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The Last Dance by Mark Billingham
What’s The Last Dance About?
Detective Sergeant Declan Miller cuts off his bereavement leave to return to work. It may be too soon following the murder of his wife (and we get plenty of reason to think that it may be), but the time off isn’t doing him any good and accomplishing things, staying busy, and getting out of the house just might do him so good (and we get plenty of reason to think that it might).
Before he has a chance to reacclimate, he and his new partner are assigned a case—the son (and presumed heir) of a local crime boss has been killed—assassinated, really—in a local hotel. In the next room over, an IT consultant has, as well. It’s unclear what the connection is between the two, or what either was doing in hotel rooms in their hometowns.
The other thing that Miller does to try to return to his pre-widowered life is to go back to the dance class that he and his wife attended. It’s difficult being a single person there, but these were their friends, and it helps him to do so (as much as it hurts, too). We get a whole different set of supporting characters here, a different perspective on things. I really like the way that we get two different sides of Miller like this—yes, there’s a good deal of overlap, but seeing him in such starkly different contexts really helps you understand the character.
DS Sara Xiu
It almost seems like a disservice to her character to make Xiu a supporting character. She could star in her own series easily. She’s got the tortured detective thing down—she drinks too much, parties too hard, etc., etc. But on the job? She’s good, and she just might warm to her new partner at some point—at the very least they work together well.
This book might be all about Miller, his inner demons, and eccentric methods—but having him work with such a good partner isn’t a choice many would make. In a book or three, I can see their partnership equaling Bosch and Kiz Rider’s, and she could play a big role in Miller’s unofficial investigation (see below).
Alex Miller
Miller’s wife, Alex, was involved in a major investigation when she was murdered. The police haven’t found her killer—and he’s not particularly certain they’re working too hard on it (it’s a different homicide unit than his). No one from the investigation is updating him either—they want him to stay out of it, for obvious reasons.
And he technically does—but that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it a lot, and poking around the perimeter of the investigation—especially in areas that the others don’t seem to be paying attention to.
Apart from that, we spend a good deal of the novel seeing Miller mourn her and talk to an imaginary version of her as both a way to work through his case and her not being around anymore. Those scenes are great on so many levels—the reader gets a real sense of who she was (at least as her husband saw her) and how they related to each other, and how the loss is hitting him. It also gives us a kind of insight into the way his mind works through problems that we don’t often get from procedurals.
Tone
It wouldn’t take much to turn this into a very dark read featuring an unreliable and unpredictable detective. Thankfully, Billingham went the way he does—the darkness is still there, it’s just mollified by Miller’s sense of humor and perspective. He really reminded me of Peter Grainger’s DC Smith—but without the almost cozy feel of Grainger’s work. Blackpool is a harsher location than King’s Lake, too.
Still, I think fans of one will appreciate the other. Miller’s humor (and that of the narrator) is a bit sharper, and less subtle than Smith’s—but only by degrees.
You’re able to have a lot of fun given the humor in several situations that aren’t fun at all. But he’s not just funny and eccentric. Miller has a lot of heart, compassion, and empathy for crime victims and survivors. I’m not sure how much he had before his wife’s murder—or how much he let himself show before then. But after it, he’s able to connect with them in a way that few police officers seem to be—or at least are willing to be.
You combine those three elements? I’ll be around for the long haul in any series.
So, what did I think about The Last Dance?
Billingham knows his way around police procedurals—that’s very clear. He also knows how to play with the conventions—and which ones to stay away from or treat straightforwardly. He does it all with skill and panache (not unlike his protagonist).
For example, in his time away, a detective that Miller…hmmm…doesn’t respect, shall we say, has been promoted to DI, and seems intent on making his return as miserable as possible. What is it about almost every immediate supervisor in police procedurals being so intent on being horrible to their star investigators, rather than use their brains to improve their own careers? For every exception to this rule that I can think of, more than a dozen that follow it come to mind. Well, DI Stevens is a shining example of this, and I rather enjoyed Miller’s reactions to him. That’s the only tolerable part of the character.
There are so few quibbles I have with this book—and they’re so outweighed by the good—that I’m not going to bother talking about them. I’m also not going to talk about all the things that Billingham does right with this—I haven’t talked about the victim’s wives, the various crime bosses, even Gary deserves more than that quotation above—and Miller’s homeless informant deserves at least four paragraphs.
Fans of police procedurals or other detective novels are going to love this. I did, and I’m eager for the next. And if it’s nearly this good (and how can it not be, given Billingham’s experience), I expect to be in for the (I hope very) long haul with this series.
adventurous
funny
mysterious
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5
It was true that Miller wanted to be busy; but he hadn’t been counting on picking up such a big case on his first day back. That was the way things went, though. You were desperate for a day or two to catch your breath or even just looking to recharge your batteries after a major inquiry and someone decided to poison their husband or stab a passer-by because they didn’t like their trainers.
People were so bloody inconsiderate, sometimes.
What’s The Last Dance About?
Detective Sergeant Declan Miller cuts off his bereavement leave to return to work. It may be too soon following the murder of his wife (and we get plenty of reason to think that it may be), but the time off isn’t doing him any good and accomplishing things, staying busy, and getting out of the house just might do him so good (and we get plenty of reason to think that it might).
Before he has a chance to reacclimate, he and his new partner are assigned a case—the son (and presumed heir) of a local crime boss has been killed—assassinated, really—in a local hotel. In the next room over, an IT consultant has, as well. It’s unclear what the connection is between the two, or what either was doing in hotel rooms in their hometowns.
The other thing that Miller does to try to return to his pre-widowered life is to go back to the dance class that he and his wife attended. It’s difficult being a single person there, but these were their friends, and it helps him to do so (as much as it hurts, too). We get a whole different set of supporting characters here, a different perspective on things. I really like the way that we get two different sides of Miller like this—yes, there’s a good deal of overlap, but seeing him in such starkly different contexts really helps you understand the character.
DS Sara Xiu
‘I’m your replacement,’ she said. “Well, I was.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘It looks like we’re going to be teaming up.'
‘Even sorrier.’
She smiled. 'That’s a joke, right?’
‘Not really.’
It almost seems like a disservice to her character to make Xiu a supporting character. She could star in her own series easily. She’s got the tortured detective thing down—she drinks too much, parties too hard, etc., etc. But on the job? She’s good, and she just might warm to her new partner at some point—at the very least they work together well.
This book might be all about Miller, his inner demons, and eccentric methods—but having him work with such a good partner isn’t a choice many would make. In a book or three, I can see their partnership equaling Bosch and Kiz Rider’s, and she could play a big role in Miller’s unofficial investigation (see below).
Alex Miller
Miller’s wife, Alex, was involved in a major investigation when she was murdered. The police haven’t found her killer—and he’s not particularly certain they’re working too hard on it (it’s a different homicide unit than his). No one from the investigation is updating him either—they want him to stay out of it, for obvious reasons.
And he technically does—but that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it a lot, and poking around the perimeter of the investigation—especially in areas that the others don’t seem to be paying attention to.
Apart from that, we spend a good deal of the novel seeing Miller mourn her and talk to an imaginary version of her as both a way to work through his case and her not being around anymore. Those scenes are great on so many levels—the reader gets a real sense of who she was (at least as her husband saw her) and how they related to each other, and how the loss is hitting him. It also gives us a kind of insight into the way his mind works through problems that we don’t often get from procedurals.
Tone
If anyone deserved a plaque on the wall of most local police stations, or a Lancashire Prison System loyalty card, it wag Gary David Pope. He’d been a well-known face — or more usually a photofit – on the criminal scene for as long as any serving officer could remember, and while he never really did anything that would merit serious jail time, and drink or drugs were almost always involved, there was rarely a crime committed anywhere within a twenty-mile radius that Gary didn’t have some connection to. It was like ‘Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon’, only with stolen cars and cocaine.
Gary Pope wasn’t the worst criminal Miller had ever encountered, not by a long chalk, but he was probably the most consistent.He was a seriously committed wrong ‘un.
It wouldn’t take much to turn this into a very dark read featuring an unreliable and unpredictable detective. Thankfully, Billingham went the way he does—the darkness is still there, it’s just mollified by Miller’s sense of humor and perspective. He really reminded me of Peter Grainger’s DC Smith—but without the almost cozy feel of Grainger’s work. Blackpool is a harsher location than King’s Lake, too.
Still, I think fans of one will appreciate the other. Miller’s humor (and that of the narrator) is a bit sharper, and less subtle than Smith’s—but only by degrees.
You’re able to have a lot of fun given the humor in several situations that aren’t fun at all. But he’s not just funny and eccentric. Miller has a lot of heart, compassion, and empathy for crime victims and survivors. I’m not sure how much he had before his wife’s murder—or how much he let himself show before then. But after it, he’s able to connect with them in a way that few police officers seem to be—or at least are willing to be.
You combine those three elements? I’ll be around for the long haul in any series.
So, what did I think about The Last Dance?
