The Call of the Wild by Jack London

Jack London's The Call of the Wild is much more than what could be considered a children's book. It is a unique and harsh depiction of the bitter realities of life in the Yukon during the days of the gold rush. Told from the perspective of the half-wolf Buck, The Call of the Wild allows readers to intimately experience the trials of life in the wild.

The relativity short novel, around ninety pages, begins with the kidnapping of Buck from a well-to-do family in Southern California and his subsequent arrival in Oregon and final move into Alaska as he is sold and re-sold. Buck initially misses his old life, but as he quickly learns the laws that make up his new world he becomes a fast learner and revels in the daily warfare and struggle for survival. He soon becomes on of the most legendary sled dogs in the region, drawing admiring and jealous looks from anyone who doesn't own him. While Buck is faithful to his final owner, John Thornton, to the very last, he cannot resist the call to join his wolf brothers in the wild.

London's unique premise of telling the story from Buck's point of view offers a remarkably different reading experience from other books that offer a similar perspective- perhaps since this is not just a children's book. There are harsh and bitter realities presented in The Call of the Wild that make it much more of an adult book. London's writing is journalistic at times, simple and straight-forward, mixed with a surprisingly lyrical bent at other times. It is an interesting combination that works well for the story that is being told.

The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield

Margaret Lea is an introverted and unworldly bookworm who is stunned to receive a letter from Vida Winters, the most famous, beloved, and best-selling author in Britain. In her correspondence, Miss Winter recounts her long ago experience with a journalist who once cut through the authoress' usual imaginative storytelling and asked instead for the truth. Shocked by this, Miss Winter has never forgotten this request, and now she claims she's ready to share her story with a biographer.

For reasons beyond Margaret's comprehension, the world-renowned authoress has chosen her. It is not an invitation that one can decline. Furthermore, Margaret has her own family secrets that she wants to escape from, and so she travels to Miss Winter's secluded house in order to hear and transcribe the old woman's story...

What follows is a Gothic tale of an extremely troubled family (and that's putting it mildly), that includes obsession, abuse, incest, betrayal, elopement, bereavement, and two little girls-twins-whose relationship makes up the crux of the book. Adeline and Emmeline are identical in piratically every way, allowed to run wild through the countryside and wreck havoc both in the house and out of it. But there's something more troubling about these two, particularly Adeline whose vicious games have a darkness to them that frightens those who come across her. The housekeeper and the gardener are the only staff that remains on the grounds, joined late in the game by a governess who tries to impose some semblance of order upon the household-with mixed results.

As the story goes on, Margaret becomes aware of her storyteller's failing health, and of the growing sense of an eerie presence in the house-or perhaps it's only vague memories of Margaret's own past intruding on the present. The answer lies in the thirteenth tale- the final story that Miss Winter is withholding until the gradual unfolding of her life story is complete.

Told in first-person narrative, but alternating between Margaret's point-of-view and the chapters that cover Vida's story, The Thirteenth Tale (which refers to a short-story publication of Vida's that is mysteriously missing it's final chapter) is a real page-turner. Drawing on the likes of the Bronte sisters, Wilkie Collins, Daphne DuMaurier, and other prolific Gothic writers for inspiration, Setterfield has woven a ghostly mystery that fits all its puzzle pieces together in a pleasing whole, whilst leaving a central enigma in place for the reader to ponder long after the book is complete.

The writing is evocative, but not exceptional; the characters are intriguing but not three-dimensional; the plot-twist is enlightening, but can be seen a mile away-and yet this is an above-average book, perfect for a cold winter day, with a swift plot, poignant resolution, and a great love of books that any fellow book-lover can appreciate.

That is, any lover of Gothic fiction. Suffice it to say, if you are not a fan of this particular genre and the deliberate melodrama that it fosters, then you will not be impressed by this volume either. This is a Gothic story in the truest sense of the word, where emotions run high, intrigues are of the most scandalous sort, and everything takes place in a dark mansion that, if not haunted by ghosts, has enough bitter, twisted, insane individuals to make up for it.

Only two things really bothered me: that the fascinating character of Isabelle leaves the story in a rather uncharacteristic and disappointing way, and that the final post-script is pure cheese (I wish I'd stopped at the second-to-last chapter which ends on an appropriate note of dry humor, rather than read of a strange reunion that had already been resolved with another character's death, and which shifted the book unnecessarily into the realm of pseudo-spirituality).

