A Classic??? Dead in the Frame

 

 

DEAD IN THE FRAME

By Stephen Spotswood

Doubleday, 2025, 355 pages

★★

 

I often consult lists when I’m searching for blog themes and recently ran across one for “Classic PI Books.” I’ve already read some of them, like Dashiel Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon and Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye, but I had never read Stephen Spotswold or Dead in the Frame. I was also curious how a book published in 2025 could be a classic, so I gave it whirl.

 

The skinny is that it shouldn’t be on a list of classics. I presume it was considered a classic for politically correct reasons as all of his PIs are women and the bulk of them are lesbians. That could be a unique selling point, but Spotswood’s Pentecost and Parker series is clearly set in the 1940s and, even in New York City, few would have been as out and bold as those in Dead in the Frame.

 

Lillian Pentecost is sometimes compared to Sherlock Holmes in that she’s a cerebral detective rather than a swashbuckler, but she’s actually fairly passive in this novel as she is in jail by page 8.  Proving her innocence is the task of her assistant “Will” Parker, as in Willowjean, the sexual partner of crime writer Holly Quick. Pentecost is accused of murdering Jessup Quincannon, a millionaire with the odd hobby of maintaining his “Black Museum,” a collection of murder paraphernalia and artifacts. He and Lillian have long maintained a relationship of mutual contempt for each other, but is this a motive for a rationalist such as Pentecost to eliminate him?

 

Against her better judgment Pentecost accepts an invitation to visit Quincannon and before the night is out, Jessup is dead with a bullet in his head that matches Lillian’s gun. No one else is in the room but the corpse and Lillian when the police arrive at the behest of Silas Culliver, Quincannon’s lawyer. His bodyguard, the stunning Alathea, tells police that no one else went in or out of the room once the shot was fired. Lillian is cuffed and taken off to the Women’s House of Detention on Greenwich Avenue, a once-real place famed for housing “deviants” such as transexuals and lesbians. Will is dumbfounded and knows she has to get Pentecost out soon. One of her male jailers in bent on revenge for a past case, plus she has multiple sclerosis and is growing progressively weaker.

 

A cast of other oddballs enter the case: Dr. Ryan Backstrom, a lobotomist; Judge Mathers, a lecherous friend of Quincannon’s father; Max Roberts, a pain-in-the-butt reporter; Timothy Novarro, a huckster preacher and his wife Elaine; and the elusive Billy Muffin, a (perhaps) former hitman. As if Will doesn’t have enough on her plate, Lillian insists they keep open office hours to help others in distress such as a photographer hellbent on finding his wife’s murderer and a Chinese toymaker’s widow without money who’d like to solve her husband’s demise. Several of the women also have trouble keeping their libidos in check and the office is so short-staffed that Holly takes on the role of helping Will investigate. Even one of Lillian’s investigative antagonists, Dr. Olivia Waterhouse, voices doubts that Lillian killed Quincannon.

 

As in most detective novels, odds are strong that the mystery of Quincannon’s demise will be solved. I confess, though, I did not see the solution coming. That’s due in part to the fact that Spotswood’s writing is often more convoluted than it should be, but it’s also due to too many characters dropping in and out of the narrative and a “solution” that isn’t particularly believable.

 

It would be fair to say that I didn’t care much for Dead in the Frame. I might, though, go back to Spotswood’s Fortune Favors the Dead, Book One of the Pentecost and Parker oeuvre to get a better handle on the major characters. But that’s down on my reading list for now.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

Highs and Lows of Traveling in Britain

London: "Walkie Talkie" on far left.

Canterbury

 

You’ll be reading a lot in this blog about our recent trip to England, so ‘s a brief overview. We were based in London, aside from a two-day stay in York, hence these thoughts are geographically skewed. I’ve spent more time in Scotland than in England and am more comfortable in the land of my ancestors, so this too colored my perceptions. (“If it’s nae Scottish, it’s crrrrapp,” as SNL once joked.)

It had been nearly 15 years since last we were in London and even longer since our previous visit to York. It is safe to say that a lot has changed! Change can be a mixed bag and one’s reaction to such things are often a matter of preference.

