Another in the excellent Longmire mystery series, and let’s just cut to the chase. That’s a damn good thing, the series and this book. Sorry to say that I’ve missed a few episodes, and evidently Walt Longmire went through some serious stuff while I was away, but Walt and I go way back, so we took up like it was just yesterday. The mystique of wolves, a mysterious pest of a woman in a Tibetan cap, Basque shepherds and herding dogs, Longmire’s own monstrous canine Dog, the rugged beauty of Wyoming and an ailing, but still determined Walt Longmire. Yep. Temperature was in the 90’s here when I read this, but I was wearing a fleece lined jacket, riding in a 4X4 pick-up through the snowy mountains of Wyoming with Dog in the back. And there are braying mules, too. Every good story is improved by a jackass or two. Yep. So true. If you don’t know Longmire, jump in. If you only know Longmire from the TV series, you ain’t nothing but a city slicker. Take your Longmire straight – from the page. Real men read.
A Tall History of Sugar delivers a tall order of beautiful language, a giddy, glorious and, yes, intoxicating order. Just as I wrote this, one tiny example came to mind, two words only: “ploughing darkness”. Dark, but lovely, isn’t it? How recognizable to any of us afflicted by the human condition. Hard work, that ploughing, and usually fruitless. Next time I find myself cultivating my particular patch in the “slough of despond” I’ll know what to call it.
OK, OK, this intoxicating novel of modern day Jamaica. Ms. Forbes’ enchanting words took me to Jamaica right away, a sugar rush of language and culture. Growing sugar cane is and has been pervasive in Jamaican history: plantations enriching the British Empire, labor supply feeding off the slave trade, the black smoke of cane fires blanketing the island to this day. And so begins the love story of Moshe and Arrienne .
When newly born, Moshe (Moses) was found abandoned in the sea grapes and taken in by childless Rachel and Noah. Through some defect of birth or, perhaps, his mysterious parentage, he is strikingly different and will be all his life. His skin bleeds at a touch and is white as milk, but his facial features are those of a black man. One eye is blue, the other brown, and his hair is a combination of blond and straight, black and curly. Moshe and Arrienne meet as school children. She is a growing beauty and dark as midnight. She’s also fierce, practiced in tae kwan do and readily assumes the role of protector and constant companion to Moshe. She thinks of the two of them as twins or, sometimes, “nottwins”, and they can communicate without speaking. As adults, they lose this ability and are estranged, but there remains an inexorable pull, a need for each other.
While Arrienne is out-spoken, quick to anger and fully human, Moshe, to me, was more of a being than a person – perhaps (probably?) purposely. I usually step lightly around symbolism because you can always find something if you want to, but Moshe’s character struck me as Christ-like. Not without sin, but tormented and stoic, paying for something, bleeding. Hmmm, well………you’ll have to come to your own conclusions. Ms. Forbes is a writer-to-the-bone, and I won’t presume to speak for her. Intoxicating, yes, and as lyrical as Jamaican patois. Sorry, I’ve rambled on too long, but it’s my word hangover talking. Speaking of patois (way to segue), I was intrigued and went online to explore. Guess what? There are lessons! Some say it is a language, and others call it a dialect, but, no matter, it’s beautiful – as is Ms. Forbes’ moving book. Worth the word hangover.
An exclusive British girl’s school has an eerie history, and I was expecting (hoping for, actually) witches. Haven’t done witches in such a long, long time and was not in the mood for anything that smacked of reality. Well, it’s not witches– exactly, nor is it reality – exactly. The school is Elm Hollow, and, yes, there were witch trials there in the seventeenth century. As a result, Margaret Boucher, the school’s founder was burned on the spot where the wych elm now stands, and there have been rumors of sorcery at Elm Hollow ever since. OK, witches, maybe. The reality? Modern day adolescents. Lest you’re starting to think Harry Potterish, oh, no, it is not. These kids are the good, the bad, and the ugly: drugs, drinking, sex, spite, revenge, gossip. And sorcery? Sort of.
