The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins

The Moonstone began rather slowly, "mawkishly" even, as someone on amazon.com described it, with a sensational account of the theft of the eponymous stone from a sacred Hindu temple. The story then skips to a succession of first-person narrators, each relating their part in the mystery that surrounds the presentation and subsequent disappearance of the Moonstone on a young lady's birthday.

The narration gains traction as the novel progresses. Many characters are woefully two-dimensional, but somehow this did not diminish my delight in the book. By the middle of it, I was actually reluctant to put the book down, a rarer and rarer experience for me. No, the characters were not credible, nor was the plot, but I was entertained nonetheless.

And perhaps that is exactly why I was entertained. It has always been a maxim of mine that good fiction consists of ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, or extraordinary people in ordinary circumstances. Ordinary people in ordinary circumstances are beyond boring, and extraordinary people in extraordinary circumstances can sometime be a bit over the top.

I am sure there is something wrong with my fiction-is-only-as-good-as-the-level-of-entertainment-it-provides philosophy on literature. Nevertheless, I shall persist in it until I can convince myself of something more intellectually forthright.

But it was a fun book. The Moonstone, at least, can only be worth as much as it entertains, for by any loftier measure it would not register very highly. Still, T.S. Eliot did call it "the first, the longest and the best of modern English detective novels," which has to lend the book some credibility.

The Warden by Anthony Trollope

I don't know who or why or how or what, but I just did not like this book. I suppose it was a character study. That is often a good way to say a book was plotless and incredibly boring- as this was.

Perhaps I am not doing The Warden justice. It did have a romance, and the prose was not nearly obscure. It is just that everything was so flat. The book was like a children's primer. Of course, it did not help that my edition had a rather large font and cute little illustrations.

The Warden is a clergyman appointed to oversee some aging, retired field workers. A young activist-type decides the Warden is paid too much, and that more of the money he receives should go to the old men. So the kid conjures up a lawsuit. Unfortunately, he loves the Warden's daughter, and she pleads for him to give up the suit. Alas, it is too much for the Warden. He resigns his post, the girl marries the young guy, and everyone is moderately happy at the end, except for the old men, who have lost the best master they could have over greed for money they never got.

"Pedestrian" is the best I can do to describe the book. "Dull", "flat", "uninteresting" are close contenders. What more is there to say? I am sure the book had some sort of merit as social and political commentary at some point, but now even I, an unabashed Anglophile, can derive little of enjoyment from it. It is so hard to say intelligent things about a boring book

Don't Eat This Book by Morgan Spurlock

Subtitled "Fast Food and the Supersizing of America," this expose of sorts written by the guy who ate only McDonald's for thirty days and filmed his ordeal, kept me entirely enthralled. I've retained an overarching disdain for fast food for many years, and Spurlock's testimony and barrage of facts only fortified my aversion for the stuff. Indeed, I disregarded the title and devoured his writing.

Spurlock jumps conversationally through the many facets of processed food, citing studies and experts and weaving in his own expericences and observances. He thoroughly destroys any appeal McDonald's could have for anyone, tracing the demise of its food quality, detailing the ingredients and the processes they go through, and demonstrating the inability of the average American to eat there constantly, burn off all the calories he consumes, and receive all of the nutrients he needs.

Spurlock goes even further into America's nutritive deficit. He scrutinizes the meat industry and its infatuation with hormones, antibiotics, and cutting costs at the expense of quality. He visits schools and finds many have cut P.E. while offering lunch fare no more nutritious than fast food. He examines the shelves of grocery stores, decrying the abundance of hydrogenated oils and high fructose corn syrups. He meets gastric bypass patients and marvels at how the world's one billion overweight inhabitants mirror the one billion starving ones.

The book is filled with devastating facts. An obese corpse being cremated fills the incinerating room with the smell of McDonald's as it burns; a man forgets a hamburger in his pocket one spring and finds it next fall in perfect condition; one McDonald's CEO dies of a heart attack and the man who replaces him dies of colectoral cancer. It is disgusting.

Spurlock's basic exhortation is for people to eat real food. Real, honest-to-goodness food that has no filler and that actually spoils. What is more, he calls for people to exercise and burn more calories than they take in. It doesn't take much to be healthy.