Highlights

Travel begins with people. We were not on a tour, but a definite highlight was seeing old friends. Valerie jetted over from Geneva and spent a day with us at the Victoria and Albert Museum at London. Chinwags, lunch, and warn beverages on a cool day in William Morris-styled tearooms lent a pleasant atmosphere to catching up.

We spent another day with Derek and Jenny who live just outside of London. We rendezvoused at Black Heath for a very long walk that began in the village and across the heath and Greenwich. Mist, open land, coffee and cakes at a garden house, a stroll through an instructional farm to visit critters, and a train into London’s upscale Docklands area. We gabbed, gabbed, gabbed and ended the day at a nice Indian restaurant.

We found English people unfailingly kind and polite. As older (yikes!) travelers, younger folks offered us seats on the Tube (subway), helped us work out ticket machines, and committed small acts of kindness. I’m no expert of Britain’s racist/anti-immigrant Reform Party, but London is the most multicultural city I’ve seen in recent years. There are interracial couples of all sorts and a noticeable lack of anger on the faces of English people of color. Brexit and Reform aside, their followers are spitting into the wind; immigrants are tightly woven into London culture.

The Sights:

1. If museums are a passion, London caters to so many tastes that we largely confined ourselves to art–Tate Britain, National Gallery, National Portrait Gallery, Tate Modern, the Tower of London–and the anthropological wonders of the British Museum.

2. Green spaces abound. Walking through St. James’s Park near Buckingham Palace was amazing. We were promptly greeted by a rather imperious white pelican, as well as magpies, moorhens, and parrots. I struck up a nice conversation with an elderly Chinese gentleman with a cloud of parrots around him. He told me he is retired and that he comes every day to feed his “friends.”

 

Feeding his friends!

 3. You can still find free house pubs serving cask ales. Be wary; not all are good.

4. An evening at Wilton’s Theatre for a singalong of Cockney, music hall, and selected pop/rock songs was a gas. Tom Carradine and his China Plates are a throwback in a positive way. Tom dresses in Victorian garb most of the time, sports a waxed mustache, and has a devoted following in a run-down venue whose condition parallels Preservation Hall in New Orleans.

5. We found (in order) Canterbury, York, and Oxford much more “charming” than London. Also, more historical and less frenetic.

  The Lows:

1. Once-familiar landmarks are now “buried” in London’s go-go building boom that pays very little attention to planning. Dizzying skyscraper complexes have Manhattanized London with insufficient attention paid to the surrounding area. The pickle-shaped “Gherkin” has been followed by the “Shard” (think Superman’s Fortress of Solitude on Ozempic), and a hulking skyscraper Londoners have dubbed “the Walkie-Talkie” and I think looks like a Bose speaker. I like bold design (though the reflections from the Gherkin have allegedly induced skin burns), but poor placement invites lampoon. The Docklands is impressive, but generic. Its web of private moorings makes mockery of where laborers and sailors once toiled. Gentrification and genericization abound. 

The "Gherkin"

 

 

 

 

 

 

From the South Bank bridge. Note how close the "Walkie Talkie" is Tower Bridge

 

 

 2. London has become unaffordable. A cup of coffee can set you back $7 when you do the conversion. A simple meat or veggie hand pie is ₤16-17 (as much as $23!). We were staying in Earls Court where each townhouse had cars such a Lamborghini, a BMW, a Rolls, or its ilk parked in the drive. Our rental was in a townhouse carved into postage stamp rooms. The galley kitchen was jammed into a hallway with cupboards that reached to the top of 12’ ceilings. The same was true of the shower, whose head would have made for a lovely fixture for someone 11’ tall.  

3. The class system is alive and well, though it is now an aristocracy of money rather than birth. Upscale stores such as Harrods and Liberty are absolutely disgusting is their worship of conspicuous consumption.  I looked at a light wool scarf in Harrods that would have set me back $600. London's main shopping district is strictly show-off stuff for the millionaires and tchotchkes from Marks and Sparks for the masses. I literally fled from Harrods.

