This idea came to me as I perused the list of books I read in January. Despite the fact that I have said repeatedly that I should read fewer mysteries because most of them are pretty bad, this month's list was dominated by mysteries, most of which were pretty bad. What does this say about me? Am I hopelessly optimistic? Trying to make up for the lack of intrigue in my daily life? Lazy? I need a bibliotherapist!
Anyway, I did think one of the mysteries I read this month was quite good--Odd Child Out, by Gilly Macmillan. Two British teenage boys, best friends, sneak out after dark; one ends up being fished from a canal, the other is in a state of shock, unable (or unwilling) to speak. As the police try to figure out what happened, the reader grapples with issues of adolescent friendship, childhood illness, immigration, and sexual violence. It's a mystery, but placed within a realistic context. I recommend it.
I also finished the Frieda Klein series by the husband-wife team that goes by the pen name Nicci French--at least I hope it was the end of the series. Psychotherapist Klein was an interesting character, but the authors dragged out the story line involving a serial killer that everyone but Frieda thought was dead over so many books that I became inappropriately eager for one of them to die (I'm sure a psychiatrist could make something of that).
In the non-mystery category, I enjoyed Night of Miracles, another of Elizabeth Berg's upbeat stories, and the poetry collection Monument, by Natasha Trethewey. The poems in Monument are far from upbeat, chronicling as they do the life experiences of African Americans, especially African American women, throughout history, from slavery to Hurricane Katrina. From the first stunning poem, about the murder of Trethewey's mother by her stepfather and the things people say to her about this trauma ("Do you think your mother was weak for men?"), the poet's personal story also weaves its way through the collection.
Some lines I particularly liked:
What is home but a cradle of the past?
from "Prodigal 1"
. . . Lord, bless those hands,
The harvesters. Bless the travelers who gather
Our food and those who grow it, clean it, cook it,
Who bring it to our tables. Bless the laborers
Whose faces we do not see--like the grl
My grandmother was, walking the rails home:
Bless us that we remember.
from "Invocation, 1926"
The month's biggest disappointment was Liane Moriarty's Nine Perfect Strangers. I have enjoyed a number of Moriarty's earlier works for their wit and intricate plotting, but this tale of nine people being abused by the eccentric (if not crazy) owner of an expensive spa is just stupid. Not a very literary analysis, but . . .
