can get very quickly. The scene is also very funny and full of tension.

It's that kind of twisty unravelling, dry humour, and mixture of melancholy, darkness, and light that kept me reading, even when I was feeling like we were spending a lot more time on magical shenanigans than I wanted to in a mystery novel. Cotterill knows how to balance the distressing with the amusing with the moving with the absurd, and he can keep the plot moving, and he provides wonderful, full characters to boot. I have never really read anything quite like these novels and I am tremendously glad there are more of them out there for me to dig into.

A note on the writing itself, too: Cotterill has a knack for a marvellously odd turn of phrase, particularly metaphor. I am sure some of this comes straight out of the Laotian language and the culture, and I am also sure that Cotterill comes up with a few of his own; he uses them unashamedly, and even though some of them are odd and perhaps a bit too florid, they also cause this reader to stop and think -- "huh, I know exactly what he means." Another example of Cotterill's ability to make wonderful connections are his titles. The man knows how to title a book. The titles are odd, attention-catching, and perfectly, perfectly apt. It's a small thing, but very pleasing.

As with the previous book in the series, highly recommended. This one is not quite as good, but stick with it and you'll be rewarded. For armchair travellers, mystery lovers, fans of the tangled and complex, those who love a good, observant, level-headed, kind, and charming lead character wrapped up in excellent writing and really interesting plots. I'd start at the beginning, just because The Coroner's Lunch is the better book. Looking forward to Disco for the Departed, when the chance arises.

Other books in the Dr. Siri Paiboon series:

1. The Coroner's Lunch

The Coroner's Lunch by Colin Cotterill

The Coroner's Lunch
by Colin Cotterill
Soho, 2004
272 pages

I don't think I could have asked for a better way to start the year. This series of mysteries about Dr. Siri Paiboon, Head Coroner for the fledgling communist regime in Laos in the 1970s, has been on my radar for a long time. I decided to pick the first one up for my mother for Christmas, as she's always on the lookout for new mystery series; I decided I'd better read it first before I gave it to her, to make sure it was as good as the internet whispers suggested. (In my defence: I read a library copy, not the shiny new one that arrived for her!) And it was as good as I had hoped. Maybe even better.

A lot of the buzz around Dr. Siri suggests some sort of relation to Mma Ramotswe of No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency fame. I find this a bit misleading, because though there are some similarities, the tone of the books is completely different. Both do feature protagonists who have lived full lives before coming to their own as detectives, who aren't particularly concerned about the establishment and authority, and both are set in locales far different from the vast, vast majority of English-language mysteries out there. But I think the similarities stop there, really, and I almost find it a bit... irksome that because these two series are set in different "exotic" locations they get lumped together by critics.

This book, at least, was a lot darker, and the pacing was faster, and the stakes were higher than I recall from No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (and yes, I did really like that book too, but it's a very different animal.) People die. In unpleasant ways. Siri is doing a complex dance of trying to get to the truth and trying to work within a new system that hasn't really figured itself out yet. He's dealing with political intrigue as much as individual cases. In some ways, though, it is also deceptively gentle; Siri himself is a wryly observant, obstinate, and compassionate soul with a crusty exterior. He's not afraid of much, even the things he should be, but he does worry about those around him.

Dr. Siri Paiboon happens to be the last qualified (and we use this term loosely) person left in Laos to be head coroner after the victory of the communist rebels over the monarchy. Everyone else with the necessary education has fled the country. After being part of the cause for 40 years, he had assumed he'd get to rest to the end of his days -- he is 72, after all, decades older than the average life expectancy of his countrymen. But he is pressed into service despite the fact that he's never performed an autopsy in his life, and he's not particularly pleased to have to start now. Hampered by lack of supplies, experience, and co-operation from his superiors at the Justice Department, Siri sets out to do the best job he can with what he has. Things plod along slowly until one Mrs. Nitnoy, wife of a senior official in the new government, shows up in his freezer -- and is just as quickly hustled out by her now widowed husband, before Siri has the chance to finish his autopsy and his report.