4. There’s not much new in the theatre. Revivals everywhere, even off the Strand. 

The Hours: Virginia Woolf Done Well

 

 

 

THE HOURS (2002)

Directed by Stephen Daldry

Paramount Pictures, 144 minutes, PG-13

★★★★★

 

I recently rewatched The Hours, which is loosely based on the 1925 Virginia Woolf novel Mrs. Dalloway. Two-thirds of the movie modernizes circumstances, but fans of Mrs. Dalloway will easily pick out borrowed elements.

 

Those who adapt classic works of literature do so at their own peril, but what a team assembled for the film. The screenplay was written by David Hare based on a novel from Michael Cunningham. The Academy Award-winning score came from Philip Glass, and the cast is almost entirely A-level. Its three principals alone were a coup: Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore, and Nicole Kidman, who won a Best Actress Oscar for her portrayal of Woolf. Rather than attempt to echo Woolf’s stream of consciousness writing style, director Stephen Daldry jumps between three timelines and settings: 1920s England, 1951 suburbia, and 2001 New York City. Each period covers a single day.

 

Nicole Kidman dons a prosthetic nose and adopts a worried, dour Quaker demeanor to depict a depressed Woolf. She’s trying to get a handle on Mrs. Dalloway, is struggling, and everything that happens that day annoys her no end. She hates living in Richmond, England, then a country retreat for titled aristocrats, rich gentry, and social climbers. Woolf hates it and yearns for the hustle and bustle of London. She feels like a prisoner of her husband Leonard (Stephen Dillane), her self-appointed guardian against self-harm and impetuous behavior. Her sprawling house, her class status, Leonard, and even the servants are metaphorical wardens. A visit from her sister Vanessa Bell (Miranda Richardson) and her family drives Virginia deeper into depression. Vanessa has children, a settled family life, and devotes herself to domesticity–all things Virginia is supposed to want but doesn’t. We see her attempt to run away to London, as well as foreshadowing of Woolf’s 1941 suicide by loading her pockets with rocks and wading into the River Ouse.

 

The 1951 sequences center on Laura Brown (Moore) living in one of the instant suburbs that proliferated after World War Two. She is married to war vet Dan (John C. Reilly), a well-meaning, not-so-bright guy who buys into the dream of a ranch house, a gee-whiz son named Richie (Jack Rovello), a manicured lawn, a TV set, and dinner waiting when he gets home. Laua, however, leans on her neighbors Mrs. Latch (Margo Martindale), and Kitty (Toni Collette) because she doesn’t have a domestic bone in her body. She is bored senseless, makes a lesbian pass, and briefly runs away to a Los Angeles hotel where she contemplates suicide, but can’t do it.

The 2001 scenes are the equivalent of hyper-modernized productions of Shakespeare. We meet Clarissa Vaughan (Streep) in a shabby apartment where she is caring for her gay friend Richard (Ed Harris), a cynical gay writer covered with lesions and dying of AIDS. Clarissa is frenzied because she is throwing a big party for Richard that evening to celebrate his career achievement award. Clarissa is so manic that Richard actually calls her “Mrs. Dalloway.” Clarissa and Richard were lovers in college but she is now a lesbian in a longtime relationship with Sally (Allison Janney). Clarissa frets every detail, from where to distribute the flowers in her upscale apartment to how to seat the guests. Her daughter Julia (Clare Danes) tries to be a calming influence, but good luck with that. At the last minute the party is off. As Clarissa takes his suit over to Richard’s apartment, he swallows a few pills and jumps to his death when her back is turned. Surprise guests nonetheless turn up, including his ex-lover Louis (Jeff Daniels), and a super-surprise guest.

 

The Hours won a lot of critical acclaim in 2002, though some viewers found it depressing (duh!) and a few critics complained that female victimization was overdone (duh and doh!). Apparently, none of the complainers had ever heard of The Feminine Mystique or paid much attention to the 1951 segment. It is rare for a Hollywood film to have so many high-powered and talented actors in one film. (The usual is to have two or three “big” names as audience lures and fill in with unknowns and third-rate actors.)  The entire cast acquits themselves well, no matter the size of their roles. Though my literary friends may skewer me, it’s a rare film that surpasses the book that inspired it.

