Give me books, fruit, french wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors. --John Keats

Thursday, June 27, 2024

“The House of the Seven Gables” by Nathaniel Hawthorne

I have had this book for so long. I mean, dang, I bought it back when you could get a new paperback for fifty cents. I don't remember exactly where I got it (though judging by the cover, the obvious answer is Wal-Mart) or when I got it (pretty sure it was decades ago . . . but weirdly this book doesn't have a copyright page, so I have no idea when it was printed. Not that it really matters too much, but I was curious, and have been unable to assuage my curiosity). All I know is that the cover looks very Scooby Doo. (Just imagine a stream of bats flying out of that attic window!) And I think I bought it because it's one of those novels that other English classes studied in high school, but mine didn't, and I always felt like I should read it at some point. 

I do think I tried to read it once years ago, but I didn’t get very far. I uncovered it again during our Great Book Migration this spring, so I brought it on our trip last month (the idea was to try to force myself to read it), but that didn’t work. (I’ll be honest: ultimately I just wanted to read it so I could then get rid of it. It is not a handsome copy.) When I finally did pick it up, it took me a while to get into the story, although the last four or five chapters finally went a bit faster. And now--yay, goal met! This book can go in the to-sell stack for our next trip to Half Price Books. 

The House of the Seven Gables is the story of the renowned Pyncheon family of Massachusetts. Ages ago, they built a large and handsome house (with seven gables, no less!) on the plot of land formerly occupied by Matthew Maule, who was hanged as a wizard and who cursed the Pyncheons on his way to the gallows. Years later (in or around 1851, I assume, since that's when the novel was first published), the house is mouldering, occupied only by a cast of four: the scowling old maid, Hepzibah Pyncheon; her addled and reclusive brother, Clifford, recently released from prison; their effervescent young cousin from the countryside, Phoebe; and a quiet and enigmatic daguerreotypist lodger, Holgrave. (I don't think his first name is ever mentioned.) Brother and sister are sometimes visited by their other cousin, Judge Jaffrey Pyncheon, who inherited the family's money but not the right to live in the Pyncheon mansion.

And really, not a lot happens in this book. I mean, my copy is 330 pages long, but (if I wasn't worried about spoilers) I could lay out the plot for you in three sentences. It just takes Hawthorne a long, looong, loooooong time to get from one plot point to the next, with unnecessarily extensive descriptions in between. In fact, screw spoilers--to make sure I am never tempted to read this book again, I am going to summarize the whole thing, so stop now if you are planning to read this book and you want to be surprised.

Jaffrey thinks Clifford knows the secret of where the Pyncheon deed to a vast tract of land is hidden (which, if Jaffrey were to possess it, would make him infinitely more rich). He tells Hepzibah that either Clifford must divulge the secret, or Jaffrey will have Clifford institutionalized. Hepzibah finally gives in and goes to Clifford's room to find him, but he's not there, and when she returns to the parlor, she finds Jaffrey dead; Clifford is in the parlor too, and he is ecstatic. There's a bit about Hepzibah and Clifford leaving on a train, and there's the suggestion that Clifford killed Jaffrey (just like Clifford supposedly killed Jaffrey's uncle thirty years earlier), but as it turns out, Jaffrey merely died from the same hereditary choking-on-blood disease that the uncle also died of (Clifford didn't kill either man--in fact, there was no murder at all). And Holgrave (who was actually a Maule, which was not quite the surprise to me that I think the author intended) and Phoebe fall in love, and everyone lives happily ever after (except for Jaffrey) in Jaffrey's country house. 

I guess that was five sentences instead of three? And it also doesn't go into the fact that Jaffrey had actually framed Clifford all those years ago (though not intentionally for the uncle's death--he had merely been trying to cover up the fact that he himself had been rifling through the uncle's belongings) and that, all the while, the deed to the vast tract of land had been hidden behind the portrait of old Colonel Pyncheon (in the niche behind the painting had been built, as had the rest of the house, by Matthew Maule's son) though, all these years later, the deed was worthless. AND it does not address the fact that this would have been a much better (if very different) book if Holgrave/Maule had actually murdered Cousin Jaffrey.

In the end, this was definitely not my favorite book with the word “gables” in the title, but it was ok. 

Friday, June 7, 2024

“The Tailor of Panama” by John le Carré

Sigh. I finished reading this book a week and a half ago and have dragged my feet about it ever since then. Each day that passes solidifies my impression: this was just not my kind of book. The bad thing is, it's the only John le Carré book I've ever read. I'm torn between wondering if I won't like any of his books, and wondering if I shouldn't even bother trying to find out. 

We recently re-organized all the books in our house, and now all my TBRs are together (all 384 of them). This makes it both easier and more difficult to choose my next read. All my choices are in one spot, but . . . oof, there are so many choices. (Once I get through my current stack-in-progress, I am definitely going back to my old system, because it was awesome: choose 4 books, and read them in order from the one that interests me the least to the one that interests me the most.)

We took a trip last month, and 1) I brought the right amount of books based on previous trips (one for every two days), but 2) for some reason we did very little reading on this trip and 3) I brought two books I wasn't super-excited about reading, and this was one of them. (Now that I think about it, #3 probably had an impact on #2.) Good thing we had a long flight, because I was able to force my way through this one on the way home. It was hard for me to get into, but then it started to get kinda good . . . which lasted for about twenty pages before it dropped back down into meh territory. What's more, I couldn't grasp the tone. I read it as tongue-in-cheek and darkly humorous, but it got pretty serious towards the end. Did I misread the whole thing?

OK, so everyone knows le Carré does spy novels, right? Intrigue, suspense, backstabbing--seems like something I could get into. And the premise of this one isn't bad: there's a tailor in Panama (would you ever have guessed?) who dresses all the rich people, making him fairly well-connected. He's a British expat, so when a guy, from, like, MI6 or whatever shows up looking for a new spy, he figures the tailor is his man. Especially because he knows the tailor is living a lie to hide the embarrassing details of his past. This is good for two reasons: the tailor obviously knows how to keep a secret, but also the spy-recruiter knows the tailor will probably do anything to keep his secret past a secret. BUT what the spy guy doesn't know is that the tailor just Makes Up a Bunch of Stuff ALL the time. So when New Spy is feeding information to Old Spy . . . most of it is a crock. I don't know, it was just all over the place, kind of like this blog post. I'm just gonna hit publish before this gets any worse. 

Oh . . . is THAT what happened to this book??