Book Review: The Swiss Family Robinson, by Johann David Wyss

I just don't know about this one.

I was recently commissioned to write a study guide for The Swiss Family Robinson, and since I didn't read the book as a child and my only familiarity with the story is the Disney movie (and the treehouse in Disneyworld, which my husband and I climbed on our last trip there), I had to read the book. Around chapter 2, I started to giggle, and that giggle rapidly turned into a guffaw. I realize that this is a children's adventure story and that it was originally written composed for the author's children -- and thus heavily reflects certain social attitudes of its origin -- but I simply could not enjoy this book. My complaint is not that the book is dissimilar to the movie; I always enjoyed the movie as a child, but I usually accept that movie makers take some license when adapting to the screen. My complaint is the sheer impossibility of the events in the book. Surviving a shipwreck is one thing. Knowing absolutely everything about the flora and fauna of a remote tropical island, as well as having virtually endless knowledge about physical science, engineering, weaponry, etc. (especially since the narrator is supposed to be...umm...a clergyman?) is just ridiculous. I have no idea if children today would enjoy this book, but I suspect that I would have disliked it when I was a child. Granted, I'm a girl. But given that I liked the movie and hated the book, I'm inclined to think that it's not the genre of the adventure story that bothers me.

For one, the tone really got on my nerves. There's a "father knows best" attitude in the narrator that, yes, may be attributed to the writing style of the day. But I ultimately found the narrator pompous and absurd. He narrates as though he knows pretty much everything about everything, and he almost seems excited when the family gets shipwrecked on an isolated island. After all, it gives him the opportunity to be a virtual king. And then there's just the sheer lack of reality about all of it. I started saying to myself, "Well, let's see how many lessons Father can teach the family about things he should realistically know nothing about." And, "Let's see how many Latin names of rare tropical species the boys (originally from Switzerland...) know." And best of all, "Let's see how far we can push the boundaries of natural history under the umbrella of creative license." I mean, penguins in the South Pacific? Even as a child, that would have bugged me.

Out of curiosity, I went on Amazon to read other reviews of the book. One lady wrote that she and her daughter had pretty much subtitled it "What is the Robinson family going to shoot tonight?" And I thought that might be the best summary I'd come across. The book is one hunting experience after another, with the father and his sons firing at just about anything that moves. I'm not necessarily a supporter of extreme gun control, but after a while their constant shooting concerned me a bit. There was just a little too much "shoot first, ask later" that I wouldn't consider a good example for my sons (should I have any). Maybe that's just me talking as a woman, but I didn't care for the incessant gunplay.

Frankly, if I were to give this an honest review, I'd have to say watch the movie and skip the book. The movie is actually fun and embraces the good qualities of the book -- the importance of family, honoring parents -- while leaving out the negative qualities. And besides, in the movie you get to see that wonderful treehouse (that the family abandons pretty rapidly in the book). It never ceased to delight me as a child and even as an adult, when I visited Disneyworld last summer. So, overall review: basically, a toss-up. If you love this kind of thing or think your child might, go for it. Otherwise, indulge in a little Disney. After all, no one does adventure better than the mouse.

Saint Calendar: Maximinus of Trier

29 May

Educated and ordained by Saint Agritius, whom he succeeded as bishop of Trier in 332 or 335. Trier was the government seat of the Western Empire, and his office put Maximinus close contact with Emperors Constantine II and Constans. Friend of Saint Athanasius, whom he harboured as an honoured guest during his exile of 336-8. Received the banished patriarch Paul of Constantinople in 341, and effected his return to Constantinople.

Fought Arianism. When four Arian bishops came to Trier in 342 to sway Emperor Constans, Maximinus refused to receive them, and convinced the emperor to reject their proposals. With Pope Julius I and Bishop Hosius of Cordova, he persuaded Emperor Constans to convene the Synod of Sardica in 343, and probably took part in it. Arians considered him one of their chief opponents, and they condemned him by name at their synod of Philippopolis in 343. In 345 he took part in the Synod of Milan. Presided over a synod at Cologne in 346 where Bishop Euphratas of Cologne was deposed due to his leanings toward Arianism.

Sent Saint Castor and Saint Lubentius as missionaries to the valleys of the Mosel and the Lahn. His cult began right after his death.

Died: 12 September 349 or 29 May 352 (records vary); in autumn 353, his body was buried in the church of Saint John near Trier; in the 7th century the Benedictine abbey of Saint Maximinus was founded there, which flourished till 1802.

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Text derived from the Patron Saints Index.

Poetry Study: Decaying Somewhere in the Desert...

"Ozymandias of Egypt," by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

I know it's kind of goofy to post this poem, since it's one of those standards that you'll find in just about every English literature anthology out there. I think I even had to memorize at one point during my education. But however trite it has become, I actually like this poem quite a bit. It's a sonnet that embraces anything but the traditional theme of love -- in fact, Shelley plays heavily against this theme by shaping his poem with powerful images of isolation and mortality. It's poetry but has hints of prose, indicating just how much Shelley was before his time. And it has an amazing use of language. For instance, say the last line out loud. It's almost impossible to say it quickly. Shelley selected the very words that would force the reader to slow down and create an image of an endless desert through spoken language. (This kind of poetry was written to be read aloud as much or more than it was written to be read privately.) As a result, this poem is nothing short of brilliant and deserves to be in every English literature anthology even if the block-headed freshman who are required to read it for their World Lit class don't have the slightest appreciation for what Shelley was doing in it.

The poem can also be found here.

Still Sluggish

*Sigh*

It's just one of those weeks. I've had trouble jump-starting everything, and I haven't really done much reading. I have one book to blog about, and I'll try to do that tomorrow, but otherwise I'm just plodding along. We're traveling next week, so I might actually get more blogging done in the hotel room. We'll see.

