2019/139: Busman's Honeymoon -- Dorothy Sayers [reread]

"Gawdstrewth!" cried Bunter. The mask came off him all in one piece, and nature, red in tooth and claw, leapt like a tiger from ambush. "Gawdstrewth! Would you believe it? All his lordship's vintage port!" He lifted shaking hands to heaven. "You lousy old nosy-parking bitch! You ignorant, interfering old bizzom! Who told you to go poking your long nose into my pantry?" [p. 311]

Having reread and re-enjoyed Gaudy Night -- and discovered that a number of Sayers' novels are available in the public domain, i.e. for free -- I decided to reread the final book in the Wimsey sequence. Here, Lord Peter marries Harriet Vane and they honeymoon at Talboys, the glorious country house that Peter has bought for Harriet. Unfortunately, the house has not been made ready for their arrival, and there is a corpse in the cellar. But how? and why?

The scenes between Peter and Harriet are delightful: they are still establishing and negotiating the terms of their relationship. However, the rest of the book felt incredibly snobbish to me. Most of the local people are portrayed as ignorant and stupid, and their dialogue is transcribed phonetically: ""'Ere, Polly, don't you know better 'a to go about with a chap wot speckilates?" [p. 223] There are several scenes where a working-class individual needs to be reminded of their place: ""Bunter—you've got some beer in the kitchen for Puffett."...Mr. Puffett, reminded that he was, in a manner of speaking, in the wrong place ..." [p. 380]. And working men don't deserve courtesy: when a suspect tries to thank Lord Peter for clearing his name, he's told to "Buzz off now like a good chap." [p. 423].

(On the bright side, we get to see what it takes for Bunter, Lord Peter's valet, to lose his temper and his upper-crust veneer ...)

Incidentally, I came across George Orwell's review of Gaudy Night, in which he says "By being, on the surface, a little ironical about Lord Peter Wimsey and his noble ancestors, she is enabled to lay on the snobbishness ('his lordship' etc.) much thicker than any overt snob would dare to do". [via Wikipedia]. Perhaps there's not enough irony here: or, in this decadent age, I am unable to detect it.

The murder mystery itself is sordid and cruel, with blackmail, a middle-aged woman being led astray and a character experiencing suicidal despair. Of course, the shadow of the gallows looms large in any murder case of the period: the stakes are rather higher than in the present day.

Despite the growing accord -- and deep philosophical interrogations -- between Peter and Harriet, I came away from this novel in a sour and cynical mood. I don't remember this snobbishness in earlier novels in the sequence, so perhaps I'll return to one of those.

2019/138: The Ballad of Black Tom -- Victor LaValle

“The seas will rise and our cities will be swallowed by the oceans... The air will grow so hot we won’t be able to breathe. The world will be remade for Him, and His kind. That white man was afraid of indifference; well, now he’s going to find out what it’s like." [p. 146]

New York, 1924: Charles Thomas Tester -- known on the street as Tommy -- is a mediocre jazzman, a devoted son, and an expert in the art of showing the world what it expects to see.

He's an accomplished hustler who knows enough to remove a single page from the arcane volume he's delivering to an old woman in Queens. He's convincing enough a musician to attract the eye of a wealthy white man who wants music at a party he's throwing. But he is a Negro in a white man's world, and given the choice between two evils, he chooses an eldritch vengeance.

This novella is a response to H P Lovecraft's The Horror at Red Hook, which is full of racism, xenophobia and 'the polyglot abyss of New York's underworld'. Lovecraft's protagonist, a police detective named Malone, also appears in The Ballad of Black Tom (in which his character is somewhat more rounded and likeable) but he's more witness than actor.

Tommy Tester's New York is as diverse and multicultural as Lovecraft's 'polyglot abyss', but Tommy's at home in it. He knows the rules, knows which aspect of himself to present on any occasion. He isn't going to let white folk grind him down as they did his father. But the police, the companies, and the institutions of 1920s New York are ready to quash anyone who doesn't know their place.

