Blue-Footed Musings

I usually don’t read more than one book at a time, but I currently have five books going. In no particular order, they are…

• The Maze Runner by James Dashner
• On the Bus with Rosa Parks by Rita Dove
• The Unfinished World and Other Stories by Amber Sparks
• Circus Mirandus by Cassie Beasley
• Overture by Yael Goldstein

I am enjoying all of them so far except the first, which is so full of its own particular slang that I can hardly keep straight what anything means. Plus, the characters are mean and the situation tense. It probably won’t get any better, but I’ll give it a fair chance.

Rita Dove arrived this weekend.

I am still experimenting with books of poetry, so I’m no expert, but there is one lesson that I’ve learned and applied here. If you already love a poet’s work, a large and/or complete collection of their poems is fine and, when buying, potentially the most economical choice. If you’re experimenting with a new poet, it’s best to stick to chapbooks or other relatively small collections of poetry that are too small to be intimidating or overwhelming.

I like to read through the individual poems of a poetry collection randomly and then reread the book from beginning to end, spending extra time as necessary to better understand or better appreciate particular poems. Because this is a book of poetry and I am still ill at ease with poetry, I will not grade it, but I will count it in my list of books for the year.

I sit, and sit, and will my thoughts
the way they used to wend
when thoughts were young
(i.e., accused of wandering).
The sunset ticks another notch
into the pressure treated rails
of the veranda. My heart, too,
has come down to earth;
I've missed the chance
to put things in reverse,
recapture childhoood's backseat
universe. Where I'm at now
is more like riding on a bus...

From “The Pond, Porch-View: Six P.M., Early Spring” by Rita Dove

Someone in the House by Barbara Michaels

Grade: B+

Anne is a feminist. Her boyfriend is anything but. When he goes abroad to pursue a work opportunity over the summer, she decides not to go with him, thinking a break from him is just what she needs. Plus, she already has an agreement to collaborate on a literary textbook with coworker Kevin, and she doesn’t want to break that commitment. Kevin has to house-sit his parents’ recently purchased home, but he invites her to stay with him for the summer so that they can finally get cracking on that book, and she accepts.

The house is “a medieval English manor house, perfect in every detail,” set in “a green cup of valley, surrounded on all sides by wooded slopes” in Pennsylvania. It is grand and ancient, with origins traceable all the way back to Ye Merrie Olde England, from which a previous owner moved it. It’s big enough for Anne and Kevin, assorted cats and dogs, and Kevin’s recently divorced aunt all to settle into comfortably without ever having to see one another unless they want to. They (the humans, that is) spend their days on enjoyable pursuits such as swimming, playing tennis, and reading. Anne is a fan of Agatha Christie, BTW, and she struggles with that very common need to explain why.

Among the newer books in the library were several shelves of detective stories, including a complete collection of Agatha Christie, which I was devouring. I had never realized what soothing late-night reading they provided. The formalized mayhem and the routine procession of suspects, interrogated in the most suave manner by the amateur detective, were so far removed from the brutalities of real crime that they had no deleterious effect on the nerves. . . . I felt a little embarrassed at wallowing in crime now, that was why I had smuggled a stack of Christies to my room. Literature they emphatically were not. Slick superficial style, cardboard characters, improbably plot devices. So why, O critic, are you enjoying them so much?

Anne is not the only one with a secret, guilty pleasure. She and Aunt Bea discover that Kevin is getting some rather loud and otherworldy action (i.e., ghost nookie) at night, though he seems to have no memory of it during the day. With the help and advice of newfound friend Roger and minister Stephen, they investigate the house’s history and try to unlock the secrets behind the ghostly visitations. Anne and Kevin develop a romantic relationship along the way (ooh, her boyfriend is not going to like that!). Bea and Roger also have a thing going on. There’s no mate for Stephen, but he’s got God, and it looks like a happy ending is in the works.

But this book is up and down, back and forth, not quite sure where it’s going. The ghost is scary one moment, nearly forgotten the next, which is confusing, though it makes more sense once you get to the bizarre, anti-climatic twist at the end. [spoiler ahead] Anne comes to the conclusion that there isn’t really a ghost. The house is, in its own way, sentient and the ghost is its way of trying to please its residents. All along Anne has felt a friendly presence, a peacefulness, and a willingness to forget about her troubles and about the outside world. This, Anne now realizes, is the house’s doing. And because of that, she can’t be certain that she and Kevin really love each other (it may just be the house’s influence). So she leaves. Kevin doesn’t follow. Later she finds out from Bea that he’s engaged to someone else. She is haunted by the memories of her time at the house and the thought that she might have thrown away true love.

I have mixed feelings about this book. I liked Anne and Bea but disliked the other characters. There was too little action and too much time was spent on red herrings. The final crisis of the story arrived late. Anne’s realization of what was going on felt too sudden and needed a better set-up. I also had an persistent sense of deja-vu while reading, which was sometimes pleasant and sometimes annoying, because I wasn’t sure if I had read the book before (certainly possible) or if I was simply recognizing common elements from other Barbara Michaels’ novels (also possible). The ending was a let-down, but also deliciously appropriate for a character like Anne’s. She clung to her independence, and she paid for it.

All things considered, I enjoyed reading Someone in the House, but I wanted a little more from it. I suspect that I will remember it fondly. I am even tempted to keep the book just in case I feel like reading it again someday. But, though there are a lot of likeable things about the story, I do not think it is worth rereading, which is why I gave it a B+ grade.

P.S. While double-checking something on Wikipedia before posting this review, I discovered what was probably causing my feeling of deja-vu. Wikipedia treats Someone in the House (1981) as part of a two-book series along with Black Rainbow (1982), which I read a few years ago. Presumably the house is the same in both, and that explains a lot. Now I wish I’d read them in the order written, because they would have been back-to-back and the relationship obvious.

Oh, well. Too late now! I have only six unread Barbara Michaels novels left. Up next is The Wizard’s Daughter (1980).

Today is the last day of February. My plan was to have finished both of my February reading choices by now. I read Akata Witch first, because it was obviously going to be the easier and quicker of the two. It was good, and I was happy that I had chosen it.

Then I started reading Black Leopard, Red Wolf, and OMG, I have never felt so betrayed by book blurbs and reviews. Critics and other authors raved over this book, saying that it was “revolutionary,” “spectacular,” and “gripping.” They put it on Top 100 lists. Oprah’s magazine even recommended it. I wish now that I had also read some of the everyday readers’ reviews before buying the book, because a lot of them used completely different words to describe it. They said it was full of violence, murder, and rape, and that it was “vulgar,” “vile,” and “horrifying.”

I’m siding with those everyday reviewers, and I think everyone ought to have given fair warning about the violence. I can tolerate a certain amount of violence in fiction, but Black Leopard, Red Wolf immediately started to bother me. Less than 20 pages in, and I was already disgusted. I’ve tried for a week or more to convince myself to pick it up again, but I don’t think I have the stomach for it. There are a lot of one- and two-star reviews suggesting that I shouldn’t try. The book isn’t going to change, and neither am I.

So, I am going to read a collection of Rita Dove poems as a substitute, once it arrives. In the meantime, I’m reading something completely different: Dog on It by Spencer Quinn. It’s a mystery told from the point of view of a dog. It’s not entirely nonviolent, but it’s endearingly stupid, just like the average dog. I love it so far.