Truth is, I'm still in my pajamas feeling a little dazed and somehow violated. My inner psyche feels bruised like a bell that's just been rung.
It is as tTruth is, I'm still in my pajamas feeling a little dazed and somehow violated. My inner psyche feels bruised like a bell that's just been rung.
It is as though I am an instrument that's just been played by the most gifted of all musicians.
Deeply felt and profoundly intimate My Dark Vanessa is as stunning as it is courageous.
There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting; It’s luring me on as of old; Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting So much as finding the gold. It’s the grThere’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting; It’s luring me on as of old; Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting So much as finding the gold. It’s the great, big, broad land ‘way up yonder, It’s the forests where silence has lease; It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder, It’s the stillness that fills me with peace. Robert Service
This book got me to thinking about why I read and at times it would seem I have as many answers as there are moments to consider them.. For me I guess it all began when I was a child. Back then I read to escape. To slip silently, unnoticed, away from the here and now.
Well now
Kristin Hannah took me to Alaska and I loved every moment I spent with her, within The Great Alone.
As the story opens we meet the Allbright family. Leni is but thirteen in 1974 when her father Ernt comes home with one of his bright idea smiles and tells them he has been left a parcel of land from a deceased war buddy. The land is in Alaska. Leni’s parents share a passionate, tumultuous relationship. But her father Ernt has not been the same since his return, from the Vietnam War. These days he is always on edge, always bristling; he drank too much and had bad nightmares. The worst part was how quickly he angered, and how often he angered. Without the slightest provocation, especially when he drank, which he did, often. But Ernt is convinced that things will be better in Alaska, the last frontier, free from the daily demands of civilization, free to live off the land and enjoy nature’s bounty.
I have lived in Ontario’s north country, well at least as far north as any road would take you at that time. An isolated post, the government called it. From there we flew further north still, into the native reserves and the magnificent, spell binding, haunting, silent beauty of the north land. Breathtaking and oh so deadly. I have laid under the summer stars and stood frozen, blinded by the winter landscape, kidnapped by the northern lights. Captive and amazed. Even now words fail me. Still I was seriously way south of places like Alaska.
It is really hard to put my finger on the magic that Hannah has created here but I’m going to try and I guess the best place to start is with her characters. I was first introduced to Hannah’s ability to flesh out characters when I read The Nightingale, so I should not have been so surprised at the talent on display here. Her people, the good and the bad, come alive on these pages and fixed themselves firmly in my minds eye. I loved Large Marge and was so positively crushed by Leni’s father Ernt that I found myself forgetting to breath when he was around. And there are more, not the least of which is Leni herself, bound by circumstance to a harsh, resplendent world and an untenable future. Both captivated by and victim to this unrelenting and unforgiving land and her parent’s toxic relationship.
I find myself thinking of Alaska as one her characters, it is such a big part of this story and Hannah’s ability to take me there both baffles and astounds. There is no one passage I find myself wanting to share to further demonstrate this skill, no it doesn’t lie in one or even a handful of passages. It is just there, hidden almost, behind every word, carved out over time and painted with slow, vivid strokes; cut on the very edge of the often lethal, always brutal and delicate artistry of nature’s awesome bounty and sweeping, panoramic vistas.
Oh my. I am far less than equal to the task of relating the awesome power of this novel. You will not want to miss it.
Wow, respect.
Five fully captivated stars.
Pssssssssssssssst As an added bonus Hannah had me pulling Robert Service (talk about an ode to the North) off my bookshelves and once again exploring his spells of the Yukon and other musings. It was like visiting with an old and trusted friend, one that helped inform my own poetic coming of age. Priceless!...more
Songs carry memories almost as reliably and poignantly as smells. (all the chapters are named after songs)
Max is in the winter of Five Luminous Stars
Songs carry memories almost as reliably and poignantly as smells. (all the chapters are named after songs)
Max is in the winter of his years and for the majority of them he has carried a secret guilt, a burden of shame, that will not be gone. It has manifested itself onto him in most peculiar ways.
There was a mannequin standing at the centre of my grandfather’s overgrown garden, a life-size male with black hair and hopeful blue eyes. He was dressed in a black suit, a white shirt and black shoes. The elements and birds had reduced him and his clothes to a forlorn forsaken state.
These days Max keeps lists of memories, more protection from ever forgetting, more fuel for the fire that stokes the flames of guilt that have consumed him all of his adult life.
Max’s guilt dates back to when he was twelve and living in Paris in the days just leading up to the Nazi occupation. He was then best friends and inseparable from a Jewish girl called Ada. They spent most of their time in Ada’s tree house where they taught each other spells and copied each one down meticulously in their book, which of course was kept hidden from all prying eyes but their own.
On any other day, in any other place, at any other time in history Max’s small act, not an act at all really, more of an unact, though mean and hurtful, would not have carried such a heavy weight. But it was not any other day.
Much time has passed and Max realizes that in order to keep the memory of Ada alive, he must share his story, his secret shame, with his grandson Mark.
But Mark has a shame all his own and harbours fears that are debilitating, reductive and have resulted in more loss than life.
It is not always possible to know which, if any, of my grandfather’s stories were actually true so when he told me about Ada and their book of spells, I could not tell if it was just a story or an actual memory.
Honestly for such a small book, that could be read in a few short hours, if you did not feel the need to go back and read again some of the beautiful, haunting passages that evoke such a visceral response; this one packs a lot of story into very few pages.
