Philippe Djian Tackles PTSD in New Psychological Drama ‘Marlene’

This review appears on paperbackparis.com:

Philippe Djian’s latest novel explores the long-term effects of war in an unnamed rural town where soldiers returning from combat must deal with the psychological trauma of their experiences. Marlene, a domestic drama focused on the daily struggles of childhood friends Dan and Richard, chronicles the disruption to their lives when Richard’s sister-in-law comes to stay with them. Dan and Richard joined the military together, fought in Special Forces together, and returned to the same small town together, supporting each other, for better or worse, in their readjustment to civilian life. In an insidious, dread-inducing series of events, Marlene’s presence derails the tenuous grasp they have on sanity.

When the novel begins, Richard is about to finish a three-month stint in prison for driving under the influence. Richard’s wife, Nath, and his 18-year-old daughter, Mona, fight constantly as Mona struggles to deal with her father’s impulsive behavior and her mother’s affairs. She stays with Dan until Richard is released, but her hostility towards her parents mounts over the course of the novel resulting in a tragedy that Dan feels responsible for.

At the same time, Nath’s sister Marlene comes to stay with them. Her reputation for tumultuous relationships and promiscuity precedes her, and, though she tries, she finds it difficult to reset the course of her life. As Dan and Marlene begin a secret relationship, Richard becomes involved in increasingly dangerous scenarios that frighten those close to him; Mona rages; and Nath can’t get rid of an obsessed lover. Their relationships with each other morph and strain over time, leading to a classic setup of dramatic irony as the novel’s events careen towards catastrophe.

A veteran novelist, Djian deftly builds tension as the novel progresses to its violent end. His depiction of war-induced trauma in Marlene gives the centuries-old tale of the outsider-wreaking-havoc a contemporary twist. Unfortunately, the suspense Djian builds through multiple perspectives leads to a muddled narrative, especially as the chapters get longer. It becomes difficult at times to understand who is speaking, and some events occur with little explanation.

In just 200 pages, Marlene reads more like an accomplished and compelling bundle of sketches rather than a fully-fleshed novel. Djian’s experience as a writer makes the sketches cohesive. The end result is certainly worth reading, but it is difficult. Considering the subject matter, though, Djian likely wanted it to be so.

‘They Say Sarah’ Is a Powerful Debut About a Passionate Love Affair by Pauline Delabroy-Allard

They Say Sarah Book CoverThis review appears on paperbackparis.com:

Pauline Delabroy-Allard‘s debut novel, They Say Sarah, explores the passionate relationship between two women. The narrator, a lonely, thirty-something teacher raising a young daughter falls in love with the eponymous Sarah–a passionate, talented violinist prone to capricious shifts in mood and interest. Their intense relationship burns with an almost violent love, an obsessive kind of yearning that could easily turn to hate. Divided into two parts, Delabroy-Allard chronicles the relationship from friendship to passionate affair to heartbreak in lyrical, poignant prose even as the unnamed lover falls deeper and deeper into nightmarish despair.

The novel’s first half is its strongest. Delabroy-Allard describes the relationship’s meteoric rise in all its intensity with concise, vignette-like chapters. Sarah’s hunger-panged desire is an empty stomach that devours everything, from the physical attachment of her relationship with the narrator to food and drink. She is insatiable, and the narrator is completely taken in by her. But Sarah’s larger-than-life personality – consistently prone to excess – leads to a tempestuous relationship that veers from loving, worshipful happiness to explosions of anger and bitterness.

In the novel’s second half, it’s revealed that Sarah has cancer. The narrator is keen to look after her, but Sarah wishes to end their relationship. The descriptive beauty of the first half turns into something slightly scattered and difficult to follow in the second half as the narrator, believing Sarah is dead, flees to Italy. While there, she obsesses over what transpired at the end of her relationship with Sarah, but she becomes increasingly distraught. In her grief, the narrator becomes unreliable, and it’s difficult for the reader to understand what, exactly, happened to Sarah and why the narrator has fallen so deeply into a state of helplessness.

