The Warmth of Other Suns, by Isabel Wilkerson

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In 1937 Ida Mae Gladney left Mississippi for Chicago. In 1945 George Starling left Florida for New York City. In 1953 Robert Pershing Foster left Louisiana for Los Angeles.

They were part of the Great Migration. From 1915 to 1970 almost six million Black citizens left the south for northern and western cities looking for better lives. For the first time Wilkerson’s monumental book gives us a history of this remarkable movement.

The book is long but eminently readable, due to Wilkerson’s approach. By closely following stories of three individuals, she captures the reader’s attention and sympathy and keeps us turning pages. There are historical sections complete with supporting statistics, but these are kept to a minimum and related to the stories we’re following. The author brings all the tools of fiction to keep us interested in this meticulously researched history.

World War I is usually considered to precipitating cause of the Great Migration. Black soldiers serving in the military and in Europe discovered that it was possible to escape Jim Crow. At the same time, factories and businesses in the north and west were desperate for workers since the flow of immigrants had basically halted and the military claimed many of the remaining men.

The scope of the Great Migration was not recognised for a long time. The effects were felt locally, in cities such as Baltimore, Chicago, Detroit, New York, but it wasn’t until southern businesses found they could no longer hire enough Black workers—whose wages had been kept artificially low by Jim Crow laws and local corruption—that the outcry began.

The last part of the book, almost one hundred pages, includes Wilkerson’s notes on her methodology, acknowledgments, endnotes and index, attesting to the solid underpinning of research. She says:

This book is essentially three projects in one. The first was a collection of oral histories from around the country. The second was the distillation of those oral histories into a narrative of three protagonists . . . The third was an examination of newspaper accounts and scholarly and literary works of the era and more recent analysis of the Migration to recount the motivations, circumstances, and perceptions of the Migration as it was in progress and to put the subjects’ actions into historical context.

It is that historical context that is the takeaway I most value from this book. Much of the information here was not new to me. Yet what stands out is how I now have a framework for all the pieces that I was already familiar with. I felt them slotting into place as I read.

One area I wish Wilkerson had covered in more depth, though obviously there wasn’t room for it, is the Black communities that flourished during segregation and then dissipated, partly through “urban renewal” demolitions and partly through integration. Wilkerson mentions it briefly in a few places, such as speaking of Harlem’s rise and fall. Robert Foster’s story, too, shows it in microcosm: as he aged, he left his prosperous private practice, where he was popular among his mostly Black patients, to join the staff of a Veterans’ Hospital. He missed being in charge and disliked having to answer to higher-ups who he believed discriminated against him, eventually forcing him out.

I will remember Robert’s story as well as those of Ida Mae and George for a long time. They brought to life the indignities of the Jim Crow South they fled and the different kinds of injustice and prejudice they found in their sanctuary cities, far worse than the discrimination that immigrants from other countries faced. Through these individuals, I have a better understanding of the people around me.

What nonfiction have you been reading?

Generations: A Memoir, by Lucille Clifton

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Lucille Clifton is one of my favorite poets and a huge influence on my writing. I was privileged to hear her read more than once. In this memoir, originally published in 1976 and now a new edition from New York Review Books, she brings a poet’s sensibility to crafting her story.

The chapters, while prose, in their brevity exhibit the conciseness of poetry; anything not absolutely necessary is pared away, leaving the kernel. And you, the reader, bring your own understanding and experience to fill in the spaces. Each anecdote, each sentence becomes something precious because you know it is there for a reason.

She begins with an anecdote of a White woman who, after seeing a notice in the paper, thinks they might be related and offers to send Clifton a history of the family that she has compiled. Yet she does not recognise the name of Clifton’s father. “Who remembers the names of slaves?” Clifton asks. “Only the children of slaves.”

Unlike autobiography which covers your entire life and is as objective as possible, memoir includes only a small piece of your experience, usually a limited time frame, sometimes restricted to a particular theme or relationship. It is more subjective, understood to be the author’s perceptions.

Clifton, writing just after her father’s death, intersperses fragments of the family gathering for the funeral with the stories he has told her about the family members who shaped him, especially Caroline Donald, who was “ ‘born free among the Dahomey people in 1822 and died free in Bedford Virginia in 1910.’”