Violet, the narrator and central figure, is the new girl and something of a loner who is drawn into an existing clique. There’s wealthy Alexandra whose mother studies the occult; Grace, the academic one; and Robin — daring, artsy with piercings and hair dyed a garish red. There was Emily, also, but she’s disappeared, feared to be the victim of a predator. Violet is brought into the group by Robin, and, while she has doubts and wonders if she is replacing Emily, she wants so much to belong. All four are the chosen acolytes of Annabelle, a gifted teacher, who leads them in an extracurricular class focused on women throughout history who have used force and fury to right wrongs as only women can. Leaders, followers, wannabes – and sorcery. But is it really? More accurately, maybe it’s just experimentation with sorcery – an adolescent fascination. Oh, yes, to be sure, there are five deaths with links to these four, a range of deaths from gruesome to bizarre and one that is mysteriously serene. Possibly murders, maybe accidents, or perhaps natural causes. Is it coincidence that these are linked to the girls? Could be. Or sorcery. Let’s put it this way, if it’s not sorcery, it’s not for lack of trying because these girls have secrets to hide and scores to settle. A pretty good read, this, fierce and entertaining, and you’ll be glad to know that, like most beloved old school traditions, Elm Hollow’s is in good hands and will continue passing to future generations of girls.
Full Disclosure: A review copy of this book was provided to me by St. Martin’s Press via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. I would like to thank the publisher, the author and NetGalley for providing me this opportunity. All opinions expressed herein are my own.
The Paris Hours by Alex George
Publication Date: May 5, 2020
Publisher: Flatiron Books
Welcome to my stop on the blog tour for The Paris Hours! Check out my thoughts and ruminations on the book, as well as an excerpt, below.
What do an Armenian puppeteer, a down-on-his-luck artist, a French journalist with dreams of America, and Marcel Proust’s former housekeeper all have in common? At first you’ll think “absolutely nothing”, but oh, you would be wrong.
Author Alex George’s newest offering rambles unhurriedly through a single day in the City of Lights in the time between the Wars, introducing us to this foursome of Parisians (both native and not), each with a quiet purpose, each unknown to the others. Armenian Souren Balakian is a refugee, who scrapes out an existence giving free puppet shows in a local park each day for coins thrown in a suitcase. The quintessential starving artist, Guillaume Blanc, needs a big sale from one of his works in order to pay off an unsavory mobster. Journalist Jean-Paul Maillard, who pines for his wife and child, is perhaps the most melancholy of the quartet (although Souren could give him a run for his money there); he’s constantly looking for his daughter but will he ever find her? Finally, Camille Clermont embarks on city-wide search for a lost journal belonging to Proust and harboring a black secret. And while our protagonists are seemingly ordinary folks, they also rub elbows in Paris with Gertude Stein, Josephine Baker, Ernest Hemingway, Mr. Proust, and host of other only slightly-lesser celebrity lights.
The characters are the thing here, and these characters are Alex George’s strength. As the day unfolds, stories and histories are revealed, and we come to know and understand Camlle, Jean-Paul, Souren and Guillaume a little bit better with each passing page. This is a novel on a constant, slow burn and, if you’re looking for a quick payoff, you won’t find it here. Kindling is steadily and masterfully thrown on the smoldering embers of each individuals’ story until they all come together in one blazing conflagration. This is a novel that rewards patience.
Many thanks to Flatiron Books and Cat Kenney for inviting me to be a part of the blog tour and providing me with a review copy of The Paris Hours. Many more thanks are due to Alex George for creating this lovely story and sharing it with us.
During these difficult days, it’s more important than ever to support our small and local businesses. If you’re so inclined, you can click here to purchase this title from your local indie bookstore. And check out the excerpt below!
THE ARMENIAN WORKS BY the light of a single candle. His tools lie in front of him on the table: a spool of cotton, a square of fabric, haberdasher’s scissors, a needle.
The flame flickers, and shadows leap across the walls of the tiny room, dancing ghosts. Souren Balakian folds the fabric in half, checks that the edges align exactly, and then he picks up the scissors. He feels the resistance beneath his fingers as the steel blades bite into the material. He always enjoys this momentary show of defiance before he gives the gentlest of squeezes, and the scissors cut through the doubled-up fabric. He eases the blades along familiar contours, working by eye alone. He has done this so many times, on so many nights, there is no need to measure a thing. Torso, arms, neckline—this last cut wide, to accommodate the outsized head.