Delabroy-Allard undoubtedly wishes to show two sides of the same coin – the heady rush of new love with the catastrophic consequences of its end. While her prose is consistently beautiful and fresh, the narrative dissonance of the latter half is perplexing. Because the narrative is comprised solely of the narrator’s fraught inner thoughts, the reader is privy only to a disjointed retelling of what occurred.  The novel’s ambiguous ending leaves the reader none the wiser as it leaves us in the nadir of the narrator’s dejection.

While They Say Sarah may not come together as a wholly cohesive unit, it presents us with a commanding new voice in fiction. Delabroy-Allard is undoubtedly possessed of a keen, poetic eye that functions at its best in descriptive, atmospheric prose. They Say Sarah is truly the introduction of an exciting new voice in fiction.

Naoise Dolan’s ‘Exciting Times’ Is Abound With Complex Relationships

Exciting Times Book CoverThis review appears on paperbackparis.com:

It’s no small wonder that Sally Rooney‘s laconic, crystalline prose would harbinger the introduction of similar writers into the resurrected strains of social realism brought forth by Conversations with Friends and Normal People. The narrative bent of these stories hinges upon the minutiae of interpersonal relationships, which animate the loose, marriage plot-like structure Rooney brilliantly molds into the backbone of her novels. What holds her aloft as the pinnacle of this genre is her consistent ability to render the labyrinthine folds of human relationships within the private and public spheres, showing, in no uncertain terms, that the personal and political are inextricably linked in her characters’ lives.

Naoise Dolan would appear to be Rooney’s immediate successor. The unembellished, incisive, methodical narrative that elevates Rooney’s work as the ultimate uncanny depiction of an educated millennial milieu is mirrored clearly in Dolan’s debut. Exciting Times, which was excerpted in The Stinging Fly literary magazine during Rooney’s tenure as editor, attempts to lay bare the multifarious aspects of precarity that exist between its characters and those characters’ connections to the wider world. Some would suggest Rooney and Dolan tapped into this ever-beleaguered millennial unconscious, which is undoubtedly true to some extent; other writers have manifested the same observations. But seeing as both writers are Irish and avowed Marxists, it seems the road paved by Rooney and traveled by Dolan is far narrower in scope than the wide planes of general discontent, and their aim is far more pointed.

In Dolan’s novel, twenty-two-year-old Ava leaves Ireland to teach English to wealthy children in Hong Kong. From one colonial outpost to the next, the class structures embedded within daily life, professional and social, do not escape her caustic appraisal. She forms a relationship with Julian, a middle-class English banker out of a deep-seated need to engage with these class structures – to manipulate, submit, and endlessly reconstruct the power dynamic between herself and someone who treats her as little more than a source of amusement. When she moves in with Julian, ostensibly to save money, Ava becomes even more entangled in the relationship, which often seems more like an unsolvable geometric proof than a romance.

When Ava meets Edith, a brilliant, forthright lawyer with whom an easy, relatively uncomplicated relationship forms, she is forced to choose between the two. While her relationship with Julian is predictable in its conversational sparring, Edith provides a certain tender comfort that lacks in the former. Yet, Edith’s family would never accept a same-sex relationship, and Ava can’t seem to disentangle herself from Julian.

As Ava weaves an increasingly complicated emotional web around the three, readers must contend with the inevitable frustrations that arise from a character whose calculations are constantly barbed and whose affectations teeter on manipulative. We certainly empathize with the ever-present pitfalls of virtual communication and nod in agreement at her observations about interacting across class boundaries. But it seems, at times, that Ava becomes something of a mouthpiece for Dolan’s political touches rather than a character that successfully embodies said political argument at work. And while Dolan presents three conversational masters in her main characters, only Ava seems incapable of parsing the reasoning behind her motivations. Her meandering indecisiveness, perhaps relatable to some, may cause others to throw their hands up as she fails to truly grasp the nature of her drives.

