Give Dublin a Chance To Be Sure, To Be Sure

This piece launches a new-for-me concept. Instead of a conventional travelogue I thought I’d add a new “Adventures With Rob” tab on the blog with short remarks designed to direct you to Facebook to see images the next day.

 

Dublin is the first post. We stopped in Dublin on our way to France because there are no direct flights to Bordeaux and we’d consider flying to Lapland if it meant avoiding the nightmare of changing planes at Heathrow. Travel tip: Never go to Heathrow unless London is your final destination.

 

Why Dublin?

 

1. Aer Lingus has a direct flight of about 5 ½ hours from Bradley Airport (Windsor Locks, CT). It lands at a stupid early time (around 4:30 am Irish time), but there are airport cafes where you can caffeinate. Some have comfy sofas where you can take turns catnapping.

 

2. I hadn’t been there in about 20 years and it has come up in the world.  

 

3. Its free archaeological museum is pure gold. Literally! It takes you from the days of slab dwellings and thatched huts to the present. There are stunning displays of gold jewelry and artifacts dug from bogs (mostly in the 20^th century). Although it’s not as rich, the National Art Museum is also free and has unique finds.

 

4. There’s plenty to entertain you in two days whilst you recover from jet lag and go on to your next destination.

 

5. Transport from and to the airport by bus is cheap and easy. Get off or on in the city center near Trinity College.

 

6. There is no need to spend a fortune on special tours or Hop On/Hop Off buses. Dublin is very walkable. If you cross the Ha’Penny Bridge over the Liffey River you can walk the whole way to the Calatrava Harp Bridge (officially the Samuel Beckett Bridge) in about 30 minutes. On your way you’ll see the Famine Memorial and a docked tall ship, the Jeanie Johnston.

 

7. Forget what tourist sites tell you, there are tons of pubs where you can catch “sessions” of traditional Irish music. By all means avoid places advertised as Irish “shows.” They are about as “Irish” as a stuffed leprechaun or a fiddler playing a hoedown.

 

Downsides?

 

1. Irish food still sucks with the exception of its excellent tea scones. Try Keough’s, which now surpasses Bewley’s. There are loads of ethnic restaurants in Dublin these days, so you won’t be forced to eat colcannon. Only barefoot, muddy peasants think creamed mashed potatoes and cabbage is dinner and, if you’re really unlucky, some places use kale instead of cabbage. That’s called adding insult to injury.

 

2. Don’t be suckered into drinking Guiness in a pub. It’s better than the swill imported to the States, but both are akin to having a glass of polluted water. Go to “free houses” not beholden to any single brand. Irish barkeeps are very friendly. Tell them what you like and ask for recommendations. You can also forego brewery factory tours. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.

 

3. Be careful in the Temple Bar area at night. You’ll be safe enough, but dodgy characters come out when the sun goes down. Pickpockets prey upon distracted rubberneckers. It’s a lively and crowded area, so be aware.

 

4. It costs 25 euros to see the Book of Kells, an outrageous sum given that most of the books have been taken from the library. The library is magnificent when its shelves are full, but even then you only see a few Book of Kells pages. Wait until you get home and buy a volume with crisp color plates of the entire Book of Kells. You can also see illuminated manuscripts in the archaeology museum for free.

 

5. Even devotees of Jameson’s Whiskey will tell you that if your travels are taking you to Scotland, that’s where the real whisky—the only one allowed to be spelled that way–should be sampled. I had a funny conversation with an Irish museum guard who practically cried when I told him I could buy Scottish Lagavulin in the States for well under the equivalent of 150 euros!

 

Wolk Pack: Discover the World of C. J. Box

 

 

 

Wolf Pack (2019)

By C. J. Box

G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 370 pages

★★★★

 

If, like me, you've burned through the back catalog of numerous mystery writers and are looking for a new addiction, C. J. Box might be your new rodeo. His Joe Pickett series has swollen to 20 titles. Pickett is not your typical detective; he's a game warden who hit the jackpot by marrying Marybeth and raising a stable of daughters. The youngest, Lucy, is about to leave the homestead for college. Life is good in Shoestring, Wyoming.

 

Wyoming game wardens do more than write tickets; they also have limited law enforcement powers. Joe has a solid circle of friends and colleagues, a good thing as game wardens are more tolerated than liked. It's safe to say that animal rights and game laws aren't popular in Big Sky regions.*

 

The Wolf Pack shows how small problems can become huge when the human body count begins to rival the number of deer jackings. Two small things set things in motion. Katelyn Hamm, a warden in an adjoining district, tells Joe that someone is using sophisticated drones to hunt wildlife. Secondly, Herman, a cranky rancher calls Joe to tell him wolves have been killing his livestock. Problem: Officially there aren't any wolves in this section of Wyoming. Herman begs to differ; he has a wolf in his stock trailer that he lassoed!