“Mammy Ca’line raised me,” Daddy would say. “After my Grandma Lucy died, she took care of Genie and then took care of me. She was my great-grandmother, Lucy’s Mama, you know, but everybody called her Mammy like they did in them days. Oh she was tall and skinny and walked straight as a soldier, Lue. Straight like somebody marching wherever she went.”

You can hear the poet’s ear for the music of words, the way she captures the rhythm of a person’s voice, suggesting dialect without tortured punctuation.

Through traces as delicate as sumi-e, Clifton gives us other family members: Genie, her father’s father with his withered arm and success with the ladies; wild and headstrong Lucy who was hanged for killing a White man; Clifton’s mother Thelma, brother Sammy and half-sisters Jo and Punkin.

The details are what break your heart, such as a teenaged Caroline married off at to another slave, 45 years older than her. “ ‘Oh slavery, slavery,’ my Daddy would say. ‘It ain’t something in a book, Lue. Even the good parts were awful.’” There is much that is of the time: Clifton’s father came north to work in a steel mill during a strike, part of the Great Migration, and bought not only a house but also a dining room set, the first Black man in Depew to do so.

Clifton draws strength from her ancestors. It is Caroline’s clarion call that echoes through the generations: “ ‘Get what you want, you from Dahomey women.’” Clifton’s bold choices shape her adult life; she is the one to comfort her sisters and assure them that their daddy will not haunt them.

The quotes from Walt Whitman for each section help make this memoir a celebration of the lives intertwined through the centuries and going on. With this powerful memoir, we will remember their names: Caroline, Lucy, Samuel, Genie, Thelma, Lucille.

Have you read a memoir that seemed like poetry?

The Transit of Venus, by Shirley Hazzard

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This most unusual novel, published in 1980, breaks many of the writing guidelines that have become common today.

The story ranges over wide spaces of time, leaping in and out of various characters’ lives. Similarly, the author head hops without apology, jumping between the thoughts of multiple characters in a single scene. Also, we get flash-forwards, meaning we are told in an abrupt aside of what is going to happen in the future. All of these usually pitch me out of a book, but so engaging is the prose here and so unusual the story that I was irresistibly pulled on.

The Bell sisters from Australia, recent immigrants to post-WWII England, seem to have their new lives sorted. An English-rose sort of beauty, Grace is engaged to Christian Thrale, a young bureaucrat. Caro, who is preparing to take the exam for a government post, is beautiful in her own way, a way that fits her strength and independence, Grace being more conventional.

They are staying with Christian’s parents when their plans become muddled by the introduction of two men: Ted Tice, a young astronomer from a working class background, and Paul Ivory, an up-and-coming playwright and the son of a semi-famous poet. Ted falls in love with Caro, and she with Paul, who is engaged to a wealthy neighbor.

This novel could have become a simple love triangle. However, what starts as a comedy of manners quickly becomes something more profound, as the author takes us on a fierce ride through the end of England’s empire and the attendant issues of women’s roles, colonialism, class divisions, marriage, power and the corruption it incites. Love, as well, of course—Venus is after all the ruling planet of the story—but explored in surprisingly subtle ways.

The transit referred to in the title is the rare occasion when Venus passes in front of the sun, a dark planet crossing a flaming sphere. The secrets in that dark heart are boldly drawn out in this vivid story. And its tragedies are hinted at by the early anecdote of a French astronomer who traveled to India to see the transit but missed it due to delays on the journey. He stayed there for eight years until it came around again, but the day was overcast, completely hiding the planet. The next transit wasn’t for another hundred years.

The story is rich with betrayals and subtle conflicts, as when Caro interrupts Professor Thrale’s peroration, pre-empting his reveal, and he goes on as though she hadn’t spoken. The interactions between the characters leave unusual gaps, forcing the reader to step up and fill them. Conversations are spiced with asides such as this about Mrs. Thrale:

She did not choose to have many thoughts her husband could not divine for fear she might come to despise him. Listening had been a large measure of her life: she listened closely—and, since people are accustomed to being half-heard, her attention troubled them, they felt the inadequacy of what they said.

