As always, Connelly can spin a story. My attention was captured from beginning to end. Connelly brings all of his personal experiences to bear in The Scarecrow, which opens with a bitter portrait of modern reporting. Jack McEvoy has just been canned, a victim of the downsizing endemic in the newspaper game. More humiliating still, he is forced to train his replacement, a gorgeous, unscrupulous, technologically-savvy neophyte. But when he sees an opening to go out with a bang with a story about a teenage killer, he decides to take it. Unfortunately for Jack, he soon realises that the kid is innocent and the real killer is still at large and stalking him.
The plot itself is in the same style as Connelly's other thriller-style books, with the protagonist's narration interspersed with narrative from the killer's perspective. In this case, rather outlandishly unrealistic hacking and technological espionage plays a major role in the plot. Connelly's age is more apparent here, as he present technology with a certain wonder and mysticism that betrays his memory of a world before the web's pre-eminence.
I've always experienced a certain disconnect with Jack McEvoy, and I think it was exacerbated in this book. McEvoy sees tragedy as a story, to the point that his memory of the Poet is the fame it brought him, not his own brother's death. In the same way, he readily lies to a kid's family to get close enough to write a vicious story, and views the deaths around him as an opportunity rather than a tragedy. This book also brings Rachel Walling back into the picture, and she's never been precisely my favourite character.
All the same, it's an enjoyable, captivating tale, a nice conclusion to McEvoy's saga, and with plenty of cameo roles from the characters of Connelly's other series....more
TRIGGER WARNING: The book's themes include self-harm and suicide, with several vivid scenes.
When her life falls apart, Diane Butler succumbs to the iTRIGGER WARNING: The book's themes include self-harm and suicide, with several vivid scenes.
When her life falls apart, Diane Butler succumbs to the impulse to seek out her mother's support. Her desperation coalescing into impulsivity, Diane hops on a plane to Dzibilchaltun, Mexico, to seek out the famous archaeologist mother that she hasn't seen since the age of fifteen. But Diane's mother, Elizabeth, has her own problems. She has long been accustomed to seeing shadows of the past; as she says,
"I do not live entirely in the present. Sometimes, I think that the ghosts of the past haunt me. Sometimes, I think that I haunt them. We come together in the uncertain hours of dawn and dusk, when the world is on the edge between day and night."
She is used to watching the figures of long-dead students and pioneers wander the Berkeley campus, to passing by ancient Mayans who haunt the ruins of the pyramids in her current excavation at Dzibilchaltun. But for the first time, one of her shadows has been able to see and speak to her as well. The long-dead priestess of a long-abandoned goddess has promised to show Elizabeth a great secret about the ruins, but at a price. Even as Diane begins to wonder if she is losing her grip on reality and following her mother's descent into madness, Elizabeth is forced to reconsider her own life, her acceptance of her reality, of the shadows of the past that haunt her. Now, as the days move inevitably towards a new Tzolk'in in the Mayan calendar, both women must come to grips with the past before it shatters their lives. As Elizabeth warns,
"Do not look for revelations in the ancient ruins. You will find here only what you bring: bits of memory, wisps of the past as thin as clouds in the summer, fragments of stone that are carved with symbols that sometimes almost make sense."
The Falling Woman is a dreamy, ponderous, darkly atmospheric work, richly embellished with history and archaeology. It reminded me sharply of the Gothic works of Barbara Michaels. Like Michaels' works, the book revolves around the unearthing and piecing together of the long-dead past, using archaeology as a metaphor for more contemporary excavations. Murphy's descriptions of the site and the ancient Mayans are richly detailed and constituted one of my favourite aspects of the book. Her descriptions of the past are elegant and lyrical, brushed with insight:
"In 1568, the Spanish had quarried stones from the old Mayan temples and used them in a new church, building for the new gods on the bones of the old."