Police brutality, men murdered for the colour of their skin, the Sleeping King, and a grieving young man with a straight razor that used to be his daddy's: The Ballad of Black Tom feels horribly relevant. As well as the overt racism that confronts Tommy at every turn, I found echoes of climate change (see the quotation above) and a dialogue with Frankenstein: Tommy is only a monster because society made him so.

Powerful, fascinating and grim. This was the fourth of Tor's 'Reimagining Lovecraft' novellas that I read, after Hammers on Bone, The Dream-Quest of Vellitt Boe, and Agents of Dreamland. All four are now available in a single volume, Reimagining Lovecraft: Four Tor.com Novellas.

2019/137: Passing Strange -- Ellen Klages

“They make it look so easy, like they were an actual married couple.” She frowned.“At Mona’s, the regulars seem to think they have to pick--who’s the boy, who’s the girl. Babs and Franny aren’t like that. They’re just two women sharing a life together.”
“I know. If I’m in pants, I must be butch. If I wear my hair down, or have lipstick on, I’m a femme.”
“One customer told me that I had to choose, or I wasn’t really --" [p. 133]

Set in San Francisco in 1940, with a framing narrative in a contemporary setting, this is the love story of a comic-cover artist and a cross-dressing nightclub singer. Haskel and Emily are introduced by mutual friends, all habituees of Mona's club, a piano bar where women can be themselves: that is, where lesbians can be 'out'. It's not legal, of course, and Emily learns the tricks of the game, such as wearing three items of women's clothing if you're dressing as a man. (“The law says women can’t dress like men. If the cops check, and you’re wearing three bits of ladies’ duds, you’re in the clear.” [p. 81]) The law is not the only thing the women have to be cautious of: there are bigoted tourists, repressive parents, an ex-husband who doesn't think it's fair that a woman earns more than he does.

But there is also magic. One of the women, Franny, can create small localised wormholes that will take the bearer to another location -- no more than a mile or so, and always within the city, but it's enough. And it's one of the small deceptions that inform each character. They are all 'passing strange', all pretending to be something, or hiding a part of what they are. Helen has Japanese ancestry, considers herself American, but is employed as a dancer in a China-themed club; Haskel works under her surname and is assumed to be male, Emily dresses as a man ...

The women of the Circle feel relatable, and the city of San Francisco is vividly drawn: the World's Fair, the bars and dives of Chinatown, the quiet shady streets and vertiginous hills. (And a cameo by Diego Rivera!) It's Haskel and Emily on whom the story pivots: their grand romance, an unfortunate encounter, their daring escape. A sweet love story with just a hint of magic and a great deal of period detail.

2019/136: A Conspiracy of Truths -- Alexandra Rowland

We were trying to come up with things that were true, but garden-variety truth is so dull. It just doesn't catch the heart and mind the way Truth does, and to tell the Truth, oftentimes you must lie. [p. 324]

An elderly, itinerant storyteller is arrested in the cold northern backwater of Nuryevet, on charges of witchcraft and brazen impertinence. He manages to persuade the judge he's not a witch -- and is then imprisoned on suspicion of spying. His court-appointed advocate, Consanza, is initially suspicious of a pro bono client who won't even tell her his name (it's a 'religious matter': he's a Chant, a member of an ancient order of storyteller-priests, and 'Chant' is the only name he has), but unthaws slightly as she comes to know him. And Chant, though he has no magical abilities, does have the power of story on his side, and a knack for finding the story to suit the circumstance. As he plays the games of Nuryevet's political factions, and plays those factions (and fictions) against one another, he creates his own story about Nuryevet, and whether it's worth saving, and what might take its place.