I had a little trouble finding my footing at first, rereading the initial few pages because I thought I’d missed something. No, the author takes our intelligence for granted, giving us the opportunity to navigate her unusual and thrilling sentences in our own way.

One of the things I have come to look for and enjoy in stories is when the author treats their characters—protagonist, antagonist, and everyone else—with respect and compassion. We have that here. While it may occasionally undercut the drama, this approach finds deeper currents and insights about society in the second half of the twentieth century, shown through the lives of these two sisters, and the human condition itself.

What book have you read that, as soon as you reached the end, you turned back to begin it again?

Best Books I Read in 2021

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As a writer, I learn something from every book I read. In no particular order, these are the ten best books I read in 2021. Please check the links to the blog archive for a fuller discussion of those I’ve reviewed.

1. The Winter Soldier, by Daniel Mason
While this is a story about WWI, it is not about trenches and battles. It is a small, human story powered by big ideas, not just the romance/reality of war itself and the emergence of what we now call PTSD as a recognised illness, but also the unlikely connections that save us, the small mistakes that have large consequences, hubris, guilt, atonement. It is a brilliant evocation of this moment when everything about the world changed.

2. This Is Happiness, by Niall Williams
At 17, Noel Crowe goes to live with his grandparents in the small rural village of Faha in County Clare, Ireland. Sixty years later he remembers the events of that remarkable season which started on Easter Sunday when the rain stopped. I have not enjoyed a novel this much in a long time. It took me a little while to adjust to the pace, somewhat slower than we might be used to, but appropriate for this tale of a time measured in a horse’s clopping hooves or a bicycle ride. There is conflict and suspense, too, as in any story, and mysteries to be explored.

3. Deacon King Kong, by James McBride
The story opens with Sportcoat, a deacon at Five Ends Baptist Church who is perpetually drunk on the local moonshine called King Kong, entering a courtyard at the Cause Houses, a Brooklyn housing project. He takes out a rusty handgun and shoots Deems, a young drug dealer whom Sportcoat used to coach on the project’s baseball team. While some reviewers have considered this story a farce, to me it seemed utterly real. The characters are much like people I have known, and their world—so vividly portrayed— one I am familiar with.

4. The Fire This Time, by Jesmyn Ward
I read this collection of essays and poems three times over before I allowed the library to repossess it. Subtitled A New Generation Speaks about Race, it provides a nuanced portrait of racism and race in the U.S. today. The book’s title is a play on Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, which in turn takes its title from an old spiritual: “God gave Noah the rainbow sign / No more water, the fire next time.”

5. Notes to the Mental Hospital Timekeeper, by Tim Mayo
Mayo’s most recent collection of poems helps me find a way through this difficult time. From his work as a teacher and mental health worker, he brings us encounters with the delusional and with our own pasts. Because it is sometimes hard to tell if the poem is written in the persona of a patient or a staff person, Mayo narrows the distance between the two, finding our common humanity.

6. The Madness of Crowds, by Louise Penny
Penny latest novel of Inspector Armand Gamache and the village of Three Pines in Quebec is simply extraordinary. More than any other book I’ve read, it captures this unprecedented time, while still being an engrossing mystery.

7. North River, by Pete Hamill
James Delaney is a 47-year-old doctor practicing in Depression-era New York, living alone in a house gifted him by a grateful patient. All he has left is his work and, after the carnage of the Great War where he served as a medic, he is determined to save what lives he can and comfort the dying as best he can. Then one morning he returns from the hospital to find a baby in the entryway. I loved this novel. For once, I could simply relax into the life of single person, one who is complicated and flawed but whose basic moral code is evident.

8. The Possible Pleasures, by Lynn Valente
In these poems Valente’s language is simple, yet her images are startling and fresh. In addition, exquisite care has been taken with the ordering of the poems. It’s no surprise that the prestigious Finishing Line Press chose to publish this chapbook. It embeds simple truths in experiences we can recognise and phrases that catch us by surprise.

9. Klara and the Sun, by Kazuo Ishiguro
Klara is an Artificial Friend who, in the first part of this new novel from Ishiguro, is chosen and taken home by 14-year-old Josie as a companion. The use of AFs harks back to the use of governesses, servants, and slaves to do the emotional work some parents, such as Josie’s mother, are too busy for. This theme of service and its evil twin power—the effects on both the servant and served—is one Ishiguro has explored before, notably in The Remains of the Day.