And that's not all. Before long, Siri has someone who might have been a top-secret Vietnamese diplomat on his table, and a couple of senior military officials who died very, very strangely are waiting for him in the south of the country... and Siri is about to be busier, and in a lot more trouble, than he has been in a long, long time.

I am having trouble writing this review largely because I don't want it to be ten thousand words long. The summary is bare-bones, and look at the size of it! There is a lot of complexity here in this relatively short book.

I really, really enjoyed this read, more than I expected to once I realized that it wasn't just straight forensic mystery. Because Siri isn't just a coroner and a scientist and a very sharp amateur detective, but he also happens to see the spirits of the dead in his dreams. I wasn't sure how that was going to work for me when it popped up pretty much in the second chapter. And then it got weirder and I was carried along with the flow, because it all grew out of the plot and characters and setting so organically. I have nothing against fantasy, but I do have trouble when I'm not expecting my straight-up mysteries and fantasy to cross (see: Maisie Dobbs.) But here, Siri's visions didn't feel out of place or odd, nor did they feel at all deus ex machina. Even when things got really weird in the middle of the book, I was right there along for the ride. It didn't have a fantasy feel to me. And I think I can put this down to two things: it felt culturally appropriate, and the fact that even though he gets visions, nothing is spelled out for Siri. He still has to figure the clues out, and so does the reader. It's just that some of the clues don't happen to have been spotted in the corporeal realm.

The bones of this book are excellent. Cotterill has a real grasp on the time and place and culture, and he's creative with his characters, and his plots (there are several) are twisted and thrilling and deftly managed. The writing is funny (often very funny) without making fun, descriptive while managing a wonderful concision, and there is a dry factuality about all of it, mixed with the colour of the Laotian language and culture, that really works. The setting feels foreign, as it should to me, but without ever making me feel like I couldn't understand what was going on, or that I couldn't connect with the humans populating the story. Cotterill is both clear-eyed and respectful.

The only thing that didn't work for me, although I can understand why he did it, was the extreme ending of the story. The last few lines. And the reason those didn't work was because it felt a little forced-cliffhanger to me, where I could have been quite happy if those same few lines had turned up at the beginning of the next book. I wouldn't have felt manipulated. That said, it's a small transgression, relatively, and easily forgiven. I can hardly wait to read the next book, Thirty-Three Teeth. Except that I have about a million other series I really should try to read from, too...

Recommended for mystery readers, and armchair travellers. Yes, if you liked Mma Ramotswe, you'll probably like this too. But you'll also like it if you like political intrigue, forensic mysteries, and historical fiction.

Green Grass, Running Water by Thomas King

Green Grass, Running Water
by Thomas King
HarperCollins, 1993
431 pages

So.
In the beginning, there was nothing. Just the water.

Coyote was there, but Coyote was asleep. That Coyote was asleep and that Coyote was dreaming. When that Coyote dreams, anything can happen.
I can tell you that.

I am not sure how to talk about this book. Aarti has done a much more concise job than I will; please do go read her musings on it. She makes a more enthusiastic case than I do, though I don't think I liked this book less.

There is a lot that can be said about this book. I loved it, I really did. I've owned it for years, have started trying to read it a couple of times and always enjoyed the first little bit, but for some reason it kept getting shunted. Not this time, and I read it quickly and avidly. I loved pretty much everything about it. The language, the imagery, the rhythms that read easily and lend themselves to a reading that almost has the power of an aural experience. I loved the setting. I even started to love the characters, flawed and wonderful as they were.

