tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76557561181308786152012-02-25T20:33:08.601-05:00Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.comBlogger3061100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-50829880301131323282012-02-24T09:33:00.004-05:002012-02-24T16:44:44.229-05:00

It's true:  except for the Lido, and the funny horribleness of the expats on it, Venice was more a place on the map than a character, or even a setting, in this novel.  But what I wanted, and didn't find, was more than outweighed by what I did:  a funny, sweet, absorbing novel, from a novelist investing fiction that at times seemed almost light with all the signs of her skill and experience. And

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-74173633740274588442012-02-21T10:45:00.000-05:002012-02-21T10:45:24.900-05:00

All about them, at other tables exactly like theirs, sat other men exactly like Lord Wrench and Wheater, the Duke of Mendip and Gerald Ormerod, other women exactly like Joyce and Zinnia and Mrs. Lullmer.  Boyne remembered Mrs. Sellars' wail at the approach of a standardized beauty. . . . .Every one of the women in the vast crowded restaurant seemed to be of the same age, to be dressed by the

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-63048187985873128322012-02-18T11:20:00.001-05:002012-02-18T11:21:03.269-05:00

Marrying Wheater — Zinnia Lacrosse had married Cliffe Wheater? But then —but then — who on earth was Chipstone’s mother? Boyne felt like crying out: ‘Don’t pile up any more puzzles! Give me time — give me time!’ but his neighbor was now so far launched in the way of avowal that she went on, hardly heeding him more than if his face had been the narrow grating through which she was pouring her

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-77846580144041351782012-02-15T18:42:00.002-05:002012-02-15T18:45:45.861-05:00

Reader, if you wonder -- as I suspect you may -- why you have never heard of Gillespie, this supposed genius, then be aware of one thing:  that, before he died, Ned burned almost all of his work, save for a handful of paintings which were in private ownership and thus inaccessible to him. I believe that he attempted to recover some of these canvases, and to my certain knowledge, one moonlit

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-11722026656190259252012-02-07T21:23:00.000-05:002012-02-07T21:23:59.728-05:00

I expected to wait weeks, if not longer, for the new Inspector Lynley novel at the library, so it was a very pleasant surprise to get it almost as soon as it was published.  In Believing the Lie, the Assistant Chief Constable sends Tommy {I like to call him that, the way Simon and Deborah do, and Helen did}, secretly, to the Lake District to look into the death of Ian Cresswell, a local

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-13146736027948599852012-02-03T17:59:00.001-05:002012-02-15T18:43:40.046-05:00

It was one of those still, quiet days of winter, when everything seems to be waiting. No breeze disturbed the plumes of smoke from Thrush Green's chimneys. The trees stood bare and motionless. On the hedges small drops of moisture hung; no breath of wind disturbed them, no beam of sunlight brought them to life. ...       About half a mile along the quiet road she came to a low wall of Cotswold

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-49849220194480531412012-02-02T15:49:00.002-05:002012-02-02T19:57:43.028-05:00

... might look something like this, at least I hope so. I've never been there. But there are certain readers, and Dolce Bellezza is definitely one of them, who inspire me, and I will happily travel there with her this month as that's where she wanted to go.  My stack of books in progress and to be read is, as always, a little too high to be realistic, but I've picked out two Edith Wharton

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-82863368351236241882012-01-29T10:22:00.002-05:002012-01-29T11:23:06.149-05:00

George Frederic [EW's father] enjoyed strolling along New York streets, and by the time she was four, Edith regularly accompanied him. She dated the birth of her identity from a promenade up Fifth Avenue on a bright, sunny midwinter day in 1866. Dressed in a warm wool coat and pretty satin bonnet trimmed in tartan plaid, she looked out on the world through a filigreed veil of Shetland wool

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-27333743727932467682012-01-28T21:16:00.001-05:002012-01-28T21:19:05.712-05:00

Bliss and Blessing, by contrast, were almost matey. Blessing, clearly the elder of the men, though junior in rank, took the lead, asking the questions and scribbling in a notebook, while Bliss twitched and occasionally barked a question. Chorea? Tourette's? Tom had wondered, realising belatedly that he was being drawn in sympathetically by their deficits, which may have been the strategy of this

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-1799097532509319522012-01-26T21:35:00.003-05:002012-02-03T23:03:36.448-05:00

She has done her best but everyone in Broughton Sea's End is either dead, or in an old people's home or inside reading fishing magazines. It's an odd place, pretty but rather sad. Maybe it's just the weather but everything looks grey and washed out and somehow defeated. 'Fight coastal erosion' said a sign in the shop window, but Judy can't imagine the residents doing anything so energetic. No,

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-69149368790858407722012-01-24T04:37:00.008-05:002012-01-24T04:37:01.097-05:00

Edith Newbold Jones, who grew up to become the writer Edith Wharton, was born on January 24, 1862, in her parents' spacious brownstone at 14 West Twenty-third Street, just off Fifth Avenue and the fashionable Madison Square. At her daughter's birth, Lucretia Stevens Rhinelander Jones, a society matron in her late thirties, had been married for eighteen years to George Frederic Jones, a

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-57038882440073449732012-01-23T09:18:00.001-05:002012-01-23T09:19:09.673-05:00