When he has finished, there are two identical shapes on the table in front of him. He sweeps the unused scraps of cloth onto the floor, and picks up the needle and thread. After the sundering, reconstitution. Holding the two pieces of material in perfect alignment, he pushes the tip of the needle through both layers of fabric, and pulls the thread tight. He works with ferocious deliberation, as if it is his very life that he is stitching back together. He squints, careful to keep the stitches evenly spaced. When he is finished, he breaks the thread with a sharp twist of his fingers and holds the garment up in the half-light. A small grunt of satisfaction.
Night after night Souren sits at this bench and sews a new tunic. By the end of the day it will be gone, a cloud of gray ash blowing in the wind, and then he will sit down and create another.
He lays the completed costume on the work surface and stands up. He surveys the ranks of sightless eyes that stare unblinking into the room. Rows of hooks have been hammered into the wall. A wooden hand puppet hangs from every one. There are portly kings and beautiful princesses. There are brave men with dangerous eyes, and a haggard witch with warts on her ugly chin. There are cherubic children, their eyes too wide and innocent for this motley group. There is a wolf.
This ragtag crowd is Souren’s family now.
He unhooks a young boy called Hector and carries him to the table. He pulls the newly sewn tunic over Hector’s head. He turns the puppet toward him and examines his handiwork. Hector is a handsome fellow, with a button nose and rosy cheeks. The tunic fits him well. The puppet performs a small bow and waves at him.
“Ah, Hector,” whispers Souren sadly. “You are always so happy to see me, even when you know what is to come.” He looks up at the clock on the wall. It is a few hours past midnight. The new day has already begun.
Each evening Souren battles sleep for as long as he can. He works long into the night, applying fresh coats of paint to the puppets and sewing new clothes for them by candlelight. He stays at his workbench until his eyes are so heavy that he can no longer keep them open. But there is only so long he can fight the inevitable. His beloved puppets cannot protect him from the demons that pursue him through the darkest shadows of the night.
His dreams always come for him in the end.
A Rude Awakening
Guillaume Blanc sits up in his bed, his heart smashing against his ribs, his breath quick, sharp, urgent. He stares at the door, waiting for the next angry tattoo.
The whispered words he heard through the door scream at him now: Three days.
His shoulders slump. There is nobody knocking, not this time. The noise is coming from somewhere closer. Guillaume turns and squints through the window above the bed. The first blush of early morning sunlight smears the sky. From up here on the sixth floor, the rooftops of the city stretch out beneath him, a glinting cornucopia of slate and glass, a tapestry of cupolas and towers. There is the culprit: a woodpecker, richly plumed in blue and yellow, perched halfway up the window frame. It is staring beadily at the wood, as if trying to remember what it is supposed to do next.
It is early, too early for anything good.
The shock of adrenaline subsides enough for Guillaume to register that his temples are pounding. He rolls over, spies a glass of cloudy water on the floor next to the bed, and drinks it thirstily. He rubs a dirty palm against his forehead. An ocean of pain to drown in. An empty wine bottle lies on its side in the middle of the small room. He stole it from the back of Madame Cuillasse’s kitchen cupboard when he staggered in last night. It was covered in dust and long forgotten, not even good enough for her coq au vin, but by then Guillaume was too drunk to care.
It feels as if the woodpecker is perched on the tip of Guillaume’s nose and is jabbing its sharp little beak right between his eyes. It’s typical of his luck, he reflects. The bird has no business in the dirty, narrow streets of Montmartre. It should be flying free with its brothers and sisters in the Bois de Boulogne, hammering joyfully away at tree trunks, rather than attacking the window frame of Guillaume’s studio. And yet here it is.
The woodpecker’s head is a ferocious blur, then perfectly still again. What goes through its head, Guillaume wonders, during those moments of contemplative silence? Is the woodpecker asking itself: who am I, really, if I am not pecking wood? Am I, God forbid, just a bird?