Dolan’s command of keen observation allows her an impressive amount of adroit maneuvering within the simple narrative structure common to this genre. While some aspects of it fall flat in the hands of an imperfectly imperfect narrator, whose machinations don’t always pass muster, Dolan’s prowess comes through strongly in her observational details and mastery of dialogue – an obvious necessity for the successor of a novelist whose sensational first novel was titled Conversations with Friends. Readers follow along as though floating in a river whose turns are unknown, waiting to see who will gain the upper hand. The unceasing battle never truly seems to end.

Richard Roper Delivers A Funny, Heartwarming Debut With ‘How Not to Die Alone’

Richard-Roper-How-Not-to-Die-AloneThis review appears on paperbackparis.com:

In  How Not to Die AloneRichard Roper explores loneliness and isolation as a modern phenomenon from the perspective of a man in pursuit of his own happiness. Fascinated by a news piece about government agencies responsible for burying those who die alone, Roper tells this story from one such government employee named Andrew—a 42-year old who spends day in and day out bearing witness to the lives of the poor and lonely. Some of the people Andrew deals with have been dead for months before anyone realizes, and those who come around afterward claiming to be friends of the deceased are often opportunists hoping to stake a claim on anything they might have left behind.

Every year his department sees an increase in these lonely deaths, but no one is worried about Andrew. Everyone knows he has a wife and kids to go home to every night…at least that’s what they believe. For five years, Andrew’s been harboring a secret. A misunderstanding during the interview for his position becomes the lie that he’s too embarrassed to rectify. When his boss suggests the department staff bond by visiting each other’s houses for dinner, Andrew is faced with the weight of his lie and the mortification that will come when people find out he doesn’t actually have a family. The wife and kids he made up in his interview don’t actually exist.

Over time, he creates intimate details about his imaginary family, creating endless fabrications about who they are as individuals and the goings on of their daily activities. Allowing himself to fall into that world is a comfort, one that bars him from the reality of his life. The relationship with his only living relative—his sister, Sally—is strained at best. She feels obligated to call him every few months out of guilt over their shared past and a trauma that she has never been able to help Andrew get over—a trauma he refuses to address, but which he is triggered by often. When Sally dies, he’s forced to contend with her leftover guilt and the ways in which he never allowed himself to open up to her.

It’s the constant proximity to the reality of living life alone that forces Andrew to take comfort in the little things he places around himself as a shield—his nonexistent family, the music of Ella Fitzgerald, and his model train collection. The only substantive personal interaction he has on a daily basis is with the other model train enthusiasts he chats with on an online forum. Such is Andrew’s life until Peggy comes along.

Peggy is funny and genuinely warmhearted. She tries to comfort Andrew after Sally dies, even as she struggles with the tragedy of their work and her own marital problems; she befriends him even when he makes doing so difficult. Interacting with others is difficult for him, but he soon realizes that it’s easy to talk to Peggy. They develop a routine—house inspections together and lunch at the pub on Fridays. Like a brick to the face, he comes to understand one day that he’s made a friend.

But how can he be a friend? Peggy is honest with him, and Andrew continues to hide from his past and has yet to reveal the hoax that is his family.

Roper’s efforts in this novel are often genuinely warmhearted and funny, especially in its first several chapters. The flashback to Andrew’s interview—and a handful of his other foibles—are laugh-out-loud funny. As a non-fiction editor by trade, Roper has a grasp of economical writing and tells the story with spot-on pacing. As the story progresses, some elements of the story come across as haphazard and hastily drawn within the narrative, e.g. the feud with his brother-in-law and his somewhat relentless obsession with quirkiness. Regarding the latter point—quirkiness is fine. Lovable even. But relying too heavily on, say, Andrew’s obsession with Ella Fitzgerald or his love for model trains—while ultimately essential to the plot—become affected rather than naturally occurring.