 

Rob Weir

 

For those who care, here is the River Ouse, though in York, not where Woolf killed herself.

 

 

 

Plainsong: Grace Doesn't Come Easy

 

 

  

 

PLAINSONG (1999)

By Kent Haruf

Alfred A. Knopf, 301 pages.

★★★★★

 

Perhaps some of you know about the novel  Plainsong because it was made into a TV movie back in 2004. If there’s such a thing as a hidden masterpiece, this novel gets my vote. If you did see the TV production–I did not–know that author Kent Haruf hated it. In other words, don’t think you know the book if you watched the Hallmark Hall of Fame movie.

 

Plainsong can reference several things. Originally it was a style of unadorned music, usually without instrumental accompaniment. Gregorian chants are an example of this as are numerous other acapella arrangements such as one might hear in spartan country churches. It can also mean a spare style of writing–Haruf’s approach–or (for lack of a better term) what me might associate with simple living. Mennonites would be one example of the latter, but in Haruf’s novel it can be life in the sparsely populated parts of the Great Plains.

 

Plainsong is set in the fictional town of Holt, Colorado, a remote Big Sky town that’s closeknit by necessity. People speak of leaving, but seldom do, largely because they wouldn’t know how to handle big city life. Tom Guthrie is a major protagonist. He is a burnt out history teacher and part-time rancher living an isolated life outside of town with his two sons, Ike and Bobby. He holds some of his anger inside, but everyone in Holt knows that he’s dealing with his wife’s erratic behaviour, then her disappearance.

 

After she leaves–possibly because she was mentally disturbed, or possibly because small town life bored her–Tom bears the marks of an embittered man. He’s a taciturn, tough teacher; students earn the marks they get and he refuses to change grades, even under pressure. For their part, Ike and Bobby manifest abandonment through their shyness and social withdrawal. They know more about animals than human beings. This is evidenced by their cluelessness when confronted with bullying.  

 

In small places, redemption comes via small incidents and in incomplete ways. Tom notices the struggles of one of his students, Victoria Roubideaux. She has a bad attitude and, again, everyone knows that her single mother is an alcoholic. Tom has seen that Victoria is actually quite smart, but she’s carrying a burden she can’t hide for long. When she gets pregnant, her mother throws her out on the street to fend for herself. Tom implores a colleague, Maggie Jones, to give Victoria shelter and the novel’s heroic role shifts from to Maggie.

Maggie realizes that she can be only a temporary refuge. As you might imagine, social agencies in a town such as Holt have little to offer. Maggie has the unusual idea of approaching Raymond and Harold McPheron for help. They are akin to the “Norwegian bachelor farmers” in a Garrison Keillor story. The two brothers have long kept to themselves and neither has ever had much dealing with the distaff side of life. They know nothing about teenage girls in general, let alone a pregnant one. Plus they have to deal with an initial 1-1 tie over the whole idea of changing their lifestyle.  

 

Plainsong is rife with Biblical references, which prompted one reviewer to call it “hymn-like.” I’m not sure about that, but you’ve probably noticed that what is called “Christian charity” is often interwoven into village life. The McPherons reluctantly agree to take in Victoria, not realizing they would have to deal with her boyfriend Dwayne, the cold, irresponsible jerk whose child Victoria carries, or some of her actions (such as running away to Denver for several weeks). Can Victoria adjust to two old guys as substitute parents? Raymond and Harold are adept at tending to calves and lambs, but what about a pregnant girl or a human baby? After all, shelter is about more than a roof and a bed.

 

Plainsong is about abandonment, resiliency, and adaptation. It avoids rainbow endings or instant change scenarios. It was a surprise best seller in 1999 and was a National Book Award finalist, so it’s no surprise it has made a comeback. Some reviewers dissed its sentimentality, but defenders drew comparisons it Willa Cather’s My Antonia. I personally saw echoes of Spoon River Anthology and loved it for its warts-and-all humanity.