Let's see about some sort of summary... well, there's Lionel, and if the novel has a hero, it's probably Lionel. Lionel is a somewhat aimless, meandering character, a television salesperson just about to turn forty. He has almost negative initiative and what little inertia he started out with has long since petered out. But he's not happy. He lives in Blossom, Alberta, not far from the reservation he grew up on, but he rarely goes to visit. His sister Latisha is doing well for herself running the Dead Dog Cafe, a restaurant catering to gullible tourists. His uncle Eli lives alone in a tiny cabin in the shadow of an enormous dam -- a dam he's managed to keep from running for over ten years in an enormous, drawn-out legal battle with the company that built it. Eli is friends, or perhaps frenemies, with the owner of the dam, Clifford Sifton, who comes by every morning for coffee and a request that Eli get the hell out of his way. Lionel's cousin Charlie, formerly a television salesman at the same place where Lionel finds himself stuck, is now a bigshot lawyer... working for the company the owns the dam. And finally Lionel's sometime girlfriend Alberta, a college professor (who is also seeing Charlie) is on her way home for Lionel's birthday, wishing she could trade in both her men for a baby. All of these pieces, and several others, are about to collide at the annual Sun Dance.

This doesn't even touch on the four Indians and Coyote, whose sections were by far my favourites. Overall, the effect is less chaotic than it likely could be because somehow King manages to keep it together; but it's beautifully messy, rambunctious, uncomfortable, joyful, and absolutely hilarious.

It's a wonderful reading experience, this one, and different. Because of the rhythm, the fact that it reads very much like an oral story in many places, it's not your usual novel. There aren't so much chapters as little sections, and it jumps all over the place. It circles back on itself multiple times; a reader paying attention will catch nods back to other parts of the story, and back to other bits of Canlit, even. I love books that do this, because every time one comes across one of these little winks to the reader, I always feel like I've been given a little gift.

What struck me while reading this book is the casual, endemic, embedded racism that becomes exposed by King's lovely bright light. We have the government's role, which is almost a laughing-stock in the book; this is the insidious, systemic racism that goes largely unnoticed by those of us outside the system. It's the reason the dam was built where it was, not in any of the three recommended locations. It's the reason, ultimately, that Lionel is stuck where he is. It's the reason that Alberta's family's fancy-dance costumes are confiscated at the border when they're going to visit relatives in the States.

We have society and the media's role, exemplified in this book by Western movies and books: Indians as the bad guys, cowboys as the good guys. It's not as simplified in Green Grass, Running Water as it sounds here, but it is, in some ways, that simple.

And then there's Bill Bursum, Lionel's boss, owner of the television store. His is the casual, off-handed racism that grows out of the above two types, and it's also the most cringe-worthy. He treats Lionel terribly, though not outwardly -- well, and his other employee, too, and she's female, so one thinks maybe Bill Bursum is just generally a pretty casually racist, sexist guy. But he's also the kind of guy we all know and most of us probably wouldn't give a second thought, until we look a little bit closer. He's not a bad guy, he's just... incredibly small-minded. He's that guy who makes politically incorrect jokes and comments and expects everyone to laugh; we might wince, but we probably don't challenge him on it.

If I keep going, this review is going to be a mile long, but it's also important to note: this isn't an issues book, it's a book where the issues are present but incidental to the telling the story. I haven't even touched on the fact that this book put me in mind of Carl Hiaasen, in a good way, thanks to the humour and the way the space is so integral to the tale. And the way some characters, at least, end up where the reader feels they should. I haven't delved as much into the wonderful imagery and imagination. I haven't talked about how the setting is perfect and awe-inspiring. I haven't touched nearly as much on the women in this book as I'd like to, either. And the funny. I haven't made this book sound nearly as funny as it is. But perhaps that's for the best, because you really, really have to read this book to understand. Highly recommended reading. Fall right in and float, and trust King to take you on a stunning, convoluted, thoroughly enjoyable ride.

The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister

One of our regular patrons at the library blew in the other day with this book in her hand, declaring that we must read it, all of us, and preferably immediately. It would only take us an afternoon, she said. We would love it. We would not want to put it down. Uncharacteristically, I took her up on it. I tend to have a set list of things that I'm reading or about to read, and I very rarely step out of line. It did help that this was on the list, and has been on my radar for some time. It just wasn't really technically next. But nothing had been exciting to me lately, so when she pressed the book into my hands, it seemed like fate and I took it home that night.