I loved the descriptions of Mayan culture, the comparisons against our own:
"We find the Mayan pantheon peculiar. By our standards, suicide and human sacrifice are unacceptable. We tend not to notice the peculiarities of our own culture. We accept the thousands of children who wear braces to correct their teeth, yet we consider the Maya odd for filing their teeth to beautify them. Each culture defines its own idiosyncrasies and then forgets it has done so."
What would the Mayans--or even the women of the eighties--think of us, we who inject toxic bacteria into our faces to paralyze the muscles, who straighten and die and curl our hair in some places and shave and bleach and tear it out in others, who undergo surgical procedures to suck the fat from our stomachs and implant silicone bags in our breasts? As Elizabeth says,
"A society defines what is normal and what is crazy--and then says anyone who challenges the definition is crazy."
At the same time, I found the discussion of moral relativism a little facile, and the events of the book make it uneasy and contradictory. Elizabeth warns about the perils of applying modern morality to ancient cultures, but seems to forget her own strictures as soon as she starts considering specifics rather than generalities.
The book is strongly feminist, an exploration of gender and roles that is bound to its time and its own cultural background. Elizabeth saw her marriage and escaped it, leaving her child behind, a contentious choice at that time. Marriage, and her husband's attempts to force Elizabeth into conformity, is portrayed as a stifling entrapment, a cage, a destruction of self. The ancient ghost of Zuhuy-kak was a strong woman who represented a female goddess at a time when the invasion of the Toltecs pushed the Mayan culture towards patriarchy. As she explains ruefully,
"I was mad because I said words they did not wish to hear, because they could not control me, they could not drag me along like a tethered dog. And so they said I was mad."
The Falling Woman is thoughtful and open-ended, yet never quite manages to escape the fetters its own time. Perhaps because I'm used to the cut-and-dry wrap-ups of detective fiction, I felt that the plot never quite crystallized into clarity, leaving a series of dangling threads and ambiguous subplots. Like most of the supernatural gothic suspense that I have encountered, most of the book is devoted to slowly intensifying a pervasive sense of foreboding by juxtaposing commonplace events with ambiguous omens. The Falling Woman is an atmospheric and elegant work, a meticulously researched exploration of Mayan culture, a thoughtful exploration of feminism. For Diane and Elizabeth, disrupting the rubble of the past may only undermine the future.
If you, like me, have been watching the recent US government shutdown with a mixture of horror and incredulity, you may have been wondering why on earIf you, like me, have been watching the recent US government shutdown with a mixture of horror and incredulity, you may have been wondering why on earth Congress decided to shut down government rather than (a) wrangle out the budget crisis months ago, or (b) accept (at least provisionally) the laws already passed that instituted Obamacare. I think I've found the reason. I believe that the entire Republican branch of Congress secretly created a bookclub in which they read and discussed Flashback. Dreading Simmons' prognosticated Obamapocalypse, they figured it would be far better to see what would happen if the government shut down instead.
Like Raymond Chandler, I have to give Dashiell Hammett credit for essentially creating one of my favourite genres: hardboiled detec**edited 11/23/2013
Like Raymond Chandler, I have to give Dashiell Hammett credit for essentially creating one of my favourite genres: hardboiled detective/noir. In addition, Hammett's account has much more factual basis than Chandler's, as Hammett could draw from his own experiences as a Pinkerton detective. Even so, I just can't seem to force myself to like or appreciate The Maltese Falcon, and the reason is pretty simple: I really don't like the characters.
It seems to me that every subsequent noir PI is based on either Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, and I am unilaterally pro the ones based on Marlowe. Marlowe is the fast-talking, sarcastic, cynical idealist, a jerk with a heart of gold, a tarnished knight walking the mean streets. Sam Spade... isn't.
Rogue Male is very strange. Something of a precursor to James Bond or the Bourne Identity and all that, and a solid member of early noir, the story feRogue Male is very strange. Something of a precursor to James Bond or the Bourne Identity and all that, and a solid member of early noir, the story features an unnamed protagonist who decides that hunting lions and other furry critters just isn't exciting any more, and that the next logical big game is a totalitarian dictator. The story details his attempts to off said dictator, and, when the tables are turned, the henchmen of said dictator trying to off him.