 

Note: If you wonder about the fate of other characters, know that Plainsong is part one of a trilogy.

 

Rob Weir

Cold on My Shoulder

Normally I’d have posted on this blog this morning. That was the plan but, alas, I brought something back from England that couldn’t be ignored: a raging summer cold. You know the drill: runny nose, stuffy sinuses, coughing, and a throat that feels as if I gargled barbed wire.

It’s not Covid; I’ve had that and it’s worse–high fever, inability to focus, shortness of breath, loss of smell and taste, gastro issues–but colds are no fun either. That said, I had forgotten how frustrating a cold can be. I’ve been retired for nearly a decade and hadn’t had a cold since the day I left.

Those who have worked in schools, social agencies, restaurants, and other public places can attest that catching colds is an occupational hazard. Schools are little incubators for the more than 200 viruses that can cause the “so-called common” cold. In an ideal world, everybody covers their mouth when they cough or sneeze, wash their hands frequently, clean surfaces they’ve touched, and stay home when they are sick and contagious.

Alas, we don’t live in an ideal world. When you’re a good student, you fear falling behind so you go to school sick. Whether or not we like to hear it, schools are babysitters for K-12 students. Parents often shuffle sick kids off to school because they can’t afford to take a day off work. But teachers can be just as bad. I was one of them. Some former high school students of mine probably have nightmares about days in which my voice was shot from illness. I came to work anyhow and made you folks write until your arms were failing off! Or the days in which I salvaged my voice by bringing a giant thermos of coffee to work. By the last period I was so high of caffeine that I was firing out information and questions like a wild man with a Gatling gun.  

I wonder if my immunity systems are off-line from not having had a cold for so long. I had forgotten how fast one regular-sized nose could burn through a box of tissues and consuming cough drops as if they were Oreos. Not to mention beating a path to the bathroom to discharge all the fluids I’ve drunk.

I had also forgotten that every school year, the worst cold I got was just before summer vacation. It was as if I had my defenses on high alert and just as I corrected final exams and completed reading student papers, I sighed, let down my defenses, and Mr. Virus climbed over the walls and kicked my butt. He twirled his thin mustache, sprinkled me with ten thousand germs, and screamed, “Aha!” in his most dastardly voice. Summer colds are just one notch down from being tied to a railroad track as a rushing train speeds around the bend. Sometimes I felt so lousy I would have preferred that my rescuing superhero (Superman? Underdog? Nyquil?) stayed home so my misery could end sooner.

In the few years I didn’t get an end-of-the-school-year cold, other things happened that prevented me going into full Slug Mode until September. One year, spring came early and I got in a lot of tennis after school and on weekends. That was the year I had my only bout of tennis elbow and my right arm was put in a sling. Another year I tore my left rotator cuff and put that arm in a sling for several months. The sling also had a red ball attached to it to squeeze for exercise. I spent several months living in abject fear that a friendly Golden Retriever would happen upon me and demand a game of fetch by sinking his teeth into the ball.

The worst of all was a weekend before Bay Path commencement. It was a gorgeous Saturday morning and I went for a run on the ¾ mile dirt track at Smith College. I was light on my feet after the first lap and decided to put on the afterburners for lap two. That was the plan, except I was paying attention to the music in my Walkman player, not where I was going. As I gained speed, I smacked my left knee into the gate stanchion post I was supposed squeeze past. Down I went like shot, thereby driving bits of stone into my right arm and both knees. The emergency room doctor declared me a “bloody mess” as he picked gravel out of three of my four limbs. I attended commencement on crutches with five stiches in my knee and an oozing bandage over it. A further indignity of being ushed into the tent before anyone else entered. And, yes, it could be worse. It was as awful that weekend as it was warm and sunny the previous one.  How awful you ask? Pelting icy rain that turned to snow!

By rights I shouldn’t complain about my silly cold. But I will!

Rob Weir  

 

How Not to Be an Ugly American

 

The Ugly American, a 1958 novel, coined a stereotype of U.S. travelers
whose arrogance raised hackles abroad. These days, pushy Germans, selfie-taking Japanese travelers, and Italians who mob instead of queuing have supplanted the Ugly American. Don’t revive him.

