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Archive for May, 2012

16.05.2012

European Literature Night is three years old; an event, which takes place simultaneously throughout many cities in Europe. 2012 was the first year that the event came to Scotland and I discoveredanotherliterary haven in Edinburgh.  The Scottish Poetry Library is hidden down St Crichton’s Close on the Royal Mile and it is quite delightful.

I arrived early and had plenty of time to peruse the shelves.  To my chagrin, I hadn’t heard of 99% of the poets on them.  (Now you know why I signed up for Read More, Blog More Poetry challenge ….).  Actually the whole evening seemed designed to make me feel ill-read. There wasn’t a single name on the programme that I recognised.

Nevertheless it was an evening of many surprises with multi-lingual poetry recitals, discussions on drama, Czech and Gallic literature.  And what an eye-opener the latter subject proved to be.  Would you believe that the Gallic Book Council has a policy of not allowing one of their books to be translated into English for at least 3 years?  This is to allow Gallic to exist on its own outwith English as most Gallic writers speak better English than Gallic.  The outcome of this is that the short story collection An Claigeann Aig Damien Hirst has a German edition Der Schädel von Damien Hirst but not an English one.  Even more curious two of the stories in the collection were written by German authors, writing in Gallic, only to be translated back into German by someone else.  Isn’t the world of literature amazing sometimes?

Peter MacKay is currently translating some women’s C18th highland poems into English.  Why did the Highlands come under the dominion of the Wee Free Church? he asked  Because they needed it, he replied.  And when he read his translated version of a poem called Rogue Henry, you could see his point!

Less scurrilous were the poem from Romania, Slovenia and Spain.  Thanks to the handout, you too can enjoy.

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It’s the same with books, you see mounds of them in bookshops and you want to read them all, or at least to have a taste of them.  You think you could be missing out on something important, you see them and they intrigue you, they tempt you, they tell you how insignificant your life is and how tremendous it could be.

From Andrés Neuman – Traveller of the Century

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Winner Grizane-Cavour Literary Prize, the Volponi Prize and the Alessi Prize

Published by MacLehose Press

Translated by Patrick Creagh

A couple of years ago I took part in a take-a-picture-a-day competition. Almost half the pictures I took were of trees – I love them. Thus the cover on this unsolicited review copy sparked my interest.  To find then that the novel is set in Sardinia when I’m busy island-hopping around the world of fiction explains why this book climbed swiftly to the top of Mount TBR.

Not only is the cover beautiful but the impressionistic tree with its Pan-like figure at the base is an perfect fit to the tone of this fable-like history of Samuele Stocchino.  Nicknamed The Tiger of Ogliastra, Stocchino was one of Sardinia’s most notorious bandits, fierce and unrelenting in his vendetta against his personal enemies, the seeds of which are sown when one man refused to offer Stocchino and his father a drink of water.

It could be argued that Stocchino is nothing but a ruthless, merciless terrorist.  But he is a legend with it.  Scattered throughout the mainly chronological retelling of his life are allusions to his invincibility; a legend spawned by incidents such as the day he fell into a deep abyss and survived, and by the way he cheated death during the Great War.  Seminal moments both: the former, as in the abyss, the futility of existence, haunts him throughout life; the latter teaches him how to kill.

He was a mere foot soldier who had found a meaning in life.  He did not stand out in a crowd, he was simply an enterprising butcher’s boy in the Award-winning Italian Butchery.  He was the agent on earth of Death & Co.  Now, there was something he knew, but had no name for.  The wolf pulsing in his heart had grown its fangs. 

An unsanctioned killing spree begins when he returns home from war to find his family have been swindled and his girlfriend stolen by the richest family in the neighbourhood.  Like all good legends, he nails a notice to the church door.

By this time you all know that certain persons have persecuted me and others of my family … And I have started and will continue to be a butcher to these scroundrels.  From now on all those who do us harm will be repaid in their own coin by me.  Samuele Stocchino.

His reign of terror is unstoppable, even with a price of 250,000 lire on his head.  Years later Mussolini, shamed by such lawlessness in his realm, sends a special envoy to tame the tiger.  Up until this point, the 3rd person narrative is solely Stocchino’s.  While looking through his eyes, the flesh and blood of the man isn’t tangible.  That comes into focus when the point of view shifts to that of Mussolini’s hunter, Saverio Polito.  And what do we see?  Not a huge monstrous presence to match the reputation.  Rather a small shrunken human, a man who is as much a victim as those he has killed; someone who has fallen into an abyss of his own making.

