tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74615322507134026782024-03-26T11:54:25.800+13:00Great Reads for Great ReadersJulia Kuttner reviews her favourite reads. These books were all borrowed from Libraries Horowhenua.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.comBlogger449125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-56626873958468719902024-03-17T18:06:00.002+13:002024-03-17T18:07:50.548+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">The
Night House, by Jo Nesbo.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyQlfDmpx9GvIwLj2NlhXrMcWrjNqUm5o7Ky9bDAAPoASuY2E-LM4Jyil1tqETNINpyir3w3l4EotabssbqxDH-v7aXWrsXbqg67KbWrbhc5svX_CrW-21kxeLOZg9Frguy83t1pd9z8WC_olCMs1Qv-iiYIYyWVlhkHz7vu4lLrHdnB591QFufzko" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="183" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyQlfDmpx9GvIwLj2NlhXrMcWrjNqUm5o7Ky9bDAAPoASuY2E-LM4Jyil1tqETNINpyir3w3l4EotabssbqxDH-v7aXWrsXbqg67KbWrbhc5svX_CrW-21kxeLOZg9Frguy83t1pd9z8WC_olCMs1Qv-iiYIYyWVlhkHz7vu4lLrHdnB591QFufzko" width="163" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: large;">Internationally acclaimed Swedish crime novelist Jo Nesbo
has embarked on a different literary journey this time around:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>his classic burnt-out detective Harry Hole is
nowhere to be seen as Nesbo decides to take an apparent trip into the
supernatural where there are no rules, and no end to the horrific ways that
people can die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also offers us plot
alternatives:</span><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard Elauved
is 14 years old and has just lost both his parents in a fire that engulfed
their apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has been sent to the
country to live with his uncle and aunt, his only relatives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hates himself, his life, and his new
classmates, and bullies them relentlessly – until he sees one of his victims
devoured by a telephone (hey, I’m only the messenger!), then another classmate
is turned into a ‘magicicada’ with brilliant red eyes and the wings to escape
him when he tries to crush it – in short, he was the last person to see these
missing kids alive so the authorities place him in a special ‘school’ to see if
he will confess to anything he hasn’t yet told them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His escape from the school is more
unbelievable than cannibalistic phones, but ends on a hopeful note, so that the
reader can handle Alternative Two, which is:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Richard Hansen, successful teen fiction writer is
invited to a school reunion fifteen years after the above events;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it transpires that we were reading above the
plot of his first smash hit and at the subsequent celebrations he is touchingly
modest about his literary achievements to his adoring classmates, none of
whom<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>have reached such fame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s great to be the centre of such
respectful attention and, in a rare moment of remorse for his 14 year-old
behaviour, he apologises for being a bully – only to realise as the evening
progresses, that the whole night has been organised by all his ‘fans’ to pay
him back for the terrible hurt he caused them all to suffer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do they succeed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alternative Three reveals that:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 14pt;">It’s time for Richard to wake up – wake up from
ElectroConvulsive Therapy applied to him as an experimental treatment to help
him forget the terrible memories that have trapped him in a hospital known as
the Night House for the last fifteen years, and to take his first tentative
steps back to a normal life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Jo
Nesbo has again taken his readers on a wild ride to the dark side and back – is
there nothing he cannot do to stop us devouring every page?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even kid-eating telephones get past our BS
meter!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s the best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">FIVE STARS.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-74825859155862744712024-03-03T16:07:00.003+13:002024-03-03T16:07:53.599+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Until the Road Ends, by Phil Earle.<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Junior
Fiction.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoYNNWCXMmactxyfpb2rP2k2VfsYmjt1BbkjoGHQcyRPq5uCcpbZHboX4oGKaXeWgsoCB6rT0mlkHmJLaXcfPjIcNDKyt7iLZeYfoFw3Bs4dHpYG2sQ0HLFvgDZafq7ULMA_ZnQ8XN-KBB2jTeqxGzLVT7b7jE5g8pcmGHcYMRWR0yPYzPh9XqrKct" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoYNNWCXMmactxyfpb2rP2k2VfsYmjt1BbkjoGHQcyRPq5uCcpbZHboX4oGKaXeWgsoCB6rT0mlkHmJLaXcfPjIcNDKyt7iLZeYfoFw3Bs4dHpYG2sQ0HLFvgDZafq7ULMA_ZnQ8XN-KBB2jTeqxGzLVT7b7jE5g8pcmGHcYMRWR0yPYzPh9XqrKct" width="240" /></a></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /> </b><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Beau is a stray barely existing on the mean streets of London in
1939;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>life is haphazard at best, cruel
for the rest of the time – until he is rescued from death by Peggy, His Girl, His
Saviour, and brought back to her home in Balham to live safely with her
family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who put up some half-hearted
objections which she dispenses with in seconds:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>her younger brother Wilf has Mabel, Queen of the Couch, a cat far too
full of her own self-importance, so Peggy is entitled to have her very own pet,
too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who could deny the fairness of that
arrangement?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only Queen Mabel, who
loathes Beau on sight and wastes no time in telling him so in the most scathing
of tones, but he doesn’t care, because someone, Peggy, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loves </i>him!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a
wonderful, heady feeling and Beau hopes it will never end.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the way of all Happily-ever-afters,
nothing remains the same:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hitler and his
planes eventually start bombing London, and it is decided that London’s
children should be evacuated to ‘the country’ where they will be safe – oh, and
people should ‘put their pets down’ because food will be rationed and there
will be none to spare for cats and dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Peggy and Wilf are
devastated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t want to leave
their darling mum and dad, but they will do so only if mum and dad promise to
keep looking after Beau and Mabel;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they
couldn’t bear it if they were to come home at the end of all the conflict to
find that their most-loved pets in the entire world had been killed because
they needed to be fed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their parents,
being honourable people, agreed, and the children were sent off to the coast
100 miles away, to live with Aunty Sylvia, Dad’s sister, who didn’t know one
end of a child from another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what
could be done?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needs must.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And Beau went out
nightly with Peggy’s Dad who was an air-raid warden, a job Beau became famous
for, because Beau could <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">smell</i> people
buried under the rubble;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in fact he was
so good at it that no-one dare say he should be put down- until the terrible
night when a huge bomb destroyed their lives forever, and Beau – and Mabel –
are on their own.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But not
quite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their next-door neighbour Bomber,
a carrier pigeon fully trained in delivering military messages convinces them
to try to reach their much-loved Peggy and Wilf:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it can be done, it WILL be done!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Beau and Mabel’s adventures begin in
earnest.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This is a
beautiful story, predictably heart-breaking and fraught with suspense – but also
based on fact:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>there really was a dog
trained to find people under the rubble;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>he sniffed out more than 100 people buried alive beneath their
homes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His name was Rip and he was a
Hero.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As so many were at that terrible
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: red; font-size: 14.0pt;">FIVE STARS.</span><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For readers 11+. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-54971988846510636372024-02-23T18:27:00.000+13:002024-02-23T18:27:04.137+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Iron
Flame, by Rebecca Yarros.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOfLI9iu2t1hJ16XWjWBhgKP8afyMEiSBZWS154hRa777Wo8C_yfm6e65znazW8TA2Ed0gib8nFt3fDhGFkLTNWNBcU0_g5oaSnSG7aVQF0UT162cOUMCA4cEIj1D4RiDJw6U3LAfanKB4kQGPXTQqdJ4lViEYQM09vtQHUVCls41oymzYEdQDu7Pu" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOfLI9iu2t1hJ16XWjWBhgKP8afyMEiSBZWS154hRa777Wo8C_yfm6e65znazW8TA2Ed0gib8nFt3fDhGFkLTNWNBcU0_g5oaSnSG7aVQF0UT162cOUMCA4cEIj1D4RiDJw6U3LAfanKB4kQGPXTQqdJ4lViEYQM09vtQHUVCls41oymzYEdQDu7Pu" width="240" /></a></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <br /> </span></span></b><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Well, here I went
again (nothing wrong with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i>
grammar!), into the amazing fantasy of the Empyrean, Ms Yarros’s five-book
series about Dragonkind and the Riders they choose to bond with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be honest, I didn’t think she could keep
up the same level of suspense, horror and mile-a-minute adventure plotting, but
what do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I </i>know:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yarros has done so with ease and one hand
tied behind her back – the other is driving her characters relentlessly along
to the next twist in the tale, and there are many of them.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frail,
tiny Violet Sorrengail has survived her first year at Basgiath War College,
bonded with not one dragon like other riders, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two: </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tairn, one of the
largest and most fearsome, and Andarna, a half-grown ‘adolescent’ who also
decided that Violet was her darling;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>between the three of them they make a formidable team, especially when
Violet’s signet or special gift, manifests itself:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she finds that she can throw lightning bolts
– if only she can ever learn to aim them!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
is also in a sizzling-hot romance with impossibly handsome Xaden Riorson,
erstwhile revolutionary and lover extraordinaire – of her, no-one else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Violet has her own allure, and emerging gifts
of leadership and compassion which wins her devotion from all the other
students, so much so that they follow her when she finds out that all their
teachers have been lying to them:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>evil
magical forces are poised to strike their continent, and their leaders –
including Violet’s mother the General – are downplaying attacks on outlying
towns and subsequent terrible fatalities, saying that all is under control,
when it obviously isn’t;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>well, it’s time
to rebel, to go off and train properly to fight these new, terrible foes and to
do so, they must unite with Gryphon fliers, traditional enemies (according to
