I was initially skeptical of Simon Winchester's organization of the origins of this country around the five classical elements (wood, earth, water, fire, metal). However, upon finishing The Men Who United the States, I will say that it worked. It really, really worked and it's hard to envision to better framework to tie together such disparate seeming developments as Lewis & Clark's expedition, the interstate system, and television.
Winchester works his way forward, from Jefferson's charge to Merriwether Lewis through the building of the canals, then the railways, the roads, and aviation, transportationally speaking, to the telegraph, radio, television, internet, in terms of communication. Indeed, this book is the story of the country's connection both physically and culturally. Many of those he profiles have long graced the pages of elementary social studies books: Lewis & Clark, Alexander Graham Bell, Thomas Edison, for example, but many others have otherwise been lost to time. Henry McKinley built the first road in America, a turnpike out of Cumberland, Maryland. DeWitt Clinton, mayor of New York City, owns much responsibility for the Erie Canal. And so on and so forth.
Winchester includes great imagery of the American West, particularly when he writes of the railways and the roads. The book is filled with photographs, documents, and maps that give further life to his writing. He also intersperses the historical storytelling with more modern stories of how own travels in America. Occasionally, he seems rather too pleased with himself (as when relating a treacherous crossing of the Donner Pass), but the stories do serve to illustrate the changes to various regions and technologies.
Ultimately, The Men Who United the States is best enjoyed by history buffs, but if you're looking for a refresher course on much of U.S. history (from Pocahontas to Ike and beyond), you won't be disappointed.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Monday, January 27, 2014
Burial Rites
Agnes Magnúsdóttir was the last person executed by Iceland, in 1830, for a crime committed in 1828. That crime, which Agnes was accused of committing along with one other man and one other woman, was the murder of two farmers at Illugastaðir. At the time, and since, Agnes was largely regarded as the epitome of a murderess, motivated, perhaps, by a combination of greed and revenge. Some went so far as to brand her a witch. Iceland, like much of the world at that time, was a poor and often brutal place to live; the cold and darkness that reach through the pages and grab the reader only magnify this. By her own admission in the author's note, Hannah Kent has tried to create a more ambiguous portrait of Agnes.
In this, she succeeds thoroughly. Awaiting her execution - beheading by axe - Agnes is transferred to a small, poor farm to be housed with a farm couple and their two daughters. The family has had no say in the matter and their treatment of Agnes reflects this. Slowly, though, as they come to know her, the reader understands that they also begin to question what they believed of the woman in their midst.
The characters in Burial Rites are the novel's strength. Each is distinct and well-developed and Kent should be thanked for giving the main characters names that, if still Icelandic, are easy enough on the eyes, mind, and tongue of an English speaker. In addition to Agnes, there are daughters Steina and Lauga and their parents Jon and Margret (who seems pretty clearly to be suffering from a bad case of consumption). If the characters are the strength, the organization is the weakness. The viewpoints shift constantly, within chapters and without warning. Initially this nearly drove me to distraction; I became used to the style.
Burial Rites exudes darkness and cold, illness and sadness. Yet, it manages not to be steeped in depression, a fine line that Kent has navigated deftly. In the end it is a fine work of historical fiction with strong undercurrents of ambiguity.
In this, she succeeds thoroughly. Awaiting her execution - beheading by axe - Agnes is transferred to a small, poor farm to be housed with a farm couple and their two daughters. The family has had no say in the matter and their treatment of Agnes reflects this. Slowly, though, as they come to know her, the reader understands that they also begin to question what they believed of the woman in their midst.
The characters in Burial Rites are the novel's strength. Each is distinct and well-developed and Kent should be thanked for giving the main characters names that, if still Icelandic, are easy enough on the eyes, mind, and tongue of an English speaker. In addition to Agnes, there are daughters Steina and Lauga and their parents Jon and Margret (who seems pretty clearly to be suffering from a bad case of consumption). If the characters are the strength, the organization is the weakness. The viewpoints shift constantly, within chapters and without warning. Initially this nearly drove me to distraction; I became used to the style.