What they had not understood about the “tiger” was that he was waging a war against himself … For him, the only conceivable good thing was to assuage the fury within him.

How much of this story is true?  Let the author explain:

Samuele Stochino is a historical character, though at the same time legendary.  Samuele Stocchino (with double c) is the twice-over legendary character whose story is told in these pages. What you have read is not the truth ….

Now I don’t mind the mixing of fact and fiction but therein lies my only problem with this book.  If this is fictional, then surely there must have been options for a more satisfactory ending – after all that prior drama, where did that anti-climax originate?

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Despite my growing unease, let us tarry a little while longer in Venice ….

Winner of the Strega Prize 2009

Published by Serpent’s Tail

Translated by Shaun Whiteside

Everyone, but everyone has heard parts of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons (even if only while holding on the phone).  What they may not know – like me –  is the context in which they were written.

Stabat Mater offers insights into the life of the orphans of the Ospedale della Pietà, many of whom were skilled musicians kept segregated from the world.  When giving concerts in church, they were hidden behind metals grills. When travelling through the city to play for their benefactors, they remained veiled.  This was dictated by the shame of their births.  (Many were the unwanted children of the city’s prostitutes)  Their education contained similar contradictions:  progressive in regard to their musical education, yet rooted in the dark ages in other respects.

The narrator, Cecilia, 16, fantasises of escape through marriage or of her mother coming to reclaim her.  She is given to nocturnal wanderings,  always accompanied by a nightmarish Medusa-like figure of death.  During one of her nocturnal walks she witnesses a secret birth in the toilets in the basement of the orphanage.  This is her initiation into the origins of  life and it sows her jaundiced view of mother-child relationships.  The epistolary form  - this is the letter which Cecilia writes to her unknown mother – allows for full and honest expression of her emotions, which like the notes from her violin soar from the ecstatic to the depths of her jaundiced and claustrophobic existence.

Children spring from their mothers’ bellies and burst out crying, still terrifed by what they’ve abandoned, the death they’ve escaped.  They’re body-parts of the mother who flees from them. 

Mothers try to keep them bound to themselves, they hold them back when they are born, but the babies escape anyway, so the disappointed mothers take their revenge, they incite death against them, the rope that holds them back becomes the snake that bites their little belly and injects it with deadly poison.  They too are marked, they were innoculated with their fate in the womb.  The snake is pulled away, but in the middle of their bodies children bear a mother-scar, a death-scar, forever.

When Vivaldi replaces the worn-out composer-priest of the first half of the novel, Cecilia’s mood – and that of the novel – lightens.  Vivaldi’s refreshing compositions break boundaries and open up new musical horizons.  Vivaldi recognises Cecilia’s musical talent and becomes a personal mentor, relieving some of her solitude.  Yet in a dark incident (darkness is never far away in this pages) he also teaches her the importance of personal experience for musical interpretation.   He also promises her that

I will make you play the most intoxicating pieces, you will shake people’s souls in their foundations, that point at which our self dissolves into something coinciding with the vibrations of the cosmos.  

Cecilia’s part of the bargain is to remain in the convent, anonymous yet world-famous behind the metal grilles. Is Vivaldi’s promise sufficiently enticing for one already aware that she is buried alive in a delicate coffin of music?

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But not for real.  This is a virtual tour of a place that I would love to visit some day … well, actually, now I’m not so sure.  Let me explain.

City-Pick Venice was my choice for the Blogging Event Venice in February.  Real life interference means it’s has taken almost 3 months for the blog to catch up.  (Which it now has, hurrah!)

Returning to City-Pick. I love this series of books but this is the first time I’ve read one pertaining to a city I’ve never visited and that made this read an experience in itself.

