Definitely Dead by Charlaine Harris

"You got a cell phone?" I asked, rising to my feet as I spoke. Amelia nodded. "Call the queen's place. Tell them to send someone over right now."

"What?" Her eyes were confused, even as her fingers were punching in numbers.

Looking at the closet, I could see the fingers of the corpse twitch.

"He's rising," I said quietly.

It only took a second for her to get it. "This is Amelia Broadway on Chloe Street! Send an older vampire over here right now," she yelled into the phone. "New vamp rising!" She was on her feet now, and we were running for the door.

We didn't make it.

-Definitely Dead

Yes, we're revisiting the world of Sookie Stackhouse, which means many a scene of our plucky heroine in imminent peril. And as resourceful as Miss Sookie is, she rarely manages to come through unscathed.

So how does Sookie wind up in the hospital this time? Well, she heads down to New Orleans to wrap up the affairs of her cousin, Hadley. Does that name ring a bell? It should. Charlaine Harris has mentioned Sookie's wayward cousin pretty consistently, to the point where she had to show up sooner or later. In this book, however, Hadley is revealed to have become a vampire since Sookie saw her last and, more recently, joined the ranks of the "definitely dead." The latter is revealed so casually that I almost thought I had missed a book - and I still feel like I should see if there was a short story that fills in the gaps. Sookie mentions that she has met the Queen of Louisiana, Sophie-Anne Leclerq, and witnessed the punishment of Hadley's killer in such an off-hand way that it almost seems as though she's summing up something we should already know. Details, please!

Other than that, Definitely Dead hums right along. Sookie is navigating a new relationship with the weretiger, Quinn, and, more interestingly, having to reevaluate what she knows about Vampire Bill. She spends a fair amount of time with Queen Sophie-Anne, who loved Hadley dearly, and watches an ectoplasmic reconstruction - a neat addition to Harris's bag of tricks. Sookie's also still coping with the ramifications of the whole Debbie Pelt fiasco from Dead to the World. While I'm confused about how Harris handled the Hadley storyline, I admire her persistence in not letting the Debbie Pelt story wrap up too neatly. Many authors would be tempted to let Sookie off more easily, without having the Pelt family doggedly pursuing her for answers. It took her longer to finish the arc this way, but it was better done for it.

I have to admit, I'm not too excited about Sookie's relationship with Quinn. He's presented as a stand-up guy, which ranks him ahead of some (cough, Alcide, cough, Bill), but it's not nearly as fun as her relationship with Eric has been, nor as intense as her time with Bill. If she's not going to end up with either of the latter two, then I hope Harris can at least dream up someone a bit more interesting than Quinn. (Yes, I want someone more interesting than a weretiger. What can I say, I have high standards.)

I read an excerpt from the next book at the end of this one, and I have to say I found it a little dry. Nonetheless, I'm sure I will pick it up at some point.

Up next: Back to Keats. Slow, but steady on that one.

The Redbreast by Jo Nesbø

Harry had driven right up to her house before he realised where he was. He stopped the car and stared between the trees. It was fifty or so metres to the house from the main road. There was light in windows on the ground floor.

'Idiot,' he said aloud and started at the sound of his own voice. He was about to drive off when he saw the front door open and light fall on the steps. The thought that she might see and recognise his car put him in a state of panic. He slotted the car into reverse so that he could back quietly and discreetly up the hill and out of sight, but he didn't have his foot hard enough on the accelerator and the engine died. He heard voices. A tall man in a long, dark coat had come out on to the steps. He was talking, but the person he was talking to was hidden by the door. Then he leaned in toward the door opening and Harry could no longer see them.

They're kissing, he thought. I've driven up to Holmenkollen to spy on a woman I've talked to for fifteen minutes kissing her boyfriend.

Then the door closed, and the man got into an Audi and drove past him down to the main road.

On his way home Harry wondered how he should punish himself. It had to be something severe, something that would have a deterrent effect for the future. An aerobics class at Focus.

-The Redbreast

Harry Hole is a great policeman, but when he's assigned to work security during a peace summit in Oslo, he makes a huge, potentially career-ending mistake. He goes on a bender, as is his wont. When he sobers up, he discovers he's been promoted. Bureaucracy.