It was less the soldiers and more the enormous Nazi flags draped over buildings which brought home how altered reality was. The most immediate effect of the red and white flag with the black swastika was one of unfriendliness. It made the familiar look unreal. Like waking up into a dream. It seemed to steal one’s memories. Steal the substance from everything it presided over. The sight of it always made me feel a bit dizzy as if I was filled with hot air.
It has already made it to my must read again list.
And soon, when I can slow down, chew and savour every respectful word. I cannot believe I just said that about a novel about the Holocaust, but it’s true.
Highly recommended! A Must Read. Thank you Katie.
As always, my thanks to Cheyne Walk, NetGalley and Glenn Haybittle for an opportunity to read and review this book....more
Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind. Rudyard Kipling
When I was born, the name for what I was did not exist. They called me ny
Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind. Rudyard Kipling
When I was born, the name for what I was did not exist. They called me nymph, assuming I would be like my mother and aunts and cousins. Least of the lesser goddesses, our powers were so modest they could scarcely ensure our eternities. We spoke to fish and nurtured flowers, coaxed drops from the clouds or salt from the waves. That word, nymph, paced out the length and breadth of our futures. In our language, it means not just goddess, but bride.
I was first held captive by Madeline Miller’s voice a couple of years ago when I had the good fortune of reading The Song of Achilles. I knew then that I wanted to hear that voice again.
As legend has it, Circe, due to her wilful ways, is banished by her father Helios ( Titan god of the sun) and confined by his will to the island of Aiaia.
The next morning I stepped into my father’s chariot and we lurched into the dark sky without a word. The air blew past us; night receded at every turning of the wheels. I looked over the side, trying to track the rivers and seas, the shadowed valleys, but we were going too fast, and I recognized nothing. What island is it? My father did not answer, his jaw was set, his lips bled pale with anger. My old burns were aching from standing so close to him. I closed my eyes. The lands streamed by and the wind ran across my skin. I imagined pitching over that golden rail into the open air below. It would feel good, I thought, before I hit. We landed with a jolt, I opened my eyes to see a high, soft hill, thick with grass. My father stared straight ahead. I felt a sudden urge to fall on my knees and beg him to take me back, but instead I forced myself to step down onto the ground. The moment my foot touched, he and his chariot were gone.
But Circe did not wilt within her exile, she explored her new island prison, honed her art of witchcraft; employing the islands flora and fauna and fungi to fuel her burgeoning powers. She learned to live alone and in harmony with the islands abundant wildlife. Then one day, while tending her garden, she hears a voice and sees a young man leaning against her house. It is the Olympian god, Hermes, emissary and messenger of the gods. He will not be the last god or mortal to visit these shores.
I am not ashamed to admit I was completely swept away by this tale, by Circe’s coming of age, her tales of family feuds and rivaling gods. Circe’s is a tale of love and loss and discovery, of learning the art of restraint, of celebrating life and embracing her inner strength. I found myself rooting for her every step of the way despite her many flaws, like the fact that she transformed Odysseus’s men to pigs.
Honestly I have never read anything like this. Madeline Miller not only held me captive but had me thirsting for more knowledge of the Olympian gods and Titans alike, not to mention the mortals, those Greek heroes, and their many monsters like Scylla and Charybdis. I cannot believe she has left me wanting to read The Odyssey. How else will I ever slake this thirst?
Oh and yes, Madeline, I most assuredly do want to hear your voice again. Please.
My sincere thanks to Pamela Brown and Lee Boudreaux Books, Little Brown and Company for this advanced readers copy. My god I loved it!
And just like that Taylor Brown knocks it out of the park.
The machine started at dusk, headlights slashing their way down the old switchbacks
BOOM!
And just like that Taylor Brown knocks it out of the park.
The machine started at dusk, headlights slashing their way down the old switchbacks that ribbed the mountain’s slopes, thunder and echo of thunder vaulting through the ridges and hollers on every side. The road sawed down out of high country, angling against valleys welled with darkness, past ridges hewn by dynamite, at times following the pale sinews of logging roads that lashed these hills half a century before. It poured ever east, the motor thrumming long miles through the darkening country of the foothills, the machine leaving in its wake a ghost of dust that settled on mailboxes and ranging cattle and tobacco fields already reaped. The road fell and fell again , surrendering to the speed of the machine, the fire of the engine, while stars wheeled out over the land.
The machine is a retrofitted 40s Ford coupe. It is 1952 and Rory, recently returned from the Korean war, well most of him anyway, is making a run down Howl Mountain in North Carolina.
The first chapter of this story held my breath captive for such long intervals that I was left gasping for air. Seriously it grabbed me by the throat and sat me down in that machine as we roared down Howl Mountain. There I was with Rory, ever descending, as our destination loomed ever closer. End -of-the-road, they called it.
Then I met Granny May.
And there I was, just another fickle reader.
Most the folk in these hills knew Granny May. They knew where to go if they needed a potion or a brew, a poultice, a sweet smoke or what a young woman might need were she caught frisky and unprotected.
Granny May had paid her dues in these hills, she knew what they needed; where and how to get it. But dont let all these healing ways lull you into thinking her soft.. She is not and believe me, her love is fierce. Rory is her grandson.
Let me tell you Brown connected me to these two characters, so completely and with such seeming ease that I, myself became shocked at the depth of my feeling for them. It was like I, well, just got them, you know, understood these people I had never met, understood and acknowledged their plight.