This is a timely tale: fake news, a climate of fear, good people letting bad things happen, bureaucracy run amok ... Nuryevet has a rather Slavic feel, at least from the inside of Chant's various, poorly-heated prison cells. In some ways it's remarkably liberal to a contemporary eye: there's no evidence of homophobia, sexism or racism. (Chant is dark-skinned, his apprentice Ylfing somewhat lighter-skinned, a distant tribe is described as having skin the colour of shelf mushrooms.) Polyamorous marriages, for love or business or to avoid tax burdens, is the norm. But one person in five is a lawyer, because everyone is trying to protect what they have -- assuming they have anything. Nuryevet, Chant recognises, is a story, a consensus: and one of its underpinnings is 'the idea that they could feed their poor to the story like cattle to a sea monster so the wealthy could eat its leavings'. [p. 200]

I was reminded, in a good way, of the work of K J Parker -- with its focus on economics, bureaucracy, corruption and geography, rather than on the fantastical elements and chosen ones of a magical realm. Rowland's female characters are rather more likeable than Parker's, and the novel features real magic. Not that Chant is at all magical: but he is a showman, and his knowledge of chemistry proves as effective as a spell.

It's worth noting that despite the narrator being held prisoner for almost all of the novel, there's little or no sense of claustrophobia. By telling, and hearing, stories, Chant both creates and inhabits the world beyond the prison walls. And by narrating the story that is A Conspiracy of Truths to an individual who is not identified until late in the novel, he sustains an air of mystery quite separate to the already-answered question of his survival.

A lot of the buzz about this novel centred on Ylfing, Chant's seventeen-year-old, 'boy-crazy' apprentice. He is indeed a delight, and the affection and loyalty between him and his elderly, cynical, grumpy master is evident despite Chant's disclaimers of watering eyes et cetera: but Ylfing's loyalty is poorly rewarded, and that's one of the novel's most poignant aspects. Luckily the sequel (A Choir of Lies) focusses on Ylfing ...

I had to buy an American paperback edition of this book, because it's not available on Kindle in the UK. (Benefits include beautiful cover, soft spine and general niceness.) Buying the physical edition meant that I had to time the reading to when I'd be at home for an extended period (good lighting, easy to take notes, no need to carry book anywhere). So this was my Christmas present to myself: it is good to give and to receive!

2019/135: The Secret Countess -- Eva Ibbotson [reread]

"Rupert, none of your servants are socialists, I hope?"
"Good heavens no, I shouldn’t think so. I mean, I haven’t asked. Surely you don’t have to be a socialist to want to have a bath?"
"It often goes together," said Muriel sagely. [p. 122]

A reread of an old favourite: Ibbotson's romances are now published as YA, but when I originally read them they were marketed as general romance. They are all delightful, but I think this -- initially published as A Countess Below Stairs -- is one of my favourites. It's the story of Anna Grazinsky, a countess who has fled the Russian Revolution with her impoverished mother and younger brother, and finds work as a housemaid at Mersham, the stately home of Rupert, Earl of Westerholme.

Rupert is soon to be married to Muriel, an heiress who nursed him back to health after wounds sustained in combat: Muriel's wealth may be the salvation of the crumbling manor house, but she does have some unsettling ideas. Anna, who radiates kindness and is determined to work extremely hard, quickly wins over the other servants at Mersham. If she develops feelings for Rupert, that is nobody's business but her own. Until her little brother shows up at the neighbours' grand ball.

The Secret Countess is well-written, sometimes lyrical, often very funny, and always acutely observed: and even the minor characters are convincingly complex, while the protagonists have considerable depth. Muriel's passionate interest in eugenics, and her association with Dr Lightfoot, is unsettling even before it begins to affect the inhabitants of Mersham and the surrounding countryside: then it becomes quite chilling. Yet (in a way that I seem to remember as being typical Ibbotson) she sows the seeds of her own downfall. The slow-burn attraction between Rupert and Anna -- and their one, doomed dance at the ball -- is as much a trial as a delight. A Russian refugee and an Earl? It's a thoroughly unsuitable match, and even those who secretly hope it will work out can't see how.

