Review- The Talisman Ring

Once more, I read deep (deep, deep) into the night and the wee sma's to finish a book by morning, and a review by evening.

I think the bags are starting to show. Full night of sleep, tonight.


The Talisman Ring is (you guessed it) another Georgette Heyer. Sorry. I love her writing and I found a huge stash at my secondhand bookshop, so I intend to read and review them all.


This Heyer is not just a straight romance! It's a murder mystery, and a crashing good one, too. We fall straight into a marriage-of-convenience-betrothal to satisfy the rich-lord-and-crotchety-family-head-on-his-deathbed (which is the closest thing to Oh The Cliche I will accuse Heyer of) and from this improvident start improves rapidly. There's smuggling, shooting, kissing, hiding-from-policemen and- best of all- a murder pinned on an innocent man.

There's no shocking twist- the Real Killer is fairly obvious from about three chapters in, but pinning it on him, ah, therein lies the rub. It's hugely entertaining watching the characters twisting themselves into the most unusual situations, hoping for a clue, a sign, anything to prove that the Real Killer is who they think he is.


Once more (or even, as per usual) there are multiple couples pairing off, although quite honestly I was wondering if the second (or even first? Hrm...) couple were ever going to get their act together and 'fess up. The first (second?) couple you see from, oh, the first meeting. Bam. Love-at-first-shadowy-glance, captured by her smile, you know the stuff. Nevertheless, they're adorable. Ludovic could double for Man-Creature (in my head). Never mind that Man-Creature has a distinctly swarthy complexion and waist length black hair and Ludovic has a blonde crop. This is my imagination, and my blog! If you change the colouring, Heyer describes Ludo much the same way as I'd describe Man-Creature. So ner.

I've tagged this under "Really Odd Names" but I think it really should be under "Really Awesome Names" as we have a Tristram, Ludovic, Basil, Sylvester and a Eustacie. In fact, the only Really Normal Names are Joseph, Sarah and Hugh.
Five R.A.N's in one book! Whoo! I love a good interesting name. Sod all the John's and Charles's. Meh. Give me a Sir Tristram Shield in his battered, old fashioned tricorne any day.


The who-dunnit climax is simply thrilling. I read it with bated breath, and little regard for the sleeping toddler with her feet in my back, letting my light illuminate the room and not just the page. I'm not going to tell you what happens though. I've said it before, I want you to read the bloody book, not act like you have.


This brings me quickly to three more very salient points.
1) I write 98% of this blog on my ipad. This curtails the length of my posts because typing on it is something of a penance I perform for the sin of dropping a stein of coffee on my old laptop. I can steal Man-Creature's Lenovo from time to time, but he has a "thing" about cups of liquid being anywhere near it. Can't think why. (Obviously I've borrowed it for this novella.)

2) I know. I don't write proper "reviews" with a synopsis and in-depth analysis. I do this for fun, not to re-enact high school. So sorry. If you don't like it, move along.

3) If you want me to read anything in particular, comment. If you're from Russia, comment (that's about 80% of my readership) and if you're from Australia, comment too. You're about 15% of readers.

Review- Devil's Cub

Here I am, back again, having read another wonderful novel. 

This time it's another Georgette Heyer, Devil's Cub. 
The storyline has everything I love; mistaken identity, unprincipled and wild men, upstanding women and lots and lots of love. 
One of my favourite things about this book would have to be the different personalities, each with their own significant strengths and flaws that add to the texture and feel of the book and often add to the plot. It's Mary's strong morals that cause her to originally go with Lord Vidal, and likewise Vidal's determination to have his own way that causes her to flee. 
Juliana's need to be chased chases Mr. Comyn away, and Mr. Comyn's refusal to play games that brings on a rift. 

Speaking of Mr. Comyn, I think I'm in love. His manner of speaking is truly a work of art- if I could cultivate it without sounding like a windbag, you'd better believe I would! He's just so wonderfully correct, and cooler than ice blocks in the face of a crisis. Only anger makes him lose his polish, and even then it's after great provocation. A lesser man would have snapped, oh, pages before he. 

Oddly enough, this isn't a book where I liked the hero much. I spent a lot of time wanting to punch him. He's just so very domineering, which is not a trait I find remotely attractive. If he wants something to happen he threatens and uses force, and sneers at people he considers beneath him which I find very hard to respect. I enjoy his father, the Duke of Avon so, so much more as he uses much subtler methods than threats and brute strength to get 
his way. 