This week has been a little weird. I spent the better part of Memorial Day in the emergency room with my husband, who had developed a bad case of poison ivy. (Who knew the mango tree was related to poison ivy?) I had my birthday on Wednesday (I feel old...), and I treated myself to a day of doing nothing but shopping and cooking a semi-fancy French meal for dinner. The days in between have been filled with more of the same nothing, but it's getting old now. I want to start reading and blogging again, and I hope to do that in the next day or so.

Here's to the beauty of a good routine.

DVD Review: Bleak House, BBC (2006)

This DVD series of Bleak House was recommended on my blog some time back, and when I saw it at the library recently I snatched it right up. The BBC productions -- while usually very solid -- can sometimes be hit or miss in terms of authenticity to the original story (due to the inevitable challenges of adapting any book to the screen) -- but this one will certainly rank up there as one of the better adaptations. It is Dickens all the way, with a clear reliance on the original story and some exceptionally good casting.

One of the things that worried me with turning Bleak House into a movie was the necessity to convey on film the enormous detail that Dickens uses to describe his characters. While detail through exposition might not have been an option, the film makers chose to rely on the quality of the actors to indicate characterization. I was particularly delighted with Anna Maxwell Martin in the character of Esther Summerson. Esther's narration within the story bothered me at times, and I could never decide if I liked her or if I trusted her as a narrator. She seemed oddly effusive in some places and too self-effacing in others, making me wonder just how honest she really was. Martin clears all of that up and presents a character that is consistent and very likable; Martin also manages to weed through what must be the Victorian writing style of the day and offers a version of Esther that I think Dickens would have been proud of. Additionally, Gillian Anderson as Lady Dedlock is absolutely magnificent. She captures every nuance of the character and makes her considerably more sympathetic than I read her, but I'm glad for it. Because of the nature of the character -- a seemingly silly society woman who has little interest in anything but herself and her whims -- Anderson must largely use her eyes to indicate the emotional turmoil that Lady Dedlock experiences in the story. It is truly great acting, and Anderson alone makes this version worth watching.

The periphery characters are equally important in Bleak House, and I'm happy to say that the actors all help to make this such a memorable adaptation of the book. I particularly liked Burn Gorman as Mr Guppy and Phil Davies as Mr Smallweed, who inhabits his role with such grotesque greasiness that I really grew to dislike the sight of the man. But that's exactly as it should have been, so I'll hand it to Davies for his skills as a thespian. I also have to give Carey Mulligan credit in her role as Ada Clare (not necessarily a periphery character, I guess), because she converted Ada from the potentially sappy Dickensian female into a real woman with personality and strength of mind from beginning to end.

Overall, I can only offer the highest recommendation for the BBC's version of Bleak House. Be forewarned, though: it's very long. It took me a good three or more days to get all the way through it, and that was with watching 2+ hours at a time. But for those who have read and enjoyed the book, it's more than worth it to see such a faithful adaptation.

Poetry Study: I'm in the Mood for Some Eliot

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock":

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

I would normally offer some kind of commentary, but to me this one stands on its own feet as a powerful voice of personal insecurity and general apathy. I'm struck by the thought that the average American is now living as though he is the "patient etherised upon a table." So, do we dare to be Prince Hamlets?

Complete poem may be found here.

Art Study: The Enraged Musician, by William Hogarth

I'm in the process of reading Peter Ackroyd's book London right now, and one of the points that he makes has to do with London's historical tradition of constant noise. Ackroyd even mentions this particular work of art, so I thought I'd hunt it down. Hogarth is such a master of detail, and he captures minute but memorable expressions to create a surprisingly complete picture of a moment in time. Notice how many people in this image -- besides the very angry musician -- are playing musical instruments. It's as though the constant din that made (and makes) up London is its own music, and it is the actual musician who is adding something disharmonious.

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Hogarth's The Enraged Musician is currently on display at the Tate Britain in London.

Book Review: Safely Home, by Randy Alcorn

Tyndale House Publishers, 2001: 402 pages

When reviewing a book like this, I have to remember to distinguish between the literary quality and the message. In terms of message, this book is very important; in terms of literary quality, this book is dreadful. Separating these two things is very difficult for me to do, but I'm going to give it a try. I will, however, be honest about the writing style in the review, and I'm going to provide an explanation at the end of the review about why I don't think I should have to distinguish between literary quality and message. Feel free to skip over this little postscript if you wish.

Safely Home is the story of the wealthy and influential American businessman Ben Fielding who works for a company that is looking to grow in China. He goes to China to spend a few weeks with his former college roommate Li Quan (whom he hasn't seen in twenty years) and finds that his friend remains a devout Christian and is being persecuted for his faith. Ben resists the Christian influences but finds himself convicted about his own backsliding, and when Li Quan is arrested for taking part in what the Chinese government considers the "illegal" activities of Christians, Ben puts his hoped-for promotion in America at risk to help his friend. Along the way, Ben commits his life to Christ and returns to the US on fire for helping the persecuted Church in China. All in all, this is an excellent pretext for a story, and I believe that people should be made aware of the persection of Christians around the world.

Well, here goes with the scathing side of my review. Frankly, this book is terribly written. I mean, really terribly. On page 17, I encountered the following passage:

On Monday, September 17, Ben Fielding sat in his lofty West Hills condo, overlooking the Willamette River, admiring his breathtaking view of Mount Hood. The sun was just rising above its peak, the mountain looking like strawberry ice cream. He had just watched Venus, the morning star, surrender its glory to the greater light.

Ben sipped his superstrong Starbucks French Roast, trying to set aside the thoughts about Li Quan that had preoccuppied him all weekend...

