The Gypsy Morph is the dynamic, action-packed adventure that concludes the Genesis of Shannara trilogy. All the same protagonists return to finish the journey they began in [b:Armageddon's Children|15549|Armageddon's Children (The Genesis of Shannara, Book 1)|Terry Brooks|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166673244s/15549.jpg|1112930] and [b:The Elves of Cintra|62233|The Elves of Cintra (The Genesis of Shannara, Book 2)|Terry Brooks|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1217569654s/62233.jpg|60460], led by the eponymous gypsy morph, Hawk. The fate of the the races of both men and Elves rests upon his shoulders, for he is a creature of magic who can lead the survivors of a broken world to the promised land.

Overall I enjoyed this book for what it was. I haven't been a huge fan of The Genesis of Shannara series in general. Terry Brooks is one of my favourite authors; I love the Shannara series, although I didn't read his books about the Word and the Void. Many of the characters in this series were interesting and likable; I didn't care too much for the story or the plot, which I found predictable and tiresome at times.

I'm glad that, in the end, Luke and Simralin get together. They deserve each other after having to go through so much. I'm also glad that Hawk and Tess are having a child, that Panther found a companion in Catalya, and that uncertain characters like Angela and Kirisin have matured so dramatically over the course of the trilogy. Brooks made me care for these characters.

In many ways, this book was rushed. Luke's battle with Findo Gask is not-so-epic, which is a shame, because there was so much lead-in to it and emotional resonance on the line. Likewise, I'm not sure about the very ending--I understand what Brooks was trying to do, but I feel like he glossed over the transformation of the Earth we know into Shannara. I wish he had presented it differently.

A must-read if you are a Terry Brooks fan. Even though this isn't the best Shannara trilogy, this is how Brooks intended for the world of Shannara to come about, apparently, whether I like it or not. The themes present in his other series are still strong here. Demons continue to represent humanity's sinful side, our greed, lust, and hatred. The world, which has become corrupt and nearly unlivable, will gradually be reborn, and we have to adapt to it, not the other way around. And science, once our salvation, now takes a back seat to the old ways of magic, which promise renewal and the hope for a world without demons.

Well, we know how well that turns out....

I greatly enjoy Anne Perry's Thomas and Charlotte Pitt mysteries. Historical mysteries are tricky, requiring one to not only be well versed in the period in which the story is set, but the judicial system and detection methods available at the time. While I can't attest to how accurate Perry is in her facts, she maintains a willing suspense of disbelief.

In Buckingham Palace Gardens, someone commits a murder at the eponymous royal palace. The Queen isn't in residence, but the Prince of Wales is. Four men are implicated; they are staying at the palace to discuss the construction of a massive railway from Cape Town to Cairo. Thomas Pitt takes the case (much to his regret, I'm sure).

From a shortlist of suspects, Perry manages to weave both suspense and doubt throughout the story. Although much of the mystery is predictable, she includes a final twist that isn't immediately apparent even if you deduce the culprit. I figured it out slightly before the reveal, but it was still nice to see Pitt stand up to the Prince of Wales (who is his "better" in that era) in the name of justice.

I loved the involvement of Gracie in the investigation! Watching her interact with the palace staff was hilarious. Of course, she proves indispensable to the investigation; Pitt would never have solved the mystery without her assistance. Yet she remains modest and probably awed at her contribution to what was, in the end, a matter of the state and a matter of treason. Gracie grows as a character during this novel. The events affect her perspective regarding her upcoming marriage to Sergeant Tellman, as well as how she perceives her unusual (for the serving class) ability to read, which endears her to one of the suspects.

Parts of the story could be confusing. The character of Cahoon Dunkeld, a blustery bully, was larger-than-life; I didn't like it at all. Likewise, the Prince of Wales seems rather two-dimensional. In the case of the latter character, I suspect Perry did this intentionally to demonstrate the gulf between the lower-middle class, like Pitt, and royalty. Had there not been a murder, Pitt would never have been in the palace. Considering the circumstances, I suppose I can suspend my disbelief in that matter.

I don't remember the last Pitt mystery I read, so I can't compare Buckingham Palace Gardens to Perry's other work. I consider it a good read--nothing amazing, but certainly a good mystery novel.

This book was intriguing at first. Halaby creates two rich characters, Jassim and Salwa Haddad, whose personal lives become much more complicated post-9/11. Jassim, comfortably encapsulated in his routine, accidentally hits a boy with his car, killing the boy and pushing Jassim's life off course. He grows distant from his wife. Salwa, meanwhile, suffers a miscarriage after intentionally "accidentally" getting pregnant and conducts a brief, confused affair with a much younger coworker. As their lives spiral out of control, their odd behaviour fuels the mounting suspicions of misguided patriots.