Burial Rites exudes darkness and cold, illness and sadness. Yet, it manages not to be steeped in depression, a fine line that Kent has navigated deftly. In the end it is a fine work of historical fiction with strong undercurrents of ambiguity.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Twenties Girl: A Novel
I do not normally read books like Twenties Girl. It's straight up fiction, modern day, set in London. The last couple of times I've read similar fiction have not, honestly ended well. There was The Spoiler, which left me wondering how all of the reviews (and NPR - NPR, for God's sake!) had gotten it so wrong; I could not even bring myself to finish Last Night at Chateau Marmont. But Clio wrote a fantastic review and since she (almost) never steers me wrong, I figured, why not? Twenties Girl is absolutely laugh-out-loud hilarious. It is the funniest book I have read since Good Book and that was a year ago.
Here's the set-up: Lara Lington's life is a trainwreck. Her boyfriend has inexplicably walked out on her, and her business partner has decided to stay in Goa somewhat indefinitely. Lara has no money, no life, and she's desperate to remember which lies she's previously told her parents so not to confuse the story line when they come to pick her up for the funeral of 105-year-old Great Aunt Sadie, whom Lara has never met.
Life goes from bad to worse at the funeral when dead aunt Sadie, whose casket is just there, feet from Lara, refuses to go to her grave quietly, but rather begins to haunt Lara. See, she has lost her necklace and she's in a sort of purgatory unless Lara can find it. She's also rather bossy and saucy and reappears at the most inopportune times. In addition to finding her necklace, Sadie is obsessed with the Charleston and determined that Lara will learn.
Twenties Girl is completely and utterly over-the-top. It is ridiculous in the best sense of the word and it is hilarious pretty much from start to finish. Sophie Kinsella has created a lighthearted masterpiece here and I'm sorry I doubted for a minute whether I should read it.
Here's the set-up: Lara Lington's life is a trainwreck. Her boyfriend has inexplicably walked out on her, and her business partner has decided to stay in Goa somewhat indefinitely. Lara has no money, no life, and she's desperate to remember which lies she's previously told her parents so not to confuse the story line when they come to pick her up for the funeral of 105-year-old Great Aunt Sadie, whom Lara has never met.
Life goes from bad to worse at the funeral when dead aunt Sadie, whose casket is just there, feet from Lara, refuses to go to her grave quietly, but rather begins to haunt Lara. See, she has lost her necklace and she's in a sort of purgatory unless Lara can find it. She's also rather bossy and saucy and reappears at the most inopportune times. In addition to finding her necklace, Sadie is obsessed with the Charleston and determined that Lara will learn.
Twenties Girl is completely and utterly over-the-top. It is ridiculous in the best sense of the word and it is hilarious pretty much from start to finish. Sophie Kinsella has created a lighthearted masterpiece here and I'm sorry I doubted for a minute whether I should read it.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Revolutionary Medicine: The Founding Fathers and Mothers in Sickness and in Health
The first three books I've read in 2014 have taken me to America amid the Civil War; Paris, circa 1880; and sixteenth century Venice. All were fictional stories incorporating varying degrees of fact. I needed a change of pace and have had Jeanne E. Abrams' Revolutionary Medicine on my reading list for months. Despite the fact that I only just vowed to read less about disease and war and that Revolutionary Medicine is clearly chock full of both, I added it to my Nook before a long trip last week.
I'll begin by saying that Abrams makes great use of her primary sources. This book is studded with journal entries, correspondence, and other first-rate material that make the characters - Benjamin Franklin, George and Martha Washington, John and Abigail Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and James and Dolley Madison - come alive to the reader. Who knew that Martha Washington wrote Saturday as "satterday," for example? It's funny, it's pitiable, but it's also deeply humanizing.
Through volumes of research, Abrams has shown the extent to which these elite, early Americans were marked at every stage by death and disease. There is not one who hasn't lost a child or spouse (or both) to what we look upon today as a highly treatable disease. Revolutionary Medicine is also a near constant reminder of the ways in which we have tamed our environment in the past 200 years. The denizens of Washington, DC, are laid low by malaria with alarming regularity in Washington's time; today, such a diagnosis in the city would be regarded as singularly peculiar, among other adjectives.
Revolutionary Medicine also serves as portrait of how medicine has changed. In the time of days of the Founding Fathers, an educated person knew as much of medicine as, perhaps, their physician - who may or may not have ever studied medicine especially and may or may not rely on anymore than bleeding the patient no matter the symptoms. Indeed, more than one of the men and women profiled here administered such medical procedures as inoculation or bleeding on themselves, their children, or other family members.
