ReaderMarija's Reviews

I am rather partial to fairytale retellings. I find it interesting to see how authors are able to reinvent certain ideas and themes from the original tale. At the outset, The Merchant’s Daughter has a lot going for it, since in essence it is a retelling of Beauty and the Beast—one of my favorite fairytales. Yet, while I do like the fact that Dickerson does make the story her own, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat disappointed by it.

At the story’s core, it is definitely a retelling of Beauty and the Beast. Yet there are also bits and pieces of Jane Eyre (the vulcan vs. the adonis, i.e. Rochester and St. John), elements of Gaskell’s North and South (think of the strikers’ mob scene). As well, religion and religious symbolism play an important part in this story. This is all fine. Yet, Dickerson further compounds her story by adding a crime/mystery element, not to mention a number of saucy wenches and subplots that would have had a better place in an 18th century novel à la Henry Fielding. As I was reading along, I couldn’t help but feel that there was too much going on...somehow everything felt amplified. Yet at the same time, I also felt that there wasn’t enough going on. There is not enough character development. I wished Annabel and Ranulf had more to say to each other, rather than the various visual observations and self-conflicts and inner musings that do occur. Typically I do like reading about inner conflicts, however I found that there was too much. I wanted more outward conversations between these two characters. I even wouldn’t have minded having more religious debates or discussions about what they were reading.

As well, because the story is driven by the various events that drive the plot, I found that Dickerson was losing her initial thread of the Beauty and the Beast tale. For example, in the beginning she focuses in on the symbol of the rose. Yet, Dickerson seems to forget about this detail throughout most of the book, only bringing it back into the story near the end as an almost afterthought. This final description of the rose was rather abrupt and I found this rather disappointing, almost shocking especially since the rose symbol played such an important part in the beginning. At the end it almost seems like an unnecessary detail. It is a sort of betrayal, though one that is in no way comparable to sense of betrayal in Wilde’s The Nightingale and the Rose. If Dickerson developed the symbolism, it would easily have added much more significance to her story.

But I think my main grievance with the story was the time frame. All of the major events that occur in this novel only take place within a matter of a few weeks. I couldn’t help but find this silly. Especially when a story involves the development of a relationship, I can’t believe that two people could know each other completely within a matter of days. I have always felt that true love and understanding takes time.

Ultimately, I felt that if Dickerson focused more on the main characters and symbolism as a means of driving her story, she would have had a much better and fulfilling story. Her choice of having the plot centered on various almost superfluous events places her story at a disadvantage.

The main reason why I loved Mary McCarthy’s The Group was the fact that it was so true to life. In some ways, Dodie Smith’s story is just like it. Smith does not describe a flowery tale of London theatre life...everything all buttons and bows. She is really honest and at times her honesty is quite brutal. Her story is not just about theatre life, but life in general...young girls exposed to life’s realities. What I really found interesting was that some of the things Smith is describing are still relevant today. When Mouse describes her life at the girls Club and her relationships with Lillian, Zelle and Molly, I felt as if I was reliving my experiences at the girls’ high school I attended: those so-called “best friends” always backstabbing each other...making up stories and inflating the truth...doing so because of a need to fulfill a certain “moral” duty. I remember thinking it was so stupid. Yet I always loved witnessing those reconciliation moments...all of the arguing and crying that always ended with a hug. Dodie Smith does the same here, yet minus all of the melodrama. Here, the reconciliation moments are more sober—yet they ring true.

I really liked how this story is told. It has that Great Expectations feel. Like Pip, our main character, Mouse is recollecting her past...reflecting, trying to understand and make sense of how the events of the past have affected her in the present day. How much has she changed, is she still the same. Her conclusions are interesting, but I don’t know if I entirely agree with them. On the surface, Mouse is portrayed as one of those young innocents, but I couldn’t help but get the feeling that she has one of those dark streaks as well.

All said, Smith wrote an intriguing take on one of those developmental novels. I can’t wait to read more stories by Smith.

When I first saw the title of this story and compared it to the book’s synopsis, I wondered what the significance of the title could be. Initially thinking it a modern day retelling of Cyrano de Bergerac, the title could be viewed from a potential loved one’s perspective...think of that final scene between Roxane and Cyrano. However when you finish the book and really look at its cover, you can see that the title becomes self-reflective. Whoever paired the title with the cover art was rather clever.