And don't even get me started on the spiritual. Not in these hills. Just add God, a fervent preacher, a rattlesnake or three and stir.
A spirit tree. Multicolored glass bottles, too many to count, dangled from the branches on tied strings. The evils come skulking over the far hills, out of the lightless hollers and dry wells - the bottles captured such spirits. Contained them. Kept them out of the house, out of her grandson’s dreams and heart. When the wind came sawing across the meadow, you could hear them moaning in their bottles, trapped. The spirits were mean, she thought, but they weren’t very smart.
Since returning from Korea, things have not been easy or particularly welcoming for Rory. He does what he can and must do to make ends meet here in these hills. But there are those not so kind to anyone with a handicap. Especially a whore’s son.
Shhhh, I had me a little crush on Eli.
Woot! Woot! Woot!
Coming soon to a bookstore near you. (Mar 20, 2018) Don’t miss it.
My thanks to St. Martin’s Press, Netgalley and Taylor Brown for the opportunity to read and review this book....more
In the Southern Mississippi swamp you can watch the world awaken as the pale yellow sun edges itse
Despair: the complete loss or absence of hope.
In the Southern Mississippi swamp you can watch the world awaken as the pale yellow sun edges itself between the trees and moss and widewinged cranes. Dragonflies buzz and racoons come out of their dens and crawl along fallen trees. Turtles situate themselves onto stumps that will later become sunsoaked and hidden things slide beneath black water with murderous patience and skill. Limbs too old to hold themselves up any longer bend and break like old men accepting their marshy graves. Reptiles slither and blackbirds cry as the early light slashes and relieves the deep and quiet night.
This is the land that Russell is remembering. He has just been released after serving 11 years for vehicular manslaughter. He has done his time, and is all too aware that others will not consider his debt paid. His nerves thrum as the wheels turn and the bus brings him ever closer to his fate.
This is also the land, upon whose roads Maben is trudging, seeking refuge with her young daughter Annalee in tow, fleeing an unimaginable, horrific past. Their future looks pretty grim.
Sometimes you just know when you start a new story that it is going to pluck you from the here and now and take you away. Michael Farris Smith did just that. He had me from the first page with this haunting and gritty, hard scrabble tale, that has left its indelible stain upon me. On the dust cover the prose is described as muscular and I like that, it fits. Muscular and lyrical and raw; it pulls and digs and takes root within, as you read this searing, relentless search for survival and redemption.
The title and cover are spot on and get a full WOOT for curb appeal.
My thanks to Zoeytron for putting this one on my radar and my daughter Arah-Leah for loaning me her beautiful, hardcover edition.
Five indelibly bright stars!
MIS SIS SIPPI: Does anyone else remember spelling this out in singsong or am I more likely, wearing my age on my sleeve?...more
What is it about Anthony Horowitz’s writing that sets me to thinking about books and my love of them? Of course if I am thinking about books it is What is it about Anthony Horowitz’s writing that sets me to thinking about books and my love of them? Of course if I am thinking about books it is typically the physical representation of such that consumes my thoughts. I mean it’s something I look for and take comfort in when I am visiting someone else’s home. I have books in practically every room of my house. I love to leave them lying about, because come on they are beautiful and evocative of past explorations or they lay basking in the glow of impassioned anticipation. I mean I even have kept a copy of White Oleander on my shelves. It is in absolutely horrific shape, whoever had it before it came into my hands was not kind or mindful. Still, Fitch’s prose is so beautiful, so unforgettable, that I still go back and sneak a peek every now again and usually when I do, I find myself thinking that I really need to buy a better copy of this work. Still I hold on to my well thumbed, dog-eared, decrepit and mysteriously stained and abused book that I first read.
Books add warmth and depth and I take comfort in their company and the ever changing displays of them that litter my home. But even I have to acknowledge all the benefits of today’s E readers. I am often compelled to have a book right away, even when I know I may not get to it for a while. I love knowing that it is right there, easily available when I am ready. Digital makes that so easy and fast and compact. I have hundreds of books on a device that takes up less room than one hard copy. And I can read it anywhere at any time of day or night, regardless of lighting and it travels like a true champion. Oh my goodness I do love books, in all shapes, styles and configurations.
I have a soft trade copy of Magpie Murders, with a black and red cover and ruffled pages. It lay itself wide open for my reading pleasure throughout. I love that! In this story Horowitz pays homage to Agatha Christie and his work is brilliant. It is the kind of story that you know right from the get go that you can settle into and get comfortable. All will be revealed in due course. It is actually two mysteries, one nested into another and even though I was annoyed and impatient when I got pulled away from Atticus Pund, I soon found myself lost in another story and equally reluctant to let go. And Horowitz delivers on both counts and had me more than once turning back the pages and scratching my head. I loved it!
This book and I have a history. I first saw it some time ago on NetGalley and requested it immediately. Sadly I was denied but not deterred. I keptThis book and I have a history. I first saw it some time ago on NetGalley and requested it immediately. Sadly I was denied but not deterred. I kept looking, hoping for a publisher that would favour me. So that didn’t happen and then one day I saw it on the start reading shelf and snagged it in a heartbeat.
And then I sat down at last to read it and discovered to my horror that it was only a sampler.. Talk about !@#$%^& messing with me.
Yes there is history and it is not all sunshine and lollipops.