I have become more stringent lately, trying to maintain a standard of purity about what I consume. Even restaurants make me leery. I want to know exactly what is in everything I put into my mouth. Because of my resolve, I enjoyed the book that much more. I felt like I was on Spurlock's side. My only quarrel with him is over his sometimes too-leftist politics. The government can only be responsible for so much. Citizens need to make the effort to educate themselves, rather than have information dictated to them.

My Life and Hard Times by James Thurber

Short and sweet. Thurber recounts incidents from his early life through to his post-college days, leaving off there for "the confusions and the panics of last year and the year before are too close for contentment."

The book is divided into self-contained commentaries in essay form. One describes "The Night the Bed Fell." It is an absurd account of a series of event blown entirely out of proportion. Another, "The Day the Dam Broke," is much the same. In both stories, the eponymous events never actually take place; rather, they are perceived to have, and so, choas ensues.

The stories are all entertaining and well-written. Thurber retains the qualities of his journalistic profession with a straightforward and concise style aimed to keep the reader's attention. He joyfully commemorates the colorful characters of his family and his fellow citizens of Columbus, Ohio. If anything, the book was too short. I completed it within two cardio sessions at the gym.

I am rather divided over Thurber's illustrations. They are certainly iconic, a style unto themselves. They're like life reduced to its most basic elements- childlike in execution, but endowed with an adult sensibilty. But they remind me of rendering problems I've had when attempting to portray something from real life accurately on a page, something about the perspective and proportions and whatnot. Still, the antithetical nature of his drawings is quite appealing.

Swann's Way by Marcel Proust

Turn-of-the-century French experimental literature: not one of my favorite genres. Not by a long shot. But I saw Proust's work alluded to twice in the Wall Street Journal, and it was another book I could cross off my College Board-recomended list of novels to read before college, so I committed to perservering through Swann's Way, the first installment in Proust's monumental trilogy, In Search of Lost Time. I will not, however, be perservering through the latter two any time soon.

I have little love for stream-of-consciousness writing. Unfortunately for me, that is exactly what this entire book is comprised of. Proust's narrator recounts his entire childhood after the taste of a madeleine and tea sets off his memory. As a young boy in late 19th-century France, he grows up in the countryside and the narration meanders along with him. Detailed, detailed, detailed descriptions abound, with many involving flowers, which I found rather effeminate. The childhood narration is interrupted by the section "Swann in Love," which involves an acquaintance of the boy's family and takes place before he is born. "Swann in Love" is merely a chronicle of Swann's desperate, possessive obsession with some courtesan-type woman. She is shallow and promiscuous, and what Swann terms his "love" for her, is really just a desire to subdue and control her, to make himself "indispensable" to her.

The novel then switches back to the young boy, who grows to love Swann's daughter in much the same way Swann loved that woman. He has married her in the meantime, and the girl is the product of their union. The end of Swann's Way is not a decisive conclusion, for the story continues in the next two volumes.

I am sure the text suffered in translation, for it has that inordinately stuffy tone common to foreign works. Even the style that survives hinders the readability, though. Proust's sentences are endless, and one forgets the subject by the time one reaches the verb. The descriptions, which describe everything into oblivion, are tedious and pointless. There is little to call a plot, which eliminated any motivation I may have had to continue turning the pages.

I can see some merit in Proust's ability to represent elements of the human experience, especially the concept of memory association. Just as Swann was flooded with memories when he heard Vinteuil's sonata, so have I been ambushed by particular songs. But it was just such a long book, and I do not agree with the underlying philosophies behind it. I don't see a purposeless pleasure-seeking existence as particularly profound. Or correct.

How Right You Are, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

Truly, there is something to be said for reliable consistency, for serial continuity. When one runs across delightful characters whom one is loath to part with, who can express one's joy when one discovers there is so much more where that came from?

I know I am being slightly verbose here. But perhaps there is no better way to expound upon the merits of How Right You Are, Jeeves, for verbosity is in fact one of the more endearing aspects of the protagonist and his associates. I revelled in the early-twentieth-century British vernacular. The accents from this period give a distinct impression of rapidity of speech, and this text conjures up that sound. It is almost as if the book is meant to be read quickly, and that is, of course, how I always go about it.