His new position mostly involves him sitting in a lonely office at the end of the hall, pushing papers - it's a good place for his superiors to keep an eye on him, but it's soul-sapping work for him. And yet, even when he's only left with paperwork, Harry can't help but be a good detective. It isn't long before something catches his eye - a report of someone discovering spent ammunition from a Märklin rifle. It's an unusual weapon - "the ultimate professional murder weapon," in Harry's words. Naturally, he can't help but wonder what someone is planning to do with it.

Someone is planning Very Bad Things. The Redbreast tells both a story in the present, of Harry's pursuit of the Märklin riflesman, and one in the past - in 1944, to be specific, when some Norwegians, then under German occupation, chose to fight for Germany on the Eastern Front. It's a piece of history I was wholly unfamiliar with, and Nesbø does an excellent job weaving together history and fiction, past and present, including a link between the Norwegian defectors and the modern resurgence of neo-Nazism. The plot, as you might imagine, gets a bit complex - and I might even say there's one twist too many toward the end - but it's certainly clever and hugely absorbing. I was reluctant to put it down.

Harry Hole is a wonderful protagonist, another take on the damaged detective. He has little resembling a personal life (and you can see the trouble he gets into when he tries in that excerpt above) and only a tenuous grasp on sobriety. In the middle of the book, he leaves someone a series of absolutely gutting answerphone* messages while he (quite understandly, as it happens) is totally blitzed. But, unlike many of those fictional alcoholic renegade cops out there, Harry goes to the gym. He listens to Joy Division. (If I hadn't been sold on Harry already, that would have done it. I always find it mysterious that so many fictional detectives listen to classical and opera**.) Harry is his own man: a true Gen-Xer, he wears Doc Martens to court. Love.

Honestly, if I could have the next book in the series, Nemesis, in my hands now, it would be there. Alas, I could only find it in hardcover at the bookstore, and I had to be realistic about how I should spend my money. If I see it in paperback before I come home, though...

Up next: the 6th Sookie Stackhouse - the ultimate vacation reading!

*Yes, that was a bit over-the-top British, but gutting is without a doubt the best word for them. And answerphone, besides being the term used in the book, sounds so much better than the unwieldy answering machine, don't you think?

** Wallander, John Rebus, and Inspector Morse, I believe, just off the top of my head.

Catch-all

I'm heading out of town, and thus have made the promised book switch: Keats is on hold for the time being (though I am enjoying it), and I'm looking forward to settling in with Jo Nesbo's The Redbreast tomorrow. Entertainment Weekly compared series protagonist Harry Hole* to The Wire's Jimmy McNulty in their review of Nesbo's latest book. Naturally, I was sold.

A few links to round out the post:

Manly Slang from the 19th Century - Brilliant. And you've always needed another term for your fist, am I right? (Try "bunch of fives.")

Sporcle Quizzes: Literature - It's a time-waster all right, but, man, is it a good one. Who knows, you might even learn something. (All of the subjects are good, I should add, I just linked to literature in an attempt to stay roughly on topic.)

Review of The Genius in all of Us by David Shenk (The New York Times) - You guys, we may all still have time to be geniuses if we work reallyreallyreally hard. Of course, I misread the author's name as Shrek, so I may be out of the running. (In my defense, I read William Steig's Shrek to kiddos twice last week. Excellent, excellent book.)

Also, if you're in the mood for a BBC period drama, try He Knew He Was Right, based on the novel by Anthony Trollope. It's available to watch now on Netflix. I enjoyed it because it had several interesting storylines, and the main one is quite different from any other period drama I've seen - a husband grows so jealous that it actually drives him mad. Poor Louis Trevelyan, idiotic as he was. I thought he was quite ably played by Oliver Dimsdale, and I was very sympathetic toward his wife Emily (Laura Fraser) as well. Also stars Stephen Campbell Moore (pictured above with Christina Cole)**, David Tennant***, Bill Nighy, and a bunch of actors that might look familiar from other places (I was pleased to see Barbara Flynn from Cracker, she's aces.)

I'm off for a bit - looking forward to coming back with a Redbreast review!


*Let's all pretend it's pronounced differently in Norwegian, shall we?

