You all already know she is royalty in my eyes, my all-time favorite. It was the uniquely addictive hit of a Shari Lapena book that I was desperately seeking when, as a side quest along the way, I discovered Sally Hepworth, who’s since become my other favorite. I’d already read everything by Shari Lapena (starting with The Couple Next Door back in 2020 lockdown season when my firstborn was a baby, and I’ve been addicted to her novels ever since), but wasn’t aware that she had a new book out — so imagine my thrill when, while standing at the library checkout counter, I casually glanced over at the New Arrivals shelf and saw THIS:
This find made my whole day, nay, my whole week! Month! Spectacular! What a joy. Shari Lapena is a hero. A blessing upon the human race. A gift from God to all female readers of crime fiction. I am so in awe of her skills. If I could borrow just a single shred of her talent, just a tiny sliver, I think I could die proud of myself.
She simply doesn’t miss. (Actually, there was one single move she made in the ending one of her books that I didn’t love, which left me feeling unsatisfied — but, in light of an otherwise great book and nine other flawless novels, I can forgive that.) And the same is true of her latest, Getting Away with Murder.
While just as good as all her others (if not better!) (I say that every time though!), this one did feel a little bit different. And I love that! It’s nice to see her versatility as a storyteller. The murder in this story isn’t like any of the others she’s written. It’s a perfect crime. There are no witnesses, no body, no evidence. The whole question that drives the plot is not “who did it?” but rather, “will they get away with it?”
It’s incredibly tense. What’s most amazing to me about this book is how you, the reader, simultaneously loathe Ted and Jill, but also kind of can’t help feeling for them: being scared when they are scared, and relieved when they are relieved?!? Sick work, Ms. Lapena! Ted and Jill are despicable humans, just the worst kind of people. I both love and hate the ending, a perfectly-executed ending.
Naturally, I was less conflicted to find myself siding with Ramirez and with Nadya, the two most sympathetic individuals in the book. These are my people. They live in my world. They speak the truth. I actually would love to see SL do a thing she’s never done before, and bring Ramirez back for another book. He’s such a cool dude, and I so feel his pain — I want to see him win one, now! She probably won’t do this, though, as all of her books are unconnected standalones, which in this age of “everything needs a sequel” I actually deeply appreciate.
And even though Ted is horrible, you also kind of can’t help but cheer for his development as a character, right?! He goes from snivelly weak little worm-guy to bold and shameless criminal. Not exactly growth, but also, kind of…?! Go hard or go home, right? Turns out Jill was the real loser out of the two of them. I never liked her even a little. Any adult human who “hates children” is a huge red flag. On that note, I was glad Lara got a happyish ending, even though I guess she really wasn’t much better than Jill, was she?
Have you guys read this one yet? What did you think? Do you love her stuff as much as I do?! Let me know in the comments. I’ll just be over here waiting like a dog at her dinner table for the next tasty morsel to drop. Hopefully it won’t be long.
“Oh look,” I thought, stupidly, noticing the spine of this book on the library shelf as I passed by with an armload of contemporary women’s fiction and crime thrillers. “Alexandre Dumas! Author of The Three Musketeers, and that other one. Camille? I didn’t know he also wrote a smaller, less-imposing book. And plus, it’s named after a woman, and, oh look,” I thought, sliding it off the shelf, “it’s got a pretty lady on the front, instead of like a bunch of dudes with swords or whatever, so it’s probably more of a feminine and romantic story, and probably more readable for a dumb girl like me. Hey, I’ll grab it! Probably good to edify myself with a Classic, in between all this contemporary fluff I’ve got here, anyway.”
— Ha!! How wrong I was, how horribly mistaken, on so many levels. I’m even dumber than I thought.
First of all, it’s not even the same Alexandre Dumas who wrote Musketeers. I didn’t realize until after finishing the book and Googling it that it was written by Alexandre Dumas fils, the son of the more famous Dumas. Not that that really matters, because I also realized along the way that Dumas senior was no great moralist either, and was actually on the Forbidden Books list, back in the day — and, good grief, like father like son.
Here is the long and short of it. This book is so bad! Here I was, expecting to be edified, ha! This story absolutely celebrates immorality and depravity. “Romantic tragedy”? The real tragedy is the the glorification of gross people and their gross behavior. It’s just a tale of some immature guy giving in to lust, prettily packaged as a “romance.” The whole book can basically be summed up by T-Pain in under four minutes:
…so yeah. There you have it, guys, that’s Camille by Alexandre Dumas fils.
“But Mith,” you may be saying, “why are you so mad at Camille? You actively listen to and enjoy stuff like T-Pain, for goodness’ sake! You read all kinds of contemporary women’s lit, which is certainly not much better. And you watch all kinds of shows and movies that similarly make light of sin.”
Touché! You’re right. So why am I so mad at this book, which btw is alternatively titled The Lady of the Camellias (actually a better title for it, because the girl’s name is not even Camille, it’s Marguerite, she just really likes camellias and wears them in different colors as a little sign for her customers (white = available tonight, red = booked up))?
— I guess because with contemporary media you just expect to see sin normalized. It’s everywhere, so you’re mentally prepared for it, and you steel yourself in advance, knowing that most of the world is under satan’s thumb, and so you go into the entertainment with the right mindset and your guard up. But — and maybe this is just my ignorance, but — when I pick up a literary nineteenth-century “Romantic Tragedy,” I kind of expect there to be, I don’t know, a certain moral standard that’s lacking from today’s media?
— And the thing is, moral standards do exist in this book, informing its general atmosphere — but the main characters spurn them, and then are portrayed as such heroic, noble martyrs for doing so! I think that’s the real problem. It’s one thing to have normal, ignorant characters doing their best in a fallen, secular world where you just can’t expect much better of most people. But to portray a society that still had honor and decency, and then to glorify the characters that defy those, as if such standards are a mere hindrance to the pursuit of what’s actually good, i.e. pleasure and satisfaction… that’s the real problem, you see? That’s why this book is so bad.
And it’s not that the book is badly-written. It’s certainly beautifully-written and plenty of fun to read. It’s captivating. Which is part of what makes it such a bad book: the allure of it, the evil disguised as beauty. I fear if I had read this when I was in my teens or twenties, I would have fallen for it — I would have thought it was such a beautiful love story, so romantic, the best and most sublime kind of love any human could ever hope to experience! It’s what Katy Perry would call a “teenage dream.”
Pathetic. In a word, that sums up the lead male character Armand: pathetic. He’s the least masculine male lead in any romance I’ve ever seen or read. He’s described as 24 and blond, and in my head he’s a slight and hairless little weasely watery-eyed fellow. He’s always crying. He’s always getting his feelings hurt and reacting in catty, bitchy, passive-aggressive little ways. He’s absolutely helpless in the face of temptation. He’s petty and vain. Marguerite is more of a man than he is, in some ways.
But speaking of Marguerite: why does everyone talk about her like she’s some kind of saint?! Like she’s so holy and virtuous? It’s not like she ever tried very hard to live a better life. She just admitted “oh well, I’m just a helpless shopping addict who spends over a hundred K a year on luxuries despite being hopelessly deep in debt, I just need to be a prostitute, it’s just how I need to live!” — the only thing that ever briefly inspired her to live a relatively-cleaner (but still dishonest) life was stupid simpy little Armand, and that only because he agreed to be her lapdog and do whatever she told him. Marguerite, when we see her in action, is actually kind of a rude and shameless and unpleasant and manipulative person.
Literally the only positive trait that she has is her looks. That’s the only reason Armand “loves” her so much. (When during their time in the countryside she offers to give up her luxuries for him, he refuses, saying he likes her better dolled-up in diamonds and fancy things than just her simple self — just WOW. Walking red flag.)
They’re both scum. Armand happily justifies developing a gambling habit to pay for all the fancy luxuries that Marguerite “needs,” he’s so caught up in indulgence that ignores his father and sister (the only decent characters btw), oh and despite fantasizing about a future with Marguerite and cohabitating with her, does the concept of marriage ever arise in his mind, even for a second? Not once!
I guess the only “upright” thing that Marguerite does in the whole story is her great act of martyrdom: lying (that’s right, her great, courageous act of heroic virtue was: lying) to Armand and telling him she was dumping him for a new sugar daddy, when in fact we find out later, she was actually leaving him because his dad convinced her to do the right thing by him (and his sister, whose fiancé refused to marry her as long as her brother was openly cohabitating with a courtesan), for his future. And then Marguerite had the nerve to act all wounded and wronged that Armand wanted to get revenge on her? For what was basically the equivalent of a text-message breakup? What did she expect? Ffs, she has only herself to blame for her worsening illness and death. She’s no martyr!
And don’t you love how they only make God and confession a part of the story when it’s almost too late? Waiting right up until the eleventh hour to even think about religion — and then, she gets to “die a Christian” and everyone’s so sure she’s waltzing straight into Heaven because, oh!, poor beautiful girl, so tortured, such a sad, sad, tragic life, she just couldn’t help it!
I’m not buying it.
Guys, don’t read this book. Don’t make the same mistakes I did! It just goes to show that just because a book is old and “good” and “a classic work of literature,” does not mean it’s automatically a good or worthwhile book to read.
Never before have I felt quite this way about a book: such highly-readable escapism, but at the same time, way too much like real life for it to feel like “escapism.” Fun, but too real for comfort.
