Chris Blocker

Hannah Pittard's latest, her third novel, is a very quick read with a straightforward story line. On the surface, this novel has many simple components. The setting takes places mostly in the car. There are primarily two characters: Mark and Maggie. Even the language seems toned back compared to Pittard's previous offerings—here sentences convey a simple meaning and are not dressed in the beauty indicative of Pittard's writing style.

Despite being wrapped in a thin layer, Listen to Me is heavier than is immediately evident. A seemingly endless road trip is the catalyst for much reflection by both protagonists. Philosophical questions are raised, particularly about fear, the need for fellowship, and the desensitization of our modern Internet culture. It's easy to rush through this book, walk away with a story about a couple, a floundering marriage, and a road trip; however, with a little care and rumination, one will notice the prickles of thought about their own deep-seated phobias.

For me, the end comes about too quickly. I'd like to have seen more resolution, a more gradual recognition of self-awareness and adaptation at the novel's turning point by the two characters. Aside from these final chapters, I felt the story was paced exceptionally well. Some readers may be hoping to get somewhere faster, but it is the story of a road trip, after all. It's only natural to ask, “are we there yet?,” and be content when the answer is a resounding no. Just sit back, enjoy the ride, and think not only about where you're going, but where you're coming from.

Leah Sewell's Mother-Ghosts is a superbly crafted collection with emotional intensity. Each poem builds on an interconnected duality, two opposing thoughts bridged by a thread (perhaps a beam). These are poems about the lives we lead—the daily sights and sounds, the roles we play and are sometimes excluded from. They're full of heart and unease.

Throughout this collection, Sewell captures the world in such vivid detail. She alternates effectively between the concrete and the abstract, never getting lost in one or the other. Personally, these are my favorite kind of poets, those who are intelligent, insightful, and witty with their words, but who use those words largely as a way to add tone to the world we inhabit, those who add perspective to our seemingly one-dimensional relationships.

In “I Have Decided,” the poet discusses the uses of her two hands. One holds her children. She holds it high, lifting them above the crowds, giving them breadth to grow into the space. The other hand serves many purposes: clearing the path, providing relief to her sweat-drenched brow, welcoming the hand of another. As I turned the final page in this book, I imagined that each poem in this collection could easily fit in one hand or another, separated by outstretched arms, bridged only by the poet. This is what I mean by an interconnected duality. I see it throughout this collection: two hands, feverishly trying to out write the other, one mind behind them both, perhaps hoping that slyly she can eventually bring those hands together without anyone noticing. I may be way off, but that's the image that stuck with me after I finished Mother-Ghosts and I rather like it.

Eleanor Catton's debut novel is a brilliant exploration of the arts, sexuality, and, most significantly, the line that separates truth from fiction. Written as her Master's thesis, The Rehearsal shows the natural talent of Catton, who writes as intelligently and maturely here as she did in her prize-winning follow-up, The Luminaries. While Catton's work is far from the most readable of young authors today, it's undoubtedly some of the most intelligent and finely woven fiction I have ever seen. Each word is chosen with such foresight and precision that it's a wonder to me how she produces novels as fast as she does (were I capable of producing a work such as The Luminaries, I imagine it would take a lifetime.)Set in an arts school following a scandal—a teacher's affair with an underage student—The Rehearsal may sound like your average morality play or Lifetime movie. It's far from it. At times, with its ambiguously drawn scenes and dramatic play of various relationships, I was reminded of a tamer David Lynch. And at times, especially as I was pulled into the story of the drama school, I was reminded of the darkness and mindfuckery of 2010's Black Swan. Make no mistake, however, Catton's creation is all her own.As The Rehearsal opens, it may be hard to follow as the dialogue is horribly pretentious, but once the reader realizes that some of the story (and in ways, all of it?) is acting, one may assume that this staged speech was the author's intent. Thus a big foray into false memory, lies, and truth unveils itself. It's all so expertly crafted with little clues here and there, sparks of witty dialogue that highlight the play within a play (and “all the world's a stage”). It's never clear—at least it wasn't to me—when you're reading the “truth” and when you're reading the “reenactment” of the “truth.” One can make assumptions such as that the truth opens the novel and everything that follows is a reinterpretation; or that all is fabrication that leads to the truth in the end; or that those scenes with the most pretentious dialogue are clearly staged and everything else is reality. But in the end, they're all assumptions. Only the author possibly knows the truth. For me, that's okay. From my many years of reviewing books, however, I've noticed that there are many readers who H A T E such ambiguity. I recall now another similar novel I loved that also blurred the lines without ever directly revealing the real truth: Heidi Julavits's The Uses of Enchantment. And guess how many one and two star ratings that novel has.The Rehearsal is so multi-layered that it is on one hand confusing, on the other, brilliant. It's not the sort of novel that a reader should expect answers from; it's a novel that intends to confuse you and blow your mind. Despite its seemingly “light” plot synopsis, The Rehearsal is the foundation on which Catton is building her genius.Catton's third novel, [b:Birnam Wood 34603585 Birnam Wood Eleanor Catton https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/book/50x75-a91bf249278a81aabab721ef782c4a74.png 55750170], is scheduled to be published later this year: https://www.victoria.ac.nz/news/2017/03/victoria-university-press-to-publish-alumna-eleanor-cattons-third-novel