The history is accurate to my best knowledge, nothing sticks out. I wouldn't expect it of Heyer any way. 

Devil's Cub isn't set in my favourite era, being set in the time of panniers, patches and velvet suits for men but as it doesn't affect the story, I may have imagined more buckskins and less hair powder. 

It's a Heyer. The writing is excellent, the dialogue fits the time, dress is right, and the description is spot on, every time. Read it with tissues and a whole pot of piping hot tea. 

It's my birthday!

Wheeee!
I'm not really excited about my birthday as such- but what my lovely mummy gave me. 

In hardback, too.


Bit spoiled, I am.

Review- The Great Gatsby

It's taken me a surprisingly long while to read Gatsby- it lay in the bottom of my handbag, looking forlornly at me until today, where I took Baby to daycare, drove home and then lay in my weed collection lawn reading from cover to cover. 

Don't tell man-creature. He thinks I do the housework on Mondays. 

I'm not sure how I feel about The Great Gatsby. It's wonderfully written, the words fly off the page, swirl in front of you in their glitter, their shrieking, wild jazz and then vanish in a puff of smoke. It's a heyday book, a coming-of-age book, a study on marriage and fidelity. 

I say coming-of-age, but it can't really be considered that, in the strictest sense. Nick Carraway, after all, turns thirty and the rest of the characters range from late twenties to mid forties. Carraway does however, do a lot of maturing, mainly in cynicism. He slowly changes from a fresh, positive man into a darker, more sceptical sort. 
There's love and there's loss- whirling in freakish circles until the two come together in a hideous, ironic moment which consequently...well. That'd be a spoiler and honestly I'd rather you went and read the book, not just a review and then act like you have. Not the same!

F. Scott Fitzgerald's authorship takes this tale from something ordinary to something wonderful. The writing stays with you- even through the ephemeral qualities which see the story fly away on the wind as you read it. It somehow feels unreal. I'm sure there's been times in your lives where you've felt like something can't really be happening, it's just too fantastic for words. The Great Gatsby embodies this feeling- in the closing scenes you get the sense that this has all just been the strangest, most unreal thing that has ever or will ever occur in Nick Carraway's life. 

I enjoyed it. I really did. 
Read it in the grass, in the sun, with your cat sunning herself close by. You'll not regret it. 

People who've ended up here

Most of them are from Russia, according to the little stats thing.
Odd. I don't speak Russian. But you're welcome anyway!

Almost none of them are from Australia, where I am.

I confess myself at a loss. 

No matter!
"On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined!"

Review- The Nonesuch

I read too damn much. Four hours sleep, because I couldn't stop reading. You'd think I'd learn! 

  Ms Heyer clearly got inventive when naming characters in The Nonesuch - Waldo, Ancilla and Theophania. Theophania somehow ends up as Tiffany, I don't know. I definitely found it slightly harder to fall in love with a man named Waldo. Just doesn't inspire much confidence in me- perhaps it's the Where's Wally/Waldo thing.

Having churned over my thoughts on the fascinating names in the book, we come to the plot. It's a decent plot. No gaping plot holes, no tenuous plot devices. Lord Lindeth can be a little pale but when you consider he's supposed to be a catalyst for Tiffany/Theophania to realise what a sodding turd she is he does a good job. 

Dialogue isn't stilted, no totally random modernisms, speech patterns blend. Nothing to make me cringe and want to put my head in a mangle.

The romance is exactly what you'd expect from Heyer- innocent, appropriate, inoffensive and sealed with a bit of a kiss and a cuddle, and everyone happily ever after. I do love being able to open a book knowing there's a happy ending for those who deserve it, and sometimes even a sticky end for those who deserve that!

If you're the kind who enjoys a well written, inexplicit (is that even a word? Sod it, it is now) romance, with accurate references and all the rest, and can get past a hero named Waldo, you should read it. If you're my brother, don't bother. 

Anyway, having said all that, I'm not an expert on literature, I just read too much. 

Look what was in my letterbox!

Books! Glorious books! Well, the top three were in my letterbox. The bottom two I found in my excellent local second hand book shop. I love it in there- I never quite know what I'm going to come across. It's exciting!

I think I'm going to can The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. It's not that it's a bad book or anything, quite the opposite in fact, but I just haven't been into it like I usually am. I'll hunt down a hard copy and give it another shot in a few weeks or so. Hard copy sometimes makes a difference, I find. Frankly, I prefer it but when it's the difference between book and no book, free download wins. 