It took me considerably longer than an afternoon, but I don't blame the book. Life and things like work and sleep and food (and okay, trying to get to the end of freaking Super Paper Mario) get in the way of reading, especially right now. But while I didn't finish it in an afternoon, I understand her enthusiasm for this book. It's a genuinely lovely read, one that let me get a little choked up and smile. And when I did close it for the final time, I felt completely satisfied, as after a really excellent meal where I probably ate a bit too much and a bit too rich, but it was worth it.

Lillian is a chef with her own restaurant, and on Monday nights she teaches cooking classes to a lucky few who come to her School of Essential Ingredients. We progress chronologically through a single session, each chapter following one participant. Each person in the class has their secret pains and joys and challenges, and we learn about these in between delicious descriptions of the foods they're learning to prepare. And by the end of each class, each person has begun their process of healing, or growing, or rediscovering themselves with a little help from really excellent food.

This is a book for foodies. If some of my big coffee table cookbooks are food porn, this book is definitely food erotica. Bauermeister spares no ingredient a loving and leisurely description. Right up front it is clear that food holds a vital place in this story. Scents, textures, and tastes don't just make for a good meal -- they evoke emotions, memories, and ideas in the people experiencing them. While I'm convinced that food, both the eating and the cooking, is therapeutic, that's taken to mystical extent in this novel. In Lillian's kitchen, and finally in the kitchens of her students, food is magic.

It is a story about food, certainly. It's also a story about the parts of ourselves we keep buried, and how underneath exteriors every single person has a complicated story. Some challenges faced by the characters are mundane, some are metaphysical, some are mental, some are medical. It ranges from Antonia, who is trying to design an appropriate kitchen for a client and is stumped, to Tom, who is working through the premature death of his wife. I really like stories like this. There's not so much an overarching plot as an interconnecting series of little plots about where each life starts to intersect.

The writing is usually quite good. While it would take some hella precocious child to actually think this way, I loved the language and image:

In Lillian's mind, her mother was a museum for words; Lillian was an annex, necessary when space became limited in the original building.

It occasionally overreaches, slipping from a magical or dream-like quality into purple prose. I suspect everyone's line is slightly different, and actually, I think my line between the two varies depending on my mood. I suspect that I was feeling pretty tolerant throughout this reading, and could occasionally see things that might have bothered me if I was feeling in a more concise mood. When Bauermeister's language works, it works very well. When it doesn't, it feels obviously contrived and excessively poetic. Some of the structure works and doesn't in the same way. Portions of the epilogue, while I was glad to have it overall, are a case in point. We slipped across the line of "believably happy" to "a little too good to be true."

If you're looking for something with excitement or thrills, this is definitely not it. But as a quiet, contemplative, and really sweet interweaving story, this is a great read. I've decided I need to read some more magic realism foodie books -- I've always wanted to read Chocolat, so keep an eye out for that one coming up, maybe.

Popular Music from Vittula by Mikael Niemi; translated by Laurie Thompson

If someone whose taste is impeccable hadn't given me this book for Christmas, I'm sure I would never have picked it up. If by some strange chance I had, I probably wouldn't have finished it. I may not have made it past the first three chapters or so. And that would have been an absolute shame.

The thing is, Popular Music from Vittula is pretty far away from my usual read. And for the first half or more of the book I was extremely ambivalent. My notes are full of things like "parts of this are excruciating, but I think I'm glad I'm reading it." A little later is a note that says "There is something about this book that's worming its way under my skin." Like maggots. Which appear multiple times in this book.

Ahem. So, yes. This is a novel about growing up in Pajala, a very northerly town in Sweden, right on the Finnish border. Matti is our narrator and protagonist, and we follow him from the time he is five to his teenage years. Though formatted as a short novel with chapters, it's really a series of short stories, loosely interconnected, and populated with fascinating and often unsavoury characters. It's full of contradictions; full of beauty and horror, violence and joy. Some parts are recognizeable to anyone who has lived in a small town anywhere in the world, others are completely, magically foreign.