Perhaps, in some ways, it's a simplistic and rosy-tinted vision, with a shading of fairy-tale morality: a world in which a good heart prevails over the most Machiavellian schemes, a world where love matters more than money. Where love germinates luck, and felicitous coincidence, and happy endings for the deserving. Perhaps it's unbelievable. But sometimes it is cheering to read a fairytale romance.

2019/133: Agents of Dreamland -- Caitlin R Kiernan

I am left here alone with myself and the others and with the sizzle of my brains in this woman’s skull, a resonant frequency that perfectly matches white noise, the random signal possessed of a perpetual power supply, and in discrete time, a procession of serially uncorrelated random variables (finite variance, zero mean). [p. 26]

Another of Tor's transformative Lovecraftian novellas. (Previously reviewed: Hammers on Bone by Cassandra Khaw, The Dream-Quest of Vellitt Boe by Kij Johnson.)

This is an unsettling tale of fungal infestation, apocalyptic cults and alien invasion, with a distinctly noir feel and an interesting choice of viewpoint characters. There's the Signalman, the actual agent of Dreamland (a subterranean government agency which handles weird shit); Immacolata Sexton, representative of an organisation known only as 'Y', who seems to slip back and forward through time; and Chloe, the latest recruit to Drew Standish's 'Children of the Next Level', bearing witness to the events at a ranch on the Salton Sea.

Also features a quotation from 'Here Comes the Flood', a space probe heading out past Pluto, the switchover from analogue to digital TV, and 'The Star Princess', a lost classic of early science fiction film.

Agents of Dreamland required a second reading, because on the first pass I didn't pay sufficient attention to timelines and references. But I think the creeping disquiet would have had its effect anyway: the images and the ideas had already entered my consciousness and begun to fruit.

2019/134: The Duchess War -- Courtney Milan

“My dear,” he said. “I give you my word that you’ll have an offer of marriage before I leave. Even if I have to do the job myself.”
She jumped to her feet, pushing away from him. “That’s not funny,” she said, not even bothering to moderate her tone. “It’s not a joke, no matter what you might think, and I’ll thank you to stop treating it as one.” [p. 36]

This novel's been on my Kindle for some time: I was prompted to read it by the recent RWA implosion, and found it enjoyable enough that I intend to read the rest of the 'Brothers Sinister' series.

The setting is Leicester in the 1860s: a hotbed of sedition and workers' movements. The novel opens with Wilhelmina Pursling -- Minnie for short -- and the hero, Robert (Duke of Clermont) hiding behind the same sofa: he for a quiet smoke, she to avoid her unpromising fiance Mr Gardley. Minnie just wants a quiet life, but George Stevens (engaged to Minnie's friend Lydia) has been investigating the provenance of some 'seditious' handbills, and believes that Minnie is the author. Minnie has secrets that she can't afford to have revealed to the world -- secrets that Stevens will uncover sooner or later.

Enter the Duke of Clermont, who has secrets of his own and sufficient privilege that they can't damage him. He is intrigued by Minnie's intelligence and reserve, and rashly promises to ensure that someone better than Gardley will offer for her hand. Minnie can't afford romance: but could the Duke's position protect her? And will his mother, the current Duchess, manage to dissuade this young upstart from associating with her son?

Some interesting radical politics and period-typical sexism in here, as well as Minnie's scandalous past, and the effects of her secrets on those who discover them. I am happy to say that communication issues drive only a very small part of the plot, and that the antagonistic older female has sound reasons for being embittered. Courtney Milan's British English rings true (no 'gotten' or 'in back of' here) and her dialogue is often sparkling -- though I confess to finding some of the supporting cast more interesting than Robert himself. Still, that's what the rest of the series is for!

