The Rocky Road to Romance/Full House by Janet Evanovich

Before I write this review, I should clarify that I am not, generally, a reader of romances. I am simply a reader of anything anyone hands to me, and, in this case, my friend Amelia handed me these books (The Rocky Road to Romance and Full House). How could I not read them?

In addition to that simple reason, of course, I was tricked into reading these two because I am a fan of Janet Evanovich's other books, most notably her Stephanie Plum series. Though those may technically qualify as romances, I don't think they do, because they're more like action/adventure/comedy/mystery, and mostly comedy. The romance in the Plum books is one of many plot threads, and the action-mystery generally stands as the most important of those plot threads. I like those books, light reading as they are, because they're clever and funny and, overall, highly likeable.

Unfortunately, Evanovich's attempts at straight-up romance are far less enjoyable. Perhaps it's just the genre, and the fact that Evanovich is far less free to mix ridiculous characters and situations into her work, and far more obliged to mix sex scenes and sappy dialogue in, but, in any case, though I'm loud and proud about enjoying her other books, I'm ashamed to admit to having read these.

I suspect, though, that even within the despised romance genre, these two are lacking a certain something; they were not published widely, and indeed were out of print, before Evanovich made it big with her Stephanie Plum books. They are therefore closer to novelty books than real books which would get published on their own merit (as far as such a thing would be possible to judge about romance novels, of course). And the problems with them, at least to me, were fairly obvious.

In The Rocky Road to Romance, everything is given away all the beginning: the boy, whose name I can no longer be bothered to remember, falls for the girl in the first few pages. Besides the obvious disappointment of having the purpose of the chase so blatantly revealed, his feelings didn't make sense at all; she had been an employee of his for years, and we're supposed to believe that he just suddenly, one day, woke up and decided he wanted to marry her. Plus, this give-it-all-away up front strategy eliminated some of the fun of the chase; though it was adorable to watch him buy a car and a dog entirely to please her, knowing his feelings gave it less of that teasing, flirting, does-he-or-doesn't-he feeling that drives so many romance novels. Moreover, the main female character was resisting not out of any confusion about her feelings, but out of hectic life reasons; though that would likely deter a real-life female, it seemed lame in the novel; romance novels, as everyone knows, should not follow the patterns of real life. If we really wanted real-life stories, we'd read the newspaper. Plus, many of the funny characters in this book were later developed and adapted into characters in the Plum series, so this book felt, in more ways than one, like a rough draft for a much better book. So while this short novel was amusing enough, it was also highly unsatisfying.

Full House followed in that pattern, only, unfortunately, without actually being amusing enough. This one could best be epitomized as a woman's wet dream, were that an anatomical possibility. In it, a full-time housewife and thirty-something divorcee attracts the attention of a suave, handsome horseback-riding, polo-playing, luxury car-owning millionaire, who then proceeds to pull out all the stops to woo her, including, but not limited to, spending quality time with her children. Please. I mean, I know romance novels are aimed at bored housewives, but, really, must they pander so patently?

So. Disappointments, both of them. But I guess I learned something: don't read anything anyone hands you.

Such a Long Journey, by Rohinton Mistry

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Rohinton Mistry is truly one of the finest writers out there today. His prose is perfect, his sense of place and setting (in this case, Bombay) acute and sensitive, and his characters live, breathe, work, and play in fully fleshed out eccentricy, believability, and, what’s most impressive of all, likeability. He skillfully balances a number of themes—in this case, death, superstition, family life, politics, friendship, lust, and more—with everything interwoven and interconnected and, of course, interesting.

The main flaw of this book, though, is that it was his first; since writing it, he’s clearly come to master the formula a bit more, and it is indeed a formula he uses. His setting, Bombay, his characters, Parsis, his issues, family—all these are constants between this and his next work, Family Matters, and, unfortunately, Family Matters was the better book. It’s as if this one was a draft—a highly polished, highly skillful, highly enjoyable draft—for his subsequent books. If read in isolation, therefore, this is an excellent book and a stand-alone one. If read after reading Family Matters, though, it’s still an excellent book, just not, evidently, a stand-alone one.