Wow. Now, that's some bad writing. And I don't mean bad for a published book. That would get a fanfic writer bad reviews. And it doesn't get much better, although Alcorn's style does improve slightly when he writes exposition about the situation in China. But overall the characters are flat and predictable, the plot is transparent, the dialogue lacks any kind of punch. Everyone says and does exactly what you expect them to say and do. It ended exactly as I thought it would end. And for a book that's about 400 pages long, these problems make for a potentially excruciating read. Additionally, there's some serious dispensational theology running through the book that kind of got on my nerves, but I can't let that bother me too much, nor can I make that a major focus of my review. The purpose of this book isn't to split hairs about theology.

So here's my primary quandary about the book. The writing in Safely Home may be really poor, but it has a tremendous message about the persecution of Christians in China and in other parts of the world. So, I can't overlook the fact that Alcorn's message needed to get out, even if I disagree with the packaging of that message. (This returns me to my previous thought about a non-fiction book. People who aren't trained creative writers -- and Alcorn is a pastor and heads up a ministry for the persecuted Church -- shouldn't try to publish fiction.) I will give Alcorn a measure of credit in that his writing of the Chinese characters (by "characters" I mean people and not written symbols) was a little more palatable than his writing of the American characters, but I suspect that this is because he has such a heart for these people and it filled his writing with genuine sympathy. So, I have to give Alcorn his full dues for intention -- because his intention in telling this story is truly well-meaning -- but I can't overlook the quality of the writing entirely, and I have to give it a mixed review and recommendation. Read if you want to know more about the persecution of Christians in China. Beware of bad writing.

This is where my little p.s. comes in about why I don't think that I should have to overlook bad writing for the sake of message. To me, bad writing interferes with message, and it required some real determination to get past it in this book. I really believe that bad writing is no excuse for getting a good message out there. You have something to say? Find a genre in which you write well, and utilize it. Not everyone is meant to be a creative writer. I'm certainly not meant to be, and I've looked for genres that suit me better. I'll say it one more time: this book would have been far more effective as non-fiction, because Alcorn's exposition is pretty solid. What's more, I find it very difficult to believe that there aren't any good Christian fiction writers out there that could have told this story, or at least a similar one. (Then again, I usually avoid Christian fiction because I'm still waiting to read a really good book by a writer in this specific genre...) At the same time, I have the audacity to believe that a well-written book -- one that deserves to be called a classic -- shouldn't necessarily need the label of "Christian" because truly good writing conveys truth, regardless of the writer's intention.

Quick Review: Housekeeping Books

I have a rather inexplicable fondness for housekeeping books, a habit that has endowed me with a steady supply of them over the years. To be honest, I can't really explain this habit except to wonder if it's not a quietly self-serving way of finding out that I'm already doing everything right. In personality, I tend to lean strongly in the direction of cleanliness and organization: my spices are organized alphabetically and by use; my closets are divided by season and color; my books are arranged by genre and then by year of publication; for a time, I even used to iron my sheets (until I realized that a higher cotten count in a hot dryer basically makes this superfluous). My husband is, if possible, even worse that I am. All beds must be made with "hospital corners" and all of the clothes in his bureau must be folded according to military regulation. Don't even get me started on those stupid pleats in the uniform... And when we were first married, he used to follow me around after I'd already vacuumed and locate pieces of lint that didn't make it into the vacuum cleaner. We're quite a pair, we are. I don't think there's any point in people asking why we don't have children: please see above.

All of this to say that I was glancing through my housekeeping books last week, and I thought I might do a quick review of them. There are four, in particular, that I would consider the most significant of my housekeeping tomes, so those are the ones I'll mention.

Home Comforts, by Cheryl Mendelson
Scribner, 1999: 884 pages

This might be the book that prompted bookstores to begin carrying more housekeeping material, and I suspect it's considered the most authoritative housekeeping book on the market. I've known about it for years, and my mom bought it when it first came out. After that, she gave it as a gift to every young lady we knew that was getting married -- except for me, apparently. I received a different book (see Making a Home below) but have always wanted to own this one. Every year around my birthday I would mention it to my mom, and she would say, "Oh, I thought you had that!" Not surprisingly, I never received it from her as a gift. I finally found it marked way down at Half-Priced Books one day and snatched it up. (At which point, I mentioned it to my mom, and she said, "Oh, I thought you had that!" The sound you now hear is my palm hitting my forehead.)

Anyway, my feeling about Home Comforts is that it is a great book, but as I look through it again I'm tempted to say that it's a great book for someone who is already comfortable with housekeeping. To be honest, this is a pretty intimidating book, and I wonder if someone who is trying to improve housekeeping skills wouldn't shriek and run from it in horror. To begin with, there's the size. It's almost 900 pages and covers everything from keeping food safe to caring for ceramic tile. And it's not exactly 900 pages of pictures. Most of the book is text, so the reader has to read pretty hard. This one's no skimmer, that's for sure. But more than this is Mendelson's tone, which has bothered me from the first time I picked up the book. She's a very professional writer but not a terribly sympathetic housekeeper. Did you know that there's only one way to wash dishes correctly? Only one! And if you didn't know this, well she pulls out the ruler and smacks your wrist. Honestly, it feels at times as though she's a schoolmarm ready to punish an unruly student. I can't complain about most of the information (although it gets a little overwhelming at times), but I don't mind saying that you get a full dose of Cheryl Mendelson in addition to that information. Take this one with an open mind and the ability to strain out a writer's tone.

