“The Hill Road” by Patrick O’Keeffe

Following closely on the heels of yesterday’s finally-concluded book and aided by a day off work, I’ve finished reading this collection of four novellas set in the Irish countryside. At a total of 225 pages, I should have come to the end far sooner than I did, but I suppose that's neither here nor there. 

When I first came across it, I didn't know anything about this book or its author, but I can tell you exactly why I bought it: it was on sale for $1 at Books-A-Million, and it was published by Penguin. And although I have no specific memory of this, I'm sure I also did the Dip Test to make sure the writing didn't suck (spoiler alert: it didn't). All this was years ago, though--who knows how long, exactly--and in the intervening time, this book languished on my shelves in a very un-Kondo-like way. (For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, see "The moment you first encounter a particular book is the right time to read it.")

This is the last of the slim volumes I brought with me on our April trip (though I obviously didn't read it during our April trip) with the idea of leaving a trail of books behind me. Having so nearly achieved its purpose (being read, obvs), I couldn't just re-shelve it, so it stayed in my TBR short stack. But when I finally got started, I found it slow going. I'm sure it didn't help that I was trying to read three other (non-fiction!) books at the same time. Each evening I would start with the one I was least interested in and force myself to read it for five minutes (which, in tangential but exciting news, has now brought me within 25 pages of the end of that one!) and would then cycle through the other two books until I allowed myself the treat of fiction. While this system will give me the (eventual) benefit of having read some books that are more good-for-me than enjoyable, I think it was detrimental to my reading of The Hill Road. Maybe for my next fiction selection I should try the "dessert first" method. (As I type this, I already know I won't allow myself to do that. If I do, it will end up being the "dessert only" method.)

The titular novella in this book comprises nearly half of the entirety, and I'm pretty sure it was my least favorite story of the four. It seemed to take me weeks to get through that one, and only a day or so for each of the others. That's not to say it wasn't well-written or worth reading, because it was both; but I don't feel like I settled into it the way I did with the other three. The central element that I remember is Albert Cagney's unraveling after his return from fighting in the Great War, as told through the memories shared with the story's narrator. Next was "Her Black Mantilla," about orphaned Alice Gilmartin who is sent to live with Lena Tarpey and her bed-ridden brother; Alice very nearly has a tryst with the man who had been in love with her older sister years before. Which, now that I think about it, is kind of a spoiler--oops, sorry about that. Then, in "The Postman's Cottage," Eoin O'Rourke's mysterious disappearance is ruminated upon years later, and although it's never clearly stated, by the end it seems that Kate Dillon knows what happened to Eoin. Lastly, in "That's Our Name," the death of the beautiful Yank found beaten and hanging in a tree is not such a mystery to Marty's mother. All four stories have secrets and memories and death, but maybe the first was a bit too sprawling or expansive compared to the other three.

“god is not Great” by Christopher Hitchens

I can’t believe it’s been more than a month since I last finished a book . . . okay, that’s not entirely true. It is a bit surprising given my typical reading habits, but when you know the specifics—I have been reading four books at the same time, and I’m not especially keen on any of them—it makes perfect sense. 

Anyway, one down, three to go. Unfortunately I didn’t give this book the most careful of readings, and now I’m wishing I had taken notes. 

Why did I choose this book in the first place? I don't remember even being aware of Christopher Hitchens until relatively recently. Maybe I first heard of him when Sam named him as one of the Four Horsemen of New Atheism; then Skeptics' Guide to the Universe talked about him in episode #336, following Hitchens' death in 2011. (I've been listening to their back catalog, and probably came across this episode in January of this year. Notably, I have just discovered that in 2.5 more episodes, I'll be hearing a SGU/Hitchens interview from 2007). Jay Novella specifically called this book a Must Read, and the provocative title piqued my interest. 

Hitchens has a very sharp and sarcastic tone in this book, and he refers to myriad people and historical events that I have no knowledge of. I could have spent ages on this book, going down all kinds of rabbit holes and learning many things I still don't know, but I was not prepared to spend that amount of time with it. My aim was to get a taste of the writer, not to intensely inspect all his claims and statements. But I do think I can sum up the main ideas of the book: all religions (and the god or gods of each) were created by man. Faith has been used as an excuse for many evils and abuses. And religious faith is not a prerequisite foundation for acts of kindness or a life of good moral character. Hitchens describes a focus on the afterlife and religion in this way: "It is as if someone, offered a delicious and fragrant out-of-season fruit, matured in a painstakingly and lovingly designed hothouse, should throw away the flesh and the pulp and gnaw moodily on the pit."