Billingham knows his way around police procedurals—that’s very clear. He also knows how to play with the conventions—and which ones to stay away from or treat straightforwardly. He does it all with skill and panache (not unlike his protagonist).
For example, in his time away, a detective that Miller…hmmm…doesn’t respect, shall we say, has been promoted to DI, and seems intent on making his return as miserable as possible. What is it about almost every immediate supervisor in police procedurals being so intent on being horrible to their star investigators, rather than use their brains to improve their own careers? For every exception to this rule that I can think of, more than a dozen that follow it come to mind. Well, DI Stevens is a shining example of this, and I rather enjoyed Miller’s reactions to him. That’s the only tolerable part of the character.
There are so few quibbles I have with this book—and they’re so outweighed by the good—that I’m not going to bother talking about them. I’m also not going to talk about all the things that Billingham does right with this—I haven’t talked about the victim’s wives, the various crime bosses, even Gary deserves more than that quotation above—and Miller’s homeless informant deserves at least four paragraphs.
Fans of police procedurals or other detective novels are going to love this. I did, and I’m eager for the next. And if it’s nearly this good (and how can it not be, given Billingham’s experience), I expect to be in for the (I hope very) long haul with this series.
Death in the Dark Woods by Annelise Ryan
adventurous
mysterious
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Death in the Dark Woods About?
Chief Jon Flanders has another possible cryptid for Bookseller/Cryptozoologist Morgan Carter to look into. It’s not his case, but he’s serving as the go-between for a Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources Warden. There’ve been a couple of killings in her jurisdiction that she’d like Morgan to look into—and is willing to pay her out of pocket to do so.
Charlie Aberdeen isn’t even the head of the investigations, but she has a vested interest in the outcome. The official cause of death for both men (a bow hunter and a recreational fisherman) is a bear attack, but a witness account and some of the evidence don’t match that. Particularly the wounds. But Charlie’s the only one willing to say anything along the lines of “Bigfoot.” The existence of this particular creature is a known interest of Charlie’s—and local LEOs will send anything along those lines to her.
Morgan, naturally, jumps at the opportunity—no matter how long of a shot it is to find the elusive cryptid, she’s got to take it. Her loyal dog, Newt, jumps at it, too—because he jumps at anything she does.
Not surprisingly, some of the locals aren’t crazy about her meddling—a Sherriff’s Deputy seems particularly hostile (okay, “is” there’s no seeming to it)—but some insist they’ve seen something that could be a Bigfoot themselves. Others just think it’s a pipedream and are mildly amused that Charlie and Morgan are wasting their time. There’s another cryptozoologist sniffing around, too—Morgan’s run into him and his spurious methods before—he’s more interested in making money off of locals than he is in finding anything.
Be Careful
Don’t read the Author’s Note at the back before you finish the book—it’ll spoil things. I occasionally do that—I don’t know why, but I like seeing what an author mentions in their Note or Acknowledgements, so I start there (or take a peak while reading). Man, am I glad I didn’t do that this time.
(but also, maybe bury that information in the second paragraph or later?)
So, what did I think about Death in the Dark Woods?
This was a fun little adventure and a natural next step from A Death in Door County. A hunt for a Bigfoot/Sasquatch-type creature is a bit more familiar in North America than a Lake Monster, but that doesn’t mean it’s tired out. In many ways, Morgan’s hunt reminded me of Gideon Oliver’s in The Dark Place—but I enjoyed the way this one wrapped up much more.
Another thing I want to draw attention to is the relationship between Jon and Morgan—Ryan’s doing a nice job of letting the inevitable relationship grow slowly, and even stumble a bit. It’s really well done.
The narrative and some of the dialogue could be done a bit better—occasionally clunky is the best way to put it. It’s never enough to make me want to do anything other than roll my eyes and push on, but it could be easily made better.
Still, like its predecessor, Death in the Dark Woods is a pleasant diversion with some characters you could want to spend more time with. Which is all I’m looking for in a cozy-adjacent murder mystery. I’ll be back for more.
Guards! Guards! by Terry Pratchett
What’s Guards! Guards! About?
We start with a motley bunch of people who have been recruited by a mysterious figure to summon a dragon from another world—they don’t know this initially, but the purpose is to take over the city of Ankh-Morpork for less-than-benevolent reasons.
Meanwhile, a tall and naive young man is informed by his father that he’s not who he’s always thought he was. In fact, he’s been brought up by another species. Carrot had spent his whole life believing he was a dwarf like everyone he lived among, rather than a human. “It’s a terrible thing to be nearly sixteen and the wrong species.” Carrot has a hard time accepting this truth but does what his father tells him. He sets off for the city to become a member of the City Watch and will send his wages to his family. It’s impossible (for me, at least) to read Carrot and not think of Buddy the Elf. I don’t know if Ferrell and Favreau had this book in mind when they worked out the character—but they could’ve.
Like Buddy, Carrot doesn’t understand the human world and its nuances. He’s very literal, he’s a hard worker, doesn’t know how to be dishonest, and sees the world in black and white. So he goes about the business of the Watch like that—he’s a one-man anti-crime crusade. Arresting people the rest of the watch doesn’t have the energy to pursue—and those they’ve been told by the city leadership to leave alone.
His presence shakes up the Watch and awakens a sense of duty in them. So when they start finding traces of the dragon—and a corpse or two, this lethargic group gathers itself together and tries to save the city from the dragon, those behind it, and those who can’t be bothered to care.
And a whole bunch of other things transpire, are said, and whatnot. But that’s enough to get you started.
More Than Jokes
All good novelists will work in things that have nothing to do with the characters (directly), their development, or the plot to their books. Some sort of commentary on the world, an observation about humanity or a portion of it, etc. If you ask me, the more comedic novelists are better at it than others—it’s probably that spoonful of sugar thing. That could just be my preference, I admit.
Some of the better moments in this book—at least some of the best sentences—come from moments like the above quotation. There’s some cheap cynicism to be found in these lines—but there’s some well-earned cynicism, too, in Pratchett’s ideas about government, the people led by that government, and so on. But there’s some great stuff on love and hope to be found in here, too. Pratchett’s cup is half-full at least as often as it’s half-empty.
The one-liners; the satire of Fantasy tropes, humanity in general; and the overall comedy of his world might be what he’s known for—but at least here (and likely in general), Pratchett’s observations of and commentaries on humanity are just as noteworthy.
The Library/Librarian
I don’t have the time to write the essay I want to write about the Librarian, the Library, what the Librarian did to save the day, and so on. But I really wish I did (besides, I’m pretty sure someone else has—several someone elses). It’s not the—or a—main focus of the novel, but it really could be. Instead, I’ll just note that the Librarian was a highlight for me, and I hope we get a lot more of him in the future.
So, what did I think about Guards! Guards!?
One of the things I like to ask when thinking of a comedic novel is, would it hold up if you took the jokes out and played it straight? It’s hard to answer that for Guards! Guards! because of the satirical and ridiculous aspects of the novel. But…on the whole, yeah…it’d work. Thankfully, it’s not a question we really need to spend too much time on because it’s so funny that you don’t notice parts of the story/plot/characters that might not work—and with the comedy this book is so successful it doesn’t matter.
It took very little time for me to get invested in the story—maybe not the characters (as much as I enjoyed watching Carrot fumble through his new life), but the story and the storytelling carried me until the point that I started to see the various members of the City Watch as anything other than comedy delivery systems (although that’s primarily what they were). I was entertained throughout, so much so that I didn’t really spend much time thinking about comparing this to other Pratchett books or other Fantasy comedies I’ve read—I just wanted to have fun with this. Maybe I’ll do the other stuff with later reads.
My journey to this book—and to giving Pratchett another chance—is pretty well documented. It’s not that I disliked The Color of Magic or The Light Fantastic, but I didn’t get the fuss over Pratchett after reading them. After reading Guards! Guards!? I think I get it. After reading less than a third of Guards! Guards!, I was pretty sure I got it, actually. I’m so relieved…I wondered what was wrong with me that I missed what everyone else saw in his work. There’s this great combination of jokes, situational/character-based comedy, a skewed way of depicting the world that’s honest and true while capturing the absurdities—and wonder—of the world. Pratchett respects the reader enough to not have to spell everything he’s doing out for us, but not so much that he will avoid slapstick or bodily humor.
I’m sold. If you haven’t gotten around to trying this mega-series (and surely there are like 5 of you reading this who haven’t), stick your foot in. If you’re unsure where to start, here’s a great place.
I’ll be back for more soon.
adventurous
funny
hopeful
lighthearted
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5
It’s a metaphor of human bloody existence, a dragon. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s also a bloody great hot flying thing.
What’s Guards! Guards! About?
We start with a motley bunch of people who have been recruited by a mysterious figure to summon a dragon from another world—they don’t know this initially, but the purpose is to take over the city of Ankh-Morpork for less-than-benevolent reasons.