their former teachers) but devoted to their country as the Dragonkind are.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ms
Yarros has woven a complicated, very detailed plot;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this reader had to go back every now and then
to get the finer points down, but she doesn’t falter for a second:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>all the I’s are dotted and t’s crossed, as
they should be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are many great
secondary characters, especially amongst Violet’s classmates, and their funny,
smart-alicky dialogue is a huge relief from the breakneck pace as we are
dragged yet again to a cliff-hanger that I never saw coming until the very last
page.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
I still want a dragon (or two) for Christmas:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am small and frail, just like Violet – surely I’m eligible?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: red; font-size: 14.0pt;">FIVE STARS.</span><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-63452541176342782572024-02-13T18:33:00.007+13:002024-02-13T18:35:26.518+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Fourth
Wing, by Rebecca Yarros.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyFrSQtgSjakffxnKhhUYM9eNKiytTAg-aESi2V3bt6fFddFDGSHLTdy-XLQpLkvLljKdM6XcPVyRsksDsoqx6nqkhQ0ZJz-THJMIx9UQIeO7rnQnDyy6WdNTx83OEMKY7S2Q2gc-y9kfnFhQJHG8pKjwSZdhBgzqU_MXX_o8Zjk66UeDcTSsepx1R" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyFrSQtgSjakffxnKhhUYM9eNKiytTAg-aESi2V3bt6fFddFDGSHLTdy-XLQpLkvLljKdM6XcPVyRsksDsoqx6nqkhQ0ZJz-THJMIx9UQIeO7rnQnDyy6WdNTx83OEMKY7S2Q2gc-y9kfnFhQJHG8pKjwSZdhBgzqU_MXX_o8Zjk66UeDcTSsepx1R" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: large;">My nails are totally wrecked, and it’s all HER fault,
that Rebecca Yarros!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her Fantasy novel
fairly crackles with suspense, menace, romance (naturally!) and dragons, lots
of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dragons are my favourite
fantasy creatures, and Ms Yarros has created some truly majestic beasts, as
befitting their vital importance to the welfare and protection of their riders,
chosen by each dragon from students at Basgiath War College, who all hope to
become Dragon Riders, protecting their country from enemies, both territorial
and magical.</span><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Violet Sorrengail is 20 years old and expecting to go to
the same college as a Scribe, a recorder of all history and battles fought now
and in the future;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her mother is a
powerful general in the military and her sister Mira is a Dragon Rider;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her brother Brennan was a Healer but lost his
life to Insurrectionists. Because of her small stature and frailty, Violet is
happy to have a sedentary but peaceful life as a recorder of her country’s
achievements – and failures.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Until mother suddenly changes her mind:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Violet is to audition as a first-year dragon
rider, an audition so cruel and beyond her abilities that Violet knows now
beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’s definitely not her mother’s favourite
child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, OK, she’ll give it her
all:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she’ll show Mother Dear that she
went to her death courageously, and the appearance of her sister Mira to give
her last-minute private advice and secret notes from her late brother spurs her
on to miraculous success:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>at the end of
the day she’s still here – not dead yet!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sadly, her success also releases a dog-eat-dog
survival-of-the-fittest attitude from the other first-years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They see her as a weak link, someone to be
disposed of so that choosy dragons will pick them instead – why, she’s too
small to even climb on a dragon’s back, much less fight and kill from that
position:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>better get rid of her by fair
means or the other kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
self-respecting dragon would choose her anyway:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>she’s goneburger.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But she’s not:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as
we all know, love and hate are both sides of one coin;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Xaden Riorson, leader of Fourth Wing,
Violet’s first-year group and son of a notorious Insurrectionist (Xaden was
forced to watch his father’s execution) has overcome his initial loathing and
is now firmly in her corner – because their dragons are mated!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, Violet has TWO dragons who chose
her, not one, so that when the showdown comes at the end of Book One, she has
twice the power against their enemies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well done, Ms Yarros;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you didn’t
let me go until the very last sentence, and that will lead me straight into
Book Two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I want a dragon for
Christmas!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">FIVE
STARS.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-90014541248273395902024-02-04T16:51:00.000+13:002024-02-04T16:51:04.556+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Over My Dead Body, by Maz Evans.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiT6PhWsKTqMiK4XWRnXCXDhXNu1NXyLlf0eDK69w9b9QkOac2dCtLHgfjacXz1spY6yX2zpV1_7tqQSns8ul0y0j0wb402Y0dpLDBKRZ030kyWlB0xf_cbWYqxoD4-gc5G2DUkK7Dq7gnV0A_lPXopHyMr2vsWu9vkRd0mCiOZ6yBY9cvZSL9XpU63" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiT6PhWsKTqMiK4XWRnXCXDhXNu1NXyLlf0eDK69w9b9QkOac2dCtLHgfjacXz1spY6yX2zpV1_7tqQSns8ul0y0j0wb402Y0dpLDBKRZ030kyWlB0xf_cbWYqxoD4-gc5G2DUkK7Dq7gnV0A_lPXopHyMr2vsWu9vkRd0mCiOZ6yBY9cvZSL9XpU63" width="156" /></a></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miriam Price,
arrogant, brilliant A &E Medical Consultant at one of Britain’s most
prestigious teaching hospitals – has died.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And she’s not
happy about it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Firstly, she has been
murdered but her death has been arranged to show that she died by misadventure
after ingesting heroic amounts of pills and booze:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the nasty cow (Miriam has no friends, doesn’t
want any) was an unapologetic alcoholic pill-popper, so her end has come as no
surprise to any of her colleagues;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they’re
just surprised that it took her so long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Miriam, on the other hand, knows that her death was no accidental loss
of control;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she has been a ‘functioning’
alcoholic since she was sixteen – no, someone else has done this to her and
arranged the death scene to look as it did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But who?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Miriam is furious with
herself for not remembering and, after a visit to Limbo, learns that she will
be stuck there for many decades unless she can indeed prove that she was
murdered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Afterlife has more rules
and regulations than her posh boarding school before one reaches the Nirvana of
Eternity and really, from what she’s seen so far, she could die of boredom all
over again unless she can prove to Limbo Admin that she died by foul means.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she could meet again with her beloved
Dad – and her mother, who had a very unique approach to life – and death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is she ready for that?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>First things
first:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>not everyone can ‘see’
Miriam;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her presence is felt by very few
people, which makes eavesdropping very entertaining, especially watching
friends and families as they mourn her passing at her memorial service, and the
various reactions of people that she cared about (not many) come as a shock –
including the appearance of her elderly next-door neighbour with whom she has
been feuding for two years:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Miriam’s cat
was murdered by that old battleaxe, who squashed her beneath her car, and has
come to her service to make sure Miriam is really dead, not to pay any
respects. And she is one of the very few who can see her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>AND, by various torturous events, the only one
who can help her prove her very real suspicions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talk about making a deal with the Devil!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which is struck,
as it should be in Maz Evans’s hugely entertaining debut novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This book is seriously good fun, but also
raises the big questions, especially how everyone grieves in their own ways,
i.e. Miriam’s father committed suicide and her mother was furious, because she’d
already cooked his dinner when Miriam found his body:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>there was a meal wasted!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That surely is a singular way to react to one’s
nearest and dearest’s death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are
many more well-drawn characters in this clever story, but Miriam is the star, even
though she is initially so unlikeable – which is a shame, because we won’t be
meeting her again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not in this life,
anyway!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: red; font-size: 14.0pt;">FIVE STARS.</span><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #10253f; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #10253F; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text2; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-71864524037154680632024-01-22T18:40:00.009+13:002024-01-22T18:48:34.671+13:00<b>The Girl in the Eagle’s Talons, by Karin Smirnoff.</b><div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><br /><br /></div><span> <span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;">Swedish Author Stieg Larsson died nearly twenty years ago, but Lisbeth Salander, his most famous character, is still alive and well, having been resurrected by several writers over time – with varying degrees of success. Now it is Karin Smirnoff’s turn to breathe life, truth and logic into Lisbeth – and Mikael Blomkvist, outspoken, prominent Millenium Magazine journalist, her ally when needed, and partner in crime when necessary. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span> </span>Lisbeth’s latest (mis)adventure is set in Northern Sweden, lands and forests teeming with untapped minerals and natural resources: the local councils are rubbing their hands and salivating at the vast profits to be made if they can sell to the highest bidders, huge international companies who will strip everything bare before they leave and go on to the next place to wreak havoc and devastation. <span> </span> <span> </span>Coincidentally Mikael is in the area because he has been invited to the wedding of his daughter to the head of the town council – and instigator of all the dodgy deals. Dodgy because it is not his land he is offering for sale but land owned by Reindeer farmers and many other smallholders who have no intention of selling their land. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span> Lisbeth is in the same town – not because she wants to be, but she has been summoned by the authorities because she is the only living relative of Kvala, a precociously intelligent 13 year-old girl whose mother has gone missing: Lisbeth is her aunt, for Kvala is the daughter of Lisbeth’s late, loathed half-brother Ronald Niederman. How the authorities tracked Lisbeth down is anyone’s guess; suffice to say the two relatives do not hit it off immediately: deep suspicion abides, especially when Kvala wants to know about her father, of which she has no memory. What was he like?
