I feel a bit giddy finally talking to you all about this series. If you'll remember, I fell madly in love with ThOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
I feel a bit giddy finally talking to you all about this series. If you'll remember, I fell madly in love with The Q when it came out a few years ago. Now, Beth Brower is writing The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion—a series of novellas set in London in 1883. Each volume is an excerpt from the incorrigible Emma's journals, and the first two volumes are already available with the third on the way soon. I think they'd make rather perfect pandemic reading. Humorous and charming down to their bones, they're just what the doctor ordered to lift your spirits in this uncertain time that just proves to be too much some days.
Miss Emma M. Lion has waited long enough. Come hell or high water (and really, given her track record, both are likely), she is going to take back possession of her rightful home from her odious Cousin Archibald. Which is how she finds herself setting foot off the train in London (at last) and making her way to the lovely (if rather unusual) neighborhood of St. Crispian's and her lovely (if rather unusual) home Lapis Lazuli House. In the wake of a number of personal tragedies, Emma has been mouldering in the countryside for years with her fatuous and extremely irksome Cousin Matilde, forced to cater to her every whim. Meanwhile, Cousin Archibald has been occupying the home her parents left her when they died and playing fast and loose with her inheritance. Emma is fast approaching her majority and bound and determined to take charge of her own life. But the tyrannical Archibald refuses to give up without a fight, locking up the library, and relegating Emma to the garret. To add insult to injury, it isn't even a whole garret but a portion of one, as Cousin Archibald walled off ten feet of the house, dubbed it Lapis Lazuli Minor, and rented it out to a Tenant in order to pay for his inexplicable morning robe habit. And so Emma is forced to roll up her sleeves and do battle for what should have been hers years ago. And in true Emma M. Lion fashion, she chronicles the ins and outs of her increasingly hilarious and frustrating life with both a critical eye and an abundance of wit.
I've arrived in London without incident. There are few triumphs in my recent life, but I count this as one. My existence of the last three years has been nothing but incident.
Emma is a singular personality and one that grows on you immediately upon acquaintance. Her unselected journals are positively Wilde-esque, as she employs a cutting, grandiose, yet always self-effacing approach to her treatment of daily life. Every denizen of St. Crispian's is a fully-fledged character in their own right and one that I would follow beyond Emma's eye were I given the chance. From the hapless Scottish maid/cook Agnes to the truly bewitching (though he would abhor the term) vicar Young Hawkes, who was rather abandoned at his post and who mixes poetry and Shakespeare into his "sermons," cheered on by his rowdy Eton and Oxford mates in the back pew. From the habit that objects in St. Crispian's have of regularly going missing and reappearing in other people's homes to the specter of a Roman centurion who haunts the neighbourhood. To say nothing of the forbidding Duke of Islington, who is the unwitting and unwilling author of Emma's greatest temptation and The Tenant himself, with his quicksilver eyes, who moves into the other portion of the garret across the wall from Emma and begins exchanging notes with her written on torn off scraps of paper and slid through a crack between the boards in the wall. I mean, honestly. The entire host of them are revoltingly charming and winsome and they basically each made me want to tear my hair out by the roots at some points and hug them ferociously hard at others. Well, with the exception of Young Hawkes. He never makes me want to tear my hair out, and I always want to hug him. Not that he'd allow it, of course. As it stands, a number of shenanigans are in the works, a number of games afoot, and I would truly love to chat about them with any and all of you. Until such time as you've had a chance to swallow Emma's tales whole, I'll leave you with possibly my favorite exchange (which is saying something) between Emma and The Tenant (taken from Volume 2). Emma initiates the exchange, and The Tenant's responses are in all caps:
Do you have an obscure fact regarding cartography that would catch the attention of a man whose only other interest is the sweet pea?
I PRESUME THAT WAS A SERIOUS QUESTION?
It was.
THE HEREFORD MAPPA MUNDI IS ORIENTED TO THE EAST. PERHAPS A COMMENT ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THIS? IF HE IS AN ENTHUSIAST, ANY USE OF THE WORD MAPPA MUNDI SHOULD WORK IN YOUR FAVOUR.