Meanwhile, a tall and naive young man is informed by his father that he’s not who he’s always thought he was. In fact, he’s been brought up by another species. Carrot had spent his whole life believing he was a dwarf like everyone he lived among, rather than a human. “It’s a terrible thing to be nearly sixteen and the wrong species.” Carrot has a hard time accepting this truth but does what his father tells him. He sets off for the city to become a member of the City Watch and will send his wages to his family. It’s impossible (for me, at least) to read Carrot and not think of Buddy the Elf. I don’t know if Ferrell and Favreau had this book in mind when they worked out the character—but they could’ve.
Like Buddy, Carrot doesn’t understand the human world and its nuances. He’s very literal, he’s a hard worker, doesn’t know how to be dishonest, and sees the world in black and white. So he goes about the business of the Watch like that—he’s a one-man anti-crime crusade. Arresting people the rest of the watch doesn’t have the energy to pursue—and those they’ve been told by the city leadership to leave alone.
His presence shakes up the Watch and awakens a sense of duty in them. So when they start finding traces of the dragon—and a corpse or two, this lethargic group gathers itself together and tries to save the city from the dragon, those behind it, and those who can’t be bothered to care.
And a whole bunch of other things transpire, are said, and whatnot. But that’s enough to get you started.
More Than Jokes
“Down there,” he said, “are people who will follow any dragon, worship any god, ignore any iniquity. All out of a kind of humdrum, everyday badness. Not the really high, creative loathesomeness of the great sinners, but a sort of mass-produced darkness of the soul. Sin, you might say, without a trace of originality. They accept evil not because they say yes, but because they don’t say no. I’m sorry if this offends you,”
All good novelists will work in things that have nothing to do with the characters (directly), their development, or the plot to their books. Some sort of commentary on the world, an observation about humanity or a portion of it, etc. If you ask me, the more comedic novelists are better at it than others—it’s probably that spoonful of sugar thing. That could just be my preference, I admit.
Some of the better moments in this book—at least some of the best sentences—come from moments like the above quotation. There’s some cheap cynicism to be found in these lines—but there’s some well-earned cynicism, too, in Pratchett’s ideas about government, the people led by that government, and so on. But there’s some great stuff on love and hope to be found in here, too. Pratchett’s cup is half-full at least as often as it’s half-empty.
The one-liners; the satire of Fantasy tropes, humanity in general; and the overall comedy of his world might be what he’s known for—but at least here (and likely in general), Pratchett’s observations of and commentaries on humanity are just as noteworthy.
The Library/Librarian
The truth is that even big collections of ordinary books distort space, as can readily be proved by anyone who has been around a really old-fashioned secondhand bookshop, one that looks as though they were designed by M. Escher on a bad day and has more stairways than storeys and those rows of shelves which end in little doors that are surely too small for a full-sized human to enter. The relevant equation is: Knowledge = power = energy = matter = mass; a good bookshop is just a genteel Black Hole that knows how to read.
I don’t have the time to write the essay I want to write about the Librarian, the Library, what the Librarian did to save the day, and so on. But I really wish I did (besides, I’m pretty sure someone else has—several someone elses). It’s not the—or a—main focus of the novel, but it really could be. Instead, I’ll just note that the Librarian was a highlight for me, and I hope we get a lot more of him in the future.
So, what did I think about Guards! Guards!?
“I mean, [the dragon] wouldn’t want us to go around killing its own kind, would it?”
“Well, sir, people do, sir,” said the guard sulkily.
“Ah, well,” said the captain. “That’s different.” He tapped the side of his helmet meaningfully. “That’s ’cos we’re intelligent.”
One of the things I like to ask when thinking of a comedic novel is, would it hold up if you took the jokes out and played it straight? It’s hard to answer that for Guards! Guards! because of the satirical and ridiculous aspects of the novel. But…on the whole, yeah…it’d work. Thankfully, it’s not a question we really need to spend too much time on because it’s so funny that you don’t notice parts of the story/plot/characters that might not work—and with the comedy this book is so successful it doesn’t matter.
It took very little time for me to get invested in the story—maybe not the characters (as much as I enjoyed watching Carrot fumble through his new life), but the story and the storytelling carried me until the point that I started to see the various members of the City Watch as anything other than comedy delivery systems (although that’s primarily what they were). I was entertained throughout, so much so that I didn’t really spend much time thinking about comparing this to other Pratchett books or other Fantasy comedies I’ve read—I just wanted to have fun with this. Maybe I’ll do the other stuff with later reads.
My journey to this book—and to giving Pratchett another chance—is pretty well documented. It’s not that I disliked The Color of Magic or The Light Fantastic, but I didn’t get the fuss over Pratchett after reading them. After reading Guards! Guards!? I think I get it. After reading less than a third of Guards! Guards!, I was pretty sure I got it, actually. I’m so relieved…I wondered what was wrong with me that I missed what everyone else saw in his work. There’s this great combination of jokes, situational/character-based comedy, a skewed way of depicting the world that’s honest and true while capturing the absurdities—and wonder—of the world. Pratchett respects the reader enough to not have to spell everything he’s doing out for us, but not so much that he will avoid slapstick or bodily humor.
I’m sold. If you haven’t gotten around to trying this mega-series (and surely there are like 5 of you reading this who haven’t), stick your foot in. If you’re unsure where to start, here’s a great place.
I’ll be back for more soon.
The Book of Doors by Gareth Brown
dark
emotional
mysterious
reflective
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s The Book of Doors About?
Cassie Andrews grew up in the Northwest and had what you’d call a typical, nice life (with a little tragedy, because we all do). She grew up, had one big adventure, and then settled into New York City, and is having a typical life—with enough fun and love to keep going, but nothing exciting happens to her. Then one day a regular customer that she’d befriended dies and leaves a book for her. It’s a lovely little book, so she takes it home with her.
She quickly discovers that this isn’t any ordinary book—in fact, it’s called “The Book of Doors” and the inscription inside it tells her that every door is any door. An odd thing to say, but she discovers that it means she can open and step through any door with the book in her hand. Cassie and her roommate Izzy have some fun with the book, before Izzy starts to worry about the cost of this magic.
Cassie’s undeterred, however, and keeps experimenting. It’s not too long before a man called The Librarian (by some) finds them—warning Cassie that she’s in danger because of this book. There are many “special books” like the Book of Doors (not all as powerful), and there are those who want to add her book to their collection and will stop at nothing to get it. As these people are equipped with their own special, magical books—the things they can do are pretty remarkable.
Can Cassie stay ahead of these people—or off of their radar entirely? Can she use her book to help the Librarian keep his collection of books safe from a mysterious woman determined to possess them all?
Time Travel
This is more of a Fantasy kind of Time Travel than a Hard Sci Fi Time Travel. That’s really not a profound observation on my part, come to think of it—everything these books do is described as magical. So a lot of your typical rules when it comes to Time Travel are thrown out. You’re not going to get a butterfly effect here, or see what happens if you go back and keep your dad and mom from going to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance together. It’s more along the lines of what the Wyld Stallyns did (at least in the first movie, I can’t speak to the others).
I mention this just so you know what you’re getting into—I have friends who take a very purist approach to Time Travel, and want scientific explanations for everything (hopefully with a good amount of theorizing). They will probably not appreciate this book for that. On the other hand—I have friends who get tired of that kind of thing—they’ll have a lot of fun with Brown’s take. There are probably more people who won’t care, and will just have fun with the wibbly wobbly of it all.
The Rest of the Magic
There are many more books than The Book of Doors running around (more than we’re told specifically about), and all of them have applications you wouldn’t immediately think about. What the Book of Illusion can do by someone who knows what they’re doing? Awesome. The Book of Luck is pretty much what the tin says. The Book of Despair…it’s worse than you think, at least when used by someone who knows what they’re doing (and who should never be allowed to use it).
I’m tempted to keep listing the books, but that would get boring for you and me. The great thing about Brown’s magic system is the wide diversity of magical abilities and the way they’re used. I don’t know how much time he spent coming up with the ideas behind them, or if he just had a handful and then created a new book when he wrote himself into a corner—but either way, a good deal of ingenuity is displayed here, and I want to see more of it. (honestly, I assume he did a thorough job of coming up with the books beforehand, but I just like the idea of him getting to the point where says…”I need a Book of Antigravity so Cassie can float away from a thrown knife.”*)
* Not anything that actually appears in the book.
Quibbles
It’s not a perfect book. Few are, so this isn’t about me listing off reasons to avoid this book. I just want to be thorough as I talk about it.
First off, the book (particularly in the beginning) relies too much on the POV characters looking at reflections of themselves. This is a pretty common thing—some would call it a cliche (particularly as a woman character describes some of her physical attributes)—and the first time that someone did it, I rolled my eyes and moved on. But then it happened again, quickly after that, while it was still echoing in my ear. And then again. And it became a thing I paid too much attention to because it happened so much. If mirrors and reflections had become very important to the magic or plot as a whole—I might have spent a paragraph or two lauding this. But it didn’t. It just distracted and kind of annoyed me.
