Tag Archives: book reviews

Plantagenet Princess, Tudor Queen: The Story of Elizabeth of York

Written by Samantha Wilcoxson

Published by CreateSpace

Review by Charlie Britten

4quills

 

Elizabeth of York, daughter of Yorkist Edward IV of England, was married to Henry VIII, a Lancastrian, in 1486, as a peace-offering, following the Wars of the Roses.  The Plantagenet Princess, Tudor Queen (published August 2015) chronicles Elizabeth’s life, from six years old until her death aged thirty-seven, after having borne Henry eight children, five of whom predeceased her, including the last, baby Katherine Tutor, to whom Elizabeth had given birth nine days previously.  Elizabeth lived in turbulent times.  She grew up amidst constant internecine war, battles, hostage-taking, rebellions and political executions – the stuff of Shakespeare’s history plays – and King Henry, whose claim to the throne was tenuous, was under constant threat of insurrection.  Her mother, Elizabeth Woodville, whom she called ‘Lady Mother’, was a social climber and the canniest political schemer of her age; she carried on plotting for the Yorkists long after her daughter had become queen, until she was sent away to Bermondsey Abbey – and even that didn’t stop her.  Elizabeth of York’s brothers were the Princes in the Tower, murdered – allegedly – by King Richard III, although, according to Wilcoxson, Elizabeth had a brief fling with Richard prior to her marriage and never could believe in Richard’s guilt.  (I suspect the author herself of being a Richard III-er.)  So, lots and lots of conflict here, and great potential for a sensational blockbuster.

This, however, was not Samantha Wilcoxson’s style.  The Plantagenet Princess, Tudor Queen is a biography, not a novel and not Hollywood fodder.  Wilcoxson did her research well in that she managed to get under the skin of the age, how people thought and behaved, particularly women.  The fifteenth century was an overtly religious age, a Catholic age.  Wilcoxson never demurred from showing us how Elizabeth, her ladies and her sisters, prayed in every situation, kneeling before an altar in church, before they took any practical action, even as a substitute for practical action.  The author enters into the expectations of fifteenth century women, having Elizabeth’s sister, Cecily, say, in so many words, that she wanted to know who she was to marry and could Henry please let her know.  Elizabeth has to make some compromises, the biggest concerning her simple-minded cousin being a prisoner in the Tower.  Wilcoxson shows Elizabeth, who was known not to be interested in politics, to be ladylike in an old fashioned sense, a devoted wife and mother.

Wilcoxson does not attempt to write the dialogue in Tudor English; if she had, the book would have been very difficult to read, although she might have thrown we readers a passing contemporary word or phrase.  Instead, she wrote the whole biography in modern idiomatic American English, including Merriam-Webster spellings and words such as ‘fall’ and ‘normalcy’ (ouch!).  ‘Autumn’ and ‘normality’ would have been much more appropriate for the biography of an English queen. 

My other issue is Wilcoxon’s unusual perspective on child development.  Whereas one appreciates that children behaved and thought differently in the fifteenth century, Elizabeth’s appreciation of the political situation at the age of six is not believable, nor is her recourse to prayer at that age, whatever may have been written by chroniclers and other primary sources This misunderstanding manifested itself throughout the book, in three year old’s Arthur’s regal bearing during his investiture as Prince of Wales, for instance.

Overall, however, I recommend this biography, of an important, but overlooked, character in English history. 

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Charlie Britten has contributed to FictionAtWorkThe Short Humour SiteMslexiaLinnet’s WingsCafeLit, and Radgepacket.  She writes because she loves doing it and belongs to two British online writing communities.

All Charlie’s work is based in reality, with a strong human interest element.  Although much of her work is humorous, she has also written serious fiction, about the 7/7 Bombings in London and attitudes to education before the Second World War.

Charlie Britten lives in southern England with her husband and cat.  In real life, she is an IT lecturer at a college of further education.

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Sudden Death

Written by Álvaro Enrigue

Translated by Natasha Wimmer
Published by Riverbed Books

Review by Cynthia C. Scott

5 quills
 
 
 
Novelist Álvaro Enrigue returns with his fifth novel Sudden Death in a new English translation by Natasha Wimmer. Published in Spain in 2013, it won the 31st Herralde Novel Prize for its monumental yet intimate examinations about the cultural and political revolutions that swept through Europe and the New World during the Counter-Reformation. Considered among a distinguished list of Mexican writers that include Enrique Vila-Matas, Javier Marías, Juan Villoro, and Roberto Bolaño, Enrigue was awarded the Joaquín Mortiz Prize for his 1996 debut novel La muerte de un instalador, which was also named one of the key novels in Mexico in the twenty-first century. His novels, which also include Hipotermia and Vidas perpediculares, are experimental treatises on the disjointed, unreliable nature of narrative. Sudden Death follows in that same vein.
 
Sudden Death features a dizzying cast of historical figures that includes Caravaggio, Spanish poet Francisco de Quevedo, Hernán Cortéz and his Mayan translator and lover Malitzen (La Malinche), Galileo, and many others. However it’s central conceit revolves around a tennis match between the Lombard artist and the poet and how its outcome will change the course of history. While that might seem a bit hyperbolic, it cannot be overstated that Caravaggio, whose monumental works include The Martyrdom of St. Matthew and The Calling of St. Matthew, did revolutionize painting, giving birth to modern art with his bold use of light and naturalism, and bridging the Mannerism and the Baroque movements in Europe. Yet Caravaggio’s scandalous and often violent personal life (he fled Italy in 1606 after being sentenced to death for killing a young man) and his visionary work are fitting analogies for the cultural and political upheavals unfolding during the Counter-Reformation.
 
The Caravaggio and de Quevedo we meet are crude and sexually adventurous men whose creative energies move off the pages and the canvasses into their personal lives. Caravaggio is still a struggling artist who makes a living by playing tennis matches for bets and commissioned artwork for Cardinal Francesco Del Monte and banking heir Vincenzo Giustiniani. De Quevedo’s friend the Duke of Osuna, who shares the poet’s readiness for “insatiable urges,” was the catalyst for their flight to Italy after the Duke’s three separate scandalous trials. There, in Rome, both artists engage in a battle of tennis, wits, and sexual tension. Watching and betting on the matches are another circle of players which include two of Caravagggio’s lovers, Galileo and Mary Magdalene––a prostitute model who is featured in Martha and Mary Magdalene––as well as back alley drunkards, gamblers, and louts. Enrigue describes the scenes with an eye for satire. “He recognized them: [Mary Magdalene’s breasts] were, of course, the most defiant pair of tits in the history of art.”
 
The match itself would be compelling and absurdly funny on its own, but Enrigue ties the fates of the two men to the larger world canvas. The tennis ball they use during the matches is made out of the hair shorn from the severed head of Anne Boleyn, one of four of “the most luxurious sporting equipment of the Renaissance.” A scapular de Quevedo wears under his clothes was woven from the hairs of the last Aztec emperor who was tortured and ordered executed by Cortéz during his brutal conquest of the Americas. Through this and other objet d’art Enrigue is able to spin his tale outward in sketches, segments, and excerpts from other works, crossing both time and space to introduce historical characters and the political, cultural, and religious movements that shaped the modern world. 
 