I enjoyed my stay in Jassim's and Salwa's minds, exploring their reactions to the tragedies that befall them and how they deal with the consequences of their own decisions. Jassim craves order and clings to the familiar. Salwa, on the other hand, has an unfulfilled need for passion that leads her astray at the nadir of her marriage. Both struggle with how much they have adapted to American culture, how much of their heritage they have sublimated in favour of buying into the American dreams of "freedom" and "peace."

The first two thirds of this book drew me in and didn't let me go. The unfolding family drama was compelling; Halaby takes her two characters, already at odds with their environment, and destroys any hope of finding a safe zone in which they can live happy lives. I was utterly enthralled and wanted to see how it would turn out.

Unfortunately, what began as a five-star book soon became more ponderous and less enjoyable. The portions involving Salwa's affair took on an American Beauty-like atmosphere. They felt inexorable and far too dark for my taste. Halaby describes Salwa's mixed reluctance and eagerness perfectly; I understand what she was trying to communicate in these scenes. But I just couldn't enjoy it. It felt wrong. The beginning of the affair may have been natural, but thereafter it felt artificial, plot-driven. The same goes for the relationship Jassim begins to develop with another woman (who feels entirely like a redundant character, much like the dark shadow cast by Salwa's ineffective ex-boyfriend).

Parts of Once in a Promised Land were wonderful and enchanting. At times, I do feel immersed in another culture, and Halaby shows me the lonelier aspects of living in a country that can seem foreign and familiar at the same time. Ultimately, the book couldn't sustain that sense of wonder.

As with most romances and much Victorian fiction, I felt a considerable burden lifted from me after I finished Two on a Tower. Yet I can't help but feel regret that it's over so quickly. Although not my favourite genre, Thomas Hardy is skilled enough to draw me into the lives of these two people and make me sympathize with their plight.

Even as I struggled with my distaste for the idiosyncrasies of Victorian English (such as double negatives and a fascination with the passive voice), I enjoyed Hardy's perverse determination to foil every attempt by the main characters to finally marry and live happily ever after. You just know it will end badly, but you still hope that somehow they will succeed.

Swithin St. Cleeve is a young (and thus naive) would-be astronomer. He becomes enamoured with Lady Viviette Constantine. After she becomes a widow, they secretly marry, only to later find out that her husband died much later than was originally reported, thus their marriage is void. Rather than marrying again, Viviette banishes Swithin to an expedition to the southern hemisphere, urging him to improve himself as an astronomer. Instead, she marries the Bishop of Melchester. When they reunite several years later, the shock of seeing him and listening to a marriage proposal causes a fatal heart attack.

The ending was somewhat disappointing, not due to its tragic nature, but the rather whimsical way in which it occurs. Indeed, after a slow and lingering two-thirds, the book picks up the pace and glosses over matters, the revealing of which, Hardy's narrator proclaims, "would avail nothing." While this may be so, it means the conclusion of the book is less substantial than its preceding sections.

While it was enjoyable in its own right and another fascinating look at Thomas Hardy, I can see why this is not considered one of his better works.

This book was difficult to review. The premise was intriguing, and John Dufresne's writing is very tight, both in dialogue and in characterization. Unfortunately, as the story progressed, I felt less and less interested in it, until I became totally detached and just wanted the book to end.

For a character-driven story, Requiem, Mass. lacks enough depth to succeed in sharing characters' souls with us. It tries admirably, and nearly succeeds on one or two occasions. Others may identify with or enjoy the plights of Johnny-boy and Audrey; I found them dull. By the end of the novel, very little has changed. Johnny's dad is still promiscuous; his mother is still crazy; Audrey's still a bit touched in the head.

Ever read a book that you could tolerate for the first two thirds, then suddenly it all falls apart during the third act? This happened to me in Requiem, Mass.. It suddenly took a sharp swan dive into the Land of Pithy Postmodern Commentary on Suburban Society. I was almost tempted to walk away and never return, but I persevered ... and was pleasantly surprised. The ending--the very last page in fact--redeemed the book enough that I gave it two stars instead of one. It couldn't redeem the three hundred pages that preceded it.

I put this on my "romance" shelf because, as the cover opines, this is a love story. It isn't a cheap political thriller, nor is it a tawdry bodice-ripper. It's a wonderful and fantastic love story that has a happy, if bittersweet, ending that isn't too sappy or Disney-movie like.