This lovely room, which was on the cover of the March issue of House & Home, got me thinking {right after it had me sighing, and longing...}  In my childhood bedroom, my college dorm rooms, and my first three apartments, my bed was always surrounded by bookshelves.  It's only been in my last two places that I've had a second bedroom to turn into an office/study/library/guest room, with walls

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-41149271961823208062012-01-22T10:20:00.001-05:002012-01-22T10:21:23.963-05:00

It's been a week or ten days since I finished Book One of Middlemarch.  I only stopped there so I could keep pace with the way the book was published, not because I didn't long to keep reading. But I should stop and gather my thoughts, because they seem so fleeting, sometimes! (and the book deserves more than that). Expectations:  none. really. I've never read George Eliot, or until very

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-76218074290902437412012-01-21T00:16:00.002-05:002012-01-21T00:19:18.444-05:00

As he watched the snow-flakes falling every moment thicker and faster upon the lonely road, he was surprised by seeing a brougham slowly up the hill.       'I wonder what unhappy wretch has too restless a spirit to stop at home on such a morning as this,' he muttered as he returned to the arm-chair by the fire.       'He only reseated himself a few moments when Phoebe Marks entered the room to

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-3399706220225156642012-01-19T15:32:00.002-05:002012-01-19T19:07:49.957-05:00

When I was able to order a free Community Days ticket to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum (thank you, Twitter!), I didn't realize at first that my timed ticket for 11:30 this morning meant that I could think of myself as one of the first visitors to the museum after it re-opened after months of being closed for some renovations and the building of a new wing. I feel honored!  It's one of my

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-9522259431296582132012-01-13T12:36:00.000-05:002012-01-13T12:36:44.021-05:00

... she was enamoured of intensity and greatness, and rash in embracing whatever seemed to her to have those aspects; likely to seek martyrdom, to make retractions, and then to incur martyrdom after all in a quarter where she had not sought it. Certainly such elements in the character of a marriageable girl tended to interfere with her lot, and hinder it from being decided according to custom

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-54662600811454781852012-01-12T13:05:00.000-05:002012-01-12T13:05:50.374-05:00

{February} {March} {April}

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-92114226772234045622012-01-09T13:50:00.000-05:002012-01-09T13:50:36.315-05:00

I'm about two-thirds through it -- parts are so well done, other parts drag a little -- and it's hard to keep reading Lady Audley's Secret without knowing a little more about her. Sometimes, curiousity is rewarded with something better than you would have expected (and with cameo appearances by Henry James, George Eliot and Charles Dickens). :) Together with Wilkie Collins, Mary Elizabeth

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-74082631376196586782012-01-04T16:49:00.001-05:002012-01-04T21:23:58.730-05:00

I found these here, via Twitter and @nyplmenus {have you seen this New York Public Library project yet?! ... you should, you really should}, and just wanted to share them with you.  The teacups are crafted from recycled book pages by Swedish artist Cecilia Levy.

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-91387403378823549302012-01-02T14:49:00.006-05:002012-01-02T22:54:57.554-05:00

That's a quotation from Charles Dickens' daughter Katey, written down in the 1920s by a woman she asked to record her impressions of her parents.  I think it's a good reflection of how Dickens comes across in Claire Tomalin's wonderfully written, engaging, suspenseful, and very, very good new biography.  You can almost get the sense that she admires and respects a man she is not quite ready to

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-15958393508571342272012-01-01T12:38:00.000-05:002012-01-02T15:41:47.681-05:00

Boston was Dickens' favourite American city, and he made a good start in a comfortable hotel with a large suite adorned with flowers by Mrs. Fields herself. His foot improved and the clear, frosty weather allowed him to take eight-mile walks with her husband.  Both were flattered by the intimacy he offered, and he confided in James Fields his unhappiness in having so many children by an

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-69606675631628768142011-12-31T06:00:00.021-05:002011-12-31T06:00:02.049-05:00

I couldn't resist sharing this cup {and this sentiment}. In some years, it's felt good to finish the current book by December 31 and start the new year on a new page. This year, it's the opposite. I'm about two-thirds through Claire Tomalin's new biography of Charles Dickens, and I don't want it to end; it's a perfect example of why biographies are what I love to read best.  Dickens (horrible

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-15483811643564081672011-12-28T14:59:00.001-05:002011-12-28T14:59:56.994-05:00

      She had walked only a few paces down the street when she turned around and made her way back, decisively, to the doorway she had just left. She rang the bell, firmly, and waited.       'Oh,' said Catherine Succoth, as she answered the door. 'Have you left something behind?'       'I did not tell you the whole truth,' said Isabel. 'I am very sorry about that and I apologize.'To tell the

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-45200913712220610042011-12-24T06:16:00.003-05:002011-12-24T06:16:00.801-05:00

People, look east. The time is nearOf the crowning of the year.Make your house fair as you are able,Trim the hearth and set the table.People, look east and sing today:Love, the guest, is on the way. Stars, keep the watch. When night is dimOne more light the bowl shall brim,Shining beyond the frosty weather,Bright as sun and moon together.People, look east and sing today:Love, the star, is on

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-26794317983824550932011-12-15T10:08:00.001-05:002011-12-15T10:09:20.322-05:00

I began the day with A Moveable Feast. On my way to work I saw The House of the Seven Gables and walked by American Bloomsbury to avoid The Weird Sisters but I made sure to stop at The Crossing Places. In the office, my boss said "I Think I Love You." and sent me to research The Importance of Being Seven. At lunch with The Man Who Loved Books Too Much I noticed Love Letters under The Carlyles'