Aside from Caravaggio and de Quevedo, Cortéz and Malitzen, whose schemes lead to the destruction of the Aztec empire, the bishop who uses Thomas More’s satirical novel Utopia as a guide to build New Spain, and Francesco Maria del Monte who would become Pope Pius IV form the other compelling tales in the novel. In the middle of it all is the author himself, acting as literary curator archiving Boleyn’s balls, Caravaggio’s art, sixteenth century Spanish dictionaries on the rules and nomenclature of tennis, and other historical objects that breathe life into the past. As the novel progresses, collecting more characters, artifacts, and memories, Enrigue returns to the tennis match to balance out his many diversions. 
 
Natasha Wimmer, who translated Bolaño’s work, does an excellent job in retaining the playfulness in Enrigue’s prose, creating in English a lament that never fails to illuminate the author’s intent: 
 
The rest of infinite America still had no inkling that over the next two hundred years, dozens of thousand-year old cultures that had flourished in isolation, without contamination or means of defense, would inexorably be trashed. Not that it matters: nothing matters. Species are extinguished, children leave home, friends turn up with impossible girlfriends, cultures disappear, languages are one day no longer spoken; those who survive convince themselves that they were the most fit.
 
It would be easy to reduce Sudden Death to a story about the destruction that precedes the rise and collapse of empires and cultures, but the novel is much more than that. Its real purpose is to question narratives, both historical and fictional. As Enrigue writes with an air of resignation and uncertainty, “I don’t know what this book is about. I know that as I wrote it I was angry because the bad guys always win.” In the end, he concludes that “[t]he honest thing is to relay my doubts and let the conversation move one step forward: the readers may know better.” And that is where the heart of the novel rests: its trust in readers.
 
As an historical novel, Sudden Death is a deeply ruminative and wickedly absurd examination of art and history that deserves your attention. It will leave you wondering about narrative, the stories we choose to tell, and how they shape our understanding of the modern world. 
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Cynthia C. Scott is a freelance writer whose fiction, reviews, and essays have appeared in Hakai Magazine, Graze Magazine, Flyleaf Journal, eFiction, Rain Taxi, Bright Lights Film Journal, Strange Horizon, and others. She’s a lifelong resident of the San Francisco Bay Area.

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A Place in the World

Written by Cinda Crabbe Mackinnon

Published by Virtual Bookworm

Review by Charlie Britten

3quills

 

Born to American parents working in the diplomatic service, Alicia Collier has never felt sufficiently settled in any one place to call it home. The nearest she comes to it is during her teenage years in Bogota, Columbia, so, when she has to move back to the US, to university in Virginia, she falls for the only Latino around, Jorge Carvallo. At the first opportunity, Alicia rushes back to Columbia, believing Jorge’s vague promise of a job in tropical biology at Bogota University, only to find that no such post exists and that, in that continent, women’s careers are considered not to be important. Alicia and Jorge, now married and expecting a baby, move to a remote coffee plantation, Las Nubes, on the edge of the rainforest, which Jorge is supposed to manage for the family business. At first all is well, but, with the responsibilities of parenthood and financial problems caused by volcanic ash (ceniza) suffocating the coffee plants, Jorge becomes restless, setting off on a Che Guevera motorbike trip. Alicia, on the other hand, cannot bear to leave the coffee plantation, because at last she’s found somewhere she belongs.

A Place in the World encompasses the late 1960s through to the end of the twentieth century. The story arc is straightforward, albeit understated against a backdrop of volcanic eruptions, bandits, narcos, wild animals and, above all, the ever present danger of getting lost in the rainforest. Many things might have happened yet didn’t; the author, who is herself an American environmental scientist, did not go in for hype or thrills. This is a very honest novel, which seeks to chronicle a young woman’s battle with old fashioned social attitudes and male waywardness, her battle to keep the plantation going, against the elements and accepted ways of working which went against what she understood about ecology. Viewed negatively, you could say that this is a story about an American woman who came to sort out the backward Latinos, but that view would have to be balanced against Alicia’s love of all things South American and her acceptance of indigenous people and their way of life. I read this book because, with my son is currently in Columbia, I wanted to get the feel of Latin America and Cinda Crabbe Mackinnon did just that.

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Charlie Britten has contributed to FictionAtWorkThe Short Humour SiteMslexiaLinnet’s WingsCafeLit, and Radgepacket.  She writes because she loves doing it and belongs to two British online writing communities.

All Charlie’s work is based in reality, with a strong human interest element.  Although much of her work is humorous, she has also written serious fiction, about the 7/7 Bombings in London and attitudes to education before the Second World War.

Charlie Britten lives in southern England with her husband and cat.  In real life, she is an IT lecturer at a college of further education.

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The Photographer’s Wife

Written by Nick Alexander

Published by Bigfib Books

Review by Charlie Britten

3quills

 

Sophie, a struggling fashion photographer, is organising a retrospective of the work of her late father, Anthony Marsden, a famous art photographer of the Swinging Sixties. Her problem is winning the cooperation of her grumpy and withdrawn mother, Barbara, who has stashed much of his work away in her attic. What Sophie doesn’t appreciate is that Barbara has withheld the many painful truths about her father, his photography, his companions and events in Sophie’s own childhood. As she pig-headedly digs out the photos she needs, Sophie is too wrapped up in her own sanitised version of her Anthony Marsden, art photography icon, and her ghastly boyfriend, Brett, with his puerile sexual preferences, to be aware of what she is revealing, or to care about the pain she is making Barbara relive.

The storyline is well-executed, with hooks and twists skilfully planted, building up to a gradual, and believable, reveal, even though, at times, Nick Alexander found it necessary to ‘tell’, rather than show, the reader exactly what is going on. Being a child during the London Blitz has made Barbara emotionally resilient, but with low aspirations. All she wanted was a man who could provide for her, and a family, not all the baggage of the Swinging Sixties. When complications and aspirations came her way through Tony Marsden, she dealt with them all phlegmatically, his inadequacies as a man, a husband and as a photographer. Of course, Barbara is the real hero of this story, but she is not an attractive character, nor is Sophie, a supercilious art snob. Brett is repulsive, Tony irritating and predictable, and none of the other characters won me over. Even though each character is well drawn, well understood by the author and distinct from each other, it is difficult to enjoy a book when you can’t warm to anyone on the page.

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Charlie Britten has contributed to FictionAtWorkThe Short Humour SiteMslexiaLinnet’s WingsCafeLit, and Radgepacket.  She writes because she loves doing it and belongs to two British online writing communities.