The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss

The History of Love is a lovely book, tender and solemn and funny all at the same time. As the story of a precocious teenager trying to solve the problem of her mother’s loneliness, it reminded me somewhat of one of my favorite books, The Last Samurai; only, The History of Love is less about the intellect and more about the heart—perhaps because of this, it made far less of an impact on me personally. The prose is beautiful, luminous, whatever other words reviewers typically use to say “good”; the story is intact and well-told, with the eccentric characters nicely illustrated but still believable, and the interweaving of the story of Leo, the lonely old man who wrote the eponymous history, and Alma, the teenager named after its main character, is clever and tight, with, at the end, all the pieces fitting neatly and satisfactorily. Moreover, it is, after all, a tribute to books: what could I like better?

Well, the answer is obvious, at least to me: The Last Samurai. The History of Love, despite all its charms, is light, and flimsy, and not just in its short paperback form. It made a positive impression on me but faded quickly, like a meringue: short, sweet, delicious, but, eventually, gone. I would therefore recommend this book, but not rave about it.

What Came Before He Shot Her, by Elizabeth George

I expected Elizabeth George novels to all be mysteries; after all, isn’t she famous for being a mystery writer? And, indeed, this one, too, is classified as a mystery, yet there was no puzzle at all to be solved: instead, the plot was the slow, inexorable march towards the murder occuring in the final pages of the novel, and there was never any doubt at all as to the perpetrator, only to his motives and how he was, apparently, compelled to committ the act. (Oh, and also because the most suspicious character, in terms of the crime, was not actually the murderer. Not that I’m giving away important plot points or anything.)

All this means that I enjoyed the book far more than I thought I would. Ever since indulging in a glut of Agatha Christie novels in elementary school, I’ve been indifferent to mysteries; often it seems the author is skimping on prose style and character development to beef up the puzzle, and while I enjoy a good twist ending as much as the next girl, I want the 300 pages leading up to that twist to be satisfying and well-written. In any case, Elizabeth George did satisfy me, with this novel, and fulfill all my needs for good prose (which it’s not artistic by any means, there’s nothing about her prose that distracts from her characters or plot) and interesting characters (I sympathized with them, I agonized with them: that’s the mark of a good writer) and a compelling plot (like the most capable of writers, she made it seem like what happened is what had to happen, and that all the consequences and decisions and actions logically followed and flowed). Oh, and, perhaps most impressive of all, she managed to write dialogue in a dialect, the English of the uneducated London poor, without said dialect being difficult and distracting. That’s quite an accomplishment.

I have no substantial criticisms to offer here, strangely enough. While this book won’t ascend to the echelons of my favorite novels—it’s not nearly artistic enough for that—it was an enjoyable read, a well-done work by a clearly competent author. Brava, Ms. George, brava.

The Riddle of the Sands, by Erskine Childers

I don't care if Wikipedia claims that this book is "highly praised" and "still enjoyed"; I, personally, will neither praise nor enjoy it. I found its endless descriptions of yachting practices tedious--though, according to all the sources I've read, perfectly correct--and its supposed plot similarly dull. Though the idea--Germany launching a naval invasion of England--is an exciting one, and probably quite revolutionary for its time, pre-World War I, the execution of the idea left much to be desired. Maybe I was just bored into a stupor by long pages detailing sails, swells, jibs, ropes, and hulls (or whatever other nautical terminology you care to insert here), but the plot seemed rather confused and confusion; I couldn't keep track, by the end, of who was good or bad--or, rather, who was Good and who was Boese. The ending, I'm sure, wrapped things up neaty--if I remember correctly, he prevented the invasion and got the girl--but I was just too mind-numbed by two hundred pages of accurate coastline description to really care.

So, in sum: a minor classic, yes. A significant book, politically? Actually, yes. A romping good read? No.

Home, by Manju Kapur

I suppose I should get this out of the way right away: I have a weakness for Indian novels. They're just so fresh and tasty, and always just the right length and seriousness to satisfy a reader's palate, like vegetable samosas straight from the kitchen.