At the end of April, agit-prop artist Banksy struck again. The above statue arose overnight in London’s Waterloo Square. You don’t need a course in semiotics to read Banksy’s implied dig at Donald Trump and other autocrats. Note that the figure is blinded by the flag he waves and is about to step off into the void. You’re probably right to connect the gilded statue of Athena with Trump’s garish ballroom project that looks as if Croesus puked gold on the East Wing. Make what you will of the scaffolding!

I hope you’ve noticed that Off-Center Views has been silent the past few weeks. I’ve been in England, where Trumpism gets a cold reception. Even though the hard right threatens Europe–Le Pen in France, skinheads in Germany, the Reform Party in England, and anti-immigrant sentiment across the continent–Trump’s aggressive American triumphalism is lampooned. (We even have our own Arc de Triomphe set to be built!) As I saw it, America was largely ignored other than the sentiment that King Charles played Trump like a cheap accordion.

Oddly, though, Canadians and Europeans are often kind to American visitors. You probably won’t like the reason; they feel sorry for us. Once we were the envy of the world, but that ship has sailed. There are myriad reasons not to act like an Ugly American abroad, not the least of which is leaving home can make you feel more like a pauper than the pop stars among the top 10% who hold more than two-thirds America’s  wealth.

Park your preconceptions. Do you believe that the USA has the world’s highest standard of living? Not even close! We’re not in the same boat as the poorest of the globe’s 193 nations, but depending upon which index you consult, America is either #17 or as low as #23. Both Canada and Great Britain rank above us. Foreign leaders seek calm relations with America mostly because of our nuclear arsenal and the international reach of capitalism, not envy.

The U.S. gets low marks for health care, life expectancy, education, infrastructure, public safety, and environmental action. The contrast is visible when visiting Western Europe, Japan, Scandinavia, and parts of Canada and China. (Switzerland, The Netherlands, and Denmark tend to flip flop as # 1.) I’ve yet to visit Denmark or Japan, but I have traveled to the rest and the list seems fairly accurate. If you’re looking for Utopia, pick up a fantasy novel; higher-ranked nations have their struggles as well. It is nonetheless sobering to realize that contemporary America seems a lot like post-Colonial Britain. One thing every American should do when traveling is shut up, listen, and learn.

            For instance, many (if not most) Europeans are comfortable with socialism. Capitalism is an economic system, not a form of government. You’ve probably heard socialism as a swear word. It’s actually a spectrum of political practices; democratic socialism seeks to balance common social needs and pursuit of personal gain. Don’t confuse it with authoritarian socialism (like communism).

Be polite:  Don’t congregate in the middle of busy sidewalks or the exits of stores and transit stations. Take photos, but step away from foot traffic to do so. Do not hold cellphone conversations in inappropriate places and silence them anywhere that would interrupt decorum. Notice how food is consumed. Brits, for example, use knives and forks quite differently.

Respect local customs: Do some homework before you arrive, like learning the metric system!  Making fun of nations that drive on the left isn’t going to get them to change. Likewise, you should walk or stand on the left unless signs indicate otherwise (like on escalators). If you rent a car in New Zealand and stop at a red light, you invite wrath if you take off as soon as the light changes. Local custom holds that vehicles with difficult cross-traffic turns have priority. If you visit a mosque or temple, remove your shoes and women should cover their heads with a scarf. Buddhists ask for quiet, shoes, hats, and sunglasses removal. Be quiet and never point the soles of your feet at a monk, altar, or statue of Buddah. Always wear modest clothing in religious buildings, including cathedrals. No shorts of dresses shorter than shorts!

Have fun but know the rules: Don’t dream of using drugs in the 33 nations that carry a potential death sentence for drug busts. At best, violators get lengthy jail sentences. Brittney Griner got 9 years for having a vape pen in Russia. She got home in a spy/prisoner exchange after 10 months. You’re not a WNBA star; you’ll fare even worse! In Malaysia, public spitting could cost you $1,000. In some places, graffiti, drinking alcohol, theft, or overstaying your visa could result in a public caning. (A handful of Americans have endured that.)