The characters' antics are beyond ridiculous, but that is all part and parcel of the Wodehouse ethos. Bertie Wooster is inevitably involved with a woman he was previously engaged to, or at least thought to have been engaged to. He usually has a lovestruck friend, and an aunt makes an appearance. Wooster gets tangled in others' affairs, and Jeeves is there to untie the knots. It's all here.

The farcical allusions are hilarious. A dachshund is described as "sound and fury signifying nothing," a reference which I readily understood after a lengthy study of Macbeth in school earlier this year. Wooster also employs a singular device of abbreviation, declaring, "[I] buried my f. in my h." when he was distraught, "f." being "face" and "h." being "hands." I've never encountered such a thing, nor do I believe I ever will. The fashion of writing seems to be a delightful little Wodehouse original.

The plot was rather meandering, but it defers to the characters and dialogue. The conversations are rapid-fire and truly comic. The characters play off of each other as if they were performing a sketch. The lines are concise, polished, and air-tight, snappy and clean. Wodehouse was a master of bons mots.

The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov

The Cherry Orchard was a Russian play representing the fall of the country's serfdom. An old family, whose lineage dates back interminably, has lost its fortune. To avoid backruptcy, they are forced to sell their sizable home and land, including the beloved cherry orchard. The auction comes about, and the highest bidder is a man whose own ancestors were subservient to the affluent family's for just as far back as they can remember. He had begun life as a peasant, but had slowly amassed enough wealth to buy out the lords of the land.

The new owner begins razing the orchard as soon as the impoverished former owners depart. The sound of axes falling offsets the sobs of those leaving. For them, the cherry orchard was the embodiment of their prosperous past, a monument to deceased relatives who still seem to inhabit it. Now all of that is gone, their aristocratic birthright usurped by some low-blooded upstart.

All right. That is enough of that. Less esoterically, I thought the play incredibly tedious and was unable to conjure up pity for the protagonists. Of course, that is part of the inherent flaws involved in merely reading a play, silently, to oneself. The voices of the characters are muted and distorted by the one in the reader's head. The aesthetic is non-existent, for in writing for the stage the playwright omits the detailed narrative of the novel. Essentially, the effect is ruined. Translated works, too, retain a tincture of formality and lose the original sound and rhythm the author intended.

Bachelors Anonymous by P.G. Wodehouse

I am shocked that it took me so long to discover Wodehouse. That such wonderfully accessible British humour should have evaded my notice until recently is incomprehensible.

Bachelors Anonymous was quite short, and relatively modern, as it was published in the 1970s. A playwright falls in love with a reporter, but is continually hampered in his wooing by circumstances and members of the eponymous self-help group. Modelled after Alcoholics Anonymous, Bacherlors Anonymous attempts to keep its members from becoming ensnared in the perilous trap of marriage.

Ridiculous plotlines ensue, with a serendipitous inheritance, fortuitous encounters, and coincidental connections. But Wodehouse mocks his own story even as he tells it, comparing the lives of his characters to extraordinary romance novels and the like with a self-awareness that is delightfully refreshing.

It is all conducted in exquisitely good taste. The bachelors are automatically assumed to be celibate. No one does anything more than kiss. It is as if they all live in a marvellously sanitized, detached, innocent world. That seems to describe, in fact, the entirety of Wodehouse's literary world. It is a happy, wonderfully safe place rife in humour, good will, and well-being.

The Lady and the Unicorn by Tracy Chevalier

The author of Girl With a Pearl Earring doesn't fix what isn't broken, as it were, as she tackles another masterpiece of art history. I am glad, however, that I had no concept of the eponymous work in The Lady and the Unicorn when I read the story, for it was much prettier in my mind than it is in real life. The work is a tapestry, a symbolic depiction of seduction woven in garish reds and blues and yellows, with impersonal, stylized figures and a general simplicity that I found too primitive to be engaging. Reading the book, I imagined a lush, complex composition so realistic it was absolutely arresting, which was due largely to Chevalier's descriptions.