Is it life-changing literature? Of course not! And it's not trying to be: it's entertainment, pure and simple, with (as Miss Winter is clear to point out) a beginning, middle, and an end.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightime by Mark Haddon

Told from the point of view of a teenage boy with autism (perhaps Aspergers), this novel is a great way for us to recognize the predetermined ways in which we view the world. The idea that we are free to make whatever choices we want is an appealing thought (especially to first year college students), but indeed our choices are directed by physical, social, emotional, and even spiritual dilemmas. "We are all prisoners in unlocked cells." In other words, we have created and have had created for us our own boundaries and the only thing holding us back are our own decisions. Of course, this is only partially correct. As for Christopher (the main character in The Curious Incident), he has no choice in some of the walls which surround him. His creativity is in learning how to work within the limits he faces.

The story is billed by Christopher himself as a murder mystery, but since the murder is solved rather ungrammatically halfway through the book, this is clearly not the focus. The story starts with the murder of a neighborhood dog and Christopher's decision to solve the mystery. In the process we learn that his mother has died, his father raises him alone, and he is brilliant in the area of mathematics. He never mixes the food on his plate, hates the color yellow, and has decided that the the colors of cars he sees in the morning determines what kind of day he will have. I could say more, but as the plot unfolds, the surprises are interesting enough to leave to those of you who have not read it.

A fan of Sherlock Holmes stories, Christopher decides to pursue the case through Holmesian methods. In fact, the title of the book is inspired by the short story "The Silver Blaze" in which a prize racehorse is stolen. When Holmes remarks on the curious behavior of the dog in the night-time, Watson asks what is so curious--he did not even bark. That, says Holmes, is what is curious. In other words, look at the obvious an question it then look for what is not there. This makes sense since Christopher deals in logic and mathematics--life is black and white to him. But of course, there is nothing logical about not liking the color yellow or letting car colors determine your day. In Christopher's mind, however, this makes sense.

Once the murder mystery is resolved, the focus turns to Christopher's attempts to overcome his own limitations. Crossing a strange room is taxing for him, so he imagines a line leading across and then follows the way. Crowds overwhelm him so he waits them out until only a few people are around. He succeeds by handling each new situation one at a time and pulling back when he needs to think. In other words, he builds on his strengths and works around his walls.

The novel has garnered a lot of praise for a variety of reasons, including getting in the mind of an autistic person to see how the mind might work. Haddon worked with autistic children for some time so he may know more than most, but of course wee need the autistic people to speak for themselves (and this has been done). But that does not matter to Haddon because he does not see this is as a work about autism. From his blog:

"...Curious Incident is not a book about asperger's. It's a novel whose central character describes himself as a 'mathematician with some behavioral difficulties.' Indeed he never uses the words 'aperger's' or 'autism' (I slightly regret the fact that the word 'asperger's' was used on the cover). If anything it's a novel about difference, about being an outsider, about seeing the world in a surprising and revealing way. It's as much a novel about us as it is about Christopher."

And therein lies the strength. In many ways Christopher is like a poet seeing the world in mew and unique ways and we see how the world treats and handles this uniqueness. What is great about Christopher is that he never questions himself. How many of us can say the same? He is different, and it is frustrating at times, but in the end he works with what he has.

It is a book worth reading on many levels and for many reasons, but it should definitely be read.

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie

Taken at face value, And Then There Were None may as well been the basis of the 1985 movie Clue. Of course, as funny as that movie was, this novel was anything but. However, the premise is very similar. Strangers made to come together in a remote place by invitation from an anonymous sender. However, this is where the two works of fiction diverge. The movie Clue revolves around a plot with characters who have all received the same letter/invitation. In And Then There Were None however, each letter is eerily suited to a particular person. Some were enticed by the prospect of a good time or the promise of meeting old acquaintances (as what they have been wanting to do or have), others were lured by financial opportunities (as was there pressing need); whilst others still had vague motivations for coming.

The author is unrelenting in building the suspense- from the first bits in the train/carriage ride bearing the arriving guests- up to the climax. Snatches of thoughts from each character make it helpful for the reader (to a certain extent) to pin down which is which. There's the judge who can lie still as a stone but whose pale eyes are razor sharp; always taking things in. The self-righteous and religious fanatic middle-aged woman whose demeanor is rarely ruffled. The younger female who looks sensible but whose thoughts are haunted and chaotic. The general whose disdain for the brash, younger generation is hard to miss. The doctor whose seeming contentment with his career is nevertheless shadowed by a past controversy. And then others whose mere presence on Soldier Island certainly make the group a strange mix pf persons.