The book is made up of extracts from multiple books, both fiction and non-fiction which are set in Venice.  Cleverly structured in chapters which comprise a virtual holiday taking the virtual visitor from Chapter 1 Arrival … by Land, Air or Sea through the city tour in Chapter 3 of Some Unmissable Places, Chapter 4 Streets Full of Water, Chapter 5 Sights, sounds smells … and that Venetian weather until finally we take some Parting (Snap) Shots in Chapter 8.  There are many authors “collaborating” here, the old (Goethe with extracts from Italian Journey) and the new (Geoff Dyer with extracts from Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi).   I was personally delighted to reacquaint myself with Dibdin’s Venetian detective Aurelio Zen on his home turf.  Most illuminating for a ne’er-set-a-foot-or-paddle-in-Venice were the extracts from guidebooks written by Venetian authors Paolo Barbaro (Venice Revealed) and Tiziano Scarpa (Venice is a Fish)and if I ever do go there, I will be taking both of those with me.

If I ever go there?  Well, a funny thing happened as I was making this virtual trip.  I took up a piece of advice given by Jeanette Winterson in The Passion:

Canals hide other canals, alleyways cross and criss-cross so that you will not know which is which until you have lived here all you life.  …. Leave plenty of time in your doings and be prepared to go another way, to do something not planned if that is where the streets lead you.

OK, I thought, let’s do that in a literary sense and see where the Venetian paths of my TBR lead me.  So as I read my way through City-Pick, I also read Susan Hill’s novella, The Man In The Picture and Daphne Du Maurier’s Don’t Look Now.  Could I have picked two more unsettling pieces?  What did I learn?  #1 Wisdom according to Susan Hill: do NOT allow yourself to be approached by a woman wearing a Venetian carneval mask. You may find yourself locked in the picture frame forever. #2 Wisdom according to Daphne Du Maurier do not give in to your better instincts to rush to the aid of a crying child – likelihood is it is a malevolent dwarf seeking only to take your life.  Add this  to #3 advice from Thomas Mann, learned many moons ago  from Death In Venice:  do not to eat cholera-bearing strawberries.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’d ever get out alive.

But the image that has put the real life trip to Venice on hold is this.  Talking of the infamous acqua alta or high tides:

Tourists love it, take snapshots, walk about barefoot with their trousers rolled up fisherman style, and tread on invisible underwater dog-shit; there’s always one who walks blissfully on, laughing his head off and generally rejoicing, unaware that he is getting dangerously close to the edge of the submerged fondamenta, the invisible shore beneath his feet has come to an end, but he goes on dragging his ankles under the water until he misses his step and suddenly plunges into the canal.

Thank you, Tiziano Scarpa.  Have you any idea how spine-chillingly terrifying that is to someone who can swim only within her depth?  (All 5′ o” of it.)

City Pick Venice   / The Man In The Picture   / Don’t Look Now

P.S I suspect this is the beginning of an obsession with the city.  I joined Pinterest to create a Virtual Venice.  Have you pictures you’d like to add?

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The husband of a reader named Lizzy
Lathered himself into a bit of a tizzy.
These book stacks are too high!  You’ve no need to buy
Any more. There’s enough here to keep you quite busy!

———————
1812 was a vintage year gifting Charles Dickens, Robert Browning and Edward Lear to the world.  I suspect I would have had more in common with Edward Lear  than the others. After all in his Self-Portrait of the Laureate of Nonsense, “he sits in a beautiful parlour, with hundreds of books on the wall”.  And how can you not love the author of The Owl and The Pussycat, the Jumblies, Nonsense Alphabets and, of course, those limericks.

From Edward Lear's Complete Nonsense (published by The Folio Society)

My favourite changes from time to time but if you’ve ever seen me on a windy day, you may just recognise the young lady of Firle.  Do you have a favourite limerick?  On what would have been Lear’s 200th, have a browse and a giggle. He would have liked that.

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I have now established that I have 8 months to wait before I can read the final part of Peter May’s The Lewis Trilogy.  That’s a long, long time when I actually feel bereft.   I am in need of distraction. For this reason I’m starting a new reading project.  If I was a rich (wo)man (da,da,da,da,da,da,da; da,da,da,da,da, da, daaaaaaaa) I would travel round the world.  So using the Isle of Lewis as my starting point, I’m going to island hop round the globe and through my TBR, making my way back to the Outer Hebrides for next January. No idea how many stops or virtual airmiles this trip will entail but it will be whimisical, jumping from north to south, east to west, and back again. Maybe, just maybe,  real life will dovetail with the fictional trip at some stage.