This book is filled with fascinating tidbits (Boston once banned the smallpox inoculation, Philadelphia suffered through an unimaginable yellow fever epidemic, George Washington ordered and organized the vaccination of the Continental Army against smallpox) and trivia (the name laudanum is derived from the Latin laudere, "to praise" - and Jefferson and Franklin both needed it by the end).
If you're a non-fiction or American history junkie, you'll want to read Revolutionary Medicine. If not, if you know that John Adams and Thomas Jefferson died on the same day and that George Washington died of a simple throat infection compounded by repeated bleedings (which he himself ordered), then you probably already know everything you really need to know about the sickness and health of our founding fathers.
I'll begin by saying that Abrams makes great use of her primary sources. This book is studded with journal entries, correspondence, and other first-rate material that make the characters - Benjamin Franklin, George and Martha Washington, John and Abigail Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and James and Dolley Madison - come alive to the reader. Who knew that Martha Washington wrote Saturday as "satterday," for example? It's funny, it's pitiable, but it's also deeply humanizing.
Through volumes of research, Abrams has shown the extent to which these elite, early Americans were marked at every stage by death and disease. There is not one who hasn't lost a child or spouse (or both) to what we look upon today as a highly treatable disease. Revolutionary Medicine is also a near constant reminder of the ways in which we have tamed our environment in the past 200 years. The denizens of Washington, DC, are laid low by malaria with alarming regularity in Washington's time; today, such a diagnosis in the city would be regarded as singularly peculiar, among other adjectives.
Revolutionary Medicine also serves as portrait of how medicine has changed. In the time of days of the Founding Fathers, an educated person knew as much of medicine as, perhaps, their physician - who may or may not have ever studied medicine especially and may or may not rely on anymore than bleeding the patient no matter the symptoms. Indeed, more than one of the men and women profiled here administered such medical procedures as inoculation or bleeding on themselves, their children, or other family members.
This book is filled with fascinating tidbits (Boston once banned the smallpox inoculation, Philadelphia suffered through an unimaginable yellow fever epidemic, George Washington ordered and organized the vaccination of the Continental Army against smallpox) and trivia (the name laudanum is derived from the Latin laudere, "to praise" - and Jefferson and Franklin both needed it by the end).
If you're a non-fiction or American history junkie, you'll want to read Revolutionary Medicine. If not, if you know that John Adams and Thomas Jefferson died on the same day and that George Washington died of a simple throat infection compounded by repeated bleedings (which he himself ordered), then you probably already know everything you really need to know about the sickness and health of our founding fathers.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
The Midwife of Venice
Hannah Levi is a Jewish midwife in Venice in 1575. She lives in the Jewish ghetto and has managed to alienate her rabbi and create an enemy of one of the most powerful men in Venice all in one go. Her estranged sister, who left the fold to marry a man who, in turn, left her, is now a courtesan. And Hannah's husband, Isaac, was captured at sea along with his cargo and is a hostage-cum-slave on Malta. They're pretty unhappy people, all of them, or at least are living pretty unhappy lives. (I should add here that I'm exceedingly grateful not to have lived in the Middle Ages - or immediately thereafter - but then I suppose the same is true for most people.)
Yet, Roberta Rich's tale of how Hannah risks everything by assisting at the birth of the decidedly non-Jewish Countess di Padovani is anything but dark or depressing. Granted, dark moments exist - Isaac on the block at a slave auction, say, or Hannah being blackmailed - but on the whole the tone of The Midwife of Venice is decidedly hopeful. Each of the characters possesses a good measure of resilience even in the face of extremely long odds or outright danger.
The long and the short is that The Midwife of Venice was a great, quick read and one I would recommend to anyone who enjoys a good story, particularly when that story is set amidst the bridges and canals of sixteenth century Venice.
Yet, Roberta Rich's tale of how Hannah risks everything by assisting at the birth of the decidedly non-Jewish Countess di Padovani is anything but dark or depressing. Granted, dark moments exist - Isaac on the block at a slave auction, say, or Hannah being blackmailed - but on the whole the tone of The Midwife of Venice is decidedly hopeful. Each of the characters possesses a good measure of resilience even in the face of extremely long odds or outright danger.