2019/132: Lord of the Silent -- Elizabeth Peters

... long years of experience with Ramses, and to some extent, Emerson, had taught me how to turn a conversation into a monologue. [p. 674]

I didn't really get into the rhythm of this, the thirteenth in the Amelia Peabody series: this might simply be because I read it in short bursts at a busy time of year. Or it might be because the focus switches so much -- from Amelia, to her son Ramses, to Ramses' wife.

The novel is set in 1915 and early 1916: the First World War is impeding shipping, but not the Emerson family, who set off for their annual Egyptological excavations. Cairo is much-changed, though, with enemy agents and military forces in evidence: the War Office are keen to employ Ramses on another secret mission, but his mother is (understandably) not keen on the idea. Nor is Nefret, who feels she has quite enough to contend with even before the latest wave of corpses, sudden deaths, brazen robbery and corruption crashes over her.

There is some very unarchaeological behaviour involving burying evidence at an archaeological site: this threw me a bit, and seemed out of character.

Many friends and foes from previous books -- Miss Minton, the Vandergelts, et cetera -- make appearances in this volume, and there is perhaps more emphasis on interpersonal relationships than on international affairs (or archaeology). The Emerson family spend a lot of time insisting that they won't keep secrets from one another, though of course one person's 'secret' is another person's 'distraction'.

Not one of the best in the series, for me, but it was a pleasant read with some wholly unexpected surprises. And Ramses does make an intriguing narrator: I'll definitely read the next volume at some stage.

2019/131: The Maker of Swans -- Padraig O'Donnell

Words, in their minds, were not fixed to things as a tendon is to a muscle. Every particle of creation, to them, was submerged in a flux of words. Everything was contiguous with everything else, the touching of one word or object setting up currents and mutations that seemed never to stop. They described the world by ceaselessly unsettling it... [p. 26]

The Maker of Swans is a beautifully-written but overly obscure gothic novel with strong fantastical elements. There are three protagonists. Mr Crowe was once the darling of the arts world, but is now sinking into a decadent and enjoyable decline: his narrative is told in the past tense. Clara, a mute girl who may be Mr Crowe's ward, lives in the same house, and leads a more or less independent life: her narrative is in the present tense. And Eustace, Mr Crowe's loyal retainer, may be more devoted to Clara than he is to his mysterious employer.

The novel opens with Mr Crowe's precipitous arrival, in the company of a glamorous young singer named Arabella and hotly pursued by Arabella's lover, who soon lies dead on the grass. A gun was fired, but he did not die from a gunshot wound.

Eustace is apparently accustomed to such occurrences. He tidies up, reproves Mr Crowe, and arranges the disposal of the evidence. But the night's events have drawn the attention of Dr Chastern, representative of a secretive organisation to which Mr Crowe may once have belonged. Crowe refuses Chastern's requests: Chastern abducts Clara, who until now has been wandering the house, leaving elaborate fantasies scribbled on hotel notepaper for Eustace's delectation, and tending a pair of abandoned cygnets by the lake.

There was too much that was unexplained (or, perhaps, that I did not recognise or understand). Clara's mirror-self, Eustace's longevity, Crowe's gift, the Order's purpose. The Maker of Swans is a meandering novel, looping back on itself, providing backstory well after the events which that backstory has shaped. It is a beautiful work but oddly shallow, like a pre-Raphaelite painting where all the figures have identically vague expressions. Eustace was the only character who truly came to life: Clara had glimmers of personality but seemed too distant, too inexplicable, to be truly engaging.

I will certainly read other work by this author, who writes so lusciously: but I will adjust my expectations regarding plot.

2019/130: The Fortune Hunters -- Joan Aiken

“It isn’t only that sometimes I can’t remember what I’ve been doing. Now I’m beginning to be afraid—afraid that I might find out.” [loc. 2218]

Annette has recently moved to a small town near the coast. She's experienced three major life events in recent months: the death of her father, a substantial windfall, and an unpleasant bout of 'pneumonia complicated by jaundice', which has left her prone to fits of amnesia.