Fair question. Except that he was a monster and a murderer, impervious to pain – and he tried to kill Lisbeth on their father’s orders. Fortunately for her, she ‘removed’ him from the equation, but how do you tell that to your niece?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span> And where is Kvala’s mother? Kvala knows that she was involved with some very shady people, but fully expected to beat them at their own game – nothing like a spot of blackmail to increase the family fortunes! Except that the tables may have been turned: there are some very big players now among the shady people, intent on wrecking and raping the land for its treasure – small fry like Kvala’s mother are flies to be squashed. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span> Ms Smirnoff has created a fitting and masterful tribute to Stig Larsson’s beloved characters. This is the first book of a planned trilogy, and it encompasses all the environmental problems that worry us most, while still more than living up to its thriller status. Roll on Book Two! SIX STARS.</span></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-33532643326368422742024-01-11T19:14:00.007+13:002024-01-12T18:10:25.466+13:00Top 20 Reads for 2023 - Whoopee!!!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHNUB0WB83EFh0aI_XZsq7n_OS0Z_yVsXjrdpByNi1zTWN_1-cDP59i3xUFmX0pZz38rYM8VRxCEZAVFXhJ3RWpt0aAyXVggZNz04rNAGQYVV04BYqMMqUH0FnT7FiV7aO-aTXtpXN9SZuG_loexPsECdbJobX047hoQ14_DfPapMgMlV89M8BL34/s640/IMG_0640.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHNUB0WB83EFh0aI_XZsq7n_OS0Z_yVsXjrdpByNi1zTWN_1-cDP59i3xUFmX0pZz38rYM8VRxCEZAVFXhJ3RWpt0aAyXVggZNz04rNAGQYVV04BYqMMqUH0FnT7FiV7aO-aTXtpXN9SZuG_loexPsECdbJobX047hoQ14_DfPapMgMlV89M8BL34/s320/IMG_0640.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Nothing like a few exclamation marks
to get the party started! I have read
some mighty books this year and praise our wonderful library and Community
Centre - <i>Te Takeretanga-o-Kurahaupo</i> for the great reading choices they make for
us all. <br /><br />There’s something for everyone
here and, because my cat is trying to walk all over the keyboard, I’ll get
right on it – the list, I mean, not the cat!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/blog/post/edit/7461532250713402678/6601075047650938848" target="_blank">The Axeman’s Carnival, <i>Catherine
Chidgey</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/blog/post/edit/7461532250713402678/8333834148045726234" target="_blank">Less is Lost, <i>Andrew Sean Greer</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/blog/post/edit/7461532250713402678/8891341192828832964" target="_blank">Our Missing Hearts, <i>Celeste Ng</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/02/playing-under-piano-by-hugh-bonneville.html" target="_blank">Playing Under the Piano, <i>Hugh
Bonneville</i></a> </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">(Memoir)</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-light-in-hidden-places-by-sharon.html" target="_blank">The Light in Hidden Places, </a><i><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-light-in-hidden-places-by-sharon.html" target="_blank">Sharon
Cameron</a> </i></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">(Young Adults)</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/03/days-end-by-garry-disher.html" target="_blank">Day’s End, <i>Gary Disher</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/04/scythe-by-neal-shusterman.html" target="_blank">Scythe, <i>Neal Shusterman</i></a> <wbr></wbr></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">(Young
Adults)</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/04/mrs.html" target="_blank">Mrs Jewel and the wreck of the General
Grant, <i>Cristina Sanders</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/06/like-sister-by-kellye-garrett.html" target="_blank">Like a Sister, <i>Kellye Garrett</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My Darkest Prayer, <i>S. A. Cosby</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/07/duffy-and-son-by-damien-owens.html" target="_blank">Duffy and Son, <i>Damien Owens</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/09/small-mercies-by-dennis-lehane.html" target="_blank">Small Mercies, <i>Dennis Lehane</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-sparrow-by-tessa-duder.html" target="_blank">The Sparrow, <i>Tessa Duder</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/10/kala-by-colin-walsh.html" target="_blank">Kala, <i>Colin Walsh</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The Great Swindle, <i>Pierre LeMaitre</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">All Human Wisdom, <i>Pierre LeMaitre</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/11/night-will-find-you-by-julia-heaberlin_4.html" target="_blank">Night will Find You, <i>Julia
Heaberlin</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/11/did-i-ever-tell-you-this-by-sam-neill.html" target="_blank">Did I Ever Tell You This?, <i>Sam
Neill</i></a> </span><span style="color: #073763; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">(Memoir)<wbr></wbr><wbr></wbr><wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr></span></span><span style="color: #073763; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/12/a-better-place-by-stephen-daisley.html" target="_blank">A Better Place, <i>Stephen Daisley</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2024/01/the-last-devil-to-die-by-richard-osman.html" target="_blank">The Last Devil to Die, <i>Richard
Osman</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://kuttnerschoice.blogspot.com/2023/12/the-bone-tree-by-airana-ngarewa.html" target="_blank">The Bone Tree, <i>Airana Ngarewa</i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">What am I doing?? That’s 21, not 20!! Never
mind, they are all fabulous reads and this list is a loving tribute to
storytellers everywhere who work so hard to entertain and inspire us. <br /><br />Have the happiest and safest New Year that
you can, and let us still believe in the old adage of Peace and Goodwill to All
of us, Everywhere. <br /><br />Love and best wishes
for 2024 from the staff, Friends of the Library and Volunteers of <i>Te
Takeretanga-o-Kurahaupo.</i></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-36887449022897472852024-01-04T12:54:00.003+13:002024-01-04T12:54:38.410+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">The
Last Devil to Die, by Richard Osman.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-h2epECDSS1pqvLOyS6lh0ODFT3dziIQcq1jxBKwDoLWAF7PUfD6OdAN6Xc1VVBdy6ddFOhoEnE_DZy_QdxVbUdklfhVaeyazeTAqjSVqAWqTWleI1eYzv69HVZ-yVvQ7e8foQz-GccGzH8I958i1ABKxTU-tu_hOOMEaxzDvMnthWk-HswMm0qBI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="181" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-h2epECDSS1pqvLOyS6lh0ODFT3dziIQcq1jxBKwDoLWAF7PUfD6OdAN6Xc1VVBdy6ddFOhoEnE_DZy_QdxVbUdklfhVaeyazeTAqjSVqAWqTWleI1eYzv69HVZ-yVvQ7e8foQz-GccGzH8I958i1ABKxTU-tu_hOOMEaxzDvMnthWk-HswMm0qBI" width="156" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <br /> </span>Who by now surely needs no introduction:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>his familiar and much-loved characters from
his first three books about the elderly sleuths of a British retirement village
have been smash hits, not least because he ably demonstrates that old people,
particularly his main characters, can still run rings (metaphorically) around
those much younger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Chronically!)<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The members of the Thursday Murder Club are grappling
with the news that one of their friends, antiques dealer Kuldesh Sharma, has
been murdered after receiving a terracotta box containing heroin worth a
hundred thousand pounds – then attempting to sell it on himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hard for the friends to believe, but that’s
where all the evidence points.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Naturally, the Club members are not privy to gathered
police evidence – except for the efforts of Constable Donna and her boss Chris,
who are miffed because the National Crime Agency have been mysteriously alerted
and are now running the investigation, including taking over Chris’s office,
AND the Senior Officer has made herself as unpleasant as possible, seconding
them to horse thefts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No wonder there is
mutiny in the ranks!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which means that
the friends know as much (or more) than the official investigators.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Needless to say, the dealers who were waiting for the heroin
also do their best to find the missing powder, and people start to die – Bad
Buggers mainly, but the body count is rising and the mystery remains as to who
will survive – and do they deserve to?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Richard Osman’s wonderful characters remain the same, reliable
and true to each other and themselves, but behind the humour and still-enviable
zest for life lies the spectre of aged vulnerability – that which every old person
fears:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the terrifying loss of self, dementia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ex-spy Elizabeth has to face daily the
gradual and obvious mental deterioration of her beloved husband Stephen and,
whilst he is still capable of making giant decisions, they must decide between
them <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what, when</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">where</i> to finish their long and beloved
union.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I defy even the most stoutly
unemotional reader not to be moved by Elizabeth’s predicament; it happens to so
many thousands of couples and Richard Osman writes with great empathy and
poignancy on behalf of them all:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>thank
you, Mr Osman, for writing of old age with such humour and grace - my only
worry being that he says he’s going to give the Thursday Murder Club a rest for
a little while as he concentrates on a new series:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>well, all I can say is that Elizabeth, Joyce,
Ron or Ibrahim better not have popped their clogs in the meantime!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">FIVE STARS.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-88459530311020071272023-12-17T19:18:00.000+13:002023-12-17T19:18:08.772+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">The
Bone Tree, by Airana Ngarewa.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVKnt9VC5_aQvWpoceyDKXDLOFiq4aBkPCertbAfCVSf66CKiXsHOo1x1Hk2iS6FcrjkZhrdi83upiqh6_91MM3VL0XCdQpxOeB0J1PEugv605ZzL74E1O9dJiqLKPethBPd_B5dcgnAj3kmqxOaIdC7Vjx_W6i-FR71axgxmqMmfRz6HdqwaRPfFt" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="181" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVKnt9VC5_aQvWpoceyDKXDLOFiq4aBkPCertbAfCVSf66CKiXsHOo1x1Hk2iS6FcrjkZhrdi83upiqh6_91MM3VL0XCdQpxOeB0J1PEugv605ZzL74E1O9dJiqLKPethBPd_B5dcgnAj3kmqxOaIdC7Vjx_W6i-FR71axgxmqMmfRz6HdqwaRPfFt" width="156" /></a></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was glad to finish this book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
because it was a rubbish read, poorly written – just the opposite:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it is a towering, brutal story of the sadness
and violence endured by children of poverty in Aotearoa New Zealand;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the feelings of hopelessness and helplessness
engendered by their terrible vulnerability – and the remedies some of them will
employ in order to survive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
is NOT an easy read for any New Zealand European as it delves mercilessly into
our doubtful colonial history, different versions of which have been taught in
schools for more than a century; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>only in
the last decades has the Maori language been recognised as the second official
language of our country, and Te Reo is now being used extensively in everyday
speech, to the joy of Tangata Whenua: the language is alive and well!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sadly,
teenager Kauri (or Cody, as his Irish dad and the welfare organisation reps
call him) knows his father will not live much longer;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kauri nurses him faithfully but doesn’t
actually care if he dies; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he has been
the victim of many vicious beatings when his dad came home drunk and raging
against Kauri’s Maori mother ‘who woke up dead one day’ from a wrongly
diagnosed illness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nah, good riddance to
the old bastard - even though Kauri looks after him to the best of his ability,
he certainly won’t be missing him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
Kauri’s main worry is his little brother Black – who is anything but, being as
pale as milk and a stranger to schooling of any kind, making him a perfect
target for the pakeha welfare guys who have been sniffing around too much
lately;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kauri has seen what happens to
kids who get ‘uplifted’ by the Welfare – they turn out broken, and he can’t
have that for his beloved little bro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When the old man dies, Kauri will go on a quest to find his relatives
–there must be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">some</i> family left out
there who will help them find their place in life, their ancestry, their place
of belonging, their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">turangawaewae.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
Kauri’s search leads him to the nearest city, and family to which he would
never have dreamed of associating – a whole church full of them, not to mention
a fallen sinner who introduced Kauri to all these Holier-than-Thous – every one
