Eleanor Jones Can't Keep a Secret

Eleanor Jones Can't Keep a Secret by Amy Doak is another from the CBCA Notables list, and one I really enjoyed. It's a sequel to Eleanor Jones Is Not a Murderer (great title!) and there is a third volume due soon, Eleanor Jones Is On Fire. It's a classic small town mystery, with Eleanor digging into a possible long-ago murder uncovered when a resident at the local aged care facility seems to be remembering something traumatic from her childhood.

I loved the way that Eleanor uses the library for her research, and also that she is such an avid reader, frequently referring to her latest book. Doak also skilfully interweaves an historic abusive relationship with Eleanor's uneasy interactions with a new acquaintance and shows how tempting it can be to slide into a potentially dangerous situation out of politeness. There's a strong message of friendship and accepting help from others -- something I gather carried over from the first book. There's a satisfying twist to the conclusion of the mystery, a nicely tense climax, and a gentle hint of (proper) romance. I would have been happy to see Eleanor Jones on the shortlist, it's a very accomplished and engaging novel.
 

Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant

I've read and enjoyed many Anne Tyler novels over the years, but somehow Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, long time staple of high school readings lists, had passed me by. My husband was astonished when I said I'd never read it; it's one of the few books he'd read and I hadn't (not anymore, ha ha). This copy, which I found in a street library, was clearly a high school text -- it was almost destroyed with highlights, underlinings and graffiti in the margins, not to mention chewed and folded corners. I have to say this is by far the least attractive cover for this novel I've seen, too -- presumably this character is supposed to be scrappy tomboy Ruth, but this Ruth has a far too knowing smirk, when really she's a kind of innocent.

Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant is essentially a story of intergenerational trauma. It opens with Pearl Tull on her deathbed, reflecting on the amazing job she's done raising her three children alone after her husband Beck walked out on them. But we soon see, in flashbacks of the family history, that Pearl is a pretty terrible mother -- violent, abusive, volatile, prickly. Each of her three children carries the legacy of their childhood in a different way, but all are scarred to some degree, and we see that damage passed on in turn to their own children. I can see why it was such a popular set text -- mind you, my husband couldn't recall anything from his Year 11 study, so it didn'tmake that much of an impression.

In many ways, Dinner at the HS is the quintessential Tyler novel -- family dynamics, set in Baltimore, the passage of time, misunderstandings and wilful contradictions, but at the end of the day, the ties of family and shared history (even when it's experienced very differently between the players) create some kind of wavering, uncertain bond.
 

James

James is an utterly remarkable novel. Shortlisted for the Booker Prize and winner of the Pulitzer, it is both a deep literary conversation with an American classic (Huckleberry Finn) and an engaging, powerful story in its own right. In preparation for reading James (I had to wait months for it at the library), I read Huckleberry Finn -- well, most of it -- for the first time. While I appreciate that Mark Twain was trying to accomplish something new with this novel, and I acknowledge its place in the American canon, I didn't love the book. I found the dialect difficult to read, and much of the incident was frankly boring. I'm glad I didn't persist to the very end, after hearing the Secret Life of Books podcast describe the ending as really tedious!

James retells the events of Huckleberry Finn from the point of view of Huck's companion for much of his adventure, the escaped slave 'Jim'. The first and cleverest thing Everett does is have James and the other enslaved characters speak two languages: a slave patois when there are white people listening, and an articulate English when enslaved people are alone. This immediately recasts 'Jim' as highly intelligent. We also come to appreciate the intense, life-threatening danger of James' situation as an escapee. It's like a dark mirror image of the Huck Finn story, showing us everything that the first novel leaves out or only hints at.

There is a lot going on in James, but it's completely readable, fast-paced and totally engaging. I'm glad I read Huckleberry Finn first -- even the contrast in the first scene is stark, but telling. I also highly recommend the Secret Life of Books episodes on both Huck Finn and James, which were fascinating and enlightening. Coincidentally, I was reading Ta-Nehisi Coates' The Message at the same time as James, another thoughtful and ferocious Black author wrestling with America's racial past. Well worth the wait.