Her job as a magazine editor is being looked after by her colleague Joanna, who also suggested that she move house, and has introduced her to a family connection, famous artist Crispin James. Annette leaps at the opportunity to study with James, though her new friend Noel -- an archaeologist from New Zealand who's excavating a nearby Roman villa -- has reservations about the man.

And then there's the mysterious neighbour, and the children's toys that keep appearing in the garden, and Annette's sense that she has forgotten something very important.

Not the best of Aiken's romantic thrillers, but an enjoyable read. The romance is slight, and very much in second place to the mystery plot. Annette's amnesia is depicted with unsettling authenticity, and her vulnerability on that front contrasts nicely with her determination to retain her independence. An old-school Gothic feel, an adorable dog, and an outre plot that could have done with slightly more foreshadowing.

2019/129: Gaudy Night -- Dorothy Sayers [reread]

The young were always theoretical; only the middle-aged could realise the deadliness of principles. To subdue one’s self to one’s own ends might be dangerous, but to subdue one’s self to other people’s ends was dust and ashes. Yet there were those, still more unhappy, who envied even the ashy saltiness of those dead sea apples. [loc. 6327]

I think this might have been the first Lord Peter Wimsey novel I read, and it's still my favourite, perhaps because it's told wholly from the viewpoint of Harriet Vane. She's fragile in quite a different way to shell-shocked, upper-class Lord Peter. Harriet, who first appeared on trial in Strong Poison, is labouring under the knowledge that she owes her life to a man who's in love with her. For a weaker woman, or a more Gothic heroine, this would mean a glad surrender to marriage, but Harriet is proud and fiercely independent, and can't countenance an(other) unequal relationship.

Part of Gaudy Night is about how she and Peter come to be on a more level footing. Part of it is 'the reconciliation of heart and mind' [phrase borrowed from this splendid blog post about the novel], of Harriet's work as an author of detective fiction and her own passionate nature. And part of it is the almost claustrophobic locked-room mystery which Harriet and Peter attempt to unravel: a series of vile and well-aimed poison-pen letters and acts of vandalism, perpetrated upon the scholars and staff of the fictional Shrewsbury College.

This novel makes me nostalgic for a life I never had: my own university career was, by choice, in a more modern and less rarefied institution, and I wish now that it had been closer to what's described here. (Though 'here' is the inter-war years: and there's a heck of a lot of class-based prejudice, as well as period-typical sexism: Harriet deals admirably with the latter but is unconcerned with the former.) And, like all the best romances, it has that bittersweet air of unattainable harmony. But I still think it's delightful, and witty, and it was the novel that sprang to mind when I identified an urgent need for 'all-female college life' atmosphere.

Incidentally, several of Sayers' novels are available at Faded Page, which follows Canadian law regarding public-domain works.

2019/128: Wayward Son -- Rainbow Rowell

The therapist said I needed to work through the past to keep it from undermining the present. And I said— Well, I didn’t say anything. I skipped my next appointment and didn’t make any more. [loc. 442]

I very much enjoyed Carry On, and was looking forward to this sequel (which turns out to be the middle volume of a trilogy): I was disappointed, though, because all the characters seem to have been hit by a stupidity spell which prevents them from communicating with one another, planning ahead or having a clue about the world outside Watford School of Magicks.

The Insidious Humdrum is gone, as is the Mage: Simon Snow, still bewinged and betailed, is sharing a flat with his best friend Penelope Bunce, and Baz is a frequent visitor. But all is not well: Simon is, quite reasonably, in the throes of PTSD, and his magic is gone. He's in therapy, but his budding relationship with Baz has failed to blossom, and he's more or less dropped out of his university course (whatever it is: I'm not sure that any of the trio's degree choices are mentioned).

So naturally Penny suggests that the three of them go on a road trip across America.

It'll be fun! They can visit her American boyfriend Micah in Chicago! And drop in on Agatha, who isn't answering Penny's texts! (Agatha has moved to California without her wand, discovered that she doesn't know how to tie shoelaces, and fallen in with a group called the NowNext who want to change the world.) And Penny already has the tickets!