This was another recommendation from my little idiot friend, ChatGPT. (Yes, I know on my homepage I proudly proclaim my blog “an AI-free zone,” and it’s absolutely true that I never use AI for my writing at all, and am firmly opposed to AI use for creative/artistic purposes, nor do I even use any of WordPress’s little “AI tools” it keeps trying to shove in my face — but yes, sometimes I do use it for banal little issues like “recommend me some fiction authors” or “what can I sub for cardamom in this recipe” or “what could these symptoms mean,” simply because it’s faster than Google. Feel free to shame me in the comments, idc.) I told it I liked Lisa Patton, so it recommended Katherine Center. And this was just the first one of her books that my eyes landed upon, on the library shelf alongside all her others, probably because of its cheerful yellow spine:
Katherine Center does have a few things in common with Lisa Patton, I suppose. Southern female characters, grounded in present-day reality (actually, Everyone is Beautiful is from 2009, and I really relished the little throwback references such as low-rise jeans, land line telephones, and eyebrow plucking), and plenty of interpersonal drama. However, this little novel, which focuses on a single narrator and is entirely character-driven, felt to me a lot more intimate, cozy, and everyday than what I’ve read of Lisa Patton.
Almost too everyday, haha.
As a thirtysomething failed artist and a stay-at-home mom outnumbered by my little kids, I certainly found Lanie pretty relatable, in some ways — although, unlike her, I have never sat a park looking around desperately wanting someone to come talk to me; I’m the opposite, give me space. But other than her being a highly emotionally expressive extrovert, I did find her life really relatable, right down to the feelings of inadequacy about her beat-up little house with no curtains, and the way discovering a creative outlet lights up every facet of her life for her, which is what writing does for me.
In that way, it was almost un-fun to read, because it was so real. The scenes of Lanie’s humiliation as her boys acted up in good company… the moments of her resignation to just letting them tear up the house because it gave them five minutes of quiet… the mortifying struggle of solo-managing a nursing baby and multiple toddlers at the playground… it all hit a bit too close to home. As enjoyable and pleasant as Ms. Center’s writing is, both light and profound, just as fluffy as it is wise… I don’t think I’ll be overly eager to seek out any more of her books just now. I think I’ll stick to the domestic thriller genre for a while.
This one felt a little predictable, as a cozy feel-good book should, I guess… although, I will say, this one bit surprised me (spoiler): I was completely expecting Amanda and Peter to hook up. It looked so certain! First, KC established Amanda as this gorgeous former cheerleader as well as a casual liar who’s happy to use her charms to get what she wants out of people… then brought up that she suspected her husband of cheating, then after the two couples have dinner together, revealed that she is “in love with” Lanie’s husband… meanwhile Lanie’s neglecting her marriage… I was so sure I could see where this was going! But, to my pleasant surprise, it didn’t work out quite as I expected. I was so happy to see friendship win the day here.
I have no complaints, really. I do recommend this book if you’re a female reader looking for a fun little warm hug of a book that you can finish in a day or two.
My only actual issue with this little book was a technical detail, very early on in the story, that took me right out of it and almost made me put it down:
KC shows Lanie and her husband Peter getting up in the morning, taking turns watching the boys so they can each take a shower before breakfast. Just a few pages/a few hours later, Lanie is complaining about how she hasn’t had a shower in days, which leads to the towel debacle and Josh seeing her through the window. This bugged me so much I almost put the book down! Hoping I’d misread, I went back and re-read the whole day from the beginning, but no, alas, I do believe this was an error on the part of the author and editor. Happens to all of us, but come on!, this is why we have to check and re-check our work!
I guess I can forgive it, as the story was otherwise concise and well-paced and error-free.
All in all, a fun little book, as cheerful as its title and its yellow spine promised.
Wow, never thought I’d find myself here. This was the first time I’ve read anything by Liane Moriarty.
Typically, I avoid these ultra-popular bestsellers on principle; I don’t like to like things that are ultra-popular, and tend to believe that most people have bad taste, so a book being ultra-popular is likely a bad sign.
So why did I pick up this one? Because, well, I’d exhausted my local library’s suppy of Sally Hepworth books, and these days I’m in dire need of highly-distracting, Sally Hepworth-like content; so, in desperation I asked stupid old ChatGPT to recommend me some similar authors. Liane Moriarty was the first name it spat out. Then, conveniently, when I walked into the library with my little list of author names in hand, this book was sitting right there on a big display right by the front desk:
I can see why Chat would list this author as similar to my beloved Ms. Hepworth. Both writers are Australian and write domestic thrillers — marital and familial drama with a bit of romance and some murder mystery mixed in.
But right off the bat I was struck by the differences between the two authors. Sally Hepworth’s tone is warm and sincere, like a best friend; Liane Moriarty’s felt, to me, irreverent and almost snide, like a jaded stand-up comic. At first, I was put off by her sense of humor, like, it looked like she was trying too hard to look clever and it was just unfunny and annoying.
However: she’s so good at plot that pretty soon I was sucked in and willing to put up with her attitude in order to find out the answers to these pressing questions (and, as I went on, I got used to her tone and it stopped bothering me so much). What was the husband’s secret?! What was in that letter?? But even more pressing than that question, was this one: what the heck was Tess going to do in this impossible situation, her husband and her cousin/bff suddenly in love? That was the plot thread that really sucked me in, because it was just so dreadful to imagine.
Really this was a very masterfully-written book. The recurring motif of the Berlin Wall, the treatment of the age-old “how things could or should have been” question, the way LM seems to understand humans and their inner workings and motivations with such a sharp insight, describing their thought processes and patterns with an eloquence that’s at times disarming. Most of all, the way she brought together these three loosely-connected plot threads — Rachel, Tess, and Cecilia — at the inevitable, terrible culmination. The way she built up to that moment was so tense and cinematic.
I mostly related to Tess, of course — the socially anxious one. Right down to the way people close to her tell her “nooo, you can’t have social anxiety!, you’re too competent!, you do x y and z!,” completely misunderstanding her.
I also enjoyed getting Rachel’s POV. We’re used to seeing the evil MIL archetype in women’s fiction, but this time we got to hear from the evil MIL herself and see things from her POV, while at the same time being made to understand how her behavior must be coming off to Lauren — very smoothly done.
Also very smoothly done was the perfect balance achieved by the ending — the justice, between Rachel & Cecilia and likewise between Tess & Will. Eerie reflections of each other, these two situations. It was just a really brilliant plot, which always impresses me so much, as someone who sucks at writing plot.
However, I don’t plan on reading anymore Liane Moriarty, at least not for a while, not unless I run out of other options.
Why?: for one, too much sex. Way too glib of a treatment of this topic, for me. Way too much sex talk and too many sex scenes. Just unnecessary and lame.
Also, I didn’t care for her treatment of religion. The Husband’s Secret really kind of mocks Catholicism. All the characters are lapsed Catholics who make light of their religion — “we’re Catholic, we go to Mass, and all, but we’re not religious, for goodness’ sake,” Cecilia thinks in horror when her husband starts using the word “God” in conversation during his confession to her. Much of the story takes place at a Catholic school during Holy Week, but there’s never once a single expression of reverence or genuine religious sentiment, and the characters are always rolling their eyes at the silly quirks of those few people who actually practice their religion (like how Rachel’s mom used to pray the Stations on Good Friday — how silly and absurd! Who would do that!).
You’d think that, with all the loss and tragedy and guilt and forgiveness, some character at some point might turn to their faith for answers or for peace — but they never do. Like why did John-Paul never go to Confession and get some actual penance and absolution?! It was right there the whole time! I can’t tell you how many times I was frustratedly shouting at a character in my head like “come on, bro!, why don’t you go to Mass about it! Open your Bible about it, for once! Come on, Ms. Moriarty, this scene would be a great opportunity to bring God into the equation!, you’ve already established the Catholic environment and everything, come on!”, but alas, religion remained, in her world, this annoying and archaic cultural layover habit, and nothing more. That was a big turnoff for me. I don’t need a book to be explicitly Christian or anything, but outright making fun of religion this way is just loser behavior. What a shame.
Final verdict: fun, smart, highly enjoyable — I can see why it’s a bestseller — but, unfortunately, due to the treatment of faith and morals, complete junk food for the brain. I prefer Sally Hepworth’s wholesome and optimistic style, even though I think Liane Moriarty might be a bit more of a genius when it comes to human nature.
Buckle up guys, I have a lot of thoughts on this one.
This novel and I, we have a strange history. A couple years ago, I grabbed it off the free discarded books table at my public library, thinking: “gee, why not! Looks like it might be fun.” Took it home and, over the next week or so, worked my way through the first sixty pages. It was good, but it didn’t grab me or anything. Maybe I just wasn’t in the mood. I gave up and put it on my bookshelf. Now and then, at times over the last two years, I’d glance at it and be like: “maybe today…? …. nah, still not in the mood.”
Until about five days ago, when I woke up and, while still lying in bed, through bleary eyes in the morning light glimpsed the book on my shelf across the room, and suddenly knew: TODAY’S THE DAY. Out of nowhere, I could not wait to get immersed in this book! I started back at the beginning and proceeded to finish it over the next three-to-four days.
I’m not sure why it happened like this. Maybe because the subject matter of this book is also something I have a strange history with.
Rush takes place among college girls at a very white, very Southern university with a very active Greek life scene. Thing is, some years ago, I was also a college girl at a very white, very Southern university with a very active Greek life scene. I had a lot of feelings about it back then, and to this day have a lot of feelings about the feelings that I had about it back then. Namely: regret.
To elaborate (and I promise I’ll get to the book momentarily, but I think this background is pertinent to my review of the book): when I, a naive and sheltered dork of a high schooler, applied to that university, I had no idea what “Greek life” really was or what it entailed. Everyone in the admissions office spoke about “Greek life!” And I was like “? what’s that? Some kind of philanthropy club, or something? Oh. Ok. Won’t be doing that, but nbd, the rest of the place sounds good, so, I’ll go here. ” — Good grief. If only I had done my research.
I was unprepared for what “active Greek scene” actually meant.
To make an understatement, that university’s social scene was not a great fit for someone like me. I had a very bad time there, culminating in a dramatic breakdown in the spring of my junior year, during which I suddenly, without consulting anyone, dropped out of the school and went back home.