I couldn't warm to our rogue male, nor could I really sympathize with his goals. He eventually reveals that his reason for Dictator Hunting is in revenge for the death of his true love, but it takes a really long time--and a long slide from my ability to sympathize--before he admits this. The story is strangely propagandist (it's the late 1930s...guess who the dictator is?), yet (to me at least) completely devoid of introspection. I don't get it, and I just couldn't like The Male....more
Book summary in one sentence: Hey, kids, don't do drugs.
Longer summary: college student Carol loads up her mysterious past and deadbe**edited 01/30/14
Book summary in one sentence: Hey, kids, don't do drugs.
Longer summary: college student Carol loads up her mysterious past and deadbeat druggie boyfriend and goes down to Mexico to find her long-lost father. She meets up with him and quickly becomes perplexed and afraid of the mysterious behaviour of the people around her. Throughout, Carol fights constantly to pull her boyfriend away from the diabolical lure of drugs; the conclusion is obvious from the first dire foreshadowing sidenote. Evil portents and dark omens abound; actual mystery and suspense are entirely absent. The main character is weak and the rest of the cast is uniformly unpleasant and uninteresting.
I found this to be a preaching, proselytizing, depressing, boring, and above all simplistic book. And Elizabeth Peters wrote it. Appalled? I was. In fact, I'm still incredulous. This can't have been written by Peters. It just has to have been written by some malefactor who stole her name.
Something Red captures the purest elements of suspense: the fear of the unknown, of the mundane suddenly becoming unreal. The tale is told from the peSomething Red captures the purest elements of suspense: the fear of the unknown, of the mundane suddenly becoming unreal. The tale is told from the perspective of Hob, a thirteen-year-old boy recently apprenticed into a motley band of travelling musicians. Hob's companions are Jack, a dark and silent man of impressive strength and great gentleness, Nemain, a beautiful red-haired girl of about Hob's age, and Molly, the mysterious and powerful healer and leader of the group. As the band travels about the northwest of England, their ordinary experiences of travel are repeatedly interrupted by terrifying deaths and maulings that defy all attempts of defence and protection. As the fear steadily grows, it is unclear which is more terrifying: the mysterious beast deep in the shadows of the forest or the unknown monster within the group itself.
The book itself defies categorization. Although the blurb describes it as a combination of mystery, fantasy, and romance, I would consider it much more of a historical novel or coming-of-age story with a touch of the supernatural. The plot itself details the characters' trek across the country as they attempt to avoid the mysterious being that seems to stalk their very footsteps. Although there is a continual and brilliantly constructed feeling of suspense and fear of the unknown, to me, the story lacks the action-driven focus of a thriller. The mystery itself is not particularly complex; there are very direct hints throughout of the individuals involved, although the actual mechanism has a fantastic and unexpected twist. (view spoiler)[
Considering the convenient absence of the villain, I didn't find it hard to guess who was responsible. I loved the fact that the characters' names had meanings (the monster's name means "dream") and was excited to find out the motivations, but I was disappointed by the superficiality and lack of depth. Maybe I'm naïve, but I don't think general bloodthirstiness and greed would drive someone to help a monster to slaughter others. As for the “companion monster”, I think we were supposed to guess early what was going on there, given that at 20%, we already knew he was hirsute, incredibly strong, and growly-voiced. The reader's knowledge of his dual character greatly added to the suspense. I had him pinned as a werewolf, however--I had no suspicions that he was a silver-backed gorilla! (hide spoiler)]
It instead feels focused on the experiences of the journey and their effects on Hob as he grows into manhood. The title itself perfectly captures the mood of the story, for the suspense and fear stems from the unknown, from the “something” glimpsed in the dark shadows of the forest, the ambiguous hints about the gruesome secrets of one of his companions, and his own confused feelings for the red-haired Nemain as he stands on the threshold of maturity. Red, the colour of blood, takes on the attributes of both violence and life. “Something red” becomes allegorical of Hob's fear of and fascination with the unknown as he transitions to adulthood.