Who cares. This story had my attention from the first word and it never let go.
I was born two years into my Mother’s captivity. She was three weeks shy of seventeen. If I had known then, what I do now, things would have been a lot different. I wouldn’t have adored my Father.
Helena grew up in the marsh land of the upper peninsula of Michigan. Deep in the marsh land where she had no contact with anyone for years other than her Father and her Mother. Little did Helena know that her Father had abducted her 14 year old Mother and held her captive lo these many years.
Flash forward and Helena has escaped the marsh, is married and has two girls of her own , when she hears the news announcement that her Father has escaped prison.
Helena has kept her past secret even from her husband. Even so she knows, the authorities will not find her Father. He is too clever by far. No she must do this, track him, on her own, as he has trained her to do.
I was always going to read this story, regardless of what the yard guards had to say. It is unnerving when you stop to think about it, but every perpetrator of every heinous crime ever committed is also someone’s father, brother, mother, son, daughter, whatever. I remember when my girls were young and would find themselves in trouble for one thing or another, when all was said and done, they always looked to me for reassurance that I still loved them and would continue to do so, even if they had been bad. It was easy to give those assurances, while still attempting to instill the right versus wrong moral code you hoped would follow them into adulthood. But in the cold hard light of day, things are not so cut and dried. I don’t believe that that kind of deep sustaining love ever dissipates completely, regardless of the circumstances surrounding someone’s culpability in evil.
The story is told from Helena’s perspective and moves back and forth in time, allowing an in depth look at her childhood and all the events of years past that have coloured and shaped the woman she is today. Interspersed throughout Helena’s story is the fairy tale of The Marsh King’s Daughter as written by Hans Christian Anderson.
Gut wrenching and unputdownable The Marsh King's Daughter is a chilling and intense look at the bonds of love and the human condition. You will not want to miss it.
Nobody can deny the restorative powers of a good bowl of hot soup. Whatever gripe or ailments you may have, all fe
The creature within has stirred.
Nobody can deny the restorative powers of a good bowl of hot soup. Whatever gripe or ailments you may have, all feel better after a few spoonfuls of this comforting and delicious bowl of heal thyself fare. We all of us have our own flavour preferences but it doesn’t really matter as long as you are getting yours.
Colour Michael Robotham’s book a bowl of the good stuff. Every spoonful reinforces your need to keep reading. No magic here, this is simply damn good storytelling, with positively amazing characterization and excruciatingly intense pacing. I love the intimate way in which Robotham chose to tell this story.
Like good hot soup this book also has restorative powers. It is in fact the first book that I have finished since mid November of last year. I have been in a reading slump the likes of which heretofore was a near unknown affliction to me. During this time trust me I have picked up several different books, some by tired and true authors, but nothing, nothing, caught on.
Enter The Secrets She Keeps. It broke the back of this horrendous slump and sent me scurrying back to my bookshelves. How could I possibly award it any less than five full stars.
My thanks are two fold:
Thanks to Zoeytron and all the excellent reviews posted by friends and followers on goodreads that led me to this book.
And thanks to my daughter Jamie for loaning me her copy (even before she read it) and her patience in awaiting its return. :)...more
Laini if you ever put in an appearance anywhere near me I can and do assure you There will be Cake.
If you have ever longed for something, whatever thaLaini if you ever put in an appearance anywhere near me I can and do assure you There will be Cake.
If you have ever longed for something, whatever that may be, you will understand. You long for it because you cannot have it. Not Yet! And so it was I waited and waited, for what to me, considering how strong my longing, was an indecent amount of time. All because, I would only allow myself to read this when I was commitment free, nothing tugging at my reader’s brain, no monkey on my back. Time for cake.
And never fear, Laini Taylor delivers! This woman is an absolute gift from the gods. She feeds a reader’s soul.
I know, I know, what does that even mean? What about the story?
Fair enough, without saying too much, cause seriously, Laini was born to tell this story.
First we meet Lazlo Strange. He is an orphan of unknown origin dropped at a monastery famous for its scriptorium. But one day due to an illness brought about by bad fish Lazlo is tasked with delivering manuscripts to the Great Library of Zosma. Entering the gates of the Great Library, Lazlo was soon awestruck. He would never again return to the monastery, for housed within these gates were: all the texts, all the scrolls and manuscripts, all the stories and books, on all manner of things, not the least of which was The Unseen City. This was an old mystery told to Lazlo by a senile monk named Brother Cyrus. Lazlo listened to Brother Cyrus’s stories the way a cactus drinks rain
There were two mysteries actually: one old, one new. The old one opened his mind, but it was the new one that climbed inside, turned several circles, and settled in with a grunt - like a satisfied dragon in a cozy new lair. And there it would remain - the mystery, in his mind - exhaling enigma for years to come. This was the old mystery.
At one time the city had a name and travellers from the continent of Namaa, far removed from northerly Zosma, brought marvels, that told the name and they told stories that made their way to distant lands. Stories that conjured visions and stirred imaginations. Stories about Gods & Goddesses, monsters and moths, dreams and nightmares, alchemy and blood candy. But one day the caravan of travellers from afar, stopped coming. All together and all at once. And on another day, just as with the travellers, The Unseen City’s name was snatched back from every mind that ever held it, it vanished from every script or book; everyplace it appeared, it was simply gone and in its place was the word Weep.
And then there was the new mystery.