In The Culprits, Hank Wallins is an asocial former seaman living in Toronto, who suffers from tinnitus and works a boring job every night. After an accident in the subway, Hank finds a girlfriend via FromRussiaWithLove.com. Although Anna enjoys Hank's company at first, she finds she can't love him--she still loves a Dagestani man named Ruslan, who soon becomes involved with terrorists.

Robert Hough takes us on a safari deep into Russia, a place many of us will never go in person. With all of the attention focussed on the Middle East these past years, it's easy to forget that other places have similar internal and ethnic tensions foreign to us in the West. It's easy to forget that not everyone is as lucky as we are; not everyone lives in a country where they are safe from being picked up off the street and tortured at random. Hough reminds us of this without rubbing it in our faces. However, this theme plays an important part in the shaping of several characters of the story.

I didn't like the narrator, especially not at first. My heart gradually warmed to him, but I still didn't like the device much. Thanks to the appositives he injects once and a while (even if they're in Russian), I figured out the identity of the narrator rather quickly. His identity wasn't the problem, however. It was his constant interruptions, which seemed to ruin the unity of the narrative. After finishing the book, I understand why Hough chose to have that narrator, and I suppose it was the correct decision.

Both Hank and Anna are interesting characters who undergo fairly dramatic changes over the course of the story. Hank initially courts Anna because of her resemblance to a woman he lost (perhaps the only woman he ever loved). Anna, on the other hand, just wants to escape from Russia, especially after she learns that Ruslan will never return to her the affection she feels for him. This isn't enough to bring them together, though.

I thought Hough was very clever to make this point, and if he had just let them live happily after Anna first moves in with Hank, the book would have been much weaker. They couldn't be happy, not at first, because they weren't doing this for each other--they were doing it for themselves, and because of how they felt about other people. Once Anna returns to Russia to confront Ruslan a final time, and Hank finally banishes the spectre of his dead lover by falling in love with Anna, not the woman of whom Anna reminds him, then they can fall into a state of bliss.

If ever I've heard an apt title for a book, The Culprits is one. Hough plays on this motif quite heavily; indeed, "the culprits" is a catchphrase that shows up all over these pages. These are obstacles that fulfil the proverb quoted at the beginning of the book: "Life is more difficult than a walk in the forest."

The Culprits is a serious book in many ways, yet it's also fun and vivacious. It invokes elements of tragedy, but it's also about hope. The ending, in particular, is very sad and whimsical, but it contains the promise of redemption. It takes a skilled writer to create a book that transcends any particular form in order to tell a complex, organic story. In short, The Culprits blew me away.

It's been several years since I first read Watchmen, so I decided to read it again in preparation for eventually seeing the film. Lauded on the cover as "One of TIME magazine's 100 best novels" and a "Winner of the Hugo Award" it's easy to get swept up in the love-fest that is Watchmen. While it's true I loved this book (as shown by the five star rating), I'm going to try to discuss aspects I didn't like or downright despised in addition to what I love about it.

Now, I'm too young to have been around in the real 1985 (I was born four years later). I didn't know the McCarthy era; I didn't see the moon-landing; and I wasn't around for Vietnam or Watergate. People who live through those times no doubt have a slightly different perspective on this book, since it's an alternate history of a period with which they are so familiar. For me, the real history may as well be fiction.

The issues and themes that pervade Watchmen remain relevant today. We have not escaped the shadow of Mutually-Assured Destruction, even if tensions between the United States and Russia have cooled off into an amicable simmer. Alan Moore successfully took a world far-enough removed from our own to have fantastic elements, like Dr. Manhattan, but familiar enough to make us shiver when we read the very ending.

My favourite character is Dr. Manhattan, which I'm sure won't surprise people. I find his non-linear perception of time fascinating. Discussing predestination and non-linear time is a great way to pass an afternoon. While the theme of fighting against destiny is by no means original, Moore treats it in a refreshing way by turning it into a side-plot. It's incidental to the rest of the story. Yet Manhattan's remark to Veidt at the end of the novel, that nothing ever ends, is as chilling as it is pithy. Veidt went to all this trouble to prevent Manhattan from interfering, even going so far as to try to kill Dr. Manhattan--and to what end? If Manhattan is correct, everyone's actions and reactions--his, Veidt's, Nite Owl's, and Rorschach's--were predetermined. It was all meant to happen this way, because it has already happened that way.

Reading this book for the second time reminded me how much I disliked the Comedian. I understand the point that Moore was trying to make, but Edward Blake was just an offensive person! Rape scene aside, the entire scene with Blake, Manhattan--again with Manhattan--and the Vietnamese women pregnant with Blake's child ... it makes me shiver. Amorality is so much scarier than immorality--the latter knows it's wrong; the former doesn't care if it's right or wrong. Both the Comedian and Dr. Manhattan are intrinsically amoral beings--and in this way, Moore's observing that to be a superhero, you need to be amoral at least some of the time--but to different outcomes. Does that make one "better" than the other? I don't know.