All Charlie’s work is based in reality, with a strong human interest element.  Although much of her work is humorous, she has also written serious fiction, about the 7/7 Bombings in London and attitudes to education before the Second World War.

Charlie Britten lives in southern England with her husband and cat.  In real life, she is an IT lecturer at a college of further education.

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Battle Lines: A Graphic History of the Civil War

Written by Jonathan Fetter-Vorm and Ari Kelman

214 pages

Published by Hill and Wang

Review by Brian Burmeister

5 quills

 

One hundred and fifty years after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, the President’s legacy and the Civil War itself continue to fascinate our nation. As Battle Lines points out in its preface: more books have been written about the Civil War than days have transpired since its end. (Some 10,000 more, in fact.) Amidst so much information about that era, how then can a book stand out as remarkable?

By encompassing a wide section of time and a wide range of issues, graphic novelist Jonathan Fetter-Vorm and historian Ari Kelman have created a text which gives life and meaning to the years surrounding the American Civil War. Instead of just a history, Battle Lines gives us the stories of people’s daily lives, challenges, and hopes for the future.

Organized in 15 chapters, the book closely examines specific moments in time, ranging from the years leading up to the War through the years immediately after. To assist with grounding the reader in the realities of each moment, every chapter begins with the front page of a newspaper. Through the mechanism of these introductions, the reader is given the necessary context for the stories that follow. From these clippings, one learns of the political climate and the war efforts—all valuable information to set the stage for the stories at the heart of Battle Lines. Whereas the newspaper introductions focus on the major moments, the major players, the events and the people school children are taught about in classrooms all across the U.S., the focus of each chapter is on the War’s unsung heroes and forgotten villains, the everyday people who lived during this difficult chapter for America.

I was greatly impressed with the care Fetter-Vorm and Kelman took in being as true as possible to history. Inspired by surviving photographs, letters, and objects, the stories in Battle Lines hope to be as true to life as possible and, as the authors write in their introduction, “These . . . are the faces of the war. These are the stories behind the statistics.” These stories are compelling, powerful, and moving. They highlight that the War was many things to many people. We see stories of women’s roles as nurses at the front lines. We see the class struggles that erupted into violence in New York City. We see slaves escaping in the night after the announcement of the Emancipation Proclamation. Through the book’s 15 chapters we see a fine representation of the issues of the time (during the buildup to the War, the War itself, and the Reconstruction), issues that affected different regions, different races, different genders. The book gives voice to the voiceless: forgotten figures of our past, whose powerful stories show us that the Civil War was as complicated as it was deadly.

While the realities of the war were violent and gruesome, Fetter-Vorm does a wonderful job establishing the grim realities of war, including the tragic loss of life and limb, without overwhelming the reader with unpalatable levels of gore. This balance was masterfully done; while one might call the art in Battle Lines a PG-13 version of the horrors of war, one cannot read Battle Lineswithout feeling the Civil War was one of the most heartbreaking eras of the American story.

In general, the art itself is beautiful. Despite the comic nature, each drawing is realistic, giving each person unique attributes and clear emotions. Additionally, the simple, muted color palate gives each chapter a feeling of unity, as well as a somber tone.

Battle Lines is an absorbing, attractive, and haunting book. For anyone with a strong desire to learn more about the Civil War, or anyone looking for a graphic history with real heart, I simply cannot recommend the book enough.

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Brian Burmeister (@bdburmeister) is Program Chair of English and Communication at Ashford University. He is an ongoing contributor to the Sport Literature Association and Cleaver Magazine.

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Kettle Bottom

Written by Diane Gilliam Fisher

Published by Perugia Press, Florence, MA

Review by Carole Mertz

5 quills

 

In her chapbook of fifty weighty poems, most of which are prose poems, Diane Gilliam Fisher gives us the bleak history of coal miners’ lives and travails during the period of the West Virginian miners’ wars of 1920-21.

Most commendable in this collection is the ring of authenticity in the poet’s voice and the way she has captured the slang and often grammatically ill-constructed sentences of the coal-mining poor, voices which carry a poetry of their own. None of the lines are rhymed, and Fisher employs few poetical devices, but her eloquent tone is present throughout.

In “Ironing,” we read:

I does it. All the rest, too, I ain’t white— 

 scrub the clothes when they dirty, 

 feed the children when they hungry, comb 

 the cinders out of they heads when the train 

 blast by, spewing like a devil out of the hind end 

of Hell…

A miner speaks in “The Rocks Down Here”: First hour of every shift down in the mine, / shakes and cold sweats worse’n the grippe / that near took me last spring. / Past that, I begin to feel easy-like, / moving through the dark.

In poem after poem, Fisher, who, perhaps ironically, holds an advanced degree in Romance Languages and Literature, captures precisely the sparse language and poetry of the miners, their wives, and children. A young girl speaks in the poem, “Pearlie Asks Her Mama What Poontang Means .” 

Mama says to don’t tell Daddy, for he

would have to go after them men that spoke

to me that way, and God only knows 

what would happen then…

them men has put murder in my heart.

Looking back, we can appreciate the astounding contributions these struggling, overworked, undervalued and blackened miners handed to our country. They carved out of the earth the energy source the U.S. needed to continue its industrial sprouting and feed its steamships and steam-operated rail lines; they delivered this energy, almost mutely, out of the sweat of their coal-darkened bodies, with little reward for themselves.

A sixth grader reports in the poem “What History Means to Me:”

“…before we was West Virginia and was only the Endless / Mountains of Virginia. [Aunt Mandy] has put it to me like this. First / the railroads come and lots of  fancy pants forriners trying / to buy up ever little creek and holler and home place they set / their thieving eyes on. Then the timber men come, took the / oak and yellow poplar, wrecked the rivers and left. Collieries / come and stayed, but the coal and the money went. What it / means to us is a lot of dead husbands and caved-in bellies…” 

Each poem in this collection moved me. But the composite created an impression not soon forgotten. In “1920, Winco Coal Camp,” we witness a three-fold loss.

My third-eldest brother, Robert Warren, went in 

the mine at sixteen. We’d buried Daddy three days before,

right next to Alma, for even though Daddy had sold 

mineral rights to Stone Mountain Coal, he would not

sign till they wrote in the paper how we’d always 

have use of the burying ground. The Company 

told Mama it was a kettle bottom took Daddy. They say

that a lot—kettle bottom, they figure, ain’t nobody’s fault. 

They give Robert Warren Daddy’s tools, and his number,

  1. Put him to work in the same room. Roof 

sounded hollow, Robert Warren said, but he couldn’t see 

where no kettle bottom had fell through. He had twelve

days in the hole when his section caved. Company says

couldn’t nobody have lived, says they can’t go in 

for the bodies without risking more men…

Fisher organizes her poems carefully. They lead us to the miners’ breaking point. In reaction to  the “gun thugs,” as the miners called the agents sent to enforce company policy and spy out any union activity, violence erupted and became the Matewan Massacre of May, 1920. Men on both sides of the struggle were killed.