—————————–

Anyway let’s board the jet that awaits us on the front cover of Michael Frayn’s latest and head in a south-easterly direction to the Greek island of Skios, where it is hot, sunny and exceedingly comical.Detail from front cover

Frayn is a master at farce.  I loved Booker-shortlisted Headlong, howled and wept with laughter at his play Noises Off! and was delighted to curl up with and giggle my way through Skios.  Yes, giggle. From beginning to end.  I’m having problems writing this review though.  Have you ever tried to tell the tale of why something is so funny only to resort to the line “you had to be there”?   Well, I’m tempted to say simply “you have to read this”.

It’s a classic comic setup revolving around a case of mistaken identity.   Dr Norman Wilfred, self-important, middle-aged and chubby, travels to Skios to deliver the annual lecture to the rich and privileged at the Fred Toppler Foundation.  Oliver Fox, a man in his prime with a mop of blond hair, arrives on the same plane.  But the woman he is expecting to meet him isn’t there.  So he attaches himself to the woman who is waiting for Dr Wilfred and lets her think he is who he is not.  Oliver Fox is an adventurer, and this trip is about to turn into a real adventure for both him and the man whose identity he adopts.

Oliver Fox is happy to go along for the ride and that’s the best way to approach reading this novel.  Following a slow build-up, the rollercoaster ride begins.  Dr Wilfred finds himself in the villa where Oliver Fox was meant to be staying – with Oliver Fox’s girlfriend(s).  Oliver Fox finds himself feted at the Foundation where his natural wit stands him in good stead with an audience only too willing to be duped. (Well there’s one nay-sayer, but he’s just a pompous bore!)   Two taxi-drivers find themselves in demand as never before ferrying people between airport, foundation, villa, foundation, airport … up and down the hills they go.  Is the repeated opening and closing of those taxi doors the novelistic equivalent of the all important timed exits and entrances in a typical farce?

Mistaken identity occurs on many levels:  Oliver Fox and Dr Norman Wilfred; the two taxi-drivers, Stavros and Spiros; and the black suitcases with red luggage labels (lovely touch that).  There are nefarious and shady goings-on at the foundation, where all is not what it seems. I found the ongoing leitmotif of an increasingly  hapless and indignant Dr Wilfred and his lecture notes hilarious.

And all at once he was hit by a bolt of black lightening.  Every single thing had gone wrong since he had landed on this horrible island. He was Dr Norman Wilfred, for God’s sake. Not a helpless victim of forces beyond his control, but a rational human being in a rational world! He was used to something better than this!  And he had been mocked and humiliated!  Led around like a bear on a rope by idiocy and incompetence, by chance and misunderstanding, by coincidence and two moles on a shoulder blade!

Ah yes, those moles.  It wouldn’t be farce without the naughty bits.  Plus there is real anticipation in wondering how Oliver Fox will blag his way through the delivery of that all-important lecture on Innovation and Governance – the promise of Scientometrics.  What?  Exactly.  Will this be the moment of his comeuppance?

You have to read it for yourself to find out.  (See, I said it after all.)

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This blog recently visited St Kilda, courtesy of Karin Altenburg’s Orange longlisted, Island of Wings. With Books 1 and 2 of Peter May’s The Lewis Trilogy, it is time to embark on a tour of Hebridean islands that remain inhabited.

The journey begins as the name of the trilogy suggests, on Lewis, the island to which Edinburgh-based detective Fin Macleod is returning after a 20 year absence to investigate the grisly murder of Angel McCritchie.  Fin is brought in as the modus operandi matches that of an earlier murder in Edinburgh. He has mixed feelings about this. First it is a welcome respite – a change of scenery from his marriage which is falling apart after his son’s death in an unsolved hit and run accident. There is also irony in the fact that he is investigating the death of a man he despises, the childhood bully who made everyone’s life a misery. Thirdly, he is returning to face the consequences of a love triangle that actually began on his first day at school ……

Sula Sgeir from the Southwest via Google

Once on the island Fin is understandably assailed with memories from his childhood, adolescence and “escape” when he left the island to attend university; memories which, it has to be said, don’t always reflect on him kindly. They also vividly depict the cruelties of childhood, the harsh realities of island life and important elements of its culture. Central to the plot is the annual (and environmentally controversial) guga hunt on the remote island of Sula Sgeir (An Sgeir in the novel), and the two set-pieces on that island, one in the past, and one in the present are magnificent.  (As indeed are these pictures of the guga hunt .)The stories of Fin’s past, his present day entanglements and the murder investigation are woven around each other until they blend seemlessly into the climactic finale on An Sgeir. Only one minor fault for me – I didn’t entirely buy into the motivation of the killer. (Q: Would someone really wait that long?).  But that is a minor quibble.  The Blackhouse is an atmospheric and engaging read. An unusual crime novel with a final sentence that left a lump in my throat.