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-61762269562323953972011-12-08T13:18:00.000-05:002011-12-08T13:18:55.344-05:00

Interesting, and wonderful:  even though I think that my 'mix' of reading this year was the same as it is every year {biographies, older fiction (vs. new) and mysteries}, the books that I'll remember most aren't as lumped together into one category or the other as they sometimes are.  I fell for Elizabeth Gaskell {the person and her novels}, and Eudora Welty {the person, and now I need to read

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-37024058364728264042011-12-04T10:02:00.001-05:002011-12-04T10:02:00.599-05:00

The Atlantic crossing turned out to be one of the worst the ship's officers had ever known. There were gales and high seas for much of the time, and it took eighteen days. ... When they reached Halifax in Nova Scotia they ran aground, and had to wait for the rising tide to release them from the rocks. But once they had put in to the harbour Dickens went ashore for oysters and cheered up, and

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-35737216603608733822011-12-02T21:54:00.002-05:002011-12-02T21:55:53.578-05:00

'Holmes, I hope you know what you are doing.' 'If nothing else,' he mused, 'it will be a novel experience. I've been abducted before, but never in the context of a Gilbert and Sullivan play.'I know some of my reading friends were eagerly awaiting this book (the eleventh in Laurie R. King's series about Mary Russell and her husband, Sherlock Holmes), and then were disappointed in it. That's

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-1422483165991468962011-12-01T10:26:00.007-05:002011-12-02T07:26:37.496-05:00

Her face was her fortune. When their second daughter was born on November 22, 1819, Robert and Christiana Evans could see at a glance that she would find it hard to fulfill a girl's primary task:  to find a husband; she would have to make her own way in life. The heavy, irregular features resembling her father's were there from the start:  large, drooping nose, long chin, prominent jaw. Decades

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-83271491825132970972011-11-26T22:33:00.004-05:002011-11-27T09:12:54.027-05:00

      She had a silver Passat.       'Thank you,' she said, the keys ready in her hand.       'Must you go?' he asked then.       She hesitated, not looking at him.       'Rachel?' Say no, he thought urgently,  say no. Say that your going now isn't absolutely essential.       'I'm afraid I must, yes.'       'Wait.' He felt in his pockets for a pen. But he had not brought a pen. Nor his CID cards

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-13748295273721806412011-11-13T13:58:00.004-05:002011-11-13T20:17:48.134-05:00

When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength,' said she, 'we will take long walks together every day. ... I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-56767808439599325792011-11-07T13:49:00.002-05:002011-11-07T13:56:25.596-05:00

Hello, reading friends. I opened Sense and Sensibility again last night just in time {I mean just in time} to not have to say that I went an entire week {snowstorm, power out all over Connecticut, trip down there to bring my Mom up here, work, house guests, laziness} without reading a single page. Now that I think of it, my week was so easy compared to theirs. Things are getting back to normal,

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-30351317496975951912011-10-30T08:58:00.001-04:002011-10-30T11:37:53.554-04:00

On this snowy morning {OK, to be honest, we didn't get much here, but I wanted to record this, too; apparently there has only been measurable snow in Boston in October four times since they started keeping records, and Edith Wharton got almost two feet}, I've been thinking about how wonderful it is that I'm planning to spend this afternoon re-reading one of my favorite novels on the 200th

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-80619000992058091302011-10-29T12:48:00.003-04:002011-10-29T21:23:36.686-04:00

High above the Gulf of Salerno, some fifty miles south of Naples, is the medieval town of Ravello. Higher still and at the end of two meandering roads from Ravello, you find yourself in a place of fantasy that seems to float up in the sky:  a miraculous palazzo, now called the Villa Cimbrone, which answers the need for make-believe in all our lives.       ... For over a hundred years the place

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-42379365489402161442011-10-28T09:59:00.001-04:002011-10-28T10:02:23.897-04:00

It is as if Violet has floated up from one of those dark oubliettes at St. Loup and decided to pass the rest of her life gving parties in the dining room above.  'In every person there is an emergency exit: a self-interest which in its various forms allows one to escape. ... The disadvantage is that one cannot always come back.' from The Book of Secrets, by Michael Holroyd {the painting is

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-73920862643136566582011-10-25T08:51:00.002-04:002011-10-25T08:54:14.856-04:00

It’s discouraging to hear how many people feel they are failures in the kitchen, as if they’re somehow cursed with a ‘bad cooking’ gene. There is a secret and it is crazy simple: Read the recipe.       Do this and you’ll understand the rhythm of the dish, where you have to hover and when you can go check your email. A well-written recipe tells you the equipment you need (no, you can’t use a

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-12801382495009657222011-10-24T10:51:00.001-04:002011-10-24T11:04:48.800-04:00

Intoxicating . . . Burst[s] with the tremendous generosity of its author . . . From the first page A Book of Secrets casts the spell of a time long gone, of loves endured and lost, expectations dashed on the rocks of reality, of inner desires forever stilled, casting their shadows into history. It is written with the kind of elegance, ease and simplicity possible only from a master craftsman who

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-15871532379530247412011-10-22T07:36:00.004-04:002011-10-22T22:02:23.672-04:00