Enter the regret. That was one of the dumbest moves of my life. For one, I was so close to being done and getting that coveted degree — couldn’t I have just stuck it out a little bit longer? And for two, the school was academically amazing, prestigious, beautiful, respected, and giving me extremely generous financial aid…
But it’s not just the drop-out that I regret. It’s the bad attitude that I had the whole time I was there. Typical me. I wasn’t like the other girls, I had to be different. I had to rebel.
“Stupid Greek life,” I’d mutter! “Stupid rich preps with their gross parties! They think they’re still in high school! So cliquey! So pathetic! This shit is even worse than high school!” — and while there certainly was some truth in that complaint… it was indeed very cliquey, and there was a lot of toxicity and pettiness in that scene (don’t get me started)… I also, in hindsight, kind of wish I’d looked at it with a more open mind.
I often wonder what life would have been like if, instead of cloaking myself in an armor of hostility and cynicism, I had been brave and made myself vulnerable and tried out the whole “rushing a sorority” thing. Could I have done it? Could I have had a group of lifelong sisters? Could I have been normal and happy?, could I have been a part of things?
I have the whole 20/20 hindsight thing. It’s really a beautiful idea, the whole “sorority” thing — in fact, it appeals very, very strongly to the part of me that’s always wanted to belong somewhere. Maybe that’s why I reacted with such intense emotion and pushed it away so hard, back then.
I almost hesitate to go into too much detail about that time and place, because anyone who’s familiar with US colleges will probably be able to quickly identify which university I’m talking about here, and I don’t like to give away too much about my irl life; but oh well, here goes:
When I started my freshman year, 2008-09, the school had five sororities, all located in these giant gorgeous white-columned brick mansions along Sorority Row, which was visible from campus. (There were, I think, also one or two historically Black sororities, but they were extremely, extremely small, and obviously didn’t have a mansion on Sorority Row.) Of fraternities there were a great many more, and their mansions were all located throughout the small historic downtown across from campus; they were much older and less uniform, because up until fairly recently the University had been all-male, and it was only within the last few decades that Sorority Row had been added for the women.
Anyway, over 90% of the student body was Greek, and that pretty much was the social scene there, in that small town. That was life. Even though I was not Greek myself, I can still, to this day, tell you the details of each sorority at that school, and what their stereotype looked like. Indeed, during my time there, even I, who had nothing to do with Greek life, got to where I could look at any random girl and identify which sorority she probably belonged to just based off her vibes. That’s how pervasive it was, how big a part of student culture.
My freshman year, there was a big new addition: a new, sixth sorority was coming to the college. It was a huge deal. Because it was new, and needed many new members to fill up its ranks, a large percentage of the girls in my class ended up going to that new sorority. I think like seven or eight out of ten girls on my hall. I wonder if I would have, too. (No, to be realistic I’d surely have ended up in the “loser” sorority, the one that everyone said was for the less-desirable girls no other sorority wanted; predictably, these girls were usually the friendliest and most approachable.)
So this little detail of my experience, the thing about the new sorority skewing the rush numbers and making the older, established sororities more exclusive and harder to get into, is something that also featured in Lisa Patton’s novel, and made it even more poignant and almost painful for me to read.
Which, now that you understand my complicated, sad, resentful, nostalgic, romanticized, bittersweet feelings about Greek life at Southern universities, brings me back to the book. It was this very nostalgia that made me want to pick it up in the first place, and that made me so conflicted about continuing it.
All in all, it is, as I’d hoped, a fun book. It delivers what it promises. It’s a feel-good story. I enjoyed it, and will probably read more Lisa Patton sometime. Southern atmosphere, immaculate. Characters, vivid. Writing, sensorily rich and pleasant. Theme of mother/daughter relationships, beautiful and moving. Story, heartwarming and sweet — a little too much so, for my taste.
That was the problem, for me. A little too Lifetime (to use a very dated reference!). It was too perfect, too happy, too unrealistic.
For one (spoiler here), I simply don’t buy that not only one, but both Whitmore women suddenly had this dramatic change of heart, right at the end, within a few pages of each other, and suddenly became entirely new characters. Suddenly Lillith’s even okay with tattoos?! No. It’s too fairytale. It also felt really rushed. The whole book long, there was nothing to suggest that Lilith might eventually have a change of heart, and almost nothing to suggest the same of Annie Laurie (although I began to suspect things might not be so rosy with her when she got so trashed on game day; why would a happy girl act like that).
Furthermore — and maybe this is my cynical side again but — I kind of strongly doubt that only twelve out of 430+ rich white Southern sorority sisters in 2016 would be racist, snobby, and elitist, and the rest would be woke, colorblind, and socially progressive.
Again, this might be my old resentments and bitterness rearing their ugly heads. Lisa Patton is herself a sorority girl, so she surely knows their culture and patterns better than I do. But I found this aspect of the book all a little too sunshiney and perfect and unbelievable.
I found myself wishing I could read this same story, but written with more darkness, rawness, and realness. A little uglier and harsher and more truthful. Like, I found myself at times kind of wishing that Megan Abbott had written this, in her merciless, brutal, painfully-realistic style — she could do a really powerful version.
.
Also… is it just me, or was the bylaw about House Mother needing a college degree actually a serious issue that they shouldn’t just brush off?!
Don’t get me wrong, I fully support Pearl getting the job; she was clearly the right person for it… but, I mean, it’s also true that certain jobs require a bachelor’s degree minimum, and if you don’t have that degree you don’t get to apply, no matter how great a person you are. Some jobs have certain prerequisites. This is a reality that punishes many of us.
So in a way, I don’t get all the uproar and claims of injustice, about Pearl being unable to apply.
I suppose we’re supposed to understand that Lillith would happily have bent the rules for a white applicant (as she happily bent the rules about sneaking her daughter into ADB without a bid…!), but refused to do so for Pearl. And I agree that sucks.
But Lillith and her racism aside: the college degree issue made Pearl a little less of a victim here. It’s clear Lisa Patton disagrees with me; it’s clear she is, personality-wise, more of an ethicist than a logician, with the whole “yes, she technically needs a degree for the job, but, that isn’t fair, she’s so good that she really deserves it anyway!” Which is just not a mindset I can get behind, sorry, I mean, rules are rules, and we must ask, does a college degree matter or does it not? Maybe it doesn’t. In that case, by all means, change the rule.
I think it would have been more powerful to show that, yes, it sucks, but because of her circumstances, which were tragic and not her fault, Pearl, who deserves a good job, still can’t get this one, because life isn’t fair sometimes. Maybe she gets some other job, meanwhile goes back to school and knocks out her degree in 2-3 years, then comes back and applies for House Mother, and thus still manages to win the day. I think I would have rather seen something like this, a more rocky and realistic path to victory, rather than “you’re so nice that we simply must make an exception for you because it’s the nice thing to do!”
I don’t know if I’m making sense. Maybe this plot thread would have been smoother for me if LP hadn’t written in the bit about the bylaw, if she’d found some other obstacle that was less rational. Was it just me?
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I had a couple other little issues, like that Cali was a complete Mary Sue, which made her a bit flat and dull to read. But the last major point I wanted to discuss about this book: is it appropriate, as a novel about race relations, written by a white author? Are we okay with it?
I’m not saying I had an issue with it. I liked it. It worked for me. But I’m a white reader; I’d be more interested to know how a Black reader might feel about this book, in today’s climate.
For one, there’s the problem of #OwnVoices. Lisa Patton is obviously white. Writing first person from the POV of a Black woman, about Blackness, about the issue of race. Isn’t that a cardinal sin?!
As I understand it, white writers these days have to follow certain rules. They are of course “allowed” to write characters of different races/ sexual orientations/ abilities/ etc., and obviously they should include such diverse characters — but, per #OwnVoices, they are not allowed to write such characters from a first-person POV — and certainly, absolutely not when it’s about issues of identity and struggles related to race/ sexual orientation/ ability/ etc. Because what do they know? It’s not their place to speak on that, and they should leave space to let the people who’ve actually lived that life make their voices heard, is what I was told.
Since I’m already rambling about all my complicated feelings in this post… #OwnVoices is another topic that I have some complicated feelings about. Here we go:
Being a wannabe novelist and also an able-bodied, neurotypical, non-autistic, Christian, cisgender, heterosexual, white American person myself, #OwnVoices certainly placed some creative restrictions on me — restrictions which, at first, threw me for a loop (“why can’t I imagine what it’s like to be someone else and identify with their experience?! Isn’t that the point of fiction?!”), but then studied up on, and eventually accepted (“oh, so I’m allowed to imagine, just not to publish, because it’s not actually my story, and can be harmful to minority writers, steal their spotlight, and perpetuate misunderstandings.”).
In fact, I first learned about #OwnVoices right around 2016 (coincidentally, the year that Rush was published), when I was trying to publish a certain novel I’d written: a manuscript that happened to flagrantly violate certain #OwnVoices rules.
I was researching agents, beginning to work on my queries, dipping my toes in the waters of Writer Twitter and stuff, when I became aware of this #OwnVoices movement. Learning about it and seeing how huge it was, I realized that, no matter what I did, I could never publish my book, this book that I had loved with such a maddening obsessive passion for so long, because even though it was entirely the product of my imagination, and I’d slaved over it and agonized over it for years, it wasn’t my story to tell. It never would be. The best I could ever hope for would be to give the idea to some other author, someone who fit the right profile, and let them write it, and maybe publish it under their own name. — What an upsetting idea.
So, I gave up. I put the book to rest, or tried to, but tbh I still struggle with this book in my head a lot. So, it’s fair to say that, while I understand and accept the restrictions imposed by #OwnVoices, I have conflicted and complicated feelings about it as well, and get a lot of intense feelings when I see published authors violating its rules — because how come they were allowed to get away with it?
To be fair I’m sure Lisa Patton probably had sensitivity readers galore all over her manuscript before it was published, and this isn’t her first book or anything, so she probably was allowed to take a few more liberties.