Few will ever witness an act destined to become legend. How does it happen, that the events of a day, or a night - or a life - are translated into a story? There is a gap in between, where awe has carved a space that words have yet to fill. This was such a gap: the silence of aftermath, in the dark of the night on the second Sabbat of Twelfthmoon, at the melted north anchor of Weep.
Laini Taylor is special, a true artist, she paints with words, words that take you to magical places, steeped in myth and fantasy: places and characters so vividly rendered, so richly imagined and so powerfully seasoned, you can taste them on your lower lip. Yes her prose is luscious, but never cloying, not sweet and billowy. No, her words have weight and purpose. They tell a story. They enchant. Really, the prose: so full of beauty, it is like your breath gets caught between words, then traded for more, again, and again, until breathing is reading, and reading is breathing, and they become one: each word a glistening drop of dew, essential to the fragrance and supple of the petal.
Sadie Blue I struggle to my feet, straighten my back, lift my chin, then he hits me again. This time I fall down and stay down while he counts, “.Sadie Blue I struggle to my feet, straighten my back, lift my chin, then he hits me again. This time I fall down and stay down while he counts, “........eight, nine, ten.” He walks out the trailer door and slams it hard. The latch don’t catch, and the door pops open. I lay on the floor and watch Roy Tupkin cross the dirt yard.
My world’s gone sideways again.
And just like that Weiss drops you into the heart of this story. You have just met Sadie Blue and you know she is in a heap of hurt. You have also met Roy. What you don’t know is that Sadie is only seventeen and pregnant. Today was beating number three since she got married, today she wishes she had listened to Granny.
Granny gave me a good talking to outside my closed door, but that don’t change things cause I was young and dumb. I was pulled by the raw scent of that man, not knowing the stink below the skim of sweet.
Saide’s story takes place in 1970, in Baines Creek, North Carolina. She needs a way out and while she searches within herself to find one, we meet her granny and others, like the new teacher they are expecting from the valley. Each new voice we hear has a place in this story and each one is distinct. Weiss wastes no time immersing the reader quickly into each new perspective, using taut, sparse language. Still the time an place is ever there. This is Appalachia, in all its stark and gritty magnificence.
My advice, come to this novel unsullied, avoid any and all spoilers, unclutter your mind and prepare to enter Sadie’s world for a spell. Get comfy, I think you might just stay for a while.
If The Creek Don’t Rise is both breathtaking and brilliant. I want to light up the goodreads sky with as many stars as I can possibly beckon. Please help me.. Noise is going to be made here, best get in early..
I wouldn’t be surprised to find this one topping my list of 2017 favourites.
Thanks so much to Sourcebooks Inc., Leah Weiss and NetGalley for an opportunity to read an advance copy. ...more
The desert wind would salt their ruins and there would be nothing, no ghost or scribe, to tell any pilgrim in his passing how it was that people had l
The desert wind would salt their ruins and there would be nothing, no ghost or scribe, to tell any pilgrim in his passing how it was that people had lived in this place and in this place had died. Cormac McCarthy
The date was October 3rd, 1871. Six hundred soldiers and twenty Tonkawa scouts had bivouacked on a bend of the Clear Fork of the Brazos, about one hundred and fifty miles west of Fort Worth, Texas. Though they did not know it at the time their presence marked the beginning of the end of the Indian wars in America.
The chosen agent of this destruction was a West Point Graduate and civil war hero named Ranald Slidell Mackenzie. Mackenzie was a difficult, moody, implacable young man. The Indians called him No-Finger Chief or Bad Hand because his hand was gruesomely disfigured from war wounds.
The nation was booming. In 1869 The Transcontinental Railroad was completed, linking the industrialized east with the developing west. Only one obstacle remained, the war- like Indian Tribes who inhabited the Great Plains.
Mackenzies objective was clear. He was there with his troops to kill Comanches. Of those, the most remote, primitive and hostile were a band of Comanches know as the Quahadis. LIke most Plains Indians the Quahadis were nomadic and led by a fierce and brilliant young Chief named Quanah. Quanah was too young for anyone to know much about him except that he was reported to be ruthless and very clever. But there was something else, he was a half-breed, the son of a Comanche chief and a white woman.
In fact Quanah’s mother had long been famous, because she had refused on repeated occasions to return to her people. Her name was Cynthia Ann Parker, a daughter of one of early Texas's most prominent families. Nearly 40 years earlier in 1836, she had been kidnapped at the age of nine by a Comanche war party. It is this forty year period that Gwynne uses as the backdrop for his narrative.
And he does not pull any punches when describing the brutality of the Comanche war raids. It was typical for all white men to be killed and scalped, some captured alive suffered a slower, more tortuous death. Captive women were gang raped, many tortured and killed but some, if they were young would be spared. Babies were invariably killed in horrific ways, while preadolescents were often adopted by the Comanche or traded to other tribes.
Comanche territory during this period essentially covered the Southern Great Plains, including large chunks of New Mexico and Colorado as well as Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas. The migrating white man or Anglo-Americans had a difficult time getting their heads around this, accustomed as they were to tribes in the East who travelled by foot. The Comanche on the other hand were not only mounted but were the undisputed masters of horsemanship. Their wild mustangs were fast and they had many, allowing fresh mounts as required, all of which meant that their striking range was huge. They were not only able to travel large distances at an alarming speed but they were also highly skilled at waging war while mounted. Their quiver typically held twenty arrows as opposed to the weapons of the white man who in the early days had to dismount, load, aim and then fire. Even more time was required to reload. They simply did not stand a chance against the Comanche who were equally adept at stealing their horses once they had dismounted.