Traditional Hebridean Blackhouse, Arnol, Isle of Lewis

Traditional Hebridean Blackhouse, Arnol, Isle of Lewis by splibl on Flickr

The Lewis Man picks up Fin’s life, where The Blackhouse left it.  Following his divorce, he resigns from the Edinburgh constabulary and returns to the Isle of Lewis to restore his dead parent’s now dilapidated house.  It’s never quite certain whether he and Marsaili will reignite their love affair, but it’s clear that Fin’s future  is bound up with her and her son, Fionnlagh.  When The Lewis Man, a corpse discovered in the peat bog, is found to  have been buried there for just over 50 years and to be related to Marsaili’s father (thanks to the DNA sampling that took place during The Blackhouse investigation), Fin finds himself rushing to solve the mystery before the police arrive to arrest his former sweetheart’s father as prime suspect.  Fin can’t simply ask Tordod MacDonald for an explanation.  The old man has just been admitted to a care home suffering from dementia.

Once again May employs dual narratives.  The contemporary investigation runs parallel to the first person narrative of the old man, struggling to deal with his change of circumstance and the loss of his short-term memory while memories from long ago emerge with astonishing clarity.  The pacing is tricky but masterful as May ensures Fin makes no progress beyond what MacDonald’s memories have already revealed.    The engaging and sometimes shocking nature of the old man’s memory,  however, means this has no adverse effect on the page-turning quality of the novel at all.

Thistles and Prince Charlie's beach, Eriskay

Prince Charlie’s Beach, Eriskay by aclc1 on Flickr

May has set out to chronicle a way of life before it is lost forever and so the geography of the islands and their culture are as critical to the development of the second novel as they are in the first.  Fin journeys this time from north to south,  down from Ness on the Isle of Lewis, through the Isle of Harris, Benbecula, North and South Uist and onto the Island of Eriskay.  The novel incorporates short but vivid descriptions of the ever-changing landscape and light - much of the latter precipitated by Atlantic storms and frequent horizontal rain, in which men without their waterproofs transform into drowned rats in seconds. (This is a realistic, not a romanticised portrait.)  On Eriskay Tormod MacDonald’s real identity begins to emerge with sight of the silver sands of Prince Charlie’s Beach and the  identification of the pattern of the blanket in which the dead man was wrapped.  With that though comes real danger as past meets present in explosive fashion.

(As an aside I was delighted with the centre-stage moment of my favourite character, the irascible Reverend Donald Murray.)

Though I can’t help but worry about the aftermath.  How will the already fragile Marsaili cope? Will Donald find the forgiveness he seeks?  How long do I have to wait for the publication of the final episode in this trilogy, The Chessmen?  How on earth will I endure the wait?

The Blackhouse    / The Lewis Man 

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It’s been a while since I went on the rampage had a crime reading binge but this one, fuelled by full-on stress, is approaching epic proportions.

Books 1 and 2:  Debut Novels

I’ve been meaning to read The Medieval Murderers for a while now.  So I took advantage of The Book People’s offer and bought a set of 6 for £9.99.  Settled down to the first and …. abandoned it on page 38. The Tainted Relicjust seemed to be an episodic litany of  fatal mishaps, seemingly triggered by the possession of a cursed medieval relic.  Very disappointing.  Now I know this series has many fans and if you are, perhaps you can give me a reason to try again.  Did I abandon it too soon?  Does the series improve as it goes on?


I fared better with Karen Maitland’s first novel, A Company of Liars, a reworking of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, in which a motley crew of 9, thrown together by circumstance,  attempt to outrun the plague as it cuts its swathe through Britain.  The plague, however, turns out to be the least of their worries!  There is greater danger in their duplicitous backstories and the journey turns out to be more perilous than they ever could have imagined.  This was a fabulous audio book read – the structure of stories within stories absolutely ideal for listening to.  It was also very informative about medieval culture and beliefs, though the history lesson never felt lke one.   The story built slowly, tensions mounted imperceptibly as secrets were uncovered and the body count grew.   And just when everything had been resolved, a final twist with an open ending which left me very, very anxious ….