Guillaume lets out a small moan. There are lightning bolts erupting behind his eyes. He casts his mind back to the previous night. He was wandering through Montmartre, anxiously trying to outpace his problems, when he had seen Emile Brataille sitting alone in the bar at the end of his street. Brataille is an art dealer who spends most of his time at the zinc of the Closerie des Lilas, schmoozing with collectors and artists, striking deals, and skimming his fat commission off every painting he sells. He has no business in Montmartre anymore: all the painters whose work hangs on the walls of his palatial gallery on Boulevard Raspail have left Guillaume’s quartier for the leafy boulevards of Montparnasse, where the wine is better, the oysters fatter, and the women more beautiful. Guillaume pushed open the door and slid onto the chair next to Brataille.
The alcohol lingers sluggishly in his veins. How much had they drunk, in the end?
After they were three or four carafes to the good, Emile Brataille made his mournful confession: he’d come to Montmartre to declare his love for Thérèse, but she wanted nothing to do with him. And so here he was, drowning his sorrows.
Thérèse is a prostitute who works at the corner of Rue des Abbesses and Rue Ravignan, next to Le Chat Blanc. Guillaume knows her, albeit not professionally: he has painted her many times. Lubricated by the wine, he embellished this acquaintance into a devoted friendship, and suggested to Brataille that he might be able to intercede on his behalf. At this, the art dealer began to weep drunken tears of gratitude. How can I ever repay you? he asked. Guillaume scratched his chin. I don’t suppose you know any rich, art-loving Americans, he said.
Brataille began to laugh.
Welcome to my stop on the blog tour for Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai’s The Mountains Sing. I have to admit my stop was actually scheduled for Tuesday, March 17, but the world has a way of taking over sometimes. Tuesday was the first day that our entire office began working from home due to that nasty ol’ COVID-19, and things were a little chaotic. I just flat forgot about the blog tour until today, but this is a fine book that deserves many kudos, so better late than never I say! Kick back and let me bend your ear about this one.
Tiny, beautiful Viet Nam. A country seemingly forever at war, and a watershed moment in the course of our own history. In Vietnamese mountains and jungles, so many fought and died. We asked why, did not buy the answers, and we changed. In a worldwide dispersal, countless Vietnamese refugees left their country for ours and others, and we changed. Never the same, but, you see, we didn’t know Viet Nam then, and we don’t know it now. Many of us don’t, anyway. Most of us, perhaps. For anyone who remembers our involvement in Viet Nam, anyone who wants to more fully understand that dark, unsettling time, The Mountains Sing is a must. For everyone who simply wants to read an extraordinary book, what can I say except “this one”. Here it is.
Vietnamese native Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai’s novel reverses our perspective as we view her struggling country through Vietnamese eyes, those of the Tran family and, in particular, the family matriarch Dieu Lan and her granddaughter, twelve-year-old Huong. Huong’s father is away at war and no one knows if he is alive or dead. When her mother, a doctor, goes south to find him, she leaves Huong with her grandmother, a strong, strong woman who is a teacher and, in her youth, a beauty, a “jade leaf on a branch of gold”. According to Vietnamese tradition, she calls Huong by a nickname, Guava, to guard her from evil spirits. They lose their home to American bombs, depend on the kindness of their countrymen and experience their cruelty as well. Run, hide, take shelter, survive. Through it all, Dieu Lan steadies and supports Huong with stories of her own life, their family and their homeland, its history and its people, and it is in this way that we, as readers, experience life through four generations in this war-torn country. Beauty and brutality. Guilt and innocence. Pain and hope. Huong finds comfort and strength in her grandmother’s stories and Vietnamese proverbs, as do we. “Intact leaves safeguard ripped leaves.” “One bite when starving equals one bundle when full.” We lose ourselves in Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai’s lyrical prose, and we learn.
Reading such a book as this reminds me that perhaps American readers are not as cognizant of international authors as we could be, of the value and insight they bring to our world view. Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai is also an award-winning poet, and it shows in her amazing book, so Asian in character yet so wondrously written in English by this non-native speaker. Lovely. And we learn. We learn and re-learn what we already knew, what we instinctively know – surely we do. That war is hell for both “sides”, that family is strength and love, that people are only people after all. Let The Mountains Sing remind you just how good a book can be and why we love them so. Explore international authors beginning here. Read this one.