Then he sent another:
FAR BE IT FROM ME TO PRY INTO YOUR PERSONAL BUSINESS, BUT ARE YOU CERTAIN THIS IS A MAN YOU WISH TO IMPRESS?
I laughed.
He is moneyed, with a good deal in the funds, three country estates, and would spend his life consumed by cartography and the sweet pea, thus proclaimed an eligible candidate. Alas, not for me, but my cousin, a reality I fully accept.
USE THE WORD THEORY IF YOU CAN. MEN WHO THINK THEY KNOW A GREAT DEAL FIND SATISFACTION FROM THE WORD.
THE VERY LITTLE I KNOW ABOUT YOUR LIFE EXHAUSTS ME.
These journals are a joy, I tell you. I can scarcely wait for more....more
I feel a bit giddy finally talking to you all about this series. If you'll remember, I fell madly in love with ThOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
I feel a bit giddy finally talking to you all about this series. If you'll remember, I fell madly in love with The Q when it came out a few years ago. Now, Beth Brower is writing The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion—a series of novellas set in London in 1883. Each volume is an excerpt from the incorrigible Emma's journals, and the first two volumes are already available with the third on the way soon. I think they'd make rather perfect pandemic reading. Humorous and charming down to their bones, they're just what the doctor ordered to lift your spirits in this uncertain time that just proves to be too much some days.
Miss Emma M. Lion has waited long enough. Come hell or high water (and really, given her track record, both are likely), she is going to take back possession of her rightful home from her odious Cousin Archibald. Which is how she finds herself setting foot off the train in London (at last) and making her way to the lovely (if rather unusual) neighborhood of St. Crispian's and her lovely (if rather unusual) home Lapis Lazuli House. In the wake of a number of personal tragedies, Emma has been mouldering in the countryside for years with her fatuous and extremely irksome Cousin Matilde, forced to cater to her every whim. Meanwhile, Cousin Archibald has been occupying the home her parents left her when they died and playing fast and loose with her inheritance. Emma is fast approaching her majority and bound and determined to take charge of her own life. But the tyrannical Archibald refuses to give up without a fight, locking up the library, and relegating Emma to the garret. To add insult to injury, it isn't even a whole garret but a portion of one, as Cousin Archibald walled off ten feet of the house, dubbed it Lapis Lazuli Minor, and rented it out to a Tenant in order to pay for his inexplicable morning robe habit. And so Emma is forced to roll up her sleeves and do battle for what should have been hers years ago. And in true Emma M. Lion fashion, she chronicles the ins and outs of her increasingly hilarious and frustrating life with both a critical eye and an abundance of wit.
I've arrived in London without incident. There are few triumphs in my recent life, but I count this as one. My existence of the last three years has been nothing but incident.
Emma is a singular personality and one that grows on you immediately upon acquaintance. Her unselected journals are positively Wilde-esque, as she employs a cutting, grandiose, yet always self-effacing approach to her treatment of daily life. Every denizen of St. Crispian's is a fully-fledged character in their own right and one that I would follow beyond Emma's eye were I given the chance. From the hapless Scottish maid/cook Agnes to the truly bewitching (though he would abhor the term) vicar Young Hawkes, who was rather abandoned at his post and who mixes poetry and Shakespeare into his "sermons," cheered on by his rowdy Eton and Oxford mates in the back pew. From the habit that objects in St. Crispian's have of regularly going missing and reappearing in other people's homes to the specter of a Roman centurion who haunts the neighbourhood. To say nothing of the forbidding Duke of Islington, who is the unwitting and unwilling author of Emma's greatest temptation and The Tenant himself, with his quicksilver eyes, who moves into the other portion of the garret across the wall from Emma and begins exchanging notes with her written on torn off scraps of paper and slid through a crack between the boards in the wall. I mean, honestly. The entire host of them are revoltingly charming and winsome and they basically each made me want to tear my hair out by the roots at some points and hug them ferociously hard at others. Well, with the exception of Young Hawkes. He never makes me want to tear my hair out, and I always want to hug him. Not that he'd allow it, of course. As it stands, a number of shenanigans are in the works, a number of games afoot, and I would truly love to chat about them with any and all of you. Until such time as you've had a chance to swallow Emma's tales whole, I'll leave you with possibly my favorite exchange (which is saying something) between Emma and The Tenant (taken from Volume 2). Emma initiates the exchange, and The Tenant's responses are in all caps:
Do you have an obscure fact regarding cartography that would catch the attention of a man whose only other interest is the sweet pea?
