Rebel Angels

Rebel Angels

By Libba Bray (548 pages)

Published by Ember

Bookish rating: 4.25

I adored the first book in Libba Bray’s Gemma Doyle trilogy, A Great and Terrible Beauty (read it! read it! read it!), so after a suitable time had passed (I like to stretch out trilogies and stories that I’m enthralled with), I started this second book, Rebel Angels.

Set at an English boarding school and in London during Christmastime in the 1890s, Gemma and her fabulously well-drawn friends, seek the temple that will allow her to bind the magic of the realms (an “other” world that Gemma can cross into at will). Did I mention there’s some hocus pocus? There is. The backstory is too complicated for me to fully explain, but suffice it to say that the realism of London, the girliness of Spence Academy, the wit of the girls, the occasional ball and pretty dress, and the magic of the realms makes for an engrossing, fun, and very satisfying read.

The books in this trilogy are the sorts of the books that remind you why you love reading so much.

Although you do indeed need to read the first book to make much sense of Rebel Angels, this second novel mercifully dodges the sophomore slump that ruins so many series or trilogies. Sure, it’s a transition book to get us to the (800-plus-page) final book, but the novel is genuinely good in its own right.

Confession: I don’t think I’ll manage to wait a “suitable time period” to tackle the third and final Gemma Doyle book.

Recommended, obviously.

Luncheon of the Boating Party

Luncheon of the Boating Party

By Susan Vreeland (448 pages)

Published by Penguin

Bookish rating: 3

Vreeland’s historical, artsy novel explores the creation of Renoir’s huge, popular painting, Luncheon of the Boating Party. She takes us to Bohemian Paris, and surmises on the crowd of models shown in the painting and Renoir’s angst in painting it, and she conveys some of the contemporary debate and criticism of Impressionism at the time.

Vreeland successfully showcases lots of historical and French cultural detail, not to mention the sense of what Paris was like 100+ years ago, and she depicts the turbulence of an art movement still in flux, not yet fully understood or appreciated. However, the novel lacks enough plot to move it forward, so we readers are subjected to pages and pages and PAGES of banter among the 13 models and teeny tiny, inconsequential scenes. This results in a choppy read. One could argue that Vreeland’s choppiness is intended to mimic the short brush stokes that give a viewer of Renoir’s work an “impression” of the subject, but I highly doubt that’s what she was aiming for. If it was, well, then I’m not a fan.

I never got terribly absorbed in the story, because there was so little story to hang onto. Parisians exchanging witticisms is interesting for a paragraph at most, but not full chapters—though Vreeland obviously does this to fill up scenes in which Renoir is painting. I mean, what can they do besides verbally interact? Each sitting of the models is mostly the same, and again, though Vreeland has carefully written these redundant scenes with clever dialogue (way too much dialogue, in my opinion) and little nuances and details that show she knows her stuff, it’s simply tiresome to read.

This is not a bad book, and it should appeal in many ways to those who love Impressionism and Renoir. However, the novel failed to grab me. I had no plot to follow, except for Renoir fussing about his painting, and the characters were (a) too numerous, (b) not super likable, and (c) not terribly interesting. Yes, parts were of the novel were done well, and Vreeland is a good writer. But overall, I just didn’t enjoy the novel that much.

The Pleasure of My Company

The Pleasure of My Company

By Steve Martin (176 pages)

Published by Hyperion

Bookish rating: 4

Okay, seriously, who doesn’t love Steve Martin? Yeah, he’s a comedic goofball, but he’s also a renaissance man! I mean, the dude can play the banjo, act a hugely wide variety of roles, is hilarious, and apparently he’s a genuinely not-sucky writer.

Did you even KNOW that he was a writer? Oh yes, he has a memoir, which I now totally want to read, and he also wrote Shopgirl, which I haven’t read, but I loved the movie (which starred Martin and Claire Danes).

The Pleasure of My Company is narrated by Daniel, who has some sort of mental health issue—autism, Asperger’s, or some sort of obsessive–compulsive disorder. We never quite know what the condition is, but Daniel is nevertheless a heartbreakingly decent guy, stuck in the mind of neurotic obsessions, compulsions, and fears.

Daniel lives by himself in his Santa Monica apartment, observing the world but unable to participate in it, due to his fear of curbs, need for balanced light wattage, and so on. His narrative voice is very matter-of-fact but also sort of disarming. He pines for three different women—his state-supplied shrink, the pharmacist at the Rite Aid, and a realtor showing the apartment across the street.

Overanalyzing absolutely everything, Daniel hyper-plans ways to interact with these women, mainly trying to appear normal. Eventually, he becomes the go-to babysitter for a toddler of one of the women, and Daniel’s narration of how the little boy interacts with him is extremely amusing and probably my favorite aspect of the novel. The toddler’s lack of predictability and logic matched up Daniel’s need for extreme order and a cause-and-effect is brilliantly portrayed, but they also have moments of being totally on the same wavelength. After all, like a toddler, Daniel loves his patterns and rituals.

The ending was a tad too tidy and almost rushed, but that’s a minor quibble. Overall, recommended. Surprisingly.



The Three Weissmanns of Westport

The Three Weissmanns of Westport

By Cathleen Schine (292 pages)

Published by Picador

Bookish rating: 4.25

This wry, snarky novel—an updated take on Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility—follows three women as they relocate from swanky Manhattan apartments to a dingy cottage in Westport. And there, they tinker in love.

Betty, the somewhat silly matriarch, is left by her husband (who decides to keep the apartment) after 48 years of marriage and dramatically refers to herself as a widow. Miranda (based on Austen’s Marianne) is the theatrical and rather naïve literary agent whose career just went down in flames. And steadfast Annie (based on Austen’s Elinor) moves in with her mom and sister to keep an eye on them. She’s the only one who watches the household budget or is gainfully employed.

 Schine mimics Austen’s ironic tone, but she does so with a New York (and often Jewish) twist, and the result is hilarious but also sort of poignant. The women are so flawed but believable—in a ridiculously non-believable sort of way. I can’t quite explain it. Schine also narrates from an omniscient point of view, flawlessly bouncing from one character’s point of view to the next. The result is delightful observation and introspection, with nothing muddled or sloppy about it.

 If you’re an Austen-phile, you may read along the entire book, thinking you know how it ends. You don’t. And that was one of my favorite parts of this novel.

It’s refreshing to read a novel as well-written as Three Weismanns, with line upon line of wit, irony, parody, droll observation, and even a little romance. Recommended.