Because the tapestry was all about sex, the novel was, too. I found it extremely titillating, if rather risque. Nicolas des Innocents, the designer of the tapestry, conquers all kinds of women as he travels between Paris, where he lives, and Brussels, where the tapestry is woven. His patron's daughter falls in love with him, and he captures her likeness in the work. He also includes his patron's wife, a tragic, unloved woman who failed to produce a male heir. In Brussels, Nicolas loves the weaver's blind daughter who, to avoid an unsavory marriage, sleeps with him and gets pregnant. Her story is quite touching. Nicolas adds her to the tapestry.

The narrative point of view jumps from character to character, but not haphazardly. Rather, it begins with Nicolas, and moves through a roster of characters twice before ending again with Nicolas. I thought it a beautifully fluid way to proceed.

The tapestry is declared a success in the book. I viewed it on the Internet, and was not as enthralled. But it was an engaging story. Of course, Chevalier did write some of the novel from a male point of view, an action of authoresses that I find inexcusable in its presumption and incapable of producing a male character free of effeminate or idealistic elements. Still, much of fiction is entirely fantasy. I'm afraid I am going to lose my opinions in qualification.

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

It took some mulling, but I believe I have alighted upon the meaning of this work, or a portion of it at least. Gregor Samsa lives with his parents and sister and provides for them through a rather grueling job in sales. But one morning, he awakes to find he has morphed into a sort of giant beetle. He is repulsive like this, and so confined to his room. His family scambles to support themselves, taking jobs and letting out a room. The boarders discover the "vermin," and threaten to leave. The distress of the situation, coupled with the malnutrition he has incurred from depression, kills Gregor. The family finds him shriveled up, and they are relieved. They discover that, because of their jobs, they are fairly well-off and can now get a smaller apartment to save even more. The sister has become a useful, beautiful young lady, and the future is filled with hope for all.

I think the moral, or message, or point, or what have you, is that though Gregor felt he was an indispensable provider for his family, he was in fact stifling them, and they could not truly flourish until he was gone. He was almost no better than vermin before his transformation, and it needed only the metamorphosis to make this apparent to all.

But somehow I feel that doesn't quite encompass all that this novel is meant to convey. I suppose I should have read the textual criticism in my version more closely. Much of it is filled with "greatest book of this century" sorts of sentiments. Naturally, I'd like to know why. I was fairly surprised at the brevity of the work. I'd imagined it to be much longer, and that is why I did not pick it up for quite a while. In fact, what prompted me to read it was a Final Jeopardy question I saw on my trip to Ohio. It referred to the first paragraph, and I could not for the life of me come up with even a decent guess. I certainly did not want that to happen again.

Well, now I've read it, and have at least cursory knowledge of it, if not an extensive understanding. If nothing else, I'll be able to answer that question on Jeopardy.

The Necklace and Other Short Stories by Guy de Maupassant

It is a funny thing, the enduring elements of literature. What remains relevant and what loses its immediacy to obscurity is often separated by finely drawn nuances. Certainly in this collection, the potently pertinent and the disappointingly antique are inextricably intermingled. De Maupassant apparently invented the modern concept of the short story, and many of those featured in this book display a universal sensibility.

"The Necklace" follows a young woman who belongs to the middle class but believes she deserves better. She borrows a rich friend's necklace and loses it, then buys a replacement on credit, and works for a decade to pay off the debt, only to discover the original was only worth a fraction of the one she bought. Thus, a woman whose previous aspirations were meaningless, works for years for something equally meaningless. The uppity upstart gets what she deserves.

A melancholy narrative tells of the stifled, uncontrollable affections of a middle-aged spinster- the tragedy of her existence, and her tragic end. An uncomfortable horror story of sorts chronicles the deterioration of a man haunted by an invisible being. Here we begin to find bits of antiquity. The story makes all sorts of "metaphysical speculations" that could only have been made in the nineteenth century.

Other stories focus on Franco-Prussian conflicts, peasant life, and prostitutes, the profundity of which is entirely lost on me. What someone hailed as technically the greatest short story ever written, "Boule-de-Suif," or "Ball of Fat," had no special merits that I could see. A rotund prostitute refuses to sleep with the occupying Prussian captain, but her compatriots, desperate to escape, convince her to override her patriotic scruples. The end finds them on a departing wagon, the prostitute, now shunned by all, weeping. I failed to sympathize with the protagonist. But from what I understand, de Maupassant was obsessed with prostitutes, and seeing how as he died from syphilis, he evidently had a deep sympathy for them.