It’s not America: LGBTQ+ are hot-button issues in the U.S. but in some places they are very illegal–most of Africa for starters–so avoid public displays of affection and use restrooms that won’t raise alarms.  It all boils down to “when in Rome (or London, or Nairobi, or…) do as the locals do.”

Be cognizant of political realities: Until you personally break the ice, expect anti-Americanism. I usually carry something with visible emblems of New Zealand, Switzerland or Scotland. Diehard nationalists would deride me for this, but who needs uninvited hassles? Until you know people, you don’t know what their attitudes are. Don’t be like the loud-mouthed Texan I encountered in New Zealand who vehemently expressed his disbelief in global warning. It didn’t play well in a nation with a giant hole in the ozone layer over the South Island. When I was a Fulbright scholar our pre-departure training included a reminder that we were de facto American ambassadors. The same is true of U.S. tourists. 

Rob Weir

Brawler: Groff's Writing Shines Even in Flawed Narratives

   

 

 BRAWLER: STORIES (2026)

By Lauren Groff

Penguin Random House, 248 pages (Large Print version)

★★★

 

Lauren Graff is one of my favorite novelists and has a devoted following. Brawler has garnered rave reviews and several of the stories are stunners. Of the nine stories in the collection, though, there are a few that underwhelmed me, including the collection’s title tale. Its protagonist, Sara, is an individual with two personalities, the tough (aka/brawler) athlete and the shy kid aware of being an outcast because of her poverty, sick mother, and unkempt appearance. In my view, how this shaped the rest of her life warranted more than 12 pages and few sentences at the end.

On the other hand, her theme of “the ceaseless battle between human’s dark and light angels” “To Sunland” nails it. Goff explores 17-year-old Joanie’s dilemma after her mother dies and leaves her mentally challenged brother Buddy in her care. Joannie has a scholarship to a college in Maine and can’t wait to get out of Florida. As it happens, a lot of Floridians try to get what they can out of Joanie before she goes, her mother’s things, a cheap feel, a captive audience for evangelizing, her money…. Can she leave Buddy at a facility and get on with her life? It’s a taut tale about need versus guilt.

“Birdie” comes at this from a different angle. Five old friends gather two decades later when Birdie lies dying. More accurately, four were friends; Nicole never considered herself part of anyone’s in-crowd. Nic can’t help but think of the decisions she and the other four made or were made for them. Reunions are often a terrible idea, especially under unhappy circumstances. More terrible still is to play a game of the “worst thing” one has ever done with people you no longer know and were unsure of back in the proverbial day. Everyone shares, though a lot is inferred, left unsaid, or akin to fictions made up for Sunday confession. Nic feels very guilty about something, but she’s only truthful with Birdie in private. Is there a greater grace than to confess for real and find out that the person you thought you had wronged never gave the incident a second thought?

Another excellent story is “What’s the Time Mr. Wolf? It’s the longest story in the book and takes us inside a well-to-do banking family. How many stories about the wealthy involve the black sheep of the family, the member who is “as dumb as… newts,” happy to exploit his privilege, drinks too much, or just drifts and assumes everything will work out? That’s Chip; he’s all of those things. After four years of failing at banking his family packs him up and involuntarily sends him to a remote part of New Hampshire to dry out. There he meets Pearl Spang, an old conquest who acts as if she never met him before. She’s out of his class and probably has no recollection of him. Chip will discover some hidden resolve, but this one has a bleak ending.

The above are emblematic of how Groff deals with human foibles. In essence they are like the old cartoons in which an angel sits on one shoulder and a devil on the other. Groff understands that short stories need their protagonists to clash with antagonists, either in the flesh or in the form of intangibles such as ambition, revenge, and temptation.