The first solid chilling clue is the presence of the Ten Little Soldiers rhyme set in each of the guest's bedroom. The guests themselves have barely been reluctant acquaintances upon arrival when a strange disembodied voice blasts over the whole dining room where they have all retired after dinner. And then the chills creep in all over again...

Each of those present are accused of murder.

Well, then of course one just has to read on, because that's the beauty of Agatha Christie novels. It's all up-front murder but the mystery lies in her exposition. Who did it and how was it all done? I again thought that it might be the same as Clue, in which the presence of deadly weapons is a silent command that all character should finish each other off. But no, in this novel, the characters have no reason to kill each other. And yet all of them, because of those accusations, deserve to die.

If this is not your first Agatha Christie, then I guess my saying that it's useless to make any guesses is understandable. Just sit back and let the narrative do the work for you, but if you still find yourself guessing every so often, I don't blame you.

Mort by Terry Pratchett

This fourth book in the Discworld series is the first to truly reach classical status in my opinion. Its predecessors were great reads, but Mort is a real riot. The skeleton of the plot has a few cracked bones and seems to be missing whatever connects the setup bone with the conclusion bone, but the humor is more than a saving grace for the awkward ending. Poor Mort is a gangly, clumsy lad seemingly made out of knees; his father is fond of him, but decides to apprentice him to someone else. That someone else turns out to be Death himself (although the father sees as him as an undertaker). Mort is whisked off to death's abode to be trained as Death's apprentice. On his first solo mission, he rips a big hole in the fabric of time by saving a princess from assassination. meanwhile, Death is off trying to experience living, so Mort attempts to make things right with the help of Death's adopted daughter Ysabell (who has been sixteen for thirty-five years already), the young wizard Cutwell, the princess, and--with great reluctance--Death's manservant Albert.

This is a riotously funny novel. I can truly say that Death has never been funnier. Being the reaper of souls for untold years does wear a guy down, so Death goes out into the world of the living to discover what life is all about. We find him dancing in a kind of conga line at a party for the Patrician, asking the guy in front of him why dancing around kicking stuff over is fun; we see him getting boozed up at a bar and telling his troubles to the bartender; we find him seeking employment and dealing with a normal human customer; and we ultimately find him happily serving as the cook at Harga's House of Ribs. His questions and comments about human life are simple yet complex, and they basically mimic the same kinds of question we all ask ourselves about the purpose of our time here on earth. I personally found the funniest scene to be the one in which death takes Mort to a restaurant just after hiring him and tries to figure out why on earth there is a cherry on a stick in his drink--as he keeps returning to this conundrum, the scene just gets funnier and funnier.

To some degree, this novel is a bit simplistic compared to later Pratchett writings, but it is a quick, enjoyable read guaranteed to make you laugh out loud at least once. We get a glimpse of some new vistas of Discworld, and more importantly we gain great understanding and familiarity with Death, his abode, and his way of non-life. The wizard Cutwell is a young, beardless wizard who keeps finding his devotion to wizardry (especially the whole bachelorhood requirement) tested by the beguiling femininity of the princess--his temptation-forced words and actions provide another great source of humor in the book. The cast of important characters is fairly slim inn number, but we do meet up with our old friends Rincewind and the Librarian momentarily and learn a little more about Unseen University. The ending definitely could have been better, and that is the main weakness of this particular novel. Other Discworld novels will capture your imagination much more forcibly than this one, but few will make you laugh as hard as this one does.

The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks

The Notebook is a difficult book to review. I have seen the film, which I absolutely loved, and which is now one of my all time favorite romance flicks. As I read the book, I could only imagine the characters as they appeared in the film. Fortunately for me, this was fine as I think the actors are great, and now that I have also read the book, a perfect match for Allie and Noah.

I also had difficulty with reading the actual story that was told within the pages. I kept filling in the blanks with scenes from the film. I think this was because the book didn't show the whole story of Allie and Noah, just the part when they see each other again after many years apart. The young romance we are shown in the movie is represented as just fleeting memories and flashbacks in the book. The movie gives us a lot more detail of certain times in Allie and Noah's lives that weren't actually developed fully in the book.

The Notebook is a very quick read at only one-hundred and eighty-nine pages and a part of me wishes that it was a lot longer. I wish the book showed us the story of young Allie and Noah and let us live and feel their romance and passion and what it meant to them. The fact that they fell in love again after fourteen years apart with just a few minutes together would have been more deeply felt by me had I lived through their romance all those years ago.