Incidentally, de Maupassant seems to have actually gone crazy from the disease. He was committed to an asylum, and he died there. A fascinating end for an author, I must say.

Some of the stories really dragged, while others kept me going with a sort of morbid fascination. I do not believe a single story had a redeeming ending, but of course, that is too much to ask. I must merely content myself with a superb command of language and an emerging sense of irony.

I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith

I have to say, I identified with the protagonist in the beginning. Seventeen-year-old Cassandra is an aspiring writer who adores Austen and the Brontes, but finds little in her life to inspire her own literary contribution. Our similarities, however, ended with the first chapter. Cassandra lives in an old castle in England in the 1940s, with her author-turned-hermit father, nudist model stepmother, bored and dreaming older sister, studious younger brother, and a deceased servant's orphan son who loves her in his simple and unworthy way.

The owners of the castle, two conveniently handsome, engaging brothers, come to claim their inheritance, and all their lives soon become intertwined. Rose, the older sister, becomes engaged to one of the brothers, Simon. But as Rose discovers she does not truly love him, Cassandra discovers she herself does. Unofortunately, Simon does not feel the same about her. But after Rose elopes with the younger brother Neil, Simon impulsively proposes to Cassandra. Nevertheless, she refuses, knowing he would never love her as he loved Rose.

Symbols and elements of loneliness are prevalent. Cassandra finds herself alone quite often. Sometimes she welcomes it, and sometimes she does not. The denouement leaves her single. The book is not a chronicle of courtship, but a coming-of-age sort of thing, a showcase of development that follows Cassandra as she acquires the qualities that will ultimately enhance her adult life. She finds independence, and apparently she is the better for it.

Cassandra briefly explores religion but concludes it is just a way to avoid the events of life. The town vicar is described as baby-faced and golden-haired, as if he had never grown up and never really lived life. Cassandra's conclusion is mystifying to me. Why God is avoidance, rather than solace or purpose, is not truly established.

Cassandra begins as a worthy protagonist, but she devolves into someone less worthy of the reader's sympathy. She blunders through servant son Stephen's emotional attachment to her, she pursues her sister's fiance, she analyzes everything into oblivion, and she continues tediously and self-centeredly until the end. For most of the book, she is unhappy, and there is not celebratory ending to countermand that. One American brother comments on how melancholy England seems to be, much as the novel as a whole is. But perhaps that is the author's aim- to capture the melancholy of adolescence in a searingly accurate manner.

Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

I loved the title, so as my introduction to Wodehouse I selected Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves. Wodehouse's name was mentioned on amazon.com lists and in Arthur & George, which piqued my curiousity. I am quite glad I discovered him.

Apparently with this book I jumped right into the midst of a very funny series. Bertie Wooster is an English gentleman in the early 20th century, and Jeeves is his encyclopaedic butler. Wooster gets himself into compromising situations, and Jeeves gets him out through his veritable treasure trove of knowledge and his relentless deadpan delivery.

The story is almost incidental beside the rollicking narration. Wooster's first-person voice is a linguistic exercise in absurdity. He begins adages but never finishes them, he uses fabricated abbreviations liberally, and he toys with conventional usages.

The supporting characters are merely two-dimensional caricatures of anything resembling real people. In this way, Wooster appears to be the epitome of sanity in a mad world. It is a very funny world, all the same.

Serendipitously, I came across a Jeeves and Wooster DVD at the library. I was not aware any such thing existed. The DVDs feature episodic adventures of the duo, and the series is as excellently done as the books. The characters are captured perfectly; Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry are incredible.

Arthur & George by Julian Barnes

I enjoyed the aesthetic qualities of the author's quintessentially British name, and selected this book partially on that basis. Julian. Very nice.

The book itself was definitively British, often endeavouring to establish the nature of a "true Englishman" and then differentiate the main characters from such a definition. Arthur, of course, is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, painted as I am sure he truly was- worlds away from his ubiquitous protagonist. It is such situations that make me wonder whether genius is actually an autonomous, lightning-strikes-once sort of individual entity that manifests itself in all kinds of forms.