But, like, and I can’t not bring this up: my very own favorite David Foster Wallace does this in Infinite Jest, too. There are passages in that book where he writes first-person as a poor Black girl, even mimicking her dialect — a feat which no straight white middle-class college-educated male author could possibly get away with, in this day and age! — and yet, imo I thought he achieved it pretty well, but what does my opinion matter?, I’m white. It’s a Black reader’s opinion that I’d like to hear, and if you’re a Black reader who’s read Infinite Jest I’d love to know how you felt about it.
I remember I participated in an online Infinite Jest book discussion group back in like 2022, and, what with my complicated feelings about #OwnVoices still simmering, I felt a burning need to raise the question in discussion: did anyone else feel any kind of way about the fact that DFW was flagrantly violating #OwnVoices in this one passage right here? Is anyone else thinking about what a horrible crime this would be considered, in this current day, and did he get away with it, and if so how? — And they all just literally rolled their eyes at me through the video call. (All white folks, btw.) Apparently that was a dumb question, and I suck at book clubs. But so I was never able to really discuss that question as I had hoped to, or get any answers. I have so many unresolved issues with #OwnVoices (which to be fair are probably mostly emotional).
And now, I can add Lisa Patton’s Rush to that list. Was it okay for her, a white woman, to write this book?! Was it okay for her to portray a bunch of rich white sorority girls “rescuing” their poor Black staff members, “saving” poor Miss Pearl? Isn’t the “white savior” trope severely frowned-upon, anymore?
There’s also a moment in the book where Pearl tells someone she hopes future generations of sorority girls will be “colorblind.” — I thought colorblindness was a dated concept, nowadays? I thought the rule now was that we are supposed to acknowledge one another’s differences, so as not to erase them, and that we are supposed to encourage some degree of segregation, at least for Black people to have access to Black-only spaces, for queer people to have access to queer-only spaces, etc.? (Not for there to be white-only or straight-only spaces, which is fine by me, I’ve never felt the need for such a space, but can understand why a Black person or a queer person would.) Back when I was a kid in the 90s, we were taught the “colorblindness” approach, but, if I understand correctly, this is now passé. Like, do you remember how middle grade/YA novels used to describe Black characters like “she had skin the color of a mocha latté” instead of just saying “she was Black” — as if Black were some kind of dirty word, like you weren’t even allowed to notice different races, because “colorblindness”? Yeah, I thought we were over all this. But I digress. My question is, is it okay for Lisa Patton, a white woman, to be preaching colorblindness — especially in the voice of a fictional Black woman?
I genuinely do not know, which is why I’m asking. Like I said, the novel worked for me, it was fun and I loved reading it — but, I’m a white person so I don’t think my opinion counts. I’m just trying to figure out how Lisa Patton got away with this, in the #OwnVoices era. Didn’t she break the rules? Or did she not, and if so, how didn’t she? I’m just trying to make it make sense in my head, because, like I said, I’m still trying to make sense of the #OwnVoices rules so as to hopefully put certain matters to rest in my own head once and for all.
If you’re still with me after this ridiculously long post: have you read this book? And if so, what were your thoughts? How about its portrayal of Greek life? Did you buy it? And how do you feel about it in light of #OwnVoices? Please!, sound off in the comments!
I’m embarrassed to admit that this is the first thing I’ve read by Flannery O’Connor. 🫣 (Well, I have a vague impression that I might have been made to read one of her short stories once, in English class many ages ago — but if so I have no memory of it.) Downright shameful that I hadn’t read her before, not only because I’m a Catholic and 36 years old and someone who claims to love reading and writing — but also because, as those of you who know me IRL are aware, I have a certain personal connection to her life. So, for many years now I’ve been like “I really should read Flannery O’Connor one of these days!” and for many years now I simply haven’t. Until now.
Of her works, I wanted to start with this one, because I prefer novels to short stories, so that narrowed my options down to two; and between this one and Wise Blood, this one seemed more highly-acclaimed. Also I just like the title. I think of this Bible verse often:
This will not be any kind of intelligent analysis or proper “review” of the book, so if you’re looking for an essay worth talking about in your English class, please go elsewhere. No, as ever, this will simply be my little impressions and silly personal thoughts about the book, because I like to think of you, my imaginary reader, as a friend that I can just chat with, without pressure or expectations. So, if you’ve read this book, please feel free to chime in in the comments, because I want to hear your thoughts too.
Here are mine, although they’re probably not worth reading, because I am not anywhere near smart enough to have understood this book. I probably shouldn’t even bother trying to say anything about it. But maybe some of you will find it mildly entertaining to read one dimwit’s reactions to this literary masterpiece, the same way it’d be kind of entertaining to watch an average Joe try to compete alongside the actual world-class athletes in the Olympics. (Or, to use a baking show analogy: the way the show Nailed It! is entertaining.) I invite you to have a laugh at my expense.
Well, I was surprised by how enjoyable this book actually was to read. I think part of the reason I’ve been avoiding Flannery O’Connor is because she’s so, well, serious. So heavy. Such gravitas attached to her name. Was I up for it? Was this a good time? No, not today, not today. I finally decided to just do it, since I’m on a roll here with this Rediscovering Reading venture. And this book was surprisingly really fun and gripping, like, you’ll want to stay up late reading it. (Yes, you can tell I’m no great scholar; I like for a novel to be fun.)
The second thing that surprised me: and this is where my lack of understanding really exposes itself: if I had read this book without knowing anything its author, I never would have guessed that she was a Catholic. Everyone talks about how Flannery O’Connor is “A Great Catholic Writer,” but like where in this book do we see Catholicism? She wrote Rayber’s thoughts, feelings, and contempt of religion so convincingly, so sympathetically, that I almost at times was like: “is she actually an atheist/humanist herself?” But no, you can see the author’s faith shining through from underneath. The story is very much informed by belief in God. That much is clear, and it’s very thought-provoking. I just fail to see what makes it “Catholic” specifically.
The third thing that surprised me: I was not expecting there to be SA in this book, damn. That caught me off-guard! At first I was like: “did that really just happen?” and after finishing the book I had to Google it to make sure I’d read that right. I unfortunately did. I don’t know why that surprised me, considering she’d already shown us attempted murder and then actual murder, so it was hardly sunshine and rainbows up to this point. And it wouldn’t have been so shocking in a contemporary novel, but here, in this context, it was just really unexpected, which made it all even more dark and grisly.
But of course that scene wasn’t just there to be dark and grisly. There was all this symbolism going on — dense as I am, it didn’t elude me that Young Tarwater’s “friend” is the devil, and the stranger in the car who drugs him does seem to have a lot in common with that “friend.” Something about the violence done to him here is supposed to be symbolic, but exactly how — that much did elude me.
Another thing that, well, didn’t quite elude me, but made me wonder: what was the hunger/thirst thing about? I guess that Young Tarwater was unable to eat food despite being so hungry because his hunger/thirst was for the eternal Bread of Life, and he had to face that? Was that why the food that his great-uncle had fed him was satisfying but no “worldly” food or drink was? He had to accept the fate that he’d been avoiding?
We also see this avoidance of God in the schoolteacher, Rayber. He talks about this terrifying love that sneaks up on him sometimes and which he doesn’t like to look at or acknowledge; it’s frequently triggered by his son Bishop, but also, Bishop is like the only thing that keeps it at bay, because in Bishop it has a tangible form and a location, but if Bishop were not there, he’d have to confront it all around him — he’d have to face the staggering and terrible beauty of life as a human being? Am I reading that right? I found this a bit baffling because it was so unrelatable. I’ve never felt any kind of persistent, overwhelming, terrifying, nameless multidirectional love (except maybe back in my drinking days, lol). I wish I did because that seems very obviously like an acute awareness of God’s presence — something I honestly don’t have too often. I guess maybe we’re supposed to see that it’s true, that Rayber has the prophet blood in him. You have to wonder what will happen to him now that Bishop is gone. I guess he’ll have to finally confront it.
And I couldn’t help thinking at the end, even in the midst of the burning bush and the Voice of God and all, about the boring logistics: Rayber still, legally, owns this land, right? Do you think he’ll come back to it? Will he and Young Tarwater join forces? (It was interesting how, once he was away from him, YT started to think Rayber wasn’t all bad…) Or will YT really just live here alone until he manages to somehow rebuild the house, just out in the wilderness like some actual John the Baptist?
No need to point out how great Flannery O’Connor’s prose is. She’s obviously a genius at things like metaphor and describing the environment, both external (the silence was corrugated by the trucker’s snores… the column of puke into the lake… Old Tarwater’s fish eyes…) and internal (“He saw with perfect clarity that the only feeling he had for this boy was hate,” “He was not deceived that this was a whole or a full life…”) — just so many lines like that, that make you go “how does anyone think of these things? How would she even know to say that?”
I think the most interesting thing for me was Rayber’s relationship with Bishop. It’s plain that he loves him (that scene where he strokes his ear absentmindedly and then recoils once he catches himself doing it) but I mean also he tried to drown him, so. Is it just that he’s that afraid of a love that knows neither limits nor rationality nor logic? Is the message that to avoid God is to avoid all love and even forfeit life itself? Or what was going on there?
Overall, this is a 10/10 for stretching my feeble brain and giving it a good workout while also satisfying my hunger for delicious prose, for smart, thoughtful writing that’s also fun as heck and hard to put down. If you haven’t read it yet, you should go do that and then come back here and chat with me about it.
Have any of you read this one? It’s a short (183 page) little horror novel, translated from Spanish by Megan McDowell. I had never heard of it before today, when I grabbed it at my local library because it was on a little display they’d set up of horse-themed novels. “HORSES,” read the little laminated sign, and immediately my inner horse girl was awoken like a sleeper agent, and I made a beeline to the shelf and was tempted to scoop up all six or eight novels there, but I was holding my baby on one arm and a giant sack of kid’s books on the other, and my three little kids were scrambling around making trouble as usual, so I had to just quickly grab the first one that caught my interest. And here it is:
I was really hopeful for this one because in addition to horses, I also love a good psychological horror story — and this one was shortlisted for the Booker prize, so it was sure to be good!