It is, obviously, not that simple. Penny would be disowned if her mother knew what she was doing; Baz's favourite spells are all British idiom, which won't work in the USA, and also he is a vampire; Simon is ... well, Simon is not doing so well. And none of them has looked at a map, or read up on American magick. Their failure to communicate or plan, individually and collectively, lands them in all kinds of trouble. Even Baz's new-found hyperviolence can't solve everything. (I found this development deeply unpleasant, as well as out of character. Vampires are people too.)

And the book ends, not with any sort of closure or character progression, but on a massive cliffhanger.

The high point of this novel, for me, was discovering that Beatrix Potter single-handedly wiped out all the vampires in Lancashire. There are other positives: some excellent new characters; insights into how the magickal and non-magickal worlds intersect in America (the Renaissance Faire incident is especially amusing); and a number of laugh-out-loud one-liners. And yes, I will almost certainly read the trilogy's conclusion. But non-communication as a plot driver is one of my least favourite tropes.

2019/127: Carry On -- Rainbow Rowell [reread]

(Just when you think you’re having a scene without Simon, he drops in to remind you that everyone else is a supporting character in his catastrophe.) [p. 196]

Reread in preparation for Wayward Son (review coming up!): my original review from 2016 is here. I think I enjoyed it more this time around, not least because I was very much in the mood for something witty and frivolous and romantic -- and it is all those things, as well as being a sharp interrogation of the Harry Potter canon, and an interesting riff on some of J K Rowling's ideas and themes.

2019/126: The Namesake -- Jhumpa Lahiri

At times he feels as if he’s cast himself in a play, acting the part of twins, indistinguishable to the naked eye yet fundamentally different. At times he still feels his old name, painfully and without warning, the way his front tooth had unbearably throbbed in recent weeks after a filling ... [p. 105]

Ashima is a young bride whose new husband, the rather older Ashoke Ganguli, has brought her to America where he has an academic post. She's pregnant, and terrified of raising a child in a country where she knows nobody and nothing. At least she still has her family back in Calcutta, including her beloved grandmother who'll be choosing the baby's 'good' or official name. Sadly, however, the letter bearing the name goes astray in the post: and then comes the news that the grandmother has died. Unable to leave the hospital without bestowing a name upon the child, Ashoke suggests the name of the writer who changed his life: Nikolai Gogol.

Young Gogol grows up more American than his parents could ever be, though even his mother is adapting, slowly and subtly, to American life. Although Gogol and his sister Sonia are taken on long holidays to India, speak Bengali, and socialise with other Bengali families, they're also completely at home with beefburgers, popular novels and rock music.

Gogol isn't comfortable with his 'weird' name, though, and when Ashoke tries to explain its origin (he narrowly survived a horrific train crash, signalling to rescuers with a page from a book by Gogol) Gogol is uninterested. He officially changes his name to Nikhil, and becomes more and more American, dating white women and turning away from his heritage.

I found this an odd novel: a series of accidents and coincidences that echo and resonate with one another, all the little tragedies of ordinary lives (marriage, divorce, infidelity, death) knitting together to bring Gogol-Nikhil finally to the point where he's ready to accept the gift his father gave him, his original name. The Namesake is a touching depiction of the relationships between Gogol and his parents, and the sense of foreignness that each feels in different ways.

Read for the bonus 'Jhumpa Lahiri' rubric of the Reading Women Challenge 2019 on Goodreads.

2019/125: Hannah Green and Her Unfeasibly Mundane Existence -- Michael Marshall Smith

One of the perilous things about being an adult is there comes a point where the doors of your mind open far wider than required by your own concerns. There’s no ceremony when this occurs, and no warning. It simply happens one day and suddenly you find there are seventy things going on at once and you’re flinching amidst a maelstrom of love and lost opportunities and hard choices and the tenacious grasping hands of the past, not to mention tidying the garage. Adults are not distracted for the sake of it, so cut them a little slack. [p. 276]

A cheerful, uplifting and delightful book about things that are not intrinsically cheerful: parents separating, the nature of evil, and people behaving badly.