10. We Are as Gods, by Kate Daloz
The story of Vermont’s Myrtle Hill commune provides the narrative backbone of this nonfiction book. Daloz follows the group from its idealistic beginnings through the gradual disenchantment, conveying their stories realistically yet with sympathy. The book combines the focus on Myrtle Hill and its neighbors with a wide-ranging summary of the counter-culture of the period, the growth and brief life of the commune movement, and the gradual recognition among the commune members that no one is actually self-sufficient. We all, including their original Vermont neighbors, rely on our community.

What were the best books you read last year?

Hamnet, by Maggie O’Farrell

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The year is 1596. Hamnet carefully, quietly descends the stairs, searching for an adult, anyone other than his abusive and often drunk grandfather. The child needs help because his twin sister Judith has fallen suddenly and disastrously ill. He doesn’t realise that his mother is off tending her swarming bees.

O’Farrell’s tour de force focuses on Agnes, Hamnet’s mother, Shakespeare’s wife, and in so doing immerses us in the day-to-day experience of raising children and managing a household in Elizabethan England. Agnes herself is an outlier in her society: the first thing we learn about her is that she keeps a falcon, unheard-of for a peasant much less a woman. Independent, strong-minded, more at home in the woods than anywhere else, she is an herbalist and a healer. She also has a mysterious ability, presumably from her long-dead mother, to read people’s fates.

What makes this novel so stunning is the author’s evocation of the details of each scene. Instead of tearing through a scene to keep the reader hopping, the author takes the time to richly imagine the sights and sounds, the minutest actions, staying with the scene until we are there, and stays there before moving on.

Suspense comes from our foreknowledge about Hamnet’s fate—perversely denied to his mother—and from the dual timelines: one being the year of Hamnet’s death, and the other the 1580s when Agnes and William begin a life together. A lengthy middle section describing how the plague made its way from a glass-blower in Italy to Judith in Stratford-upon-Avon may at first seem unnecessary, but it serves to increase the suspense as we long to return to that house on Henley Street.

That middle section also adds to our immersion in the period, envisioning how and why goods are packaged and transported, and what the costs are. I couldn’t help but be struck by the many people felled by the plague during its journey, people whom we don’t have time to mourn as we mourn for Judith and Hamnet.

What we know about Shakespeare comes mostly from his work. What we know about his son Hamnet is simply that he died at the age of 11, four years before Hamlet was written. What we know about Shakespeare’s wife is only a name, which is probably wrong.

The way the author uses names, starting with the title, gives us the frame for this book. The epigraph, a quote from Stephen Greenblatt, tells us that Hamnet and Hamlet were used interchangeably at the time. Similarly, his mother, who was called Agnes in her father’s will, is the woman we know as Anne Hathaway. Shakespeare himself is never named in this novel, instead called the glover’s son, the Latin tutor, her husband. My book club debated why, deciding that the book was not meant to be about him. One person astutely suggested that the author didn’t want us to think about Shakespeare the bard, but Shakespeare the man.

Our name is tied to our identity, so by introducing this uncertainty, the author reminds us how little we can know of each other, whether that other is in the past or our present. Members of my book club could not help but be struck by how many of the playwright’s works deal with misunderstandings and misinterpretations, switched and mistaken identities.

Every reference I’ve seen to Anne Hathaway depicts her as an older woman preying upon young Will, forcing marriage on him by getting pregnant. In truth, though, we know almost nothing about this woman—basically just the mentions of her in her father’s will and her husband’s—as we know nothing about the many women who loved, married, and bore children in obscurity.

Thus, though I am usually wary of fictional representations of real people who are not alive to defend themselves—per Milan Kundera’s masterful Immortality—here I welcome this reimagining of a woman and her passionate relationship with her husband.

In his review of Carole Angiers’ Speak, Silence: In Search of W.G. Sebald in the London Review of Books, Michael Wood writes:

Sebald’s deep preoccupation is with what his character Jacques Austerlitz calls ‘the marks of pain’, psychological and physical, in human and other animals. These marks are indelible, and for some people unforgettable.