Meanwhile, in an effort to stop the raiding and killing, government authorities were making treaties with the Plains Indians. Treaties as it turned out that neither the Indians or the Government had any real intention of honouring. It astounds me that later, when many of the Plains Tribes surrendered and agreed to relocate to the white man’s reservations, they were held accountable and punished for breaking those same treaties that the white man so frequently broke themselves.
The Texan solution to the Comanche's superior ability to fight was to recruit young, single men with a taste for open spaces, danger and raw adventure, whose only purpose would be to hunt and kill Plains Indians, most notably the Comanche. They soon became known as Texas Rangers. Sadly though, these young recruits were not supplied with much of anything else, no uniforms, provisions, weapons, training or barracks. They organized themselves and were largely answerable to themselves. The only thing the government reliably provided was ammunition. As a result many young lives were lost. The ones that survived were a rough bunch, that drank hard and liked fighting and killing. It was remarkable then that this group of unmanaged, ruthless ruffians gave its full and unswerving allegiance to a quiet, slender, twenty-three year old by the name of John Coffee Hays. He was the uber ranger, the one everyone wanted to be like and in time, the one the Comanche feared. Hays soon realized that the only way to fight the Comanche was to fight like them, mounted and able to fire their weapons while riding.
Still the war raged on and in time an even more devastating plague came to the Great Southern Plains in the form of the “white” buffalo hunters. The buffalo were the Comanche's primary food source, while their hides were treated and used to provide shields, blankets and clothing. The Comanche hunted buffalo for sustenance, killing only as many as they could use. The “white” buffalo hunters killed for profit, taking the hides and leaving the rest of the carcass to rot. It was not uncommon for each hunter to kill hundreds daily. It did not take long for the once prolific herds to vanish from the plains, thereby unalterably compromising the Comanche way of life.
Woven throughout this narrative is the story of Quanah Parker, half Comanche, half Texan, and Chief of the Quahadis. The Quahadis were the one tribe that never signed a treaty with the white man and their Chief, Quanah was never defeated in battle. He eventually led his people to the reservation and remains a legend as the last great Chief of the Comanche nation. I leave you and this way too long review with this actual historic description of the young war chief in battle.
A large and powerfully built chief led the bunch, on a coal black racing pony. Leaning forward upon his mane, his heels nervously working in the animal’s side, with six- shooter poised in the air, he seemed the incarnation of savage, brutal joy. His face was smeared with black war paint, which gave his features a satanic look…….. A full- length headdress or war bonnet of eagle’s feathers, spreading out as he rode, and descending from his forehead, over head and back, to his pony’s tail, almost swept the ground. Large brass hoops were in his ears: he was naked to the waist, wearing simply leggings, moccasins and a breechclout. A necklace of bear’s claws hung about his neck…..Bells jingled as he rode at headlong speed, followed by the leading warriors, all eager to out-strip him in the race. It was Quanah, principal war chief of the Qua-ha-das. (Captain Robert G. Carter)
The small Maine town of Empire Falls has seen better days. The local and once booming timber and textile industries have run their course and all thaThe small Maine town of Empire Falls has seen better days. The local and once booming timber and textile industries have run their course and all that remains is the abandoned and decrepit real estate of what once was.
The blue collar workers of this small New England community struggle to find the few jobs remaining that allow them to keep the wolf at the door and food on the table, ever hopeful of revitalized opportunities.
And it is here that we meet Miles Roby, manager of The Empire Grill. Miles is a good and decent man who did not always dream of flipping burgers and taking care of the grill, in fact at one time he had promising opportunities slated for his future. But then life, as it is wont to do, bit back and he answered an urgent call to return home from college and help care for his ailing Mother.
The vast majority of the real estate and by extension the job opportunities in Empire Falls are owned and controlled by the Whiting family or to be more precise, Francine Whiting.
This really is not a plot driven novel. The real bounty here lay in the character development of the residents of Empire Falls that we largely come to know through Miles Roby. And oh my word, what a treasure trove of characters they are. So real and flawed, everyday folk, fleshed out so well by Russo’s pen that you may find yourself recognizing a few of them within your own circle of associates, friends and family. Seriously I am so astounded by the raw talent on display here. These people walk, talk and breathe, stagger and stink all over these pages. And such a wide cast of people, each saddled with their own histories, beliefs, resentments, weaknesses, dreams and strengths and real life struggles. I feel like I know them all intimately.
When you get to know people that well, for better or worse, you care about what happens to them. And there is a lot going on here. Miles is on the cusp of a divorce and his ex’s future husband loves to hang about and taunt him. His brother is a recovering addict and Miles just can’t be sure he won’t fall off the wagon. Then there is his teenage daughter Tick who is spreading her own wings while coping with the ruins of her parents marriage. His employer, the stoic Francine, maintains a strange hold over Miles and his father is the most colourful, odiferous vagrant you are ever likely to meet. And so many more.
What Russo has accomplished here in Empire Falls is nothing short of masterful. It is a social novel on a grand scale that reflects real life issues with all the inherent joys and sorrows, beauty and blisters. This is epic storytelling that will extend its gracious arms in welcome and bruise your battered, hopeful heart.