Making a Home
Better Homes and Gardens, 2001: 382 pages

This is the book that I received in lieu of Home Comforts, and in retrospective I'm glad of it. The subtitle of Making a Home is "Housekeeping for Real Life," and I think that statement summarizes its purpose fairly well. Simply put, this is a more realistic approach to modern housekeeping that takes into account the ways that people really live. While it might be interesting to know the traditionally correct way of washing dishes, what about people who don't have a double sink or the other "required" means at their disposal? Making a Home focuses more on how to actually get the dishes clean and leaves the method up to the individual. The book does have a great deal in the way of traditional housekeeping info, of course. There are plenty of useful tidbits about how to set a formal table or how to select the right equipment for a complete kitchen, but the book also offers variants. How about a formal but friendly table for the times that you're not entertaining the queen? How about the right equipment for a family of two, or for a busy family of four? This is real life, and these are the details that help real people out.

I have a small confession about this book that is part of its appeal for me: the publishers used a great deal of color organization and helpful pictures. I'm aware that this was largely a "curb appeal" technique on their part, but it worked. Making a Home is the kind of book that you grab and consult when you need to find something useful in a hurry. By contrast, Home Comforts is the kind of book that you read propped up on the couch with a cup of tea. For simple housekeeping requirements, I personally prefer the former, so the former book has far more appeal for me. No, it's not as in-depth, but few people need to know the history of wool manufacturing when trying to figure out how to launder that wool sweater; they need something that is easy to read and has a list of basic information. For me, Making a Home fits this requirement nicely.

Green Housekeeping, by Ellen Sandbeck
Scribner, 2006: 426 pages

A couple of years ago, Ellen Sandbeck published a book entitled Organic Housekeeping. I didn't buy it for myself at the time, but I did buy it for my mom as a requested gift, and I had a chance to browse through it. When I saw Green Housekeeping in the bookstore, and with a gift card burning a hole in my pocket, I thought I had hit the jackpot. Even better than organic housekeeping -- green housekeeping! Well, I discovered something when I got the book home. Basically, Ellen Sandbeck or her publishers decided to capitalize on the whole green movement and simply gave the book a new title, repackaging it in a recycled binding. (Literally. The cover is made of recycled material.) Okay. Well, I was a little irritated, but since I liked the concept behind Organic Housekeeping I figured this one would do just as well.

This book essentially explains the way to do housekeeping with as little waste and damage to the environment as possible. The less, the better. Sandbeck indicates that the majority of houses can be cleaned with vinegar, baking soda, borax, and water -- not necessarily mixed together. (By the way, this isn't entirely true, but that's for another discussion.) She recommends things like line drying clothes and using green plants to freshen the air. If you're in the mood to repaint your house, she has a few handy hints about which paint to select. All in all, this book has a great deal of useful information that the reader can pick and choose at will. Honestly, unless I lived in the country with a completely sustainable house and a very green thumb, there would be no way to follow her guidelines to the letter. But I don't necessarily think her goal is to get everyone 100% of the way there. Getting some people 30% of the way there makes a positive difference, and that goes a long way toward helping the environment.

For the most part, this book contains a great deal of practical information. My only real complaint about it is that it's oddly organized. For some reason, I always get lost when I start to flip through it, and I don't entirely understand the book's set up. Fortunately, it does have a good glossary, but I wish it were organized more sensibly. As a result, I'm not necessarily sure that I'd recommend people buying this book. Checking it out from the library and making some notes would probably suffice for most people.

Mrs. Dunwoody's Excellent Instructions for Homekeeping, by Miriam Lukken
Warner Books, 2003: 266 pages

This is kind of a guilty pleasure as a housekeeping book. My husband bought it for me when we were living in South Carolina, and I went through a phrase during which I became convinced that my purpose in life was to become a stately Southern matron. Mercifully, I have left that phase behind, but I'm glad I picked up the book along the way. Written in the manner of a Southern lady's housekeeping (or "homekeeping" as the author insists on calling it) journal, the book covers a variety of topics from the basics of caring for a home to the need for good manners on all occasions. However frivolous the outside design, the information contained within is heavy in practicality, and most readers will probably find themselves saying, "Wow -- I didn't know that!" and "Huh -- what a good idea!"

In some ways, this is kind of a silly book to own, and it doesn't contain anything that you would be unable to find elsewhere. But there's something about the way that it's presented that makes it so enjoyable. The layout of the book is very easy to follow, and it has an excellent selection of details. Some of them are a little dated (umm...does anyone actually use fuller's earth and dried fowl's dung to get the scorching out of linens anymore?), but a great deal of them are timeless in their application (did you know that lavender oil and alcohol repel mosquitoes? I'll take those over Off! any day of the week). If I could only own two housekeeping books, I would probably have Making a Home and this one. It's a fun read, and honestly contains a number of the "green living" tips that Ellen Sandbeck's book contains, but with a far better presentation.

Summary:

So, that's that, I suppose. Making a Home has gotten the most use from me, followed by Mrs. Dunwoody. The other two books are useful, but I can see how not owning them won't hurt anyone. As most housekeeping books are meant to be owned, I'd recommend checking on any of them at the library first before leaping into a purchase. And, frankly, with the rising cost of...well, everything, I'd always try to locate these books used. After all, economy in housekeeping purchases is one of the first recommendations from all of these authors.

Book Review: A Year in Provence, by Peter Mayle

This book is a delight from beginning to end. The subject matter, the writing style, the local characterizations -- from the first page to the last, I was drawn in and fascinated by life in Provence. Mayle is a gifted writer and has a talent for selecting just the right moment and describing it in perfect detail. As a result, there are gems to be found on every page and a laugh in just about every paragraph.