The “Big Bad” doesn’t have a name. She’s simply, “the woman.” If she was a character who showed up in other places, and we were supposed to figure out which of female characters she was—that’d be one thing. But there’s never a doubt about that, she’s simply “the woman.” She doesn’t even get a nickname like “She Who Must Not Be Named” or even “The Big Bad.” Surely, at some point, the subculture surrounding these special books would’ve started referring to her as something along those lines. A name, a title (like The Bookseller did), something whispered in the shadows. Not just “the woman.”
There are probably other flaws in the book—undoubtedly there are*—but these are the only two that jumped out at me (and kept doing so). In the end—both were easily overcome by the weight of all the good-to-great things about it. But I was irked enough that I had to talk about them a bit.
* Just before I hit “Publish,” I remembered a chapter focused on “the woman” that made me briefly consider stopping entirely. I am so glad that I persevered, and it wasn’t that difficult to.
Now, let’s get back to the good stuff. I probably won’t think about these issues again myself, when I think back on this book, I’m only going to think of what I say next.
So, what did I think about The Book of Doors?
If you took Peng Shepherd’s The Cartographers and merged it with Robin Sloan’s Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore, you’d get something sort of like this. The secret subculture that arose around these special books—subcultures, really—made me think of these books, as well as the devotion to something that’s increasingly archaic—a typeface, paper maps, antique books, etc. There is great power, as well as great affection, in these artifacts of a former age. Sure, they’re not magical or mystical like Shepherd, Sloane, or Brown say. But these novels resonate for the same/similar reasons, these things call to us.
Setting aside all the magic and plot and character—just focusing on what The Book of Doors says about books in general, is pretty special. This aspect alone is going to speak to a lot of readers (most people who’d call themselves “readers,” in fact.). And you could spend time just flipping through those parts of the book.
On the whole, this novel was a slow burn for me—I was instantly drawn to the idea behind the books, I liked Cassie, and the way that Brown showed her reacting to the book. But then once we got into the story about “the woman” and the Librarian, my interest waned a lot. I’m not sure it should’ve, and many will likely have a different reaction, but it did. But as I kept reading, I got more and more invested and my inner-critic shut up because he was as interested in what was going to happen next as the rest of me was.
By the time you figure out what Brown’s end-game was—and Cassie’s, too—it’s so satisfying to see it all play out. It’s really a very tidy book and everything means something. But it’s not just the plot that works so well, all the emotional beats are so well-executed that you will be tempted to go back through Brown’s non-existent backlist to see where he figured out to write them so effectively.
If you like the idea of a kind of magic you’ve not seen before, magical time travel (among other things), an off-the-radar subculture devoted to this magic (or at least the idea behind it), and a quiet bookseller finding her inner strength and perseverance in the face of evil—you’re going to want to check out The Book of Doors. I strongly recommend you do.
Silly Rhymes for Belligerent Children by Trace Beaulieu, Len Peralta
That’s pretty much what the book is—in the forward/Author’s Note, Beaulieu says these poems were inspired by daydreaming, and what better source could there be?
Some are short…some are longer (at least when it comes to page count), they’re all a great mixture of fun rhymes, great images, and eccentric (to say the least) ideas. Some are morbid (in a kid-friendly way), some are just strange, some are gross (in a kid-friendly way).
My One Complaint
There aren’t enough poems.
Or illustrations.
Or anything else.
I want more of everything in this book.
A Quick Word about the Art
WOW. The art is fantastic. Can you go through this book, ignore all the words in black type, and still enjoy it? Probably—some of the pictures won’t make sense without the black text, but yeah, I can see the book working if you think of it as a collection of odd illustrations (I’ve tried this twice, but keep slipping and ended up reading the poems, so I can’t promise).
They are the perfect augment/supplement/accompaniment to Beaulieu’s quirky rhymes and sensibilities.
So, what did I think about Silly Rhymes for Belligerent Children?
This is just silly fun. I, apparently, am an odd adult with nothing better to do, because I’ve read this a handful of times from cover to cover in the last few months and am pleased I did so each time.
You know how there are certain movies/shows that when you’re just mindlessly flipping through the channels (assuming you still do that) you have to stop and watch for at least a few minutes? This book is kind of like that. I cannot tell you how many times since I first read it that I’ve stopped to read a poem or two when I see this book. I’ve yet to pick it up without reading at least three poems. Generally more. And not always the same ones, either.
From the poems to the illustrations and all points in-between, I had a blast with this. I wish I knew about this back when it was first published, my kids would’ve loved it then. I probably can’t get them to slow down enough for it now. Hopefully in a few years.
Track down a copy and lose yourself in these pages. Your inner child (and inner odd-adult) will thank you.
funny
lighthearted
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
3.0
This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Silly Rhymes for Belligerent Children?
The back of the book says:
You certainly don’t need to be a belligerent child to appreciate these silly rhymes by Mystery Science Theater 3000’s and Cinematic Titanic’s Trace Beaulieu – but you may learn a thing or two about handling infected pets or living dangerously through sledding. While the subject matter may make you a bit queasy, you’ll delight in the perfect storytelling encapsulated in each poem. Each selection is a dark and distasteful delight – a fascinating collection of raw honesty, cool understatement and looming tragedy, all brought to life by the whimsical illustrations by Len Peralta. Silly Rhymes for Belligerent Children isn’t the book you’ll keep on the bookcase for decades. It’s the book you’ll keep under your bed within easy reach so you can page through it long after you’ve committed all the poems to memory.
That’s pretty much what the book is—in the forward/Author’s Note, Beaulieu says these poems were inspired by daydreaming, and what better source could there be?
Well, these rhymes are meant for the kind of child I was, and frankly still am.
So don’t come here looking for nice little poems with fuzzy-wuzzy pictures of fluffy cute animals or impossibly happy youngsters fetching pails of water.
This book is intended for kids who hate that kind of stuff: older kids, of course, and adults with… well nothing better to do.
Some are short…some are longer (at least when it comes to page count), they’re all a great mixture of fun rhymes, great images, and eccentric (to say the least) ideas. Some are morbid (in a kid-friendly way), some are just strange, some are gross (in a kid-friendly way).
My One Complaint
There aren’t enough poems.
Or illustrations.
Or anything else.
I want more of everything in this book.
A Quick Word about the Art
WOW. The art is fantastic. Can you go through this book, ignore all the words in black type, and still enjoy it? Probably—some of the pictures won’t make sense without the black text, but yeah, I can see the book working if you think of it as a collection of odd illustrations (I’ve tried this twice, but keep slipping and ended up reading the poems, so I can’t promise).
They are the perfect augment/supplement/accompaniment to Beaulieu’s quirky rhymes and sensibilities.
So, what did I think about Silly Rhymes for Belligerent Children?
This is just silly fun. I, apparently, am an odd adult with nothing better to do, because I’ve read this a handful of times from cover to cover in the last few months and am pleased I did so each time.
You know how there are certain movies/shows that when you’re just mindlessly flipping through the channels (assuming you still do that) you have to stop and watch for at least a few minutes? This book is kind of like that. I cannot tell you how many times since I first read it that I’ve stopped to read a poem or two when I see this book. I’ve yet to pick it up without reading at least three poems. Generally more. And not always the same ones, either.
From the poems to the illustrations and all points in-between, I had a blast with this. I wish I knew about this back when it was first published, my kids would’ve loved it then. I probably can’t get them to slow down enough for it now. Hopefully in a few years.
Track down a copy and lose yourself in these pages. Your inner child (and inner odd-adult) will thank you.
America Fantastica by Tim O'Brien
How Was the Narration?
It was fine—any problems I had with the book weren’t on Wyman’s side. He didn’t work too hard on making each character stand out from the others with a distinct voice so that in each scene you knew immediately who was talking, but this isn’t the kind of book that lends itself to that. Also, the book didn’t become hard to follow because of that—nor did individual scenes. That’s all I really care about (as much as I might enjoy very distinct characters when the narrator does that).
The one heavily accented character’s accent didn’t sound quite right to my ears, but I’m not precisely sure what their accent should’ve sounded like. And…well, in context, I’m not sure their accent should’ve sounded right.
Basically, Wyman did well enough, and I’d easily listen to something else he narrated.
So, what did I think about America Fantastica?
I’m going to sound a little self-contradictory here. I think I missed most of the point of this book/narrative, and O’Brien was as subtle as a pallet of bricks.
There are intercalary chapters/sections (I’d have to see the print version to know for sure) describing the spread of “mythomania” across the nation like an infection (to be followed by COVID). And this is very clearly what the book is supposed to be about—contemporary America’s hunger for lies, half-truths, alternative facts, myths, whatever you want to call it. I’m not disinclined to argue with this as a whole—I just found these portions wanting. I’m not sure what it was I didn’t respond to here–lack of nuance and a feeling that O’Brien was trying to be too clever, come close, but really I just can’t put my finger on it.
Then there’s the narrative—narratives. I didn’t connect with any of them for very long (if ever). I kept going because many of them seemed to be on the verge of paying off, or at least giving me something to sink my teeth into. If I didn’t know this was a satirical novel from the description, I wouldn’t have picked up on it. I’m not really sure I get everything that was being satired (and really don’t care). The best way I can describe the storylines was that someone took a bunch of discarded ideas from disparate Elmore Leonard novels and mashed them together, whether they fit or not, and without Leonard’s skill/craft—then threw COVID into it at the end.