One of the aspects that brought this story to life was the beautifully detailed renderings of the characters' surroundings. Nicholas truly breathes life into the world he creates via the elaborate details he provides. He also clearly did an enormous amount of research, and his love of the time period imbues his descriptions with a palpable combination of magic and familiarity. Nicholas' style is almost cinematographic in the depth of its visual detail. The characters' surroundings are described in so much depth that they become characters and entities in themselves. One particular moment, when Hob's senses are alive to potential attack and the entire world seems to grow silent, stood out for me. Nicholas perfectly captures that sense of inner stillness, of the world holding its breath, despite the ongoing mundane conversations that continue around Hob. I almost felt as though I could hear the faint breathing of the ox and the droning of one of the pilgrims as my ears strained to capture the whispers of danger around me.
Compared to the landscapes, the characters themselves felt curiously incomplete to me, rough sketches in an immersive and exquisitely painted landscape. Much of the narrative and description is provided by the third-person limited narrator, who, although ostensibly from Hob's perspective, does not precisely channel Hob's thoughts. Instead, the point of view is more distant, clearly telling the story to those removed from the environment. When the surroundings are described, the narrator often provides details about standard practices of the time, such as cleaning the rushes on the floor of the Great Hall during feasts. These details help to provide the wonderful lifelike realism of Nicholas' world, but in some sense detract from a feeling of closeness to Hob, since they are clearly outside of both his current experiences and his thoughts. Most of the action and narrative is provided from this third perspective, and in fact there is surprisingly little dialogue between characters. Often, I was told of Hob's thoughts or provided with summaries of conversations rather than experiencing the conversations themselves. This distanced me from the characters, for I could not hear them speak and was not privy to the details and quirks that would bring them to life. Robert, a knight that the travellers encounter and who is encumbered with a troublesome horse, is one of the most vocal characters. His dialogue and comedic antics with the horse made him, for me, one of the most rounded characters in the story.
However, the personalities I could glimpse in the characters were excellent. Molly, in particular, stood out to me, for she completely defies the standard fantasy female tropes. Although attractive, she was not given unearthly beauty; instead, she is comfortably padded and of ripe years. Formidable in both intellect and skills, she is easily the match of all the men she encounters. She defies the current religious ethics by continuing to contact and be guided by the old gods of Ireland, and it is her will which guides the actions of the others.
Overall, Something Red is a perfect read for a person looking for a unique read that defies categorization and is independent of standard fantasy tropes. The story provides a window into a beautifully researched and detailed world of the thirteenth century, with an edge of the supernatural so closely tied to historical folklore that does not feel out of place or contrived. Something Red is the perfect novel to pick up for a poetic, deep, haunting, and immersive journey.
I received this as an ebook from the publisher, Simon & Schuster, Inc., via NetGalley. ...more
What would you get if you substituted a computer nerd for James Bond, then sent him off to fight Lovecraftian Deep Ones? Well, in fac**edited 12/20/13
What would you get if you substituted a computer nerd for James Bond, then sent him off to fight Lovecraftian Deep Ones? Well, in fact, you'd get this book.
There's this fun (well, depending on how humorous you find Lovecraft) little story ("Dreams in the Witch-House") in which a mathematician discovers that very abstruse topological mathematics can transport one to far-off dimensions and manifolds in which (you guessed it) the uber-horrors lurk. In the Laundry series, Charles Stross takes this idea one step farther. In his world, sufficiently advanced technology is not only indistinguishable from magic, but has the adverse effect of breaking down barriers to dimensions where all the demons and cthulhuian monsters and so on live. It's like the ultimate wish fulfilment for computer scientists, because the difference between a program and a spell is just a little Enochian, a bit of blood, and a lot of know-how.