of them pious to a fault, but never acknowledging their family
connections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his efforts to find his
family, Kauri also learns some very big life lessons about those who want to be
found, and those who don’t.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was hard going reading this story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
made me deeply ashamed of our country’s bloody history and the glossing-over of
terrible mistakes made by the early colonial powers that are now finally being
acknowledged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you, Airana Ngarewa,
for this great and timely story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: red; font-size: 14.0pt;">SIX STARS.</span><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-58820718258359081762023-12-10T14:51:00.002+13:002023-12-10T14:51:23.945+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">A
Better Place by Stephen Daisley.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqyhY0O6sCBn9zvWRetDbHA7F9xIrxPii8kXPtB-TXE8B3AWwsD1zdZXiS4Mfz7IAn6XvieGGT057S8RbZ6Q01QEWE-TZcsbLn4wYDYMsymRZw8UuZOiKzesh1D9buW0Z3WOxDWBsJ1tOMKiKFBZWgQ4EFTKxwPjlQLKg4aal3u0C29DCxSUhsyScj" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="181" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqyhY0O6sCBn9zvWRetDbHA7F9xIrxPii8kXPtB-TXE8B3AWwsD1zdZXiS4Mfz7IAn6XvieGGT057S8RbZ6Q01QEWE-TZcsbLn4wYDYMsymRZw8UuZOiKzesh1D9buW0Z3WOxDWBsJ1tOMKiKFBZWgQ4EFTKxwPjlQLKg4aal3u0C29DCxSUhsyScj" width="156" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This is the third of Stephen Daisley’s novels that I have
read and once again, I am in awe of his seemingly effortless talent to evoke
myriad emotions from the reader as they journey through his characters’ lives,
completely involved and living each experience, good or bad, with them – and there
are so many searing, tragic experiences, for Stephen Daisley writes about war,
and he doesn’t pretty it up for the reader:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>in spare, short sentences he tells the story of twin brothers from New
Plymouth in New Zealand’s North Island who, at the age of twenty enlist in the
Army at the beginning of the Second World War.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Roy and Tony Mitchell are jacks-of-all-trades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are identical twins, but Tony is an
idealist and artistic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roy is
relentlessly practical:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>what you see is
what you get.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">They
have had a rough start to life:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>their
father was given land by the government when he came back from the First World
War but he also came back broken and turned to the drink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their mother left them to fend for themselves
without a backward glance when they were fourteen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d had enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After working for keep and learning stock handling,
fencing and all the other backbreaking toil associated with hard-scrabble
farming, the twins decide it’s time for a change:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>might as well go to war!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So they do, and end up at Maleme on the island of Crete
with their Battalion, retreating from a huge German Offensive in which Tony the
Introvert is believed lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bloody good
Joker Roy is understandably shattered, but he feels even worse because he ran
away like a coward, leaving his brother behind, and when he returned, could
only find Tony’s leg, shattered and shredded at the listening post where he
left him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The fate of both brothers is masterfully revealed;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roy is shipped to Italy with his regiment,
and Tony becomes a Prisoner of War.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
is shown <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>compassion by his captors,
while Roy sees the worst side of the enemy:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a whole village annihilated as the Allied troops came to liberate them:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the feelings of the hapless reader (me!) are
trampled into the ground;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this is how it
was, and this powerful, terrible story should – but won’t – act as a terrible,
sickening example of what war does to the world, how long it takes for nations
to recover, and the tragic fact, as evidenced by the Ukraine and Gaza, that
nobody learns War’s lessons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">SIX STARS.</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-24189581348835013352023-11-30T18:07:00.004+13:002023-11-30T18:07:48.537+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Killing
Moon, by Jo Nesbo.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixRq6m5AAZ8fnAMH4tQUO0dndAMrEjZzhv0Vi_QhSsVFCdJFz9EWbPdmtC0c4SaQ9ysq8W2p4RejgfKPFaFVZbAeXa2y3OxTpmhpdsBxupjjsuVZH8slWnKv7ixbyoTuJGcjSakxahLKD4FVl16X0o8ii9aF0ncsJGYJ6AJFQqcADnHBXBdFzzL7_d" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="181" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixRq6m5AAZ8fnAMH4tQUO0dndAMrEjZzhv0Vi_QhSsVFCdJFz9EWbPdmtC0c4SaQ9ysq8W2p4RejgfKPFaFVZbAeXa2y3OxTpmhpdsBxupjjsuVZH8slWnKv7ixbyoTuJGcjSakxahLKD4FVl16X0o8ii9aF0ncsJGYJ6AJFQqcADnHBXBdFzzL7_d" width="156" /></a></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Harry Hole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah,
Harry Hole, Jo Nesbo’s brilliant alcoholic Norwegian detective, adept at
solving the heinous crimes of serial-killers, but just about done-for by the
time this story starts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harry is in Los
Angeles, determined to drink himself to death or, when his money runs out, to finish
everything off by his own hand – and gun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To join his beloved Rakel, cruelly murdered by a friend who wanted the
ultimate revenge – but fate (or karma) has other plans for Harry:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he rescues an elderly lady from death by her
creditors, but there’s a time limit on their generosity:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he has a week to find nearly a million
dollars, or Lucille, whose kindness to Harry has been legendary, gets a bullet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> <span> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Coincidentally, he receives a call from Oslo with a job
offer:</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">working as a private detective to
prove the innocence of a multi-millionaire who is facing murder charges after
the bodies of two young women were found within a week of each other, the
second one beheaded.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Suspicion has
fallen on the millionaire because they were both guests at a lavish cocaine-addled
party he threw in his penthouse on the night the first girl died and despite
the fact that his wife provides an alibi for him, there is evidence that this
is not the case.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It
is no easy thing to return to Oslo with all its wonderful and terrible memories
– and all the familiar drinking holes, not to mention all the colourful characters
from Harry’s past, including his former police colleagues, some of whom are
less than pleased to see him, but Harry is on a time limit and time is of the
essence:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he knows that Markus R</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ø</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">ed is probably innocent of the crimes with which he is
charged, but he’s guilty of crimes just as destructive and believes that power
and money can buy anything, including Harry Hole, who is singularly
unimpressed:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>just tell him the truth and
show him the money.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">But
Markus has rampaged through his life without a thought for the people he
crushed under his hand-made shoes on the way – until one of them decides to
strike back, and fashions a revenge that is truly Biblical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And
I, who pride myself on guessing whodunit from early on in the piece, was<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>truly tricked into thinking it was someone
else entirely – I could have taken my pick of all the red herrings on offer and
still came up crook, so Jo Nesbo has done it again:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>given us a truly thrilling page-turner, with
wonderful supporting characters and a protagonist who has endeared himself
permanently to every reader to the extent that there would be an international
outcry if Harry Hole did indeed decide to end it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">SIX STARS.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-6865748804069473402023-11-19T16:53:00.000+13:002023-11-19T16:53:19.617+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Did
I Ever Tell You This?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By Sam Neill.<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Memoir.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi338w5Cch8VdRLxsoH2aiqf3co-yt08KyCFVKrdXEMGFmAG8eh4cXMLXHH2Ii4f0PN7wV2VnC89Ec2wGw_CNSdl9HL9mzfM0g4V-379pX_FSi5i0_HDL7oddAozP3OazXjDfceuH4KK-uXjIj3ChMl5EwVbVtE2OYevioQKd8sYzaGPhi9mS9ji0HW" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="181" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi338w5Cch8VdRLxsoH2aiqf3co-yt08KyCFVKrdXEMGFmAG8eh4cXMLXHH2Ii4f0PN7wV2VnC89Ec2wGw_CNSdl9HL9mzfM0g4V-379pX_FSi5i0_HDL7oddAozP3OazXjDfceuH4KK-uXjIj3ChMl5EwVbVtE2OYevioQKd8sYzaGPhi9mS9ji0HW" width="156" /></a></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>New Zealand actor Sam Neill tells the reader more than
once in his graceful and hugely entertaining memoir that he is ‘a jobbing
actor’:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he will say that he does it to
feed himself and his family, about whom he is always loving and touchingly
proud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It soon becomes obvious to the
reader, however, that while he has more than earned enough to put food on the
table for family generations to come, he has also gained a world-wide
reputation as a celebrated actor in a myriad different roles, from battling
dinosaurs in the Jurassic Park movies to dazzling 17<sup>th</sup> century
London as King Charles the Second.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And he is also battling cancer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>About which he writes baldly and bravely, with no trace
of the ‘Poor-Me’s’, an indication of his upbringing in a loving but no-nonsense
family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sam, baptised Nigel to his
eternal regret after his birth in Ireland, was the second son of a New Zealand
military officer<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(‘your father,’ says an
aunt in pointed reference to Sam. ‘Now <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he
</i>was a handsome man.’) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As proven by
an absolutely stunning photo of Sam’s dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sam’s mum was an equally photogenic young Englishwoman and, after
producing daughter Juliet, the family eventually moved to Dunedin after a
wonderful, wild start in Ireland, and Sam was despatched to the delights of
boarding school in Christchurch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether
he wanted to go or not – ‘nothing wrong with a Boarding-School education, it’ll
do you good!’ Or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Sam was more
academically inclined than sporty (he loved acting, surprise surprise!) he
wasn’t regarded with great interest by his teachers. But.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fate intervenes, when after university Sam gets a job
with the National Film Unit (‘New Zealand’s least cool film makers’) and he is
eventually cast in ‘Sleeping Dogs’, a pioneering feature movie that interested
people in Australia, and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>was the start
of His Brilliant Career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sam and the
camera fell in love and have been thicker than thieves ever since.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only his family is more well-loved than
acting – and wine-making:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>thanks to his
superior ‘jobbing’ talents, Sam is also a vintner of some note – the Pinot Noir
produced at Sam’s South Island Two Paddocks vineyard has an international
reputation:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>not bad for a weedy little
kid called Nigel – who changed his name to Sam when he was small because all
the best guys in cowboy movies were called Sam.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The last word shall go to Sam’s little daughter Elena who
visited him in his trailer when he was upholstered magnificently in his royal
raiment as King Charles the Second:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sam
was waiting for her cries of admiration but all Elena could say was ‘but Daddy,
where are the Dinosaurs?’ This was the perfect way to end a lovely book written
by a gentleman, and a gentle man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">SIX STARS.</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-25436358489401198922023-11-04T15:44:00.004+13:002023-11-04T15:44:31.312+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Night