Jodi Angel's first collection of stories, The History of Vegas, is full of grit, surprise, and exceptional talent. That's all great, but there's a problem with writing such shocking stories in such a skillful manner: the reader begins to expect it.

The History of Vegas begins with one bang, then another. These are stories that pull you in and then punch you in the gut. At first, an unexpected reader may open their eyes wide with shock, go back and reread a passage or an entire page or two. These are fabulous stories that are original and memorable.

Seriously, the only problem with this collection, assuming you don't have extremely conservative leanings in which everything about this collection is a problem, the only problem is that awe becomes an expectation after two or three stories. You may not know what will happen, but you know that something forceful is coming, and this blunts the impact significantly. Also, some readers may not care for the abrupt ending many of these stories have, but I found that trait to be important to the jolt of the ending.

I look forward to reading Angel's second collection, but I think I may give it a little time so that maybe my expectations lower a bit for the first couple stories. By that time, I'll be ready for another gut-punch.

Thrustverb1. to push forcibly; shove; put or drive with force...

Heather Derr-Smith's latest collection of poetry is aptly titled. There is considerable force behind every poem in this collection. These are not docile poems about a girl and her pet chicken. These are poems that contain throbbing, shivering, cutting, ripping, crushing, knocking, tasting, bleeding, sparring, breaking, sucking, and, most notably, thrusting. The result is a collection of poems that are very visceral, but which quickly lose their shock.

I'm not a big fan of the meandering style or the crass depictions displayed in Thrust, but its the repetitiveness of it that really distanced me. They lost their punch. Readers of poetry who appreciate an author that doesn't ever let up, however, will likely love the weight of this collection.

Colum McCann is the newest addition to my list of authors whose bibliography I'd like to read in its entirety. This Side of Brightness seemed a good choice: I prefer to start with the author's earlier works, I had easy accessibility to a copy, and the blurb for the novel sounded right up my alley. So here it is.

I largely had a positive opinion of McCann's second novel. The premise is strong. The writing is solid. The story takes place in a tunnel beneath New York City—one part follows a member of the crew constructing the subway tunnel, the other focuses on a homeless man who lives in the tunnel three generations later. McCann handles both time lines with equal precision and care. And he ties it all together quite wonderfully in the end. I have no complaints...

but I never quite connected with the story. It's possible this was my own blockage: perhaps it just wasn't the right time for me to read this novel. Or there may have been some level of disconnect in the text: a slight gap in character development, perhaps, or too much authorial involvement. Either way, I appreciated the novel, recognized the workmanship, but just didn't invest in it in a way that felt satisfactory to me.

I've returned to the river.



A year ago I spent a weekend on the Missouri River attending a Writers Workshop. In typical Chris Blocker fashion, I thought it prudent to read something riverish. I selected Mark Twain's Life on the Mississippi (my review). Thus a new association was born and once I decided I was returning to the river, one of my first considerations was what Mark Twain book I'd read this year.