O’Brien had some very clever ideas, some nice writing, and a good line here and there. But the ideas didn’t pay off, the writing went nowhere, and the good lines weren’t worth the effort to get to them.
Maybe this was the right book at the wrong time for me and if I’d read/listened to it a few months ago—or a few months from now—I’d be recommending it, maybe even raving about it. But I listened to it now, so that’s what we’re stuck with. So the me of “now” says that it was an endurance race for me. A determined effort for me to understand why I should like this. A reminder that the sunk cost fallacy is something that I’m very susceptible to.
I’m more than prepared for people to come along and tell me why I should’ve appreciated this. But I can’t recommend this to anyone, and I would recommend you look elsewhere for a good commentary on the U.S.
adventurous
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
2.0
This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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How Does the Publisher Describe America Fantasica?
At 11:34 a.m. one Saturday in August 2019, Boyd Halverson strode into Community National Bank in Northern California.
“How much is on hand, would you say?” he asked the teller. “I’ll want it all.”
“You’re robbing me?”
He revealed a Temptation .38 Special.
The teller, a diminutive redhead named Angie Bing, collected eighty-one thousand dollars.Boyd stuffed the cash into a paper grocery bag.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said, “but I’ll have to ask you to take a ride with me.”
So begins the adventure of Boyd Halverson—star journalist turned notorious online disinformation troll turned JCPenney manager—and his irrepressible hostage, Angie Bing. Haunted by his past and weary of his present, Boyd has one goal before the authorities catch up with him: settle a score with the man who destroyed his life. By Monday the pair reach Mexico; by winter, they are in a lakefront mansion in Minnesota. On their trail are hitmen, jealous lovers, ex-cons, an heiress, a billionaire shipping tycoon, a three-tour veteran of Iraq, and the ghosts of Boyd’s past. Everyone, it seems, except the police.
In the tradition of Jonathan Swift and Mark Twain, America Fantastica delivers a biting, witty, and entertaining story about the causes and costs of outlandish fantasy, while also marking the triumphant return of an essential voice in American letters. And at the heart of the novel, amid a teeming cast of characters, readers will delight in the tug-of-war between two memorable and iconic human beings—the exuberant savior-of-souls Angie Bing and the penitent but compulsive liar Boyd Halverson. Just as Tim O’Brien’s modern classic, The Things They Carried, so brilliantly reflected the unromantic truth of war, America Fantastica puts a mirror to a nation and a time that has become dangerously unmoored from truth and greedy for delusion.
How Was the Narration?
It was fine—any problems I had with the book weren’t on Wyman’s side. He didn’t work too hard on making each character stand out from the others with a distinct voice so that in each scene you knew immediately who was talking, but this isn’t the kind of book that lends itself to that. Also, the book didn’t become hard to follow because of that—nor did individual scenes. That’s all I really care about (as much as I might enjoy very distinct characters when the narrator does that).
The one heavily accented character’s accent didn’t sound quite right to my ears, but I’m not precisely sure what their accent should’ve sounded like. And…well, in context, I’m not sure their accent should’ve sounded right.
Basically, Wyman did well enough, and I’d easily listen to something else he narrated.
So, what did I think about America Fantastica?
I’m going to sound a little self-contradictory here. I think I missed most of the point of this book/narrative, and O’Brien was as subtle as a pallet of bricks.
There are intercalary chapters/sections (I’d have to see the print version to know for sure) describing the spread of “mythomania” across the nation like an infection (to be followed by COVID). And this is very clearly what the book is supposed to be about—contemporary America’s hunger for lies, half-truths, alternative facts, myths, whatever you want to call it. I’m not disinclined to argue with this as a whole—I just found these portions wanting. I’m not sure what it was I didn’t respond to here–lack of nuance and a feeling that O’Brien was trying to be too clever, come close, but really I just can’t put my finger on it.
Then there’s the narrative—narratives. I didn’t connect with any of them for very long (if ever). I kept going because many of them seemed to be on the verge of paying off, or at least giving me something to sink my teeth into. If I didn’t know this was a satirical novel from the description, I wouldn’t have picked up on it. I’m not really sure I get everything that was being satired (and really don’t care). The best way I can describe the storylines was that someone took a bunch of discarded ideas from disparate Elmore Leonard novels and mashed them together, whether they fit or not, and without Leonard’s skill/craft—then threw COVID into it at the end.
O’Brien had some very clever ideas, some nice writing, and a good line here and there. But the ideas didn’t pay off, the writing went nowhere, and the good lines weren’t worth the effort to get to them.
Maybe this was the right book at the wrong time for me and if I’d read/listened to it a few months ago—or a few months from now—I’d be recommending it, maybe even raving about it. But I listened to it now, so that’s what we’re stuck with. So the me of “now” says that it was an endurance race for me. A determined effort for me to understand why I should like this. A reminder that the sunk cost fallacy is something that I’m very susceptible to.
I’m more than prepared for people to come along and tell me why I should’ve appreciated this. But I can’t recommend this to anyone, and I would recommend you look elsewhere for a good commentary on the U.S.
Warriorborn: A Cinder Spires Novella by Jim Butcher
adventurous
tense
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.5
This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Warriorborn About?
A little time has passed since we met our heroes—training was completed, people have new jobs, promotions were given, the threat of war looms larger, and so on. The status quo, in short, is in flux and everyone’s trying to settle in before things get really messed up.
The mysterious and deadly Warriorborn, Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster, has been promoted to lieutenant—as one example. And, as you can guess from this novella’s title, we will be focused on him. The Spirearch is sending him on a mission to retrieve certain documents that the Spirearch seems to have misplaced at a colony that’s gone radio silent. As backup, Benedict is assigned three other Warriorborn for this mission—deadly criminals put away by Benedict, who will earn freedom in return for their help here. Not exactly a merry band, but they should be enough to tackle most threats they encounter.
But what they find when they arrive at Dependence isn’t what anyone figured, and “most” quite definitely doesn’t mean “all.”
The Development of the Series
There are a couple of notable things about this novella—first of all, we get a great look into the Warriorborn as a whole, not just what we learned about Benedict in The Aeronaut’s Windlass. The Warriorborn was one of the most intriguing concepts from that book, so getting to learn more about them was a treat. That right there is enough to justify the purchase price.
But even better is the little updates we get about many of the primary characters, setting the stage for where they’ll be in The Olympian Affair. I was already eager to dive in—seeing these flashes of their future, and the way that the war is progressing just makes me want to tear into The Olympian Affair.
So, what did I think about Warriorborn?
This was a fast-moving thrill ride. Yeah, there’s some character development and exploration of some of what makes the various characters (particularly the new ones) tick. Butcher knows how to write action—if you’ve read anything by him, you know this. Throw in some clever dialogue, and that’s enough to satisfy me.
The threat that they discover once they get to Dependence is as creepy as you want. The world of The Cinder Spires isn’t a kind world, and it’s hard for humanity (and felinity) in more than one way, as we’re learning now. But as long as there are people like Benedict and the crew of Predator, maybe there’s hope.
Despite this being a bridge between Books 1 and 2 of the series, this wouldn’t make a bad jumping on point—if you like this quick taste of this world, you’ll want to go see how Benedict and the rest got to this point just as much as you’re going to want to see what happens to them next.
In a podcast interview, Butcher described this as “an apology novella,” due to how long it took to get the second book of the series completed. In the eyes of this fan, apology accepted.
Malibu Burning by Lee Goldberg
What’s Malibu Burning About?
There are essentially two stories in this novel charging full-steam ahead until they inevitably collide. The first is a heist story—with a good revenge motivation in addition to the “let’s steal gobs and gobs of money” angle. The second is about an unlikely partnership between an experienced arson investigator and a rookie investigator (but former US Marshal, so he’s not that green and has habits to unlearn). It’s not a spoiler for me to say that these stories will converge—for one, what’s the point of them not? Secondly, that’s not the way Goldberg works—there’s no way his robbers aren’t going to be chased by some cops.
The Robbers
Let’s start off, like the novel does, with Danny Cole. If you’re familiar with Goldberg’s oeuvre, think of Nick Fox—only not as outlandish, and you’re pretty much there. If you’re not that familiar, Cole is a con man/thief—he has a few specialists (hackers, hitters, etc.) that he works with to pull off his heists and con jobs.
In the beginning of the book, we see him alllllmost get away with something—and if he hadn’t been forced into a good deed,* he just might have. Instead, he’s arrested, tried, and convicted. He gets his lawyer to push for him to serve his time in one of the convict firefighters’ programs. He spends years fighting fires for the State, forming bonds with others on the front lines, and starting to begrudge the state for how they treat those convicts. Also, he gets to case a few luxury homes while serving his time.
* How much was Cole trying to do a good deed and how much was him trying to avoid being charged with a more serious crime is up for debate—and Cole’s lawyer is ready for that debate.