Will Find You, by Julia Heaberlin.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKC1BLDI1UhbK6f-yH64h8_g4IAVylXflwBZlVngvFpM0kA2FGfCloWnen0Jgsw8qlj3lE_Xh9hywje4yNvQPXb_fDX4ZCsc9yT7ayxobBOptLnGsN2f4EFkScDIHq32jbc1TAFUuNaUXFkXQ5QRnQSHsVRgty9-futg5eYtFfaJC_oTLpCAKSa4we" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKC1BLDI1UhbK6f-yH64h8_g4IAVylXflwBZlVngvFpM0kA2FGfCloWnen0Jgsw8qlj3lE_Xh9hywje4yNvQPXb_fDX4ZCsc9yT7ayxobBOptLnGsN2f4EFkScDIHq32jbc1TAFUuNaUXFkXQ5QRnQSHsVRgty9-futg5eYtFfaJC_oTLpCAKSa4we" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><br /></span></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Vivvy Bouchet has had a number of disadvantages in her life as she grew
up, not least being the daughter of a Psychic who gives readings true and false
in an effort to support Vivvy and her elder sister Brigid;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they sometimes have to leave town in a hurry
– especially when the body of a dead woman is exhumed in their back yard which
their Mum claims to have foreseen:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this
event signifies a big increase in income, but removes permanently any privacy
they had growing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A shift to the Lone
Star State of Texas, proud home of myriad conspiracy theorists and gun-toting
Trumpsters is not the safe haven it could have been, and reaching adulthood for
both girls is something of a triumph – especially as Vivvy has managed to
achieve her childhood goal of becoming a respected scientist – an
astrophysicist, no less, the pride of her small family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s just a couple of things wrong with
that rosy picture:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vivvy is
obsessive-compulsive, and she has inherited her mother’s doubtful gift of
second sight.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A very odd combination of a relentlessly factual
scientific mind married to an equally unassailable group of ‘feelings’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For that reason Vivvy works alone on her
exploratory Space studies, supported by a prestigious university grant – until
her brother-in-law Mike, a detective, asks for her psychic help with a group of
photos he wants her to see:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>could any of
the subjects be still alive?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they are
dead, any vibes as to where their bodies are?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike must be
desperate if he is asking for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i>
help, but he can’t ask his mother-in-law – she has recently died of natural
causes, so Vivvy is the next-best thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And she proves her worth:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a
three-year old girl who disappeared from her home eleven years ago is not dead,
despite her mother being jailed for her ‘murder’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s alive – but where?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Julia Heaberlin has written a marvellous thriller – not
just superior plotting and characters, but her ruthless honesty in depicting
today’s America, that land of endless opportunity bogged down with
misinformation, disinformation, climate deniers, and the podcasters and
newscasters frothing at the mouth to spread more fantasies to people who want
to believe –<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> need</i> to believe – in
something, the more unbelievable, the better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Through her heroic character Vivvy she lays bare illnesses that infect a
proud country, in the meantime giving us, in the best thriller tradition, shock
after shock as exposes bad guys we never suspected, and a glimpse of a MAGA
world we’d rather not see. <span style="color: red;">SIX STARS.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-48595271374979419842023-10-26T13:00:00.000+13:002023-10-26T13:00:33.808+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Kala,
by Colin Walsh.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9NC50MbxXIUFHvt9HD0mcOWnCeyShD00hVNog4q9OT3peUxUk2MxL9h-m7ZJ7Pv3Qi9n5MLdScVZ95HNPM5O-rO-CNu4xsPlPldaNDIgOR3cL0QSdnBofaY05wCwk-ayyxqa0NRdvkP1ibRuuHur989vAiZJHbyPPtZJZ_ngFWAdCiHZ205sj06RJ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9NC50MbxXIUFHvt9HD0mcOWnCeyShD00hVNog4q9OT3peUxUk2MxL9h-m7ZJ7Pv3Qi9n5MLdScVZ95HNPM5O-rO-CNu4xsPlPldaNDIgOR3cL0QSdnBofaY05wCwk-ayyxqa0NRdvkP1ibRuuHur989vAiZJHbyPPtZJZ_ngFWAdCiHZ205sj06RJ" width="240" /></a></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Colin Walsh has already made his reputation as a
prize-winning short-story writer:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this
is his first novel and he may cover all the bases of a competent thriller, but
it takes an extraordinary talent to elevate efficiency to brilliance, and Colin
Walsh has it in spades.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The reader is spared no mercy as we are subjected to
every good, bad and ugly emotion throughout this story of solid teenage
friendship that has disintegrated into reluctant acquaintance fifteen years
after the disappearance of Kala Lanann, the heart and soul of the little
group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her boyfriend Joe is now a famous
rock star;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her best friend Helen has
returned to Ireland from Canada to attend her father’s forthcoming wedding to
Pauline Lyons, mother of Aidan, Joe’s mate and drummer in their little rock
band, and Mush – Mush is Aidan’s cousin, horribly scarred and doomed to be his
Mam’s assistant in their Cafe in the tourist town of Kinlough till death do
them part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kala’s staunch-to-the-death
friends haven’t survived well without her, and no-one – NO-ONE, wants to
revisit the last time they saw her:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>each
of them know that they could have behaved differently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kala was in trouble;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she needed them, and they let her down.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But her body has never been found, so that should surely
mean something, especially to her poor, wheelchair-bound <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>grandmother with whom she lived – until her
bones are discovered on a local building site in a gym bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her badly broken skull is on top of the bag,
with a photo of two young girls positioned beneath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are they the next targets?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And why was Kala, a vital, fearless, talented
15 year-old murdered?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What did she know
or discover to cause her horrible death, and could her friends have prevented
it?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The nature of friendship casual or deep is relentlessly
explored in this searing expos</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">
of the corrupt underbelly of a seemingly prosperous and scenic Irish seaside
town:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the police control law and order –
but who controls the police?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To their
consternation, the broken, wounded adult versions of Kala’s much-loved friends
discover that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everything</i> has its
price and for some, it is too high to pay.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With this outstanding debut novel, Colin Walsh proves
that he can carry on admirably the great literary tradition of Irish
storytelling:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it’s all wonderful craic
and I can’t wait for the next example of his brilliance. Will he make me laugh
and cry again, and recoil in horror at the cruelty his characters visit upon
each other?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shall be waiting because I
must, but I hope he doesn’t go on his holidays!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="color: red;">SIX STARS.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-77939164605347471992023-10-15T18:58:00.002+13:002023-10-15T18:58:21.975+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Killing
Jericho, by William Hussey.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1F5aN8acG9WosbIUfDr3OryB3Wu97fc102r7qHt3zg2skXstFm9LBNG0XSktaaPXZK2YRG3aCmnDqCZnIYvf29BxO5kAY7l-QaAa7XfZhONM0YBxTKq6vAT7DG9z6B-TcddiR6d4Rdpbg29YvfI_ey15KXBsarhSrX4OTFEBFmt3jH9r-HSply8Q-" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1F5aN8acG9WosbIUfDr3OryB3Wu97fc102r7qHt3zg2skXstFm9LBNG0XSktaaPXZK2YRG3aCmnDqCZnIYvf29BxO5kAY7l-QaAa7XfZhONM0YBxTKq6vAT7DG9z6B-TcddiR6d4Rdpbg29YvfI_ey15KXBsarhSrX4OTFEBFmt3jH9r-HSply8Q-" width="156" /></a></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How many Crime novels have you read where the protagonist
is a burnt-out investigator, near the end of his tether but with still-enviable
skills at detecting and smelling rats of all kinds?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>William Hussey’s main man Scott Jericho is
all of these things, but he’s also of a different stripe:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he’s a Traveller – a Pikey, a Gypo, part of
the travelling fairs of Gypsies who still visit different locations in Britain
– and he’s gay.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He also won a scholarship to Oxford, experienced contempt
from every class of student <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because</i>
he was a traveller, and found love with a fellow student, Harry Wainhouse, who
was the one ray of sunshine in his bleak, unlovely life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Naturally, with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> luck, everything eventually becomes unstuck, especially his
precious relationship, and after a time of booze, pills and doubtful employment
in ‘security’ he eventually finds salvation of a sort:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as a policeman, causing great consternation
to his travelling family, who don’t take kindly to coppers, who have never
taken their side, even when they should!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His mentor is a Detective Inspector Garris who sees great
promise in Scott’s cleverly deductive reasoning of various crims and crimes,
and for a time Scott Jericho is almost happy in his work, until a particularly
hideous crime involving the burning to death of three small children causes him
to snap and try to beat the perpetrator to death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His punishment is severe, with a degrading
jail term and damages awarded to the perp:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>when he is released he is ready to die;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>his life means nothing any more – until his old mentor Garris needs his
thoughts on a case which appears to mirror an awful historic event concerning
his own travelling family:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>three people
have already died in dreadful copy-cat killings of a tragic event that occurred
one hundred and fifty years before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing accidental or suspicious – all bloodthirsty murders, every one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scott cannot resist his good friend’s
plea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He will help if he can and all he
can:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it’s time to come back to the world
again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Except that the more he delves into the crimes, the worse
they become, and will he solve the myriad puzzles they present with every turn,
or will he become another victim?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>William Hussey comes from a travelling background and
knows whereof he speaks;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he has created
a very plausible, flawed hero (who does get the guy at the end!), and there
will be more Jericho novels to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wouldn’t bet the farm on it, but I’m pretty sure you won’t figure out Whodunnit
until that fact is revealed, and you’ll have to keep reading the series (as I
will) to find out if the monster is finally bought to justice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">FOUR STARS.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-14854860422522299462023-10-08T13:06:00.000+13:002023-10-08T13:06:23.673+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">The
Sparrow, by Tessa Duder.<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Young
Adults<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6J7jfawcFKGd4TdrbkpV6zktW5khdlkeyaTkmbZEMEjOQBy1tamxAMinSvlA52kNz57HX44Juu7ANEIYdM9IwImOk4lpUha1LHot3fKV9AvmZuh5ROyhKyKECH9GvWsjYKkSKee6EeXevWLoaDux563I5L6mFzq92BW9qJg4zXYKG3kLfex0L8Bd3" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1333" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6J7jfawcFKGd4TdrbkpV6zktW5khdlkeyaTkmbZEMEjOQBy1tamxAMinSvlA52kNz57HX44Juu7ANEIYdM9IwImOk4lpUha1LHot3fKV9AvmZuh5ROyhKyKECH9GvWsjYKkSKee6EeXevWLoaDux563I5L6mFzq92BW9qJg4zXYKG3kLfex0L8Bd3" width="156" /></a></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Auckland
writer Tessa Duder dedicates this book ‘to the memory of the women and girls
cruelly and unjustly convicted, transported and imprisoned 12,000 miles from
their homeland, to those who died and those who, against all odds, survived.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
one such survivor in 1840 is Harriet, convicted at the age of 10 of stealing an
apple at a market in her Sussex home town:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>she didn’t steal the apple;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her