I was hesitant to get into the Tom Sawyer/Huckleberry Finn story-arc. I had a feeling I'd be underwhelmed or offended. I was leaning toward a different selection, but at the last minute, I decided to go with a classic. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer wasn't that bad—not as bad as I imagined it could be—but it certainly didn't impress me too much. Part of the issue is that Tom Sawyer feels slightly underdeveloped—ideas are used seemingly haphazardly and are recycled throughout the story. And part of the issue is that some of the novels better moments have become cliché. I recognize that Twain was likely the originator of some of these ideas—at least he was probably the prominent figure who introduced them into the American narrative. But I've seen enough Our Gang to know that children who play pirates will find treasure, children who fake death will convince everyone, and that little boys will always win a kiss from the girl of their dreams. It's not Twain's fault that his story has been resurrected repeatedly, but the familiarity minimized any sense of wonder and adventure I might have had had I come across this book 130 years ago.

In a different time, this book may have had a much different impact on me. This is a strong story of adventure from a unique child-like perspective. Those who enjoy a little swashbuckling or hijinx will likely eat this story up like blackberry pie. (Why blackberry pie? I don't know. It just feels like something I'd expect from these characters.) With a different person, there would've been different results: I'm not one for adventure; I was never a child. It's a good, simple story, very much plot-driven, but I didn't see much else to it.

Sadly, this book didn't hold to the river like I thought it would. There are a few mentions, a few explorations, but I have the notion that Huckleberry Finn is the more river-centric of the two. Will I explore the river someday with Huck? I don't know. I probably should, but I have the same hesitance I did with Tom Sawyer. Maybe I'll leave it up to the river. If it's able to pull me back another time, I'll consider it.

I had many mixed feelings about this book. I'm not much of a reader of “memoirs”; personally, I don't see the point to them. What is a memoir but an autobiography of a person no one knows? And it seems to me that if no one already knows your life story, then there is power in turning your life experiences into “fiction.” The few memoirs I've read have had their highlights, but I've always been able to identify a fictional story of the same subject that resonated so much more with me.

Here is a memoir by an author who seems quite talented. I think Mindy Lewis could write fiction. Her story tied together, her prose was equally relevant and poetic. Sure you could say there is power in the fact that this story was the truth (or near truth), but isn't most fiction true, as well? Perhaps sometimes even more truthful than the “truth.” And how much more of an audience would this memoir has received if it had been marketed as fiction?

Perhaps these comments only pronounce my bias: I love fiction.

Regardless of my prejudices, I thought Life Inside started out great. Lewis' story of being committed as a teenager to a New York psychiatric ward in the 1960s was interesting. The pace is perfect as she starts right in the action of being admitted against her will and fills in backstory as it is relevant. The horrors and loves of her stay shine through. The reader can easily fall in love with those Lewis loves, hate those whom Lewis hates, and feel ambivalent to everyone else. We really can see this ward, especially the people, through Lewis' eyes.

This works well for more than a hundred pages. Then the pacing changes. It speeds up. Suddenly, everything is on fast forward. Months pass in the span of a few pages. The reader no longer has time to fall in love, she just wants to get out of this place. Although not as compelling, this section works well, as it is likely the way Lewis saw things. Just get me out of here.

Unfortunately for the purposes of enjoying this book, she does get out. Much too early. Just a few pages after the half way mark, Lewis is released and the following half crams together the story of the next thirty-five years of her life. While these latter years have their engaging moments, they are few and far between. There were times when I wanted to be done with this book–throw it aside and say, I got all I could from this. Instead, I plodded forward. And I was glad I did. The ending ties everything up exceptionally well and was highly moving. Here again was Lewis showing off her story telling abilities.

Overall, I enjoyed Life Inside. Lewis has creative talent and has a really fabulous story to tell. The one thing that really drags down this story is that middle section. From approximately pages 150 to 280, I really couldn't care enough to continue–the only reason I did is my stubbornness to complete the books I read. Other readers may not have the same drive.

This Halloween season, I was in the mood for some classic, twisted stories. For a long time, I've wanted to read some of the authors who were instrumental in the writing and development of The Twilight Zone. I decided to start with Charles Beaumont, who was involved with the writing of more than twenty episodes of the classic series.

Immediately, I was pulled toward the Night Ride collection. I felt drawn to it. But I looked at the ratings and reviews of all of Beaumont's work and decided it would be more prudent to start with his first collection, The Hunger. This was where I went wrong.