The premise of the book is the many experiences of the first year that the author (or narrator, depending on how the reader chooses to distinguish the two) and his wife have after moving to Provence. They buy an old French house -- apparently the one in the picture below -- and then set themselves to the task of remodeling it and assimilating into Provençal life. As expected, there are all kinds of new adventures along the way, from getting accumstomed to the local way of measuring time to getting used to the vast changes in weather, from learning the variances of the French language in Provence to braving the many guests who invite themselves down. The house that is supposed to be remodeled within a matter of a month or two doesn't get completed until December, and then only because the author and his wife lure the builders into finishing the job by throwing a cocktail party and inviting them and their wives. (The ploy is quite brilliant actually: no self-respecting workman from Provence would let his wife see that his work is only half-finished.) But the year and the story moves very quickly, and by the time the reader reaches December, it's a little disappointing to know that it will all be over soon.

Although the remodeling of the house is the central element of the plot, Mayle doesn't focus exclusively on the challenges of getting contractors to finish a job in a timely manner, which is just as well since that seems to be a universal and not terribly original problem. While their house is being torn apart and rebuilt, he and his wife take the time to experience the local culture and get to know the part of Provence in which they are living. There is hiking to do, truffles to hunt, (lots of) wine to drink, cafes to enjoy, and even a goat race to watch. The book was originally published in 1989, so I suspect that no matter how "provincial" Provence might have remained, much of what Mayle describes is now obsolete, but it's fun to read about anyway. For myself, I have to admit that I hope the cafe bathrooms have improved and that many of the cafes now take credit cards (which I would assume they do, or at least some of them). But I enjoyed Mayle's take on everything and his willingness to allow Provence to reveal itself to him and to accept Provence as it is and not as he thought it would, or should, be.

To me, the best part of the book has to be Mayle's descriptions of the people encountered along the way. From the trigger-happy neighbor Massot to the industrious tenant Faustin and his wife Henriette to the delightfully philosophical electrician Menicucci, Mayle breathes life into each of these characters and shows the reader how they make up the Provence that he has learned to love. My personal favorite, though, might be Mayle's description of the hapless English friend Bennett who accidentally caught the backseat of his rented convertible on fire (while driving down the autoroute, no less) and then put the fire out by urinating on it. (He did pull over to perform that task.) I laughed for about three days when I read this.

Two thumbs up for A Year in Provence and a big recommendation. Mayle's wit is wonderfully dry and his sense of humor keeps the reader interested. I realize that this one isn't exactly fresh off the printing presses, but the writing style is fresh enough to keep it relevant and enjoyable for some time.

Year of publication: 1989
Number of pages: 207

Lingustic Considerations: Newry Boat Song

I heard this song for the first time last night and fell in love with it at once. There's a mournfulness to music sung in Scottish Gaelic that separates it from its Irish cousin. I have a half-formulated theory that it's a combination of history and landscape that have infused the music with such a lyrical sadness. Obviously, history and landscape have little to do with the words of this song, but it's not difficult to imagine the mournful quality simply becoming a part of the lifestyle.

Gur h-e mo ghille dubh-dhonn
Gur tù mo chuilean runach
Gur h-e mo ghille dubh-dhonn

San a'raoir nach d'fhuair mi'n cadal
Bha mì fad 'nam dùsgadh

Smaointin air an fhear a thrèig mi
'S nach d'rinn feum dha chumhtan

He's gone, he's gone, my lover's gone
And left me broken hearted

Chuala mi gun d'rinn thù Dhomhnaill
Posadh ann an Niubhraidh

Domhnall Donn the people say
You've married down in Newry

B'fhearr leam fhin a bheith riut posda
Na cuid ór a Phrionnsa

I would rather have you, Donall
Than the gold of princes

Och nam och mar tha mi nochd
Trom osnaidh 's mi gad iondrainn

Translation:

He is my dark brown lad
You are my beloved darling
He is my dark brown lad

It was last night I couldn't sleep
I was awake for a long time

Thinking of the man that forsook me
Who didn't keep his promise

He's gone, he's gone, my lover's gone
And left me broken hearted

I heard, Donald
That you got married in Newry

Domhnall Donn the people say
You've married down in Newry

I would prefer to be married to you
Than to have the Prince's gold

I would rather have you, Donall
Than the gold of princes

Alas how I am tonight
Sighing heavily as I long for you

And because I aim to please, here's a clip from YouTube with a version of the song from the Irish singer Méav Ní Mhaolchatha (pronounced rather broadly as Mave Nee Vel-kah-ha). Gaelic music is always a little unusual at first to the unfamiliar ear, but bear in mind that it's usually more about the rhythm and the sounds of the language than it is about the words actually meaning something. Listen for the intervals as well: they may sound strange, but they're tough to reproduce and are virtually unique to music of the Celtic peoples. Additionally, many of the songs in Scottish Gaelic (as this one is) were orginally work songs; it's not difficult to imagine this song fitting the rhythm of a woman's sewing, weaving, etc.

Some Changes

In addition to the new template, I've decided to make some changes to my blog with new kinds of posts. So far, this is what I have in mind:

Great Books Dialogue
I'm going to be working with a student on a Great Books study for the next school year, so in addition to regular book reviews, I want to post a separate dialogue about the literature I'm reading/reviewing for the study. I'll specifically be doing a combined Ancients/Middle Ages study, so there will be plenty to discuss.

Quick Book Reviews
I like doing long reviews, but in some cases the books that I read don't deserve a long review. I'd like to add a quick list of recommended books once a week or so.

Movie Reviews
Not so much current movies as documentaries, educational features, BBC films, etc. I have a few up my sleeve right now, which is where I got the idea :)

Poetry
I know it's not for everyone, but I enjoy poetry, and I'd like to add the occasional poem to the blog. Maybe 1-2 times per week, but certainly not every day. I'd also like to add a brief discussion of possible interpretation, so it's not just hanging there. I get the feeling that most people skip over poetry if it lacks a legend for reading it.

Art
Had I not studied literature, I would have been tempted to major in art history, so I'd like to add an image once in a while with some explanation about why it's there.