The moral ambiguity that suffuses the protagonists of Watchmen alone makes the story interesting. Superhero movies seem to be popular recently, and we love to glorify the superhero even as we attempt to make him or her "flawed." Yet Watchmen makes superheroes flawed not because they're human, but because they're trying to be superhuman when they so obviously aren't. Rorshach understands and accepts this--his amoral behaviour is the price for what he believes is "utter clarity" of purpose.

I never really got into the whole "Black Freighter" story-within-a-story. From a literary standpoint, I see that it draws a parallel between the main character and the protagonists of Watchmen, who in their attempt to save the world run the risk of losing their own humanity. I just found it somewhat superfluous, however; I question if the narrative would be less effective if "Black Freighter" weren't included.

Likewise, the disappearance of the author of "Black Freighter", Max Shea, and his subsequent involvement with the infamous squid didn't make much sense to me. I never understood why Veidt needed a bunch of writers and artists to get his squid idea to work properly. Then again, I always skimmed through those last pages (both the first time I read it and this time) because Veidt spent so many of them droning on about how he wanted to be a modern-day Alexander the Great. Too bad he made the mistake of nearly starting a land war in Asia.

Love the poignant, nostalgic attitude toward the superhero in Watchmen. Love the science fiction. Love the drama and the romance and the high-stakes action. Could do without Bernard the Newspaperman's two-dimensional opinions. Could do without the psychologist who wants to figure out what makes Rorschach tick. But let's not dwell on these things.

Watchmen is, like any great tale, the kind of tale you must read more than once in order to catch the details planted by Moore and Gibbons. And it's the kind of book you can have multiple opinions about at the same time--you can like it and hate it, just because it's so vast and profound that these mutually-exclusive states don't preclude each other within the context of the work. For that reason alone, it deserves the praise given to it as a pinnacle in the form of the graphic novel. Whether or not you enjoy the story or the themes ... well, that's up to you.

How many people have sat down one day and said, "Gee, I think I need to learn more about the history of misogyny!"? I did! I saw my coworker reading this and expressed interest in it. Unfortunately, I don't think the brief part of A Brief History of quite sank in at the time ... I was expecting something a bit more....

For anyone largely uninitiated into gender issues or the history of misogyny, I would recommend this book as a good read. Holland is a good writer, and he covers the subject comprehensively. However, the book was difficult to finish. It didn't pull me into the analysis of misogyny like I had hoped. This book suffers from several oversights or deficiencies that don't detract from the material in the book so much as they prevent the book from achieving its full potential.

Firstly, it should be called A Brief Western History of Misogyny. Jack Holland starts in ancient Greece and Rome and works his way up to Victorian Britain and 1960s America. Yes, he briefly detours into pre-colonial India and China, and toward the end he turns his gaze on Taliban Afghanistan and the Muslim Middle East. Overall, however, his overview of misogyny is written from a Western perspective. It's understandable, since most of modern society can trace its roots to ancient Greece and Rome. However, I would have liked to hear in more detail about the other ancient cultures that contributed to modern society (mostly Eastern cultures), as well as a little expansion into tribal Africa.

Secondly, Holland's adherence to the historical pattern of development is often at odds with his tendency to draw parallels to the various contributing factors toward misogyny (his favourite appears to be dualism). This is why I had to force myself through some parts--they just felt very dry.

Finally, I think Holland over-extends his analysis a little too much. I do agree when he points out the misogynistic aspects of the Holocaust, of Nazism, of communism, etc. Sure, fine. However, these mentions feel more cursory than other areas of the book. I don't think he did these topics justice.

A Brief History of Misogyny is exactly as advertised. It's brief, and it's a history. It's comprehensive and informative. It's not an incredibly entertaining book, so if you're worried your non-fiction enthusiasm is waning, don't read this book right now. On the other hand, if you're like me and spontaneously develop a desire to learn more about misogyny, then this book will serve that purpose fine.

Neil Gaiman is one of the world's leading storytellers, and The Graveyard Book great story--several stories, in fact, all bound up into one nice narrative.