The miners eventually contributed to unionized power, after the severe test of the Battle of Blair Mountain. In that confrontation, the men ultimately chose not to fight against uniformed government soldiers with whom, side-by-side and wearing the same uniform, they’d so recently fought in the First World War. (The United Mine Workers of America, begun in 1890 in Columbus, Ohio, did not achieve collective bargaining rights for its workers, however, until 1933, nor health benefits until 1946.)

In “One Voice,” the poet draws on a pastor’s sermon, to strong effect:

Did not John the Baptist

say unto the people, Let him who hath two coats 

impart unto him that hath none? Any operators

stop you on your way to church this morning

and impart? Any of you leave a child

at home, on account of it wasn’t their turn

with the coat?

“Raven Light,” one of the most powerful poems in the collection, also uses a Biblical excerpt. A miner reflects, “When I was a boy, I liked the story of Jonah. / He done right, I thought. If God / meant to send him to a evil place, / why shouldn’t he get on a boat / and head the other way? I bet Nineveh / was run by folks like Stone Mountain Coal…”

A schoolgirl tries not to defy in “A Book Report, by Pearlie Webb”:

“First off, I do not understand what a book report is for . It   

 seems to me books is to read , and it is the author’s job to 

 write . Second off, I do not believe being extra smart, as you 

 said I am and that is why I have to write this book report, 

 should mean a person has got to do extra work. But I was   

 not raised in a barn, my mama has taught me do not sass, 

so I will write my book report as I am told.”

A lively oral history of the life of miners exists and is carried through time by the spoken word and song. Fisher’s sad, but beautiful, poems deserve to be read aloud and thereby contribute to that precious oral tradition. As a history, Kettle Bottom is commendable; as a book of poetry, it deserves to be treasured in its own right.

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Carole Mertz has reviews and essays in Arc Poetry Magazine, Ascent Aspirations, Copperfield Review, The Conium Review, Capper’s, Mom Egg Review, Tiny Lights Journal, Working Writer, and World Literature Today. Her poems appeared in Every Day Poems, Page & Spine, Rockford Review, WestWard Quarterly, and in various anthologies. Her poem won the June 2015 Wilda Morris Poetry Challenge. Carole trusts the power of the pen to influence, in large ways or small, the direction our country takes today. She writes in Parma, Ohio.

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The Old Boys: The Decline and Rise of the Public School

Written by David Turner

Published by Yale Press

Review by Charlie Britten

2quills

 

Every British schoolboy or schoolgirl is desperate to go to boarding school at some time in their life, tantalised by Enid Blyton’s Mallory Towers series (girls), Anthony Buckeridge’s Jennings series (boys) and more recently by Harry Potter (both sexes). The Old Boys, published in March 2015 and written by David Turner, former education correspondent for the Financial Times, is not about ‘jolly japes’, but a very serious, thorough and well-researched account of the British public school system from the very first such establishment – Winchester College, founded in 1394 – to the present day.

Winchester, like many public schools that followed it, started out with charitable intentions, as a free educational facility for boys from poor families, subsidised by commoners who did pay fees. Of course, the commoners rapidly overtook the non-fee payers in numbers and in status, with the result that, within a hundred years, public schools had become the place where arrivistes with money but without noble status or connections could purchase the latter, alongside a classical education. The Old Boys chronicles riots by boys, bullying and poor accommodation. Many of the problems which beset schools today were present from the beginning: huge class sizes, with teachers frequently asked to supervise two classes at once; the standard of teaching on offer being so poor that parents hire extra tutors; well-connected parents making a nuisance of themselves to teachers until their darlings were awarded better grades.

Although Turner’s work includes a lot of fascinating information, backed up by excellent primary sources, his treatment of the topic is disorganised and off-putting. The book starts in an uninviting way, with some long captions to illustrations, which don’t have much meaning as the illustrations are not displayed with them. Chapters are very long and, although the book attempts to tell the story of British public schools in chronological order, rather than by topic, the result is meandering. For instance, the reader is amidst a discussion of the impact of sport on the curriculum when suddenly we move on to homosexuality. Turner does not discuss girls’ public schools in any great detail, but that is not the brief he set himself.

Although The Old Boys has been promoted for the ‘general interest’ genre, it is, in truth, one for academic historians.

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Charlie Britten is a contributing reviewer for The Copperfield Review.

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The Cunning Man: A Hippo Yeoman Anthology

Written by John Yeoman

Published by Amazon

Review by Charlie Britten

3quills

 

Published in December 2014, The Cunning Man is a collection of historical crime stories featuring the impoverished Elizabethan apothecary, Hippo Yeoman, whose sideline is solving mysteries. The crimes he is required to solve include the theft of a bowl from a locked room which it is ‘impossible’ to enter, the plight of a milliner faced with ruin because she can’t read Latin, vandalism of books and a dead man found in a privy built for the personal use of Good Queen Bess in anticipation of a Royal Visit which never happens. The writer moves Hippo around sixteenth century London with the sort of assurance that is based upon sound research, and occasionally brings some real people into his plots, including William Camden, headmaster of Westminster School and author, and well-known courtiers.

It is curious that the main character has the same surname as the pen-name of the author, John Yeoman. (I gather from his website that this is not his real name.) I didn’t warm to the protagonist Hippo Yeoman. He isn’t smug or a know-it-all (as detectives can be) or have other obvious vices, except a tendency to whinge, especially about his poverty. The problem is more that his character is not clearly defined, with the result that I didn’t get to know him.

Hippo also appears in two novels, Dream of Darkness and Fear of Evil (both published in January 2015) and in another short story, “The Hog Lane Murders” (published in February 2015). As well as being there for the reading, these works, which John Yeoman calls ‘fictionals’, include footnotes hyperlinked to what he calls ‘clever tips’ – for writers – about how they were written. Each story has about twenty such footnotes, all of which are easily accessed using my classic Kindle, although obviously this sort of interactivity would be no use on a printed version. The ‘tips’ provided by John Yeoman, who runs the writing website ‘Writers Village’, are pitched at a beginners/improvers level and often appear to reflect his personal opinion, as in, for instance, ‘Humour is a dangerous thing. Too many one liners and the author leaps out of the story, grinning at us…’ Although many of the footnotes are insightful, his approach to writing is mechanistic, with lots of named tools such as ‘The Indispensable Incident’ and ‘a character signature’, which could lead those following his tips to write technically correct literature bogged down in technicalities. Nevertheless it’s a clever idea and good use of multimedia.

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 Charlie Britten is a contributing reviewer for The Copperfield Review.

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The Amber Keeper

Written by Freda Lightfoot

Published by Amazon Publishing (Lake Union Imprint)

Review by Charlie Britten

 3quills

Millie’s life changed forever in 1911, when she became governess to Countess Olga Belinsky’s children.   One of the most evil characters ever to appear between book covers, a woman who refused to breastfeed her howling, newborn baby, Countess Belinsky defines this novel.   Sexually voracious, manipulative, spiteful, greedy and self-serving, I believe that Freda Lightfoot created her as an allegory for everything that was wrong in Imperial Russia.   Her husband, Count Vasily, on the other hand, was a sweet, public-spirited man, in the mould of Levin in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina.