Ultimately, Dying to Know You is not really a modern retelling of Rostand’s play. If you wanted to compare it to another work, I think it is more reminiscent of Zuzak’s Getting the Girl. Karl shares a number of similarities with Zusak’s Cameron Wolfe. Like Cameron, Karl is one of those scruffy types...nothing much to really look at, yet there is something about him that you can’t help but like. Karl is a good kid, trying to get his girl. Yet that is not really the essence of this story. It is a tale about trying to find yourself and learning how to express yourself in a way that suits you. Chambers does this well.

I also liked the pairing of Karl and the author. Some will say that it is an odd pairing—an old man with an eighteen year old—yet it works. They complement each other. Thus, it’s not a father-son-mentor situation. Karl and the author have a reciprocal relationship...both in effect help each other with the various obstacles they happen to face over the course of the novel. It’s well done.

Overall, Chambers penned a very good story—one that I am very glad to have read.

My main disappointment with A Greyhound of a Girl was that the story was not entirely what I expected. When initially reading the back cover, I expected something rather poignant yet cute—a story of four generations on the road together, facing a journey of discovery, forgiveness and acceptance with a few giggles along the way. Yet while this might in fact be what the author had in mind, I couldn’t help but feel somehow let down by the story.

Typically, stories like this one are highly personal and emotional, which in turn makes the story feel real. But as I was reading, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat detached from what was happening. The characters seemed intangible...almost as if they were in a dreamlike state...there yet not really there. Whenever something was said that was cute or funny to them, as a reader, I kind of felt like a bystander listening in on bits of a conversation that was not really meant for me to hear, i.e. not really getting the full picture or the gist of the joke. And it wasn’t a language barrier...I’m fairly used to reading British and Irish colloquialisms and idiomatic expressions, and came across nothing new in this book.

But what really contributes to that otherworldly quality to this story is the ghost element. I found it strange how the characters were so immediately accepting of this rather strange phenomenon, as if it was an everyday experience. Perhaps this is meant to reinforce the childlike natures of the characters. Even though four generations of women make up this story, they all have the same sort of childish innocence about them...how they view themselves and how they perceive the world around them. For example, when the ghost walks through the closed door of an ice cream shop carrying a wad of money, none of the women find it strange when the ghost returns by exiting through the chimney—the ghost’s reasoning being that she couldn’t carry four ice creams through a closed door. In this story, no one ever questions, everything is readily believed and approved. Because of this, other than this innocent sense of acceptance, there is no sense of real growth or development on this rather significant journey for these women.

Overall, while I like the idea that Roddy Doyle wrote a story like this for children, I wished that he could have developed the story and the themes a little more—focused more on the real rather than the imaginary. I think this is an important subject for children to consider, yet as written, I feel that only a surface representation of what experiencing a loss could feel like is really explored.

Willful and stubborn, the kind of girl who only sees what she wants to see and does what she wants to do no matter what anyone else says—that’s Angel. On the whole, I really liked her. Taylor portrays her in such a way that no matter which path Angel chooses, it perfectly suits her character. Her choices are amusing, even grandiose, yet they are perfectly natural for her.

Angel is a force of nature. She sees the world however she wants to see it and nothing or no one can alter her perceptions. Angel is Angel and there is no changing her. Yet the question stands, “Does she cause her own fall?” Given the changes that occur all around her, you could say yes. Yet if Angel answered this question, I don’t believe she would entirely agree with that assessment. I think at the most Angel would say that she was underappreciated. But would this kind of reasoning really be a bad thing? Taylor’s storytelling leaves the choice up to the reader. The book is in no way preachy, forcing the reader to prescribe to one particular viewpoint. I rather like this.

I absolutely love how the story ends. It is perfect—art imitating life. It perfectly fulfills Angel’s own romantic notions. But what really makes this special is Taylor’s visual writing. I thought it wonderful that Taylor allows the reader to visualize the “guilt” of that little culprit.... ;)

(If you’ve seen the film version, I think it is somewhat darker. Those ironic moments in the book are shifted into something more real. As well, the film depicts what is only hinted in the book...putting different storylines together for more cohesion—especially in regards to Esmé—and no....there is no comparison with that other Esme from Twilight. In a way, the film begins to question, “What may happen if the mirror cracks?” Overall, though different, both stories are equally good.)