Similarly, O’Farrell writes:

Every life has its kernel, its hub, its epicenter, from which everything flows out, to which everything returns. This moment is the absent mother’s: the boy, the empty house, the deserted yard, the unheard cry . . . It will lie at her very core, for the rest of her life.

Speaking from experience, I can say that the wrenching pages after Hamnet’s death truly capture a mother’s grief: the stunned emptiness, the guilt (contrary to all logic), the obsessive replaying of the child’s suffering, the eventual return to being able to function though changed, profoundly changed, forever.

As I am changed by this story. I was afraid to read it, despite the glowing reviews and recommendations, because I feared the pain. I’m grateful to my book club for giving me the impetus to gather my courage and begin. As Agnes discovered, art can help heal our heart’s wounds. So I say to you, go ahead. Give yourself over to this extraordinary book.

What book have you put off reading?

The Darkest Evening, by Ann Cleeves

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In the teeth of a blizzard, DCI Vera Stanhope of the Northumberland & City Police sets off for home but becomes disoriented in the tangle of snow-covered rural roads. For a while she is able to follow the lights of another car, but then they disappear, and she finds the car veered off onto a farm track, the driver’s door standing open and—upon investigation—a toddler strapped into a carseat.

Assuming the driver has gone for help, though surprised they left the child, Vera takes the child with her—I could identify with her struggle to connect the carseat in her ancient Land Rover!—and continues along the now-familiar road. It leads to Brockburn, the Stanhope family seat, but one Vera knows little of since her father had become estranged from them before she was born. Her cousin Juliet reconises Vera and welcomes her and the child, even though there’s a party going on, hosted by Juliet’s husband, theater director Mark Bolitho.

Then the dead body of a woman is discovered just outside, found by a local farmer come to pick up his daughters who’ve been helping out with the party.

This is a satisfying mystery with a fascinating cast of local characters, lots of buried secrets, and settings that feel entirely real, whether we’re in woods, mansion, or cottage kitchen. There are constant surprises as Vera investigates. For example, the murdered woman seems to be estranged from her parents and they from each other, but there are unexpected emotions roiling beneath that surface.

Two aspects of this mystery make it stand out for me. One is the information about Vera’s family. I knew her now-deceased father had been the black sheep of the family, but hadn’t realised his aristocratic lineage. His brother Crispin left the house to daughter Juliet with the condition that her mother could live there. Browbeaten by her mother, Juliet is also miserable over her inability to have a baby, while Mark is absorbed in his plans to fix their financial woes by turning the mansion into a theater venue. Vera’s interactions with each of these relatives illuminate the family’s dynamics.

The other is the way the theme—how much about a family is invisible to an outsider—is woven into the plot. It takes an expert geologist to see beyond the surface of a happy family or an estranged one, to sift through the buried layers of past actions, tangled roots and resentments. But Cleeves weaves the theme in subtly. It is only in looking back that I see how it is embodied in the rich characters and their public and private relationships, even in their homes. There are only a couple of places where the idea of family becomes explicit. This is something I struggle with: how much to trust my reader to see what isn’t stated outright.

Having enjoyed the Vera television series I decided to try one of the books on which it is based. I chose this one because it takes place around the winter solstice, and enjoyed it very much, though of course I heard Brenda Blethyn’s voice in my head. That’s one reason I usually try to read a book before seeing its dramatisation, so I can form my own images. I didn’t mind that here because the performances of Blethyn, David Leon as Joe, and especially Wunmi Mosaku as Holly provided extra texture to the story.

There’s plenty of suspense, looking out for danger where it isn’t and being surprised by where it is. With several potential solutions, there’s much to think about. As with the best mysteries, it’s not so much about identifying the murderer as it is about finding the correct narrative among the many possibilities that could have led to this outcome. I found it the perfect read for this season.

What do you think: read the book first or see the show first?

Notes to the Mental Hospital Timekeeper, by Tim Mayo.

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This is the book I needed right now. At this moment, a significant portion of my fellow citizens—including some friends and family—seem to have lost their minds, willing to destroy the country. For some it is the pursuit of ephemeral power, money and/or fame; for others, to be generous, it is out of fear. My astonishment and dismay know no bounds.