This is a novel with two settings and two casts of characters, one featuring Millie in St Petersburg during the Russian Revolution, and the other Millie’s granddaughter, Abigail, in the English Lake District in 1963.   The Russian thread was as harsh and unrelenting as the steppe, with the workers’ anger bubbling beneath the veneer of tinkling sleigh-bells and fur-lined hats.   By contrast, Abigail’s was about her making peace with her family, after having eloped with a French chef – family saga stuff, much gentler.   However, despite a tinny transistor playing Please, Please Me in chapter one, this reader didn’t pick up a 1960s feel.

Freda Lightfoot has written over forty family sagas and historical novels, featuring northern England during the first half of the twentieth century.   This was the first one set outside her own country, but it was thoroughly researched, including details like St Petersburg tram drivers refusing to permit the poorer people to board their vehicles because they assumed they were drunk all the time.   Although the Tsar and Tsarina became real when the Belinskys referred to them as Nicky and Alix, Freda’s accounts of the course of the Revolution were too long and factual, often leaving her characters as onlookers.

The Amber Keeper title is enigmatic.   Is it to remind the reader of the Amber Room in the Hermitage in St Petersburg, or of Abigail designing and selling jewellery?  But, as the novel progresses, the amber connection is revealed, closing the gap between Millie’s story and Abigail’s.   Countess Belinsky’s nastiness pervades to the very end.

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Charlie Britten has contributed to  Every Day FictionMslexiaLinnet’s WingsCafeLit, and Radgepacket. She has also written a couple of book reviews for Copperfield Review. She writes because she loves doing it.

All Charlie’s work is based in reality, with a strong human interest element.  Although much of her work is humorous, she has also written serious fiction, about the 7/7 Bombings in London and attitudes to education before the Second World War. Charlie lives in southern England with her husband and cat. In real life, she is an IT lecturer at a college of further education. Charlie’s blog, ‘Write On’, is at  http://charliebritten.wordpress.com/.

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The Paying Guests

Written by Sarah Waters

Published by Riverhead

Review by Michelle Pretorius

4quills

 

 

In the tradition of her earlier historical works, such as Tipping the Velvet and The Night Watch, Sarah Waters’s latest novel, The Paying Guests, scrutinizes the British class system and the treatment and restrictions placed on women, especially lesbians. Waters gives the reader a claustrophobic view of daily life in 1922 London, a city whose population is still reeling from the devastating effects of World War I. We experience this world through the eyes of Frances Wray, a twenty-six-year-old “upper-class” spinster. Frances and her mother are left almost penniless after the death of her father, who had made a number of ill-advised investments, and are forced to take in lodgers, referred to as paying guests, in order to make ends meet.

A section of the house is converted into an apartment and a working-class couple, Leonard and Lillian Barber, move into the Wray home. Frances and her mother are painfully aware of the Barbers’ presence, noting every creak and social taboo, seeing it as an invasion they must endure in order to survive. Waters humorously conveys the discomfort of both classes in their confined environment while highlighting the superficial deference that the status of the upper class confers. The characters are grounded in the period by vivid details and nuanced speech patterns, with which Waters expertly illuminates their different experiences in British society.

A friendship develops between Frances and Lillian. The two women spend time together during the day while Leonard, a clerk, is at work and Mrs. Wray volunteers at church. Lillian and Leonard’s marriage is not a happy one, and the cracks soon become visible to Frances. She is also aware of her growing physical attraction to Lillian. It is only after Frances reveals her past love affair with a woman that Lillian reciprocates these feelings. Waters is known for her frank portrayal of lesbian sex, but, far from being gratuitous, the explicit scenes in The Paying Guests aid in the depiction of two people who are in love and who face overwhelming odds because of their gender and sexual orientation.

Lillian discovers she is pregnant just as the two lovers decide to break away from their constrictive circumstances to start a life together. The pregnancy sets a chain of events in motion, culminating in a trial that puts the two women’s continued relationship in doubt. Through the descriptions of the criminal investigation and court proceedings, Waters holds a mirror up to current sensationalism while delivering an engrossing glimpse into the machinations of the criminal justice system in Britain at the time.

Waters mercilessly tightens the screws on her two main characters at every turn, placing the implications of their love in this time period under a magnifying glass. The Paying Guests is an engrossing read that makes us conscious of how far the equal rights movement has come and of the freedoms we too often take for granted.

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Michelle Pretorius was born and raised in South Africa and has lived in London, New York and the Midwest. She holds an MFA from Columbia College Chicago and is currently a PhD candidate in Creative Writing at Ohio University.

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The Tudor Vendetta

02_the_tudor_vendetta-1Written by C.W. Gortner

Published by St. Martin’s Griffin

Review by Meredith Allard

4quills

 

I have only recently come to a fascination with an historical subject that have held many history buffs spellbound for years—Tudor England. Blame it on Hilary Mantel and her brilliant Thomas Cromwell Trilogy, or blame it on the television show The Tudors which I began watching one slow Saturday afternoon. Whatever you blame, the truth is I am now quite interested in the sly doings and undoings of King Henry VIII and his offspring. I even made a special trip to the Tower of London on my last trip to London to see one of the locales for myself.

The Tudor Vendetta is the first book I’ve read from C.W. Gortner’s The Elizabeth I Spymaster Chronicles though it is actually the third book in the series. The fact that I hadn’t read the first two books in the series wasn’t a hindrance and I was able to follow the story very easily. In fact, I think I might go back and read the first two books. If you want to start at book one in the series then you should, but if you want to start with The Tudor Vendetta as I did, you’ll find that Gortner provides enough backstory so that you’re able to follow along.

Gortner has a knack for historical detail as well as character development. Brendon is certainly a devoted spy for Elizabeth I as he searches for the missing Lady Parry. He is extremely loyal as intrigue strikes the young queen’s court and a certain secret surfaces. While the history is an important part of the story, readers will not be surprised to discover that some poetic license was taken in the telling of this tale.

At times thoughtful, at times a fast-paced page turner, The Tudor Vendetta is a wonderful story for anyone who loves a good Tudor-based historical novel. Actually, I don’t think an interest in the Tudor period is necessary. There is enough action, historical detail, and interesting characters to keep anyone who loves fiction guessing what happens next.

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 Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review.

 

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The Poisoned Pilgrim

Written by Oliver Poetzsch

496 Pages

Published by Mariner Books

Review by Carole Mertz

4quills

 

The Poisoned Pilgrim is the fourth volume in Poetzsch’s Hangman’s Daughter Series. The book depicts for citizens of the twenty-first century the duties of a seventeenth century hangman, a kind of counterpart to the chief-of-police in a contemporary town. (A seventeenth century hangman is feared, but not entirely respected, and deemed a member of a lower class of society.)