“Lady” by Thomas Tryon

This is the last of the ugly books I brought on our trip last month (which I obviously didn't read during our trip, but I of course felt compelled to read soon afterward). This is the second (and likely last) book I've read by Thomas Tryon, the other being The Other. I was sure Lady had been recommended to me in a comment on my Three Weeks blog post, but I checked just now, and that wasn't the case. Then I thought maybe the comment had followed my post on The Other, but it wasn't there either. I guess I'll never find that comment, and I'm sure I'll never remember where to look for it. And so I'll never recall why exactly the commenter thought I would like this book.

I didn't not like this book, but there was something a little off about it. I found the story a weird (if slightly less wholesome) combination of Stand By Me, A Christmas Story, Where the Red Fern Grows (without the dogs, or the fern, or the tear-jerkiness), and even a little bit of Anne of Green Gables (without Anne, or the nostalgia). The writing seemed overly florid and old-fashioned. And half the time I found myself wondering if it was possiby quite autobiographical--not because the story was so believable or realistic, but because it was so full of unnecessary detail. Not in a quirky, Dickensian way, but in a "what was the point of that paragraph?" way. But in the end I decided it wasn't based on Tryon's life (although he was born in Connecticut) and I found myself not really warming to the book. I don't know if that's because I'm being a book snob (this book is already fifty years old, but I'm pretty sure it's not considered a classic; it doesn't seem to be talked about or remembered) or if the book just isn't that great.

Lady tells the story of Woody, a young boy living in Pequot Landing, Connecticut, in what is probably the early 1930s. He befriends the pretty, wealthy widow living across The Green, Adelaide Harleigh, who goes by the nickname Lady. And the whole book is basically Woody growing up and gradually, over decades, learning Lady's secrets (most of which were probably much more shocking nearly a hundred years ago--or even in 1974, when the book was first published; and most of which were telegraphed pretty clearly before being spelled out in plain English). All that said, I still managed to enjoy the reading experience, and I'm always glad to knock another book off my TBR list (and it's just a bonus that it's one I'm happy to expunge from my shelves afterwards). 

“The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus” by Emma Knight

I'd been looking forward to reading this book ever since I first heard about it, which was months before it was released. But by the time it finally arrived, I found myself avoiding picking it up for a little while. What if it was just meh? What if I didn't like it at all? Or what if I liked it too much?  

Finally I got over myself and read it, and in the end it was just right. Knight's writing is clear and precise, and she has some really good turns of phrase. Unfortunately I didn't note any until this one towards the end: "Her way of looking made Pen feel like a fish at the market, gutless and splayed on ice chips, on the verge of being sliced up and eaten raw." Pretty evocative! I could imagine just what that felt like.

Despite the title of this book (and the reference to a fish market), I made it all the way through chapter 40 with nary an octopus in sight (unless you count the epigraph). But that's not as surprising as it might seem. This is not a story about marine biology, but about human relationships, and how they grow, change, and sometimes dissolve over time. The octopus only exists as a metaphor for the self-effacement of motherhood, which can occur in even the most intelligent beings; when fought against, it can make the mother feel judged as selfish and unnatural. At least according to Margot.

Motherhood isn't really the major theme of the book, though. It definitely appears in various tangential threads throughout the book, but the main character (Penelope "Pen" Winters) is a Canadian university student studying in Scotland, with not even a hint of a baby on the horizon. There is a minor mystery in her life, though. When Pen's dad went to university in Scotland, his best friend was Elliot Lennox. But for some reason Lord Lenox and Ted Winters are no longer on speaking terms, and Pen wants to know why. So we are treated to a cast of unique characters and their university life, as well as Pen's interactions with the posh (but also down-to-earth and welcoming) Lennox family. And as it turns out, sometimes the best mysteries aren't the ones you solve--they're the ones that teach you something about yourself and the people you love.

“The End of the Road” by John Barth

I don’t even know what to think about this book.

Jacob "Jake" Horner has been under the care of a doctor for Remobilization Therapy for the past two years. (What is Remobilization Therapy, you may ask? It is intended to resolve Jake's inability to make a decision, which is severe enough that it rendered him practically catatonic in a train station for more than a day.) Now twenty-eight, and having floated between temporary jobs throughout his therapy, his doctor has told him to take a teaching position at Wicomico State Teacher's College in Maryland. So he does. 

