Arctic Chill by Arnaldur Indriðason

These Icelandic mysteries continue to be my favorites. As usual, Arnaldur Indriðason delivers a simple mystery with a straight-forward solution, but it’s the accompanying journey through Iceland’s modern social issues that makes his books so interesting. And of course, Iceland’s issues are Europe’s issues; in this case the impact of immigration on a formerly homogeneous culture.

Elias, a boy with an Icelandic father and a Thai mother, is murdered on his way home from school. Was his murder racially motivated? Was it just a consequence of living in an impoverished neighborhood in Reykjavik? Suspects abound: local drug dealers and pedophiles, professed racists, schoolyard bullies. Detectives Erlendur, Sigurdur Oli, and Elinborg must contend with all this and more, including Elias’s mother Sunee, who speaks only Thai, her estranged husband who has engaged in a series of “marriages” to Asian women whom he brings to Iceland, then abandons, and Elias’s older half brother who is fully Thai and whose adjustment to Icelandic society has been marred by depression and violence.

This is a bleak story set in a rapidly changing society. Why do I read these kinds of things? I think I love them because they help me see that every society struggles with similar issues and that human traits are universal: the racist Icelandic teacher who rails against the Asian immigrants could be someone from the U.S. talking about Mexicans; the single mother trying to hold her family together despite her lack of money and her long working hours could be from anywhere. Trouble is everywhere and we just have to sort it out as best we can, clue by clue, as Erlendur does.

(Book 40, 2009)

Best Friends Forever by Jennifer Weiner

Popular fiction is a genre that is distinct from literary fiction, though the boundaries are fluid. I like to think of these categories as either ends of a ruler, with most books falling somewhere between the two ends. A lot of the books I read fall right around the middle of the continuum between popular and literary fiction. For example I put authors like Kate Atkinson, Diane Johnson, and Elinor Lipman right smack in the middle. At the literary fiction end of things are some of my favorites like Mary Gordon and Margaret Atwood. And at the other, popular fiction end are people I read (and enjoy) such as Janet Evanovich. Note that these are my own categorizations; others may disagree.

What baffles me is when the book industry people decide in advance where along the continuum a book goes, and design the cover and the marketing plan accordingly. Such is the case with Best Friends Forever by Jennifer Weiner. The childish title and the frothy cover announce that this is Popular Fiction, capital P, capital F. Readers in search of serious ideas need not bother. Why pigeonhole a book like this? Why not a more ambiguous cover and title? Does the book sell more copies because of what it is, or what it’s not?

In fact, Best Friends Forever was good, and it reminded me a lot of Elinor Lipman’s books, which are often about sibling relationships and close friendships among women. BFF was a little more slapstick, a little less taut than Lipman’s typical work, but the jokes were funny, the characters were multilayered, and the plot (while not groundbreaking) had some originality. The dialogue was especially good. It’s supposed to be a Thelma and Louise kind of story though it’s much tamer than that. I think BFF would appeal to a lot of different readers but unfortunately many of the more serious ones wouldn’t be caught dead with it. Weiner’s publishers have done her a disservice; the chick lit fans will read it anyway because Weiner is already established in that subgenre, and by choosing this fashion magazine type of cover they are denying Weiner the possibility of bringing in new readers who usually hang out a little closer to the literary end of the book world.

The only reason I tried this book was because it was recommended to me by someone whose opinion I trust. If you trust my opinion, you might want to give this a whirl also.

(Book 39, 2009)

A Long Finish by Michael Dibdin

When I heard in 2007 that Michael Dibdin had died, I remember thinking "Oh darn, I never got around to reading any of his books." What a weird thought, as if the Head Librarian would now be taking all his books off the shelves. It is true that I prefer to read books by living authors but that's mostly because I am trying to stay current, not because I've got anything against the dearly departed.

Dibdin's Aurelio Zen mysteries (of which this is an early one) always show up on the must-read lists, including this one, the Times Online's list of the 50 greatest crime writers, where he is #37. (How many of these authors have you read? I've read 26.) Dibdin is often discussed in the same context as Nicholas Freeling (also dead) and H. R. F. Keating (not yet dead) because all three are British mystery novelists who write in English about non-British detectives. Freeling created Amsterdam detective Piet Van der Valk and French Inspector Henri Castang, while Keating is the creator of Inspector Ghote of the Mumbai police. Aurelio Zen is Italian. Being British distinguishes these authors from mystery novelists such as George Simenon (#2 on the Times list, dead) who wrote in French and Andrea Camilleri (#43 on the Times list, not dead) who writes in Italian. Why the sudden interest in authors’ nationalities (and state of animation)? I am just wondering what it is about the British psyche that gives certain writers the confidence to imagine up these non-British scenarios with such confidence and panache. Are there books written in Chinese about London detectives, do you think?

Oh, did I like the book? I guess so. It had a lot in it about food and wine, which is always fun. It also had a wonderfully ironic ending. Zen is not terribly interested in following any sort of policeman-type rules, which makes for some good tricks.

(Book 38, 2009)

Vacation (reading)

I'm having a little vacation at my father's house near the beach. It's nice to hang out with my dad and his dogs, and in a few minutes I'm going to take a walk on the sea wall. The weather is warm-ish and sunny and the tide is coming in. It's been a good short break from my job (not very stressful) and my teenagers (don't ask). I go home tomorrow.

I've read two books since I've been here and have started a third. I don't usually distinguish between vacation reading and regular reading but I seem to have done so for this trip. My airplane reading was A Long Finish by Michael Dibdin, an author I've always wanted to try but have never gotten around to. My laying-around-the-house reading has been Best Friends Forever by Jennifer Weiner, a book I would normally NEVER read due to its embarrassing title and even more embarrassing cover art. But my father's wife liked it and promised I would too, and it turns out to be entertaining. For the trip home I've got Arctic Chill, another Icelandic mystery from Arnaldur Indridason.

Catch you on the flip side.

Caravaggio's Angel by Ruth Brandon

I am very picky about writing styles. Have you noticed? I don’t like (and won’t read) badly written books. I will, however, sometimes read a decently written book* with a lousy plot. Caravaggio’s Angel fits into this category. I am a sucker for art mysteries and picked this up by chance. It’s about a museum curator who is putting together an exhibition of Caravaggio paintings. Some paintings are missing; others are of dubious quality. Still others are suddenly unavailable for loan due to unexplained intransigence on the part of their purported owners. The curator (Reggie Lee) must sort all this out.

I didn’t like Reggie and I didn’t like her methods. I also didn’t like all the extraneous clutter that littered the story (a Surrealist plot from the 1930’s; a loathsome French politician who does his best to thwart Reggie’s work, but yet to whom Reggie is inexplicably attracted; Reggie’s ill-advised fling with a French journalist who happens to be married to Reggie’s friend Delphine). Despite these complaints I was driven to finish it. How bad could it get? Pretty bad, in the end. Apparently this is the first book in a planned series about Reggie. I think I’ll pass on the rest of them.

*An editorial complaint: I hate the verb “to google.” It’s likely to move out of fashion, and can easily be replaced by the phrase “to search the Internet.” Shame on the lazy editor who allowed this to get through.

(Book 37, 2009)