Thanks so much to Kelly Doyle at Algonquin Books for inviting me to participate in the blog tour for The Mountains Sing. And even bigger thanks to Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai for creating this masterpiece for us all to savor and enjoy. All opinions expressed herein are my own.
It’s OK to dangle your foot over the edge of the bed. Really. There are no monsters underneath. Really. Truly. It’s OK to read Stephen King or even Edgar A. Poe just before you turn out the lights. Sweet dreams. But, if you read Richard Preston’s most recent non-fiction entry about the Ebola virus, Crisis in the Red Zone…….? YOU’LL NEVER SLEEP ANOTHER WINK IN YOUR LIFE! My friends, as we’re finding out with the current Coronavirus pandemic, we are not prepared. Preston’s newest title was released in July of last year, months before the current outbreak, so it’s even more relevant now that the world finds itself in this new, major viral predicament.
Ebola? A possibility we know about. What we don’t know is what we don’t know. What I do know is that this good book will keep your lights on for hours, so you wouldn’t be sleeping anyway. Remember Preston’s equally fascinating The Hot Zone? Chapter and verse on the African Ebola outbreak of the 1970’s. Crisis in the Red Zone, his latest, gives a brief and interesting recap of that epidemic and then takes us to 2014. Remember? Another horrifying outbreak in West Africa that modern medicine couldn’t quell, an outbreak that suddenly had us all sweating the possibilities. Global travel. Permeable borders. Airplanes and cruise ships. Possibilities that we’re all sweating again today with coronavirus. Ebola made it to the US that time. It surely did. And so has coronavirus.
But there was a vaccine in 2014, right? Yes, experimental ones, but for the most promising one there was only one existing test on primates and none on humans. The story of the vaccines alone is a fascinating one, particularly so in that most of the development was entrepreneurial. But it’s perfected now, right? Well, you’d think. And imagine the medical, ethical and personal quandary, the agony, of a doctor presented with enough of this untried vaccine for one patient – when you have a quarantine compound with hundreds of sick and dying. It happened. The man forced to make that call exists.
There was no cure. In Africa, the focus had to be on controlling transmission, and you’ll be introduced to the seemingly cruel, but ultimately effective, Ancient Rule. You’ll learn that Ebola is a wet virus that is transmitted only through direct contact with bodily fluids. OK, that’s good to know, but you’ll be asked to think about the possibility of a dry, or airborne, virus that is as deadly as Ebola. Is the coronavirus that virus? Given a 3.4% coronavirus mortality rate vs. Ebola’s 90% death knell, probably not. But there’s still every reason in the world to be worried. Feeling a little feverish? Thank you, Mr. Preston, for another important book that, as always, is also a great, timely read.
Full Disclosure: A review copy of this book was provided to me by Random House Publishing Group – Random House via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. I would like to thank the publisher, the author and NetGalley for providing me this opportunity. All opinions expressed herein are my own.
Release Date: Today, February 18, 2020 / Available here from your local indie bookstore!
There are two sides to everything. Simple folk wisdom that we use and hear so much it’s almost meaningless. Nevertheless, it is still wisdom. And it is this universal dichotomy that Alexis Schaitkin examines in her excellent novel Saint X. Further, where I am today is rainy, foggy and gloomy, just nasty, so, heck yeah, let’s go to a Caribbean island. Saint X itself is an island with two sides. There’s the beautiful side where the resorts are, and the not so beautiful where the islanders go about their lives. The beautiful side is still relatively unspoiled, not overrun by tourists, so the Thomases congratulate themselves on their choice of vacation spot on Indigo Bay. Their two daughters, college freshman Alison and seven-year-old Clair, are of two minds about the whole thing. Pretty, vivacious Alison wants to party. Clair is a rather odd child, pale and awkward, an observer. On the last morning of their vacation, Clair wakes her parents and tells them that Alison is gone. Just gone. Her body is found sometime later under a beautiful waterfall on an uninhabited island overrun by goats. And two black men employed by the resort, Edwin and Clive, are suspected. She partied with them.