There Jake meets fellow teacher Joe Morgan and his wife Rennie. Joe and Jake are both highly intelligent, but beyond that they are opposites: married vs single, a parent vs childless, but most importantly, their ways of thinking are diametrically opposed. Joe is decisive and opinionated, sees everything in black and white, and wants everything defined and discussed. He has a very strong (if strange) identity. Whereas for Jake, all of life is a gray area. He avoids making decisions, is impossible to pin down in a debate because he has no strongly-held beliefs, and when asked what he thinks about something, his most frequent answer is "I don't know"--not because he finds it difficult to express what he thinks, but because he just doesn't think about that thing. He has an almost complete absence of identity.

I usually try to avoid spoilers in my blog posts, but I'm just going to lay it all out for this one, partly because it was written decades ago so it's not likely that you've been waiting all this time for just the right moment to read this book, and partly because I'm a bit baffled and maybe I'll figure something out as I type. So here we go. Jake, Joe and Rennie become close friends, spending a lot of time together and having deep philosophical conversations that mostly just flew right over my head. Then one night when Joe is out of town, with no preamble or even much of a hint of sexual tension, Jake and Rennie end up in bed together--Jake because he's just going with the flow and not making any decisions, and Rennie because--well, I don't know that she ever gives a reason, but afterwards she's definitely regretful. After a few agonizing days, she confesses to Joe, who reacts in a very Joe way and wants to understand the motives behind their betrayal. He obviously finds it very unsatisfying that Jake can't provide any explanation. So Joe basically decides to force Jake and Rennie to continue their affair until they can come up with an explanation . . . and after a month or so, Rennie ends up pregnant, but there's no way to know who the father is . . . and she ends up dying from aspiration of vomit while under ether for an abortion performed by Jake's Remobilization Therapist. And I was left thinking, WTF was all of that? I feel sure it was rife with symbolism and allegory, but I'm not sure what the hidden meaning was. The whole thing left me feeling a bit unsettled and off balance. And (if you're ready for an embarrassing confession) it didn't help that throughout most of the book I had conflated John Barth with Roland Barthes. 

So I'll wrap up with a thought about the ending. While abortion is not what this book is about, it's obviously a major plot point, and it portrays a horrifying experience that leaves a woman dead. Here's what I find interesting: I know that some people would read this and say, see, this is why women shouldn’t be allowed to have abortions. But others would read this and say, see, this is why abortion should be legal . . . so that it can safely be performed by a trained doctor rather than a Remobilization Therapist.

“The Red House Mystery” by A. A. Milne

Next up in the line of Paperbacks To Shed was much more enjoyable. Did you know that A. A. Milne wrote more than just Winnie the Pooh? I was vaguely aware of this, but had never read anything of his other than Pooh, When We Were Very Young, and Now We Are Six. So I didn't know what to expect from Milne's writing for adults, although I guessed it was possible he would be shockingly raunchy and I might never be able to look at that silly old bear the same way again. 

Thankfully, The Red House Mystery is a cozy one, much in the vein of Agatha Christie (which, as you know, is right up my alley), so Pooh is safe. This is the story of a very English house party during a (maybe not so English) hot summer week. Host Mark Ablett's estranged brother Robert returns from Australia, is found dead in Mark's office only minutes after he arrives, and Mark has disappeared. Four of the houseguests scarper to avoid the awkwardness (but no matter, their alibis were airtight); two remain to solve the mystery. At first it seems obvious that Mark was the killer and is now on the run, but as Antony Gillingham collects clues with the aid of his Watson, William Beverley, they begin to realize things are not as simple as they seem. I guessed the solution long before Tony and Bill did, but that was part of the fun. 

While I was left with much happier feelings about this book than the one I finished the day before, I was happy to shed it as well, and do not plan to buy a nicer copy.

“The French Lieutenant’s Woman” by John Fowles

The last time we went away for a week, I only brought two books, and it was very nearly a disaster. I’d been trying to pack light (at which I succeeded) and also trying to be reasonable about the amount of time I would have available for reading (at which I failed—or, viewed from another perspective, maybe I was too reasonable). 

This time I brought six books (albeit short-ish ones, and paperbacks only, so they would not take up too much space in—or add too much weight to—my luggage). And I purposely chose old, humdrum editions that I would not want as part of my collection after reading (if I really loved the story and wanted to possess the book forever, I would buy a nicer copy). This way I could shed weight as I went, leaving a trail of books behind me. (Which, I have just realized, would be the best superpower ever.)