Bob Howard is a programmer--uh, computational demonologist-- at the Laundry, the top-secret British department that focuses on the occult. As far as I can tell, he's kind of a sysadmin (see, it goes to show--all the sysadmin all have occult powers!) but also does a bit of field work: demon banishing, spell patchups, cult dispersals, that sort of thing. When, during an apparently routine assignment, Bob is forced into "destiny entanglement" with a demon, he knows things are about to get tricky. Soon enough, he's forced into an arrangement with a beautiful and deadly foreign spy, on an island full of hostile powers, dressed to the teeth in his tux, losing horrifically at baccarat, and driving his seriously decked out car (a Smart car rather than an Aston Martin--governments have a budget to stick to!), and a license to implant rather deadly computer viruses into the evil mastermind's mainframe. All this is adding up to make poor Bob quite shaken, and not particularly stirred.
India Sommers, librarian and old coin aficionado, is going about her normal business when a mysterious man stumbles into her library, asks her to examIndia Sommers, librarian and old coin aficionado, is going about her normal business when a mysterious man stumbles into her library, asks her to examine a curious ancient coin, stumbles back out, and is murdered. When the enigmatic Brandon Walker asks for her aid to tie the artifact to a high-profile kidnapping and a string of brutal murders, India is thrown into a breakneck adventure that leads her all over Europe as well as back in the past. The novel deftly interweaves the 64AD narrative of Rubria, a vestal virgin in the time of Nero, with India's present-time adventure. As the story races towards the denouement, their stories become inextricably intertwined.
I would say this novel falls squarely into the category of historical/conspiracy thriller rather than murder mystery or detective story. For me, the way it linked ancient intrigue with present-day mayhem was very reminiscent of Dan Brown, and in fact I would describe this as a rather gentler story very much in the style of The DaVinci Code. In terms of style, Ashman favors very simple, straightforward prose that makes the book a very fast read. There are numerous grammatical errors, mainly punctuation and capitalization, but I did not feel that they detracted from the narrative. (I read the printed book; the ebook has apparently undergone additional editing).
Thrillers aren't my normal fare, and like most thrillers, the plot falls well outside the realms of probability. I didn't so much suspend disbelief as have to throw it out the window. As someone who is fascinated by mythology, although I don't mind conspiracy theories and know that a little factual leniency is standard in the genre, I tend to find minor inaccuracies in the tiny details rather galling. A few of my hypercritical quibbles: for one, a blonde, blue-eyed Roman citizen such as Rubria would be incredibly unusual in 64 AD, and the casual mentions and depictions of "heaven" felt much more Christian than Roman. I was also jarred by a few anachronisms such as ancient Romans with names like "Amy" and "Rose" (as opposed to Amata/Rhoda/Rosa)and use of expressions such as "okay" or "fuck". I also had trouble reconciling the mythology presented here with that I had previously encountered; given the persnicketiness of my complaints, especially given the syncretism of the region, I spoiler-tagged the specifics: (view spoiler)[
A few that I noticed: Athena, Artemis, and Vesta are described as the Cretian, Greek, and Roman versions of the same goddess (p89); as far as my understanding goes, although they share similar roles, Vesta's Greek counterpart is Hestia and Athena and Artemis are obviously distinct. I also felt that the myth of Osirus was co-opted to Isis and Assur, and Isis was herself conflated with Ishtar and Inanna. The story is also presents as fact that Isis was a real person born about 1000 years after Assur, but from my understanding, the cult of Isis far predated the city of Assur. I tend to find conspiracy thrillers an imperfect fit for me as a reader because I like details presented as facts in novels to be facts in truth, and obviously that just isn't possible in this genre. If you read Da Vinci Code and these historical contortions didn't bother you there, Ashman's more subtle changes definitely won't. (hide spoiler)]
At the same time, it is clear that Ashman researched both the historical landmarks and legends that he weaves into the story. I loved the small details he included such as the way early Christians co-opted iconography of Isis into depictions of Mary, mother of Jesus. In the present day portion of the narrative, I faced similar difficulties with my skepticism. I couldn't really reconcile the concept of a special forces operative behaving so haphazardly and unprofessionally or picking up such inexperienced specialist. I also found it somewhat difficult to connect the antagonists' impressive web of conspiracy and intrigue with the rather dubious talents of some of their employees. For such a murderous and far-reaching gang, they seemed to lack a certain level of competence and were oddly shy about harming the protagonists. (Perhaps they failed to read the evil overlord handbook.) Again, however, it's no more improbable than, say, Indiana Jones' or Robert Langdon's adventures. I also loved that the genre-savvy narrator and characters wryly lampshaded some of the scenes that relied heavily on thriller tropes or Bondsian moments. I loved that neither the characters nor the narrator took themselves completely seriously and nicely punctuated the story with humour.