The writing style is very much of its time. This is great. I was in the mood for the dark, twisty 1950s vibe. With the exception of a couple notable stories, however, this collection didn't really grab me. Many of these relied too much on shock value, whether provided by the twist, or merely by the depravity of the subject. There's also a playfulness in many of these stories that, given their dark nature, comes off as a bit crass. Some of this was the times, but I would venture to guess that part of this was the maturity of the author, and later stories would show more masterful orchestration.

I can't say that Night Ride would've been a better selection for me, as I haven't read it. I do get the impression, however, that it would've better satisfied my thirst for Twilight Zone nostalgia. Maybe someday I'll find out. Or maybe I'll just catch up on my Shirley Jackson reading.

A bit of a mixed collection. All the poems here are really honest and accessible. Some are definitely more thought-provoking, observant, and evocative. Personal favorites were “Summer Wedding” and “Ode to Washing Dishes.”

The year was 1999. Most of my friends at the time were in their late teens. I was twenty. We were a group obsessed with music, we all knew we were destined for a future in the auditory arts. A couple are still involved in making music; most of us gave it up a decade or more ago. We all had a faith in God, though I think that's largely been shaken at this point. Most of the time we hung out, we discussed music, movies, books, and theology. That year, we fell under the tutelage of a much older mentor. He challenged us in many ways. He inspired us to think outside of the conventions of faith and brotherhood. We loved him and we believed he loved us. He ended up being a creeper in the end, but that's a story for another time.

Every time my friends and I discussed lit, our mentor would chime in with his favorite author: Harold Bell Wright. None of us had heard of him. Wright was an author of a different time who'd largely been left behind. Our mentor swore by the brilliance and majesty ofThe Shepherd of the Hills. One by one, my friends read it and brought their opinions of the book back, and before long entire nights were spent discussing The Shepherd of the Hills. I planned on reading it back then, but life took me slightly on the outside of the group and I hadn't returned to the idea in the two decades since.

The Shepherd of the Hills was a widely successful book in its day: 1907. I can see why. It's a gripping tale that toes some of the era's conventions without stepping over any lines. The Shepherd of the Hills features the same kind of blend of mystery and adventure that made Mark Twain what he was, but in place of Twain's signature witticism, Wright inserts spirituality. And this spirituality is interesting, because on one hand it feels very orthodox Christian, but on the other it is full of a mysticism that I would've imagined not accepted by people of faith at the time. Likewise, the novel has progressive thoughts regarding marriage, gender roles, and other things while at the same time remaining firmly rooted in a very conservative soil.

The Shepherd of the Hills is in part an adventure story, but it is just as much a love letter. It is a love letter to the Ozark hills of Missouri and an allegory for the love letter of Jesus. Surprisingly, considering that the author could've written a very cloying Jesus-loves-you tale without alienating his audience, Wright was cautious in laying the religious allegory on too thick. Even so, I thought the tale dragged on a bit too long for my tastes. The longer it goes, the more the plot is replaced with introspection, and the more Wright's spiritually intriguing story is pushed aside for a traditional sermon. I think Harold Bell Wright's story is still read today because it is just different enough and it is mechanically sound, but I do have doubts that it'll persevere through the next generation or two. There are other authors that I believe better captured the time and they will be the ones who will be remembered in the future.

I think that if I had I read this novel in 1999, along with most of my friends, I probably would've “agreed” with our mentor that it was a fabulous book. That's what you do when you're young and under the influence of another. I might've even enjoyed it some, but in reality, I wouldn't have loved it all that much. Twenty years late to the party, I can only say that it was a fine read, certainly a good example of the twentieth century's first decade, but it didn't grab me the same way it grabbed him. For my former mentor, this was the book to end all books. I'm sure he had his personal reasons why this book touched him so and they probably had to do with the person he was at the moment he first read it. That's the subjectiveness of reading. Our impression of the written word is a greater reflection of the person we are at the moment we read it than of the work itself. So all that said, if you read my review because you wanted his opinion, then by all means this a five-star book.