"Home" was no exception. I read it on the beach in Bali, and it was the perfect beach reading: quick, easy, written in a homey, conversational style, yet still interesting, and still serious enough for me to read and keep my self-respect. (Romance writers, take note!) The story of three generations of an Indian family--grandparents, daughters, sons, daughters-in-law, sons-in-law, grandchildren, grandchildren-in-law--all living together under one roof is fraught with tensions and dangers: jealousy, favoritism, anger, rebellion, abuse, physical and sexual, and even hinted-at murder. It is the story of one family, perhaps a typical one, perhaps not, and their adjustments over time, their adoption of an orphaned nephew, their adoption of new styles in their clothing shop, their failure to adopt Western ways in love-matches rather than arranged marriages. It is the story of a family, yes, but it is also the story of India.

As such, of course, it utterly lacks a beginning and an ending, or even a coherent overall plot; instead, the narrative twists and turns between main characters--first focusing on a young wife struggling with sterility, then the agonies of her sister, the stories of her sons, and, finally, the dramas of her daughter, the main character of the second half of the novel, who fights tradition by going to college and falling in love with a lower-caste young man, and who is eventually defeated by the stronger pressures of family.

I wouldn't fault this novel its lack of traditional structure, though; part of its charm, actually, derives from this very fact. In its chatty, relaxed way, "Home" is more like a satisfying conversation with a good friend than a book; as such, it's certainly not a work of art, but boy does it hit the spot.

The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea, by Yukio Mishima

This, like so many Mishima novels, glows with the intensity of psychological introspection; Mishima’s characters are so fully revealed in their thoughts, desires, and dreams that they rise off the page like real people, like written word made flesh. In this novel, the characters struggle with widowhood and loneliness, singlehood and loneliness and adolescence and loneliness; each comes to terms with his or her state in his or her own way: through a second marriage, through a sailor’s life, and through a gang of thirteen year old ruffians intent on anarchy.

And, as you may have guessed from that last word—anarchy, the bane of peaceful households everywhere—the ending is not a happy one. Ryuji, the sailor of the title, dreams of a special glory, a unique destiny. When he decides to marry Fusako, the mother of a thirteen year old boy, he earns the emnity of that boy and, eventually, a tragic destiny that is his alone.

While the buried themes in this novel were farther down than most of Mishima’s other novels—the messages about Japan and its place in the modernized world were still there, though, never fear—I felt that the story, and characters, were stronger than many of his other works. This was a quick read, but an important one, and better yet, enjoyable. The entire work didn’t impress me with its prose, but the ending certainly did: the last few pages, the epitome of Ryuji’s tragic destiny, were, in a word, glorious. They made it all worthwhile.

The Vampire of Venice Beach, by Jennifer Colt

I wanted to enjoy this book, I really did; it was given to me by a friend with high praise--though the fact that said friend is related to the author might, in retrospect, have affected her opinion--and its catchy title and concept and colors made me think that it might be the perfect travel read.

A travel read it definitely was--not fit for anything else--but not the perfect one. It wasn't quite funny enough, or, strange to say about a book whose title includes vampires, zany enough. The problem of assigning the straight man (or, in this case, woman) to be the narrator is that then the prose is forced to be dull, with the actions of the zany and interesting character (the lesbian detective twin) filtered through the perspective of the responsible and therefore ordinary character (the other detective twin). The other problem, of course, with having such an obvious "straight man" and "zany one" is that the characterizations can, if the author is not careful, end up being very paper cut-out and, frankly, flat.

The author was not careful, for the record.

Even the mystery wasn't fully satisfying to me: while all the loose ends were wrapped up, it's true, the denouement felt rather lame, perhaps because there were too many false endings, and, frankly, too many red herrings. Give the reader a fighting chance, please?

So I was disappointed, not that I would have expected to adore a book like this, and after finishing it, I gave it to the man sitting next to me on the bus, who wanted to practice his English. I don't regret it.

Notes On a Scandal, by Zoe Heller

Once again, a Booker book. Why am I such a sucker for these? I know I often don’t like them, and yet, emboldened by one or two or three Rushdie-, Coetzee-, or Byatt-like successes, I keep trying, only to, more often than not, be disappointed.