Have I told you anything about my friends at Cranford since the year 1856? I think not.But since Elizabeth Gaskell, ten years later, wrote another short story set in Cranford, and since Gaskell Blog's blog tour, The Picnic at Cranford, is so kindly stopping here today, we can spend a little more time with Mary Smith, Miss Matty, her long-lost brother Peter, Miss Pole, Mrs. Jamieson, Mr. Hoggins

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-89039665079436400822011-10-20T08:31:00.001-04:002011-10-20T12:03:01.164-04:00

I'm not all that fond of Facebook, but I do like liking Persephone Books (and NPR Books, and PBS, and Wegmans, and my nieces and nephews, not necessarily in that order ... :). But I did learn that today is Winifred Watson's 105th birthday {she was born October 20, 1906}.  Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day is so good.  I'm glad I read the book before I saw the movie, because although I liked the

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-11919631274895382312011-10-19T18:46:00.003-04:002011-10-20T09:30:37.602-04:00

This is my third or fourth time reading Sense and Sensibility, but I wanted to honor its 200th anniversary, as if I needed a reason.  It doesn't hurt that it's so much better, by far, than any of the new books I've picked up and put down this past week, and, as always, I've been finding things, significant and minor, that I'd missed before. I'm reading David Shapard's annotated edition (as I

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-39918169352477188822011-10-14T08:28:00.004-04:002011-10-15T10:02:24.544-04:00

There is a certain house within my familiar recollection — one of those peaked-gable, (there are seven of them), projecting-storied edifices, such as you occasionally see, in our elder towns — a rusty, crazy, creaky, dry-rotted, damp-rotted, dingy, dark, and miserable old dungeon, with an arched window over the porch, and a little shop-door on one side, and a great melancholy elm before it. I

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-56516747615979304842011-10-14T07:00:00.005-04:002011-10-17T12:07:30.507-04:00

Julia has A Number of Things {wonderful, perceptive things!} to say about the book, including her long history with it and what happens to Hawthorne's intentions as he writes. Fleur Fisher was entranced, and has conquered her fear of Hawthorne (so did I!) Frances of Nonsuch Book found 'many sly and humorous send-ups of the Gothic form,' and much more, as she always does, in her re-reading.

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-53085967170223242252011-10-12T09:23:00.000-04:002011-10-12T09:23:02.361-04:00

I just read a note from Persephone Books that Agnes Jekyll was born 150 years ago today. Her book Kitchen Essays was my first Persephone, and I think it will almost definitely end up on my list of favorite books for this year.  {They shared a link to an interesting article, too.} I remember reading that she was an early food columnist, in an era  when women did not often write for newspapers,

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-92229767643591483702011-10-11T19:31:00.000-04:002011-10-11T19:31:48.229-04:00

I read the first two Jackson Brodie mysteries by Kate Atkinson so long ago {three or four years} that I unfortunately didn't remember too much about him, or them, except the Edinburgh setting, and that he was an ex-cop turned private investigator with an ex-wife (or two?) and a friendship or love interest with a woman detective. and that I liked the first two books enough to buy a copy of the

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-71852920783247331872011-10-10T22:05:00.002-04:002011-10-11T12:38:58.098-04:00

I was looking forward to this new book -- the seventh Three Pines mystery by Louise Penny -- most, of all the mysteries I've been anticipating, and it was a perfect book to enjoy over this long weekend.  It wasn't as deep and dark, possibly not as compelling, as Bury Your Dead, the book that came just before it, but that didn't diminish my enjoyment.  So much happened in that dark and wintry

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-36438122961803425662011-10-09T09:37:00.002-04:002011-10-09T09:41:20.801-04:00

In that first cold winter in Lenox, Hawthorne settled down to writing The House of the Seven Gables. He had begun work on it in August; by October he had even chosen a title. In November, however, he complained of making only slow progress. 'I write diligently, but not so rapidly as I had hoped,' he informed Fields on November 3. 'I find the book requires more care and thought than the 'Scarlet

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-15607243964978030802011-10-07T10:59:00.000-04:002011-10-11T12:38:58.099-04:00

I've now decided, after wavering just a little over the first two books, that I do like Nicola Upson's series about Josephine Tey. {I also think the covers are very striking!} They're not as psychologically deep, as the Maisie Dobbs mysteries are (for example), but they are also a little more colorful, and it's very interesting to read a novel based on historical events in which the main

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-90318788186239235992011-10-02T18:16:00.000-04:002011-10-02T18:16:53.331-04:00

Me again, holding myself back from Chapter 13 {'Alice Pyncheon'}, not because it's unlucky, but because it's a perfect place to break my reading, and because I want to savor this wonderful book.  I wanted to let you know that Frances, who is joining me in hosting our R.I.P. VI group reading of The House of the Seven Gables, has very kindly assembled a list {thank you, Frances!} of the amazing

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-88027907157524371462011-10-02T12:12:00.002-04:002011-10-02T15:11:42.323-04:00

In a little while, the guest became sensible of the fragrance of the yet untasted coffee. He quaffed it eagerly. The subtle essence acted on him like a charmed draught, and caused the opaque substance of his animal being to grow transparent; or, at least, translucent; so that a spiritual gleam was transmitted through it, wih a clearer lustre than hitherto.       'More, more!' he cried, with