The film also had a profound effect on me regarding Noah and Allie and the difficulties they faced in old age. I think the impact would have been far greater when reading the book, if i had been shown the whole story of Allie and Noah. And I think this is why I prefer the movie to the book,which is very unusual for me, as I usually dislike or am disappointed with the movie adaptions as directors seem to change so much. But the director of The Notebook film was very respectful and there are only minor changes and maybe a different interpretation of the ending. But again, I was okay with it as I actually preferred it to the ending of the book, which was a little ambiguous for my taste.

Overall, I loved The Notebook. Sparks did a great job capturing emotions and pulling hard on my heartstrings. It still brought tears to my eyes, although it didn't have me blubbering like the movie did. This is a sweet love story. It's sad and beautiful. it also reminds us of our own mortality, of love, loss, life and death; and it broke my heart.

Interview With The Vampire by Anne Rice

With Interview With The Vampire, Anne Rice completely rejuvenated the genre which I feel to be horror's most important, primal, and soul-stirring...the legend of the vampire. I have been known to describe Richard Matheson's classic I Am Legend as the second greatest vampire novel I have ever read, but I must retract that statement now. Only with a second reading have I recognized the unparalleled power, beauty, eroticism and grace of Rice's contribution to the subject. Unlike Matheson, Rice luxuriates in the Victorian appeal of Stoker's masterpiece, while taking the subject to planes far beyond those Stoker could have envisioned for his Count Dracula. The modern writer does not have to hide the vampire's erotic appeal behind convention, nor does she need to classify her subject as an evil in and of itself. The vampire nature of Rice's creation is a complete, unfathomable subject that transcends good and evil.

This first novel in The Vampire Chronicles centers around four very different yet almost equally fascinating vampires. The story is that of Louis, a wealthy eighteenth century Louisiana plantation owner who became a vampire in the depths of his despair over his brother's suicide. Lestat, the inescapable force that hovers above every page of the tale, made Louis a vampire for basically economic reasons; he wanted the wealth that Louis possessed, but he also wanted a companion. Narcissistic and vain, the dapper Lestat does not teach his creation what it means to be a vampire, does not share the secrets he claims to know, does not even help Louis through his soul-shattering change that comes about when the body dies so that it may live eternally. Louis stays with Lestat only because, so far as he knows, there are no other vampires to whom he can turn for help and instruction. His distaste for Lestat grows over the years, however, and in order to keep Louis by his side, Lestat takes a young girl whom Louis had fed upon during a period of emotional turbulence and makes of her a vampire, knowing Louis could never abandon the child. It is the story of Claudia, doomed to a most tragic life of immortality trapped inside the body of a little girl, that makes this book so powerful in my eyes. Lestat is of course fascinating, Louis is the epitome of tragedy and a fountain of knowledge by way of his questioning, eternally sad nature, but Claudia's story is unbearably exquisite one. She accepts her vampire nature with some ease, being too young to really ever remember her human childhood, but the growth of Claudia the child is a beautifully painful thing to watch. When she manages to separate Louis and herself from Lestat to go searching for other vampires in Central Europe and eventually Paris, giving dramatic voice to both her love for and hatred of Louis, the door to the dungeons of utter tragedy are thrown asunder. The introduction of the four-hundred year old vampire Armand in the second half of the book gives us yet another unique vampire soul to ponder, but Armand at his most vivid poles in comparison to Claudia at her most unprepossessing.

In the end, we are left with Louis and his story, which is full of unanswerable questions. Even the meaning and lesson he tries to express about his miserable existence utterly fail in their influence it has upon the boy chosen to hear his extraordinary story. Literature really provides no better character study of the emotional meaning of vampirism than Louis, however. He became a creature of the night only out of despair, and his development as a new creature on earth proceeded without any instruction whatsoever from the cold Lestat. Thus, he questions everything about his new nature, desperately longing for a mentor. He does not relish the taking of human life, and the thought of creating another creature like himself is anathema to him. He sees vampirism as a curse, eternally wondering if he is indeed a child of Satan doomed to an immortal yet a cursed life. The source of his moral suffering is his inability to really give up his human nature, and this creates for him a long, long life of torment and pain. Never before had the moral, spiritual, and philosophical nature of the vampire been explored in such depth as that found in this exquisitely beautiful novel, and that is one of the prime reasons why it rivals Stoker in terms of its beauty and resonates with an emotionally hypnotic power that is unmatched in the long tradition of vampire literature.

Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris

Despite widespread acclaim, this book has gotten mixed reviews from customers. I understand it, and people who hated it aren't wrong. I'd like to address these criticisms later, so please stick with me. The positive reviews I've read about Then We Came To The End are mostly spot on--but, without giving it away, they don't consistently convey why this amusing, touching and ultimately tender book soars (at least for me). It's the end.

The last twenty pages of Ferris' book twisted and turned me in every direction. But it's the very last line--(don't cheat)--that catapulted me into the universe with the most glorious twist of all.

Many writers searching for something to leave behind that feels ironic or profound but they just don't know how to end their books. Their last pages feel quietly pretentious or a little to contemplative or optimistic. Even great literature--especially prize-winning literature--can be so tortuous in construction or over-reaching in their efforts to convey some grand message that they feel like work--with sentences so mind-numbing that you need a dictionary and a level of concentration akin to taking the SAT.

Then We Came To The End may not be considered great literature, but it's euphoric. It's wonderful! It underscores that nebulous "thing" that makes the work environment dull and robotic, but also vital and vibrant, essential to our lives. The book makes me question, admire and dismiss (all at once) why I put up with so much "crap," why I find great satisfaction in my work, and why I hate everything the next. The masochistic, sadistic and triumphant feelings I have about work, and about the "back stories" of my colleagues around me. There's something weirdly magnetic about all of it even as I complain, complain, complain.

In my view, the simplicity (or difficulty) associated with Then We Came To The End really depends on whether the material hits you in a way that's familiar and funny, not dull or indulgent. It can do both. And as other have said, the author's use of the first person plural "we" in every chapter but one, can't be overstated. It's miraculous when it works because it's so difficult to pull off without fumbling or confusing the reader. When it does work (as it did for me), when it's infused with content so beguiling and familiar, you're no longer aware of the author's writing style, which should be achievement of all great writers. Reading becomes effortless as the clock melts away.

Ferris once said in an interview, that the intriguing thing about every office is this: even if you don't know everyone very well or at all, everyone has an opinion about you and everyone else. This may feel like a universal nugget of common sense, but you're not really aware of it unfurling between the lines of this book. The beginning of most chapters includes sub-chapter "headlines" which tease you about what's to come. Soon, boredom and irreverence are transformed into amusing and almost affectionate feelings about everything that happens.

The biggest criticism about Then We Came To The End is the skeletal development of its characters. Well, when I got to the last line on the last page, it became more clear to me why this must be the case. Every character (in every chapter but one) is presented as a type, but this feels intentional. The collective "we" is forced to guess what each character is thinking, and like most offices, "we" can only know as much as what we see or hear. The most trivial information becomes precious and titanic, and the results can be tragic and darkly funny.The collective "we" can't read minds, so we draw our own conclusions to ridiculous lengths. In the end, we have sketches, and this feels right.

I would say that Then We Came To The End is an observational and episodic novel subject to wide interpretation, because of a literary device that seldom works in most novels. If you're looking for "fleshed-out" characters and profound themes, you won't find them here. This book isn't for you and this is not a criticism. Your complaints are justified, and I believe expectations matter. A novel so widely acclaimed that disappoints will cause anyone to say, "well, this was all hype" or "man oh man, those critics are so out of touch with me." However, I believe Ferris has captured the delicate balance between satire and brutal truth. The latter in ways which sound superficial and cliche, but woven in his book as they are, ring true for me.

While it's difficult to imagine Ferris topping this, I've no doubt in my mind that he has a tremendous future and a unique voice that will always feel relevant.

The Virgin Suicides by Jeffery Eugenides

The novel opens with the suicide of the last Lisbon daughter, and only after revealing the ending does it go back to the beginning and explore the journey through each of the five suicides. The narrators, now grown neighbors of the sisters, speak across the distance of time and a suburban street. They've pieced the story together through memories, interviews, and mementos collected from the Lisbon house. Needless to say, The Virgin Suicides is an unusual novel from the onset, but these unusual aspects are all strengths. The uncommon first person plural of narrators, which stand at a distance even as they watch the sisters in the privacy of their joint bathroom, captures the reader right away, moving swiftly through the plot yet pausing for intimate detail that brings the characters to life. It creates a surreal and almost haunting atmosphere which maintains a sense of mystery despite the blunt introduction of the suicides. The intriguing journey back to the suicide which opens the text keeps the book interesting through the last page. As such, the novel's ingenious storytelling makes it hard to put down.