Fans of Gail Honeyman‘s wonderful novel Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine will find more than a few similarities with How Not to Die Alone. I wouldn’t be surprised if Roper drew inspiration from Honeyman’s debut, which was a massive success in the UK before hitting shelves here. His efforts are admirable, and a lot of the narrative’s shortcomings are made up for in dialogue and wittiness, but the finesse and the distillation of these novels’ major themes—loneliness, isolation, and the means by which we open ourselves to friendship—is exemplified more wholly in Honeyman’s Eleanor than it is in Roper’s Andrew.

All that being said, How Not to Die Alone is still a nicely done novel that successfully explores the tragic reality of people spending the final years of their life alone. While it doesn’t delve too far into the wider causes of this increasing likelihood—Roper choosing to focus on Andrew’s personal struggles—the topic is done some modicum of justice.

On “An Education” by Lynn Barber

Image result for an education bookYes–I’m writing this today because of Lone Scherfig’s lovely film. I saw it twice without knowing anything about the source material, or that Nick Hornby wrote the screenplay. Alas, it took a few more viewings before I googled the title and found that Hornby adapted his screenplay from a memoir of the same name by the English journalist, Lynn Barber.

Barber, who began her career at Penthouse magazine, went on to write for The Sunday Express, The Independent, and The Observer, with bylines in institutions such as Vanity Fair, The Sunday Times, and The Daily Telegraph. In addition to her memoir, Barber has published two books of interviews titled Mostly Men and Demon Barber (derived from her nickname as a deadly interviewer), a sex book titled How to Improve Your Man in Bed, and, interestingly, a survey of Victorian natural history writers titled The Heydey of Natural History–an ambitious feat, she admits in the memoir; one that took four years and extensive research to complete.

An Education is a slim volume that manages to span the length of Barber’s life via the medium of anecdotal vignettes. Each chapter highlights an important part of the author’s life, from her earliest years to her time at Oxford and Penthouse. We meet a dizzying array of notable figures who Barber interviewed over the course of her career, ranging from her first boss, Bob Guccione to Nick Nolte and scores of others.

Most of her stories are thoroughly entertaining and serve to highlight a golden era of journalism in which the boundaries of form were pushed beyond what had been seen and heard from previous generations. Barber certainly made a name for herself as a no-holds-barred sort of interviewer who pulled no punches when it came to getting to the heart of a narrative or profile.

She is unsentimental to the extreme. Nothing obfuscates her recollection of the past, and she is fairly open about her own shortcomings as a writer, a wife, a daughter, and a mother. For the greater portion of the memoir, such bluntness serves Barber well. But in the moments when she attempts to convey strong emotion–such as the events leading up to her husband’s death–she falters a bit. The strength of her plain dealing earlier in the book needs a softer hand towards the end, and I’m not sure she has the capacity to carry it off.

Fans of the Scherfig film will likely enjoy the memoir as a whole, but they might be surprised, as I was, to find that the source material on which the movie is based comes from just one chapter of the book. Silly me–I thought the entire memoir would be devoted to the Lynn (Jenny)/Simon (David) affair. Fortunately, the best details of the film are present in the memoir, and I found it amusing to see how they were adapted. But the complex relationship that develops between Barber and her parents is not something I think is properly conveyed.

Other than that, it’s a highly readable, funny and quick read for those looking for some light summer reading.

A House of Mirrors: On Jane Delury’s ‘The Balcony’

balconyThis review appears on paperbackparis.com:

Jane Delury‘s debut collection of short stories is a heady, atmospheric exploration of the comings and goings of a manor house in the French countryside. Set in the fictional town of Benneville, The Balcony weaves together the lives of those connected to the fabled Lèger mansion and its spectral grounds. Delury’s stories are not ghost stories, but they concern the lives of ghosts. From the Belle Époque to the present day, those who have touched the house remain tied to it in often inexplicable ways.