** I am really starting to love him. He looks born to play the cad, but so far I've always seen him as the nice guy (well, a bit smarmy in The History Boys, but not bad). He makes a lovely nice guy. (See also: Ashes to Ashes, Bright Young Things)

***Yes, you have cracked the mystery of why I sat down to watch this in the first place.

My Booky Wook by Russell Brand

I'm incredibly sentimental about animals. It's the only opportunity I get to occupy the moral high ground: when I got clean, after chatting with some Krishna conscious devotees, I gave up fish as well. They said if you put death into your body you will emit death, but I'm mostly in it for the high ground. "You're vegetarian?" comes the inquiry. "Yes." Then the inevitable, "Do you eat fish?" This is where they catch a lot of people out: the inquisitor is already at this stage anticipating a "Yes" and loading up with, "Ah, well, you're not a proper vegetarian then are you because fish are incredibly sensitive and some of them write haikus." That's why I have to stifle a smug grin when I reply, "No. No, I don't eat fish because it's cruel to them, the lovely little things." And on particularly smarmy days, "If you put death into your body you emit death." Even as a junkie I stayed true - "I shall have heroin, but I shan't have a hamburger." What a sexy little paradox.

-My Booky Wook

Russell Brand is an excellent subway companion - too good, almost. There was more than one day last week that I was loath to get off at my stop because I didn't want my time with Brand to come to an end.

Of course, I only had him in book format, but that was pretty good as far as those things go. (If I'd traveled with the real Brand, I think we can all assume there's no way I would have made it to work without some kind of rannygazoo* ensuing.) My Booky Wook is an eye-poppingly candid account of Brand's rocky childhood in Essex, his ascent into the world of show business, and his simultaneous descent into full-blown heroin addiction. He also deals with his slightly too, ah, spirited pursuit of ladies, which results in a stint in a New Jersey sex rehab. You can see how one might regret having to close the book every morning.

Russell Brand is one of those people I just knew that I'd like - I mean, just look at that hair. How can you not love him a bit?** He stole the show in the (mediocre, in my opinion) Forgetting Sarah Marshall, but I didn't really feel compelled to read his memoirs until I watched The Big Fat Quiz of the Year (search for 2006, 2007, and 2009 on YouTube if you need a laugh - and have a fair amount of time at your disposal). He's just so clever, so cheeky, and especially such a delightful teammate to Noel "King of the Mods" Fielding. (The Goth Detectives. I rest my case.)

"You just give us 48 hours and we'll get the job done - if we weren't so bloody miserable."

I don't think I have much of anything in common with him - but it doesn't matter, because the man can really tell a story, and My Booky Wook captures his distinctive voice perfectly. It's an affecting memoir, really. He tries to make light of things often, but at a certain point you can't help but go, wait, his father's taking him to a strip club in Southeast Asia? He's cutting himself while someone is calling 911 (well, 999)? Clearly things were not ship shape. He's told at one point, right before choosing to go to rehab, that in six months he will be in jail, a mental institution, or dead. It does not seem like an exaggeration. He did some things that I found horrible (or horrifying), but it is a testament to his charm that I still can't help but like him. He's really a singular man, in the end.

Up next: Working on Keats, as I indicated in the previous post. I imagine it will be slow going, and I may take a break as I'm traveling next week, and I can't bear to lug this 600-page behemoth on a plane.

*A Brand word if I ever heard one. Well, a Wodehouse word really, but Brand really has a flair for language. It means nonsense, incidentally.

**I'm sure tons of people have jerky things to say about his hair - I know not everyone shares the love. Tough for them, I suppose.

In Medias Res: Keats

So, I've finished My Booky Wook, but I'm not focused enough right now to gather my thoughts. Instead, I thought I'd offer this passage from Andrew Motion's biography of Keats, which I've just started.

It was a world fraught with violence. In the factories and the fields, where the conditions of everyday life were routinely shaped by appalling levels of suffering, the danger of rioting was a constant threat. There was a distinctly 'Sturm und Drang quality' about political life too. 'Think of the Earl of Chatham,' one recent historian has urged, 'collapsing in the House of Lords as he made his last manic and incoherent speech against war with America in 1778, or of Edmund Burke flinging a dagger into the floor of the House of Commons in December 1792 as a symbol of his departure from the Foxite Whigs, and of Charles James Fox bursting into tears as a result.' Think too of the Prime Minister Perceval, assassinated in the House of Commons in 1811, or of the startling statistic that nineteen Members of Parliament committed suicide between 1790 and 1820, and that a further twenty lapsed into insanity, as did their king.