Now, if you'll excuse me, I have reading to do and laundry to ignore. It's tipping down out there anyway, it's not like anything would dry. Honest!

Review- The Darling Strumpet

My previous post contained a coil- which book to read first?

Considering its two in the morning, and I've just closed the final page of strumpetty goodness I'm afraid the last post is moot. 

The Darling Strumpet by Gillian Bagwell is not my usual historical fiction fare. I gravitate to  the precision of Cornwell, the innocence of Heyer and the period masterpieces of Austen, the Brontës, Montgomery and Alcott. Dickens, too if I can get a solid block of time in which to read- sadly I find him too dense to dip in and out of. 

It's a lovely bawdy book, shocking in its depictions of the young Nell Gwynne losing her virginity at ten, moving where it should be and funny in all the right places- I especially enjoyed the Rochester scene, which was greatly improved by hearing it read out by the trio of Bagwell, Gabaldon and Cornwell from the clip in post previous. It didn't help that my daft skull kept putting Jane Eyre's Mr. Rochester in place of the proper one. Very odd mix there. 

The Darling Strumpet follows the aforementioned Nell Gwynne from the age of ten to her death, aged around forty as near as my horrid maths will take me. We follow her from her beginnings as an oyster wench, all the way to the heights of society as one of King Charles II's many mistresses. Her joy at becoming London's leading actress, the gut wrenching loss of her youngest, and all the little pleasures on between become quite important to us on our journey with Nell. 

By the end, as Nell is ageing, the King has popped his clogs and Sir Christopher Wren's London is taking shape I feel that perhaps the writing was a little rushed- it's pretty much a succession of one death after the other, with little break. Nell faints a lot, her sister Rose does much hand holding and there are more funerals than are strictly enjoyable. Unless you like funerals- I can't say I do although I'm partial to a nice cemetery. 

Overall I did enjoy The Darling Strumpet- enough to read until two, regardless of the busy day ahead and the likelihood of an early morning. It's not a dense, serious book to be dissected in the manner of Little Dorritt but a lewd, rude and oddly moving journey through the mid to late 1600's in the footsteps of a rather famous woman. 

Should you read it? 

Stupid question, of course you bloody should. Just don't let your mum catch you, because there's nothing more awkward than knowing that she knows you read books with lots of sex and rude words. 

I got mail!

Look what came for me today!

 

Not that I'm excited, no, not at all!

I'm now in a dilemma- do I desperately struggle through the last few chapters of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, paying little attention and rushing the paragraphs, or do I simply read the two concurrently? It's common practice around here, to have several books on the go depending on mood, but it does split concentration, and sometimes the characters mix themselves up.
It's a conundrum,for sure.

Just for giggles, have you seen this?

Bernard Cornwell is my Older Man Crush. Well, one of them. I suppose a better classification would be my Literary Older Man Crush. Such a dish! Such a voice! Such authorial talent! No, I will not get back in my corner, this is my blog! Bah!

Gillian Bagwell and Diana Gabaldon are pretty good, too. But I don't swing that way, so they miss out a bit. I'm sure they don't mind much.

Right, Little Girl is asleep next to me so I'm free to talk to my man-creature without interruption.

Goodbye, lovely people who read my blog (all nobody at all).

Slack, slack, slack.

I told myself I wasn't going to post again until I'd finished The Tenant of Wildfell Hall but reality just keeps conspiring against me. 
It was Baby's birthday on Monday; we took her to the zoo for the day. I'm quite pleased to say she loved it! Lots of 'Awww, wow!' 'Look! Twiga!' And 'Mum! Mum!' We finished the day at my mum's house for pizza tea and presents. 

Enough about Baby- I suspect you don't really care. 

I mentioned above that I'm reading The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Oddly enough, I'm finding it hard to really engage with. Anne Brontë is a wonderful author, her writing leaps off the page and builds itself in the air in front of you, but I just can't connect. 
I might put it down to being constantly interrupted every time I curl up with a mug of tea and flick to my bookmark. It certainly isn't the fault of Ms Brontë. I doubt I've read more than a paragraph at a time since I cracked the cover - toddler needs, man questions, cats deciding to sit on my book, appointments needing to be kept - they keep me from concentrating. 

Even my standby of reading in the dead of night has been denied me, as Baby has been quite unsettled, needing resettling often. I'm so tired the text swims and my eyes cross. At least she's cute. It makes up for a lot! 

I'm sorry this post is so short and disjointed. You can likely tell I'm distracted, tired and haven't drafted this even once but please accept it as a goodwill offering until I get some solid sleeping and reading done. 