The text is swiftly readable but never disintegrates into a cheap thrill; instead, it is an intelligent, thoughtful book. The suicides serve as both hook and climax to the story, but the book itself is a journey to and between the suicides. There are a dozen possibilities, but neither the narrarators nor the author ever pinpoints what drives Cecelia, Therese, Mary, Bonnie, and Lux to kill themselves.At some level, this unanswered question is frustrating and makes the end of the book almost teasingly brief. However, the cause of the suicides is essential--yet, somehow irrelevent. What matters is the Lisbon sisters: their life as fractioned representations of modern suburban adolescence, smothered under the protective care of their parents, left forever unfinished by their untimely deaths. The Virgin Suicides is exploration without judgement, opening a world to the reader for them to think on it themselves.

I was not sure what to expect when I first picked up this book. I was aware of it's success and intrigued by the unusual concept, but wasn't quite sure how the latter could lead to the former. Now having read it, I'm impressed by the connecction. Eugenides writes an extreme scenario into the most mundane setting, and so by exaggerating reality he in fact explores it. The sisters are real personalities and also archettypes- images of adolescence which are contrained even as they begin to blossom. The Virgin Suicides is quite brilliant, haunting, readable, intelligent, and thought-provoking. I'm impressed, and glad I had the chance to read it.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

*Starting today, this will be a daily blog! I've been writing reviews over the last year, so I'm going to use the ones I have stored up until I catch up with my more current reviews.*

"The nights were blinding cold and the casket black and the long reach of the morning had a terrible silence to it."



"...creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland.



I neither buy nor read collections of poetry anymore. I can count the poems I know by heart, at least the non-limerick ones, on a single hand. I'm not a huge fan of poetry anymore, and i truly see much of it as overblown--a good thing taken to a ridiculously inflated extreme. This book isn't poetry, but it's also not pure narrative. It's somewhere in the grey between, and I enjoyed every single page of it.
McCarthy had me on the 14th line when I read "granatic beast." No, I didn't need to be told this was a reference to stone. Its use here, early in the work, deliberate, familiar yet uncommon, communicated to me exactly what this book would be about, and more importantly how it would be told, and I couldn't wait to ingest it. The cotemplated and intentional use of this word in this place told me of texture and color and temperature, and its context told me of fear, uuncetainty, cruelty, and the close specter of menance. I was hooked before the first page was done.



I enjoyed this book's writing style immensely, its story simple and told in a manner that came to me clearly,, instantly creating depth with a minimum of prose. words like "envacumming," and phrases like "isocline of death" were absolutely brilliant--i bite my hand melodramatically wishing I'd written them. This highly evocative austerity was mirrored in the father's and the son's conversations, in which so little was said, but in which I was seeing absolutely clearly the cant of a head, a look in the eyes, the faintest curl of a smile.



And the wonderfully lyrical story unfolded. No, I didn't need quotation marks or crucial apostrophes. There was never any question of what was happening, who was saying what or where the story was headed. Honestly, do they care about proper punctuation in the wasteland? I didn't miss a thing, and the modestly different narrative presentation didn't faze me in the least. In fact, it reminded me instantly of E. E. Cummings. Ah, reluctantly back to poetry. Later on when the pair made it to the sea, and the prose touched on "shuttling," instantly T. S. Eliot's classic came to mind.



I very much enjoyed the father, an abject lesson in survival and just what it takes. he not only was educated, but also remembered it and knew how and when to apply it. He was inventive, attentive and observant, and deliberately learned from every experience. He anticipated, adapted and showed the courage to take immediate action, having thought through the consequences beforehand. He was no MacGyver, but from th opening minutes of the crisis he knew what was at hand; his survival, and his son's was due to his seriousness and intelligence and his application of them.



This book is not about the end of the world. It's not about nuclear winter, man's inevitable murder of the planet, the inherent barbarity of man, none of that. This book is about the only thing that matters, a parent's love for a child, and what at the absolutely basic level of survival you can and cannot do for those whom you treasure most, what you will go through and what you must decide upon for them to have all they need and deserve.



Bottom line: this is not a cheery, happy, frothy and light read. It is cold and hard and painful. But there is joy in it. be estatic it is only a story, that tonight you sleep ina bed in a house with food, water, and your dog on the hearth. be aware of and happy that you are reading this expertly rendered, magnificently crafted work of highly evocative prose, and look forward to the next one, whatever the subject.