Some people think history is dull. I can't imagine they've read the preceding paragraph.

Divine by Mistake by P.C. Cast

I covetously ratted through yards and yards of clothes until I finally stumbled upon what must be the Sportswear Armoire. It was filled to bursting with soft leather leggings and tops. All the pants were one style, the same buttery-yellow color, each with its own intricately tooled decorations. I recognized a very Celtic-looking knot woven down the sides of many of them. And I swear I could see more of those gross skulls hidden in the decorative leatherwork. They all had narrow legs, and weird ties that laced up high on the left hip (I guessed they were clueless about zippers in this world). I eyed them askance, hoping I hadn't put on any water weight lately. Deciding on one pair that seemed to have the least skull-like pattern, I started to pull them on, and couldn't help but gasp at the supple smoothness of the leather. They felt as if someone had fastened a baby's butt onto my legs.

-Divine by Mistake

I...kind of don't know where to begin. I mean, check out that excerpt. I think you can see why I'm at a bit of a loss. "Baby's butt?" Really? I could have lived a full and happy life without ever seeing someone compare the softness of a pair of leggings to a child's posterior. Truly.

My reading of Divine by Mistake comes down to a classic case of failing to do one's research. When I skimmed the back of the book prior to reading it, I thought the plot had some potential: A midwestern teacher named Shannon Parker buys a vase at an estate sale that transports her to the land of Partholon. There, she discovers that she is the doppelganger of a high priestess, Rhiannon*. She quickly becomes embroiled in all kinds of craziness, including marriage to a centaur and the looming threat of the nasty, blood-sucking Fomorians. I mean, it's not high art, but it sounded like it could be entertaining.

About 200 pages later (and about 200 pages after I realized I would be alternately grinding my teeth and rolling my eyes throughout the book), I took the time to check out the copyright page and discovered that Luna, the publishing company, is an imprint of Harlequin. That really explained a lot: the jokey writing style (Shannon's oft-rumbling stomach is the height of hilarity, apparently, and Cast revisits it often), the frequent dream sequences, and the continued descriptions of what Shannon is wearing. None of which I enjoyed, obviously.

It also explains why Divine by Mistake enjoys an average rating of 4 1/2 stars on Amazon.com, despite the fact it makes Twilight look like Dostoyevsky. I hope it's apparent that I'm not trying to bash P.C. Cast. Clearly her work is quite popular among some readers. If you can tolerate Shannon sizing up a female centaur's "girlfriend potential," making multiple references to John Wayne movies, and navigating romance with her centaurian** intended (the noble yet boring ClanFintan) armed with a slew of hackneyed double entendres involving riding, then I suppose you might enjoy it. It's not my cup of tea, obviously. More like a cup of tea brewed with cilantro, my archnemesis among herbs. Honestly, I didn't even like the font (The curve of the f was so long that when it appeared next to another tall letter, like an l, it looked as though there were almost an entire space between the two letters. Very distracting.) Oh yes, it's nitpicking, I know, but you know things are bad when I can't even wholeheartedly get behind the typeface.

Up next: I love, love, love all things British, in case that was ever unclear, and I particularly love British comedy. I've found that if you "discover" one comedian/show, the British comedy world is small enough that it will inevitably lead you to something else, and eventually you will exhaust the limits of what is on American DVD. This is how I've ended up watching multiple editions of The Big Fat Quiz of the Year on YouTube, and how I came to be entertained by the mischievous and ever-charming Russell Brand. Thus, I snatched up his autobiography, My Booky Wook, from the library yesterday, and I'm pleased to report that so far it is excellent.


*Incidentally, one thing this book did teach me is that I knew the Fleetwood Mac song "Rhiannon." I was aware that a song by that name existed, but it wasn't until I started reading that I matched it up with a song that had started to get stuck in my head with increasing regularity. I'm pretty sure it was on the mix when I worked retail, which was unfortunately skewed toward 70's pop and easy listening.

**Don't worry, they throw some magic at whole situation so there's no bestiality, thank god.