The Message

  

I can't remember where I heard about Ta-Nehisi Coates' The Message, but I assume it was in the context of thinking about Gaza. It's a short book, and it's a series of reflections rather than a tightly argued essay, but it is compelling and thoughtful reading. I wasn't aware of Coates notorious article, The Case for Reparations, in which he used the example of German reparations paid to Israel to bolster an argument for reparation payments to the descendants of enslaved people, a case study he later came to regret. This article hangs over the final section of The Message, a refreshing example of an author reconsidering and admitting he might have got something wrong.

The Message is divided into three parts. In the first, Coates visits Dakar for the first time, the fabled embarkation point for many slave ships travelling from Africa to America, and tries to make sense of his own sense of a mythic African past and his own cultural connection to the home of his ancestors. In the middle section, he attends a small town meeting where a white librarian leads a protest against the proposed banning of one of Coates' books, in the name of protecting white students from uncomfortable 'critical race theory,' and is heartened by the presence of so many white allies. It's so disturbing that this rewriting of history has only gathered pace. 

In the final, longest section, Coates visits Gaza and witnesses first hand the daily oppression of the Palestinian people at the hands of Israel, and tries to understand how the victims of the Holocaust can revisit a similar fate on another group of people. The Message was published in 2024, but written before the current war/genocide in Gaza, and it was very unsettling to read in this context. Coates paints a vivid picture of pre-war life in Gaza, which was bad enough; what has happened since is utterly horrific. He makes a number of comparisons between the treatment of Palestinians and the Jim Crow era oppression of Black people in the US. I felt I did gain a deeper understanding by reading The Message; highly recommended.

Unapologetic

Years ago I fell in love with Francis Spufford's memoir about childhood reading, The Child That Books Built, and I also loved his 2021 novel, Light Perpetual. But I was surprised to hear him talking about being a Christian on an ABC religion program on the radio, where they also mentioned a non-fiction book he'd written: Unapologetic: Why Despite Everything, Christianity Can Still Make Surprising Emotional Sense. The title appealed to me and I ordered it immediately (yes, I know, I'm not supposed to be buying books this year).

Weirdly, just as I'm writing this, there is another scientist on the radio talking about a possible gene for religiosity, or at least spirituality... I wouldn't be surprised. I've never felt comfortable with the Richard Dawkins school of militant atheism; it's not that I have any strong belief in God myself, but it's never sat right with me that anyone could so contemptuously dismiss a whole region of human experience. Whether or not there is anything there, clearly the feelings of faith and connection to something bigger are genuine, and need to be accounted for. This is more or less the position that Spufford takes -- he says quite plainly that he has the beliefs because he feels the emotions, not the other way around. Which seems to me a sensible position to take.

Spufford caused a bit of a stir with this book, partly because of the free use of swear words. Instead of 'sin,' he talks about humans' HPtFtU (High Propensity to F*** Things Up), which apparently offended a lot of Americans. Unapologetic is a fierce counter-argument to the Dawkins camp, retelling the story of Jesus in a fresh, unvarnished way, stripping it of the familiar, stale imagery and assumptions that inevitably cloud the reception of someone like me who went to a lot of Sunday School and attended a church school. Spufford is lively and punchy and fiesty, and he almost persuaded me. I still can't quite bring myself to make the leap all the way, but if I'm going to be sucked in, it will be through the emotions (looking at you, Elizabeth Goudge). But given how much Spufford loved the Narnia books as a child, perhaps I shouldn't be surprised at where he's ended up.
 

Raymie Nightingale & Louisiana's Way Home

 I found both these Kate DiCamillo books in a street library -- what a score! Unfortunately, the third volume of the trilogy, Beverly, Right Here wasn't with them, and I can't get it from the library either. It's only available on eBook, which is no good to me. However, Raymie Nightingale and Louisiana's Way Home were so good, I desperately want to read Beverly now, and I'm hoping I know someone who can lend it to me (hint, hint...)