jealous older brother connived with his friend to get her arrested by the local
constable for theft – that would teach her to think she was better, and
better-loved by their parents who, regardless of their desperate attempts to
save their little girl from her fate, were powerless to stop her being
transported to Van Diemen’s Land (now Tasmania).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
if the sea voyage weren’t horrific enough, the destination is even worse, and
an attempt by Harriet to escape brings even more punishment raining on her
cruelly shaved head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She will die
soon:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she knows it - except for the
human kindness we all should have, shown to her by one of the jailors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She engineers a successful escape for a
little girl whom she feels is not destined to die in such a hellhole and
Harriet, eventually disguised as Harry stows away on the very same ship that
transported her to Hobart:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she’s
desperate to return home to her parents, but a side trip first to New Zealand is
a compulsory exercise – she can hardly go to the captain as a stowaway and
demand to be taken back to England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
once more she meets kindness in the shape of an Irish seaman who discovers her
hiding place and provides her with food and advice – lots of it, to the effect
that when she arrives in Auckland, her boy’s disguise complete, she has no
problem becoming a messenger boy and earning coins from all the Big-Wigs who
have arrived to establish Auckland as the new capital of New Zealand.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Along
with material for a 16-room mansion for the new Governor, the class system has
been imported, too – there are clear guidelines as to where everyone should
settle:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>manual workers at Mechanics Bay,
Officials at Official Bay, and business people at Commercial Bay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And everyone in their little tent villages is
supplied with food and vegetables by ‘the natives’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who are not to be trusted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just because.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They are brown, have tattoos, are half-naked, and don’t speak English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never mind that they provide most of the food
the settlers eat – that’s immaterial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They are not to be trusted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ms
Duder’s account of our early years as a nation is ruthlessly honest and uncompromising,
and she has created in Harriet the same qualities, along with courage and
resourcefulness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This story was a
pleasure to read. </span><span style="color: red; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>SIX STARS.</span><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-1105456102876900032023-09-24T15:48:00.000+13:002023-09-24T15:48:08.941+13:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Small
Mercies, by Dennis Lehane.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4JVGr0N-MkZBrU0LYW10vWQ2RS_fc92E1vNHD1Ly8aQoeQmcH4GttE1wAIwIxegAGWXJDQyDMJZcOti2R8pocwJK5UodttkyjjlAp31NJN_IXqsaBCDmfZXjQ7Mzv313K1CCzITpo0_fCmtiYsCzEP2SJ2apNH4nkrkps3pGz01T185Jq7CauLtiM" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4JVGr0N-MkZBrU0LYW10vWQ2RS_fc92E1vNHD1Ly8aQoeQmcH4GttE1wAIwIxegAGWXJDQyDMJZcOti2R8pocwJK5UodttkyjjlAp31NJN_IXqsaBCDmfZXjQ7Mzv313K1CCzITpo0_fCmtiYsCzEP2SJ2apNH4nkrkps3pGz01T185Jq7CauLtiM" width="156" /></a></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It
is Summer, 1974.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Boston,
Massachusetts, a judge has just decreed that public high schools be
desegregated:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>black teenagers will travel
by bus to white high schools – but only in the poorer areas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Prosperous suburbs with private schools will
be exempt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the predominantly poor Irish
district of Southie racism is rearing its ugly head:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>if the rich want desegregation, let them bus
all the niggers to their own schools!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The mood is ugly, and there have already been demonstrations, engineered
by the local criminals;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they don’t want
competition from any nigger gangs on their turf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The atmosphere is explosive, and the weather
is not helping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone is feeling the
heat, not least the mayor, the judicial system, and the police:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>something will have to give.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Mary
Pat Fennessy is a hard woman – hard-faced, hard to like, and hard-done-by in
her personal circumstances:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her first
husband, father of her children and a small-time criminal, died in suspicious
circumstances;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her beloved son succumbed
to heroin’s charms and died as a result;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>her second husband Ken has recently left her, and her cherished
remaining child, 17 year-old Jules, didn’t come home last night. And a young
black man has been found dead overnight in Southie, too, and the police are
making a lot of enquires.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jules’ mutton-headed boyfriend Rum says that
he hasn’t seen her and left her to walk home by herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rum is unprepared for Mary Pat’s ‘physicality’ when Mary Pat tracks him
down, for Mary Pat is a dirty fighter whose main advantage is surprise –
surprise and shock that a little woman could turn herself into a bone-breaker,
and in Rum’s case, a testicle-cutter – not fatal, you understand, but so
painful and bloody that Rum begs the investigating police to keep him in a cell
so that she can’t get him – and in return he’ll tell them what he and Jules did
on their last date.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Dennis
Lehane doesn’t let the reader move an inch away from the page as he holds us
all in a stranglehold of suspense, first as to Jules’ fate, then the nature of
Mary Pat’s terrible revenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
hubble-bubbling away like a dirty underground stream throughout this explosive
and powerful story is the racism that never goes away, never changes, and certainly
never disappears, even though fifty years have passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a hard book to read, (including all
the f-bombs!) hard because of all the uncomfortable truths that it exposes,
especially about how we, as children, are taught to hate:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this is a great book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">SIX STARS.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-20584211051772803252023-09-09T18:31:00.000+12:002023-09-09T18:31:38.500+12:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">After
That Night, by Karin Slaughter.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgC73CNGbyTOaCCJYW_7Ny15oyKpBvSJdw6tdcObL50VCaZbGG4IqacPOK-_CqIkX3h1qej5A0BkEAldpRTfX1p__Oge_RniCVjt8cWttPzHfE3pGx8TLslkXEnHzk2TEFb8rrr_m003dWxhHTAwckZgyOQhM2TZqtDmyQ0NSxJ9IOYTd5O9W_7_YHE" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgC73CNGbyTOaCCJYW_7Ny15oyKpBvSJdw6tdcObL50VCaZbGG4IqacPOK-_CqIkX3h1qej5A0BkEAldpRTfX1p__Oge_RniCVjt8cWttPzHfE3pGx8TLslkXEnHzk2TEFb8rrr_m003dWxhHTAwckZgyOQhM2TZqtDmyQ0NSxJ9IOYTd5O9W_7_YHE" width="156" /></a></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I’ve
done it again:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>started reading a series
at the end instead of the beginning, to my eternal shame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ms Slaughter’s latest book is advertised as a
Will Trent thriller and I thought ‘no problem – there will be a backstory’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there is, but so many Will Trent novels
have preceded this one, with so many truly great permanent characters, that I
spent most of the time while I read trying to figure out relationships,
friendships and families, and my lasting regret is that I’ve missed out (unless
I trawl through the Will Trent Canon, and will I live that long?) on a
continuing story that embodies perfectly the thriller genre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I’m lacking in previous details,
especially concerning Will Trent’s early life, I’m so fortunate to finally meet
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Better late than never!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>GBI special agent Will Trent is engaged to Sara Linton, a
brilliant Doctor who is working in the Emergency Department of an Atlanta
hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are planning their
wedding in a month’s time and both are thrilled to be starting their new life
together, until a young woman is brought into the E.D. in terrible
condition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has driven a late-model
Mercedes very gently into an ambulance parked outside the hospital, then
collapsed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her injuries are horrific and
eventually fatal despite everyone’s efforts, but it is also obvious that she
has been brutally raped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which awakens
terrible memories for Sara:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fifteen
years ago, the same terrible, animal thing happened to her, and after that
night, nothing in her life would ever be the same, including injuries so bad
she can never have children.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But that’s not all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>An investigation turns up cold cases, rapes and fatalities that remain
unsolved, all involving young women of approximately the same age, usually
students – with the same knife-markings on certain<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>parts of their bodies – and always missing a
left shoe:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the cases are all connected,
but actual evidence is thin on the ground, until Sara and Will piece together
fragile clues linking her assault and the dying girl with the Mercedes, all
linking however tenuously to a group of her fellow medical students, now
prosperous specialists, trailblazers in medicine and powerful men in their own
right – but spectacular failures in their personal lives. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They took the Hippocratic Oath:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they pledged to do no harm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They couldn’t be mixed up in this sadistic
cruelty:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>could they?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ms Slaughter leads us competently through the story,
never letting the reader up on the suspense and examining sometimes minutely
the sacrifices that people (particularly parents) will make for those they love
– and those they don’t: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>think medical
staff and police.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As always she gives us
HEAPS to think about – and regret:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wish
I’d read all the backstories!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">FIVE STARS.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-84828315364849944782023-08-30T18:44:00.000+12:002023-08-30T18:44:00.448+12:00<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Pet,
by Catherine Chidgey.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoHjmtElRSyH-uQjsHYfhKDgaG0qWha_Vz7M9f-Lmu6ZIUhEZM7sNt1ubH5tjeosScDZDXTQtFEwVijHNHWINZaJ7dq4do4K9Q8LfY6gskQg8SJpnLrpkvd9T6j7AuF6WdHtjC4jDB-r_ABHPrGdhOPr73qkXpbjYq6nS0Pn1w-1o8aIb3SDwNvhvQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoHjmtElRSyH-uQjsHYfhKDgaG0qWha_Vz7M9f-Lmu6ZIUhEZM7sNt1ubH5tjeosScDZDXTQtFEwVijHNHWINZaJ7dq4do4K9Q8LfY6gskQg8SJpnLrpkvd9T6j7AuF6WdHtjC4jDB-r_ABHPrGdhOPr73qkXpbjYq6nS0Pn1w-1o8aIb3SDwNvhvQ" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> <br /> Catherine Chidgey proves that the acclamation earned by
‘The Axeman’s Carnival’ and her earlier novels was fully justified. Her boundless imagination and dazzling skill
at creating characters that are all too horrifyingly credible is beautifully
realised in the story which opens in 2014 when Justine Crieve is visiting her
father in Dementia care: the new carer
who is helping her father looks just like someone from her childhood that she
would rather forget, generating harsh memories of a class of 12 year-old
children who happily come under the sway of their new teacher, Mrs Price.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Mrs Price is almost impossibly glamorous. She drives a white left-hand drive Corvette
(it only has two seats – how exciting is that!), wears the latest fashions,
calls everyone darling, and generally captivates all (except the overweight
mums, who are inclined to mutter nasty asides to each other about her not being
all that she should be), and she goes to Sunday Mass as a teacher at a
Wellington Catholic school should. There
are rumours that she has been the victim of a tragedy; her husband and little daughter died in a car
accident in Auckland, but no-one wants to ask her any questions – who would
want to resurrect such sorrow?