But that is a separate consideration. George is the Indian-Scotsman whom Arthur really did exculpate from a wrongful conviction. The book deals with the trial and the events surrounding the ordeal. The plot was well-paced, and the narrative was absorbing. Barnes examines Doyle's increasing fascination with spiritism, and he treats such a silly belief as respectfully as possible. Of all the belief systems out there, why Doyle would alight on such a ridiculous one is baffling.

George was a very sad character, but as the author was certainly bound by history's outcome, the character must have been very close to the real man. The book is rather melancholy and inconclusive, but it provides an insightful analysis of the man behind Holmes. Barnes is a talented narrator and he has crafted a contemporary book that features a superb use of language, a complex plot, and a thoughtful composition.

Tristan and Iseult by Rosemary Sutcliff

Sutcliff skillfully wove this retelling of the epic legend. She retained an element of archaic sensibility, while writing in language the modern reader has no trouble understanding. Kudos to her for that.

The story itself is fairly captivating, as it would almost have to be considering how long it has lasted. It forms an instantly recognizable archetype: young, beautiful lovers estranged forever because of circumstances and destined to end tragically. Romeo and Juliet, anyone? I suppose such plots capture audiences because of their uncertainty and suspense, and the exquisite sadness of it all. I think there is also some schadenfreude in seeing insanely privileged individuals suffer for their own folly.

It truly is the protagonists' folly that leads to the tragic end. Sutcliff makes a poor case for their uncontrollable ardour for each other, merely attributing it to a moment in which each gazed into the other's eyes and felt some sort of intangible bond. They had no true points of connection that they could not have had with their respective spouses. She is gorgeous and he is handsome, but that does not mean they are irrevocably destined for each other.

Marriage is for procreation and the spurring on of one another towards righteousness, if you've biblical inclinations. It is not just the satisfaction of lust. Pleasure is an essential component, but it is not the only one. Relationships need to be established upon something more than just physical attraction. Not that any of this was given any consideration here. It was a romance, after all. They die in the end. How romantic.

The Black Arrow by Robert Louis Stevenson

I read the introduction to the book (after I had finished the story so it wouldn't influence my opinion, like I usually do) and I completely agree with it. The Black Arrow was definitely one of Stevenson's "minor works" and not entirely a classic in its own right, but a good story nevertheless.

It is really just a boys' adventure novel- simplistic, fast-paced, and fun, with a convenient moral at the end. Richard Shelton discovers his place in society during the War of the Roses in England in the 1400s. Accuracy and authenticity are not the author's major concerns, as there are numerous curiously prescient allusions to a yet-to-be-born Shakespeare, and many speech conventions contemporary of Stevenson.

Dick, as the protagonist is often called, rescues a young lady from an undesirable marriage, and revenges himself upon his father's murderer. He learns about right and wrong, and the far-reaching consequences of his actions.

The characters are rather simple, and their internal development merely superficial. But it makes for a good leisure read. Nineteenth-century "tushery," or books where authors use "tush" and other uncommon words often, a term Stevenson himself coined, is exceedingly diverting. What was perhaps considered unworthy then is highbrow compared to most of today's escapist fiction.

I found this book to be a lot of fun. The plot kept me turning the pages eagerly to the end. It was much more enthralling than say, Ivanhoe, a similar but infinitely more tedious novel. The adventure was, for lack of a better term, higher- more exciting and epic, like a medieval romantic adventure should be.

The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy's writing was as dark and melancholy as I'd heard it was, but The Mayor of Casterbridge had a happy ending, and that always redeems a book in my eyes. The story was riveting, and the style was comprehensible. A man, in a drunken impulse, sells his wife and daughter to a passing sailor. The rest of the book chronicles the results of this, the ensuing tangle and and confusion of relations as the years progress, and the final state of affairs after all the threads have been sorted out.

The characters are interesting, but not terribly engaging. Henchard is the faulty man whose overly impulsive nature ultimately destroys him. Elizabeth-Jane is supposed to be the daughter whom Henchard sold, but is actually the offspring of Henchard's wife and the sailor. Elizabeth-Jane, through tenacious self-discipline and a strong sense of propriety, develops into a sensible, well-informed girl. She eventually marries well, forming the happy ending I mentioned before.

