A good read and a sad attempt.

Finished ECHOES FROM THE DEAD by Johan Theorin last night. While the mystery was solved, life is rarely a happy ending. Reality is that bad stuff happens and even in crime fiction not everything comes wrapped in a big red bow -- especially if you're a translated novel from Sweden. I liked it overall and would read more of this author when it comes available.

I then started another 14-day-er from the library. I had been looking rather forward to it: BLINDSPOT : by a Gentleman in Exile and a Lady in Disguise by Jane Kamensky and Jill Lepore. Here's a review from Library Journal:

Portrait painter and libertine Stuart Jameson arrives in 1764 Boston as many arrived in the American Colonies, one step ahead of the law. Fleeing a sheriff and debtor's prison in Edinburgh and hoping to start anew, he makes his first stop in the New World at the print shop of Benjamin Edes to purchase cards, a map, and a history of the city, but he comes away having found prospective lodgings, more information than he cared to know about the deteriorating situation between the Colonies and their British rulers, and a staunch friend. He also places an announcement of his services as a portrait painter and an accompanying advertisement for an apprentice, both of which bring him unexpected surprises. Francis Weston, the apprentice, is talented beyond his wildest dreams, and Jameson's burgeoning business soon plunges him into the dramatic affairs and intense politics of Boston's most influential families.

Just perfect for my tastes, right? Historical mystery set in a time period I like. However, I have criteria for me to read/like a book. The most important of what elements make a good read for me is that there is an intelligent voice of the author. Here's an excerpt from the book:

Had Columbus my gut, the world would be a smaller place. And maybe the better for it. O brave new world: wild, rebellious, mysterious, and strange. And distant. God above, who knew it could be so bloody far?

Now begins a gentleman’s exile, and, with it, my tale.

You may wonder, dear Reader, dear, unfathomable Reader, why I have undertaken this voyage, why a man of parts, of fine parts, I may say, and education, better than most, would hazard a crossing and that, in April, the most treacherous of months—showers sweet turn to tempests bitter—and, worse, on a galleon with no berth for a gentleman but a bunk not fit for a dog, not even my mastiff, Gulliver—and I, though six foot tall, his Lilliputian—who, despite my best efforts, splays himself, fleasand all, atop my moth- ridden blanket, with me huddled under it, as if I were a city and he a great army, equipped with cauldrons of drool, besieging me. While you wonder why I wander, know this: run I must.

Aye, I would have stayed home if I could. If I could. Instead, each day the winds blow me farther from the dales and vales of Jamesons past, clan of clans, men among men, though, truth be told—and here, dear Reader, it will be told, and without ornament—our tartan is sold by the yard at Covent Garden to every shaver, ever striver, every waster with twopence in his pocket and a plan to marry a merry widow with ten thousand a year and an estate in Derbyshire, with horses, comely, and tenants, timely in their rents. Had I ever come across such a lady—let us call her the Widow Bountiful—I would have wooed her with sighs enough to heat a stone- cold bed- chamber in the dead of winter. Perhaps she waits for me, my Widow B., somewhere on the other side of thiswretched sea. Hark, she pants for me. Or, no, ’tis only Gulliver, giant cur.

As a man of both sense and sincerity, I admit, freely, and with that same unsparing candor which you must henceforth expect of me, that I leave behind little but debt. Twould be an even greater sorrow to leave Edinburgh, that nursery of enlightened genius, did not each degree of longitude stretch the distance betwixt me and my creditors, to whom I owe so much gold, and so little gratitude, the brothers McGreevy, with their Monday duns, Tuesday threats, and Wednesday bludgeons. Suffice to say: I sailed on a Thursday, a day too late, with the scars to show forit. Departed, the Sea- Serpent, April 5, 1764.

There is "intelligent" and there is "too clever" and unfortunately this book's voice immediately falls into too clever category. It goes on and on with it's own cleverness. Even it's blurbs on the back of the book are too clever and in love with itself:

"It may justly be said in its Praise, without Flattery to the Authors, that it is the most Extraordinary Piece that ever was wrote in America."--Benjamin FRANKLIN, author of the classic Autobiography (1790)

"Was there ever yet any thing written by mere man that was wished longer by its readers, excepting Don Quixote, Robinson Crusoe, and Blindspot?"--Samuel JOHNSON, compiler of the best-selling Dictionary (1755)

"A Piece of this Kind is much wanted in the World, which is but too much, as well as too early, debauched by pernicious Novels."--Samuel RICHARDSON, author of the debauched novel Pamela (1740)

"A good Book is a Lesson to all its Readers, and of far greater use to the Circle of its Acquaintance than a good Man. Such is this Ingenious and romantick Adventure."-- Henry FIELDING, author of the still more debauched parody Shamela (1741)

"I will tell you in three words what the book is. —It is a history.–A history!" --Laurence STERNE, acclaimed author of Tristram Shandy (1759), and no mathematician

"A most inimitable Performance! Who is he, what is he, that could write so
excellent a Book?"--John PUFF, the prolific author of very many eighteenth-century blurbs

It completely turned me off which is sad because so many things were in its favor such as the time period and interesting characters. Bah. I'm very disappointed.

But many other books to delve into. So it may be the next in series for me by Deborah Crombie, the first in a hist/myst series I've been meaning to get to by Pat MacIntosh, or any of the other 20 or so books I've got out from the library currently.

It's severely cold out today. The high is expected to be negative five. Poor Tug, we didn't do our usual drive through the neighborhood to get the paper this morning. We don't need the paper that badly I'm figuring. We'll go for a walk this afternoon but no unnecessary outings.

I didn't do any cleaning yesterday so maybe I'll get to that today. I've got a paper due, damnit, by next Saturday so I'll be plugging away on that now. Bah humbug, but then this class will be over. Huzzah!

Much love,
PK the Bookeemonster