Regardless, every child in her class wants to be her ‘Pet’, that
exalted, favoured position whereby certain children are allowed to clean the
blackboard and dusters after school, tidy the stationery cupboard, dish out
papers to the mere mortals, and generally bask in the warmth and outright
favouritism of being Special.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Justine Crieve and her best friend Amy Fong would both
love to be Pets, but know it will never happen:
Justine has seizures and her Mum died of breast cancer a year ago. Her dad isn’t managing at all well and is
drinking a lot. Amy is Chinese; her family owns the fruit and veg shop, but
much as they try they’re not fitting in;
instead both girls imitate (unkindly) the Pets.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Until Justine is brought home by Mrs Price after a
seizure, and the two adults find they have much in common, including prior
tragedies. And it’s not long before
Justine becomes a Pet – at the expense of her friendship with Amy, who thinks
Mrs Price is a thief: she saw her pinch
Jasmine Tea from her parents’ shop! And
what about all the stuff missing from the classroom since Mrs Price started? Justine refuses to hear anything nasty about
her heroine, for Mrs Price and her father are getting married – and taking her
on their honeymoon! Amy can go and get
forgotten about.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Catherine Chidgey has created a thriller which has more
twists and turns than a pretzel, all of them clever and unexpected.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And tragic.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">
</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The sadness doesn’t end, right down to the last word.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="color: red; font-size: 14pt;">FIVE STARS.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span> </p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-48687264438309096142023-08-20T18:06:00.003+12:002023-08-20T18:06:37.325+12:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Fatherland,
by Burkhard Bilger.<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>Non-fiction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Memoir.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjurP1PrsVzFf8LVBy6Th8CWQlYHb2MdSk_eeRxu8JG187Ju_2OeGIZL9kL3a9HKSzyzAEU5qm-MUQKEb8B3tYRMhEENGQK17RMrYqf4FH2-XKHecrJPE8pcY2v4dObxILD5gJ2qQ6QcvYuRN8i8_jApoBmYVq7S8KjGU1YwAZzetzYhFSAWGC9ttw4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="129" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjurP1PrsVzFf8LVBy6Th8CWQlYHb2MdSk_eeRxu8JG187Ju_2OeGIZL9kL3a9HKSzyzAEU5qm-MUQKEb8B3tYRMhEENGQK17RMrYqf4FH2-XKHecrJPE8pcY2v4dObxILD5gJ2qQ6QcvYuRN8i8_jApoBmYVq7S8KjGU1YwAZzetzYhFSAWGC9ttw4" width="169" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <br /> </span>Burkhard Bilger is a respected writer for The New Yorker,
and has contributed many times to other publications – The Atlantic, Harper’s
and the New York Times among them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Born
in Oklahoma, he is also of German ancestry;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>his parents emigrated to the USA after the Second World War.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bilger Senior was a Physicist and his mother
was a schoolteacher who eventually returned to university to qualify as a
historian:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>life was full of promise –
the American Dream was possible for all in the sixties in Oklahoma (provided
your skin was white.)<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But Burkhard wasn’t so much concerned with skin colour
eventually, as much as the gaps in his parents’ reminiscences of their early
lives in the Germany of the War years spent in the Schwarzwald, the Black
Forest near the southern border of France and the Swiss border:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>there was, among the fairy-tale sounding
stories of Wurst und Speck and snow up to the eaves in winter, absolutely no
mention of the War, or the fact that Burkhard’s mother’s father, his grandfather,
was a longtime member of the Nazi party, and Nazi Chief representative in
Bartenheim, a small southern village on the Rhine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Originally a school teacher, Grandfather Karl
G</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ö</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">nner embraced as did so
many others, the new prosperity promised by Hitler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After so many years of poverty and inflation
when Germany and its remaining wealth was parcelled out to others in the
infamous Treaty of Versailles, it was now time to take back what had been
stolen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was time for the ascension of
The Third Reich:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sieg Heil!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bartenheim during the war years was, as always, an
uncomfortable mixture of die-hard French inhabitants, and equally intransigent
Deutsche counterparts – which was nothing new, for every time the two countries
went to war, the victor always determined which language took precedence all
along the French/German border, only this time the Nazi troops were much more
trigger-happy, more ruthless in fact, than in previous times. Which meant that
there were a lot more informers and turncoats all ready to turn someone in for
money – or spite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grandfather Karl, in
his capacity of local headmaster but ultimately Chief Nazi Officer of the area,
turned out to be fair game for those local politicos with a grudge once the
tide of victory had turned – and there were many.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was sent to prison at the end of the war.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His grandson Burkhard’s sterling efforts on several trips
to Germany to peel back the layers of history to get at the plain, unvarnished
truth;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>his hours, weeks and months of
research, delving through archives miraculously still available, and all the
heart-rending<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>personal interviews have
produced a beautifully written family history, a deeply affecting account of a
nation’s guilt, shame and redemption – and the posing of the worrisome question
in the wake of today’s world situation:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>have we learnt anything at all?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">FIVE STARS.</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-76277890741389842302023-08-11T15:09:00.002+12:002023-08-11T15:09:58.182+12:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Yellowface,
by Rebecca F. Kuang.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidkzgTW83r3ZNoGHRxCBjkh_89JY90-BCRivsL73qiLK1NcuhCC35luib6tPjA1kdpUBf8I_7Tduh9vJcjgD8zIE0mlBSM9gkMrCj6-HrUS_0PT_R_ZCrXREiQ6bZzGDf_RGqQVKalkhIQNlKEUlA7LRggMZRYYSteIwGLI7_A7g3h7p91jKOZMUSg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidkzgTW83r3ZNoGHRxCBjkh_89JY90-BCRivsL73qiLK1NcuhCC35luib6tPjA1kdpUBf8I_7Tduh9vJcjgD8zIE0mlBSM9gkMrCj6-HrUS_0PT_R_ZCrXREiQ6bZzGDf_RGqQVKalkhIQNlKEUlA7LRggMZRYYSteIwGLI7_A7g3h7p91jKOZMUSg" width="156" /></a></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></b><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">With </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">the exception of the author, <span style="color: #0f243e; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">o</span>nly those in the Publishing
industry are fully aware of the enormous amount of effort that is expended to
produce a novel , let alone a best-seller:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>the eventual reader – the Mark – is blissfully ignorant of the fact that
so many have laboured for so long to bring life to a story that will absorb and
enchant, that he will line up to buy – until the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">next</i> Blockbuster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rebecca Kuang
enlightens us all with her brutal, brilliant warts-and-all portrayal of the
industry and Social Media, how it can uplift and deify some writers
(particularly after they die) and completely bury others just as good:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Death by Twitter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Juniper Song Hayward is a white Yale graduate whose
mother named her child in her Hippie days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She is friends with Athena Liu, a Chinese American who has it all:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>gorgeous looks, a slender model’s figure and
a writing talent that has already propelled her onto the Bestseller lists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>June is a writer who has already been
published, but her autobiographical novel ‘Over the Sycamore’ sank without
trace months after publication;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>now
she’s inclined to think that Athena’s looks have aided her as much as her way
with words;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that luck has had a huge
amount to do with Athena’s success and, even though it’s hard to admit, perhaps
Junie is just gut-churningly jealous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not of Athena’s writing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, June
has enough confidence in her talent to know how good she is, she just hadn’t had
the luck.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Until one night a horrible, freak accident occurs at
Athena’s apartment resulting in Athena’s death, and June becomes the custodian
of her friend’s last rough manuscript, a potentially brilliant story of Chinese
indentured labourers sent to France by Britain during the First World War.
No-one knows of this work except June, and after a huge amount of work
transcribing and rewriting, June presents the work as her own to her agent.
With predictable results.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Publishing
world is taken by storm, she is the new Flavour of the Month, and she is on the
Bestseller lists at last.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Until AthenaLiu’sGhost pops up casting aspersions on
Twitter, and bona fide Asian writers want to know how a white woman could trick
everyone with her name – Juniper Song – then write of Chinese history with such
convincing authority.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>June has reached
the summit, now it’s all downhill.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rebecca Kuang takes no prisoners in her portrayal of
Yellowface racism in the publishing industry:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>‘Sorry, we won’t publish that because the author’s Asian and we already
have an Asian writer’ and with regard to Athena and her supposed success, they
only wanted books from her on an Asian theme.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was their token Asian author.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well, Kuang has turned the tables on them, writing as a white woman
trying to plagiarise her Asian friend’s work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This story is as much an expos</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> of racism in the publishing industry as it is in
society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To our shame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">FOUR STARS. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-44990574114712186822023-08-02T11:27:00.004+12:002023-08-02T11:29:47.588+12:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">The
Art of Prophecy, by Wesley Chu.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRH8aVmw_NVXVzaHB-94AW-1v7CgBLFGrdcKEEgz0TjAn4OhFCWDJXnA4dhDXm8Mp4-4tC2Fv66i7drEo3DSffB2FXJ2qscRQF5AukcWa0RGZQRh0HqgXwo9e09_WF7zuB6hdBrDvuWd01ylh8skaTTkr5yT9CUMCGtoEuq_1i-KVlzcYSVK6M65Mc" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="183" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRH8aVmw_NVXVzaHB-94AW-1v7CgBLFGrdcKEEgz0TjAn4OhFCWDJXnA4dhDXm8Mp4-4tC2Fv66i7drEo3DSffB2FXJ2qscRQF5AukcWa0RGZQRh0HqgXwo9e09_WF7zuB6hdBrDvuWd01ylh8skaTTkr5yT9CUMCGtoEuq_1i-KVlzcYSVK6M65Mc" width="159" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: large;">This is the first of Wesley Chu’s fantasy martial arts
series involving Wen Jian, destined as a child to fulfil the ancient prophesy
of his people:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to vanquish and destroy
the Eternal Khan and the hordes of Katuia, enemies of the sacred Kingdom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To all intents and purposes, it should be a
pretty straightforward battle between Good and Evil – you know:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the usual villains encountered in odd
places;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a touch of the supernatural to
push the story along, and an eventual happy ending – at the end of the series,
naturally.</span><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Instead, we have a visit by Ling Taishi, War Artist
Grandmaster appointed by the five Dukes who run the country, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to Wen Jian’s luxurious palace where he
resides in splendour and comfort with all his War Arts tutors;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she will assess his progress, not just in
combat, but formal education and court etiquette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His education must be complete if he is to
rule according to the prophecy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a
perfect world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Instead, she finds a spoilt brat, confused by too many
cooks spoiling the broth and barely able to recognise the characters of his own
name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it doesn’t take long for the
Dukes to start questioning the prophecy and its veracity – and the fact that
they can govern the country extremely well without an upstart boy who knows