The writing is vibrant, and often vulgar, though never crude. By which I mean that I believe the vulgarity is always carefully placed and carefully thought out. I think I got used to this by the latter half of the book, although I'll admit it did take me some time. The rawness of the language and the emotions and the images was what I found so difficult at the beginning. And though this book is quite funny, and I believe it's quite funny all the way through, it also took me until halfway through to settle in to Niemi's sense of humour. But by the end, I found this whole paragraph, part of a section in which Matti is being initiated by his father into manhood, made me giggle:

The most dangerous thing of all, and something he wanted to warn me about above all else, the one thing that had consigned whole regiments of unfortunate young people to the twilight world of insanity, was reading books. This objectionable practice had increased among the younger generation, and Dad was more pleased than he could say that I had not yet displayed any such tendencies. Lunatic asylums were overflowing with folk who'd been reading too much. Once upon a time, they'd been just like you and me, physically strong, straightforward, cheerful and well balanced. Then they'd started reading. Most often by chance. A bout of flu perhaps, with a few days in bed. An attractive book cover that had aroused some curiosity. And suddenly the bad habit had taken hold. The first book had lead to another. Then another, and another, all links in a chain that lead straight down into the eternal night of mental illness. It was impossible to stop. It was worse than drugs.

Actually, I really enjoyed that whole chapter. I also loved the wedding chapter, where Matti is witness to a whole lot of territorial, manly pissing contests, including arm wrestling and a sauna. Then there's the chapter about Matti's grandfather's birthday, the final chapter in the book, which is the crowning glory, I think. The humour and the tenderness lightened the cruelty and darkness enough that reading this wasn't unbearably painful.

The thing is, this book is often graphic but also fascinating; it has a kind of melancholy but also a warm fondness. It's not quite a longing for the way things were, because there's no doubt that it wasn't always the good old days. But there is an understanding that it was what it was, and it will never be like that again, and I sometimes feel that way about my own childhood. And I think, in the end, that and the absolute stark beauty of the language were what kept me reading. This book crept up on me, but now that I am done I'm very glad I read it.

Turtle Valley by Gail Anderson-Dargatz

I have been wanting to read Turtle Valley for a while now. Since I knew it existed, anyway. Years ago, while still in high school, I read Anderson-Dargatz's The Cure for Death By Lightning and loved it. So I've been wanting to get my hands on other books by her, but it's been one of those things that has been in the back of my mind rather than actually on my to-read pile.

Anyway, I was able to grab Turtle Valley off the shelf for myself while picking something else up for a patron, because I felt like it was a good time to read it.

It's dark. It's very dark. It's suspenseful and foreboding. We start the book with a supernatural threat, the threat of fire, and the impending death of Katrine's father. Death constantly hangs over this novel like a haze. The fire threatening Turtle Valley seems like a rather heavy-handed metaphor, but Anderson-Dargatz doesn't beat us over the heads with it. It just adds to the atmosphere of oppression. There is a ghost story, a couple of love triangles, the aftermath of brain injury, and the inevitable unveiling of some really painful family secrets.

Now, those of you who know my reading tastes might suspect that I really didn't like this novel, especially given that when I was over halfway through I was 95% sure that a happy ending wasn't in the cards, and I do love my happy endings. Not so. I really enjoyed it. It was both beautiful and harsh, very like its setting. I loved the strength of the characters -- the strength with which they appear on the page (Anderson-Dargatz really loves each of them, you can tell) and the interior strength each of them has to keep going. I don't feel frustrated with them for making stupid decisions, because each character is flawed in a perfectly believable way -- they are flawed, but they aren't stupid.

What was really interesting about reading this book was that I read it on the heels of Range of Motion, and both contain the stories of women looking after a partner who has suffered a traumatic brain injury. Now, the main obvious difference is that Lainey does not have to deal with Jay being awake and changed, but instead he is completely unresponsive; Katrine deals with the aftermath of Ezra's stroke while he is awake and functioning, but dramatically changed from the man she married. And in Katrine's case, things are really not going well. Her relationship with Ezra is crumbling, partially because of the changes in him, but largely because Katrine finds the weight of being a caretaker saps her energy and ability to feel like anything but a caretaker. I have no idea what that role must be like, and I hope I never have to face the choices she faces.