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-59836132063378633392011-10-02T10:54:00.003-04:002011-10-02T11:09:36.576-04:00

      Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly arranged and well-provisioned breakfast table. We come to it freshly, in the dewy youth of the day, and when our spiritual and sensual elements are in better accord than at a later period, of being fully enjoyed, without any very grievous reproaches, whether gastric or conscientious... The thoughts, too, that run around the

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-41278329321646168682011-10-01T10:59:00.000-04:002011-10-01T10:59:44.559-04:00

... O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow. Make the day seem to us less brief. Hearts not averse to being beguiled, Beguile us in the way you know. Release one leaf at break of day; At noon release another leaf; One from our trees, one far away. Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst. Slow, slow! ...from 'October,' by Robert Frost Beloved poem

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-8248337859127755192011-09-28T16:02:00.003-04:002011-09-28T16:13:43.050-04:00

I read so many mysteries that I'm not always very concerned about whether or not they're 'good.'  When they are - well written, characters deeply drawn and engaging, suspenseful, surprising twists, etc., etc., etc., I admire them, but I'm also pretty tolerant when they're not.  They're read for entertainment, not with a critical eye. But I do sometimes want them to be better. When I read good

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-80178602241321527292011-09-26T14:06:00.001-04:002011-09-26T14:13:47.670-04:00

...he went no further; and Anne, who, in spite of the agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered, and in spite of all the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam of the door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had distinguished every word, was struck, gratified,confused and beginning to breathe very quick, and feel an hundred things in a moment.I'm

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-70274078155506548612011-09-25T10:48:00.001-04:002011-09-25T12:10:18.214-04:00

How eloquent would Anne Elliot have been, -- how eloquent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust Providence! -- She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older -- the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.I'm

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-6873379275502075832011-09-24T08:31:00.011-04:002011-09-24T19:51:22.542-04:00

      He got out at St. John's Wood, walked down Grove End Road, and across Alma Gardens. Orcadia Place was hidden away where you would least expect a street of houses to be, off the end of Melina Place. He stood still for a moment, for he hadn't known such places as this existed in London. It was like somewhere n the country, a corner of a country town, or a picture in a book of photographs of

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-7794988429081303872011-09-23T06:05:00.002-04:002011-10-11T12:38:58.100-04:00

Once Sophia had left, no-one knew quite what to do, as they all paced around the big room. Vandoosler senioe preferred to take his meals upstairs. Before leaving the room, he looked at them. The three younger men were standing, oddly enough, each one in front of one of the tall windows, gazing into the dark garden. Standing like that, each framed in an archway, they looked like three statues

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-48366525219029556732011-09-22T12:09:00.000-04:002011-09-22T12:09:01.327-04:00

I don't usually squeal uncontrollably when I'm reading book blogs, but this is a perfectly justifiable exception. It's to be published in the UK in November.  I couldn't find a U.S. publication date, but my sister travels to London a lot. 

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-34211053400940622492011-09-22T08:58:00.001-04:002011-09-22T08:59:24.286-04:00

On this day in 1692, eight citizens of the colony of Massachusetts were hanged for their supposed connections to witchcraft. Theirs were the last of the deaths caused by the Salem Witch Trials, preceded by 11 other hangings, plus five who died in prison, and one who was crushed to death for refusing to enter a plea. A period that roughly spanned the spring and summer of 1692, the Salem Witch

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-76763649169920926322011-09-18T15:17:00.000-04:002011-09-18T15:17:21.640-04:00

Is is starting to feel like fall where you live? Better yet, is it suddenly starting to feel like fall?  That's what I've loved about the last few days ... going from warm and muggy on Wednesday and Thursday morning, to cool and sunny and crisp (or at least crisper) since then. I went to a college soccer game Friday night (it seems like decades since I've done that...actually, it probably has

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-59255578610661034162011-09-17T11:02:00.002-04:002011-09-17T12:46:09.868-04:00

'It seems, Sir John, that he departed from that pub almost as soon as he'd got back to it. We'd taken his statement, of course, for what it seemed worth. But we'll put him back on our list again.' Inspector Craig opened his notebook at last. 'And now, sir, may I tell you everything I've gathered?'       'Another half-pint of the cider, and go ahead.'       And in the most orderly way, Craig

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-28378755154396740642011-09-12T12:44:00.005-04:002011-09-13T09:44:36.046-04:00

Who knows what may be buried in his back garden? Only the man who has cultivated the whole area to a considerable depth. If his spade strikes on something out-of-the-way -- the golden helmet, perhaps, of some Roman general, or an Anglo-Saxon scramasax exquisitely inlaid with copper, silver, niello and bronze -- it is likely to be what the law describes as treasure trove. No owner can conceivably

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-38884174330993385682011-09-11T18:55:00.001-04:002011-09-11T18:56:42.193-04:00

 First of all, I wanted to say 'thank you very much!' to Nan of Letters from a Hill Farm for telling me about this book when I mentioned that I was thinking of reading The House of the Seven Gables.In part, because it was exactly the kind of book I was in the mood for reading, and even more because isn't this (or shouldn't it be) the reason why we're all blogging?  (On the same note, there was

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-38778663149350011432011-09-10T17:49:00.002-04:002011-09-10T17:52:34.651-04:00

