WATER FOR ELEPHANTS-- Sara Gruen

THE PATRON SAINT OF LIARS by Ann Patchett

NATURE GIRL by Carl Hiaasen

I'm a huge Carl Hiassen fan; I've read almost every novel he's ever written. But this book was a slog. I found myself skipping paragraphs, skimming pages. It just seemed tired and old Hiaasen stuff. There was no character to latch onto-- all of them seemed stretched like Silly Putty beyond belief. I couldn't wait to be done with it so I could take up the next Laurie R. King book. But, as usual, I am loathe to abandon books.

THE BOOK OF MARY by Laurie R. King

A MONSTEROUS REGIMENT OF WOMEN by Laurie King

THE BEEKEEPER'S APPRENTICE by Laurie R. King

There are few things better than liking a book and a character so much that it borders on obsession. Ever since my cousin loaned me THE BEEKEEPER'S APPRENTICE, I've had dreams about Mary Russell and her world. And now that I've spent a little bit of time on Laurie R. King's website and read a little of her blog, I'm discovering that the author is as totally charming as her creation.

The Mary Russell novels are set in Post WWI England. A troubled teenaged orphan literally trips over a man while strolling in the countryside, her nose buried in a book. The man, it turns out, is the very real and semi-retired Sherlock Holmes, who, well into middle age, has become a pop culture myth in his own time created by (and in his opinion much maligned by) the too liberal pen of Arthur Conan Doyle. This chance meeting becomes the apprenticeship in the title, and eventually a partnership and eventually more.

I have always had a deep love for Holmes, whether in the books or on television. My love for Nancy Drew immediately led me to Holmes who led me to Agatha Christie and a subsequent passion for the classic detective novel in general-- the dusty, library detectives specifically. And King's Holmes is a masterpiece in his faded and sometimes ridiculous brilliance. He's a genius but emotionally stunted. He's callous and cold but also wounded and vulnerable. But he's got this sexy, Indiana Jones at 60-ish thing going on too.

But of course, it is Russell who becomes the iconic figure through King's series (I'm on Book 3). She ranks right up there with the Great Women of Fiction, in my opinion. I used to want to be Jane Eyre when I grew up, now I want to be Mary Russell (yes, I recognize that I am more than a decade older than either of these women at their literary height).

Russell is exceptionally smart and is an equal to Holmes almost immediately. But where he is coarse, she is gentle and emotionally intelligent. She, too, is wounded, but she is not scarred over (well, yes she is, physically). She's the tomboy, preferring her father's clothes to her own (for sentimental reasons as well) and the independent woman of the age of sufferage, even as a girl. She is a wit. And let's face it, the cover image on every book of the series paints her as sexy as hell.

King's writing is exceptionally rich and engaging, and perhaps most impressive is her brilliant command of the time period-- not just the history, but the social sentiment, the attitudes, the mores-- you feel as though you are in the hands of not just a fantastic writer, but a scholar. In addition, King brings her background in theology to bear through Russell's studies at Oxford.

Yes, I gush. But really, this is what you dream of (or at least I do) when you think about summer reading-- something that reads like a dream and leaves you smarter... and dreaming.

CANCER VIXEN by Marisa Acocella Marchetto

Graphic novel. Sex in the City meets breast cancer minus Samantha's pink hair.

GREAT WHITE by Peter Benchley

Not really about a shark...

But about my hometown in Connecticut under a different name.

ONE FOR THE MONEY by Janet Evanovich

The first of the Stephanie Plum novels.

DEEP SIX by Randy Striker (Randy Wayne White)

Re-published early thriller/mystery from South Florida's Randy Wayne White writing under the pseudonym Striker.

CHARLIE ALL NIGHT by Jennifer Crusie

Early romance novel from chick-lit writer.

Lou's going to cheat: Book Dump

Lou has been reading. Yes, she has.

But she hasn't been blogging.

So, I'm going to clear the plate and create entries for the books that I've read but not blogged and then-- ideally-- go back and edit and fill them in.

Stand by for book-dump.