Notes On a Scandal is less disappointing than many Booker failures I’ve encountered (Vernon God Little springs to mind right away), but, nevertheless, it’s no Coetzee. A rather short book, with, for me, the quick easiness of read this implies, I was neither entirely enthralled nor entirely put off.

There were some brilliant moments: the setup, for example, was quite admirably well-done; the sinister narrator became increasingly more frightening with every page, her strange and controlling nature appearing even through the first-person narration, evident in small touches like her intense and irrational dislike of certain other teachers, her cryptic hints as to the end of her last friendship. Heller is confident and capable with backstories and small details—she shines in small descriptions of the lonely person’s life—the stack of books checked out from the library and returned in a week, an entire weekend planned around a trip to the laundromat, a Halloween night spent with the lights out to avoid children begging for candy--and how “lonely people are terrible snobs about each...they’re afraid that consorting with their own kind will compound their freakishness.” At moments like these, when fleshing out her character, Heller’s prose is lovely, its typical austerity perfect for the aging British spinster telling the story.

At other moments, though, I saw nothing particularly distinguished about either Heller’s writing or her story; the book became just another novel to read at the beach, just another story to absorb, digest, and quickly forget. The ending was rather disappointing, I thought, all the narrator’s creepiness building up to be, in the end, nothing really. And even the crux of the book, Sheba’s affair with a student, wasn’t, I thought, properly detailed or explained. And the “betrayal” the front cover’s tagline so menacingly references was, while certainly a great betrayal, wholly expected and not nearly as drastic as a character as sinister as Barbara should have accomplished.

So, in the end, I am indifferent; the scandal not nearly scandalous enough, the notes too entirely note-like and not quite novel enough. And perhaps someday I will learn to double-check my reading choices against something other than a list of Booker prize winners.

The Good Good Pig, by Sy Montgomery

Now, don’t get me wrong: even though I’m not really an animal lover, I’m not an animal hater either. I can see why people develop such passions for animals, I just don’t have those same feelings myself—much like baseball, say, or American Idol. I don’t fault Montgomery for her love for Christopher Hogwood, the pig she rescued as a runt and basically regarded as a child for the fifteen or so years he lived with her and her husband; I simply fault her for her narcisstic and, frankly, rather dull need to share this love with the rest of us.

In the best animal books—I’m thinking of James Herriott here, or the spare, easygoing children’s stories of Dick King Smith—animals show us our human foibles, our human problems, and show us, through their mute compassion and simple loyalty, the ways out of those problems. They help us overcome grief and despair, reach out to others, and feel at peace with the world. Montgomery wants to join the ranks of these writers, wants to show us how Christopher the pig brought her joy and comfort and happiness—a noble goal, and one I wouldn’t dare to argue—but she lacks the self-effacing humility with which Herriott and King-Smith step into the background, letting their animal characters, sometimes quite literally, speak for themselves. In the best animal books, the animals are on center stage, guiding us quietly but surely towards resolving our own petty dramas.

In Montgomery’s book, instead, it is Christopher, not the narrator herself, who is forced to play a bit part. Ostensibly the focus, his own healing characteristics are upstaged by Montgomery’s whining, Montgomery’s opinions, and, most of all, Montgomery’s insistence on telling us how Christopher helped her. I’m surprised that Montgomery, as a writer, hasn’t learned this critical lesson: show, don’t tell.

I’m sure Christopher was a great pig. I’m sure Montgomery, and her friends, and her family, loved him. I’m sure he was an influence for love in the world. I just wish that the book to prove these statements were not so full of explications and assertions and trite, hackneyed recitations of feelings: that is, not so desperate to prove these statements. Instead of becoming a tome of love and a tribute to a dedicated friend, the book, for me, was a tribute to a shrill, insistent human, to a liberal animal-adoring ideology, to an irritating character hardly redeemed by the pig she kept. Christopher worked his magic without words, you know; perhaps it would have been best for Montgomery to do the same.