I PRESUME THAT WAS A SERIOUS QUESTION?
It was.
THE HEREFORD MAPPA MUNDI IS ORIENTED TO THE EAST. PERHAPS A COMMENT ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THIS? IF HE IS AN ENTHUSIAST, ANY USE OF THE WORD MAPPA MUNDI SHOULD WORK IN YOUR FAVOUR.
Then he sent another:
FAR BE IT FROM ME TO PRY INTO YOUR PERSONAL BUSINESS, BUT ARE YOU CERTAIN THIS IS A MAN YOU WISH TO IMPRESS?
I laughed.
He is moneyed, with a good deal in the funds, three country estates, and would spend his life consumed by cartography and the sweet pea, thus proclaimed an eligible candidate. Alas, not for me, but my cousin, a reality I fully accept.
USE THE WORD THEORY IF YOU CAN. MEN WHO THINK THEY KNOW A GREAT DEAL FIND SATISFACTION FROM THE WORD.
THE VERY LITTLE I KNOW ABOUT YOUR LIFE EXHAUSTS ME.
These journals are a joy, I tell you. I can scarcely wait for more....more
All it took was hearing the basic bones of the premise of Beth O'Leary's debut novel The Flatshare for me to detOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
All it took was hearing the basic bones of the premise of Beth O'Leary's debut novel The Flatshare for me to determine I would absolutely be reading it as soon as I possibly could. I was so delighted to be granted access to an advanced reading copy by Flatiron Books. Even better, it became apparent from the moment I read the first few lines that this reading experience would take place in one headlong rush. No significant breaks allowed, let alone required. The Flatshare was published first in the UK and then slightly later here in the U.S. I dithered over which cover to buy as both have much to recommend them, but I finally decided on the U.S. cover. I just love the two of them standing on either side of the same door, the tiny heart between the title and author name.
Tiffy is in a massive, massive bind. Out on her ear after breaking up with her exceptionally controlling boyfriend, she needs an inexpensive place to live and she needs it yesterday. Despite her friends' significant misgivings, she decides to check out an ad for a flatshare. The man who lives there works nights and is looking for someone who will only inhabit the flat during the night and then be gone all day when he is home sleeping. They will share a bed but never at the same time, and they will agree never to even see one another. Though the situation smacks of odd (to say the very least), Tiffy is desperate and in the market for some solitude. Thus the deal is struck. And so Tiffy and Leon become flatmates. And the situation actually seems to work. Slowly they begin to communicate solely through Post-it notes stuck here and there to every available surface in Leon's flat. And these two utterly different individuals strike up an unlikely friendship that gradually develops into something more.
I smile. The note is stuck on the fridge, which is already one layer deep in Post-its. My current favorite is a doodle Leon did, depicting the man in Flat 5 sitting on an enormous heap of bananas. (We still don't know why he keeps so many banana crates in his parking space.)
I rest my forehead against the fridge door for a moment, then run my fingers across the layers of paper scraps and Post-its. There's so much here. Jokes, secrets, stories, the slow unfolding of two people whose lives have been changing in parallel―or, I don't know, in sync. Different time, same place.
