Books read, early June

[mrissa]

Steven Brust, Five Hundred Years After. Reread. I got lured. Well--in all fairness it might be described as mutual luring. In any case, those of you who are going to 4th St. should perhaps be a bit conversationally careful lest alecaustin and I start talking like a pair of Paarfi novels. (It is with surprising ease that I can come up with a fictional pair of Paarfi titles that the two of us might be. More than one pair, even. Uff da.) I love these. markgritter said there were lots more Teckla Republic references in this one than he'd remembered, and it was more than I'd remembered as well. I like the Teckla Republic.

Jim Butcher, Turn Coat. I could wish for the overarching plot (as opposed to the single-volume plot, which was fine) to be moving forward a bit faster than it was. Also, the traitor at the end of the book was not even remotely satisfying to me. Otherwise it was another one of those, and it did the things those do. Not enough Mouse and Murphy. This is my usual complaint.

Samantha Henderson, Heaven's Bones. This is not my kind of book: too much on the border of dark fantasy and horror. I knew this going in--the cover was obvious. (It was a gift; apparently a good one, because I wouldn't have read it on my own and did read and enjoy it.) Also it's not a very creative book: ominous mists and fogs, sketchily done Roma, bereft doctor/husband carving up other women after his wife etc. etc. etc. All kind of been done before. I started reading it with the understanding that I was under no obligation to finish it. Yet I did finish it. What this says to me is that Samantha Henderson knows how to construct a book. The prose never really shone or called attention to itself, but it did pull me along and keep me from bolting, when I was prepared to bolt at the slightest provocation. So that was sort of interesting in itself.

Georgette Heyer, Faro's Daughter and The Quiet Gentleman. I like the ones where the sensible people get together and laugh affectionately at the silly people.

Gwyneth Jones, Spirit. I think one SFnal retelling of The Count of Monte Cristo was perhaps enough for me. Anyway, this was fine but not my favorite Gwyneth Jones by quite a bit.

Louis L'Amour, Off the Mangrove Coast. Grandpa's. This is where "genre" and "generic" intersect: these stories all did what you knew they were going to do--with surplus exclamation marks, I'm afraid--because they were the kinds of stories they were. And they were more invested in being kinds of stories than in being actual stories.

James Patterson "with" Andrew Gross, 2nd Chance. Grandpa's. Oh dear, was this a bad book. I was wondering whether a co-author would help. No. There were little things and big things wrong with this book. I was completely creeped out by the main character's long-lost father's fixation on her looks. He told her she was gorgeous/beautiful/etc. thirty bazillion times. And the phrasing is not that member of the family, "Oh honey, you grew up so pretty, you look just like your mother/aunt/cousin's best friend's roommate." It was not well done. Also the bits even slightly related to motherhood and work were implausible and offensive. He really just should not attempt to write female POV. Also: do not try to have people "talking black" if you don't know what it sounds like. A black professional woman talking to three white professional women who are her close friends does not sound like someone with a tin ear trying to reproduce what he heard when he turned on Oprah for half an hour once. And--oh, well, anyway: not a good book. Since Grandpa had several of the others in the series and some of them were "co-written" by women, I will be interested to see whether that improves them at all. (I put "co-written" in quotes because the amount of writing each author actually does varies so widely that I have no idea whether the later books in the series are essentially completely written by co-author and given a light editing pass by James Patterson or whether he does a seriously equal job in that context. Collaboration varies so much, but he is clearly the "name" in this case.)

James Patterson, The Midnight Club. Grandpa's. The hook on this thriller is that the action-hero main character is in a wheelchair. I will not be spoiling anything if I tell you that he walks in the end, with many italics and adjectives and ellipses and exclamation marks, because you know he will; it's that kind of book.