Each of the stories in this collection moves back and forth through time, but are placed in such a way that the reader discovers new information as they read; threads fall into place connecting people and places from one tale to the next. Some of the events that take place in Benneville and the mansion connect to larger tragedies–World War II and the Holocaust, the stigma of unwed motherhood, a sunken oil tanker in the Bay of Biscay.

But Delury’s finest exhibitions of craft exist in her depiction of the small tragedies within that broad scope: The lady of the house, once renowned for her sensuality and beauty, jumps from her balcony, making one last show for the young worker who is enamored with her; the sidelong glances that almost lead to affairs; the playing ground of young lovers.

Delury makes an admirable attempt to string the details of each story into a sustainable whole, and while many of The Balcony’s moments are beautifully done, the finished product doesn’t live up to the book’s ambitions.

The most important elements of the short story rely on what isn’t said — not so much a painting as a piece of wood whittled down to its most essential parts. Thematically, the book is cohesive: often dark in tone, its characters usually out of place or maladjusted in some way. Everyone has one foot firmly stuck in Benneville, and I think this conceit is what puts me off as a reader. I kicked this year off by reading Maryse Meijer‘s Heartbreaker, and it ultimately spoiled me on the short story front. Each story in that collection was fundamentally different from the next, but the sweeping darkness and yearning of the work as a whole made it completely unforgettable.

Delury relies much too heavily on the manor house and Benneville as connective tissue. There are hints of the fantastic, as in “Eclipse” when the story of a character’s suicide ends with her husband wandering the manor’s grounds during a solar eclipse. But the imagery that accompanies it does little to suit the potential richness of such a plot device, a recurring pitfall. She writes,

He called out again for his wife, louder this time, and continued through the courtyard, past the topiary, toward the rose garden. Something sharp grazed his heel. He cursed but didn’t stop. Behind the pergola, a wall of bushes grew at his side, barbed and shapeless, as if they had never been trimmed.

That is how “Eclipse” ends. This type of heavy-handed metaphor appears fairly frequently, but Delury sprinkles enough pretty lines throughout the book that the reader can sometimes forget that the prose too often plods along. The stories would have come across better had the writing been sharper across the board, but I suspect this is a matter of personal preference. I, for one, need good sentences to go along with my broody characters and French manor houses.

A collection of short stories that has the type of conceit that The Balcony does should delve more deeply into the unknown, touching on more than the varying shapes of tragedy. Delury hints at the unknown, occasionally building the sinister into the details of the house and its grounds, but it isn’t enough to mark the book as a worthwhile achievement. Quite simply, I wanted more.

All in all, reading The Balcony was an okay experience. I don’t believe it accomplishes what it sets out to do, but it is generally entertaining and quick to read. It will also help you brush up on your elementary school French, which could be a win for those of us who actually speak a lick of it. A.k.a., not me.

 

On “The Last Black Unicorn” by Tiffany Haddish

34974310__UY2113_SS2113_Anyone who’s seen the 2017 smash hit Girls Trip starring Regina Hall, Queen Latifah, Jada Pinkett Smith, and Tiffany Haddish will know that it catapulted the latter comedian into stratospheric success. Her high-energy performance is unceasingly funny, and most viewers will say, with confidence, that she makes the movie.

I found out about her memoir, The Last Black Unicorn, when Trevor Noah interviewed her on the Daily Show. It’s a relatively quick read comprised of vignettes that chronicle aspects of Haddish’s youth and her connection with comedy. Obviously, her account of various mishaps in her past are extremely funny, but are often equally painful. I would have loved to see more detail in some of her earlier memories, which would have served to flesh out the stories a bit more. Instead, most of them rely heavily on the distinct cadence of her voice. It does not always translate well to the page, and several passages jumped from one idea to the next with little to no transition.