Poetzsch’s hangman is, nevertheless, a man of character and imagination, while his daughter Magdalena is determined, impetuous, and curious, characteristics which lead her into serious difficulties. She and her husband Simon, the Schongau “bathhouse surgeon,” have left their home to undertake a pilgrimage. They travel by foot from Schongau in southern Bavaria toward Lake Ammer. After crossing the lake in a small boat, they arrive in the mountainous forest beneath the Andechs Monastery during a violent thunderstorm. They wish to give thanks in the Monastery for the safety and well-being of their two young children, left at home with The Hangman.

When a robbery occurs, most of the pilgrims are unaware of the stir this causes among the monks and the abbot. An unexplained murder also occurs in the Prologue, but readers must wait many pages for its explanation.

I loved the unraveling of this rather complicated tale. I loved the glimpses it offered of life in an earlier century, within the Bavarian territory where I had once resided. (I’m a classical musician. Events similar to those recorded in this novel, I mused, may have occurred at a time when Bach, or his mentor Buxtehude, were instructing organ students in German towns not far distant from Andechs.)

A brief history of Baroque music composed in an era contemporaneous to the actions of this novel, describes the following, “To this tradition (i.e. of composing chorale preludes and fugues) must be added the instinctive German love of order, manifested still today in so many aspects of German life.” The substance of The Poisoned Pilgrim reflects that love of order.

It is Jacob Kuisl, the protagonist, who ultimately solves the murders which occur, and who ardently strives to protect his offspring. It is noteworthy that Poetzsch is himself a descendant of the Kuisl family.

Another area of interest drew me to this particular novel, i.e., the author’s references to Salzburg University. I learned the University formally opened as a Benedictine institution in 1622. The contemporary Salzburg University had not reopened as a theological center until two years past the year when I was a music student in that town.

The author’s descriptions of the territory rang true for me as did the sometimes crude manner of speaking in some of the dialogue exchanges, similar perhaps to the down-to-earth speech employed by Luther in his “Table Talk.” For example, the Schongau Hangman hurls this speech at his three-year-old grandson: “Damn it! Keep your dirty paws away from my sacred crucibles before I send you back to bed without breakfast.” We wonder how we can accept this hangman as one of the heroes in this tale, but later we witness his great love for this child.

Since the Andechs Monastery still exists, and since this location is the area of Poetzsch’s upbringing, we may well trust his descriptions of the environs. Furthermore, as evidence of his diligent research, Poetzsch modeled his chronicle on Willibald Mathaeser’s Andechser Chronik. Mathaeser was a cellarer at the Monastery for years and steeped himself in the history of the Monastery.

Visitors still make pilgrimages to the Monastery. However their desire for the double bock beer brewed in the Andechs Tavern since 1455 and still served today in the Monastery gardens, may overpower their desire to pray in the chapel.

Though I jumped in media res (by starting with the fourth volume of the series), I now plan to read the entire series. The current volume is translated by Lee Chadeayne, editor in chief of the American Literary Translators Association (ALTA) Newsletter.

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Carole Mertz has published reviews in The Conium ReviewThe Long Ridge Writers WebsiteThe Christian Communicator, and at Page and Spine. Her chapter on writing tips was selected for inclusion in the forthcoming Writing after Retirement, Carol Smallwood and Christine Redman-Waldeyer, Editors, (Scarecrow Press). Recently Mertz won recognition in the 4th Worldwide Intergenerational Storytelling Contest.

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Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking

Written by Susan Cain

Published by Broadway Books

Review by Meredith Allard

5quills

After I read Quiet, I wanted to shout ‘I’m an introvert!’ from the tallest building, but then the buildings around here aren’t very tall and I’m an introvert so I wouldn’t have shouted very loudly anyway. The shout would have been a whimper, and then I would have been upset with myself for not yelling louder. After a sigh, I gave up on the idea and went back into my house where I could be alone, which is where I wanted to be in the first place.

I had heard the terms ‘introvert’ and ‘extrovert’ many times over the years, and I understood that along those lines I fell on the introvert side of the spectrum. Like most writers, I’d rather be home behind my computer screen writing stories, blog posts, or reviews like these than doing almost anything else. In regards to degrees of introversion, I am in extremis. I’m not dying from introversion, mind you, but I’m so far there that if you pushed me I’d drop away never to be seen or heard from again.

In Quiet, Susan Cain pleads the case for introverts like myself by using examples and research, and she shows how introverts have made many contributions to society in areas like technology and entertainment. She points out what is obvious but should be stated in a book about introverts: we live in a society where extroversion is idealized and rewarded whereas introversion is discouraged and not rewarded. Cain points to the current trend toward group or cooperative work, and then she says something I’ve been longing to hear for 20 years: group work is inherently difficult for introverts. I know this is true from frequent workshops where the directions are “Turn to your neighbor and say…” or “Form a group of four and create a…” I’m not an unfriendly person, truly. But, as Cain points out, introverts cannot think on demand. Group leaders who are trying to teach are doing an injustice to introverts by insisting that their lessons consist of talking it out. Like other introverts, I don’t learn by talking, especially to strangers. I learn by figuring it out for myself. I realized in grad school as we sat around the table discussing great works of literature that I didn’t know how to insert myself into the conversation, and the thought that I should interject somehow left me more stressed than I already was.

Each page of Quiet was an “A ha!” moment for me. One of the biggest lessons I learned is that the societal push toward extroversion isn’t always a good thing. It turns out that 1/3 of people are introverts, people like me who would rather read or write than go to parties or speak out about anything anywhere. When Cain talks about how introverts need time to recharge because being in the world can drain their energy, my heart swelled—in a good way. Here Cain describes what I have always known about myself but never had the words to articulate. For my entire life I thought I was just weird. I’m not saying I’m not weird, I’m just saying I’m weird for other reasons. Why I chose the careers I did, why I live my life as I do—it all makes sense to me in a way it didn’t before I read Quiet. I had spent most of my life feeling bad about myself, feeling like I should force myself to be more social, but this book helped me realize that if I get my jollies staying home and working around the house, that’s okay. I still need to function in the world, but I can take the time I need to recharge.

Introverts will always have to deal with the negatives—being considered anti-social, being told to smile more, listening to the comments after you stay in your office because you need to recharge instead of going out for a noisy lunch with coworkers. Reading Quiet gave me the ability to say, “I don’t have to be like them. I can be myself.” What better gift can a book give?

If you’re an introvert, or you’re in a close relationship with one, you will want to read Quiet for its perceptive insights about being an introvert in an extroverted society.

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Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review.