Thing is though, as fun as it was (because yes indeed, I did manage to read it in one day, in stolen moments, and if I hadn’t had work to do, could have read it in a single sitting; it really does go that fast)… I’m a bit disappointed.
First of all, and this is nothing wrong with the story, but rather my library’s fault: it’s kind of a stretch to call this one “horse-themed.” Yes there are horses in it, but they don’t do much. They’re just kind of mentioned a few times.
Second of all, and more importantly: the ending just kinda fell flat for me. It felt pretty anticlimactic. Probably I’m just too dumb for the book. After finishing it, I was like: “that was it? Did I miss something? Where was the big creepy reveal?” So I looked up some reviews and discussions online, and apparently I didn’t miss anything, it’s just a very straightforward little story.
There’s nothing even slightly supernatural — and I don’t even need supernatural elements tbh, like for me most mainstream supernatural horror is way over the top; but when I’m promised a “ghost story,” I do hope to have at least something unexplainable or spooky or left up to the imagination! This story was entirely natural and explainable (well, to be fair, I guess it’s left up to us to wonder whether what the green house lady did was real or if it was just the lasting effects of the boy’s illness).
The only thing that made this feel like a “ghost story” was the hallucinatory, fever dream style of the narration. Which was very effective. But I dunno, I kept hoping for something that would make me gasp and go “Oh, shit! It all makes sense now!” but that just never came. The story just kind of rolled along until it stopped.
But like I said, I’m probably just too dumb for it.
Or too sad. Another discussion pointed out that the book is actually more sad than scary. And I have to agree. It’s called a “horror,” but it’s really more of a tragedy. And a tragedy was the last thing I needed in my life today. So, yeah, a bit disappointed.
I mean, climate fiction… that’s the big surprise? Reminds me a lot of the “twist” in M. Knight Shyamalan’s The Happening, which was simiarly unsatisfying for me. It’s disappointingly, upsettingly realistic, I guess. I was hoping for something a little more escapist. Shoulda known escapism wouldn’t be shortlisted for a Booker prize. You’ve got to be socially aware to make that list.
Don’t get me wrong though, Fever Dream is an amazing little book and really holds your interest. And it is creepy. There were parts that were so suspenseful I almost couldn’t stand it, like where David is going this is it, this is the important part, and you’re just watching and waiting for something climactic to happen. His rushed, italicized interrogation really did add to the suspense.
And a lot of the discussions and reviews online are talking about how relatable it is for moms: this idea of a “rescue distance” (which, if I’m not mistaken, is the original title in Spanish; I kinda wish they’d kept this title in translation!): the constant awareness that we moms have of how far away your kid is, where they are, what they are doing, how long it’d take you to get to them in an emergency… like an invisible rope from your stomach connecting you to them (an umbilical cord, one might say). The way it pulls taut and shortens or ties in knots when something scary happens or you don’t know where they are. Those moments are indeed extremely relatable and well-written. And in the end make the story that much sadder.
Overall, I do recommend this book if you are someone who’s smart and socially aware — but I do not recommend this book if you’re looking for a satisfying, mysterious ghost story, or if you’re someone who doesn’t like being made to feel sad.
What a surprise to find myself here. I was not planning on reading this book.
For years now, I’ve kinda vaguely intended to read more C.S. Lewis — not having read anything by him since The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe was forced upon me back in fifth grade, and bored me to tears — because, you know, being Catholic, you’re pretty much required to love C.S. Lewis (even though he was Anglican, not quite Catholic; he totally should have been Catholic). But I had no concrete plans to do so, because even though I love how quotable and brilliant Lewis is, I wasn’t sure if I’d like his fiction; that fifth grade experience had kinda left a bad taste in my mouth. And even if I had chosen to read him, this was not the book of his that I would have chosen. With very few exceptions, I’ve never cared for high fantasy.
But then, one night a couple weeks ago, my sister, who’s super smart and reads a ton of books (and also doesn’t typically read high fantasy), texted me at like 1AM to tell me that she’d just finished reading this book for the first time and was so amazed, she absolutely could not wait to talk to me about it! When I told her I had not read it before, she went and bought me a copy and had it overnight-delivered to my house so that I could read it. And here it is:
And here we are. I’m afraid I can’t say much of anything intelligent about this book, as I am not that intelligent. So if you’re looking for an insightful, enlightening essay about it, move along — there are plenty of those on the internet that you can go find. As ever on this blog, the only thing I can offer are my silly little impressions, opinions, and thoughts. And here they are:
As a non-fantasy reader: I loved this book! 5 stars. It only took about three or four pages for me to get past the “hmm, I dunno, this is pretty fantastical 🤨” and arrive at fully committed. And by about a third of the way through, it was un-put-downable. Pleasant surprise considering my former prejudice against C.S. Lewis’s novels. I actually loved being in the fantasy world he’s built. Glome is what the Greeks call a “barbarian” society, but by the end of the book we see it becoming more “civilized” and Greek-influenced, thanks to Queen Orual, who was of course educated by the Fox, a Greek.
Interestingly, it seems like the rationalization and “civilization” of this society — like, the way the new priest tidies up the House of Ungit and brings in a new, representational statue of a goddess, instead of the old giant rock — it’s heavily implied that these changes bring the society further away from the truth about the “Divine Nature.” Remove it further from the Truth.
One of the most interesting and impactful things, for me, was the constant association of the holy with the horrible. What’s Divine is mysterious, dark, bloody, stinking, grisly, terrifying, brutal — at once earthy and transcendental. Very real and present everywhere, instilling fear and awe. This ancient attitude toward religion is sorely lacking from modern-day American religion, which loves to portray Jesus and Mary as warm-and-fuzzy and friendly and “relatable.” Reading this book kind of reminds you what a healthy fear of God and awe of His ways should feel like. Even though the religion in the story is pagan, the truths in it are just as true in a Christian worldview and practice.
I’m pretty slow, but even I was able to pick up on the themes of self-deception, examination of conscience, penance, honesty with oneself — the symbolism of the veiling of her face, which reminded me also of U.H.I.D. in Infinite Jest (amiright?!) (someone smarter than me should really write a paper comparing/contrasting Orual & Joelle). So it’s rich in symbolism and metaphor and all without being heavy-handed. I appreciate that.
You all know I like delicious prose, and this is about as tasty as it gets. I love it so much I could almost literally take a bite out of it and ingest it (which is apt, considering how one of its major themes is that of the unsettling, visceral commonalities between loving and devouring — the Holy Eucharist, anyone?!). The phrasing is ancient-feeling and poetic, and you’ll discover lots of fun new vocab words.
It’s fun and accessible, but it’s definitely not what I’d call “light” or “pleasant” — this is certainly not in the “beach read” category. It’s sad, heartbreaking even, it’s upsetting, reflective, and very heavy — it will really make you meditate on your own moral blind spots, the sickness of your own soul, whether you can possibly be redeemed, and your own powerlessness to save yourself. Ya know, all that fun stuff! But it does all of this while being very sensorily rich and delicious and romantic and vivid.
There’s really not much I can add to the conversation about such a famous masterpiece, so before I go I’ll just show you one of my favorite passages. Everyone always talks about Orual’s last words at the end of Part Two, and rightfully so, but here’s a part that I think deserves to be quoted more. This is when Psyche and Orual are talking on the night before Psyche is to be Offered, and Psyche’s telling Orual that she’s actually kind of okay with it, because in a way she’s always kinda longed for death:
Our longing for eternity, they say, is itself proof of an eternal God, and this passage puts that in words so clearly! I dunno about you guys but reading this my brain was like YES because I never quite had the words for it but this feeling is so relatable: always, every moment of great happiness, every experience of beauty, is always colored with a certain sadness, because it’s ephemeral, it’s passing away even now, and it’s like you can’t really sink into it enough. It’s never real enough. “Somewhere else there must be more of it” — exactly! This is our longing for Heaven.
This passage really makes you meditate on how great Heaven must be — if you think back, for a moment, over every joy you’ve ever wished you could freeze and live in forever, or every beautiful thing you’ve ever seen and somehow longed to immerse yourself in more totally — every good thing that’s passing away, all of that longing will be satisfied in Heaven, forever! And more! Sometimes we get so caught up in worrying about avoiding damnation that we forget to meditate on the joy of Heaven (it’s me, I’m “we”). And it’s better, after all, to strive for the joy of union with God than to just try to dodge punishment. We shouldn’t just be content to spend a few millennia in purgatory because, oh well, at least we’ll eventually get to the lower tier of Heaven — we should want to be as close to God as we possibly can! We should want to be great saints.
So yeah, as grim and heavy as this book is, it’s also uplifting, and I daresay it will help you grow in sanctity if that’s something you’re working on. Even if you don’t care for fantasy, or religion for that matter, give it a try if you haven’t already. It’s the very definition of good fun.
That’s right, this shall be two TOP 10 lists in a single post! Hot diggity dog! Buckle up, readers.
I have four kids six and under, and we’re a pretty bookish family, so it follows that I read a lot of children’s books these days. Tbh I read more children’s books than adult books, anymore, and thus I’ve formed a lot of opinions about children’s books, over the past six years.
Some, I love dearly — it’s been a delight to rediscover some favorites from my own childhood with my kids, and to discover some new gems as well! It goes without saying that works such as Frog and Toad, the Magic School Bus series, anything by Beatrix Potter, and Mary Cicely Barker’s Flower Fairies are timeless classics. If I were to list every kid book that I love, this post would be way too long.
Others, though… others give me the ick. Some, for identifiable reasons, but others, just because something about the illustrations or the writing rubs me the wrong way. Nothing against the creators of these books; my hat is off to just about any writer/illustrator of children’s books! (I say “just about” because some of these are, imo, less respectable works than others.) Some of these just make me recoil and/or elicit a gross feeling inside, an aversion like that between twin magnetic poles, and I have to really grit my teeth and force my way through it when my kids ask me to read them these particular books.