Up until now, I have enjoyed all of my John Fowles reading experiences (of which there have been at least three), but I will decidedly not be buying a nicer copy of The French Lieutenant's Woman. Unsurprisingly, the writing was great, and the story was absorbing enough. It starts with a betrothed Victorian couple, Charles and Ernestina, strolling along the seaside in Lyme Regis and gossiping about Tragedy, the miserable young woman all in black who has scandalized the town by pining over a French sailor. It ends with everyone being miserable (including me). The advanced praise at the beginning of the book promised the story would grab me from the first page (it didn't) and a sex scene so steamy that it would, like, cause my head to explode or something (skull is still intact). But even if I hadn't had too-high expectations, I think this book would have fallen flat for me.

I do understand that the story is meant to be a social commentary on Victorian repression, but I just can't grasp the character of Sarah Woodruff. I don't understand her or her motivations, and I don't identify with her at all. What did she want? What was she trying to achieve? Did she just decide she didn't want it after all, or was it not what she expected, or did she feel she didn't deserve happiness (but if not, why not?), or was she just completely perverse in a way that I can't wrap my mind around?

I’m just angry.

Ugh.

“Le chien jaune” by Georges Simenon

Check it out! I've read a book in French! (Did it take me almost six years? Yes. Yes, I literally started reading this book in 2019. This teeny, teeny tiny book of only 183 pages.)

Here's how it went. 

1. I took 5.5 years of French in school, which was only enough to make a bank clerk giggle when I said, "Je voudrais échanger de l'argent." (I still don't know what I did wrong there. Was it just my accent? Or did I somehow word it the way a pirate would, asking for pieces of eight?) I always intended to get better at French, so maybe next time I ask a waiter "Avez-vous du beurre," he won't superciliously reply, "Oui, nous avons du beurre" instead of just bringing me some dang butter. 

2. I took a few decades off from learning French and probably forgot most of the little bit I'd learned in school.

3. In September 2018 I discovered Duolingo, and started learning French again. 

4. Sam told me that reading books in French would accelerate my progress. On one of our too-rare but always-fun visits to Half Price Books, I discovered a teeny tiny foreign language section, and picked up this slim mystery novel called "The Yellow Dog." 

5. I tried reading it and found it very very difficult. I felt like I had to look up almost every word (or ask Sam if I was getting it right, which made it feel too much like work for him). I started keeping a list of new words in a little notebook . . . that list goes on for pages and pages. Some words appear on the list more than once, because I forgot that I had already learned them. 

6. I was initially trying to read a little bit every night before I went to sleep, but I don't think I stuck with that for very long. I don't remember for sure, but I probably let this project lapse for quite some time. 

7. About a year and a half ago, I decided to get back to it, and decided on the more reasonable schedule of once a week, working through one or two pages in each session. I also started writing down an English translation. (Believe me, the end result is not impressive. But it did help me keep the story straight in my mind.)

8. Now here I am, at the end! 

Did it work? Did my progress accelerate? Hard to say. I continued needing to look words up until the very last page. Maybe, just maybe, by the end it was more because I wasn't sure I was getting it right, as opposed to having no idea what was going on. And possibly I could work my way through a page marginally faster by the end than I could at the beginning. It HAD to have done some good, right? I mean, it can't possibly have slowed my progress. But I must admit it didn't do as much good as I had hoped and expected. 

So what about the story itself? It's part of a series built around a particular character, a police inspector named Jules Maigret (or Le Commissaire Maigret), who is a less flamboyant and less obviously arrogant Hercules Poirot. He is called in to investigate a series of incidents linked to l'hôtel de l'Amiral in Concarneau: Mostaguen, the wine dealer, is shot (but not killed) through the letter box of an abandoned house on his way home from the cafe; his friend Yves le Pommeret has drinks in the cafe, goes home for dinner, then dies of strychnine poisoning; their acquaintance, the journalist Jean Servieres (also called Goyard), disappears, leaving behind his bloodstained car. What is happening in this formerly sleepy seaside town? Leave it to Maigret to get to the bottom of this mysterious business.

Obviously I was more interested in what this book could do for my French than in the story itself, but it helped that the book wasn't dry and dull. And I plan to keep going! I have three more French books lined up and waiting for me. Get ready, because I'll be reviewing the next one in about six years . . . 

“The Whisperwicks, Volume I: The Labyrinth of Lost and Found” by Jordan Lees

The day I’m too old for children’s books will be a very dark day indeed. 

So says the surprising Minotaur at the center of the labyrinth. And suddenly I'm feeling off-kilter because I hadn't really been enjoying reading this book. It has plenty of elements that I love, taking place in a magical world discovered on the other side of a doorway in the basement of a bookshop. It's full of adventure, intrigue and mystery. But somehow this book wasn't hitting it for me. I couldn't possibly, finally, actually, be . . . old??