I first came across Zweig after watching the film, Letter from an Unknown Woman starring Joan Fontaine and Louis Jourdan, which is based upon his short story of the same name. The story intrigued me and I wanted to explore more of his work. I am so glad I did. There is a real natural quality to Zweig’s writing, that is so true to life. In all honesty, I think Ferdinand is one of the most real male figures you might come across in literature. His frank, brutal honesty is so jarring to the senses, yet it is real! It is absolutely wonderful. Those last surprising final pages are the reason why I am giving this novel a five star rating. They are brilliant.

As I was reading, I was wondering who could have played Christine in a film version of this story. Initially, for the first section of the book, I immediately thought a young Joan Fontaine. Joan has that innocent dreamy look about her that sometimes is on the brink of becoming annoying—especially clear if you picture her in The Constant Nymph. Christine fully embodies this when she’s at the hotel. Yet Zweig masterfully alters this perception through a jarring sense of change—a change that is rather cruel Christine’s character does a complete about face as a result of the changes that ensue. This new Christine has lost her dreamy innocence, and is faced with a bleak and stark reality. The change in perspective is done well. And I still think Joan would fit the part here as well—especially when considering her mischievous performance in Born to Be Bad.

The progression of this novel is really unexpected. There is no real way you could infer or foresee what happens at the end by considering the events that happen in the beginning. I was truly surprised. Essentially, the end manifests into one of those proverbial forked roads, but the choices Christine has are so incongruous and unanticipated. Yet somehow, Zweig transforms these choices into something completely natural and believable, even acceptable. The end itself is so quiet and understated, yet it completely works. This is a truly amazing and wonderful novel. Bravo Zweig!

My mother read this story a few years ago and rather enjoyed it. I remember her telling me that I would appreciate the sardonic humor that is interwoven throughout the story. She was absolutely spot on. Some of the descriptions in this book are wonderfully bleak:

Between you and me, this business of the seventh art leaves me cold. As far as I can see, it’s only a way of feeding the mindless and making them even more stupid. Worse than football or bullfights. The cinema began as an invention for entertaining the illiterate masses....Fermín’s attitude changed radically the day he discovered Carole Lombard....A few seconds later, Veronica Lake made her grand entrance onto the scene, and Fermín was transported to another plane.

[Sister Hortensia] wandered off into the shadows, carrying her bucket and dragging her shadow like a bridal veil.

Covered in bandages, dressings, and slings, Fermín held [Bernarda] tenderly, stroking her hair. His face carried a bruise that hurt to look at, and from it emerged his large unharmed nose, two ears like sails, and the eyes of a dispirited mouse. His toothless smile, through lips covered in cuts, was triumphant, and he greeted us with his right hand raised in the sign of victory.

I have a soft spot for crusty yet suave characters and Fermín is one of the best. He is very much like Compo from Last of the Summer Wine. When Fermín pursues Bernarda, it is easy to picture Compo’s various attempts to win the affections of Nora Batty. ;)

My favorite part of this book was the secret mystery of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books...the imagery of little Daniel and his father embarking on this special quest of discovery and rediscovery. This first section of the book has a personal, solemn, almost religious tone—Daniel’s own rite of passage to literature and life. It is very good—an excellent opening to a novel. I loved how this is also paired with the imagery of the end.

The interwoven lives of Daniel and Julián are done well. The way their stories fade in and fade out has a seamless film-like quality. Their stories flow naturally as the novel progresses. Yet even though their stories are central to this book, I feel that the supporting cast of characters are the ones who are really the main focus of this work and hold it together. Daniel and Julián are somewhat childlike in regards to their actions and how they control their emotions...both share that youthful, innocent all or none sentimentality. Because of this, there is a sense of protection that pervades this story...the other characters molding and shaping perceptions and events as they happen. The psychology behind this is interesting. It plays on the idea of excess of both love and hate.