I’m a “bad news first” type of person, so let’s begin with the icky. If you’re reading this and you happen to be the author or illustrator of one of these books: I’m sorry, I have nothing against you personally, and indeed have great respect for you for being a traditionally-published writer/artist at all — we all know how hard that is to achieve, especially in this day and age! My criticism is simply a matter of personal taste — and know that you wouldn’t have made it to this list at all if my kids didn’t adore your work and beg me to read it to them. Which was, after all, your goal, wasn’t it?
TOP 10: Children’s Books that Give Mith the Ick
14. Anything by Richard Scarry. I know, I know — this is a controversial opinion. His artwork is adorable and charming and all, I understand that. And so wholesome. There’s not a thing wrong with it. On paper, it ticks all my boxes — it seems like the kind of thing I would approve of. But something about his drawings gives me a chilly, queasy, unsettled feeling. Is it just me?
13. The Madeline books. Yup, call me crazy but I don’t like these either! The first one is a good little story with good rhyming — indeed, good enough to outweigh the icky artwork — but the sequels are dumb and contrived, the rhymes weak and cringey. And yeah, the art is majorly gross for me. I hate it the same way I hate 1930s-40s movies and music; Madeline looks the way croony 1940s music sounds on crackly vinyl. I realize it’s a masterpiece and all but it just doesn’t vibe with me!
12. Most things by Dr. Seuss. Another hot take! I say “most things” because there are a few stories of his that I love so much that it overrides my aversion to his art: namely, Daisy-Head Mayzie, The Sneetches, and of course The Lorax — but, for the most part, his illustration style just feels cold and creepy to me. Sterile, soulless, spooky. I hate his made-up animals, they make me nauseated. Dr. Seuss apparently moonlighted (moonlit?) as a painter of creepy, surreal works for adults, and if you look up his adult work, you can really see that this is where he pulls out all the stops and just lets his creepiness flow unrestrained. Horrifying stuff. There are few places I’d want to visit less than Dr. Seuss’s brain.
11. Ten Tiny Tickles by Karen Katz. Nothing against Ms. Katz, her work is cute and there’s nothing wrong with it, and I like her other books; I simply hate this little board book. Obnoxious AF. I can honestly not even stand to read it out loud. My kids loved it so much that I had to bury our copy deep in the basement.
10. The Froggy series by Jonathan London, illustrated by Frank Remkiewicz. Again, no offense to the author or illustrator! Objectively great children’s books, and highly successful. Just annoying to me. It’s all the “zip,” “zup,” “zing” sound effects and all the “Froooogggyyyyy!!” “Wha-aaa-aat?” dialogue — but it’s also the mouths. Ugh, the mouths. The characters’ mouths remind me of puppets, which you already know from this post give me the major ick.
9. The Olivia books by Ian Falconer. These books are actually kinda cute; I’m not sure why they irritate me so much, but they do.
8. The Llama Llama books by Anna Dewdney. These rhymes are actually really solid. So what is it about Llama Llama that pisses me off? I think a large factor is the name. Why is he, as a llama, named “Llama Llama.” I get so sick of hearing that repeated a million times per book.
7. Anything by Sandra Boynton. No offense, Ms. Boynton! You’re so hugely popular that I’m sure one stupid little WordPress blogger’s silly little unsolicited opinion is just laughably meaningless to you, anyway. But man, those goofy dopey animals and their little songs are so irritating to me.
6. Anything by Mo Willems. I’m actually conflicted on this one, because my firstborn when she was a year old was gifted a copy of Don’t Let The Pigeon Drive The Bus, and she was obsessed with it — we read it so many times that she memorized it, it was one of the first books she ever memorized, and I have videos of her sitting in the glider chair in her nursery “reading” it to herself — the sweetest thing! However, I also find Mo Willems’s ultra-modern style of drawing and storytelling to be highly obnoxious, and even kind of depressing. There’s no beauty in these books, nothing uplifting or enchanting or good. It’s just brainrot for kids.
5. Anything by Aaron Blabey. Again, I’m emotionally conflicted here because my secondborn absolutely loves Thelma the Unicorn. Every time we go to the library, she wants to check out Thelma, and never gets bored of it; I should really just cave and buy a copy, but I hate to, because I friggen hate these books. They’re so vapid! Even the illustrations are like deliberately stupid. The original Thelma isn’t bad, although the rhymes are pretty lazy imo, but the second one is really weak and lame. But, hey, my four-year-old is the target audience, not me, and for her it’s a huge hit, so what does my opinion matter anyway.
4. The Little Critter books by Mercer Mayer. I hate that critter. I hate his face. All the other books on this list, I’ve begrudgingly allowed into my home at some point… but never these. Never these. The sight of that critter’s horrible face has always turned my stomach.
3. The Amelia Bedelia books by Peggy/Herman Parish. I liked these when I was a little kid, but now, as a mom, they drive me insane! I hate reading them out loud — why must they repeat her stupid name over and over like it’s some kind of joke?! I once counted how many times I had to say her name in a single book and it was like 80something. And as an adult, watching her destroy people’s homes and belongings, while acting all cutesy and helpless about it, is so triggering. And why is she always smiling as she does it?! If this woman ever came anywhere near my house I’d chase her off with a hose.
2. The KittyCorn books by Shannon Hale, illustrated by LeUyen Pham. With all due respect to the author and illustrator, who after all have published multiple books while I have published zero: these books feel like an insult to my daughter’s intelligence. And damaging to it. KittyCorn is to little girls what pornography is to adults. The stories are highly simplistic, the artwork is silly and goofy, not beautiful — but it’s about a “KittyCorn,” so little girls are hypnotized, spellbound, and just absorb it. This is the high fructose corn syrup of kid lit. (Same way I feel about the junky chapter book series Mermicorn Island by Jason June. An insult! (My oldest is starting to read chapter books, so there are a few of those that I considered for this post, both bad and good; however, I decided to keep it to picture books. Maybe another day I’ll discuss chapter books & MG fiction.))
and to top it off:
1. The Pete the Cat series by Eric Litwin, James Dean, and Kimberly Dean. These books piss me off. I know the art is supposed to be “highly stylized” and “bold” and “modern” or whatever, but to me it is just upsettingly ugly; the plots and dialogue are senselessly stupid, like a painfully-mentally-handicapped person wrote them, and I cannot STAND the way the cat calls everything “groovy,” it smacks of the 1960s-70s which is a time period I generally loathe, an era defined by ugliness and degeneracy. I used to let my kids check out the Pete books anyway, because they liked them and all, but the last straw for me was in the Easter book when Pete the Cat tells the reader: “helping others is what Easter is all about!” — excuse me, sir? What did you just say?! Ugh! Worldly propaganda at its finest!
Now, moving on to the good! I really had to aggressively winnow this list to keep it relatively concise:
TOP 10: Mith-Approved Children’s Books
14. Little Blue Truck by Alice Schertle, illustrated by Jill McElmurry. I haven’t read all the sequels, but the original is a class act: smart rhymes, tight storytelling, genuinely funny, inviting pictures, and a good moral message. Plus, my three-year-old always shrieks with laughter at the line “Goat jumped over the fence, of course” — every time, without fail, which makes it even more delightful to read aloud to the kids. This series absolutely deserves its success.
13. Anansi and the Moss-Covered Rock by Eric Kimmel, illustrated by Janet Stevens. If you haven’t read this one, you should, even if you don’t have a kid to read it to. It’s adapted from an African folktale, and it’s clever and funny as heck. Plus the artwork is so lush and expressive, you can really get absorbed in each page; and the story is so well-told. It’s everything that a children’s book should be.
12. The Max and Ruby books by Rosemary Wells. Another series that 100% deserves its raging success! Everything about these books is sweet and sincere and lovely. Some of my personal favs: Max’s Bath (which made me laugh as a kid and still makes me laugh today) and Max’s Birthday, both of which are board books, and, in longer picture books: Bunny Cakes and Bunny Money. The TV adaptation I don’t really care for, but screen adaptations are never as good, are they.
11. Eloise by Kay Thompson, illustrated by Hilary Knight. How badly I wanted to be Eloise, when I was a kid! And tbh still kinda want to! What a dream life. This book is a brilliant work of art. Eloise’s world is so vivid, so real you can actually smell and hear it.
10. Outside Over There by Maurice Sendak. Everyone raves about Where the Wild Things Are, but I actually love this one way more. Maurice Sendak’s stuff is creepy in a good way, and this book exemplifies that. It’s eerie and chilling, but at the same time it’s wholesome, innocent fun for little kids — just as a fairytale should be. The illustrations are phenomenal, each page a work of art, and, as always, Sendak’s narration is beautiful poetry, just as engaging for adults as it is for kids.
9. Certain titles from Robert Munsch. I say “certain titles” because Munsch is very prolific and, tbh, I haven’t read anywhere near all of his books! But, The Paper Bag Princess and Mortimer are both 10/10 classics. And, of course, Love You Forever — although I actually hate reading that one, because it makes me too emotional. I think it might be the single most tear-jerky book ever written, at least if you’re a parent.
8. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs by Judi Barrett, illustrated by Ron Barrett. No commentary needed! Iconic! We all know this one’s genius. It’s a perfect book. As you can imagine, I was furious when I found out they were making a movie adaptation… but to my pleasant surprise, I found that the movie (the first one, not the second) was actually really good too. It’s a completely different story from the book, just loosely inspired by the book really, which is partly why it was such a good adaptation. Book is still better, obviously.
7. The Golden Egg by A.J. Wood, illustrated by Maggie Kneen. If I could live inside one children’s book, it’d be this one. The pictures are just so lovely. Rhymes are just okay, imo, but the artwork more than makes up for it. I read this one to my kids over and over.