The long and the short is that The Midwife of Venice was a great, quick read and one I would recommend to anyone who enjoys a good story, particularly when that story is set amidst the bridges and canals of sixteenth century Venice.
Friday, January 10, 2014
The Ladies' Paradise
Written in 1883 by Emile Zola, The Ladies' Paradise is far removed from my usual reading list. I read it, honestly, because I'd started watching The Paradise on the BBC/PBS but became too annoyed by the simpering Denise to continue. Was Zola's Denise really this annoying or did Joanna Vanderham take the character to new heights?
What I discovered is that The Paradise is only loosely based on Zola's novel. The original Denise is, indeed, annoying, but for entirely different reasons than the BBC's Denise. Zola's Denise has arrived in Paris with two younger brothers following the deaths of their parents. Her extreme devotion to these boys, one of whom is not much younger than she is, borders on the absurd at times, although I imagine that her experience was not uncommon at the time. She takes a job at the Ladies Paradise where its creator and owner, Mouret, pursues her relentlessly and the rest of the staff gossips famously about their supposed relationship.
Interestingly, I found The Ladies' Paradise to ask many of the same questions that are frequently posed today: are bigger stores better? What happens to the mom-and-pop shops when an all-in-one retailer opens in their shadow? Do customers really know what they want? What of the relationships they've developed with the small retailers? Clearly, this novel is a case-in-point that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
At the risk of criticizing one of the great authors of the nineteenth century, I will say that The Ladies' Paradise struck me as overly long. Zola sometimes spent pages describing the offerings of a single department - the patterns, strength, hues, and textures of a particular fabric, say, or the various cuts in which a garment is available - and I often skimmed these descriptions. I was also distracted by the passing of time. In some cases, the reader is told how many weeks or months (or years!) have passed, and in other instances, the reader is left to guess how when events occurred relative to one another.
Whatever my criticisms of the characters or story arc, it is always a joy to read anything set in Paris. Denise strolls under the chestnut trees, through the Tuileries, in neighborhoods near the Opera: Paris is as essential to The Ladies' Paradise as any shopgirl could ever be. Throughout the book, the modernization of Paris - the narrow, medieval streets giving ways to Haussman's wide boulevards - is a central feature of the story. Zola brings this process and the entire belle ville to life in a way any reader should appreciate. (But he still could have written less about silks and laces.)
What I discovered is that The Paradise is only loosely based on Zola's novel. The original Denise is, indeed, annoying, but for entirely different reasons than the BBC's Denise. Zola's Denise has arrived in Paris with two younger brothers following the deaths of their parents. Her extreme devotion to these boys, one of whom is not much younger than she is, borders on the absurd at times, although I imagine that her experience was not uncommon at the time. She takes a job at the Ladies Paradise where its creator and owner, Mouret, pursues her relentlessly and the rest of the staff gossips famously about their supposed relationship.
Interestingly, I found The Ladies' Paradise to ask many of the same questions that are frequently posed today: are bigger stores better? What happens to the mom-and-pop shops when an all-in-one retailer opens in their shadow? Do customers really know what they want? What of the relationships they've developed with the small retailers? Clearly, this novel is a case-in-point that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
At the risk of criticizing one of the great authors of the nineteenth century, I will say that The Ladies' Paradise struck me as overly long. Zola sometimes spent pages describing the offerings of a single department - the patterns, strength, hues, and textures of a particular fabric, say, or the various cuts in which a garment is available - and I often skimmed these descriptions. I was also distracted by the passing of time. In some cases, the reader is told how many weeks or months (or years!) have passed, and in other instances, the reader is left to guess how when events occurred relative to one another.
Whatever my criticisms of the characters or story arc, it is always a joy to read anything set in Paris. Denise strolls under the chestnut trees, through the Tuileries, in neighborhoods near the Opera: Paris is as essential to The Ladies' Paradise as any shopgirl could ever be. Throughout the book, the modernization of Paris - the narrow, medieval streets giving ways to Haussman's wide boulevards - is a central feature of the story. Zola brings this process and the entire belle ville to life in a way any reader should appreciate. (But he still could have written less about silks and laces.)