I haven't quite made up my mind about Stephen King. Part of me is repelled by his trendiness; that part also recognizes an author with flaws of dialogue and resolution and an author who needs to better listen to his editor (or find a new editor). And yet the guy can craft a really riveting, well-told story, ie “The Body.” No work better displays both sides of King than The Stand, a wonderfully constructed tale that suffers woefully from diarrhea of the pen.

But I keep coming back because there is a draw. After a year or two away, something about King's works calls to me. Sometimes I'm glad I returned. Other times, I'm like “eh.” This time around, I am truly, genuinely surprised.

I wasn't expecting a whole lot out of The Long Walk. It's not one of the author's more notable works. The summary of the book brought to mind ideas of a potentially strong story, but greater likelihood of cheesiness. And knowing that King would have to maintain an entire novel of teenagers talking with one another frightened me.

But this novel really, truly worked. First, The Long Walk is believably scary. This isn't about killer clowns or murderous cars, it's about a society that encourages and delights in the sacrifice of its youth. Once a year, one hundred teenage boys begin walking. They cannot stop until there is only one left. What happens if they stop or walk too slowly? They receive a warning. After three warnings, they're killed. That's it. So simply terrifying. And the walk goes on day after day, because when your only choice is to live or to stop and rest, you find the will to keep going (or maybe you don't.)

But this isn't really a story about a dystopian society in love with the long walk, now is it? This is the story of war. Boys on the verge of manhood being sent on some ridiculous quest. They're spurred on by the words of a general shouting encouragement at them. They're cheered on by the patriotic fervor of the crowds that watch from the sideline, but never join the walk. They're shell-shocked and unsure why they'd even started walking in the first place. Published in 1979, The Long Walk likely was inspired by the war in Vietnam, but it could easily be about any war.

One of the things that almost doesn't work but ends up working spectacularly in this novel is the dialogue. Some of these conversations are so brilliant. Others are completely asinine. Who would believe that these individuals would have the conversations they do right after watching their neighbor being gunned down. But isn't that exactly how it is in war? Don't these soldiers become so immune to it all that while they may from time to time philosophize about life and death, they're just as likely to talk about Saturday morning cartoons? At times, the raging hormones of these one hundred became a bit over the top for my tastes, but largely I believed this group's actions and discussions.

The only area where I would've liked to have seen change was in the contemporary setting. King places these kids sometime in the sixties or seventies, I'm never quite sure. Again, this probably alludes to Vietnam, but it dates the story horribly. The boys discuss the music, the cars, and the babes of the era. In 2018, it makes an otherwise universal story sound a bit hokey at times. This was a problem that The Stand suffered from as well.

I was really pulled into this novel and I must say that while I've read relatively little of King's complete bibliography, this has been my favorite so far. There are some really wonderful passages here and the overall story is quite engaging. The Long Walk truly made me hungry for more of King's writing.

I love hearing Brother Cornel West speak. I've long been attracted to his unique perspective, style, and eloquence. He's a very likable and dynamic scholar. And that's why I've long been eager to read some of his works.

I thought all of these wonderful qualities would translate well to text, but they really don't. West's brilliance is here, but the POW! is missing. Partly, this is because this slim volume isn't given the space that is needed. Each essay is more of a snippet of a much bigger thought. Part is the age, most of the essays are from the early 1990s, and topics such as Clarence Thomas seem antiquated. Still, Race Matters is an important and very scholarly collection, but not one that left this reader in awe.

The Deptford Trilogy is comprised of three books. (Go figure!) They are Fifth Business, The Manticore, and World of Wonders. This is my first outing with the author, Robertson Davies, but apparently he was big on trilogies. He wrote all of his novels as part of a cycle comprised of three books. The Deptford Trilogy, finished in 1975, was his second.

Generally, I do not read multi-volume works (I want the credit for having read each book after all), but in the case of Davies, it seemed appropriate. From the moment I first heard of this book, I thought of The Deptford Trilogy as one complete novel. And maybe that's a mistake, because while the three novels that make up this trilogy tell one complete story, each is done in such a differing manner that thoughts and opinions on each novel vary widely. So let's briefly take a look at each novel...

Fifth Business is superb. Davies created some wonderful characters and placed them in a story that is always moving. This first one is narrated by Dunstan Ramsay, a character who is close to the story and grows with it. Overall, the pace is great, though it drags a little in the second half. So much happens in this first novel. Other than the lack of a fully satisfying conclusion, Fifth Business easily stands on its own as a novel.