Travel Essays
My husband and I have unintentionally found ourselves with quite a travel resume (it just kind of worked out that way), so I might add a travel review once in a while.

Language Studies
I am and always have been fascinated by languages, so I will continue to post poems, song lyrics, etc. in languages that I study. I will try to add some kind of English explanation instead of simply slapping it up on the blog.

The other idea that I'm rolling around in my head is a posting of saints. It seems to me that the Protestant church doesn't pay enough attention to deserving Christians of the past, so I'd like to add the occasional saint posting. I'm still trying to decide on this one, though.

The book reviews will continue, of course. I enjoy doing them, and I'm trying to work up to twice a week. On a good week.

The Name of the Rose, by Umberto Eco

This book is usually filed as a mystery, with the added qualifications of being a medieval murder mystery, set in 14th-century Italian monastery. As I began reading, I started to wonder just how else I was going to qualify this book -- is it historical fiction, a self-reflexive study of books, an inquiry into the nature of truth, a logical syllogism such that Aquinas himself would have been proud of? About halfway through the book, I realized that The Name of the Rose is none of those things; or rather, it's all of those things, but falling under a larger overarching analysis. Ultimately, this is a book about language.

I should have recognized this when I read the bio on the back of the book. Umberto Eco is an early pioneer in the field of semiotics, which is the study of signs and symbols. The study of semiotics encompasses the fields of semantics, syntactics, and pragmatics. I had a professor in graduate school whose focus was (or is) on semiotics. He was a fascinating man. He always showed up to class in shorts, a rumpled t-shirt, and sandals, and I'd be surprised if his hair had seen a comb in the previous six months. He used to do bizarre things, like walk into parking meters and spill a crockpot full of hot food on himself, simply because his mind was occupied with scholarly things. This man was truly the absent-minded professor. But he could string a sentence together like no one else I've ever met, and he could get to the root of language and its purpose faster than any other teacher I've ever had. There is no one quite like a semiotician to make you think about language and symbols in a frighteningly illuminating way, and I think Umberto Eco accomplishes true illumination in this book.

The premise of the story is really quite simple: an Italian abbey is under suspicion of harboring heretical members, and a death has taken place that is difficult to explain. Enter Brother William of Baskerville and his assistant Adso, English and German respectively, who have been charged with getting to the root of the matters. Over the course of the next six days, six more murders take place as William and Adso attempt to uncover whatever plot or plots may be at hand. Interwoven into the overarching plot is the sub-theme of church politics that was playing out during the late 14th century. The pope and emperor were at odds with one another (as they tended to be during the late Middle Ages), and the pope had relocated to Avignon, much to the horror of all good Catholics. Meanwhile, the Franciscans were under fire for divergent sects that have taken the vow of poverty to dangerous levels, and the pope was worried about the Franciscans even having a vow of poverty. (That would make it difficult for the pontiff to justify his lavish lifestyle after all...)

But all of the historical matters, and even the murders, are just trimmings for what is really an analysis of language, what it means and what it represents. At the center of the study of language is the abbey's library, an ancient fortress that has become a labyrinth -- in itself symbolic of language. William and Adso begin to decode the mystery of the labyrinth in a way that represents the decoding of semantic symbols: they take it apart piece by piece, deconstructing the language of enigma and sorcery that has surrounded the labyrinth and rebuilding it in a language that they can speak (the language of theology, logic, and philosophy). This deconstruction is exactly what modern linguists and literary scholars do to language, not to take it apart but rather to understand it in a new way. Deconstruction done properly is but the first step to reconstruction.

It turns out, however, that the labyrinth cannot stand the deconstruction, just as William's own understanding of language seems to fail him toward the end of the story. William begins to think that he doesn't know if truth exists, not because he is unable to believe it but because he is unable to articulate it. When he cannot put truth back into language, it has been deconstructed to the point of failure. Likewise, the vile Jorge has attached heresy to the idea of laughter because he believes that laughter also deconstructs and essentially destroys language by turning it upside down: Aristotle noted that what causes laughter is the substitution of something expected with something unexpected. If this is applied to Scripture, Jorge believes, Scripture will lose its efficacy because the words will no longer mean anything. In a sense, he has an argument. Laughter, through satire, can undermine language, but it can also reconstruct and elucidate its meaning in a way that pure expression might be unable to do. Sometimes, the most powerful revelation of truth is presented through satire. But Jorge, who names means "earth" or "earthworker" is linguistically earthbound in his reasoning (despite his lofty prophecies) and is thus unable to rise above the sole dimension of language as he knows it. Unlike Aristotle, he cannot see in language the dual and equally effective purpose of tragedy and comedy.

In the end, the labyrinthine library is destroyed because the language of true knowledge and learning that it once spoke cannot be reconstructed. Despite William and Adso's best efforts, the library (through the people who run it) grows to subvert and corrupt words instead of putting them to good use, and the result is a perversion that resembles Jorge's maniacal laughter. Eco's conclusion is vague, but he does not claim that language has no meaning or that truth cannot be expressed through language. Rather, he seems to suggest that language is both fixed and evolving and that it must be examined and interpreted carefully, or it will fail altogether.

There is a great deal going on in this story, and Eco weaves a very dense tale. I enjoyed it immensely, so I recommend it -- but with some qualifications. It's very long, and while Eco offers enough historical discussion to provide context, it gets dry at times. Unless readers are at least basically familiar with the various political issues at play in 14th-century Europe, parts of this book are just going to be severely yawn-inducing. The entire discussion among church leaders is probably fascinating for the historian but mystifiying for many others. I've read a great deal on the subject, but even I found parts of it a little too much for my taste. (I kept wondering if they shouldn't have just called it a "vow of simplicity"; wouldn't that have solved so many problems. Poverty is an awfully challenging vow to live up to.) But it is an immensely well-written book that deserves more than one reading. I'm pretty sure that any book or word-lover could find something to enjoy in The Name of the Rose.