THE NAME OF THE WIND by Patrick Rothfuss

WIND represents the first book in the Kingkiller Chronicle, a trilogy in the purest sense of the word. I don’t know whether it’s the marketplace (“I have to wrap up the story of Book One because who knows if Book Two will be bought”) or just modern convention, but trilogies—even series: Harry Potter?— these days have more in common with stand-alone books than they do with their serial ancestors. But THE NAME OF THE WIND is truly a “first of three”—and as a modern reader, used to the stand-alone-ish books in a series—I couldn’t help but be frustrated.

First of all, WIND (and one can’t help but assume the entire series) is an astonishing achievement: seven hundred-plus pages of extraordinarily rich and dense fiction in the most classic fantasy style. It’s the story (oral autobiography, really) of Kvothe, the unremarkable tavern keeper, who is truly his land’s greatest hero (and sometimes anti-hero) hiding in plain sight under a false identity. When his story (which he tells for posterity to the Chronicler—Book 1 representing Day 1 of the storytelling) begins, Kvothe is living a bucolic and charmed childhood, the son of traveling players, and the apprentice to an arcanist (wizard?). His path is altered by tragedy and eventually reconstructed as a quest for revenge.

The book’s plotting is remarkable (even more so because one assumes Rothfuss is keeping many of his balls in the air until the end of the series—his website tells us that he’s “finished” Kvothe’s story, if not perfected it). Many of the minor characters are well drawn and “alive” and interesting (Bast and Auri come to mind). And frankly, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a book so “well-blurbed”—anybody who’s anybody in classic fantasy has labeled Rothfuss the Next Big Thing.

Maybe I’m just a tough sell these days. But as I read this book, it made me truly understand one of the many reasons that the Harry Potter series is truly worth every bit of love and honor that has been heaped upon it. Simply put, Harry is a real kid. Everyone, even baddies like Malfoy and Snape and Voldemort, is real. My chief complaint about WIND was my chief complaint about the MAXIMUM RIDE books. Rothfuss creates a young/teenaged Kvothe that’s as savvy, sexy, sophisticated, and smooth-talking as—well, as a ridiculously savvy, sexy, sophisticated, and smooth-talking twenty something. I don’t care if “living on the streets” is supposed to make you old beyond your years, Kvothe woos with spontaneous poetry and makes difficult choices unclouded by the fog of youth. He suffers existentially but not with the usual teenaged confusion. As I said, the plotting is excellent, and the young Kvothe’s story is appropriately messy and flawed and full of bad choices, but the character of young Kvothe processes these challenges with the sophistication of an adult with a PhD in philosophy.

Rothfuss dips his toes into post-modern meta-fiction at times, both with the multiple levels of narration and fluidity of time and with instances of self-reference. At times this is precious and clever, but at times it read as an ass-saving mood. Just when you think Kvothe’s biography is delving into long held fantasy clichés, Rothfuss-as-Kvothe interjects and says something along the lines of “I know what you expect now—young runaway finds wizened old mentor who teaches him everything he knows and then dies a shocking death—but that’s not exactly what happened.” And sure, it’s not exactly what happened, but it’s kind of what happened. No amount of winky self-awareness can dull the edge of WIND as a veritable buffet of conventional-fantasy events. Here’s the one where he fights the dragon. Here’s the one where the woman with the beautiful voice turns out to be the woman he’s had a crush on. Here’s the one where his rival destroys the one thing he’s sentimental about. Here’s the one where the crazy sage turns out to be the wisest one.

There is no doubt in my mind that this book is worthy of much of the hype when it comes to sheer accomplishment. I just can’t understand the abundance of dwarf-adults that populate fiction for or about children. It may be worth noting (as I noted in my review of the MAXIMUM RIDE books) that it appears that Patterson didn’t have a daughter and that Rothfuss doesn’t have children. As Kvothe grows, so does his humanity, and in the grand scheme of things (grand scheme = three epic-length books) my gripe may represent a drop in the bucket.

The fact that I was ticked off when I realized that I would have to wait til April 2009 for the next installment means I was more invested than I thought I was. I hope Rothfuss can maintain the momentum.