The second novel, The Manticore, slows everything down. The narrative switches to a character on the fringe of the story, the son of Boy Staunton. David Staunton, a tiresome attorney, relays the details of his life to his therapist. Doesn't sound that exciting, does it? It's not. Largely, this second book is not needed for the larger story. Sure, it adds some questions about the subjectivity of Ramsay's story, and gives the reader a different perspective. As David is just a priggish bore, however, The Manticore lacks the drive of the first novel.

World of Wonders returns the narrative to Ramsay, but as a channel through which Paul Dempster tells his story. This trilogy is all about the relationship between Dunstan, Boy, and Dempster, so it's nice that it returns to focus on these three in the third book. This final volume is not as riveting as the first, but it adds some dimension to it in providing a perspective previously unseen. World of Wonders is a satisfying conclusion to a story that has its high points and low points.

Looking at The Deptford Trilogy as a whole, what's startling to me looking back is the simplicity of the story. After over 800 pages, I realize this story is really all about the snowball that is thrown on page 2. Sure, it's also a story about myth, madness, and magic, but it's all wrapped up in that snow-covered stone. That single toss of a snowball has a dramatic effect on these characters, and Davies does a fabulous job of allowing that one act to haunt the rest of the story. This is an excellent display of storytelling. I will assuredly have a go at another of Davies' trilogies, though whether I read it as one volume or as three has yet to be decided.

Zoo Nebraska is the captivating story of a zoo in Royal, Nebraska (pop. 81 75 59), a town likely forever associated with the zoo and the events that led to its downfall and eventual liquidation. It is the story of a dream impeded. It is the story of a community with bonds stronger than travesty, and prejudices harder than stone.

More than any of that, Zoo Nebraska is the story of Dick Haskin's passion, and that is what makes this book so fascinating. Author Carson Vaughan does an amazing job of displaying Haskin's passion from the beginning. Even though there are aspects of Haskin one may not like, it's difficult not to root for him. Here's a guy on the fringe of society who truly has a noble idea in mind, an animal lover who compromises and compromises until little of his original intent exists. Out of a big heart set into motion in the 1980s comes a heartbreaking disaster twenty years later. What a great story!

Somewhere in the middle, Zoo Nebraska does get bogged down by the minutiae. Haskin's role is reduced, and in comes a parade of incompetent leaders, all fighting for small threads of power. (It probably sounds more interesting than it is.) As each character grabs ahold of and pulls on their respective threads, the fabric of Haskin's dream, and the pride of a community, is unraveled.

Wonderfully researched and expertly told, Zoo Nebraska is the kind of story that almost seems better off as fiction. It's hard to believe this zoo really existed, let alone was the center of the stories that followed. I'm glad this story has been told, and that it has been told in a way that seems to respect the vision without delighting in the crimes.

This tale of loss is surprisingly affective. There are many tropes in this teenage tale of grief and depression that could have caused the story to derail, but de Pass pulls them together in a way that works exceptionally well. The more the reader gets to know Cara and company, the more believable they become. I was surprised, given a bit of a rocky start, that I was moved in the end. The Year After You is a smartly written novel with some pretty good character build up. I was pleasantly surprised.

Fellow Indian Creek Elementary Class of ‘91 to MFA in Writing Alum.

Meet me on the playground.

Kings of Broken Things is an expansive story which constructs 1910's Omaha with great care. It explodes with moments of action and probes readers with questions of justice. There's so much going on in this story, and that is probably its greatest flaw. There are a few too many characters and plotlines with no apparent purpose.

I enjoyed how Wheeler took the events of Will Brown's lynching in 1919 and crafted a story about the city. I appreciate stories where a place becomes a character. Wheeler definitely pulls that off with this story. This is a story about Jake and Karel and Evie... it's a story about a lynching and injustice and corruption... but more than anything else, it's a story about the environment that brewed such a terrible storm.