Overall, Ruiz Zafón penned an excellent story and mystery. It was fun trying to match all of those little puzzle pieces, gradually watching how it all fit together. The end result was well done.

I think this is one of the most depressing stories I have ever read. Like Jude the Obscure, this is the kind of story that leaves you feeling cold...almost like you’ve been punched in the gut...an experience akin to a kind of betrayal. The Masterpiece is truly an awful story, yet Zola somehow manages to infuse a kind of beauty into his prose that counteracts the harsh naturalistic point of view that typically dominates Zola’s work. To reflect the artist Claude’s internal conflicts between romanticism and realism, and realism versus naturalism, the format and progression of Zola’s novel likewise illustrates that same struggle. As you are reading you do get that sense of battle of the old vs. the new in terms of style and description. Even at the end, there is no real sense of a true victor...a kind of defeat that almost mirrors the artist’s. Whether this was intentional or not, I loved how Zola achieved this.

I loved the artist’s point of view...how art colors the prose in regards to how Paris and the country are viewed. It forces the reader to focus on little details that would typically be overlooked. It beautifully reflects Claude’s own art...those flecks of paint and color that might initially seem jarring, yet when taken together and reflected upon, it all makes sense. Initially, when I read those descriptions of Claude’s blue trees, I felt exactly like Christine...blue trees? I couldn’t picture it. Yet when I went to the new Van Gogh exhibit at the PMA this week, on top of all of those layers of paint, I couldn’t help but notice those same blue trees in many of Van Gogh’s landscapes. ;) Claude’s visions finally made sense in my mind. They were beautiful.

Zola was relentless in punishing Claude and Christine. It was savage...so horrible. And yet it is described in such a way that the reader shares and experiences everything they feel. While some of the comments Claude makes are truly evil—he is certainly not portrayed as a saintly martyr—I don’t believe he deserved all of the misery that befalls him. Since Claude was partially modeled off of Zola’s childhood friend Cezanne, I can understand why Cezanne would have wanted to part ways with his friend after The Masterpiece was published.

Out of the other Zola novels that I have so far read, this one is markedly different. It doesn’t have that social satire present in his Octave Moret novels or the harsh addiction and vice prevalent in Nana. There is more of a sense of tragedy here, somewhat reminiscent of the Thomas Hardy novels I love—though Zola adds his own characteristically dark naturalistic flare to the drama.

When I came across the description for this book, it immediately grabbed my attention, and I was really looking forward to reading it. However upon finishing this book, I don’t feel that it really met all of my expectations.

One the one hand, I think thematically—like fellow Printz award recipient, Where Things Come Back—it would lead to some good discussions for students, especially when linking the book’s themes with the ending. Will feelings change...will promises be kept...is it still possible to regain that sense of home, given the changes that have occurred, throughout all the time that has past? I think the book ultimately leads the reader to answer these questions.

On the other hand, I really believe this book feels like an author’s first novel. I don’t think it is very cohesive in terms of structure. Hinwood doesn’t seem to have a strict focus for this story. From reading the book’s description, Cam would probably seem like the book’s main focus. But that is not entirely true. Each chapter is told from a different character’s point of view, to provide further insights into the events occurring. I would think Hinwood does this as a means to bring the characters’ closer to the reader, as a means to understand them better. However, I think her use of this style has an opposite effect. I ultimately felt more distanced from these characters—their thoughts and feelings becoming more and more elusive as the story progressed. At times when I wanted to know what one of the characters was thinking or feeling, the story was being told from another’s perspective. As well, Hinwood is not consistent in the spacing or number of these chapter points-of-views. Some characters have more chapters than others (e.g. Cam vs. Gyaar), other characters who spoke at the beginning of the story, resurface again at the end (e.g. Pin). What surprised me most was when a seemingly major character at the start of this book, completely disappears with no further reference in the text. For this character, there’s no real sense of closure. I found this rather unfeeling and cold, given the internal conflict this character faced.