Distractions

It's taken me forty minutes to get this far!
Every time I've settled in to blog a little, there's been 'Mum! Drink!' Or the phone has rung, I've remembered some task I intended to complete earlier, Patches-cat has become shut in a cupboard, Mrs. Kitty has decided that the biscuits left from last night simply aren't good enough.

Never am I more distracted than when I am trying to read. It appears that a book in my hand is the green light for all present (or not present) to demand my attention for just long enough to break my attention. 'Sweetheart, have you seen those 10mm Dynabolts?' Seen what? Why are you asking me?
'Mum! Bum!' 'Ask daddy, he'll change you.' 'No! Mum! Bum!' Sigh.
The FaceTime will go off- 'Hello, my darling daughter!' 'Hi dad, what's up?'

By this time I can't tell you what my book is about, let alone who wrote it or the title. If I was at a 'good bit' I'm quite out of sorts for some time!

All these distractions lead me to read at night, lying in bed next to my little girl, phone torch directed at my page, snuggled under the covers. The cats usually cuddle up around my knees although at times they like to investigate the light, usually earning a gentle shove for their pains.
In this way, I will read until one or two in the morning, wrapped in the worlds created before me, absorbed in their quests, their joys and their sorrows. Occasionally my girl will stir, sigh and roll over, one hand groping for her dummy, the other clutching her teddy bear. My partner will text on his break 'Love my girls.'
Once this missive is received, I find a good place to stop, check my page number, turn off my phone lot and snuggle down to a deep, dream filled sleep.

I'll be tired in the morning, but that's all right. Isn't that what coffee is for?

Why do you read so much?

It's a question I'm asked at least daily. Often by my mother, regularly by my lovely man. In curious tones, exasperated tones, confused, irritated, concerned, baffled tones. 

I answer differently, according to the interrogator, my mood, and how many times I've been asked today. 

Honestly though, I read because I can. I've always loved to read. My mum has a picture of me, sitting on her lap at six months, 'reading' the paper. 
I was reading fairly fluently by four, having been taught out of exasperation by that redoubtable matriarch and was unstoppable by seven. 

By twelve, I was unable to tell you if I'd eaten but I could describe in detail the world I was currently immersed in. 
I've had to slow down somewhat at twenty one, as the demands of a nearly-2 year old are difficult to ignore when you're being clocked over the head with a glass bottle and the yell "Mum! milk!" shatters the delicate castle in the air. 

Bean already 'stirs pots' at her little kitchen with a book in her other hand. She hands books to me with two hands, and turns pages by the corner. 'Book,' is said in reverential, awed tones. Start them early! Worked with me! 
To be absolutely fair, she also throws books; never walks but runs; climbs everything and loves to 'help' daddy in his shed.

I read to expand my knowledge. A volume of Greek history is just as interesting as a Georgette Heyer, and probably twice as good for me. I read to dream of other times, other cultures, other wheres. 

I read to challenge myself. I read to exercise my imagination. 

And yes, I read so I don't have to do laundry. Doesn't everyone? 

What am I thinking?

I'm probably not, I suppose. 
I'm a mum, I have a house to tend to, and a garden to neglect plant. Cats to care for and a toddler to raise. A partner to love and spend time with.

So what do I do? I turn a blind eye to the housework, I let the garden grow until my lovely mum sweeps in, tutting and muttering to prune and plant and lecture. My cats have to beg for attention and my lovely daughter has developed a particularly piercing "Mum!" The man-being fends for himself (and a lovely job he does too). 

Why? Because I love to read. 
I devour books. A book is not just a collection of words- it's a world. A universe. An escape, a journey, an adventure. The feel of a crisp new paperback, the smell of an ancient book, unearthed at a book exchange. The sensation as you research in a library, amongst old, venerable tomes and you find pages that are yet uncut, knowing yourself to be the first, the very first person to ever set eyes on the knowledge contained within. 

They are my passion. My wonderful partner has started putting aside money to turn our third bedroom into a small library, with floor to ceiling bookcases, a day bed and recliner, decadent curtains and wooden floors. He's even promised me a brass ceiling fan. It will be my haven. 
Hey, he has his shed! 

I intend this blog to be mainly about the books I read and the places I go in them. I intend to complete the 2013 Historical Reading Challenge at 'Ancient History' level. I suppose I'll mention my cats, daughter and partner, but this isn't about them. 

It's about the books.