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Bellman and Black

Written by Diane Setterfield

Published by Simon and Schuster

ARC courtesy of NetGalley

Review by Meredith Allard

4quills

 

I should begin by saying that I haven’t read author Diane Setterfield’s New York Times bestselling novel The Thirteenth Tale so I had no expectations about reading Bellman & Black based on the success of her previous novel. Bellman & Black is a book about death, the whole death, and nothing but death, so help you God. It starts with the death of a rook, which a young William Bellman kills to show off in front of his friends. Let’s just say rooks hold grudges.

Many others die in the story too. William’s family dies. Those around William die. William grows into an intense man who works, works, works, and has time or care for little else. After his wife’s death, with his only remaining child close to death, William cuts a deal with a mysterious “man” he calls Black. Afterwards, William feels compelled to create an emporium for mourning—a Wal-Mart for Funeral Necessities, you might call it. Known as Bellman and Black, the mourning emporium becomes successful (since we’re all going to die after all). William thinks he has cut a deal to preserve his daughter’s life. In the end, William learns that it wasn’t a deal for his daughter’s life after all.

I love Diane Setterfield’s exquisite writing style. She has a fluidity and dexterity with the language that I feel is missing from many present day authors. She is both straightforward and poetic, and it’s from the sheer power of her writing alone that I give the book four stars. The character of William Bellman, on which the success or failure of this novel depends, begins in an interesting way but grows stagnant somewhere along the line. He watches people die and throws himself into his work, work, work with minimal emotion, which leaves minimal emotion for the reader to connect to. I kept waiting for something to happen in the story that didn’t depend on someone’s death, but when death is the theme of the novel such waiting is useless. The “ghost” in this story is Black, who isn’t a man after all. Like I said, rooks hold grudges. In the world Setterfield creates in Bellman & Black, I wonder how murderers of people would be haunted throughout their lives if this is how William is haunted after his childhood mistake? I’m not advocating killing birds by any stretch. I love God’s creatures great and small. I’m simply saying that in the scheme of things, I wonder how much of a crime the young William Bellman committed.

And yet, I finished the book, which must say something for the power of Setterman’s prose. I kept reading, pulled steadily through by Setterman, hoping for a change in William Bellman, hoping he would finally learn to connect with his daughter, hoping he would finally have the courage to live, though none of those things came to pass.  I realized I had to take the story as it was instead of what I wanted it to be, and as it was I loved Setterman’s writing.

If you’re looking for a story with a distinct plot and characters you feel emotion for and connect to, Bellman & Black may not be the story for you. If you want to read a beautifully written, lyrical, haunting novel and you’re interested in simply going along for the ride wherever the story takes you, then you may enjoy Bellman & Black. I am taken enough with Setterman’s prose that I will go back and read her previous novel, The Thirteenth Tale.

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Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review.

 

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The Book Thief

Written by Markus Zusak

Published by Alfred A. Knopf

Review by Meredith Allard

5 quills

 

I don’t know how I missed reading Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief in the years since its publication. I had heard of it, but you know how it is. Too many books, too little time. Then a couple of weeks ago I saw a preview for the movie version starring one of my favorite actors, Geoffrey Rush, so I picked up a copy. I’m glad I did.

The Book Thief is a hard story to absorb, as a story set in Nazi Germany should be. It should be hard to absorb the cruelty human beings are capable of. Young Liesel Meminger moves into the home of Hans and Rosa Hubermann, her new foster parents, and despite the harsh reality of the Hubermann’s poverty and the problems they face living in Hitler’s Germany, Liesel learns what it means to love and be loved. When her foster parents hide a young Jewish man in their basement—at great personal risk to themselves—Liesel forms an unbreakable bond with the young man. She finds some solace stealing books from everywhere from a graveside to the Mayor’s wife, and she learns the positive, and negative, power of words.

There’s so much I loved about this book. I loved that Liesel wasn’t a perfect character, and she didn’t always think perfect thoughts or take perfect actions. Beyond her struggles, she learns to love her foster mother Rosa Hubermann, whose hard exterior protects a heart of gold. She adores Hans Hubermann, her foster father, whose extraordinary acts of kindness make him a favorite of everyone he encounters, with the interesting exception of his own son. I loved the connection Liesel made with Max, the young Jewish man her foster parents hide in the basement, and I loved Liesel’s courage, putting herself at risk to show her solidarity with her Jewish friend. I kept putting myself in Liesel’s shoes, wondering how I would have reacted in each situation (though since I have a Jewish mother I would have been hiding in the basement alongside Max, that is, if I was fortunate enough to find some selfless people like the Hubermanns).

At one point I had to skim ahead to find out what became of my favorite character, and I never do that since I like to watch the story unfold the way it’s written. For whatever reason, the suspense was too much and I had to know what happened. My nosiness didn’t stop my enjoyment of the book; in fact, the narrator of The Book Thief (“Death”) often gives hints of what’s to come without spoiling the effect of the story.

I understand why Markus Zusak has won so many literary awards. His writing in The Book Thief is both funny and poignant, and his use of metaphorical language is perfect at painting pictures with words. I have already bought two more of his novels, and I’m looking forward to reading his new books as they’re released. And now that I’ve read the The Book Thief, I can see the movie.

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Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review.

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The Unknown Shore

Written by Patrick O’Brian

Published by W.W. Norton

Review by Scott Archer Jones

3quills

 

The Unknown Shore is the predecessor volume to the Aubrey/Maturin books that dominated O’Brian’s career, and is a lively book by a young author first working out his voice and his big themes.

The aficionado of O’Brian’s books (that focused on the Royal Navy during the Napoleonic Wars) will absolutely wallow in the details of this story, seeing characters, quirks, details, and ideas that will be resorted and reused in the coming series. For instance, a variation on Stephen Maturin named Tobias Barrow, though decidedly English, takes his place as the second protagonist – a genius of a naturalist whose friends describe him as a socially inept “ugly cove.”

From an author’s perspective, O’Brian is somewhat loose with point of view, and continues the turn-of-the-last-century, Henry-Jamesian preference of narration over action for perhaps half the book. Some will find this old-fashionedly charming and some will find it weak. The most compelling chunks of the novel appear as action based sequences spiced by dialogue. There is a remarkable and unbelievable ability for the characters to become fluent first in Indian, then in Spanish, and last in French – not just in pidgin, but in at a level of subtle comprehension. Finally, O’Brian’s syntax is occasionally so clotted that you have to re-read a sentence three times – he should have “killed his darlings.”

The novel is well worth reading on its own as a stand-alone. In the beginning the book has a charming tongue-in-cheek attitude towards its characters, and then shifts into dedicated drama written in a mature powerful voice. During the chapters of hardship and deprivation, starvation and debasement, O’Brain made me so hungry I was forced to get up three times and make toast. The book is strongest from midpoint until two chapters from the end, then falls into a sense of epilogue. In spite of the unevenness, The Unknown Shore is well worth reading, even if you are not acquainted with the grown-up O’Brian – it is quite superior to many of the books in the genre, including most of the Hornblower novels.