One of his teammates dies because of State policies and one of those luxury homeowners throwing his money and power around. When his sentence is complete, Cole sets out to get revenge on the convict firefighter system, and that homeowner—all the while enriching himself. I mean, the money’s right there, he might as well. To do so, he and his team have to pull off one of the most audacious—and destructive—heists imaginable. The fact that his plan is actually feasible frightens me more than any horror or serial killer novel ever has.
The Cops
Let’s turn our attention to the good guys now.
Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Detective Walter Sharpe is a detective in his fifties—he’s got plenty of experience and is good at his job. He’s not so great with people—particularly those he works with. He’s rarely satisfied with the easy answer, and will find reasons to think arson when no one else does (he’s also good at finding “accident” when the easy explanation points to arson). It’s not (just) that he’s a contrarian, he just cares more about evidence and understanding fire than anything else. This also applies to firefighters.
Pesky firefighters with all that water, washing away evidence. What are their priorities? Saving lives and buildings? In the end, Sharpe says:
Against his will, Sharpe has been assigned a new partner. One with zero experience in investigating arson—he’s going to have to build him from the ground up. Former US Marshal Andrew Walker’s wife is pregnant and she’s put her foot down—his job is too dangerous, he needs to decide—her or the job. So instead of chasing down criminals (like Danny Cole), he’s now on the safer end of law enforcement—coming along after the crime is committed.
If you ever wondered what TV’s Raylan Givens would be if he prioritized Winona and Willa over Boyd Crowder, you’d get something a lot like Walker. Incidentally, Carly Walker is an entertaining character, and while I doubt the series will ever focus on her too much, I look forward to spending more time with her. The scenes between the couple feature an interaction that we don’t see a lot in Goldberg.
Anyway, Walker has a lot to learn about arson investigation, and Sharpe is just the right guy to teach him. They get along well enough, but both can see that their styles and personalities don’t necessarily mesh. The above glimpse of their first conversation illustrates some of that. But the higher-ups have spoken, so they work a couple of open and shut investigations together. Then they look around the starting point of a couple of wildfires in the area so Sharpe can show his trainee what to look for and what a natural/accidental fire looks like.
But between Walker asking beginning-investigator questions and some of Sharpe’s observations…these wildfires start to look planned. But why would someone put so many lives and so much property at stake?
So, what did I think about Malibu Burning?
Oh, I just had so much fun with this. I realize it’s not that shocking for me to say about a Lee Goldberg book—but when he writes things like this, how am I supposed to react differently?
Danny Cole is such a great character—I don’t know if I could take a frequent diet of him and his antics, but a prequel or two to this with him? Shut up and take my money. Between the (arguable) good deeds he performs and the targets of his cons, it’s hard to see him as a real villain—yes, he seems to commit more felonies by breakfast than most people do all day, but in a Robin Hood sort of way.
Then again…when you think of what he does in this book, and the collateral damage he (seemingly) unthinkingly inflicts, it’s hard to maintain any kind of sympathy.
His targets are harder to work up any kind of sympathy or empathy for. Some are criminals, some are just…rich, entitled slimeballs. It is so satisfying to see bad things happen to them. Another target is the convict firefighting system—assuming Goldberg matched the realities of the system to what it promises the participants (and there’s no reason to think he doesn’t come close), something there needs to be addressed.
But the real star of the show is the partnership between Sharpe and Walker—they’re interesting enough characters on their own, sure—but watching them start to figure out how to work together is the best part of the book. I hope Goldberg doesn’t rush (I don’t think he will, because he’s a better writer than that, but I just want to say it)
Also, arson investigation is one of those things that long-running series dip into from time to time, but I don’t remember seeing a series try to tackle that regularly. I felt like I learned so much just from watching Sharpe work a scene and explain things to Walker. It was like watching Gideon Oliver explain something to John Lau or whatever local law enforcement officer he was dazzling. I’ll read that kind of thing any time.
So, great characters—on both sides of the law—an atypical angle for a procedural, interesting ethical questions, a mismatched partnership that will provide dividends both comedically and narratively for a good while to come, and Goldberg’s knack for making almost anything entertaining? What’s not to like about Malibu Burning? Go get it now, so you can say you got in on the ground floor.
The next book in this series is going to be a cross-over with Eve Ronin, apparently. It’s bound to happen—they all work for the same Sheriff’s Department, after all—might as well get to it early. It’s going to be great—if only to see Sharpe and Duncan together, that dynamic is going to be fun to see.
adventurous
mysterious
tense
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
Walker thought, police work for Sharpe was an intellectual pursuit, a mind game, analyzing the clues to get to the bad guy. It wasn’t about the chase. It was about being smarter than his quarry and everybody else.
For Walker, police work was all about the hunt, and the risk that came with it. As long as he was wearing a badge and carrying a gun, there was no way to truly mitigate the risk that came with a job in law enforcement, which was something Carly either didn’t understand or didn’t want to.
What’s Malibu Burning About?
There are essentially two stories in this novel charging full-steam ahead until they inevitably collide. The first is a heist story—with a good revenge motivation in addition to the “let’s steal gobs and gobs of money” angle. The second is about an unlikely partnership between an experienced arson investigator and a rookie investigator (but former US Marshal, so he’s not that green and has habits to unlearn). It’s not a spoiler for me to say that these stories will converge—for one, what’s the point of them not? Secondly, that’s not the way Goldberg works—there’s no way his robbers aren’t going to be chased by some cops.
The Robbers
Let’s start off, like the novel does, with Danny Cole. If you’re familiar with Goldberg’s oeuvre, think of Nick Fox—only not as outlandish, and you’re pretty much there. If you’re not that familiar, Cole is a con man/thief—he has a few specialists (hackers, hitters, etc.) that he works with to pull off his heists and con jobs.
In the beginning of the book, we see him alllllmost get away with something—and if he hadn’t been forced into a good deed,* he just might have. Instead, he’s arrested, tried, and convicted. He gets his lawyer to push for him to serve his time in one of the convict firefighters’ programs. He spends years fighting fires for the State, forming bonds with others on the front lines, and starting to begrudge the state for how they treat those convicts. Also, he gets to case a few luxury homes while serving his time.
* How much was Cole trying to do a good deed and how much was him trying to avoid being charged with a more serious crime is up for debate—and Cole’s lawyer is ready for that debate.
One of his teammates dies because of State policies and one of those luxury homeowners throwing his money and power around. When his sentence is complete, Cole sets out to get revenge on the convict firefighter system, and that homeowner—all the while enriching himself. I mean, the money’s right there, he might as well. To do so, he and his team have to pull off one of the most audacious—and destructive—heists imaginable. The fact that his plan is actually feasible frightens me more than any horror or serial killer novel ever has.
The Cops
“You’ve shot seventeen men.”
“Is that a lot?”
“I’ve never shot anybody in over twenty years in the department.”That was hard for Walker to believe. “Not even a little?”
“Is it possible to shoot someone only a little?”
“I’m working on it,” Walker said.
Let’s turn our attention to the good guys now.
Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Detective Walter Sharpe is a detective in his fifties—he’s got plenty of experience and is good at his job. He’s not so great with people—particularly those he works with. He’s rarely satisfied with the easy answer, and will find reasons to think arson when no one else does (he’s also good at finding “accident” when the easy explanation points to arson). It’s not (just) that he’s a contrarian, he just cares more about evidence and understanding fire than anything else. This also applies to firefighters.
“Aren’t firefighters the experts on fire?”
“They are the experts on water.”
Pesky firefighters with all that water, washing away evidence. What are their priorities? Saving lives and buildings? In the end, Sharpe says:
Firefighters are the best friends an arsonist can have.
Against his will, Sharpe has been assigned a new partner. One with zero experience in investigating arson—he’s going to have to build him from the ground up. Former US Marshal Andrew Walker’s wife is pregnant and she’s put her foot down—his job is too dangerous, he needs to decide—her or the job. So instead of chasing down criminals (like Danny Cole), he’s now on the safer end of law enforcement—coming along after the crime is committed.
If you ever wondered what TV’s Raylan Givens would be if he prioritized Winona and Willa over Boyd Crowder, you’d get something a lot like Walker. Incidentally, Carly Walker is an entertaining character, and while I doubt the series will ever focus on her too much, I look forward to spending more time with her. The scenes between the couple feature an interaction that we don’t see a lot in Goldberg.
Anyway, Walker has a lot to learn about arson investigation, and Sharpe is just the right guy to teach him. They get along well enough, but both can see that their styles and personalities don’t necessarily mesh. The above glimpse of their first conversation illustrates some of that. But the higher-ups have spoken, so they work a couple of open and shut investigations together. Then they look around the starting point of a couple of wildfires in the area so Sharpe can show his trainee what to look for and what a natural/accidental fire looks like.
But between Walker asking beginning-investigator questions and some of Sharpe’s observations…these wildfires start to look planned. But why would someone put so many lives and so much property at stake?
So, what did I think about Malibu Burning?