I didn't know that Audrey Niffenegger is an illustrator and printmaker, in addition to being a novelist. Last week {I've been catching up...} Jane Austen Today showed us two covers she had designed for new Penguin editions of Sense and Sensibility and Persuasion. An effort to modernize Jane Austen for new readers? They're a little odd, but they're also striking. I think I like them, in the

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-3836779451275939312011-09-07T09:24:00.008-04:002011-09-07T20:07:45.276-04:00

What did I want to ask? Questions swirled around in my mind, unformed and unacknowledged. I fully understood the importance of smell, but knew none of the specifics. I knew what scent provided through the lens of my loss, through each aroma that painstakingly crawled back into my nose. I knew that if damaged, the sense of smell could come back. That it could return in mysterious ways, ebbing

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-14834074211473144892011-09-06T21:06:00.001-04:002011-09-06T22:02:39.241-04:00

      'I don't think I shall ever like that Mr. Slope,' said Mr. Harding.       'Like him!' roared the archdeacon, standing still for a moment to give more force to his voice; 'like him!' All the ravens of the close cawed their assent. The old bells of the tower, in chiming the hour, echoed the words; and the swallows flying out from their nests mutely expressed a similar opinion. Like Mr.

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-56443502524565457642011-09-05T08:35:00.001-04:002011-09-05T09:04:49.596-04:00

Halfway down a by-street of one of our New England towns stands a rusty wooden house, with seven acutely peaked gables, facing towards various points of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney in the midst. ...After commenting and tweeting to each other about Nathaniel Hawthorne's The House of the Seven Gables yesterday, Frances of Nonsuch Book and I decided to read it together, and we would

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-46969233254033072732011-09-04T11:46:00.001-04:002011-09-04T15:16:09.594-04:00

My blogging friends are all starting to talk about R.I.P {Readers Imbibing Peril} VI, the annual challenge hosted by Carl.  I learned about it, and joined in, for the first time last year, and discovered some wonderful, mostly classic stuff, including a couple of ghost stories by Edith Wharton and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  Although I read mysteries by the dozens, I only sometimes stick my

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-21591154093172137982011-09-03T00:28:00.001-04:002011-09-03T00:30:25.772-04:00

After greatly enjoying the book, I started off this long weekend by finally watching the BBC adaptation of Wives and Daughters.  I must have seen it when it was on Masterpiece Theater, but it's so surprising to me that I don't remember the series or the story.  Did I watch it and forget it? Or could it have been that I wasn't interested for some reason? Oh, well, I was young and foolish back

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-46062877921068038622011-09-01T20:15:00.000-04:002011-09-01T20:15:40.447-04:00

{March, in the U.S.} This book was mentioned in passing somewhere {in a tweet, maybe?} a few weeks ago, but I wasn't able to find out anymore about it until today, thanks to Dovegreyreader, who talks about it here.

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-34108436790425673832011-08-31T12:11:00.000-04:002011-08-31T12:11:39.650-04:00

      Miss Thorne, however, boldly attempted to leave the modern beaten track, and made a positive effort to entertain her guests. Alas! She did so with but moderate success. They had all their own way of going, and would not go her way. She piped to them, but they would not dance. She offered to them good honest household cake, made of currants and flour and eggs and sweetmeat; but they would

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-46727738049836483572011-08-30T09:30:00.001-04:002011-09-06T21:15:28.537-04:00

      'Ah, my friend,' said she, putting out her left hand to him across her desk, 'I did not expect you to-day, and was this very instant writing to you ---'       Mr. Slope, taking the soft fair delicate hand in his, and very soft and fair and delicate it was, bowed over it his huge red head and kissed it. It was a sight to see, a deed to record if the author could fitly do it, a picture to

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-81003724315412904132011-08-27T18:32:00.003-04:002011-08-27T18:41:04.667-04:00

      She found herself in low spirits, and tried very hard to shake off this silly fit of the dismals... She thought that even if she didn't succeed in carrying out this admirable resolution she had at least succeeded in hiding her depression from Lady Wychwood, but soon discovered that she was mistaken. 'I wish you will tell me, dearest, what is making you so down pin,' said her ladyship

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-19294242696736278702011-08-26T10:27:00.001-04:002011-08-26T10:29:50.170-04:00

I just (finally) finished listening to One Was a Soldier, the latest (seventh) book in the Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne series by Julia Spencer-Fleming. {I say finally, because it was on my Ipod, reserved for power and after-dinner walks, and I've been listening to it for a month. Saying so to shame myself into doing better.} If you're not familiar with these mysteries, they are set in

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-24353977539280855102011-08-24T10:51:00.004-04:002011-08-25T09:57:03.762-04:00

Although I haven't really looked at the Facebook page where it is all happening {am on Facebook; wouldn't mind if Facebook went away; but the Trollope Society is trying to be current, and so I guess am I}, I was inspired by the Trollope Society's August reading event, Take a Trollope on Holiday, to finally start reading the rest of the Barchester novels. I read The Small House at Allington

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-90710677137690760122011-08-23T18:48:00.000-04:002011-08-23T18:48:42.079-04:00

      How comes it that now, when all should be silent, when courtesy, if not taste, should make men listen, -- how is it at this moment the black-coated corps leave their retreat and begin skirmishing? One by one they creep forth, and fire off little guns timidly, and without precision. Ah, my men, efforts such as these will take no cities, even though the enemy should be never so open to