There are just countless moments such as this one. Tiffy and Leon are both isolated in their own ways. Leon in the much more traditional sense, in that he struggles to relate to people on a near constant basis, even finding his relationship with his girlfriend to be far more tepid than he believed it to be. His life has never been easy, and his strongest loyalties lie with his brother Richie, who was wrongfully incarcerated and who Leon works tirelessly to have exonerated and released. He is also a devoted and eminently capable palliative care nurse. Tiffy, on the other hand, is quite bubbly and accessible. She has a small group of close-knit and genuine friends and works as an editor for an arts and crafts DIY publisher. She thrives on connection and is immediately intrigued by her reclusive and elusive flatmate. Where Leon is a sedate slate, Tiffy is all the colors of the rainbow. And I just loved how helplessly Leon was drawn to the color and life (and delicious food) she brought into his life. O'Leary's pacing in this utterly delightful novel is note perfect. The way that she carefully leads her characters (and the reader) up to the inevitable meeting and through its myriad fallout is both thrilling and enchanting. As Oscar Wilde put it, "This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last." That is The Flatshare, terrible, wonderful suspense centered on a pair of such kind, empathetic characters in a perfectly irresistible scenario. I laughed so often and so happily. I recommend this debut unreservedly and eagerly await O'Leary's next novel.
"This is the bit where we turn on the telly and a nuclear war has started," I say, twisting to lie down next to him.
He smiles. "I don't think so. Doesn't work that way. Sometimes the happy thing just happens."
I've never read any Sophie Kinsella before. It's true. I'm not sure if it was the titles of her Shopaholic series that put meOriginally reviewed here.
I've never read any Sophie Kinsella before. It's true. I'm not sure if it was the titles of her Shopaholic series that put me off, or if they were merely big at a time when I wasn't reading much chick lit at all, but one way or another I was never tempted to pick them up. After that. I likely relegated her name to that series alone and never investigated any further. Silly me. But. I began seeing reviews of her latest, I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, popping up here and there. Ari's review over at Emily and Her Little Pink Notes in particular caught my eye (as her reviews are wont to do). So (and this is becoming a familiar refrain), when it popped up on NetGalley I just went right ahead and hit request. As far as covers go, I'm liking this one. I love the silhouettes, the text bubbles, and the font. More importantly, I think the cover overall accurately gives the reader a sense of what she will find inside--a phenomenon that seems to me to be becoming rarer these days.
Poppy has, well, she's taken leave of her senses. In a moment of madness, she allowed her bridesmaids to pass around her engagement ring at a posh party in a London hotel. It (along with her cell phone) go missing in the fray, and Poppy is reduced to canvassing the entire hotel and menacing the staff into finding the missing ring. Alas, nothing turns up. But the frantic Poppy does spot a discarded cell phone in the hotel garbage. Utterly at her wit's end, she snatches up the phone in order to stay in contact with the hotel in the coming days, hoping they'll call saying her fiance's treasured family heirloom has magically appeared. But a wrench is thrown in the wheel of Poppy's mad machinations, when one Sam Roxton enters the scene saying the phone she found belongs to his former PA and he needs the information on it ASAP. Poppy convinces Sam to let her keep the phone just until the ring is found, promising to forward on any and all important messages and emails. And so a hilarious and awkward relationship is born. Poppy and Sam become inextricably linked through a near constant stream of texts and emails. Being the outgoing, curious girl she is, Poppy can't resist peeking into the insane business world Sam lives in. And for his part, Sam loosens his tie long enough to offer his help and opinions (welcome or not) on Poppy's tendency to be a pleaser and focus on everyone else but herself.
I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER is a real charmer. Though it might initially feel like you've read this story before, the connection between Poppy and Sam quickly breathes life into a potentially tired setup. On top of her two sympathetic leads, Sophie Kinsella drizzles hysterical predicaments throughout the story, ensuring that I stayed up well past my bedtime laughing. Incorporating texts, emails, messages, and footnotes into a narrative can be courting disaster, I often think. Many a story stumbles in its execution when these elements aren't handled just right. Happily, "just right" is exactly the note Kinsella strikes. The various communications feel real and appear in natural and perfect amounts, enriching but never overwhelming the story. The heart of this book is in the unexpected discovery of kindred spirits by two people who were so busy filling their lives with things they thought they wanted, so busy being the people they thought they should be, they didn't even realize what was missing. It's a slow burn sort of falling in love. You're all in before you realize it. And, as long as we're talking romance, I'll just go ahead and say that I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER builds up to one of the most steal-your-breath moments I've had the pleasure of reading. Seriously. The fact that their relationship is conducted and developed primarily via technology (though they do interact some in person) leads to some pretty fabulous and subtle buildup, and it all happens without the reader even noticing. So, so worth the wait. All in all, I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER has everything I want in contemporary chick lit. I'm so glad I gave Kinsella a shot, and I will definitely be coming back for more. I've already gifted a copy to my sister. I rather suspect it'll be just the thing....more
Can you believe it's taken me this long to get around to this one? To be perfectly honest, I had little interest in it based solely on the title and tCan you believe it's taken me this long to get around to this one? To be perfectly honest, I had little interest in it based solely on the title and the vast amount of love it got from, well, everyone. I can be truculent that way. But a sufficient amount of time has passed since the hubbub, that I was quite happy to see a copy show up among my Christmas presents and I opened it up with alacrity over the break. What a perfectly lovely book and how right everyone was talking it up here, there, and everywhere. I was intrigued to find out it was written by two women--relatives, no less. My understanding is that Mary Ann Shaffer asked her niece (and fellow writer) Annie Barrows to help her finish the book once Ms. Shaffer's failing health began to seriously impede its progress toward publication. I'm so glad the book was finished and published and not lost in the shuffle. I wonder, sometimes, how many gems are.