Hannah Green is eleven and life is horribly unfair and bleak and mundane. Her parents have separated, and Hannah lives in Santa Cruz with her dad, who is not adjusting well to single parenthood. He suggests that she might like to go and stay with her grandfather in Washington State. So off Hannah goes -- only to discover that her grandfather has a number of secrets, among which is that he heard Johann Sebastian Bach playing the organ, and that his longevity is due to him having built an awesomely complex device for the Devil.

Yes, that Devil. Who, despite this being (possibly?) targetted at a young adult or teenage audience, is not at all nice. It's in the job description, of course, but modern audiences are accustomed to transformative works where the Devil is misunderstood, or reformed, or subject to a case of mistaken identity. Not here. This Devil is prone to bestowing cancer on airport security staff, making petty criminals explode, and arranging unpleasant accidents for insufficiently polite waiters.

Someone or something has been interfering with the natural balance of things. The Devil, and Hannah's grandfather, and Hannah herself need to restore balance. Along the way, Hannah learns a great deal about the power of Story and the drawbacks of adulthood. There is also an accident imp named Vaneclaw (who resembles a four-foot-high mushroom), a petty criminal named Nash, and a potentially evil rollercoaster.

Which last might be a metaphor for this novel: fun but scary, with some nauseating bits, utterly compelling while it's running, and over too soon. (The novel, however, is well-crafted and not in the least creaky.)

It's also worth noting that there is a strong authorial presence here: a sardonic, straight-talking, oddly reassuring narrative voice that constantly demolishes the fourth wall and subtly draws attention to the subtext of apparently straightforward scenes. (Is it the author? Or is it another layer of fiction? Who knows? Does it matter?)

I liked this novel a lot, though would hesitate to recommend it to anyone under about 16 on the grounds of the Devil being really quite likeable, despite his cruelty.

2019/124: A Perfect Spy -- John Le Carré

Never able to resist an opportunity to portray himself on a fresh page, Pym went to work. And though, as was his wont, he took care to improve upon the reality, rearranging the facts to fit his prevailing image of himself, an instinctive caution nevertheless counselled him restraint. [p. 289]

I've given this book a low rating because of my emotional reaction to it -- it's splendidly written, but the sheer, empty inevitability of the ending left me feeling hollow myself.

Magnus Pym, diplomat and secret agent, goes missing after the funeral of his charismatic con-man father Rick. The reader knows that he's checked in, as Mr Canterbury, at a bed-and-breakfast in a seaside town in Devon: he's well-known to his landlady there, and it's a safe bolthole for him to write the story of his life, or lives.

Meanwhile his mentor, Jack Brotherhood, is leading the hunt for Magnus, and beginning to uncover traces of Magnus' double life: his long friendship with Czech agent Axel, his multiple affairs and his relationship with his wife Mary and son Tom, and above all his defining relationship with his father. It's a series of betrayals, a house of cards held together by a son who's inherited his father's gift of masks. Does the son have a heart, a soul? Hard to say.

The narrative is often very entertaining (high points include Rick's attempt to become an MP) and meticulously observed: a glance between two guests at a dinner party; a woman walking as though she hates her skirts; Tom (Pym's son) reading a fantasy novel, 'a book in which everything came right', over and over again.

A Perfect Spy is a long read, and I found myself drawn into some scenes at the expense of the overall arc and its inexorable march towards an unhappy ending. Apparently this is Le Carré's most autobiographical novel, and I applaud him for being capable of laughing at some aspects which -- if not heavily gilded for the purposes of fiction -- must have been appalling to experience.

Beautifully written, a whole that's greater than the sum of its parts: but it left me low.