I am so excited and anxious to share my thoughts but damn at the same time I want to be reading book two in this series , so exHoly Frak, what a ride!
I am so excited and anxious to share my thoughts but damn at the same time I want to be reading book two in this series , so excuse me if I am brief.
Sara Adams wakes up blind, in pain and unable to remember anything of her past. At her bedside is a man called Jacob who says he is her husband. It soon becomes clear to Sara that she is totally dependant on Jacob. I mean totally. He decides when she can drink, eat, use the washroom, or even speak for that matter and who she is allowed to speak to. Gradually she comes to understand that she is in a small community where everyone, Jacob included, takes direction from Father Gabriel who is the leader of their religious organization called The Light.
Stella Montgomery is an investigative reporter for WCJB TV in Detroit. Her best friend Mindy also used to work there but Mindy has disappeared under mysterious circumstances, so when Stella gets a call from the morgue she is understandably nervous. They would only have called her if there was a possibility that it was Mindy that had been found. Her boyfriend Dylan Richards, a homicide detective meets her at the morgue to provide moral support.
The story that Stella has been working on involves drug trafficking but it soon becomes clear to her that an ever increasing number of women are turning up dead under unusual circumstances and while on the surface there does not seem to be a connection between these women Stella soon learns that there just may be. Her investigation into the drug story takes Stella to Highland Heights, the same area where Mindly supposedly disappeared and where Dylan Richards adamantly does not want Stella to go.
I really do not want to say much more and risk potential spoilers so I will just say this. If you are looking to scare the bejesus out of me, just bring in the religious fanatics. I remember when my girls were younger, cult activity had been reported in close proximity to the area where we lived. I was so concerned for their safety that I am sure they got tired of me lecturing them on all the do’s and don’ts of speaking to strangers or straying off the beaten path and absolute adherence to the established buddy system on their way to and from school or to visit a friend.
Told from the differing perspectives of Sara, Jacob and Stella, this story got my attention from the get go. I could not put it down. Every time I thought I had things figured out in my head the story would take another turn and BAM, I was left scurrying to find my balance once again, holding my kindle in a death grip, tapping the pages furiously and gulping down the words.
And that ending …….. the mother of all cliff-hangers!. Biff, boom, bang just like that I made a few taps and now please folks, excuse me, I really must go and read Away from the Dark
Thank you, thank you, thank you Kaycee for reminding me of this one and putting it on my must read right now radar.
Okay so when I first stumbled across this as a deal on Amazon and read the blurb I was more inclined to pass it by than to pick it up. I honestly didOkay so when I first stumbled across this as a deal on Amazon and read the blurb I was more inclined to pass it by than to pick it up. I honestly did not think I was ready to deal with a burned out teacher and recovering alcoholic who is still dealing with the tragic loss of his son. This did not exactly sound like uplifting fare, but after reading a couple of reviews on goodreads that raved about it, I bit the bullet so to speak and grabbed it.
Thank you Goodreads!
This story is so fantastic and while yes, it does feature a burnt out school teacher who is a recovering alcoholic dealing with the loss of his son, it is so not about that, while still being about just that. Confused? What I am trying to say is that while the book does not focus on these elements, over the course of the story, amidst the trips to the national parks, culminating in Yellowstone, other life events are reflected back to the reader through the eyes of the man who is all of these things.
August Schroeder spends his summers on the road in America visiting the various national parks and outdoor nature reserves of this great land. This year he plans to go to Yellowstone, a place that both he and his late son Phillip wanted to visit. On the way, with his feisty little dog Woody as co-pilot, the RV breaks down and August fears that the cost of the repair will prohibit him from reaching Yellowstone this year. Little does he know that the mechanic who is making the repairs has problems of his own, problems that involve the care of his two sons Seth and Henry. A deal is soon struck between the two men and August, with his trusty dog Woody, together with Seth and Henry head out on the road to visit Yellowstone with other stops planned enroute.
And it is on this trip that the story soars. Seth is a very serious lad who takes his own responsibility for the things that happen around him way too seriously for his age. He is so cautious and concerned about how his own behaviour is affecting August, he can scarce relax and enjoy the bounties of the trip. Henry is another responsibility that Seth takes upon himself. Henry is quiet and shy, making himself as small as humanly possible, while still actually being with them. Point of fact is Henry does not speak at all, except perhaps maybe just to Seth but August has not seen any sign of that either.
In an effort to get these boys to relax and enjoy nature’s awesome bounty without coming across as preachy or overbearing August adapts a gentle, friendly, non confrontational approach that is ever mindful of the responsibility he has accepted. As Seth and Henry begin to unwind and become more comfortable with him and begin to actively participate in the adventure, the tables slowly turn and August finds himself gaining as much sound practical advice as he is giving. He also learns a great deal more about their home lives and how it was that their father was prepared to make the unheard of deal with August that he has.
Never preachy or maudlin and without even a hint of saccharine this camping trip builds a foundation on which the boys will build the rest of their lives while providing August with enough emotional sustenance to see him safely to shore.
An incredibly heart warming camping trip through America’s stunning parklands and outdoor reserves . An absolute must read.
Wow, I needed that. This one has me rethinking ratings I have given to other recent Thriller type reads. I mean whoa, it blew them to hell out ofWow, I needed that. This one has me rethinking ratings I have given to other recent Thriller type reads. I mean whoa, it blew them to hell out of the water.