Ah, so it’s a murder mystery then? No, no, it most definitely is not. Certainly it is reminiscent of the famous Natalee Holloway disappearance on the island of Aruba. In this case, we know that there is a death, but, as in Natalee’s case, we don’t know if it’s a murder. Unquestionably there’s a mystery, and there are bereft parents, searches, law enforcement, news media, interrogations, witnesses, all that. However, the depth and unquestionable quality of this book places it well above a “murder mystery” in the customary sense of that term. Two sides. Heads, tails. Concave, convex. Beauty, squalor. Edwin and Clive. Alison and Clair.
Clair is left to grieve and come to terms for the rest of her life – her shining star of an older sister, the beautiful, accomplished girl who snuck out at night to party, drink and dance with Edwin and Clive. “My sister was an innocent, blameless in her horrific fate. And it was all her fault.” Edwin and Clive, too, must start over, and Clive moves to New York where Clair pursues him and, ultimately, develops an odd relationship with this man, built on both suspicion and trust. “I had to find a way to understand how truth and untruth make each other.” Saint X – truly excellent fiction.
Full Disclosure: A review copy of this book was provided to me by Celadon Books via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. I would like to thank the publisher, the author and NetGalley for providing me this opportunity. All opinions expressed herein are my own.
Now available in hardcover from Celadon Books / Due in paperback on June 30, 2020. Support your local indie bookstore with your purchase or pre-order!
Welcome to Scandinavia – again (and again). Sweden, in this case, but not just another Scandinavian mystery novel. Yes, there’s a murder, and no, we’re not sure who the murderer is, but the mystery is not the story. The murder may be the reason we have a story, but it is not the story. The Sandells, the nearly normal family, now there’s the story. Adam Sandell is a minister in the Church of Sweden, and his wife Ulrika is an attorney. Daughter Stella is turning eighteen, finishing school and dreaming of traveling on her own in Asia. Always a headstrong girl, she’s highly intelligent, but likes control and is quick to anger. Stella loves her parents but is a challenging daughter, and as a friend, she is loyal to a fault. She stands firm in her individuality, refusing to be anyone other than her unique self. And she stands accused of murder.
Adam and Ulrika Sandell love each other deeply. They love Stella as only parents can, but each relates to her quite differently, and their reactions in the face of the charges against her are markedly different as well. A pastor and an attorney and all that is presumed to entail: morality, ethics, beliefs, legal and religious standards, personal integrity. Firm convictions and principles. Holding fast on higher ground. Really? Is it humanly possible? In these circumstances? I’d guess so; I’d certainly hope so. Is it possible for this particular pair, though?
As robust a cast of characters as you’ll find, and as flawed as human beings come. None will elicit your complete sympathy throughout. The murder victim himself is pretty despicable, and, in fact, I’m not sure Mr. Edvardsson could have pulled his concept off if the victim had been worthy of our concern. So then . . . are some less-worthy people more worthy of murder? Interesting question. Here’s another: Did Stella kill him? You know, I almost felt like I became a character in this book because there are decisions to be made, big, crucial ones; and so many people are in over their heads. And that’s where you come in. Calmer, unbiased heads must take a look. Readers, in all your infinite wisdom, I guess it’s up to you. Enjoy Sweden.
Full Disclosure: A review copy of this book was provided to me by Celadon Books via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. I would like to thank the publisher, the author and NetGalley for providing me this opportunity. All opinions expressed herein are my own.
Release Date: August 6, 2019 / Travel light but move fast to your local indie bookstore and shop here!
If Alexandra Fuller writes a shopping list, read it; margin notes in her high school biology text, read them; weekly menu plans with beans and franks every Tuesday, read those, too. Anything you can get your hands on. Ms. Fuller will always have something original to say – even about the beans and franks. But, of course, if you are familiar with her brilliant memoirs, you know she is from highly original stock, the peripatetic Fuller family of here and there, Africa, and in her work, she returns to her family again and again without ever losing an iota of freshness or impact.