The year is 1946 and Juliet Ashton is a columnist turned author struggling to write her second book, following her wildly successful compilation of wartime essays. Having just completed a rather grueling tour promoting the book, she is back in London and staring at the empty pages on her desk just waiting to be filled. Then she receives a letter from a man by the unlikely name of Dawsey Adams, wondering whether or not she might direct him to some further work by his beloved author Charles Lamb. You see, he purchased one of his own volumes of Lamb secondhand and it had Juliet's name inscribed inside. Juliet is charmed to find another Lamb admirer and immediately writes back to Mr. Adams. And thus begins an extensive and fruitful correspondence the likes of which neither of them have ever known. Dawsey belongs to an extremely unique literary society known as the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. The name alone whets Juliet's appetite for more. And it turns out there is so much more to this little Channel Island society than meets the eye. Inaugurated during the German occupation of Guernsey, this small group of ragtag members meets faithfully to discuss books and huddle together against the encroaching horrors of war. Through their experiences, Juliet's imagination is fired up and the novel she keeps trying and failing to write suddenly takes off.
This is one of those books that drew my husband down the hall and into the room to find out what the laughter was about. And then, of course, the tears, when I foolishly attempted to read aloud an early passage that hit me in one of those wonderful zing moments. Try reading this portion aloud without choking up:
Best to say we weren't a true literary society at first. Aside from Elizabeth, Mrs. Maugery, and perhaps Booker, most of us hadn't had much to do with books since our school years. We took them from Mrs. Maugery's shelves fearful we'd spoil the fine papers. I had no zest for such matters in those days. It was only by fixing my mind on the Commandant and jail that I could make myself to lift up the cover of the book and begin.
It was called Selections from Shakespeare. Later, I came to see that Mr. Dickens and Mr. Wordsworth were thinking of men like me when they wrote their words. But most of all, I believe that William Shakespeare was. Mind you, I cannot always make sense of what he says, but it will come.
It seems to me the less he said, the more beauty he made. Do you know what sentence of his I admire the most? It is, "The bright day is done, and we are for the dark."
I wish I'd known those words on the day I watched those German troops land, plane-load after plane-load of them--and come off ships down in the harbor! All I could think of was damn them, damn them, over and over. If I could have thought the words "the bright day is done and we are for the dark," I'd have been consoled somehow and ready to go out and contend with circumstance--instead of my heart sinking to my shoes.