6,. Anything by Tomie dePaola. Catholic moms love Tomie dePaola, and I’m no exception! I especially love his book about Mary, the Mother of Jesus, but they’re all gems. Except The Clown of God. That one is way too sad, incredibly sad, and as I said above, I don’t like being made to feel sad.
5. Gregory, the Terrible Eater by Mitchell Sharmat, illustrated by Jose Aruego and Ariane Dewey. As a child, I loved this story because it’s funny and unexpected. As a parent, I love it for several reasons; one being how hilariously relatable it is, if your kids, like mine, are picky eaters; but also because it’s actually really profound. The lesson of this book can apply to so many things in life, and I find myself thinking about it often, in all kinds of contexts. (Now, if you’re normal, you might not find this book so profound… but if, like me, you struggle to comprehend this concept of “moderation,” I highly recommend this as like a textbook.)
4. The Sheep and the Rowan Tree by Julia Butcher. A neat little “bloom where you are planted” story with stunning artwork — honestly, every page could be framed and hung on the wall. I love how it’s just slightly weird and bizarre, too — not your typical “bloom where you are planted” story. They don’t make ’em like this anymore.
3. The Giant Jam Sandwichby Janet Burroway and John Vernon Lord. Janet Burroway is actually a serious poet, not just a children’s book author, and it shows. This is a delectable, masterful little poem that also happens to be a hilarious and weird little children’s book. Not a single word of filler. Contemporary illustrators take note: this is how to offer beauty and levity at the same time! High quality and humor! You don’t have to choose. Readers, get you a book that can do both. I can read this one over and over, not even for the kids, just for myself!
2. Anything by Jan Brett. Jan Brett is the GOAT of children’s book authors. I’m so grateful that she decided to use her artistic gifts to create children’s books, because her books are such a blessing to any household with children. I grew up with her Twelve Days of Christmas, and it’s my favorite Christmas book for kids to this day (and has defined how I hear that song); we also love Hedgie’s Surprise, Fritz and the Beautiful Horses, and The Gingerbread Baby. Seriously, even if you don’t have kids, you should go look at her books just for the artwork. Look at the landscapes in Gingerbread Baby. A veritable feast for the eyes. She’s really out here doing the most. The opposite of Dr. Seuss: I feel like Jan Brett’s brain must be a lovely place to hang out.
and finally, Mith’s favorite children’s book of all time:
1. The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes by DuBose Heyward, illustrated by Marjorie Flack. It’s the perfect children’s book. No notes. When I was a kid, I checked this one out from the library as a “book on tape,” which if you’re a crusty old millennial like me, you may remember was the predecessor to today’s audiobooks: the paperback and the cassette tape were loaned out together in a plastic bag that was sealed with a plastic clip that was also a hanger. Anyway, this book made such an impression on me back then, just the classicism and charm and beauty of it, and I still love it just as much. It’s timeless, it’s beautiful, it’s edifying, it’s intelligent, the prose is lovely — just a joy in every way.
What about you guys? Can you think of any great or icky children’s books that I missed? Let me know ⬇️⬇️
Caution! The book that I’m talking about contains explicit sexual content. I do not recommend this book if you are someone who struggles with lust. I do, however, recommend this book if you are a woman who’s sick of feeling trapped by the male gaze/ weary of the stupid instinctual desire to be desired by men.
Normally, I do not read books with graphic content, as a rule. Why did I make an exception for Honeysuckle? Well, because the story is otherwise exactly the kind of story that I love: a weird, dark love story with lots of psychological suspense, ruminating, and, brooding; masterfully written, each sentence a delicious and intentional work of art. And bonus fairytale vibes. So, unfortunately, by the time the story got graphic, I was already committed. Well done, Bar Fridman-Tell.
This is a brand new novel from a new novelist btw. I won’t spoil it for you, but a quick description: it’s inspired by Welsh mythology, specifically the blodeuwedd, a figure from the Mabinogion. A magical-realistic fairytale, Honeysuckle takes place in an alternate-universe Wales, where magic is taught at universities and exists alongside relatively modern technology such as trains and telephones (it’s never explicitly revealed what year it is, but the internet does not exist in this story, which is cool).
The main character is a boy named Rory, whose older sister, a university student, on a whim one day builds for him a blodeuwedd (a living doll built of flora and animated by magic) as a playmate. The story tells of Rory’s relationship with this flower-construct, Daye (who btw looks just like a stunningly beautiful but somehow-otherwordly human girl), as he grows up; he’s eight when the book begins, and nineteen when it ends. As you can imagine, their relationship goes through some intense changes, which are further complicated by the fact that Daye needs to be surgically/magically re-fashioned out of fresh flora every time the season changes, making her dependent upon Rory for her very life — and by the fact that she is bound, by her nature, to obey him. (The honeysuckle woven into her is what binds her to him, hence the title.) The perspective switches back and forth between his POV and hers.
The philosophical questions that it raises are highly relevant to today, imo, in this age of AI girlfriends and robot companions. But even more interesting, for me, than its questions about agency and intelligence and free will, was its study of romantic relationships in general.
I think any girl who’s ever felt stuck in a relationship with a controlling, manipulative, immature guy will really empathize with Daye. Or if you’ve ever been in a relationship with someone who clearly didn’t really see you for who you were, and didn’t care to — someone who was just in love with one facet of you, or some imagined version of you, and only wanted you to play the role of that character for them.
Yeah, you can tell that I didn’t like Rory, lol. In the beginning you sympathize with him. He’s just a lonely boy. Really, the elephant in the room this whole book is his parents’ absence, and his sister seems more rightfully upset at them, whereas Rory just accepts it — interesting; typical older/younger sibling stuff, I guess — but anyway, by the time he’s a teenager, you find it harder to sympathize. The author, an adult woman, has managed to write a very realistic teenage boy POV (as far as I can tell, anyway, never having been a teenage boy myself) and it’s frankly revolting: the tunnel-vision, the sex obsession, the “but I want it!” mentality, the sniveling self-pity. The way they equate lust with love and treat a girl as their “muse” and call it devotion. Ugh. Gross.
Which is why I made the above recommendation of this book to women who are sick of feeling trapped by the male gaze, who are sick of the pressure to look sexy. This book really reminded me exactly what it is that we women are enslaved to — what it is that we’re programmed to be so desperate to appeal to. Just this gross, selfish, vile, slavering appetite of males to penetrate. To put their weenies in things. That’s all. That’s what drives everything. Ugh, reading this book made me want to buzz my hair off, get fat, and quit shaving. (I’m not actually going to do those things, I’m a married woman.) But it’s certainly liberating, to see it for what it is. It makes you want to build some wings and fly away from it all. And I don’t even identify as a “feminist.”
My favorite moment in the book is when Hanna (the girl who briefly crushes on Rory before she knows him too well, but then starts to resent him after he ghosts her because she’s not Daye) calls Rory out for the sleazeball that he is in front of all their friends. Building his own girlfriend who’s unable to say no — ” a pet that he can fuck,” she says, basically, which is accurate. Even if Hanna’s jabs are fueled by booze and jealousy, she’s completely right.
And the gross thing is when Rory’s guy friend (can’t remember his name) steps in to console him like “it’s ok bro! you’re good! You’re not doing anything wrong! You know best, after all!” — EWW. My goal in life (one of them) is to raise my sons into the kind of men who will take Hanna’s side in a conversation like this, rather than enabling creeps.
I mean I guess to be fair, the way Rory sees it, he does have good intentions. He wants to make Daye independent so that they can have a real relationship. He knows it’s wrong to have a romantic relationship with someone who is unable to deny him — but, still, he’s not honest with himself, is he, and he realizes this towards the end. And he’s apparently not that put off by the notion of her inability to say no. We see him take advantage of it several times. (The licking of the lips thing — gag me.) But I mean, boys will be boys, I guess, won’t they. And he clearly never had any male role models or guidance of any kind. It’s pretty sad.
What a great ending though. I think all the women in the audience were cheering at that part: a metaphor made so beautifully literal, a perfect modern fairytale conclusion. Everything came together exactly as it needed to. I don’t want to spoil it for you, but let me know, if you read it, what you thought.
Oops. I accidentally read five novels in two weeks. (Maybe not a big deal for some of y’all, but as a busy SAHM, I have no business staying up late binge-reading as much as I’ve been doing lately; I’m actually physically ill, right now, as I’m writing this.) This always happens to me when I discover an author that I really like. I think I might need to slow down… Anyway, here are my thoughts:
The Soulmate. Devoured this one over the course of two days while on a beach vacation. So freaking fun. Loved it even more than The Family Next Door. Why?: because it immerses you even more deeply in the characters and fleshes them out more, focusing on just two couples instead of a whole neighborhood. I also love the way it jumps back and forth in time, circling around the hub of a single event. Very romantic, very delicious, highly suspenseful. Once again, beautiful setting, senually delightful, & great fun spending time in the world of Australia’s ultra-rich. Gabe is fascinating and splendidly-written imo, but Max is the best character by far; what a great twist at the end. I now begin to get a sense for the type of story that Sally Hepworth dwells upon, the motifs that repeat over and over in her mind. (Every writer has them; it’s almost like every writer really has just one story they long to tell.) One of hers is apparently raspberry-white chocolate muffins. I’m now wondering if they’ll make an appearance in every one of her novels. Let’s find out.