Sharpe took out his phone. “Ill start with the front seat and the body, you shoot everything else. With your camera, not your gun.”
“That’s obvious.”
“Maybe to most people,” Sharpe said. “I’m not convinced it’s true for you.”
Oh, I just had so much fun with this. I realize it’s not that shocking for me to say about a Lee Goldberg book—but when he writes things like this, how am I supposed to react differently?
Danny Cole is such a great character—I don’t know if I could take a frequent diet of him and his antics, but a prequel or two to this with him? Shut up and take my money. Between the (arguable) good deeds he performs and the targets of his cons, it’s hard to see him as a real villain—yes, he seems to commit more felonies by breakfast than most people do all day, but in a Robin Hood sort of way.
Then again…when you think of what he does in this book, and the collateral damage he (seemingly) unthinkingly inflicts, it’s hard to maintain any kind of sympathy.
His targets are harder to work up any kind of sympathy or empathy for. Some are criminals, some are just…rich, entitled slimeballs. It is so satisfying to see bad things happen to them. Another target is the convict firefighting system—assuming Goldberg matched the realities of the system to what it promises the participants (and there’s no reason to think he doesn’t come close), something there needs to be addressed.
But the real star of the show is the partnership between Sharpe and Walker—they’re interesting enough characters on their own, sure—but watching them start to figure out how to work together is the best part of the book. I hope Goldberg doesn’t rush (I don’t think he will, because he’s a better writer than that, but I just want to say it)
Also, arson investigation is one of those things that long-running series dip into from time to time, but I don’t remember seeing a series try to tackle that regularly. I felt like I learned so much just from watching Sharpe work a scene and explain things to Walker. It was like watching Gideon Oliver explain something to John Lau or whatever local law enforcement officer he was dazzling. I’ll read that kind of thing any time.
So, great characters—on both sides of the law—an atypical angle for a procedural, interesting ethical questions, a mismatched partnership that will provide dividends both comedically and narratively for a good while to come, and Goldberg’s knack for making almost anything entertaining? What’s not to like about Malibu Burning? Go get it now, so you can say you got in on the ground floor.
The next book in this series is going to be a cross-over with Eve Ronin, apparently. It’s bound to happen—they all work for the same Sheriff’s Department, after all—might as well get to it early. It’s going to be great—if only to see Sharpe and Duncan together, that dynamic is going to be fun to see.
Nasty, Brutish, and Short: Adventures in Philosophy with My Kids by Scott Hershovitz
The book is broken down into three sections: “Making Sense of Morality” (covering ideas like Rights, Revenge, Punishment, Authority, and Language); “Making Sense of Ourselves” (surely non-controversial chapters covering “Sex, Gender, and Sports”; and “Race and Responsibility”); and “Making Sense of the World” (Knowledge, Truth, Mind, Infinity, and God—the easy bits of philosophy). While discussing these, Hershovitz will describe the idea(s) he’s focusing on—or the aspects of them, to be more specific; he’ll then illustrate them with questions from or discussions with his sons; give us a brief history of philosophy on the topic; and then his personal take on them. Usually with more input from his sons along the way.
How was the Narration?
Hershovitz was fantastic. If he gets tired of the whole professor/philosopher gig, he could have a new career in audiobook narration. I can only imagine that his classes are great to sit through.
He delivered the material that in the wrong hands could’ve come across as super-dry, or really jokey and kept it engaging, entertaining, and informative—with a little bit of the persuasiveness needed to keep someone listening to a book about philosophy.
I was quite impressed.
So, what did I think about Nasty, Brutish, and Short?
Oh, I have some serious issues with some of the philosophy here. The chapter on “God” (to the surprise of few who read this blog regularly) really bothered me—but it did underline the importance of Special Revelation to go with General Revelation.
The Conclusion, “How to Raise a Philosopher,” was fantastic. Truly some of the best parenting advice I’ve heard/read in ages (and I don’t even need that any more and I still found myself taking notes). For raising more than just philosophers.
Sure, I disagreed with some of his conclusions—but I loved hearing the way Hershovitz thought through the ideas he was proposing and/or discussing, the way he dealt with his kids and their questions, I appreciated the way he explained concepts both basic and complex in a way that non-philosophers could understand, and he managed to be entertaining all along. Some of his witticisms did cause me to react audibly. There’s a good deal of so-called common sense mixed in with the profound as well—always nice to see for a layman like myself.
This book is a strange alchemy of parenting advice (even if largely given by example rather than by precept), Philosophy 101, and humor. It works so well that it’s hard to explain. I can only hope there’s a sequel or three as Hank and Rex age.
All in all, I heartily recommend this for parents, people who want to get a start in philosophy but aren’t sure where (and don’t want to admit that to anyone), and others. The print version might be nice for easy reference, but the audiobook format is a real winner.
informative
reflective
relaxing
medium-paced
3.5
This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Nasty, Brutish, and Short About?
The official description is:
Some of the best philosophers in the world gather in surprising places—preschools and playgrounds. They debate questions about metaphysics and morality, even though they’ve never heard the words and perhaps can’t even tie their shoes. They’re kids. And as Scott Hershovitz shows in this delightful debut, they’re astoundingly good philosophers.
Hershovitz has two young sons, Rex and Hank. From the time they could talk, he noticed that they raised philosophical questions and were determined to answer them. They re-created ancient arguments. And they advanced entirely new ones. That’s not unusual, Hershovitz says. Every kid is a philosopher.
Following an agenda set by Rex and Hank, Hershovitz takes us on a fun romp through classic and contemporary philosophy, powered by questions like, Does Hank have the right to drink soda? When is it okay to swear? and, Does the number six exist? Hershovitz and his boys take on more weighty issues too. They explore punishment, authority, sex, gender, race, the nature of truth and knowledge, and the existence of God. Along the way, they get help from professional philosophers, famous and obscure. And they show that all of us have a lot to learn from listening to kids—and thinking with them.
Hershovitz calls on us to support kids in their philosophical adventures. But more than that, he challenges us to join them so that we can become better, more discerning thinkers and recapture some of the wonder kids have at the world.
The book is broken down into three sections: “Making Sense of Morality” (covering ideas like Rights, Revenge, Punishment, Authority, and Language); “Making Sense of Ourselves” (surely non-controversial chapters covering “Sex, Gender, and Sports”; and “Race and Responsibility”); and “Making Sense of the World” (Knowledge, Truth, Mind, Infinity, and God—the easy bits of philosophy). While discussing these, Hershovitz will describe the idea(s) he’s focusing on—or the aspects of them, to be more specific; he’ll then illustrate them with questions from or discussions with his sons; give us a brief history of philosophy on the topic; and then his personal take on them. Usually with more input from his sons along the way.
How was the Narration?
Hershovitz was fantastic. If he gets tired of the whole professor/philosopher gig, he could have a new career in audiobook narration. I can only imagine that his classes are great to sit through.
He delivered the material that in the wrong hands could’ve come across as super-dry, or really jokey and kept it engaging, entertaining, and informative—with a little bit of the persuasiveness needed to keep someone listening to a book about philosophy.
I was quite impressed.
So, what did I think about Nasty, Brutish, and Short?
Oh, I have some serious issues with some of the philosophy here. The chapter on “God” (to the surprise of few who read this blog regularly) really bothered me—but it did underline the importance of Special Revelation to go with General Revelation.
The Conclusion, “How to Raise a Philosopher,” was fantastic. Truly some of the best parenting advice I’ve heard/read in ages (and I don’t even need that any more and I still found myself taking notes). For raising more than just philosophers.
Sure, I disagreed with some of his conclusions—but I loved hearing the way Hershovitz thought through the ideas he was proposing and/or discussing, the way he dealt with his kids and their questions, I appreciated the way he explained concepts both basic and complex in a way that non-philosophers could understand, and he managed to be entertaining all along. Some of his witticisms did cause me to react audibly. There’s a good deal of so-called common sense mixed in with the profound as well—always nice to see for a layman like myself.
This book is a strange alchemy of parenting advice (even if largely given by example rather than by precept), Philosophy 101, and humor. It works so well that it’s hard to explain. I can only hope there’s a sequel or three as Hank and Rex age.
All in all, I heartily recommend this for parents, people who want to get a start in philosophy but aren’t sure where (and don’t want to admit that to anyone), and others. The print version might be nice for easy reference, but the audiobook format is a real winner.
The Tainted Cup by Robert Jackson Bennett
adventurous
challenging
dark
funny
mysterious
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
5.0
This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s The Tainted Cup About?
This is a Mystery/Detective novel set in a Fantasy world. But to say that almost diminishes it. This is a Fantasy world you’re not used to seeing—well, I’m not anyway, you might be better read in the genre than I am. At the core of the mystery story are tropes, characters, motives, and twists that anyone familiar with that genre will recognize and resonate with. Combining the two genres here only serves to make them better.