These books are gorgeous, so poetic and easy to read, with very short chapters, sad and sweet and funny. Raymie is sensible and anxious, a rescuer; Louisiana is fey and scatty; Beverly is emphatic and bold. The three girls meet, improbably enough, at baton-twirling class at the age of ten, where Raymie is struggling with the abrupt departure of her father. Louisiana's story picks up two years later when her erratic grandmother whisks her into another state and then abandons her. I gather that Beverly's novel is set two years after that again, when the friends are 14, and this time it's Beverly herself who runs away? But perhaps I'll never know for sure.

The books are structured beautifully, with the stories twisting full circle and ending in optimism, despite the sometimes dark material they deal with. Highly recommended (love the cover art of these editions, too, it's so gentle and appealing). 

We Solve Murders

Predictably, given the popularity of Richard Osman's Thursday Murder Club series, there was a massive queue at the library for this new one. In We Solve Murders, Amy is a tough-as-guts bodyguard, looking out for Rosie D'Antonio, a best-selling celebrity author (think Joan Collins) and Steve is a retired policeman who happens to be Amy's father-in-law. The body count is very high, and so is the cast of colourful supporting characters, one of whom is trying to frame Amy for their murders. Cue a rollicking plot that involves a lot of cocktails, travel in private jets and international criminal intrigue -- perhaps this time Osman already has half an eye on the Netflix rights, and is planning to visit the sets?

The Thursday Murder Club has been an incredibly popular franchise. Even my friend who famously only reads one book a year raced through the whole lot without stopping (yes, I have friends who don't read). At first I did miss Ibrahim, Joyce, Elizabeth and Ron (I suspect Pierce Brosnan might be miscast, but we shall see), but I soon warmed to Steve and Amy and even Rosie, who might be a bit much in real life. Richard Osman has a knack for creating highly coloured, entertaining characters with a few words.

I think the Thursday Murder crew will remain my favourites, but I'm happy to meet some new friends and spend more time in their company. Roll on the sequels!

Sociopath

I heard Patric Gagne speaking on the radio one night and was intrigued by the sound of her memoir, Sociopath -- there was a very long wait on the library reserve list before I finally got my hands on it.

Honestly, Sociopath was a strange and unsettling read. At times it comes across almost like a novel, with reconstructed scenes and dialogues. Gagne makes the excellent point that there is a lot of grey around the diagnosis and even the definition of sociopathy. Is it the same as psychopathy, just further down the spectrum? The same test is used for assessment, but there is apparently a vast gulf between psychopathy and 'normal,' which is presumably where sociopathy sits. Gagne likes to define sociopathy as a kind of learning disability, but for emotions -- empathy, jealousy, compassion can be learned, but with difficulty (anger and happiness come more easily, at least for Gagne). 

Gane talks al lot about 'apathy,' which I found quite confusing -- sometimes it's good, sometimes unbearable. I must admit I became a bit lost at times as Gagne described her strategies for relieving the weight of apathy, though her descriptions of the rising tension, which could only be relieved by 'bad' actions (stealing a car, stabbing a classmate with a pencil), reminded me a lot of Gabor Matè's account of the unbearable tension of distress experienced by the drug users he works with. Whatever the origin of these impulses, it seems clear that the brain uses a similar mechanism to try to relieve its pain.

By the end of Sociopath, I can't claim that I understand sociopathy much better than I did, but I do have more sympathy for this maligned minority.
 

Ramona and Her Father

I was very happy to add Ramona and Her Father to my Beverly Cleary collection. I just love the Ramona stories, they have never lost their charm, and they are so much fun to read aloud. (My younger daughter has just reminded me that she loved Ramona and Beezus because they were sisters like her and her big sister, and that Ramona, Harry Potter and 101 Dalmatians were the only books they really shared.)