Setting the story in a fictional setting gives an author more freedom to decide how this world would look like and behave, rather than forcing an adherence to historical accuracy and maintenance of specific codes of behavior. However Hinwood does not really provide a strong background for this world she created. Ultimately, it is a blend of history and her own conception, but there are significant gaps in terms of the society she is trying to convey. For example, some societal codes she hints at, should have had a better explanation. At the beginning of the story we learn that Cam is betrothed to Graceful. Hinwood tells us that he had to pay a sort of dowry in order to wed her, and upon their wedding he would assume her name. I found this an interesting concept. However, Hinwood never formally states that Cam does this because he is of a lower class standing. A young reader could easily miss this fact. Yet, the traditional betrothal-marriage arrangement of a father providing a dowry for his daughter still exists in this society as well.

Also, I don’t really feel it was necessary to set this story in the aftermath of a war. Cam’s internal conflict existed well before he went off to war. His problems are not post-traumatic in nature...they center around the idea of a sense of belonging—a feeling he lacked even when he was only a very young boy. Likewise the conflicts other characters face—both internal and external—don’t necessarily stem from the effects of war. What these characters experience could easily have resulted from any kind of circumstance or situation. If Hinwood truly focused on what could happen in the wake of a war, she would have had a much darker novel. Nevertheless, I feel it could have been something far more rewarding than the story she provides.

The story of the Dead Secret would have made a great film in the 1940s. Imagine as an opening, a scary looking Joan Crawford lying on her death bead forcing a very nervy Jennifer Jones, her lady’s maid, to write a confession letter directed to Joan’s husband. The letter is never given to the husband, and thus Jennifer Jones is forever haunted by the ghost of Joan until that final debt is paid. This would make for a very melodramatic film, though one that would probably be very unsettling. ;)

The story itself is an interesting one, though you can easily tell that it is an early work of Collins. Collins seems to be experimenting with his characters and his ability to create vivid characterizations. There are some wonderfully funny characters here, namely Mr. Phippen, but they really don’t serve a major purpose to drive the plot. Other major characters could have easily taken their place. Also, I think Collins used some of the characters in this story as a basis for other characters in his later works. Rosamond is very much like Magdalen and her sister Norah in No Name. As well, Mr. Phippen reminded me of Mr. Fairlie in The Woman in White. As well, I rather liked the eccentric Andrew Treverton and his grouchy, crusty servant, Shrowl. Together they make a wonderful combination and I wished they had a larger presence in this text.

Overall, I felt that Collins did a good job with this story. The themes are very good and I really liked how Collins had the characters come to terms with the secret. But, I think his later works are stronger and more cohesive in terms of character and plot structure.

I think if you read a brief summary of this story, you might come to the conclusion that you’d forego wanting to read it, thinking it too simple, or too bland...labeling it as one of those sentimental stories you could easily watch on TCM. Yet in Zweig’s capable hands, this journey into the past seems a personal one and because of this, this simple story, plainly told transforms into something that is truly special. The story is beautifully rendered, telling a tale that is true to life. Love is often times portrayed as something entirely beautiful—all flowers and roses. Yet, love could also be viewed as something selfish, especially when considering circumstances, situation, and time. In this story, Zweig constructs an excellent balance. The love shared by the two main characters is something beautiful and lustrous, yet it becomes almost too brilliant, a love in danger of becoming all consuming. It’s very real.

Because this is a novella, each sentence is significant, and words are never wasted. Ludwig’s progression of thoughts and reflections depict genuine emotion and feeling, seamlessly linking the past with the present through a constant natural flow, that never becomes overly psychological. As well, the images Zweig creates through Ludwig’s eyes—the plays of light and dark evoking past and present—are masterfully done. This is truly an excellent book.

One of Zola’s main objectives for writing was to describe people, places and events true to nature as they exist in real life—documented in writing with a scientific precision. Zola has certainly achieved this through his characterization of Nana. Even if you take away Nana’s profession, she is a character that transcends time. You could easily find her amidst the in crowd of any high school—the kind of girl who would have dozens of followers about her; and yet no matter how many times she “innocently” manages to trash their lives, she would still have those same followers crawling back to her, begging her for forgiveness. 