Goff is quite skillful at turning phrases and writing poignant sentences. These shine through even when the narratives fail to resonate. Her last chapter, “Annunciation” deals with real poverty and a variant that comes when someone with resources simply stops caring and drifts into perceived poverty. One such woman, Griselda, told stories that were true but were thought to be fanciful. Art factors into “Annunciation” and our antagonist muses over precious works of art: “There are a thousand Madonnas here, with a thousand different faces. Each Madonna wears the face of a particular mortal woman whom the artist loved. Each woman is one in whom the animal was briefly overcome by the god that lived within her.” In “Birdie” Nic describes her flight home: “She rose into the flight, that gorgeous liminal moment that’s a respite between lives; and descended again into the grind of the quotidian.”

Words such as these sing to me long after the stories fade.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

BRAWLER: STORIES (2026)

By Lauren Groff

Penguin Random House, 248 pages (Large Print version)

★★★

 

Lauren Graff is one of my favorite novelists and has a devoted following. Brawler has garnered rave reviews and several of the stories are stunners. Of the nine stories in the collection, though, there are a few that underwhelmed me, including the collection’s title tale. Its protagonist, Sara, is an individual with two personalities, the tough (aka/brawler) athlete and the shy kid aware of being an outcast because of her poverty, sick mother, and unkempt appearance. In my view, how this shaped the rest of her life warranted more than 12 pages and few sentences at the end.

On the other hand, her theme of “the ceaseless battle between human’s dark and light angels” “To Sunland” nails it. Goff explores 17-year-old Joanie’s dilemma after her mother dies and leaves her mentally challenged brother Buddy in her care. Joannie has a scholarship to a college in Maine and can’t wait to get out of Florida. As it happens, a lot of Floridians try to get what they can out of Joanie before she goes, her mother’s things, a cheap feel, a captive audience for evangelizing, her money…. Can she leave Buddy at a facility and get on with her life? It’s a taut tale about need versus guilt.

“Birdie” comes at this from a different angle. Five old friends gather two decades later when Birdie lies dying. More accurately, four were friends; Nicole never considered herself part of anyone’s in-crowd. Nic can’t help but think of the decisions she and the other four made or were made for them. Reunions are often a terrible idea, especially under unhappy circumstances. More terrible still is to play a game of the “worst thing” one has ever done with people you no longer know and were unsure of back in the proverbial day. Everyone shares, though a lot is inferred, left unsaid, or akin to fictions made up for Sunday confession. Nic feels very guilty about something, but she’s only truthful with Birdie in private. Is there a greater grace than to confess for real and find out that the person you thought you had wronged never gave the incident a second thought?

Another excellent story is “What’s the Time Mr. Wolf? It’s the longest story in the book and takes us inside a well-to-do banking family. How many stories about the wealthy involve the black sheep of the family, the member who is “as dumb as… newts,” happy to exploit his privilege, drinks too much, or just drifts and assumes everything will work out? That’s Chip; he’s all of those things. After four years of failing at banking his family packs him up and involuntarily sends him to a remote part of New Hampshire to dry out. There he meets Pearl Spang, an old conquest who acts as if she never met him before. She’s out of his class and probably has no recollection of him. Chip will discover some hidden resolve, but this one has a bleak ending.

The above are emblematic of how Groff deals with human foibles. In essence they are like the old cartoons in which an angel sits on one shoulder and a devil on the other. Groff understands that short stories need their protagonists to clash with antagonists, either in the flesh or in the form of intangibles such as ambition, revenge, and temptation.

Goff is quite skillful at turning phrases and writing poignant sentences. These shine through even when the narratives fail to resonate. Her last chapter, “Annunciation” deals with real poverty and a variant that comes when someone with resources simply stops caring and drifts into perceived poverty. One such woman, Griselda, told stories that were true but were thought to be fanciful. Art factors into “Annunciation” and our antagonist muses over precious works of art: “There are a thousand Madonnas here, with a thousand different faces. Each Madonna wears the face of a particular mortal woman whom the artist loved. Each woman is one in whom the animal was briefly overcome by the god that lived within her.” In “Birdie” Nic describes her flight home: “She rose into the flight, that gorgeous liminal moment that’s a respite between lives; and descended again into the grind of the quotidian.”

Words such as these sing to me long after the stories fade.

 

Rob Weir