The atmosphere of real and imagined menace (but, as it turns out, justifiably imagined), and the verging on gothic harshness of rural and aboriginal life during the Second World War makes parts of The Cure for Death by Lightning almost unbearable to read in the opening chapters. But then the spirit and resilience of 15-year-old Beth Weeks, and her eye for hopeful and redemptive signs in the people, the animals and the world around her win you over, and have you turning the pages with no fear, and much optimism that she will forge a life, thrive and be loved in the hardscrabble setting in which she chooses to remain. Populated with original and captivating characters and an undercurrent of mystery and mysticism that never veers into the utterly unbelievable, this is an unforgettable book.

Cute … I would say it is more chuckle-worthy than laugh-out-loud funny, though.

I really wanted to like this book. The idea has promise, that of taking a fairly commonplace central story – guy with dead end job in what he feels is a town that stymies his creativity aspires to be a writer – and blowing out the walls by approaching it from conventional text, graphic novel, workshopped screenplay and multiple perspectives. But the reality is that it’s a thin story with no really interesting characters or fresh insights, especially on the encroachment of big box corporate concerns, which we all know suck the life out of small towns – but didn’t the author already think his town sucked?. The different stylistic renderings just feel like gratuitous padding and short attention span noodling. But I feel a bit insulted as a reader, because *I* don’t have a short attention span if he wants to try to stick with his story and explore it in more depth.

The well-illustrated graphic novel portions feel especially wasted because they look great, but add nothing to the story. Is the workshopped bit with the clueless handwritten edits supposed to draw the reader in on the joke, whatever that is? Yeah, I get it, but again it doesn’t add anything new to the central story.

Fiorentino can at least be commended, I suppose, for writing what he apparently knows. I’m not sure if I’m interested in checking back when/if he tries to legitimately stretch himself as a writer.

The initial flat affect and vaguely disorienting first person plural narrative voice of “Then We Came to the End” might be off-putting at first. (“We were fractious and overpaid. Our mornings lacked promise. At least those of us who smoked had something to look forward to at ten-fifteen.”) The reader who sticks with it, though, will be richly rewarded with a surprisingly warm and very human look at the dehumanizing aspects, of which there are many, of the modern office/workplace.

Set in a Chicago marketing agency with its wagon hitched to the rise and fall of the dotcom era, “we” are the art directors, copywriters, managers, assistants, accounting and payroll clerks and security guards who battle deadlines and boredom and harbour passions for and against the work and each other … but truly know very little about each other outside of the offices, cubicles, elevator lobbies, print stations, stairwells and cafeterias where they seemingly spend most of their waking hours. Gradually, three-dimensional people emerge from the caricatures and sardonic one-liners, and real emotions surface as those real people struggle to maintain their identities and sanity and forge genuine relationships as the world around them shifts, jolts and changes. This novel takes a fresh approach to the perhaps overdone workplace setting and cast of characters.

Boyko’s first collection of short stories is consistently well-crafted and ranges over an interesting array of characters, situations, settings and time periods. With one exception, though, the stories are chilling, slightly surreal and vaguely off-putting. That exception is “OZY”, a warm, wry, bittersweet reflection on life and the infinite from the perspective of a pre-teen boy, inspired by his and his friends’ obsession with the scoreboard of an arcade game.

This novel’s rendering of the attempts by an estranged father and daughter to establish a new relationship is straightforward, down to earth, unvarnished and very effecting because it never overtly pulls at the reader’s heartstrings. The lives of the crusty but not uncaring father, the feisty daughter, her surprisingly but not unrealistically mature 12-year-old son and a dedicated and long-suffering family friend intertwine in emotionally resonant fashion.

The spare prose of this succinct novel is deceptive. On the surface, it reads like the shell-shocked voices of survivors (specifically, of the almost four-year siege of Sarajevo in the 1990s) enduring unimaginable fear and horror in their own homes and streets. As the story moves swiftly and compellingly to its conclusion, it’s clear that the plainspoken voices are those of people conserving and doling out their spirit just as they ration water, bread, cigarettes and daring to hope. Those moments of still vibrant spirit are incredibly moving.

I first read Solomon Gursky Was Here in 1990, shortly after it was first published, and I have now reread it in 2009. Almost 20 years later, I still find it rich in story and character, and both sly and pointed in its commentaries on religion, politics, commerce, culture, human relationships, and what it means to forge one’s individual identity in the world. Ironically, the theme of identity is driven home by the title character, who makes few actual appearances in the book, and is elusive and constantly shape-shifting. Oh, and Richler’s take on the iconic Franklin expedition is still brilliant and memorable.

“It is our displacement that binds us.”

This haunting, subtly textured, absorbing read from Anne Michaels was worth the long, long wait post-Fugitive Pieces. Is Anne Michaels perhaps Canada’s Marilynne Robinson? Both have a modest number of titles, new titles from both are hugely anticipated, and both always richly reward their readers with tender, acute, precised crafted explorations of the human heart.

The Winter Vault starts slowly to build the layers of imagery that tell the central story of Avery and Jean Escher, and that of their parents and others that touch their lives. All of the imagery and all of the intertwined stories deal with displacement – by war, by water (through the striking juxtaposition of the building of the St. Lawrence Seaway and the Aswan Dam in Egypt), by heartbreak and by enduring love. Although it builds gradually at first, the rich layering of themes and images gains momentum and lends emotional depth and resonance to the central story of how Avery and Jean come together, are torn apart by personal tragedy, and then find their way back to each other. (Hmm, is that a spoiler?)

With all of the examples of displacement throughout the story, it’s interesting that Michaels selects the image of the winter vault (a temporary crypt for those who die in the winter and cannot be buried until the earth thaws again in the spring) as the title. It gives the sense that the winter vault preserves something precious, gives it the dignity it deserves, and protects it until warmth and new life – the advent of spring – can provide a permanent home. The grave as a final, peaceful home is an affecting and wholly appropriate symbol for this story.

See also:

materfamilias reads – Review of Anne Michaels’ The Winter Vault

“Old City Hall” is breathtakingly good. It’s a crisply paced murder-mystery with a satisfying plot and sufficient twists to keep it addictive and infectious to the very end. Actually, I would not pigeonhole “Old City Hall” as just good for the murder-mystery genre – it is a fine book, period.

The novel boasts an intriguing and consistently sympathetic cast of characters, the most colourful and endearing of which is the city of Toronto itself. Rotenberg rounds out the story with historical and cultural background on the city, and behind-the-scenes legal, law enforcement and incarceration insights that add interest and dimension to the overall story without unduly slowing down the plot momentum. And whoa … underpinning the whole thing with a Toronto Maple Leafs subplot of sorts – how great is that? Rotenberg handles a complex narrative with a confidence and deftness that belies the fact that this is his first novel.