Most of the story is the interplay of the various connected people, and it is fun to follow. Because the reader does not form much emotional attachment to the characters, due perhaps to the author's intent, one can just stand a distance and events resolve themselves into a cohesive narrative. A lot of the novel is rather sad and pathetic, but not all of it. Elizabeth-Jane begins with the view that life is mostly a tragedy punctuated intermittently with moments of happiness, but by the end such an outlook is modified a bit, because her situation has become one of complete satisfaction.

A Passage to India by E.M. Forster

Forster was a fairly insightful guy. A Room with a View involved fascinating character development and apt observances of the human condition, and A Passage to India did too. Still, his worldview was unabashedly atheistic, and his main conclusion was merely a cry for universal brotherhood. Nevertheless, the narrative was enjoyable.

Forster himself seems to enjoy complex relationships and broken engagements, common subjects in the two books of his that I have read. I think he also saw travel as a venue by which a person's character is thrown into relief and magnified. Perhaps, and especially for the early 20th-century Briton, when one is removed from the confines of conventional society, one is able to act how one would without that outside control.

The book gained a new level of realism for me when I dined at an Indian restaurant. The cuisine was fabulous, and it felt as if I could taste and feel the novel, after having read it. Eating unfamiliar food is a singular joy: one does not exactly know what one is dining on, but as it is delicious and exquisitely exotic, it makes for a culinary adventure. So, in that way, I took my own little passage to India, and the experience of the Imperial British visitor became that much more real to me. In fact, I would go so far as to recommend that one should immediately make reservations for the nearest Indian restaurant as soon as one has finished the book. It makes a delicious accompaniment.

Admiral Hornblower in the West Indies by C.S. Forester

The admirable admiral triumphs again in the penultimate installation of the Hornblower saga. I'll admit I approached this book with trepidation, unsure whether it could attain the level of the previous books, but, barring one minor flaw, I need not have feared. It was a complete success.

Horatio is patrolling the Caribbean, not unlike Commodore Norrington in Pirates of the Caribbean, cracking down on piracy and slave trading. He risks his "honour as a gentleman," but retains it with a fortunate coincidence. He and his secretary are kidnapped by pirates, and they have a delightfully touching scene reminiscent of Sam and Frodo's on the path to Mordor, incidentally what I consider to be the consummate scene of the trilogy.

Horatio and his secretary escape and destroy the pirates. Horatio's wife comes to accompany him home, for his commission is over. Just before they leave, a young man in the marine band refuses to play a note he believes is incorrect, objecting on artistic grounds. For that, he is sentenced to death. Herein lies the sole flaw of the book. For Barbara is distraught over the situation, and when she asks Horatio for money, he does not even suspect that it is to aid the young man's escape. The revelation of her motives serves as the denouement of the novel, but I found it anticlimactic. I had figured it out long before.

Nevertheless, the majority of the book is superb. On the return home, Horatio's ship is caught in a hurricane. In the despair of the moment, Barbara insists she never loved anyone but Horatio, putting to rest his self-doubt on account of her first husband. Horatio saves the ship and most of the crew, and they make it safely to land.

Horatio's final reconciliation with his wife is nice and happy, and his final satisfaction with her after years of philandering indecision is an exceedingly appropriate ending.

One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was a truly tragic book. Stories of mental wards aren't typically happy, and this one did have bright spots, but it was altogether very sad. Chief Bromden, the narrator, tells the story of McMurphy, a man who gets himself admitted to an insane asylum to avoid a work camp. Through McMurphy's antics, it is revealed that the hospital is not designed to make the patients better. In fact, it often makes them much worse.

McMurphy draws many of his fellow inmates out of their antisocial neuroses. He arranges a fishing trip, which for some is their first outing in twenty years. He defies the controlling nurses, and, as retribution, is subjected to shock treatment and then a lobotomy. This surgery renders him a vegetable, and so Bromden smothers him out of compasssion.

The mercy killing at the end was fairly disturbing, but mostly understandable considering the men and their situation. Much of the inmates' inabilities to function stemmed from a sort of desexing, as Kesey repeatedly pointed out. They were forced to rescind any form of masculinity they may have retained. They were left men in name only, with no power or virility, unable to assert themselves and so unable to live sanely.

McMurphy served as a sort of sacrifice for these men, losing his life in an attempt to restore such to them. I found the story riveting, and I was in suspense until the end. It was excellent, but again, so tragic.