I have great respect for Gaiman because he does not patronize children. The Graveyard Book is, in many ways, a children's book (although adults will enjoy it as well). Unlike much of the mass culture drivel produced for children these days, Gaiman does not treat children like they are idiots or invalids in need of protection. He deals with them like equals--perhaps equals who speak a different language. I quite enjoyed his diction, the way he showed us how a toddler interprets stairs and a five-year-old might explain particle physics. Gaiman suffuses his writing with the wonder that coats everything in a child's world. And he doesn't shy away from including a healthy dose of fear.

Bod's adventure is compelling, and one with which many will identify. He has to grow up by the end of the book--we all see this coming--and it's a bittersweet moment. He's grown up in a graveyard, but he knows he has to confront the real world at some point. Through his experiences in childhood and maturity into an adult, Bod shows us what the living can learn from the dead--namely, that we're always lucky to be alive.

There's a twist at the climax that I did not see coming, and it was brilliant. From that point on, I did manage to predict the rest of the action, including how Bod defeated the antagonist. It was still enjoyable, but by and large the best part of The Graveyard Book is the first half, where Bod gets up to all sorts of adventures.

Honestly, I could have done without the entire "Bod is a chosen one" plot and the conspiracy surrounding the murder of his family. It seemed more like a subplot, since the main plot is actually about Bod growing up. And thus I only give The Graveyard Book four stars, when I would very much like to give it five.

Dave McKean's illustrations are marvellous. They're subtle yet striking--they draw just enough attention to make you contemplate the illustration without distracting you from the text. It's all whispery and smoky, creating an atmosphere of evanescence--very graveyard-like. They definitely enhance The Graveyard Book and elevate it from a simple novel into a work of art.

Quite an enjoyable read!

On the back cover of my edition, there's a blurb from The Globe and Mail that calls the book "timeless." That is the most accurate single-word evaluation of The Assassin's Song.

Once you've plunged into the book and read a couple of chapters, you immediately get that sense of timelessness. M. G. Vassanji intersperses aspects of the "present day" with events in the thirteenth century and events from the narrator's childhood. The historical events take on the quality of a story or a myth, whereas the events from the narrator's childhood function much like snapshots that trigger a distant memory. Vassanji has a crisp prose style that unifies these disparate periods in time, tying them together into a very intriguing story.

Vassanji's depicts his scenes with broad brush strokes that allow me to place myself there and immerse myself in the atmospheres he invokes. India, steeped in mysticism. Boston, the nexus of those who don't belong. Canada, the refuge of fledgling cultural movements. All of the settings are a great deal more three dimensional than I do them justice here, of course, but at the same time they represent very clear and intentional periods in the main character's life.

The Assassin's Song is the type of book that you will be able to read at different times throughout life and interpret accordingly. As a fairly young individual, I often found myself aligning with Karsan against his father, who naturally stood in opposition to some of his son's rebellious actions. As with most father-son tales, the ending consists of a one-way reconciliation, Karsan with his dead father, but there is the suggestion that his father clinged to traditions slightly longer than he should have. At least, that is the decision that Karsan reaches, for he is the last of the line of the Sahebs of Pirbaag, and another ancient tradition shrouded in mysticism passes from the world of the living into the pages of history and folklore.

I suspect that when I revisit this book as an older, more experienced person, I will see additional facets of the story that escaped me on a first reading. While I doubt I'll ever completely empathize with the position of Karsan's father, I do understand his point of view. Vassanji takes the father-son conflict and successfully amplifies it into a discussion of religion and spiritualism in the context of modern society. This is one aspect of Indian culture that makes it so fascinating: India has a very strong tradition; although it is primarily Hindu, there's very deep influences of Buddhism and Islam (the latter of which, of course, led to the formation of Pakistan). For this reason, India is a perfect setting for stories that want to address how cultural values shift as a country attempts to break itself away from the cycle of history and become influential on the international stage. Vassanji gives us a glimpse of this struggle from the perspective of an individual and a family rather than the entire country, and this synecdoche is very effective.

The title provoked me throughout the book--of course in hindsight it's dreadfully obvious, and a more astute reader would probably catch on to its obvious meaning. Until the end of the book, however, I meditated frequently upon the significance of the title. It's not the most interesting part of the book though.

The end of the story takes on a strange epistolary dimension that I didn't enjoy. It works, but at the same time it robs the story of some of the timeless quality that it had before. I kept on having this "voiceover" feeling as I read the letters written by Karsan's father--perhaps, however, that is an artifact of the movies and a testament to my own cultural upbringing than a statement about Vassanji's narrative style.

In any event, The Assassin's Song is a solid character-driven work replete with emotional depth and a moving story. At times it can feel somewhat dense, especially for those unfamiliar with Indian history or the basic tenets of Hinduism, Islam, etc. However, the book takes you on an elegant journey that left me refreshed and made me think. I like that.