In the 1920s, two aspiring writers roomed together while students at Stanford University. The first was an emigrant of Finland named Carl Wilhelmson. He sent out his first novel, Midsummernight, and had quick success finding a publisher. He might have written more books—evidence shows he did—but as the author and his work have nearly disappeared from all record, it's difficult to find proof. Today, no one seems to know of Wilhelmson. The second young writer didn't have the same success with his first novel, The Green Lady. He struggled with writing it and had no luck when sending it out, so he moved onto a second manuscript, which was published. It was a poorly received adventure tale about the pirate Henry Morgan. The writer himself hated the book. After years of starts and stops, he was eventually able to publish what had been his first novel, after many harsh rewrites. It was given a new title:To a God Unknown. The writer's name was John Steinbeck.

I learned about Wilhelmson from the massive Steinbeck biography by Jackson J. Benson, simply called John Steinbeck, Writer. I was curious. Who was this writer who found success where Steinbeck couldn't? And why has this one novel practically been lost to the world? I set out to find a copy of Midsummernight. I also did a little research on Carl Wilhelmson. Unfortunately, I was unable to learn much. In fact, I wasn't able to find a single review anywhere online. (I had to manually enter the book on Goodreads myself.) If this book wasn't sitting right in front of me at this very moment, I'd find it hard to believe it existed. Here's a thought: I may be the first person to read this novel in ten... twenty years. Possibly even longer. Certainly, it hasn't had very many readers in the last half century. There is a relatively small list of libraries worldwide, mostly university libraries, that still own this book. And that thought frightens me a little: a fine book, mass produced, can disappear in less than a century. I'm sure it has happened to many works, but none that I have been so close to.

I was able to find a brief description for the novel:

A mystical romance novel set in Finland, Midsummernight is the story of a boy who runs away from home at the age of ten, serves in the Russian navy, and lives the life of a sailor on the Seven Seas in many ships, and in many lands.

Midsummernight

Midsummernight

[b:Wuthering Heights|6185|Wuthering Heights|Emily Brontë|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1388212715l/6185.SY75.jpg|1565818]

any

Midsummernight

Midsummernight

Midsummernight

Midsummernight

This collection is incredibly solid. Each of the stories in Some People Let You Down embraces a feeling of being haunted. Many of the stories deal with loss and grief–of loved ones, of security and home, of innocence. This collection shows many different and unique perspectives, most of which share a time and a link to a similar nondescript place like every small rural town you've encountered. Intriguing throughout, Some People Let You Down is filled with perfectly captured characters and an eerie beauty.

This “review” is part of a series in which I quickly scribble a few of the thoughts I had regarding a book I read in the first half of 2021 during a time when I let my reviews get very behind.

Dr. Paul O'Rourke, DDS, is one of those characters you can't help but love to hate. And hate to love. He is such a curmudgeon. When O'Rourke is not busy making feeble attempts at normal conversation or getting lost in thoughts while seeing a patient, he is often enveloped in the most hilarious of rants about very important matters, such as emoticons and hand lotion. O'Rourke is a very interesting person to observe as his psychosis is fascinating and his contradictory views of various subjects are irritatingly entertaining. Add to plot the fact that someone wants to steal the identity of O'Rourke and you've got a very engaging read.To Rise Again at a Decent Hour got off to a surprisingly good start. With the humor and depth of O'Rourke's character and the intrigue of who is stealing his identity and why, this book was so much fun. And then... it wasn't. If you regularly read my reviews, you know the theme in the last few weeks: a book starts with so much potential, then somewhere along the way it becomes something else completely different (ie, [b:The Bone Clocks 20819685 The Bone Clocks David Mitchell https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1398205538s/20819685.jpg 26959610], [b:Your Face in Mine 18693769 Your Face in Mine Jess Row https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1385992071s/18693769.jpg 26542317]). When I mentioned this to my wife (“mentioned” may be better substituted by “ranted in an O'Rourke fashion”), she said she believed Attention Deficit Disorder was the culprit. Maybe. But such a diagnosis seems to me mild for someone who takes a hilarious and intriguing book and makes it convoluted and tiresome. For all of O'Rourke's disdain for religion, the second half of To Rise Again at a Decent Hour becomes about nothing but religion (with a sprinkling of Red Sox baseball throughout).Would I recommend To Rise Again at a Decent Hour? For those who love character development or a wonderfully drawn character, yes. Fortunately character is important to me, so I liked the book a little more than some. For those who like humor? Maybe. It certainly is populated with its funny moments, but the second half definitely drags. For users of hand lotion? Spread it on thick and turn the pages with care. For everyone else? Probably not. Even though the idea of the plot is interesting, I don't think it's developed enough to keep most people's attention. Not only that, but is it really supposed to make sense? I'm still not clear on why those who stole O'Rourke's identity did so. It seems other more logical options could have presented themselves.Then again, I have to consider the improvement of my own dental hygiene since reading this book. Would I recommend To Rise Again at a Decent Hour? Absolutely. And I've a great big emoticon with huge pearly whites to back me up.