Cleary's stories are set firmly in the real world, and she doesn't shy away from real life problems. In Ramona and Her Father, Ramona's dad has lost his job and he's moping round the house, getting depressed because his job hunt is unsuccessful, and being quite grumpy. Ramona's mum has to start working full time to make up for the loss in income, and money is tight. None of this is Ramona's problem to solve, but it's always there in the background. I loved the sisters' campaign to stop their father smoking, and Ramona's humiliatingly half-hearted sheep costume for the end of year Nativity play (because Mum doesn't have time to sew a full suit -- hm...)

One thing that reliably makes Ramona feel better is making a ruckus, and there is a wonderful chapter where she and her friend Howie clomp around on tin can stilts, singing at the tops of their lungs. Unbearable for everyone else, but fantastic for Ramona. 

I am fully confident that if/when I have grandchildren, they will love Ramona as much as we all do.

Amy Amaryllis

The silver lining to being felled by this terrible lurgy that's going around is that it's opened up hours of guilt-free reading time, and I have been racing through my Too Be Read pile. I spotted Amy Amaryllis on Brotherhood Books and couldn't resist its cute premise. Amy, an ordinary suburban Australian girl, begins to write a story in her green book, a story about Amaryllis from magical Ankoor, who lives in a castle amid the crags where reinbeast roam... Meanwhile, Amaryllis, in her own world, begins to write the story of Amy, a girl with freedom to explore and few duties to perform. Inevitably, the girls swap places and have to deal with each other's problems in very different realities, as well as figure out how to return home.

Apparently Amy Amaryllis is the first in a 'loosely linked' series, which from the titles, seems to be set in Ankoor. I think I might have come across Candle Iron in the past, but haven't read it; I might have to remedy that. I did enjoy Amy Amaryllis a lot, but it's weird how a book written in the 1990s has dated more obviously in some ways than some written in earlier decades. They always warn you that nothing dates a book more quickly than slang, and Amy and her brother's exclamations of 'Grossisimo!' and 'Blastissimo!' (not sure that was ever genuine slang, actually) did grate slightly after a while. But despite that quibble, this was a very enjoyable world-swap story and one I would have adored as a kid. It's like Charlotte Sometimes, but with more action and humour, rather than Charlotte's eerie solemnity.

A Fence Around the Cuckoo

Ruth Park's two volume autobiography, A Fence Around the Cuckoo and Fishing in the Styx, has been on my radar for a while -- as with any very popular books, they keep popping up on Brotherhood Books. Is Ruth Park an under-rated author? Unusually, she was extremely successful in three strands of fiction. Her children's books about The Muddleheaded Wombat were huge favourites of my kids (though I never read them myself as a child); her young adult book, Playing Beatie Bow, was possibly the seminal Australian time slip story; and I studied at least one of her adult novels, Poor Man's Orange, in Year 9 at high school (I wonder why they didn't choose the first book about the Darcy family, A Harp in the South? The prequel, Missus, wasn't published until after I'd left school.)

Anyway, to those achievements we can add autobiography, because A Fence Around the Cuckoo is a tremendous piece of writing. It covers Park's childhood in the New Zealand bush, her family's struggles during the Great Depression, and her first jobs in journalism before she emigrated to Australia in 1942. From Park's account, the Depression hit New Zealand slightly less hard than it hit Australia, but it hit hard all the same. It was sobering to read about the same era as Weevils in the Flour from the perspective of one family. The Depression must have left psychological wounds just as deep as the two wars, at least on the poor, and yet it's rarely discussed -- I guess it was less dramatic.

A Fence Around the Cuckoo ends with Park's arrival in Australia, greeted by her pen friend D'arcy Niland, who was to become her husband. I gather Fishing in the Styx picks up where this volume leaves off, and I cannot wait to read it.

The Explorer

I found Katherine Rundell's 2017 The Explorer in a street library -- prize winning and acclaimed, it's a classic, timeless adventure story of four children whose plane crashes in the middle of the Amazon. The first part of the book is like Alone, as the kids find ways to survive in the jungle, but for me the story took off about halfway through, when they encounter another person who arrived in the wilderness long before they did.