Once my disbelief had been firmly defenestrated, I found it an enjoyable read. Despite my quibbles above, I really loved the way Ashman tied together a historical mystery and the legend of Rubria into a long-hidden conspiracy. I also thought Ashman did an excellent job of bringing characters such as Rubria and Nero to life. I enjoyed the Romans' casual mentions of Boudicca and the way that historical events, such as the burning of Rome, played integral roles in the plot. I found Rubria to be an engaging and sympathetic character and was quickly drawn into her story. In the present-day portion, however, I found Brian and India to be rather flat, and neither seemed to be firmly rooted in their world. I felt that they lacked the backgrounds, relationships, and quirks that delineate personalities. My favorite parts of the present-day portions were the interactions with incidental characters such as a talkative, sexually obsessed, yet oddly motherly inkeep, a laconic Italian guide, and a sarcastic and entertaining cab driver.
Overall, although it didn't quite fit my tastes, I can see this as being a great read for those who like their page-turners a little more towards suspense than mystery. With its web of wide-reaching conspiracies tied to ancient religious artifacts, The Dead Virgins is an enjoyable light thriller that will appeal to fans of Dan Brown, Sam Bourne, and Indiana Jones.
Note: I received this book through the Goodreads First Reads program....more
Possibly due invalid expectations, I found this book to be a disappointing read. When I started the Greywalker series, I thought the **edited 01/18/14
Possibly due invalid expectations, I found this book to be a disappointing read. When I started the Greywalker series, I thought the books had some failings, but also quite a few brilliant moments, and I was enraptured by the notion of a female protagonist of an urban fantasy who acted like a human being rather than a heroine of a romance. In Poltergeist, my favorite of the series, the plot takes on more of the character of a whodunit than hardboiled detective, which I think fit Richardson's style and pacing much better.
However, the last two books have veered increasingly towards suspense/ hardboiled detective, and in my opinion, Richardson is ill-fitted for this genre. I found the plot of the book clumsy, the writing incredibly abrupt and jerky, and the plot holes to be so large you could jump through them.
Houses of Stone manages--don't ask me how-- to simultaneously be a critique, homage, and spoof of the gothic novel.
Karen is a profess**edited 12/04/13
Houses of Stone manages--don't ask me how-- to simultaneously be a critique, homage, and spoof of the gothic novel.
Karen is a professor of English literature specializing in romantic/feminist literature of the 19th century who stumbles upon an incredible manuscript: the first draft of a gothic novel by an unknown female author. Karen follows the trail of the mysterious author to a plantation home in Virginia, where as she investigates the sinister atmosphere and gloomy house, she begins to take on the role of a gothic heroine. The story alternates between atmospheric and hilarious as Michaels pulls out all the tropes--burning buildings, crazy relatives locked up in the attic, being buried alive, swooning heroines, heroes fighting for their lady's honor, etc. The fun comes from the characters' genre-savvy bewilderment as they wander around in a modern version of Mysteries of Udolpho.
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