Stylistic failings aside, the book is worth reading for no other reason than the reader’s exposure to Haddish’s indefatigable spirit. Despite the atrocities of her younger years, The Last Black Unicorn radiates positivity and vibrancy, and Haddish is consistently smart, observant, and hysterical.

I’ve heard the audio book is the best way to experience the book because hearing her tell the stories jives perfectly with her stand-up chops.

All in all it was a solid choice for my lazy weekend at home (which is every weekend…who am I kidding?)… 3/5 stars.

On “The Grandmothers” by Doris Lessing

Even though I have a mountainous stack of library books to get through before I accrue enough fines to bankrupt the Queen of England, I often take great pleasure in reading random short stories or novellas just to change things up. I had not read any of Doris Lessing’s work prior to “The Grandmothers,” and I had no intention of doing so at present…But the version of this short story that I found at my library–published as “Adore” for the 2013 film adaptation–had an image on its cover of gorgeous looking people lying on a wooden platform, floating on a clear, blue body of water.

In the midst of winter, it seemed perfect.

My lack of familiarity with Lessing’s style of writing hindered my enjoyment at the beginning. Her narrative structure took some getting used to, but I really enjoyed the way she transitioned between perspectives throughout the piece. After about 30 pages or so, the mark of her greatness began to reveal itself in the way she was able to navigate several fully formed characters and build a gorgeous setting–something that is really a character in its own right–in just over 100 pages.

The naturalness of her four protagonists–Lil, Roz, Tom, and Ian–rolls off the page in waves. I almost went into a trance reading about their adventures in the sea and sun…And there’s this indelible, deliciously intoxicating image of the boys licking dried sea salt off of their mothers’ skins as children that has stayed with me for days now.

I found there was nothing but beauty in the narrative. The taboo of two older women sleeping with each other’s sons isn’t something I needed to grapple with in order to digest the story Lessing was trying to tell. Ultimately, “The Grandmothers” is seductive, hypnotizing, and deftly executed. If you’re like me and need a break from your regularly scheduled reading, it’s a beautiful distraction.

On “Summer Crossing” by Truman Capote

Summer_Crossing_SmallMy relationship with Truman Capote and his work has always been harried. There is no doubt that he is one of America’s finest writers; Other Voices, Other Rooms and the delightful Breakfast at Tiffany’s remain staples of our canon. Even the hotly contested In Cold Blood is considered a masterpiece of the “creative non-fiction” genre. But, as Melanie Benjamin explored in her novel The Swans of Fifth Avenue, Capote had a nasty tendency toward exploitation and excess. The infamous “La Cote Basque 1965” is enough to explain just how far he would go for fame and attention if he felt like he was falling into obscurity.

The 2005 Bennett Miller film, Capote, explores the personal tumult the author went through while writing In Cold Blood. It shows a man who tells his subjects what they want to hear in order to get information at the great cost of his self-respect and what would be a huge blow to his friendship with Nelle Harper Lee. The film pays especial attention to Capote’s relationship with Perry Smith, which was deeply empathetic. In one scene, he tells Nelle Lee, “It’s as if Perry and I grew up in the same house. And one day he stood up and went out the back door, while I went out the front.”

Later on, he turns to Nelle again for reassurance after Smith and Hickock are hanged. He asks, “And there wasn’t anything I could have done to save them.” She responds, “Maybe not. But the fact is, you didn’t want to.”

This is who Truman Capote is in my mind–the man who does whatever he must for the sake of a story–for good or evil. He left behind masterpieces but died a lonely, creatively-stunted alcoholic. A bleak ending for the once shiny, gregarious Southern author.

Like a moth attracted to flame, I picked up Truman Capote’s unpublished first novel, Summer Crossing in the hopes of getting a glimpse into the author’s origins. Before he sold his soul for fame and notoriety. The manuscript–believed to have been thrown away–was rescued by one of Capote’s former landlords and eventually sold at auction. The slim text, which was published by Random House in 2005, is a fascinating display of the young Truman Capote’s keen instincts.