Of the five children born to Tom and Nicola Fuller, Alexandra and her sister Vanessa are the only two who survived to adulthood – a family of survivors, actually: tough, hard-working and hard-drinking, creative, intelligent as all get-out, eccentric, frivolous, flawed, forever bereaved, and determined to cope. And if coping doesn’t work, then cope harder. At times, over the years, the Fullers were even without a “fixed abode”, but they always managed to rebound, eventually settling on a farm in Zambia raising bananas and fish.
In Travel Light, Move Fast, advice from Tom Fuller appears as chapter headings, and, perhaps, this optimistic dreamer is best summed up in the first one: “In the Unlikely Event of Money, Buy Two Tickets to Paris”. Never one to let insecurity get in his way, he would have done just that in such an unlikely event. In fact, he and his beloved Nicola are on vacation in Budapest when he falls seriously ill and is hospitalized. Alexandra, now living in Wyoming, flies to Budapest to be with her parents and returns with her mother and her father’s ashes to the farm in Zambia and to a family in the aftermath of another death. Determined. Shattered. Forever bereaved.
As for me, well, I am both besotted with and puzzled by the Fullers. I have been ever since Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight: An African Childhood, and I return to them every time the talented Alexandra offers a new opportunity. If you know Ms. Fuller’s good work, you will be saddened beyond measure by Travel Light, Move Fast. If you’re new to her books, this latest can be read as a stand-alone, but I’m going to be honest with you, Readers. While I’m usually not much troubled by jumping in and out of sequence, I’m not sure this book is the best place to make your first acquaintance with this writer and her family. You see, it is a book of endings. Personally I’m glad I began at the beginning, but the choice is yours, of course. The very best advice I can give you is quite simple, really. Read Ms. Fuller’ books. All of them.
Full Disclosure: A review copy of this book was provided to me by Penguin Press via Edelweiss in exchange for an honest review. I would like to thank the publisher, the author and Edelweiss for providing me this opportunity. All opinions expressed herein are my own.
Release Date: September 10, 2019 / Support your local indie bookstore by purchasing a copy here!
Can’t really say why I’ve been avoiding medical memoirs lately, but this one…..well, this one got in my face, in my head and simply wouldn’t be denied. After losing his mother to a brain tumor while he was an undergrad, David Fajgenbaum committed himself to becoming a doctor. He wanted to fight back against cancer, however while in medical school, he found himself feeling extremely tired, his lymph nodes were swollen and other symptoms began to develop as well. Doctors suspected lymphoma or other blood cancer, but this was not a positive diagnosis. With lightning speed, he became sicker and sicker: pain, nausea, massive fluid retention, organ failure, ICU, not expected to live, saying good-bye to friends and family. Then, just as unexpectedly, his condition stabilizes and he’s released from the hospital, only to relapse soon after. Finally a diagnosis, and it is not lymphoma. Good news. Rather, it was HHV-8-negative, idiopathic multicentric Castleman disease, and he had to google that one. Almost invariably fatal with death occurring from multiple organ failure an average of one year after diagnosis. So his illness had a name, but little else, and it was certainly not good news. David was to suffer five near-death experiences from organ failure.
Castleman disease is one of many orphan diseases, orphaned because they are so rare that study and research for a cure does not come with enough bang for the buck. Maybe one researcher somewhere, maybe not. Maybe one study, maybe not. And David’s illness, as an additional complication, is a variation of this hothouse orchid of a disease, not just your “everyday” version. So, here, readers, is where the story lies. David – Dr. Fajgenbaum – chasing his cure. Around bouts of his dreadful illness, he finishes medical school, but rather than going into a residency program afterward, he goes for an MBA. He’s going to need business as well as medical savvy because, by now, he has learned how research programs work, and time is critically short. He realizes he’s going to have to find his own cure, probably through off-label use of drugs already FDA-approved for other illnesses. You will be astounded by this young man’s story and by his insightful look at the state of medical research. Everybody, thumbs up and a standing O. Good job all the way around, Dr. Fajgenbaum.
Full Disclosure: A review copy of this book was provided to me by Random House Publishing Group / Ballantine Books via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. I would like to thank the publisher, the author and NetGalley for providing me this opportunity. All opinions expressed herein are my own.