When I'd started The Sea of Fertility series years ago, I'd noticed that the third volume had a significantly lower rating than the other three. At the time, I'd assumed this probably had more to do with readers not accepting Mishima's female incarnation. Nope, that's not it; this book just truly pales in comparison.

The first two novels in Mishima's reincarnation tetralogy were widely different from one another. This, I believe, showcased the different aspects of the reincarnated Kiyoaki. The Temple of Dawn is also very different, though I don't know that it really provides much insight into the current incarnation of the Thai princess, Ying Chan.

While every novel in this series is very much about Honda, Kiyoaki's friend who recognizes each rebirth, the first two said much about the first and second incarnation. The first half of The Temple of Dawn is all about Honda. It is his travelogue, philosophizing, and in-depth explorations of reincarnation. Ying Chan makes a couple of appearances, but she is mostly left out of the tale.

The story picks up significantly in the second half, as Honda settles down and the princess becomes more prominent; and while Mishima writes some gorgeous prose, the story is itself troubling. Aside from being a beautiful princess, Ying Chan lacks distinction. The deplorable behaviors of the other characters to possess her and her beauty was troubling. While Honda's previous regard for his friend was great and he made every effort to save him, here he views his “friend” with only lust, desiring to rape and kill. It left me uncomfortable not only because of the depravity of these characters–men and women–but because it seemed out of place against the earlier volumes.

The first half of The Temple of Dawn is painfully rendered; the second bears some semblance to Mishima, but not to this ongoing narrative or to the characters it portrays. I've really enjoyed the author's work up to this point, but this one was truly disappointing, and probably would have a lower rating if not for his other, more outstanding works.

I honestly expected to absolutely hate Steinbeck's first published novel. I've heard several warnings about how terrible it is. Perhaps these warnings only buoyed my opinion.

Cup of Gold certainly is far from the author's greatest works, but it's probably not his worst. In fact, this one gets off to a decent start as young Henry must grapple with his desire for adventure. His conflict with his parents regarding his future and the subsequent life of servitude were the novel's highlights. It's when “the adventure begins” that the pacing gets wonky and the story starts to drag.

I love the unconventional duo of Bunny and Michael, though it's difficult for me to believe that the powerful and wealthy Bunny would have so quickly adopted Michael. In some ways, these characters and their actions aren't always believable, yet they are at other times. Despite issues of plausibility, they bring this story to life.

Rufi Thorpe tackles so many subjects in such a small space: abuse, addiction, sexuality, violence, class, ethics... Even though the book asks all the right questions, there doesn't seem to be a lot of room for emotion. Most telling to me was the lack of empathy for Bunny's victim. These characters gloss over any substantial remorse for this girl while the author shows constant empathy for Bunny and Michael. Despite their status as outsiders, Bunny and Michael are incredibly selfish, and I never got the impression that this was what the reader was supposed to learn from their characters. A broader understanding of compassion would've given this novel a deeper well of affect to draw from.

Add this one to my list of poorly rated books I loved. This is such a wonderful debut that probably just found the wrong audience.

I love how each of Anna North's novels are wildly different from one another. There are many authors who can write in a wide variety, but still sound like the same author. I'd have no idea this was the same author as The Life and Death of Sophie Stark if you didn't tell me.

America Pacifica was North's first, and though it's not perfect, it tells a riveting story and is quite beautifully written. It does have it's missteps thought, the biggest of which almost completely derails this story. This novel did fall completely apart at its lowest moment, but I still think it's worth the read.

This “review” is part of a series in which I quickly scribble a few of the thoughts I had regarding a book I read in the first half of 2021 during a time when I let my reviews get very behind.