nothing – or won’t for some considerable time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Wen Jian must die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very
discreetly, of course, for the country’s religion has been founded on his
existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately for Jian, Taishi
takes pity on him, not least because of her War Arts principles, but because it
is unthinkable for her to aid in the death of a potential God-child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She and Jian escape death thanks to her
Grandmaster expertise and secret contacts among old lovers and friends:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jian is hidden in a War Arts school as a
kitchen boy and novice pupil, and Taishi goes on the run – the Dukes have put
huge prices on their heads and if they want those heads to stay on their
respective shoulders, then this is the only solution.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wesley Chu’s writing is a bit rough around the
edges;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t see him winning a
Pulitzer anytime soon, but what a fantastic storyteller he is!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His villains are enjoyably nasty – especially
Qisami, a manic bounty-hunter, the opposite to Salminde, highly principled
Viperstrike of the Katuia who is horrified and furious to learn of the betrayal
of her people by their leadership:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>both
these women warriors want Jian’s death – Qisami for the bounty, and Salminde
for the destruction of an enemy Icon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They will have to get past Taishi first. And what a stunning cover!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hurry up, Book Two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">FOUR STARS.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-79205344637894395382023-07-21T13:18:00.003+12:002023-07-21T13:18:34.819+12:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Independence
Square by Martin Cruz Smith.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihk6Dz6jonyUf5caZbtsi1Wowf9dfWfbhyGHZu-HTjsCareTw7Hfj7R3vBPN1xs4a1M7tJEIo6oBBhNYjkOM7GOt-MTS5fb0v7ItAKNzxtSY3FTzw5N8Hbgk8hN-wbj1_9RNw95SCqUFxt5cor0qGzG1JejIof9NdZgy-jiyj0oWkcSnQ9nUkhI9Dy" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihk6Dz6jonyUf5caZbtsi1Wowf9dfWfbhyGHZu-HTjsCareTw7Hfj7R3vBPN1xs4a1M7tJEIo6oBBhNYjkOM7GOt-MTS5fb0v7ItAKNzxtSY3FTzw5N8Hbgk8hN-wbj1_9RNw95SCqUFxt5cor0qGzG1JejIof9NdZgy-jiyj0oWkcSnQ9nUkhI9Dy" width="156" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Senior Moscow Police Investigator Arkady Renko is
tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tired of his job, tired of the
endless corruption he deals with at every turn, and very definitely tired of
his boss Zorin, who has made an art out of toadying and feathering his own nest
to the extent that he is virtually untouchable – as are most of the Would-Be’s
if they Could-Be’s scrabbling to be on the various strata of the Kremlin.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And he also knows that those he holds dear are never
really safe;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they will always be
vulnerable, always be potential victims as long as he remains honourable and a
straight arrow: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>his foster son Zenhya,
and his long-time love, fearless international journalist Tatiana (now writing
for the New York Times) who, as always has left Moscow on the trail of a
sizzling expos</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é of Putin’s plans for war in the Ukraine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, he’s not flavour of the month with the
Kremlin, but he has to soldier on, as they all do, accepting as a distraction a
request from ‘Bronson’, so-called because that’s who he looks like, to find his
daughter Karina, a classical musician and first violin of a string-quartet
‘because the assholes he hired to find her haven’t gotten anywhere.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could Renko investigate?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
is ironic to think that Bronson, who runs most of the protection rackets in the
city and has been jailed multiple times wants to hire the only incorruptible
investigator in Moscow, but stranger things have happened – we just don’t know
what they are yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, Arkady and his
loyal sidekick Viktor (every detective has one!) start with Karina’s apartment,
which she shares with her friend Elena, also a member of the quartet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing is revealed except that both women
are followers of Forum, a new and noisy political group whose leader is Leonid
Lebedev who, at a rally Arkady attends announces that he is going to run for
Mayor of Moscow – oh, really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good luck
with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>, thinks Renko.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as the story develops and Arkady and
Elena search for Karina farther afield, the body count starts to rise, beginning
with the would-be mayoral candidate, and a naïve friend of Arkady’s foster
son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will Zenhya be next?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
bodies keep falling, and Arkady’s investigative powers are compromised by an
unexpected illness – he is diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease before he leaves
Moscow for the Crimea and a meeting with the elusive Karina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this is not a touch of melodrama for the
sake of it:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Smith was diagnosed with the
same disease and knows only too well whereof he speaks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regardless, he can still ramp up the suspense
and heartbreak with the best of them, and his portrayal of contemporary events
is fair and true, just like his mighty, world-weary protagonist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">FIVE STARS.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-27309177133204647342023-07-07T15:52:00.003+12:002023-07-07T15:53:53.632+12:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><b><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Duffy
and Son, by Damien Owens.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieoP8uPOxbZHwM8dg9e5R3N7AQPmKxnJ3gsr0ZdEPBNIgJbusewhD7dG3IGySvi-AqISMJ6yjzSMeVZai5W8UnOmzi2r17evOi4cNc0XWFlRDq9X08lu0371ZZaNjf7t2CsjdTysH801ZHUmSJEZ804EDdbcjuRxfWu_b35x7diKS_tW-MHG2h6HXj" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="180" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieoP8uPOxbZHwM8dg9e5R3N7AQPmKxnJ3gsr0ZdEPBNIgJbusewhD7dG3IGySvi-AqISMJ6yjzSMeVZai5W8UnOmzi2r17evOi4cNc0XWFlRDq9X08lu0371ZZaNjf7t2CsjdTysH801ZHUmSJEZ804EDdbcjuRxfWu_b35x7diKS_tW-MHG2h6HXj" width="154" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Eugene Duffy and
his son Jim live in a little Irish town south of Dublin. Eugene has retired from his small business, a
hardware shop, which is now run by Jim (as independently as he can; his Da took
an age before he stopped making ‘just passing by’ drop-ins). Eugene’s pretty but bored wife Una left when
their kids – there’s an elder daughter, Eleanor – were just teenagers and
hasn’t been in contact since, leaving, she said, for a more exciting life with
another man who wasn’t a stick-in-the-mud like Eugene and, as this was not her
first infidelity, it was time for Eugene and the kids to bite the bullet and
face life without her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Eugene honestly concedes that his life has always been as
predictable as Ireland’s rainfall; he
has always had the same job, lived in the same house – but it gradually occurs
to him that son Jim is following in his safe but boring footsteps: living in the same upstairs bedroom he
occupied as a child; going to the same
school; and coming into the family business as a matter of course. All meant to be! But where’s the romance? Eleanor has married Adrian, whom Eugene detests, eventually producing
Miles, a strange little boy who likes biting people (Eugene’s thigh, once
attacked, still tingles at the thought), but Jim is nearing forty and, as far
as Eugene can deduce, has no girlfriend on the horizon. At all. Could he be gay?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> He could not! Was
the outraged response after a timid enquiry, thereafter giving life to a
nascent plan cooked up with Eugene’s friend Frank to get Jim out into the
dating world – which is not large in their little town: Salsa lessons at the church hall will have to
do for a start; Eugene even bravely
attempts the Salsa in an attempt to show
some male bonding, sadly his two left feet let him down – BUT – something
happens: Jim starts caring more about
his appearance. He goes out – ‘with the
lads’ – more often. Something’s
happening! Then Eleanor makes an
announcement: she has been in contact
with her mother on Facebook: after
twenty-five years of silence Mam is coming to see them ‘just for a few days’.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Damien Owens has made much out of little – the ‘little’
being the well-worn grooves that many people travel throughout their lives in
an attempt not to experience any more hurt than they can endure, and ‘much’
being his wonderfully comic and humane characterisations of ordinary people
doing just that: trying not to be hurt –
and being laugh-out-loud funny along the way.
<span style="color: red;">SIX STARS.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461532250713402678.post-32925250356908099982023-06-27T18:22:00.003+12:002023-06-27T18:22:39.393+12:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0f243e; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Old
Babes in the Wood, by Margaret Atwood.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbWS2cbs5eXgPFeHG4aLe58sOCneORCJKsobYn5rW_lse8gFRXyxeqQdhJriOeYbVLUSkjuEflAqpR77VvzNLbwr_5xmJ2G7IGxFGscVpU6cBqOu9zTn-sGE7Z6I9JzkRV9J2C7GgBtm5lZ9rCKuxD7FsNfSurON4G_by4l5Kv9gZnHogkU4_yR5Lm" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="279" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbWS2cbs5eXgPFeHG4aLe58sOCneORCJKsobYn5rW_lse8gFRXyxeqQdhJriOeYbVLUSkjuEflAqpR77VvzNLbwr_5xmJ2G7IGxFGscVpU6cBqOu9zTn-sGE7Z6I9JzkRV9J2C7GgBtm5lZ9rCKuxD7FsNfSurON4G_by4l5Kv9gZnHogkU4_yR5Lm" width="159" /></a></div><br /> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No-one knows more about being an old babe than Margaret
Atwood, Canadian novelist, poet, essayist and artist extraordinaire:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she is now eighty-three years old, and
well-qualified for Old Babeism, with all the life experience (good and bad),
wisdom and wonderful ability to recount stories in her graceful, effortless
prose of times past and experiences yet to come.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What a pleasure it is to read this latest collection of
short stories that cover a span of seventy-odd years, loosely joined by the
long, mostly happy union between Nell and Tig, a marriage that has weathered
many changes-of-scene, diversity of friends and countries of residence, but
always has held together by rock-solid affection – until Tig starts leaving,
little by little.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In between times, Ms Atwood entertains us enormously with
imaginary conversations with George Orwell, brought into temporary being
through a medium hired by Ms Atwood:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she
is thrilled that he has appeared;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he is thrilled
to be called – and to be speaking to someone ‘still in their meat envelope’, an
expression that temporarily pauses the interview as the Great Man attempts to
explain that throw-away line – and other faux-pas further along as he refers to
‘women’s books’ and is taken to task by one of the greatest writers of ‘women’s
books’ for trivialising women’s literature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Orwell responds airily ‘he hopes he hasn’t caused offence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Women do sometimes get their backs up over
trifles.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also wishes he could see Ms Atwood, but
the medium has her eyes closed – ‘if only these mediums could operate with
their eyes open.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it is, this is like
the telephone, with an undependable line at that’.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We leave Mr Orwell for ‘Impatient Griselda’, a fairy tale
read to a group of Earthlings by a very reluctant alien People-Minder, sent to
earth as part of an intergalactic-crises aid package to deal with a plague that
is sweeping the planet:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the alien
informs its human charges that it’s not having a good time either for, being an
entertainer and thus low-status, it is tasked with looking after them, and
providing food (no, I do not have snacks for vegans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is vegan?) and blankets whilst it tells
the story, in its own inimitable alien way, a fairy story about Griselda and
her twin sister, both of whom end up eating everyone in the fairy palace. The
End.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do you mean you didn’t like
it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You even stopped whimpering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now you must excuse me as there are several
other quarantine groups on my list who need attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope the plague will soon be over too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ms Atwood’s stories are that mix of comedy and tragedy, pleasure
and pathos, just as our lives are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How
blessed are we to have her chronicle so beautifully the pain – and the joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;">FIVE STARS</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16931690532384768287noreply@blogger.com0