We bought this book purely for the cover art, which is by Isobelle Ouzman. If you're not familiar with her work, you really should check it out. But, being a book that we own that I had not yet read, it ended up on my TBR shelf (which is actually multiple shelves) and I decided it was time to give it a go. So it's a little disappointing that it turned out to not be my thing, but I aim to keep it on display!

“I’ve never met a reader who wasn’t special in one way or another. When you read, you connect with the world . . . As it once was, as it is, and as it one day might be. To read, to be curious, is the most astonishing kind of magic.”

“Insignifiant Events in the Life of a Cactus” by Dusti Bowling

So get this. My 12-year-old baby read this book in school last month, then decided I needed a copy of my own to read. He conspired with Sam to get me one, it arrived on Monday, and Baby gave it to me as a surprise gift. Which marks the first time in about 15 years that one of my kids has been so strongly affected by a book that they coerced me to read it; I can remember Bookworm Child (who is now Bookworm Adult) reading a children’s novel and then telling me, “You have GOT to read this book!!” (Although now I can’t remember which book that was. I was sure I blogged about it! But I searched for it to no avail.)

I love surprise books! And it's even better when it's a book that I enjoy. I'm sure I never would have picked this book up (or even heard about it) on my own, but it definitely wasn't a chore to read. It was actually quite interesting. It's about a 13-year-old girl named Aven who moves from Kansas to Arizona in the middle of the school year so that her parents can manage a failing theme park called Stagecoach Pass. Such a move might be hard on any adolescent, but it's especially so for a girl who was born with no arms. Aven is very self-sufficient and has learned to do amazing things with her feet (including writing and playing guitar), but being "unarmed" certainly sets her apart as different. But instead of being mired in self-pity and moping about all the things she can't do, Aven is spunky and sarcastically funny and doesn't let her armlessness stop her. 

I think my favorite part about this book was how, every morning, Baby asked me how much I'd read and what I thought. You should have seen his eyes bug out on Thursday morning when I told him I'd already finished it!

“The Tree” by John Fowles and Frank Horvat

It's strange how memory works (or doesn’t). Sam read this book years and years ago, and he loved it. Then, a while back, we bought a copy and started reading it aloud to each other  . . . and it wasn't very long before Sam said, "Wow, this book is kind of boring." So we set it aside, but (as usual) I always intended to finish it.

When I finally pulled The Tree out again (though not to read aloud), Sam smiled and said, “I love that book!” He still remembered his initial experience with it and had forgotten all about the boredom since then. 

This book is more like a long essay, with each facing page a different tree photographed by Frank Horvat. It was first published in 1979, and while the photographs seem to me to be "of their time" and may not be the type of art you want to hang on the wall in large format, each one has its own subtle beauty. The writing could be described in the same way. It is a call to protect our natural world--more for the wildness of it than specimen preservation, arboretum-style--which I think may be even more warranted now than it was decades ago. It ends with a fascinating description of Whistman's Wood, which I would love to see in person someday, but for now I'll have to be satisfied by the Wikipedia entry.

By alex jane from london, uk - ancient woodland, CC BY-SA 2.0

“Cheese, Wine, and Bread” by Katie Quinn

Cheese, Wine, and Bread is part travelogue, part memoir, and part exploration of the most delicious of human creations, with a few recipes scattered throughout. The title makes it pretty obvious what the main topics are; author Katie Quinn delves into how each of these things are made, going to England to learn about cheese, Italy to learn about wine, and France to learn about bread.

I wouldn't go so far as to call this book a cookbook, especially considering the fact that I tried one of the recipes (yes, just one!)—the “drunken spaghetti”—and did not love it. If the first recipe in a book is a dud, I am hardly tempted to try any more of them. 

My sweet friend RME gave this book to me for Christmas 2021. It took me a while to make my way through it! I wasn't consistently reading it at first, but I finally found a rhythm with reading a few minutes of it every night at bedtime. I know I was reading it regularly by May 2024, because our visit to Neal’s Yard Dairy in Covent Garden was inspired by this book! 

Speaking of inspiration, this book did NOT inspire me to up my bread-making game. Can more amazing bread than mine be made? Yes, I’m sure it can. Can it be made more easily and efficiently than mine? Well, if this book is any indication: no. No, it cannot. So I plan to remain content with my great-if-not-amazing, easy-and-efficient loaves. As long as they're good enough for Sam, they're good enough for me!