Now, at this moment, Mayo’s most recent collection of poems helps me find a way through. (Full disclosure: I know the author slightly.) From his work as a teacher and mental health worker, he brings us encounters with the delusional and with our own pasts.

I especially need a poem like “A Brief Explanation of the Psychotic Universe” which begins:

This is how it works: the invisible
cause and effect of the universe,
that Big Bang no one has ever heard,
emits its waves of singular commands.

The poem gives voice to someone who quite reasonably explains their own experience, someone who is perhaps psychotic, but also kind and compassionate, wanting to help others. That’s what I must remember: to see the whole person.

Because it is sometimes hard to tell if the poem is written in the persona of a patient or a staff person, Mayo narrows the distance between the two, finding our common humanity. Maybe we all have “a black wolf / which was once your shadow” lurking in our past. We all want to be treated with respect, no matter how strange our choices and compulsions may appear to others.

Poetry is music and the language here is undeniably musical. Throughout, Mayo’s language is both direct and complex. There are no obscure words or allusions that you have to look up. Yet in crafting these lines, using internal and slant rhyme, repeated sounds such as the “v” in the stanza quoted above, Mayo creates a rhythm all his own.

The poems in this collection explore the liminal space between oneself and others, the negotiations that must take place in that unsettled region where our own rules and certainties may not apply, where we must recognise what the other brings.

And sometimes the other may be ourselves, past or present. One of my favorite poems is “Pressure Cooker” where Mayo goes deeply into an incident from childhood, using a child’s language, building details until the devastating last stanza which opens the poem to encompass multitudes.

I love that Mayo goes after what Brian Doyle calls Big Ideas, unafraid to bring his lens—up close and personal—to concepts that might seem impossible to address in a single poem. Yet he succeeds. My favorite poem is “The Ladder” which uses details to bring us so vividly into the experience of climbing that physical and metaphorical ladder, and ends unexpectedly with something so simple, so profound that it is impossible to forget.

What poem has helped you face the day?

Landing, by Sarah Cooper-Ellis

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There’s a moment in mid-life when many, if not all of us stop and wonder if it’s time to change course. Maybe something brings home how short the time we have left may be, and we rethink how we ought to use it. This novel begins with such a moment (Full disclosure: I know the author slightly.) Sometimes we look back over our lives to see if we missed a turning somewhere. Sometimes we get drawn into something new almost without realising it.

At 60, Meredith Carter must take a break from her work at a childcare center due to physical injury. She enjoys her job but realises “that there was something else she should be doing.” An independent New Englander, she has only herself to consult about changing course. Her husband died 17 years earlier and her only child is grown and living in New York City.

Life in her rural New Hampshire home is disrupted by her siblings who, across the river in Vermont, are starting a maple syrup business. Smaller than a small town, the village of Middlefield where they grew up holds ghosts and memories: ponds where they used to skate, new developments covering fields that once held forests.

As she spends more and more of her time staying with one of her brothers while working in the store, Meredith feels the pull of the past even as she enjoys flexing new muscles managing sales and inventory. Then she meets Arthur, a woodworker who lives across the road. Fifteen years older than Meredith, there is a calm strength about him that draws her.

The story moves across time as Meredith explores her own willingness to return to her hometown or to share her life again. What I most love about this book are the descriptions. Meredith had once been a forester and so a walk in the woods takes us deeper into the landscape than one might expect, reminding me of Tom Wessel‘s masterful Reading the Forested Landscape. More than mere ornaments, these images embody her own exploration of her native ground.

There are a few places where I wanted more: a scene with a former boyfriend that ends almost before it’s begun, a story thread that didn’t seem to ever get resolved. But I found much to like about this book: the independent woman at its center, the immersion in rural New England life and landscape, the idea of investigating the possibility of a new life, the emotional journey of an older woman that rings so true.

What novel have you read where the landscape is an integral part of the story?

Murder and Miss Austen’s Ball, by Ridgway Kennedy

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As her 40th birthday approaches, Jane has decided that at her advanced age she no longer needs to worry overly about society’s strictures, and so she will throw herself a ball. She has sent for a dancing master and gets in his place Freddy Worth, an itinerant musician and apprentice dancing master. Nonetheless, after hearing Freddy play, Jane is willing to give him a chance.