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-14751368306820430102011-08-22T08:57:00.000-04:002011-08-22T08:57:44.217-04:00

      Quietly, with simple words, Oliver told him all he knew, including his conversation with Hester that morning. His quarrel with Margaret was still too painful, and he brushed over it, more by implication than detail.       'I see,' Henry said at last. 'I'm afraid you are in for a great deal of distress. I wish I could remove it for you, but I can't. There is no honorable way except forward,

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-77731121760638858282011-08-20T09:38:00.001-04:002011-08-20T09:44:20.080-04:00

The elegant travelling carriage which bore Miss Wychwood from her birthplace, on the border of Somerset and Wilstshire, to her home in Bath, proceeded on its way at a decorous pace. This was dictated by her coachman, an elderly autocrat, who, having known her from the day of her birth, almost thirty years before, drove her at the pace he considered proper, and turned a deaf ear to her

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-12844004521830777952011-08-19T10:01:00.038-04:002011-08-19T17:57:42.207-04:00

‘But I’m a good deal nearer heaven today, I am.’ As you may have noticed {:)}, I’ve been on a reading project centering on Elizabeth Gaskell. I re-read, and fell in love with, Cranford last spring, about the time I started this blog, at a time when I needed comfort reading {and elegant economy} — I still do! — and other than Jane Austen or Angela Thirkell or a cozy mystery, it’s hard for me to

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-39316338203160722172011-08-18T09:54:00.000-04:002011-08-18T09:54:44.406-04:00

{October}

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-14066094833376650532011-08-18T09:45:00.000-04:002011-08-18T09:45:58.128-04:00

{September; new series!}'Max Tudor has adapted well to his post as vicar of St. Edwold’s in the idyllic village of Nether Monkslip. The quiet village seems the perfect home for Max, who has fled a harrowing past as an MI5 agent...' {October} {December}

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-60971734692523561122011-08-16T16:15:00.001-04:002011-08-16T16:19:56.934-04:00

'...and I liked him so much, and bought a new cookery-book, all to make it pleasant and agreeable and what he was used to.' She said all this in a plaintive, aggrieved tone of voice; but as no one knew to what she was referring, it was difficult to offer her consolation.from Wives and Daughters, by Elizabeth Gaskell {Chapter 38}

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-32970271503680567192011-08-14T12:48:00.000-04:002011-08-14T12:48:49.632-04:00

He looked forward to an active life; in what direction he had not yet determined. He knew what were his talents and his tastes; and did not wish the former to lie buried, nor the latter, which he regarded as gifts, fitting him for some peculiar work, to be disregarded or thwarted. He rather liked awaiting an object, secure in his own energy to force his way to it, when once he saw it

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-28179399154100768492011-08-12T12:31:00.000-04:002011-08-12T12:31:48.576-04:00

'We'll soon bring you about...Go home now, you've had enough exercise for the middle of a day as hot as this is. And don''t mope in the house, listening to the maunderings of your stupid instinct.'from Wives and Daughters, by Elizabeth Gaskell {Chapter 29} {Window Seat at the Artist's Home in Lyngby, by Carl Vilhelm Holsoe}

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-67685538941444176662011-08-11T09:19:00.001-04:002011-08-11T09:28:02.985-04:00

You are made of almost nothing But of enough To be great eyes And diaphanous double vans; To be ceaseless movement, Unending hunger, Grappling love. Link between water and air, Earth repels you. Light touches you only to shift into iridescence Upon your body and wings. Twice-born, predator, You split into the heat. Swift beyond calculation or capture You dart into the shadow Which consumes

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-14121089006881169692011-08-10T08:50:00.001-04:002011-08-18T09:56:06.738-04:00

Case Histories, on Masterpiece Mystery {Kate Atkinson | Jackson Brodie} {October 16-30} November (in the U.S.) {December} Not a mystery, exactly, but anticipated! {January} {both February}

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-74610549976991982792011-08-09T06:51:00.002-04:002011-08-09T06:51:00.658-04:00

I  shall never be happy again.' ...       'Nonsense: perhaps in ten years' time you will be looking back on this trial as a very light one -- who knows?'       'I daresay it seems foolish; perhaps all our earthly trials will appear foolish to us after a while; perhaps they seem so now to angels. But we are ourselves, you know, and this is now, not some time to come, a long, long way off. And we

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-60664715422964263322011-08-08T14:36:00.000-04:002011-08-08T14:36:02.419-04:00

It was a very pleasant change to a poor unsuccessful schoolmistress to leave her own home, full of battered and shabby furniture ... where her look-out was so gloomy, and the surroundings as squalid, as is often the case in the smaller streets of a country town, and to come bowling through the Towers Park in the luxurious carriage sent to meet her; to alight, and feel secure that the

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-49288208380221177042011-08-07T08:28:00.000-04:002011-08-08T14:37:31.268-04:00

I've been amusing (bemusing?) myself lately by comparing all the blurbs and quotes on the books I'm reading with my sense of the book, or what I hope it will be like. This is the quote from Jenny Uglow, the author of the wonderful biographer of Elizabeth Gaskell that I just finished reading {and whose perceptions I would trust} on my copy of Wives and Daughters: 'Wonderfully funny...profound

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-59138485630584004832011-08-06T00:01:00.000-04:002011-08-08T14:37:31.269-04:00