Meet Roxane Weary, private investigator still struggling with the death of her cop father, struggles that she drowns in whiskey and then accepts a case that involves finding evidence of innocence of her client’s brother, Brad Stockton, currently cooling his heels on death row but the date of execution has been set and time is running out for Brad.
The evidence comes in the form of Brad’s one time girlfriend Sarah, whose parents murder he has been found guilty of committing. Danielle, Roxane’s client believes she saw Sarah recently at a gas station. Sarah has been missing since the night of her parents murder and is for most practical purposes considered deceased. If Brad knows Sarah’s current whereabouts he is not talking.
Roxane is having a hard enough time dealing with her own issues: that include of course her Dad and her Mom and brothers, her Father’s one time partner Tom with whom she is intimate as well as a past girlfriend who seems to enjoy messing with Roxane’s head. Add in a missing girl who has been just that, missing, lo these many years and a local small town police force who see no point in Roxane’s investigation into an old murder that has already been solved. They are much less than helpful.
Roxane is the star of this show. You cannot help but love her and root for her, perhaps because she reads as so perfectly flawed, so wonderfully fallible and damn human. Her personal life is in chaos and Roxane does not appear to be in control. She drinks, blacks out and puts herself in one compromising position after another as she trips around attempting to validate her client’s claim, but now another young woman that Roxane has met recently through her search, suddenly goes missing. The stakes could not be higher and Roxane is stumbling big time. And Brad’s clock? Still ticking.
I did it, I stumbled right along with Roxane and despite her alcoholic daze, foolish blunders, wrong assumptions and poor choices I was rooting for her to hold her personal demons at bay long enough to get a grip.
I'm just going to say it. I loved the way this ended, an all round success.
And yes, I would do it again in a heartbeat. A Full Woot!
I owe a huge word of thanks to karen brissette for first putting this on my radar and then facilitating an electronic arc of this novel. I would also like to thank Shailyn Tavella of Minotaur books and NetGalley.
When I first meet Nicole Foster she is just one sleep away from rock bottom. By the following morning her sister will boot heOh my! Oh my, my my…………
When I first meet Nicole Foster she is just one sleep away from rock bottom. By the following morning her sister will boot her from her home and Nicole will be left homeless and penniless.
Things weren’t always like this, At one time, not that long ago, she was a respected homicide detective with a nice home and a lease on a great car.
But that was before she met Angela Chase outside the Factoria Target store two days before Christmas. Her little three year old daughter, Kelsey is missing. According to Angela, Kelsey had been acting up in Target, so she had brought her out to the car and told her to wait there while she and Kelsey’s brother Samuel finished the shopping. She was only gone for a little minute she explains. Seriously!
It was also before Danny. Danny is not NIcole’s boss, but an outsider looking in would never know that. Danny is always hovering over her, taking credit for everything, giving off his own personal aura of being in charge, in control. Also before Danny and her became lovers, before he started taking her to the casino where he could unwind and revel in his occasional wins. And that word, occasional, was fine for Danny but not as it turned out, so fine for NIcole.
Meanwhile Kelsey is still missing and her mother is not being very cooperative. In fact once she went home the night of her daughter’s disappearance she took some sleeping pills and went to bed, leaving the detectives with only her husband to question. But he was not even there when Kelsey went missing. What kind of a mother does that?
Nicole and Danny continue their investigation by following up on the whereabouts of local, registered, sexual offenders on the night of the abduction. One in particular arouses their suspicion but when questioned Alan Dawson is adamant that he had nothing to do with Kelsey’s disappearance. Problem is Alan’s next door neighbour has made an unsettling discovery underneath of his trailer..
Now Danny is practically doing cartwheels in the break room, flexing his muscles and regaling everyone with the significance of the find. Saying things like “One a perv, always a perv.” Nicole needs to rein him in, to remind him that they still do not know for sure the relevance of the find. But Danny is not having it.
Nicole just wants to go back to her favourite machine at the casino and pull that lever. Let the lights start flashing and listen for the fake sound of rain.
Back in the real world however Danny has gone ahead without her and elicited a confession from Alan Dawson. NIcole cannot believe her eyes when Danny shows her the written confession any more than she can believe that he did this without her. They are after all partners.
As time passes and little Kelsey’s body is found, albeit not where Alan had said it would be, things do not sit well with Nicole. The more she looks into things the more unanswered questions surface and she begins to spiral out of control.
As i was reading this I became so frustrated with Nicole. Danny treats her like dirt and her sister manipulates her at every turn, but all Nicole ever does is "think" of snappy retorts, without once standing up to either one of them. For the record, yelling at and shaking your kindle does not produce the desired effect.
It is only when Nicole has sunk as low as she can go that Julien, Kelsey’s father reaches out to her. It would seem that he too has unanswered questions and wants Nicole’s help in finding out what really happened to his little girl. But Nicole is still battling her own inner demons and this investigation is taking her to a very dark place indeed.
Strap in folks and prepare yourselves for one bumpy ride. With more twists and turns than a world class roller coaster this story just keeps on pumping. With every clue that Nicole uncovers, another question steers her in a different direction, until she finds herself knee deep in the mire, in answers that her mind can’t process and in answers that she never in her wildest imaginings ever expected.
Cliche or not, I simply could not put this down. 4.5 stars rounded up!
My thanks to Thomas & Mercer, NetGalley and Gregg Olsen for the opportunity to read an advance copy....more
Arah-Lynda
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