The Mother-In-Law. No raspberry-white chocolate muffins in this one! Bummer, I was kinda hoping that’d be a thing. Oh well. This one lost a few points for me due to its unfortunate portrayal of Catholicism. “Diana grew up in a Catholic family 😨,” is something we hear repeated over and over, with horror, as if it’s some kind of explanation for why her parents were so judgmental and cruel and cut her off. Those bad, evil Catholics!! What a shame, because philosophically Sally Hepworth gets a lot of things right in this book — it’s a very pro-life story, really; Diana chooses life in extremely difficult circumstances, things work out, and she devotes her adult life to helping expectant mothers in difficult circumstances. Voluntary euthanasia is considered, but ultimately depicted as unwise and tragic. Same with surrogacy and IVF: Lucy, the hero of the story, is very opposed to surrogacy and egg donation, and I wanted to cheer for her for standing her ground there. The author tells us about the ridiculous toll that reproductive technology takes on people’s lives and sanity; it’s cast in a very negative light. (Poor Nettie; TTC-induced insanity is a very real thing, and I felt for her.) I was pleased about that. If only Ms. Hepworth didn’t treat the word “Catholic” as some kind of insult. Diana might be my favorite of her characters yet.
The Good Sister. Not proud of how quickly I finished this one. 🙈 I’m beginning to see why I stopped reading. When I get into a book, my addict brain takes over. “Just a little more! Can’t stop now!” While the dishes are rotting in the sink and there’s craft supplies all over the floor and painty finger-smears on the table and walls. A few weeks into this Rediscovering Reading endeavor, I think I might actually need to slow down on reading. This one was too good though. An autistic protagonist, although the word “autism” is never actually spoken: cool! It was nice to have a somewhat unusual main character; most of Sally Hepworth’s female leads are kinda Barbie dolls (not a criticism, just an observation: she likes to write about rich, pretty, feminine, romantic, housewifey types), but Fern here is ~Autistic~ Barbie! Sally Hepworth always makes sure to remind us, over and over, how frequently her characters love to exercise, so that we understand that they are super fit and sexy. (Granted, judging from her back jacket photos, Sally Hepworth is, herself, a very beautiful, attractive, and fashionable person — write what you know, I guess.) Interesting though. I think the folks on Writer Twitter (er, X now) might have a few things to say about Sally Hepworth writing an autistic character in the first person when she herself is not autistic; I understand that’s a cardinal sin, in this day and age, in the writing world. Anyway, I didn’t mind; I liked it. Fern + “Wally” was probably my favorite romance of hers that I’ve read so far. A little too perfect, lol — he just happens to be a famous bazillionaire with no day job! They’ll never have to work a day in their lives! Life with a disability is easy when you have all the money in the world, Fern realizes at the end, when she figures out that she won’t have to do school pickups/dropoffs or birthday parties because Wally will never need to clock in for a job a single day in his life. Ah, what a dream. Anyway, on a more serious note: this one was my favorite so far. A story of two sisters with different recollections of their childhood is of particular interest to me, as my own sister and I have more than once discussed how different our perceptions are of our upbringing. Thankfully, neither of us has ever committed murder. Rose had me in the first half, not gonna lie… but by the back half I hated her! The scene in the hospital where she showed up with formula like “I’m the mom” and refused to let Fern breastfeed her own newborn… that was almost too physically painful to read! I almost needed to put it down. But couldn’t. Damn your writing skills, Sally Hepworth! I’m gonna have to avoid her books in the future, they’re too much fun for me. But, in the meantime, just one more…
The Things We Keep. This one was different than her others: slower and sadder. Lighter on the crime and mystery, heavier on the reflection and sorrow. Still really good, but not as much “suspense.” Also, I don’t think it was Sally Hepworth’s intention, and this might just be me, but this book kinda made Anna’s life with Alzheimer’s look… idllyic?! I mean: a permanent stay at what basically amounts to a gorgeous, ritzy B&B with its own fancy chef and sexy gardener… zero responsibilities, unlimited leisure time, a credit card for shopping, all expenses paid, people taking care of you around the clock, and your gorgeous lover right there with you, like an endless honeymoon? A bit fantastical, really. My one beef with this one: I’m sorry, but there is nothing “dead sexy” about a man crawling up the stairs, no matter how good-looking the man is, lol. Did give me a good laugh though, so thanks for that. And, how does he stay so “muscular,” anyway, living in a nursing home with dementia? Hmm. I take issue also with the way that, while all the main characters are beautiful and fit, the two “villains,” Eric and Miranda’s mom, are hatefully described as fat — perpetuating the stupid stereotype in fiction that “fat = bad” and “thin/attractive = good.” And also, the name Richard being used on a rich, shady, sleazy businessman. Why is “Richard” always a rich, shady, sleazy businessman, in fiction?! Has there ever been a decent fictional Richard?! Come on now. In all seriousness though, this book really toed the line between “good-sad” and “too sad,” for me. Impressive though; apparently she can write in first-person from a seven-year-old’s POV too, and it really works. No raspberry-white chocolate muffins, but we do get some orange-poppyseed ones.
Umm… I lied. Just one more:
Darling Girls. Okay, I’ll say it: this one had the most exciting, “high-concept” premise, but the least-polished execution. The story was insanely good — but the ending felt rushed, some of the last scenes a bit contrived, the big twist felt too late, and there were two or three typos. I can excuse one, but when there are two or three, I’m like: why did nobody look at this before they printed it? I feel like maybe they were rushing her to finish the novel and hand it over. My other beef: it’s mentioned that Kevin, the creep, is a D&D player. Ugh. Let’s stop maligning D&D players, can we?! I’m so over the popular portrayal of them as all slimy, smelly neckbeards and incels. D&D is a highly intricate, intelligent, artistic, and fascinating thing. I don’t play it, I’m way too stupid for that, but my husband does. Anyway. Rant over. Whatever. Still a thrilling, un-put-downable book, and honestly it’s probably just that I’ve become spoiled and nitpicky from reading 1500+ pages of Sally Hepworth’s incredible writing over the past two weeks. This one also dropped a few truth-bombs that made me pause and go “😮” and just stare and think for a minute, such as: “Even after all these years, yearning for the love and attention of someone who couldn’t give it to her was much more comfortable than actually receiving it” (96). Damn, ok! It’s these profound little moments that make Sally Hepworth’s writing more than just “chick lit” crime thrillers. Also, Holly Fairchild is 100% her worst villain yet; total nightmare fuel. I can easily see this one being made into a limited series on Netflix. No muffins to speak of, though, alas.
… Okay, that’s it. I’ve got to slow down for real. At some point I’ve got to get back to that accused middle grade fiction project I mentioned three or four months ago. I need to go read something dry and dense. And I need to sleep! Do not, I repeat, do NOT, under any circumstances, give me any more copies of any Sally Hepworth novels, no matter what I say to you, no matter how I beg. I’m in recovery.
No spoilers here! I’m not going to spoil any books for you, in this little Rediscovering Reading series, I promise.
This was my first time reading Agatha Christie. As I mentioned in my previous posts in this series, I’m apparently really into crime thrillers written by women; so, I figured I needed to give the OG Agatha Christie a try. (Also, I’ve been told that she’s an ILI in socionics, same as me, so I was curious to see how she wrote.) It was kind of obligatory.
I was no stranger to Hercule Poirot, as I’d seen the recent movies: Murder on the Orient Express, Death on the Nile, and A Haunting in Venice. The first of these was pretty good, but the second and third… meh. I thought maybe the books would be better, as is pretty much always the case.
So, the time had come for me to read Agatha Christie. At my public library, I found my way to “CHR” on the adult fiction shelf, and was met with a long row of plain black spines, their gold titles partially hidden beneath those library stickers (see pic); I was short on time, so I grabbed one pretty much at random, and it ended up being The Mystery of the Blue Train.
It was certainly a change of pace from Sally Hepworth. Agatha Christie’s writing is not sensual. It’s very matter-of-fact; very ILI. “This happened, then this happened, then this happened.” All action. There is some description, and what’s there is really concise and vivid; but never does she really get into the characters’ heads. So, not my favorite, stylistically. In fact, I almost didn’t stick with it, because it failed to really grab me. But I didn’t want to be a quitter, so finished it out of sheer stubbornness.
I did like meeting Hercule Poirot in literary form. He’s much more unserious, in the books! On the screen he’s rather formidable and cool, but in the books she really plays up his silliness: a fat little puffed-up guy with a huge mustache and an even bigger ego, but you kind of adore him. He’s comical, and, like most of the characters, kind of a caricature, a colorfully overblown figure — but just believeable enough.
One thing I think Agatha Christie is especially good at: names! Standouts from this novel include: Lenox (for a girl; feels very 2026 trendy, but this was published in 1928!), Zia, and Mirelle. And of course in Death on the Nile we had Linnet, which I’ve always thought was an excellent girl name.
And another thing I like about her writing: it’s clean. It manages to have zero explicit content while still being a very sexy story full of sexual tension and extramarital affairs, ardent longing and dramatic romance. Modern writers, take note! It can be done! It’s actually much more alluring when it’s not talked about openly. This is one aspect of Agatha Christie’s 1928 writing that I really appreciate.
Another thing I liked: it has a religious sensibility, an atmosphere of moral standards, and regular references to, as Poirot says, le bon Dieu. Katherine Grey is occasionally referred to as a “saint.” Divorce is seen as a horrible scandal. There’s a sense of propriety and societal norms. Which is nice to see, in a murder mystery; most contemporary ones are so gritty and grim and grisly. This one has a hopeful and happy ending.
Overall though, I don’t plan on reading any more of her books. I don’t want a bunch of sexual content, but I do want a bit more sensory engagement, and a bit more time to slow down and focus on the characters rather than the action.
Also, the surprise ending kinda came out of nowhere, for me. I know a surprise is supposed to be just that: a surprise, but, with a murder mystery, there need to be clues, or something that, when you get to the end, makes you go “oh, right! 🤦♀️” And that just wasn’t there, for me. Too much happened off-camera, making the solution feel a little hasty towards the end. — Maybe I’m just too stupid to have noticed the subtle clues, though. (To my credit, I did catch that something was off with the details about the cigarette case, but other than that…)
I’m glad I read it though, just so I can say I have. And if you like plot for its own sake, and/or you like solving puzzles (because indeed, this book feels more lile a puzzle than a novel, to me), you will probably enjoy it. Let me know what you think if you read this or any other Agatha Christie books.