This book is a mess! I don’t think I’ve ever come across a character I despised more. At times, I truly felt badly for those men who fell into Nana’s poisonous clutches, especially the Hugon boys and even Count Muffat and Steiner. I could even empathize with them when it came to their gift giving—watching Nana toss their gifts away like pieces of trash, or watching her break them immediately upon opening. But as the novel progresses, whatever positive feelings you might have had for these characters, seemingly dwindles away, upon the realization that these boys and men are knowingly and willingly crossing a line in terms of behavior—an addiction they don’t want to overcome. For me, watching these characters become more and more immeshed in Nana’s web, essentially wasting away physically, emotionally and monetarily becomes increasingly difficult and upsetting.

However, Zola does create the perfect balance when he wrote that absolutely wonderfully macabre and ironic ending—the juxtaposition of that room, the ladies, the men and those celebratory shouts of the Parisians for the coming Franco-Prussian war. Yet amazingly, even though the ending on a surface level may seem overly dramatic—a typical Romantic style of ending—Zola manages to maintain his cool, scientifically precise tone that’s true to his design.

One of Wilkie Collins’ talents is playing with the psyches of his readers. In No Name, this manifests through the question of who is the real villain in this story. Victorian readers would most likely have pointed the finger at Magdalen, yet ironically she’s our protagonist. From my readings of Victorian fiction, an author portraying the main character as a villain was a rare occurrence. Wilkie himself tries his best at pointing the finger at Mrs. Lecount. But while she does seem villainous in terms of her animosity and hate towards Magdalen, can it really be said that she is evil? In some ways, I felt Mrs. Lecount was justified in some of her actions. And I think the same could be said for Magdalen. Ultimately, I feel that the real villain in this story is something much bigger, especially when considering the underlying circumstances that cause the events that take place throughout this story. Thus in some ways, No Name reminds me of Dickens’ Bleak House.

Collins is also excellent at building up “sensational” suspense. This book is near 800 pages, yet I never once felt bored. I was immediately swept up into the story...easily excited by all of those little hints and details...almost swooning when Kirke came onto the scene! Ooh...it was embarrassing, yet it was so much fun. ;)

As a side note, like Dickens, Collins is also great at creating caricatures. I absolutely loved Captain Wragge and his wife. Their names are priceless, but that’s nothing compared to how they progress in this story.

Hmm...I get the feeling that Murakami, in the process of writing this book, wrote all of the characters names, various places, etc. on pieces of paper and flung them up in the air, letting them fall where they may. I think Murakami then wrote this book based upon where those pieces of paper fell, essentially drawing a map to connect the dots, lines becoming roads that converge and diverge wherever and whenever. When, that metaphorical road hit a crossroads, rather than taking a single direction, Murakami wrote about both possibilities, in effect, forcing us as readers to choose whichever course we would like these characters to follow, as the story comes to a close. There’s one section in Kafka’s story, somewhat near the end, where a paragraph begins one way and ends in a way that’s completely opposite. Needless to say, this was a critical scene to the story, and we as readers are placed into the situation of choosing to believe whatever we want...both answers that are provided are equally plausible. It reminded me of Fowles’ The French Lieutenant’s Woman, that book where there are three endings—one taking place a third of the way in; the other two occurring at the end. The reader chooses which ending they prefer—classic postmodernism. If you like that kind of book, you’ll probably love Kafka on the Shore. If you’re like me, and tend to like some sort of finality when you reach those final pages, you will probably feel frustrated when you finish it.

That said, I still liked it. In some ways I felt that Murakami drew upon the animated films of Miyazaki when he was writing. There’s that same sort of animated visual quality to the writing...some of the images produced...that world beyond the entrance stone...that final battle scene with Hoshino and the creature...I could easily picture these scenes in a Miyazaki film...that sort of otherworldliness mixed with reality. Juxtaposing images, yet It’s interesting, easily drawing you in. The same is true for Mr. Nakata and the cats. His sections of the story were my favorite parts of this book. They’re so visual. When I close my eyes, I can easily picture him: little old man, rubbing his short hair and talking to a cat. Even though what’s being described is out of the ordinary, it’s so real and natural at the same time. Murakami makes these sections even better through the addition of Hoshino. When Hoshino comes onto the scene, both he an Nakata make a wonderful combination, easily complementing each other. It’s great and so much fun to read.