I've just started {happily, finally} reading Wives and Daughters, and as I was looking for a cover image from my {new, replacing the older paperback with the tiny print) Vintage Gaskell edition, I came across this, from the illustrator's web site: Her name is Linda Florence, and she also did the cover art for my Vintage Gaskell edition of Cranford. They're stunning. Some of us are so good

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-56870254713080939322011-08-05T06:20:00.003-04:002012-01-26T20:35:48.700-05:00

Death at the Chateau Bremont:  a Verlaque & Bonnet Mystery, by M.L. Longworth, is a new mystery (and the start of a new series, I would imagine), by a first time mystery writer.  It's set in the present, in and around Aix-en-Provence, and although there is a crumbling chateau, it isn't full of the usual crusty but charming Provençaux.  It's not quite a 'rich vintage of sparkling Dorothy Sayers

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-86216721074141401142011-08-04T09:44:00.001-04:002011-08-25T08:14:58.673-04:00

      'I believe it is a vice, almost, to read such a book as the Letters,' said Mrs. Touchett. 'It's the women's soul, absolutely torn up by the roots -- her whole self laid bare; and to a man who evidently didn't care; who couldn't have cared. I don't mean to read another line; it's too much like listening at a keyhole.'       'But if she wanted it published?'       'Wanted it? How do we know

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-1207486481411719292011-08-03T14:27:00.001-04:002011-08-08T14:37:31.270-04:00

Elizabeth Gaskell's short (100-page) novel Cousin Phillis, published as a magazine serial in 1863-1864, reminded me of Cranford, but without the humor and hope of the earlier book. It's very sweet, and quiet, and low-keyed, and sad, and it's easy to see why her biographer was struck by how a busy, energetic woman, driven in so many directions in her daily life, could write a story like this

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-71658190007996478902011-07-31T17:44:00.003-04:002011-07-31T18:18:36.034-04:00

Laura Shapiro's short biography of Julia Child was one of the most memorable books I read last year, no so much because it was a great book (very good, if not great), but because Julia Child was such an incredibly interesting woman. I loved reading about her approach to 'cookery-bookery,' most of all, but it was also moving to read about her marriage and even the difficulties (an understatement)

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-30181587036782185442011-07-30T13:40:00.001-04:002011-07-30T13:43:34.056-04:00

      Chef Bagnard was a wonder with sauces, and one of my favorite lessons was his sole a la normande. Put a half-pound of sole fillets in a buttered pan, place the fish's bones on top, sprinkle with salt and pepper and minced shallots. Fill the pan with liquid just covering the fillets, half white wine, half water, plus mussel and oyster juices. Poach. When the fillets are done, keep them

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-78137599958197281322011-07-29T19:59:00.000-04:002011-07-29T19:59:28.004-04:00

      'I could sum you up in a sentence,' said Susan.       'What would it be?'       'You do what you say you'll do. You aren't afraid of much. And you love me.'       'That's three sentences,' I said.       'I separated them by semicolons,' Susan said. from Sixkill: a Spenser novel, by Robert B. Parker

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-90652561624586994442011-07-28T11:36:00.005-04:002011-07-28T14:33:37.846-04:00

Place is a kind of parentage. There is a kinship of place, an alternative genealogy, where instead of sharing the stuff of the body itself, we share the environment each of us, in successive generations, has literally incorporated. The winter sun dropping below the tenement roofs burned down, in a similar pattern, in my eyes and in the eyes of a grocer's daughter, Isadore, who was twelve at the

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-72217735251843039322011-07-24T14:15:00.019-04:002011-07-24T16:24:38.999-04:00

At least he could communicate. The longer I was in Paris, the worse my French seemed to get. I had gotten over my initial astonishment that anyone could understand what I said at all. But I loathed my gauche accent, my impoverished phraseology, my inability to communicate in any but the most rudimentary way. My French 'u's were only worse than my 'o's.       This was brought home to me at

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-48191600719532445032011-07-22T19:33:00.004-04:002011-07-22T19:44:38.739-04:00

The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted, by Bridget Asher, is the kind of book that I can enjoy, but usually can't find anything worth saying about. Unabashedly chicklit, with all the usual pluses and minuses, but of the sweetest kind.  The brokenhearted are Heidi and her eight-year-old son Abbott, who, after two years, are still mourning the death (in a car accident) of Henry, their husband

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-69450802233125082011-07-21T17:25:00.001-04:002011-07-26T08:22:17.139-04:00

'... I know, Mathilde. Adamsberg has this voice that charms you and makes you drop your guard, but he never relaxes at all. His voice has distant pictures and vague thoughts in it, but it's leading inexorably to some conclusion, although he may be the last to suspect that himself.'       'Have you finished? Is it all right if I eat my lunch!'       'Of course. But listen to what I'm saying.

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655756118130878615.post-65900179667781476172011-07-20T18:01:00.003-04:002011-07-20T22:36:04.220-04:00

But still, I remembered this shop exactly. And now I knew what all of the cakes were. I knew some of them quite intimately. Suddenly I wanted to hear the words in French. I pointed at one of the beautiful, exquisitely detailed desserts. ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ I asked. What is it?' ‘Américaine?’ the baker asked. ‘Oui,’ I said. The baker grew serious then. He looked at me and then at Julien.

Audreyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14912114716426828436noreply@blogger.com5