Year of publication: 1980
Number of pages: 502

Acquired Tastes, by Peter Mayle

My book club will be reading A Year in Provence in a month or two, so when I spotted this at the library I decided to give Peter Mayle a test drive and see whether or not I liked his writing. To put it briefly, I did. Mayle has a very dry wit and a clever way with similes that kept me smiling from start to finish. Granted, this book is not -- from what I can gather -- on the same scale as A Year in Provence, but it is a quick, enjoyable read, and I think any fan of Mayle would appreciate it, if only for the chance to enjoy his sense of humor.

The book is actually comprised of a collection of articles that Mayle wrote for GQ magazine, essentially about what it's like to live the "high life." Armed with an expense account and a few good recommendations, Mayle set out to experience life only as the absurdly rich can. He shares advice on everything from keeping servants to enjoying a private jet, from purchasing the $1000 folding hat (no really) to choosing the right cigar, from buying a vacation home in an exotic location to relaxing at the Connaught Hotel in London. (I checked the last one out: see here.) Based on the copyright information, the book was probably released first in 1986. As a result, much of the information contained in it is a bit dated at times, so that tape deck that he insists every limo should have has undoubtedly now been upgraded to the CD/DVD player, the iPod plug-in, and the charger for an iPhone. Even if the recommendations are a little out of date, I'm happy to say that Mayle's writing never grew stale with me, and I giggled my way all the way through.

What makes this book so funny is that Mayle never quite takes any of this seriously, even when purchasing the $350/apiece shirts from the tailor in Paris. Yes, it's frivolous and wonderful at times to enjoy the life of the extremely rich. But it can also be trying. After all, what man wants to feel as though the suit (or shoes) that he's wearing might be worth more than he is? What sensible person wants to live in a house filled with antiques that can't be touched because the insurance company will have a fit if anything happens to them? I'll admit to having yearnings for a very wealthy life at times, but all I need is the reminder that it's probably not for me. (Except that thing about the Connaught Hotel...the only hindrance keeping me from booking me and my husband a room is the probable cost: Mayle mentions that for a three-day stay -- most likely back in the late '80s no less -- he and his wife spent about $2500. I can't imagine what inflation and exchange rates have done to that price, so I didn't even bother to look at room rates. As he points out, if you have to ask how much it costs, you probably can't afford it.)

Best of all for me, however, was just Mayle's writing. He has the kind of humor that I appreciate, and I drank in every perfectly written page. For instance, he talks about tipping in bars (something I will probably never have to worry about, but I still tuck the knowledge away just in case :) --

Don't waste your time trying to calculate how much to leave; the bartender will do it for you by soaking an appropriate part of your change in a puddle of vermouth. When you finish drinking, simply pick up the dry money and go.

He discusses the requirements of gift-giving at Christmas --

Christmas, for some reason, has managed to establish itself as the universal expensive habit, enjoyed (or, more probably, endured) by hundreds of millions of the world's population, most of whom can't afford it. What started as a simple religious celebration has turned into a commercial orgy with a Pentagon-sized budged. In the festive buildup, gifts provoke retaliatory gifts. It is a time of year when otherwise sensible and well-adjusted people give serious consideration to the attractions of multilingual speak-your-weight machines, platinum toothpicks, his and hers stress monitors, ostrich-skin desk sets, crushed-velvet jogging ensembles, authentic personalized replicas of nineteenth-century spittoons, pens that write underwater, executive egg timers, bouncing shower soap, luminous bedroom slippers; no excess is so wretched that it doesn't have a chance of being presented to a startled and embarrassed recipient.

I love a writer who can assemble a list like that.

So, do I recommend this book? Absolutely -- but only for people who enjoy this kind of subject matter and this style of writing. For those pursed-lip do-gooders who believe that such frivolities as caviar and truffles are an absolute waste of money and that those who purchase them should be flogged with the cat o' nine tails, this might not be the most enjoyable read. But for those who might have thought (secretly or otherwise) that they wouldn't mind expanding their household to include a maid, a butler, and a Learjet, I'd suggest this book as a fun read.

Year of Publication: 1986, 1992
Number of pages: 229

Girl Soldier, by Faith J. H. McDonnell and Grace Akallo

I won't take too much time to drag out my recommendation for this book: everyone should read it. Girl Soldier recounts the horrendous situation that is occurring in Northern Uganda, with children daily kidnapped and turned into soldiers in the army, children who are tortured and trained to kill other children as well as their families, if required. While I was vaguely familiar with some of what is happening in Uganda, it took this book to make me understand in vivid detail just why this is something that more people need to know about. The real atrocities that are everyday events there--the fear that children have of sleeping in their own beds, the fact that every evening thousands of young people walk from refugee camps (where kidnapping is a painful reality) into the towns in order to sleep in some kind of safety, the frequent rape of young girls, the total breakdown of traditional family and social structure among the Acholi people--all of these things constitute what passes as life for the people of Northern Uganda. Unfortunately, the brunt of all of these problems has become the Acholi, who have long been viewed as an inferior people and whose agricultural way of life is rapidly disappearing as a succession of generations loses its traditional skills. It is but genocide of a different kind.

The story centers around the experience of Grace Akallo, who was one of the "Aboki girls" kidnapped from the Catholic school in Aboki. Despite the best attempts of the rebels to brainwash Grace and other girls, teaching her to kill and giving her in "marriage" (in her early teens) to a rebel commander, Grace retained her faith and believed that if she continued to trust in the power of Christ she would find a way to escape. She did escape and has continued to tell her story to anyone who will listen, acquiring an education to give her better communication skills. Her writing is wonderfully straight-forward, and I appreciated that she does not adorn her style with unnecessary ornaments. She simply tells her story, and that seems to be sufficient to show the reader what happened to her.