Mark Twain, The Mysterious Stranger and Other Stories. Grandpa's. Poor Mr. Twain. Most of the stories in this collection were written when he was old and was losing everybody he loved, and many of them had that "depressed cynic" feel, where if you enjoy eating a strawberry or looking at an interesting tree, you are DELUDING YOURSELF BECAUSE LIFE IS ALL PAIN AND MISERY AND WOOOOOE AND ANYBODY WHO SAYS DIFFERENT IS A FOOL AND THIS IS THE ONLY REALITY. And then you want to make him take deep breaths and possibly drink a cup of tea. Twain and Kurt Vonnegut: I want to bake them cookies and make them go weed my garden before they come in for their cookies. It just seems like the combination would be good for them.

Comments

[mamapduck.livejournal.com]

Part of what's so sad about Twain's later works is that you can look back at his early stuff and see that he wasn't always like that. I mean, he was a sarcastic bugger, but not... not so sad at the heart of it. He went from poking fun to just poking and while the later works are still brilliant, there's a sadness to realizing how his life was ending up.

[houseboatonstyx.livejournal.com]

"And they were more invested in being kinds of stories than in being actual stories."

That could explain a lot of stories.

[owldaughter.livejournal.com]

I could wish for the overarching plot (as opposed to the single-volume plot, which was fine) to be moving forward a bit faster than it was.

That is exactly what I said to my husband when I finished it. Except I wasn't as succinct.

[diatryma.livejournal.com]

There comes a point where piling fireworks, dynamite, and gunpowder in a heap stops being anticipatory awesome (THIS IS GONNA BE SO COOL) and starts being boring because really, what you're doing is shoveling and stacking. I think Turn Coat has hit this point for Dresden. The next one had better start lighting fuses.

[mrissa.livejournal.com]

I think I was supposed to be much more, um, invested in the outcome of the Anastasia subplot than I was.

[markgritter.livejournal.com]

I was annoyed because it seemed like it was just another one of Harry's cycles.

Susan's around, Susan's not around because she's a vampire, Susan comes back, Susan goes away again.

Thomas is a sex vampire, Thomas is reformed, Thomas is back to screwing people again.

Anastasia's screwing Harry, Anastasia's not screwing Harry.

What's next, will he kick out Molly and Mouse? Will Murphy take over SI again?

[mrissa.livejournal.com]

There Will Be No Kicking Out Of Mouse.

[diatryma.livejournal.com]

There was an Anastasia subplot?

[mrissa.livejournal.com]

There were a few events/discoveries related to her, at least.

[diatryma.livejournal.com]

I think I have ignored most of the Luccio-related events because she was so disappointing. Female Warden who can out-Morgan Morgan? Awesome. Except then it turned out not so much. She's not even really a bad guy, which I would have accepted a book ago.

[stillnotbored.livejournal.com]

Samantha Henderson, Heaven's Bones.

I don't know if anyone told you or not, but a whole lot of the reason things in that book seemed done and familiar is that it is a WOC shared world book. She was handed a world that already existed and a mythos that was set in stone and asked to write a story around it.

I was one of her first readers. I think considering the restrictions placed on her, Sam did an outstanding job. I can't wait to read a novel she builds from the ground up.

[mrissa.livejournal.com]

No, I didn't know that. Makes sense now that I do.

[fidelioscabinet.livejournal.com]

The thought of Mark Twain and Kurt Vonnegut hanging out together and being all cranky and grumpy is awesome, epscially the part where they stop going "The world and everything in it is a snare and a delusion! Woes! All is misery!" and start poking fun at each other for doing just that, until they crack themselves up.

They might not ever get the garden weeded, though, what with the mocking and all.

[houseboatonstyx.livejournal.com]

Didn't P. Jose Farmer already write that? ;/

[fidelioscabinet.livejournal.com]

Not well enough to do it justice, IMO.

[mrissa.livejournal.com]

No, Dead Cranky Authors Yard Service is not going to make a fortune from people who actually care about weeds.

[fidelioscabinet.livejournal.com]

But you could sell tickets, if the neighbors didn't complain.

[mrissa.livejournal.com]

Our northern neighbors would. They're Like That. So we'd have to do it on the south side of the house.