Now, this book is labeled magic realism. I'm not sure I know exactly what it means, although I've used that label for a number of things I've read. The elements of the supernatural are woven throughout the story without seeming strange, and I guess that's what I would call magic realism -- the story isn't about the magic itself, it's just present. Really, when it comes down to it, this is a good old-fashioned ghost story, complete with horror and beauty and oppressive suspense. The suspense actually lead to me putting the book down for a couple of days about three chapters from the end, because I suspected that things were about to get extremely effed up. In essence, I was putting my hands over my ears during the campfire story. I am a chicken.

But in the end, it didn't get quite as effed up as I apparently hoped it would. This is maybe a statement on me, because I don't think it's necessarily a statement on Anderson-Dargatz's writing. The ending followed from everything that came before, and was definitely congruent. It's hard to say exactly what disappointed me without giving anything away. My problem with tragic endings wasn't the problem here. The ending wasn't particularly happy, or unhappy -- it just was, which is exactly as it should be. I think what happened is that I maybe built myself up for something different, bigger, scarier -- and that was a mistake, because the book itself wasn't necessarily doing that. I'd be interested to hear if anyone else has read this book, and what they thought of the ending.

Overall, I think parts of the book were masterful. The suspense in particular, and the characters, and the setting were all just fantastic. I don't know that it's as strong as I remember The Cure for Death by Lightning being, but that might be the passage of time elevating one over the other. The thing is, Anderson-Dargatz doesn't shy from portraying either cruelty or pain, of the common sort that humans regularly inflict upon one another. And while I am glad I read the book, I don't think I could convince myself to read it again.

Range of Motion by Elizabeth Berg

I was worried that I might find this book lessened, somehow, with the years. I haven't actually read it for a long time. Maybe since high school, maybe shortly after. I can't remember. Which turned out to be a good thing.

I was wrong to worry. I still love it, and it is still as luminous, joyous and sweet as I remember.

The story, nominally, follows Lainey (Elaine Berman) as she works her way through a life irrevocably changed by the fact that her husband is in a coma. She has two young daughters, and a best friend next door. Lainey's world revolves around her children, her husband and her neighbour, and we get to know them intimately through her eyes. And then there are the incidental characters, the nurses and the other patients, the other patients' families. Berg colours each of them in language so economical that it is incredible how very real they seem, even the least of them. And there is the setting -- Lainey's house being the location that takes on character-like qualities itself.

This is, first and foremost, a love story. And it's a story about ordinary people trying to make things happen and make life work. It is one of the most wonderful stories about human beings I have ever read.

I want to be Lainey. I am not as good as Lainey, or as optimistic, or as observant. She makes a brilliant, familiar, engaging narrator for us to enter her story. Lainey isn't perfect, but she is amazing. I love her voice and it amazes me how quickly her voice becomes mine, in my head. It's astonishing how quickly I can take Lainey in and make her a part of me. I do have a tendency to adopt a book's style of narration, or speech. With this book it takes a paragraph only for Lainey to be in my mind, speaking my thoughts to me. I don't mind at all. Here's a sample:

The woman I work with in the front, Dolly, is in love with him. She's full-time, she's worked with Frank for twenty-three years, and I don't think that he knows how she feels. He's married, happily; Dolly's shy and careful. She wears, with no sense of irony, pearl-decorated glasses chains and cardigan sweaters buttoned at the top. She's so happy when Frank's on the phone and can't get his own coffee. She carries it in to him as though it's her heart on a silver platter, which of course it is.

Lainey then has an extended fantasy about what her own life would be as a truck driver, brought on by reminiscing about how she likes paying the trucking invoices. The whole book is like this; simple and gentle, with Lainey as our filter for experiencing the world. She is kind and optimistic, and she notices everything. These are wonderful things in a first-person narrator.

There are a few instances where the book slips from sweet to saccharine and then further to cliché, but these are relatively few and far between. It is the kind of book set in a world and populated by people that the reader feels are probably too good to be true, but she can hope. And some of it is so honest and familiar that the reader knows that the pieces that matter are real.