The Explorer is packed with action, but it's also thoughtful about what 'exploring' means -- not just the thrill of discovery, but also dispossession, exploitation and destruction, and the battle between those competing interests. It's also a story about friendship and family. I liked the way that Fred's motivation to explore was nuanced: he is genuinely excited about uncovering 'new' places, but he's also desperate for his father's approval and love, and he would kind of like to be famous, too...

Coincidentally, this is the second children's book in short order that I've read set in the Amazon. When the children in The Explorer finally head for home, they are instructed to navigate using the Opera House in Manaus which was such a huge part of the story in A Company of Swans (which I had to google to check if it was real, it sounded so unlikely). The Explorer is hugely enjoyable and I'm not surprised it was such a hit with young readers.
 

Everyone This Christmas Has a Secret

Not a full length novel this time; Benjamin Stevenson himself calls this a Christmas special, a nice slim stocking filler which still hits all those fun, knowing Ernest Cunningham marks. This time Ern is called to assist his ex-wife Erin, who has woken up covered in blood and with the murdered corpse of her partner downstairs. She doesn't think she did it, Ern doesn't think she did it, but can he prove it? 

Stevenson structures Everyone This Christmas Has a Secret like an advent calendar, with each 'door' comprising one short chapter, each containing a clue to the solution -- he even helpfully tells us what the clues are, though not exactly what their significance might be. I raced through Christmas and was proud of myself for figuring out one element of the mystery before I was told (I'm not very good at solving mysteries). It was a nice change to read a Christmas story set in an Australian (ie sweltering) Christmas; this time the setting is the Blue Mountains.

Weirdly I finished Christmas exactly a year to the day after finishing Stevenson's last novel; I hope he's working on something new because these books are so much fun.
 

The Morning Gift

Wow, I have certainly done a massive binge on Eva Ibbotson -- I reserved all the available titles from the local library and I've been reading them as they come in. The Morning Gift was the last one, though I have also bought a couple of books and added them to my pile. I might take a rest for a while. The good thing about Eva Ibbotson is that you know exactly what you're going to get. Our sweet, funny heroine this time is Ruth, a refugee from Vienna at the beginning of the Second World War. Our reserved, masterful older man is Quin Somerville, professor and paleontologist. This time, the plot starter is that Quin secretly marries Ruth in order to extract her safely from Austria. There are, as usual, complications galore, mostly in the shape of classical pianist Heini, to whom Ruth is officially devoted, and ruthless student (ha ha) Verena Plackett, who has set her marital sights on Quin.

One thing I love about Ibbotson novels, apart from their comforting reliability, is the large cast of eccentric characters that she manages to so deftly create and move around the chess board of the story. Though our hero and heroine tend to be very similar characters from novel to novel, our minor characters are delightfully varied and vividly sketched in such an endearing way that we can't help becoming invested in their fates. In The Morning Gift, we meet passionate gardener Uncle Mishak, horrible snob Lady Plackett, free spirit Janet, floundering biology student Pilly, and many others.

I seem to be declaring each Ibbotson my favourite as I make my way through them, but I really think  The Morning Gift (named for the symbolic gift that defines a morganatic marriage, freeing the husband from any future marital obligations -- I always wondered where that came from) might be my actual favourite!

Naarm/Melbourne Neighbourhoods

Naarm/Melbourne Neighbourhoods was a Mother's Day present from my elder child: probably not something I would have bought for myself, but it's a fun and useful book. The cover is very misleading, because the suburbs labelled there are definitely not in the correct geographical positions! But inside it's divided into City, East, South, North etc, with bite sized paragraphs about historical anecdotes, interesting buildings, urban myths, significant persons, landmarks and festivals. I've lived in Naarm almost all my life but I still learned some weird and wonderful facts, like Prahran probably being a corruption of Birrarung (the Yarra's proper name), and that Bertie Beetles were first invented to use up broken bits of Violet Crumble.

Each section includes a suggested walk around the chosen area, which look like a lot of fun, and something I'd really like to do one day. This book would be an excellent present (or loan) to a visitor to the city, but it's also got lots to offer even to long-time residents.