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Books That Matter (to me)
A friend recently posted the 10 most influential books that she's read and it got me thinking. Normally, of course, I post about books I've just read, but most of the books I've read in my life were all long before I began blogging about my reading. So, I thought I'd take a few minutes on a cold and snowy evening to think about those books that made the greatest impression on me and, in all probability, made me the avid, voracious reader I am today. So, in no particular order:
The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
This is the first book that I remember reading over and over and over again (sorry, Mom, Go, Dog, Go doesn't count in this tally). I was fully transported to the world Burnett created and can still imagine the high-walled garden that captivated little Mary so.
Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery
The books following the life and times of Anne - and then of her growing family - was likely the first series that I read. Embarrassing confession here, but I still remember crying when I finished Rilla of Ingleside, so sad was I to have concluded my adventures with Anne.
Number the Stars by Lois Lowry
I went through a phase where I would only read Newbery Medal winners and this was one. This is a children's book in a way that the previous two books on this list are not, though the topic is far from breezy: ten-year-olds Annemarie Johansen and Ellen Rosen are about to be parted as Ellen's family seeks to escape Copenhagen - and the Gestapo - at the height of World War II. This is the book that first opened my eyes to World War II. Also as a result of reading it, I spent decades nursing a desire to visit Copenhagen and especially Tivoli Gardens.
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
We read this book in high school; as best I recall, it is the first non-fiction "novel" that I ever read and instilled in me an immense liking for that genre. You likely already know, but the subject is the Clutter family murders in rural Kansas, circa 1959.
Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
I love this book. Some 400,000 words, written longhand, by a woman who had never written anything before...and then tried to have the manuscript returned to her from the publisher because she feared it was not good enough. From a purely author/writing-focused standpoint, Peggy Mitchell is my hero.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
My high school English teacher recommended the story of Francie Nolan to me and I fell in love with it the way I had with Secret Garden before it: Francie's immigrant world in Williamsburg at the turn of the last century captivated me entirely. That Francie ends by enrolling at the University of Michigan was the icing on the cake.
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
I'm sure it's cliche to include Harper Lee's classic on my list, but this was another school read that helped me love reading and made me think, for a fleeting moment, that I'd like to be an English teacher one day. I'll keep my current job, but am still thankful to the teacher who assigned it.
Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition by Daniel Okrent
I did very little "fun" reading while I was working on my PhD. Last Call was one of the first books I picked up purely for enjoyment once my time was my own again. Okrent confirmed for me how fantastic truly well-researched, well-written non-fiction could be (see In Cold Blood above for my first suspicions!). The book also made long-ago events highly personal: a Prohibition-era drugstore in Chicago (Markins) that may or may not have been a hotbed for bootlegged liquor was most definitely owned and operated by my husband's great-great-uncle. His grandmother confirmed the store was his; she could not believe her dear uncle Harry had ever been a bootlegger. The truth, I imagine, has ultimately been lost to history.
Song of the Dodo: Island Biogeography in an Age of Extinction by David Quammen
Faithful readers of this blog will know that I want to be David Quammen when I grow up (or in my next life - I'd settle for reincarnation). Song of the Dodo is the first Quammen book I ever read; in fact, it's the first scienc-y book I ever read and for that reason it makes my list. Prior to this book, I would have dismissed anything with a subtitle including the word "biogeography" as far too dense (read: dull) for my taste. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
Agatha Christie
I've included this one last of all because it's (obviously) not a book, but an author. My French penpal first told me about Agatha Christie when I was in seventh grade and I spent the better part of the subsequent years reading everything the great dame wrote. I never would have delved into mysteries if it hadn't been for Tifenn, but by doing so, I believe I broadened my palate and also found a go-to author for quick, light reads, particularly on cold, snowy weekends.
The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
This is the first book that I remember reading over and over and over again (sorry, Mom, Go, Dog, Go doesn't count in this tally). I was fully transported to the world Burnett created and can still imagine the high-walled garden that captivated little Mary so.
Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery
The books following the life and times of Anne - and then of her growing family - was likely the first series that I read. Embarrassing confession here, but I still remember crying when I finished Rilla of Ingleside, so sad was I to have concluded my adventures with Anne.