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Scott Archer Jones is currently living and working on his fifth novel in northern New Mexico, after stints in the Netherlands, Scotland and Norway plus less exotic locations. He’s worked for a power company, grocers, a lumberyard, an energy company (for a very long time), and a winery.

A new writer, he has been a finalist but not a winner too many times, published in enough places to get cocky, been rejected enough to be humbled. He is on the masthead at the Prague Review.

Scott cuts all his own firewood, lives a mile from his nearest neighbor and writes grant applications for the community. He is the Treasurer of Shuter Library of Angel Fire, a private 501.C3, and desperately needs your money to keep the doors open.

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Mrs. Poe

Written by Lynn Cullen

Published by Gallery Books

Review by Meredith Allard

ARC courtesy of NetGalley

4quills

 

 

I am a fan of Edgar Allan Poe’s work, and I have enjoyed the mysterious stories from his dark imaginings. I never knew much about Poe’s life beyond the few paragraphs of a biography you find in textbooks. The loss of his mother at a young age, his troubled relationship with his foster father, the fact that he married his 13 year-old first cousin, his problems with alcohol—that is the stuff of Poe legend. I had not heard of Frances Osgood, though I am certainly familiar with her poem “Puss in Boots.” It has been alleged that Poe and Osgood had an affair, and though most scholars dismiss the idea as rumor, Mrs. Poe author Lynn Cullen has played the old “What if?” game. What if Poe and Osgood did have an affair? How might that have happened?

Cullen paints a colorful picture of New York City in the 1840s. The literary scene was vibrant then, with soirees featuring such notables as Walt Whitman, Louisa May Alcott, Rufus Griswold, and famed photographer Matthew Brady. As Mrs. Poe begins, Poe has catapulted to the top of the literary ladder after the stunning success of “The Raven.” Everyone everywhere seems to have read the poem, and Poe—now a literary rock star—is asked about the poem wherever he turns, much to his annoyance. Poe and Osgood (a poet of some repute herself) run into each other through their literary associations, and in time fall in love. The story follows Poe and Osgood through their ill-fated love affair, along with some unfortunate meddling from someone close to Poe.

In Mrs. Poe, Cullen accomplished something important—it kept me turning pages. I was interested in reading about Poe since I know so little about him. I had no idea that Poe was such a celebrity in his day. I really didn’t know he was so admired by the ladies. Poe has never struck me as a hottie, but tastes have changed over time, I suppose.

I enjoyed the look into the New York literary society of the 1840s. I enjoyed reading about Poe and gaining a (fictionalized) sense of who he was as a person. If you take this novel for what it is—historical fiction—and you’re interested in Poe, then give Mrs. Poe a try. Mrs. Poe is an entertaining tale with interesting characters, a vibrant locale, a good dose of romance, and even some intrigue, which is what an historical novel should be.

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Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review.

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The Ruin

Written by John Sawney

Published by Fireship Press LLC

Review by Tracey Skeine

4quills

 

Synopsis from Amazon:

It is the fifth century AD, in the former Roman colony of Britannia, where civilization has all but disappeared. Some vestiges of the old infrastructure remain in the urban south, but the west and north are wild and lawless. Plague sweeps through the entire country, leaving thousands dead in its wake. Eiteol, a cloddish and apathetic nobleman, saves the dictator Vertigern from an assassination attempt. The two go on the run, and as time goes on Eiteol finds himself called upon to do things he finds more and more morally repugnant. Deep down he knows that Vertigern is a monster, and that he should walk away, but for reasons he does not understand he finds himself bound to the man whose life he has saved. Their flight takes them into the barbarous west—where money has no value, the law has no power and murder is a daily reality—and they are forced to look for shelter in a country that is falling apart around them.

Review:

Years ago I read a historical novel about post-Roman Britain, and I enjoyed it enough that I was drawn to read The Ruin by John Sawney. I’m glad I did. I’ve had an interest in Roman influences in Britain, having been to Bath in England, and Sawney’s novel covers that period with well-researched details. It is interesting to read about how lawless certain parts of Britain became after Rome, and it reminds me of certain recent events—the London riots being one. While the setting of this story is historical, it is surprisingly modern in its observations about human nature, which is what good historical fiction does—point out the similarities between then and now. Everyone has ambitions, and everyone has to make choices. What will happen between Vertigern and Eiteol? How will the anarchy surrounding them affect them? Who is in charge when no one is in charge? You will need to read The Ruin to find out.

I would recommend The Ruin to those with an interest in Rome’s influence in Britain and early British history.

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Tracey Skeine received her B.A. degree in English Literature in June 2012. She is still working on her first novel set in Caesar’s Rome.

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Wolf Hall

Written by Hilary Mantel

Published by Macmillan

Review by Meredith Allard

5quills

 

 

When I was younger, I could fall head first into books and forget the real world around me. I remember when I was in the fifth grade and I was sitting under the awning at the lunch tables while the other kids were running across the blacktop playground during recess. A teacher, with the very best of intentions, asked me if I wouldn’t rather be out with the others. I answered, “No, thank you,” and turned back to my book. As I grew older, life got in the way of reading. I still love to read above all else, but now, as an adult, there’s always something lingering somewhere—bills, errands, and everything else in the world—and I can’t seem to lose myself in reading the way I used to.

Enter Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. I had just watched a marathon of Showtime’s The Tudors over the course of a month, and I was more familiar with Henry VIII’s story than I was before. I bought a copy of Mantel’s novel, the first in her Thomas Cromwell Trilogy, because I spotted the locket-sized picture of Good King Henry staring, somewhat slyly, from the O in the title on the cover. Mantel brings a fascinating angle to the oft-told Tudor tale by telling the story from Thomas Cromwell’s point of view. Cromwell accomplished what no man before him had—he was a commoner who rose to an important position in the kingdom, right-hand man to the king himself. From the first paragraph of the first page of Wolf Hall, I was sucked into the story in a way I hadn’t been able to lose myself in a book in years. Mantel does what is most difficult in historical fiction yet most necessary—she weaves the historical research seamlessly into the saga so that the narrative doesn’t read like a story/then research/then more story like historical fiction sometimes can. I was transported to 16th century England, with all its reformations and intrigues, a time when a book of British baby boy names had five names in it and three of them were Thomas.

The funny thing is, I found myself picturing James Frain as I read Wolf Hall, which is what happens to me when I watch a television show before reading a book about the same character. With all due respect to Thomas Cromwell, James Frain is far better looking; although, to be fair, I suppose Thomas Cromwell was better looking (spoiler alert!) with his head than without it. But we’re not there yet in Wolf Hall. In this first book in the Thomas Cromwell Trilogy, we end with Henry’s much-fought-for union with Anne Boleyn. Tudor fans already know Thomas Cromwell’s unfortunate fate. The captivating part is the journey as Mantel’s expert storytelling leads us there.

I bought the second book in Mantel’s trilogy, Bring Up the Bodies, when I was halfway through Wolf Hall. I’m already looking forward to it.

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Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review.

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