The story concerns Grady O’Neil–the bohemian daughter of a wealthy Manhattan family who decides to stay home while her parents go on a “summer crossing” to Europe. It seems that she has found love with a 23-year-old Jewish man from Brooklyn named Clyde Manzer–a condition of secrecy for both parties.

Capote builds their narrative from a series of psychologically adroit sketches: Grady making breakfast for Clyde, burning waffles in the process; the push and pull relationship she has with her childhood best friend, Peter Boyd, who has fallen in love with her; the oppressive, sizzling heat of Manhattan at night–the only time Capote’s characters will safely venture out.

So many of these interactions are marked by Capote’s trademark wit and the dissection of human experience that he wields in his later work. The observations are there even if his sentences show the uncertainty with which he lays out the story. Reading his passages can be exhausting, to the point where I had to imagine myself reading out loud to make sense of some of his more circuitous descriptions. I am happy to note that, in his later work, Capote dropped his incessant use of semi-colons.

The only peculiar element to this story is its abrupt ending. Unlike his other pieces of fiction, Summer Crossing pokes at the surface of dread until the novel’s very last paragraph at which time he plunges his characters right into it. It seems, in that moment, that something in Grady snaps. She is pregnant with Clyde’s child, and they have eloped. What should he a happy time is marred by apprehension and distrust. They go for what would be a normal night out until a moment of tension between Clyde and Peter unnerves her to the point where she speeds her Buick along the Queensboro Bridge with the intention of going off the edge and killing everyone.

Clyde’s friend Gump says something along the lines of, “Slow down! You’ll kill us all.” To which she replies, “I know.”

Summer Crossing could be a commentary on any number of things: the unbridgeable gap between classes; the gentle malaise of the bohemian elite; or, the Great Gatsby-like trope of summer addling the minds of those who have everything to lose.

Or–it could be none of those things.

In my estimation, Capote used this story as an exercise, flexing his muscles for future narratives. The paint strokes of Summer Crossing are apparent in his later work, showing the author as someone who is constantly hyper-aware of nuance in behavior and speech.

For Capote fans, this novel is well worth a read. At a scant 130 pages, readers can digest the story in a matter of hours, though I would recommend reading with care. Capote is a tricky one when it comes to building those pristine sentences of his. One misstep and you could fall down the rabbit hole.

“Manhattans and Murder” : My Summer’s Guilty Pleasure

Image result for manhattans and murderAs I mentioned in my review of Gin and Daggers, I am a devoted Murder, She Wrote fan due to years of watching the show with my mother. Donald Bain’s light-hearted “cozy mysteries,” as I like to call them, are perfect for laid back summer nights when I need a reprieve from heavier texts I’m working through. Right now, that happens to be Heather Ann Thompson’s comprehensive examination of the Attica Prison uprising of 1971, Blood in the Water–an absolute must read for anyone interested in prison reform (or history in general). It’s exceptionally well done.

When I was feeling overwhelmed by the content of that book, I would switch gears and crack open Bain’s second novel in the Murder, She Wrote series, Manhattans and Murder. Like it’s predecessor, it is just as readable and just as chock full of Jessica Fletcher charm.

Though I preferred Jessica’s sleuthing around Old London Town, her time spent in New York City turned out to be just as fun. Bain is fantastic at describing her meals. I love that. Whenever Jessica eats fancy meals and retreats into her thoughts, I relax. It’s a strange phenomenon, but one I relish nonetheless.

While I do think Bain has firm grasp on Jessica’s overall mannerisms and demeanor, his characterization of her can seem a little bit off at times. Sometimes it’s in her speech, or the way she reacts to events that transpire in the novel…But I have no doubt those kinks will get ironed out at the series progresses.

Next up on the guilty pleasure tour is…drum roll please…Rum and Razors! Jessica is faced with yet another murder when her trip to the Caribbean goes awry. Dun dun dun.