Number the Stars by Lois Lowry
I went through a phase where I would only read Newbery Medal winners and this was one. This is a children's book in a way that the previous two books on this list are not, though the topic is far from breezy: ten-year-olds Annemarie Johansen and Ellen Rosen are about to be parted as Ellen's family seeks to escape Copenhagen - and the Gestapo - at the height of World War II. This is the book that first opened my eyes to World War II. Also as a result of reading it, I spent decades nursing a desire to visit Copenhagen and especially Tivoli Gardens.
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
We read this book in high school; as best I recall, it is the first non-fiction "novel" that I ever read and instilled in me an immense liking for that genre. You likely already know, but the subject is the Clutter family murders in rural Kansas, circa 1959.
Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
I love this book. Some 400,000 words, written longhand, by a woman who had never written anything before...and then tried to have the manuscript returned to her from the publisher because she feared it was not good enough. From a purely author/writing-focused standpoint, Peggy Mitchell is my hero.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
My high school English teacher recommended the story of Francie Nolan to me and I fell in love with it the way I had with Secret Garden before it: Francie's immigrant world in Williamsburg at the turn of the last century captivated me entirely. That Francie ends by enrolling at the University of Michigan was the icing on the cake.
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
I'm sure it's cliche to include Harper Lee's classic on my list, but this was another school read that helped me love reading and made me think, for a fleeting moment, that I'd like to be an English teacher one day. I'll keep my current job, but am still thankful to the teacher who assigned it.
Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition by Daniel Okrent
I did very little "fun" reading while I was working on my PhD. Last Call was one of the first books I picked up purely for enjoyment once my time was my own again. Okrent confirmed for me how fantastic truly well-researched, well-written non-fiction could be (see In Cold Blood above for my first suspicions!). The book also made long-ago events highly personal: a Prohibition-era drugstore in Chicago (Markins) that may or may not have been a hotbed for bootlegged liquor was most definitely owned and operated by my husband's great-great-uncle. His grandmother confirmed the store was his; she could not believe her dear uncle Harry had ever been a bootlegger. The truth, I imagine, has ultimately been lost to history.
Song of the Dodo: Island Biogeography in an Age of Extinction by David Quammen
Faithful readers of this blog will know that I want to be David Quammen when I grow up (or in my next life - I'd settle for reincarnation). Song of the Dodo is the first Quammen book I ever read; in fact, it's the first scienc-y book I ever read and for that reason it makes my list. Prior to this book, I would have dismissed anything with a subtitle including the word "biogeography" as far too dense (read: dull) for my taste. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
Agatha Christie
I've included this one last of all because it's (obviously) not a book, but an author. My French penpal first told me about Agatha Christie when I was in seventh grade and I spent the better part of the subsequent years reading everything the great dame wrote. I never would have delved into mysteries if it hadn't been for Tifenn, but by doing so, I believe I broadened my palate and also found a go-to author for quick, light reads, particularly on cold, snowy weekends.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
March
A good friend recently recommended Geraldine Brooks to me and, while I haven't yet gotten to Year of Wonders, I did just finish March, historical fiction centered on the experiences of Mr. March, the absent father from Little Women. Brooks has conjured the person of Mr. March from the diaries and other writings of Bronson Alcott, Louisa May Alcott's father, although his experiences at war derive from Brooks's pen and mind.
On the whole, I enjoyed March. I liked the way Brooks weaved in scenes from Little Women, as well as the (true) backstory of the Alcott-Marches. I also appreciated that there were enough characters to people the story, without being so many as to send me searching through previous chapters for the most recent appearance of some minor soul. I also appreciated the style in which it is written; the flowery words often sounded straight from the nineteenth century. My one complaint is that I found the violence of some scenes to border on the gratuitous.
The only question remaining, of course, is whether I should dig out my old copy of Little Women and refresh my memory of the four March girls and their dear mother, Marmee?
On the whole, I enjoyed March. I liked the way Brooks weaved in scenes from Little Women, as well as the (true) backstory of the Alcott-Marches. I also appreciated that there were enough characters to people the story, without being so many as to send me searching through previous chapters for the most recent appearance of some minor soul. I also appreciated the style in which it is written; the flowery words often sounded straight from the nineteenth century. My one complaint is that I found the violence of some scenes to border on the gratuitous.
The only question remaining, of course, is whether I should dig out my old copy of Little Women and refresh my memory of the four March girls and their dear mother, Marmee?
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