The instigating event is the murder of a significant, but not hugely important, military figure on an estate of one of the most powerful and rich families in the Empire. That’s enough to get the official investigator, Ana Dolabra, and her assistant, Dinios Kol, involved. When you add in the cause of death—a clutch of trees erupted from the Commander’s chest—well, that’s definitely going to get some official notice. And quickly put you in a Fantasy world. Feel free to read that cause of death a couple of times, it’s still not going to make sense.
There’s just so much to talk about with The Tainted Cup—I’m going to talk about some of the best parts of this book as you would an Oreo cookie. The Mystery part is the creamy center (at least a Double Stuff in this case), and then the crispy cookie halves of the World Building/Setting and the Science of this World.
The Mystery
I already wrote a section below that quibbles with the official description, and I feel bad about doing that twice (am I risking future NetGalley approvals by this?), but I have to. It starts off by saying, “A Holmes and Watson–style detective duo.” You can maybe stretch things and call Ana Dolabra a Holmes-type character. Maybe. But outside of being the first-person narrator, there is nothing Dr. Watson-esque about Dinios Kol. I do not know if Bennett is a Rex Stout/Nero Wolfe reader. I suspect he is, though, because Dolabra and Kol are firmly in the Nero Wolfe/Archie Goodwin mold. (there are other versions of this duo, Pentecost and Parker and Jake and the Fatman spring to mind, but there are others).
I mention this because I think the duo of Wolfe and Archie is one of the greatest achievements in Detective Fiction, and will joyously talk at length about them at length at any opportunity. Bennett using these types at the center of this book almost automatically guaranteed that I’m going to enjoy it. Particularly if he does it successfully. And, boy howdy, does he.
Ana Dolabra is a brilliant and eccentric figure. Our Nero Wolfe. She can be pressed into politeness with enough reason, but on the whole, she’s blunt, crass, and solely focused on things that interest her. For a variety of reasons, Ana rarely leaves her quarters, instead, she has clues, interviewees, and suspects brought to her (and frequently, those she reports to, too). More than once she brings suspects and interview subjects together to question and/or to reveal a solution, putting on a show for others.
She has a new assistant, Dinios Kol, to serve as her eyes and ears in the outside world—and to bring back those bits of the world she needs to do her work. Thanks to a special augmentation, he has a perfect and permanent memory and will remember entire conversations and things he sees perfectly, with the ability to describe them to the detail Ana needs. He looks at crime scenes, records, bodies, etc. for her, conducts initial interviews with witnesses and experts, and so on. He also seems to do his best to keep her interactions with others at socially-appropriate levels (although this is a challenge). If this isn’t Archie Goodwin to a T.
They’ve been working together for a while now—mostly on fraud cases. This is their first murder case—and they wrap it up quickly and efficiently. Except, Ana is pretty sure that this murder will be linked to others—something more than murder is afoot here, she’s certain. And she’s right. (I assume this is almost always the case—Dinios certainly does)
Soon, she and her assistant are assigned to help in the investigation in a nearby city where several others have been killed in the same way. Dinios is partnered up with an experienced Assistant Investigator, Capt. Tazi Miljin, who does some on-the-job training and mentoring while working the case.
Soon, they determine that this isn’t just a murder case—nor is it several connected murder cases, there is something much bigger going on. Something that puts an entire city—possibly the entire Empire—at risk.
The World
I don’t know that I want to get too in-depth here, because the discovery of it all* is part of the magic of this book.
* And by “all,” I mean all that Bennett is going to share with us in this book—there’s much more to learn in books to come.
We find ourselves in a minor city in an Empire at the beginning of the novel before we move to a larger city, a major center of military importance. We don’t know a lot about this Empire—it’s centuries old, there are civic religions/cults but we see very few true adherents, and many people are cynical about the government. But it doesn’t matter—they need the Empire to keep them alive. So they push on.
The military isn’t focused on other nations/city-states/bands of roving mercenaries or outside human threats (although they do take the time to focus on bands of deserters). Instead, they’re focused on the seas. Each year, during the rainy season, monstrously large sea creatures they dub Leviathans (both think and don’t think about other Leviathans you’ve come across—other than large, water-bound, and scary) attempt to come ashore and snack on humans, cattle, whatever.
Places like Talagray, where we spend most of the novel, exist to maintain the wall between sea and land—leviathan and Empire—it’s a massive wall (massive in a way I cannot get across to you) with the occasional weapons mounted to attack the leviathan. I saw Talagray as sort of Jackson’s vision of Minas Tirith, but flattened to one elevation. I’m not sure if that’s what Bennet was going for, but that’s what my mind saw. Maybe a little muddier.
While the local canton is concerned with the murders, naturally, their primary concern during this season is the maintenance of the wall. Some of these murders have threatened the integrity of the wall in important ways, threatening all of Talagray. As important as solving the murder is—stopping further murders and therefore preventing further damage to the wall is far more important. Also…they probably have something special in store for anyone who’d risk the wall in any way.
The Science
I’m disagreeing a bit here with the official description—so take my observation with a grain of salt (but I stand by it). There’s no magic in this Fantasy novel—which, sure, happens sometimes. But it’s still strange and notable.
What this novel does have is “sufficiently advanced technology [which] is indistinguishable from magic.” It’s not often that I get to apply Clarke’s Third Law this way, but it works. This is a very technological society, but nothing we’d recognize, really. There are no circuits anywhere, no electricity…horses and carts are the primary means of transportation for those who are going too far or need to go too quickly to walk. But they practice all sorts of engineering feats, genetic manipulation, medical marvels, and so on.
The source of their raw materials? The Leviathans that threaten them all. When these Leviathans die/are killed, the Empire’s scientists harvest blood, tissue, and bone for all sorts of things to accomplish the above. Leviathan bone is difficult to shape, but it results in tools and swords that are beyond the strength and endurance of metal. Tissues can be manipulated and applied to humans to extend their abilities (augmenting strength, enabling them to have memories that are like eidetic memory to the nth power, control of their pheromones to alter the behavior of those around them, and so on).
Especially when it comes to the abilities that some of these people have, or the freakish contamination that the murderer is using, in a Fantasy book featuring people on horseback using swords, this looks like magic. But it ain’t. It’s just a kind of science that’s sufficiently advanced that 21st-century Western Readers can’t distinguish. And I love that. Bennett does such a convincing and thorough job of describing this (without getting mired in the details) that it just comes alive and you believe it all—and want to learn more about it.
So, what did I think about The Tainted Cup?
My reflex reaction ought to be, I want more of the detective-y stuff. How could I not? That’s my default genre, Ana is a fantastic character, Dinios at work is so much fun, and the pair of them being new incarnations of Wolfe and Archie. But when you add in the world-building, the intrigue and politics, and all the cool science-y bits? I wouldn’t have it any other way. You need all of it to make something this good. And it really does—each section above would probably earn 4 stars or so from me. But when you put them together, the accumulated score has to be at least 5.
Also, all the other stuff in the book distracts from a couple of the problems with the mystery story. These aren’t significant problems by any means, but at one point Ana reveals that Person X is Person Y, and her assistants are shocked and amazed. I assumed everyone realized that as soon as Person Y was introduced and described. For it to take umpteen chapters for everyone to catch up astounded me (am pretty sure Ana was as fast as me, for the record). The other thing that I’d consider a problem, I won’t get into for spoiler-reasons, but I was distracted enough that I didn’t see it until the reveal. Also, it’s the kind of thing that Rex Stout himself would do, so I’m never going to complain about it. Mostly, because it worked really well for the story, so who cares?
Regular readers may have noted that I haven’t spent that much time talking about the characters. I chose not to for time/space reasons. If I focused on writing about Ana, Dinios, and Miljin alone—I’d double the length of this post. If I included every major character I want to talk about? I’d triple the length. No one wants to read me going on that long. So I’ll sum it up by saying that his characters are just as good and developed (and strange) as everything else I’ve talked about.
Bennett doesn’t show a lot of flair in this writing. It has almost none of Elmore’s “Hooptedoodle”—although he violates a lot of Elmore’s other rules (and does so for the betterment of the novel). This is a description, not a criticism, you’re not going to be wowed with his style. He doesn’t need that. The descriptions of characters, structures, and monsters are so vivid, so detailed you have no problem seeing exactly what he wants you to see (with just enough room for the reader’s imagination). The action scenes are well-executed. The descriptions of the trees growing from outside of a person are as disturbing as they should be. There are flashes of humor, flashes of hope and optimism in both the characters and the story—but it’s all in the shadow of the imminent threat posed by the Leviathans and weakened walls. So there’s a strong “The World May Be Ending Tomorrow if not Tonight” feel throughout. I was under the spell of the narration and story from early on.
I didn’t set out to rave about this book. I was going to enthusiastically recommend it, but as I started to put my notes into some sort of order and write, I discovered that I really needed and wanted to rave about this. Fantasy fans are really going to get into this. Mystery/Detective Fiction fans who aren’t afraid to play in other worlds are going to go nuts over this. And I want to read the next book in the series today. But I’m willing to be patient—The Tainted Cup won’t even be published for 26 days. So I won’t start complaining about the delay in getting the next volume for 90 days (that seems fair).
Go place your orders or library holds now.