It was just one of those moments in which the words--the whole sentiment--was just so right that, despite the fact that I'm not fictional, not a man, did not live during or anywhere near just after World War II, and have not had to watch my home invaded, I knew. The words of William Shakespeare connected us and I knew. Such moments are rare and beautiful in the fictional works I read and I treasure them up. As I said, I laughed innumerable times while reading THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL PIE SOCIETY and I saw the events of the time period and place in an entirely new way. The book was so far from the precious and fluffy volume I was expecting that I wasn't completely prepared for how delightful and moving it would be. The history, the love story, the band of friends . . . it was magic. I am, and always have been, a fan of epistolary novels and it was a treat to sit back and let Juliet and Dawsey, Sidney and Isola recount the events and moments of their lives for me through the series of letters and journal entries that make up this remarkable story. I know the format bothers some readers, but for me the slight removal only serves to heighten my awareness of the characters and to underline the subtlety inherent in their private lives. I was won over by each one of them and suffice it to say that a particular scene at the end where a certain someone is on a ladder and another someone is spying through the window still brings a smile to my face and laughter to my lips. I adored this book and think it would be just wonderful read aloud between family, friends, or any group of like minded individuals who share the kind of love for the written word that forms the beautiful core of THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL PIE SOCIETY. A keeper....more
I owe the discovery of this wonderful book to DH, before he was DH, in fact. He gave the movie to me for my birthday--the first birthday I had after wI owe the discovery of this wonderful book to DH, before he was DH, in fact. He gave the movie to me for my birthday--the first birthday I had after we started dating. Along with the Old Friends Simon & Garfunkel box set and a kiss. At the time we were living in different cities and meeting up somewhere in the middle for our "dates." So I drove home that night and watched the movie all by myself. I cried. Twice. I laughed and laughed and laughed. And I went out and bought the book immediately. I was on my way to London for a study abroad program and so it was a going away gift of sorts. He's particularly good with gifts, as you can tell. It is without a doubt my very favorite memoir and the movie adaptation starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins is pretty much my favorite movie of all time. Just another of those little things that my man brought to my life that I might never have found without him.
84, CHARING CROSS ROAD tells the true story of Helene Hanff and Frank Doell. Helene is a loudmouth, eccentric, struggling writer from New York. Frank is a quiet, reserved, always proper bookseller from London. In a fit of rage at being unable to find the vintage editions of classic books she loves in New York, Helene drafts a letter to Marks & Co.--an antiquarian bookshop located at 84, Charing Cross Rd. The first letter reads as follows:
Gentlemen: Your ad in the Saturday Review of Literature says that you specialize in out-of-print books. The phrase "antiquarian booksellers" scares me somewhat, as I equate "antique" with expensive. I am a poor writer with an antiquarian taste in books and all the things I want are impossible to get over here except in very expensive rare editions, or in Barnes and Noble's grimy, marked-up schoolboy copies. I enclose a list of my most pressing problems. If you have clean secondhand copies of any of the books on the list, for no more than $5.00 each, will you consider this a purchase order and send them to me? Very truly yours, Helene Hanff (Miss) Helene Hanff
And that is how this exquisite little gem of bibliophilia begins. Frank Doell answers Miss Hanff's letter on behalf of Marks & Co., signing his letter FPD. Over the course of twenty years, these two book lovers exchange letters and, in the process, become fast friends. Though they never actually meet, their friendship spans years, nationalities, personalities, and an ocean.
It's hard for me to express how much I love this collection of letters. I'm always wanting to talk about it with other readers but know few outside my immediate family who've heard of it let alone read it. Which is sad as, when I think about books about books and book lovers, I have a difficult time coming up with a better, more moving and intensely personal story. It doesn't hurt that I'm extremely tactile when it comes to my love of books. I adore owning multiple editions, particularly old, used, loved copies picked up in used bookshops around the world. The day I walked into Hay-on-Wye I promptly broke out into a cold sweat at the sheer number of "antiquarian booksellers" within a one-mile radius. And in this book, Helene Hanff's love for the physical books themselves, the words within, and British literature especially just suffuses this reader with joy and a beautiful sense of camaraderie. I'll close with one of my favorite passages and the hope that, if you haven't picked 84, CHARING CROSS ROAD up yet, you will. And come back and tell me how it was.
Please write and tell me about London, I live for the day when I step off the boat-train and feel its dirty sidewalks under my feet. I want to walk up Berkeley Square and down Wimpole Street and stand in St. Paul's where John Donne preached and sit on the step Elizabeth sat on when she refused to enter the Tower, and like that. A newspaper man I know, who was stationed in London during the war, says tourists go to England with preconceived notions, so they always find exactly what they go looking for. I told him I'd go looking for the England of English literature, and he said: "Then it's there."
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