Her wealthy neighbor, feckless Aloysius Ellicott, impulsively offers the use of the ballroom at Kellingsford Hall. His father, Lord Horatio Ellicott, Viscount Kellingsford, has gone a bit gaga and only seems concerned about his fashionable clothes. The house and estate are run by older brother Percival who is in the process of enclosing fields formerly used as commons, while calling in debts from a neighbor whose income will suffer from his tenants’ loss of the common land.

Amid this turmoil, Jane moves forward with her ball. There is a hilarious scene of Freddy teaching the dances to red-coated dragoons whom Jane has enlisted to serve as partners, their swords clashing and tangling. Freddy’s naval background comes in handy as he translates dance instructions into parade ground commands.

The ball itself starts off beautifully, but then disaster strikes. Determined to discover what has led to the awful events at her ball, Jane enlists the reluctant aid of her dancing master, who is concerned with protecting her reputation, and they roam far and wide following various leads. Austen fans familiar with what is known of her life will for the most part appreciate this depiction of the author, though some of Jane’s escapades may raise eyebrows.

There are other mysteries in bookstores starring Austen as a detective. What sets this novel apart are the remarkable descriptions of the experience of playing in a small ensemble and of dancing these simple and graceful dances.

In this debut novel, Kennedy brings his considerable expertise playing for and teaching English Country Dance (ECD): country dances of this and other periods, including newly composed ones. (Full disclosure: I have met Kennedy; we both belong to a large traditional dance and music community.)

While it surely helped that I was familiar with the dances named, Kennedy’s evocation of how it feels to dance them is remarkable. I was even more awed by his portrayal of the musical sessions. Not a musician myself, I’m still aware of the subtle signals and changes within an ensemble, the turns at improvisation, the sudden quiet or swelling volume, aware enough to applaud these passages.

Mystery readers will not be disappointed with the fast-moving plot, with its surprises and red herrings. Those who have been to Chawton, Bath, and other places in Austen’s life will recognise the settings that are briefly but effectively described.

Fans of cosy mysteries will enjoy this light-hearted romp through Jane’s world. For me, it brightened these bleak midwinter days.

What books have you turned to for a bit of cheer during this month of shortening days?

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received a copy of this book free from the publisher. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own.

The Possible Pleasures, by Lynn Valente

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Sometimes I think: there are only 26 letters; there are only so many words, so many ways to combine them. And then a chapbook like this comes along and blows me away. Valente’s language is simple, yet her images are startling and fresh, summoning my own experiences to reinforce her ideas and acknowledge her insight. (Full disclosure: I know the author slightly.)

“I Was a Pencil” is one of the best poems I’ve read about becoming a writer. Describing a childhood Halloween costume she speaks of “the finest 2-word poem I’d even heard: / Venus / Velvet” before talking of being able to

. . . run
from house to house

since I had no baggage
unlike my sisters,
the witch and the princess.

So much meaning about women and women’s roles and writing is held within these few words.

I was also aware, on my second or third reading, of the exquisite care taken with the ordering of the poems. Attention has clearly been paid to the way poems on facing pages converse with each other, harmonise and expand on each other’s thoughts, such as putting an erotic poem about the wind facing a poem about the transcendent experience of a flute concert.

My favorite poem is “Rural Essay.” As someone newly settled in the Green Mountains, I have struggled with capturing what they mean to me. And here she has expressed it so clearly, so cleanly that it eases the pain and frustration that have dogged me.

It’s no surprise that the prestigious Finishing Line Press chose to publish this chapbook. It embeds simple truths in experiences we can recognise and phrases that catch us by surprise.

Sometimes there is a hinge in the middle of a poem; sometimes a twist at the end. Each poem has something that suddenly takes it out of the mundane, magnifying it into a larger truth, whether it’s the slap of a beaver’s tale breaking a marital stalemate or the echo of a lady’s slipper flower in the story of Cinderella.

You can tell right away from the cover, a simple line drawing by Valente, that you are in the presence of someone who can fill a plain vessel with multitudes of meaning. For me, this drawing is an exultant person, arms thrown wide in the movement my Qigong teacher calls Love Descends on Me, and overhead a bird, free and certain in its flight.

What poem have you read that has surprised or humbled you, or told you something about yourself?