Then there’s Kafka’s story.... There’s only one real summation for him: He’s a stupid boy. Kafka’s whole journey is hypocritical. Trying to escape some awful oedipus-linked prophecy his father tells him when he’s a mere boy, he comes to the conclusion that the only way to successfully be rid of it is by fulfilling it. One of Kafka’s favorite statements is that he hates the idea of killing; it sickens him. Yet, he fails to realize that there are other ways of killing a person, and that the course he’s currently pursuing will not only “kill” him, but others as well. Even if things only happen in dreams—if they’re vivid enough they can easily kill, destroy or maim memories and feelings associated with a person—ultimately corrupting these memories and associations, which in turn can corrupt the self as well as others. Even when Kafka’s inner self, the boy named Crow, tries to turn him away from his current pursuits, he seems to willingly choose to ignore it—desire taking complete control of his senses. As I continued reading these sections of the book, I continually found it more and more difficult to come to terms with Kafka’s crazy fatalistic attitude that just eclipses all reason.

As a side note, a Doctor Who-type character makes a cameo appearance! It’s brief, but it’s certainly noteworthy, since this character, like Doctor Who, tries to restore and maintain the natural order of the world.

I really like Hawthorne’s writing. He wrote two of my favorite works. But for me, The Marble Faun is missing something.

The good: Hawthorne makes some really good insights here...exposing the irony of art and situation...what might really go on behind the scenes when creating a piece of art or sculpture, and how this might affect one’s perceptions and reception of the art, especially if the piece of art has a religious theme. Also interesting is his portrayal of the loss of innocence and its effect on conscience and soul.

The bad: What upset me about this novel is the plot, or lack of it. Hawthorne introduces a suspenseful plot that draws the reader in, but I felt his resolution unsatisfactory. I was left with questions that weren’t really answered. Hawthorne’s plot ultimately reflects the themes he brings about when he talks about art, i.e. can the viewer really discern at a glance what was really behind the figure(s) in a painting or piece of sculpture? In other words, who is the model and what was the artist or sculptor thinking as he created his masterpiece? This same idea applies to each of the four main characters and the mysterious model in this book, i.e. what can the reader discern from just viewing the actions characters within the moment. With this view in mind, past and future become negligible, and unfortunately this can be rather frustrating for the reader.

Yet, regardless of how frustrating it is to follow these characters in this murky plot, Hawthorne does make the reader feel sympathy for the faun. I rather liked how he achieved this.

Brian Nelson’s choice of title for Zola’s novel—Pot Luck—was truly a smart decision on his part. On the one hand, the title is a good reflection of the mixed bourgeois class—the families and servants—living in that Paris apartment building; yet, the title also reflects the effervescent style Zola used when he wrote this story. It’s like a pot that’s at a rolling boil. The story is full of energy...one scene easily flows into the next and is told with such energy that you don’t really get a chance to form a preference for one storyline over another. Each character and storyline is wickedly good, whether you’re attending one of M. Bachelard’s gastronomic extravaganzas, or waiting for one of Saturnin’s ironic murderous reflections, or whether you’re following one of the young Octave Moret’s attempts at balancing dream and desire, i.e. realize his business dreams while trying to catch a real Parisian woman.

Zola’s Pot is stuffed with ideas and themes, and even though there’s a lot of fun times on the surface, underneath there’s a lot of irony that exposes the hypocrisy, greed and squalor of the bourgeoisie. How Zola reveals this squalor, though, is truly masterful. The images, sights and smells he creates with his frank descriptions are so bleak!

Two of my favorite sections:

Octave and Trublot in one of the servant’s rooms:

[Trublot] could not find his gloves; he shook the petticoats, turned the bedclothes inside out raising such a cloud of dust and such a fusty smell of dirty linen that Octave, half-choking, opened the window.

a Bachelard feast:

All four looked at each other and chuckled. Their bellies distended to bursting-point, they slowly, selfishly proceeded to digest, like four worthy bourgeois citizens who had just enjoyed stuffing themselves away from family worries. It had cost a fortune, no one else was there to partake of it with them; no girl was there to take advantage of their relaxed mood; so they were able to unbutton and, as it were, lay their paunches on the table. With half-closed eyes, they at first refrained from speaking, each absorbed in his own personal bliss. Then, feeling completely free [...] they placed their elbows on the table, put their red faces close together and talked endlessly about women.