Karen Maitland has since become one of the Medieval Murderers and so I might, just might give the book she collaborated upon a whirl …

Books 3 and 4:  Second Helpings

I read Paulus Hochgatterer’s very unsweet  but brilliant The Sweetness of Life a couple of years ago.  The Mattress House is the second in his series of Kovacs and Horn investigations although that suggests a traditional detective novel, which this isn’t.   It’s not even a traditional crime narrative as it’s told in episodes (though frustratingly not all of which are entirely relevant).  A man falls from some scaffolding (did he fall or was he pushed?) and a number of children who are beaten by a mysterious black owl. Kovacs, the detective investigates the former death while Horn, the psychiatrist, attempts to get the children to speak of their experiences.  Interwoven is a third, very dark strand, involving child sex-trafficking  This story is told quite obliquely from the viewpoint of the girls involved.  While there are searing moments of clarity, this style of narration is a good choice - sometimes graphic detail is neither necessary or welcome. But there are strange choices elsewhere.  The plot strands do not intersect – neither in fact do Kovacs and Horn – they’re not colleagues – and hence the reason why the subtitle “A Kovacs and Horn Investigation” is a misnomer.  Unless applied to the underlying theme: the alienation between adult and child, sometimes even parent and child – an alienation that even extends into the families of the two “investigators”.  It’s a point well made and supported by the episodic and oblique narrative technique although the side-effect of that was the alienation of this reader.

There is nothing oblique about  Peter Guttridge’s The Last King of Brighton which chronicles the making (in the 1960s)  and the breaking (in contemporary times) of the last gangland boss of the British seaside  town.  Nastiness is what typifies such existence and there’s plenty of it in these pages.  While there is a case for verisimilitude, there is a line that I feel was crossed in the set piece of the prologue.  So I’m issuing a health warning: do not read the prologue  unless you have a very strong stomach and wish to know the –  shall we say – intricacies of Vlad the Impaler’s favoured modus operandi.  I know it’s there to set up the atmosphere of terror for what is to follow – the barbarians really are at the gates -  but it’s not really essential to the story line.  That said, there are some enjoyable touches in the midst of  the mayhem.  Before he decides to follow in his father’s footsteps, the young John Hathaway is a member of a band and as he gigs his way around Brighton, a soundtrack of the 60′s (and my childhood) was laid down.  The novel also offers interesting theses on the identity of the great train robber that got away and the sorry state of Brighton’s West Pier, pictured on the dust jacket in its heyday.  It doesn’t, however, clear up the mystery of the Milldean Massacre, the botched police operation that opened Book 1 of the Brighton Trilogy, Guttridge has promised to do that in Book 3, which is due at the end of May.  I will read it - to finish what I started –  but, because of that prologue, I’m unsure whether I’m waiting with baited breath or not.

Book 5  – The Third in a Series

Time to flee then from the crossfire of gangland Brighton into the relative innocence of 1950′s Bishop’s Lacey and the further adventures of child super detective Flavia De Luce.   A Red Herring without Mustard sees Flavia – now 11 –  investigating the brutal attack of an elderly gypsy woman, a snatched baby,  and uncovering a fine line in forged antiques, all the while dealing with the cruelties of her elder sisters, the vagaries of fleeting friendships and the realities of her widower father’s impending bankruptcy.   Flavia is quite simply intrepid and comic with it.

When I come to write my autobiography, I must remember to record the fact that a chicken-wire fence can be scaled by a girl in bare feet, but only by one who is willing to suffer the tortures of the damned to satisfy her curiosity.

Flavia just goes for it worrying about the consequences - frequently a ruined dress - afterwards.  This is cozy murder mystery of the coziest and most delightful sort.  Book 4 is already available and in the TBR – but I’m saving it for whenever an antidote to real life or other crime novels becomes necessary.

Ratings: The Tainted Relic (DNF) / Company of Liars (3/5) / The Mattress House (2.5/5) / The Last King of Brighton (3/5) / A Red Herring Without Mustard (3/5)

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