Between my two book clubs (one for work and one for fun), I ended up reading two showbiz memoirs by Canadian men this month. Unlike the Alex Trebek memoir, Pageboy is one that I would have actually chosen to read on my own; also unlike the Alex Trebek memoir, it doesn't shy away from disclosing traumatic moments from Elliot's past. For that reason and others, it's a lot more aligned with my interests and reading preferences. Still, there were times when I felt a bit unmoored by the nonlinear, almost stream-of-consciousness organization. I can imagine a rationale for this--the narrative U-turns mirror those most queer people experience in our lives, and that Elliot certainly has experienced in his--but it still resulted in something of a jumbled reading experience.

I'm glad that I opted for audio, because hearing someone's life story in their own voice is always more powerful than hearing it in someone else's, and I really liked Elliot's narration.

Interested to discuss this next month. I have a feeling that like always, I'll come away from the meeting with a greater appreciation for the book.

I read this for book club, and I will be honest—I’m not quite sure what to make of it. Tagaq paints a vivid portrait of the precarity and brutality of life in the Arctic, and her blend of prose, poetry, and myth is hypnotic. But oof, I struggled with parts of this book.

4.5 stars ⭐

All the Light We Cannot See is a beautifully-written novel with truly harrowing content, and although its 500+-page length was daunting, those pages flew. It took me about 50 pages or so to ground myself--Doerr bounces between dual narratives, and the immediacy of his writing throws the reader directly into the midst of the characters' stories. But once I had my feet beneath me, it was glorious to watch the threads of narrative draw inexorably closer before tangling with one another forever.

I was a bit apprehensive that this book would play into the "good German" trope, but I think Doerr successfully avoids doing so through the young ages of his protagonists (one of whom of course is a young Nazi radioman). This isn't a story about a Nazi who wasn't all that bad; it's a story about a child who is drawn into the machinery of evil and who is ultimately broken by what he witnesses and what he participates in. There's a lot of consideration of what responsibility the characters (and we, the empathetic and thoughtful readers) have in the face of atrocity, and some of the most interesting sections to me demonstrate the differences between Werner being dragged along into war and Marie-Laure taking some control over her precarious and in many ways powerless situation to participate in the resistance. If anything, the critique of inaction in this book can be read as a dismantling of the "good German" trope.

I have a lot of respect for the restraint of Doerr's writing, and for how solid and well-crafted this book feels. The language is breath-taking but mostly unadorned, just finely tuned to the music of words playing well together, and he does not let himself tip into sentimentality. This is not a schmaltzy World War II romance where everyone gets a happy ending. It is ridiculous to think that the characters would live through that story and come out unhaunted. There are some hooks characters and readers don't get to be let off of, and Doerr seems to understand that.

I have one criticism that is a spoiler:

Spoiler

I dislike the scene in which Russian soldiers rape Jutta and the remaining girls from Children's House. It's written well, but it just feels unnecessary, like something that was plopped in there for "realism" and to give extra weight to why Jutta is scarred by the war. I think that living through privation, labor, starvation, and constant danger, and seeing her beloved brother used for a cause that she knows is wrong, are all ample reason without the rape scene.

I can already say that this is one of my favorites of the year.

This is an unpopular opinion, but I didn't enjoy The Bell in the Fog nearly as much as Lavender House. The plot is interesting, and I have to hand it to an author who solves one mystery only to reveal another one with higher stakes. However, overall, this feels rushed, flimsy, and frustratingly repetitive.

It might sound odd to complain that this book is too queer, but when I read a queer book (which, as a lesbian bookworm, I do, and frequently!), I don't need to be reminded that the characters are queer every other page. I know. I want to get a sense that they are fully developed beyond their sexuality, that it's an important facet of their lives, but still just one facet. Ideally, I want my queer books to be more than just queer; I want them to be well-crafted, with rich characterization and fully-fledged settings that feel authentic.

And I didn't get that from The Bell in the Fog.

I know that the third in the series has already been announced, and I'll probably give it a try, despite my misgivings that it, too, will feel rushed and flimsy. I remain open to abandoning series, but also to pleasant surprises.

P. S. Lee was my favorite character. He should just take over Andy's business.

I was going to give a warning and acknowledge that I'm aware that this is copaganda, but is it truly copaganda if it makes the cops look really, really bad?

One of my mom's friends recently gave me a sack of Linda Castillo paperbacks, so I decided to give the series a try. After all, I've worked in libraries with avid Amish fiction readers for 10 years now, without once reading an Amish book myself.

This is much more Karin Slaughter than Wanda Brunstetter, which, honestly, is probably the only kind of Amish fiction I'll end up reading. The protagonist is Kate Burkholder, who grew up Amish but now works as the police chief in her Ohio hometown, drawing on her upbringing to bridge cultural gaps between the Amish and English communities. She also protects a dark secret from her past, one that ties her to the emerging series of murders that bear striking similarities to ones that occurred more than a decade ago.

I had a pretty good time with this book. I'm not a huge fan of the POV changes, which feel like they arise from the author's conflicting needs to have Kate's voice driving the story and to let the reader know things that Kate can't know, with no good solution. And I don't love the romance. But overall, this is a solid, gritty police procedural with an interesting setting with lots of built-in conflict, so if that's your thing, you'll probably like this. I'm willing to give more of the series a try just to see if Mona gets more of storyline, because she's my favorite supporting character.

CW for sexual assault, murder, and all the usual things to expect from a gory thriller.

How Do We Relationship? is a yuri manga that upends the usual romance genre conventions: instead of ending the story when the couple gets together, it starts there. Miwa and Saeko decide to start a relationship after realizing that they are both lesbians and conjecturing that their dating pool is going to be so small that they might as well date each other. So instead of watching two women pine for one another and agonize about revealing their feelings, you watch them try to navigate their very different personalities and approaches to relationships while already being in one. So far I'm enjoying the messiness and compromise, and I'm hoping to binge perhaps all of these over the course of my long weekend.

This series took a big turn in the third volume, and that tone continues into the fourth. It’s well-written and well-drawn, but very different from what I was expecting and a much heavier reading experience than the covers would have you believe. I respect the artist’s intent as laid out in the last little strip, but damn…

I recently thrifted a copy of this book, mostly because the title and cover were so cute and eye-catching. And now, as I'm snowed in for a week, seemed the perfect time to read a charming little story about a cantankerous old lady heading off to see penguins in Antarctica.

And I was at least somewhat charmed! This isn't a life-changing book, but it's also not a bad one, although there was something slightly off about the tone or the narrative voice that kept coming up for me. At times the emotional age of the book feel much younger than its target audience, I guess? Sometimes the characters behave with a kind of alacrity that struck me as almost middle-grade?

But again, not bad. A solid middle-of-the-road book. Good palate-cleanser material.

I'm going to keep it in mind for library patrons who enjoy gentle fiction with some travel, humor, and animals, but can't abide sexual content, violence, or much strong language.