Grace has co-authored Girl Soldier with Faith McDonnell, who provides historical information about the Acholi in Uganda and offers a bit of context for Grace's story. The split form of storytelling makes for a nice read and isn't anywhere near as confusing as I might have thought. But ultimately this isn't a book that should be judged on the writing style but on the value of the information contained therein, and the value is extraordinary.

So, once again I recommend this book, and I believe that everyone should read it to better appreciate what his happening in Northern Uganda. It is not my purpose, of course, to direct people in what actions they should take regarding the crisis itself; I believe that the book provides more than enough suggestions in this matter. I will make one small recommendation that is mentioned in the book, though: here is a link to the movement called Invisible Children that tells the story of the night commuters. Like Girl Soldier, it's definitely worth a closer look.

And Quiet Flows the Don, by Mikhail Sholokhov

And Quiet Flows the Don (1934) is the first in Mikhail Sholokhov's series of writings about life along the Don River in Russia and recounts the experiences of the Cossack people dwelling along the river before, during, and after World War I and the Russian Revolution that followed. Sholokhov himself grew up in the Don region during the time of the novel's setting and was thus describing the unique lifestyle and traditions that were familiar to him, as well as the major changes that the war and revolution brought to these people.

The novel has been compared to War and Peace, but I wonder if a part of this comparison is not due to the time in which the novel was published: as a major work of the Soviet era and a somewhat sympathetic look at the changes that the Russian Revolution brought, I'm inclined to think that the Soviets were simply looking for something to honor that returned the honor to them, so to speak. This is a long and very expansive novel, and it successfully balances a variety of characters and storylines with relative ease. But War and Peace it is not. I'm somewhat disinclined to write an entire review disproving a comparison, but since the comparison was already made by people who went before me, I feel as though this isn't entirely inappropriate. Like Sholokhov, Tolstoy was at times a prolix writer, but he was unquestionably brilliant. His characters breathe with the intensity of action driven by emotion, and the reader cannot help getting carried away with them in their story. Sholokhov's characters, while interesting in many places, seem largely lifeless - perhaps appropriate for a novel that takes the reader into the early days of Soviet Russia. Even the characters who are passionate about ending the "evil" regime of the tsars and bringing socialism to Russia with the oh-so-excellent workers at the forefront just don't sweep the reader away with emotion. There is a sense of distance in the characterization that makes everyone in the story seem dead in spirit. Not being a Sholokhov scholar, I can't say that this was done deliberately, but I can say that it made it difficult for me to push myself through the book. (On the side, Sholokhov has also been accused of plagiarizing other writers, so it raises other questions in my mind about the presumed quality of the work - and for the record, I don't think anyone ever accused Tolstoy of plagiarizing his peers.)

As for the plot, it centers around the Melehkov family of Cossacks and the lives that they affect over the course of the story. The family affairs, for the most part, held my attention, but I have to admit that I find it slightly disturbing to complete such a long book and to realize at the end that I didn't like a single character in it. Not one. And not for lack of trying. I almost got into the love story of Gregor and Aksinia - even when I knew that they had left their respective spouses to be with each other - until I realized that what they shared for one another wasn't love at all. I should have been rooting for Gregor's wife Natalia and hoping that he would go back to her after realizing that he should be living with his wife, except that I found Natalya to be insufferable, and I was almost sorry when her suicide attempt failed. What a boring character. I suspect that Gregor was supposed to function like a protagonist in the story, but he was really little more than an immature and self-absorbed man who makes selfish decisions with something other than his brain. Gregor more or less wanders through the story as a man who has no purpose and never seems to find one. And, worst of all, this reader couldn't work up an interest in caring.

Plot aside, the descriptions of the Cossack way of life and the changes that the war and revolution bring are fascinating at times. The most passion in the story is not from or about characters but about the landscape. I did actually derive a sense of vitality in the land around the Don and the river itself - so much so that the landscape and river are by far the most interesting and rewarding characters in the story, and they don't even undergo significant change except by the season.

Apart from lack of character development, I had two other quibbles with this book, one major and one minor. On the major side, this book spends a vast amount of time describing a war and battle tactics. I realize that given the setting and the gender of the author, this is to be expected. For me as a reader? I just skim. I'm not even the slightest bit interested in where the left flank of the cavalry went and why. On the minor side, there was one moment in the story that absolutely rubbed me raw, but it was so small as to be insignificant as a genuine complaint. Of course, I'm going to mention it. There is a moment in the story when Gregor is in the hospital for an injury received on the battlefield. The tsaritsa arrives at the hospital to greet the patients and to chat with them, but the book chooses to describe her as an indifferently cold and almost cruel women. How cheap. And how predictable. So rather than trying to offer a real glimpse of one of the few historical characters in the story, Sholokhov takes the party line and presents the empress as she was popularly viewed in the Soviet Union for most of the twentieth century - a heartless and calculating woman who cared nothing for the Russian people. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Alexandra Feodorovna was a truly kind-hearted woman who suffered from a painful case of shyness and the inability to connect with her husband's people. She was completely unfit for the job of empress, but that does not make her even remotely like the person the book describes her as being, however brief that description. When World War I broke out, she and her daughters took up nursing, and the tsaritsa was said to visit a children's hospital every day. She was not a healthy woman, and she was terribly saddened by her son's secret suffering from hemophilia; but those who knew her well - and even those who knew her a little - would say without question that she was truly a lovely lady.

I'm mixed on whether or not I recommend this book. On the one hand, it had its moments, and it is considered a classic. On the other hand, I can't imagine having to drag myself through it again. For those who love Russian literature, this is a must. For the rest of us, perhaps this is a maybe not.