 

Things get stickier when the drone is traced to Tom Kinnison, who no one including Joe  knows. Joe's search leads him to Bill Hill, a recent arrival and recluse living in a gated compound. His son Justin happens to be dating Lucy. Who is Hill exactly? That’s also a local conundrum. Joe's attempt to hold a civil conversation with him comes to naught. Worse, a string of murders sounds alarms as they have all the earmarks of being both brutal and random. To top it off, four Hispanic individuals have been throwing their money and weight around. It's not unusual to see Hispanic visitors in Wyoming, but there's something about these four that unsettles Joe. Hill remains uncooperative but violence makes its way to his compound. Moreover, Joe cannot fathom why he has been ordered to cease his attempts to cite Hill for obvious game violations. He can't even figure out who issued such an order though he naturally suspects Hill is linked to local troubles. Who or why would anyone in authority ask Joe to stop investigating crimes. He is told that he has no need to know.

 

When, however, some of Joe's friends and associates are gunned down and he fears  that Lucy could be in jeopardy, Joe is prepared to ignore his instructions. If you read enough C.J. Box novels you will learn that Joe has a pattern of doing runarounds of higher authorities and that he is usually correct in doing so. But not even Joe or Marybeth, whose high-level job provides her with access to those who can tell her things she's not supposed to know, can enlighten them fully. Rumors fly that the  assassins were working for Mexico’s Sinaloa drug cartel, yet it’s difficult to imagine any of the victims would so connected.  

 

Wolf Pack is a fast-paced novel that is filled with uncertainties that will keep you turning the pages and holding your breath. Wyoming is not exactly the ends of the earth, but it is vast and far from the centers of federal control. One of the attractions of Box novels is that they often contain vestiges of the Wild West mythos. It helps to know that the Wild West never really existed as most people imagine in the first place, so why not yield to a novelistic convention that’s more Zane Gray than U.S. history? There are indeed legitimate questions of credibility, but they are analogous to Louise Penny novels that make you wonder how one small village can spawn so many murders!

 

Wolf Pack straddles the line between mystery and thriller, so perhaps it’s best to dust off grains of doubt and surrender to its heart-thumping dangers and action. It certainly has one of most vicious killers in recent fiction and leave us with a gruesome, yet satisfying denouement.

 

Rob Weir

 

* Technically, mine is a partial anachronism. Neighboring Montana officially bears the “Big Sky Country” nickname. Call it literary license!

 

Group of Seven on Display in Ottawa

 

 

 

 

Lawren Harris, Winter Morning, 1924

Art is an inherently creative act, but it tends to thrive when others gravitate to the same styles and genres. When a particular style is new, it’s not uncommon for it to get bad or ho-hum reviews. But when it attracts a critical mass of the like-minded, a veritable "school" of art is born.

 

Canada gained the right to self-governance in 1867, but it remained in Great Britain’s shadow until the passage of the Canada Act in 1982. Think upon that; you could make the case that Canada has only been fully independent for 43 years. No wonder the Canadian “identity” has been much discussed for much longer. What does this have to do with art?

 

It would be ethnocentric to say there was no Canadian art before (take your pick) 1867 or 1982–First Nations people such as the Inuit and other northern peoples, Indians, and the Métis had rich traditions–but insofar as formal painting went, much of what was considered “fine” art was European, especially British, in style and content.

 

The first important school of painters to paint in a distinctly Canadian style was the Group of Seven: Frank Carmichael (1890-1945), Lawren Harris (1885-1970), A. Y. Jackson (1882-1974), Frank Johnston (1888-1949), Arthur Lismer (1885-1969), J.E.H. MacDonald (1881-1969), and Frederick Varley (1881-1969). But what defined a Euro-Canadian? No one could quite agree, hence the Group of Seven got tepid reviews from the first exhibitions of their work. World War One didn’t help matters as Canadians fought under the Union Jack.

 

 

 

Tom Thompson, The Pool, 1915

 

 

Nevertheless, the Group of Seven came together shortly after the war.  They took their cue from Tom Thompson (1877-1917) who died just before the Seven formed but he was friends with several of the painters. Several of Thompson’s  canvases inspired the Seven to the degree that Thompson is often cited as the eighth member of the Group of Seven. In particular, Thompson suggested that geography defined Canadians. In the 1920s and 1930s, the Group of Seven explored how Canadians were shaped by its vastness. It is, after all, the world’s second largest nation (after Russia), yet a considerable majority of its land is Sub-Arctic, muskeg, and Arctic–filled with resources such as fresh water, oil, animals, and minerals, but relatively inhospitable. That’s why approximately 90 percent of its population lives within 100 miles of the U.S. border.

 

The Group of Seven were mainly considered landscape painters. They seldom painted people because of the remoteness of its northern reaches. I will offer a few samples of the artists below, but two final codicils. Seven didn’t always mean seven literally. Thompson is one example of that, but at least four other painters were invited into the group. If I tell you that Jackson’s first name is Alexander and MacDonald’s was James, you’ll also see that it was a fraternity. Yet the wonderful British Columbia painter Emily Carr (1871-1941) was considered a peer.   

 

Let’s take a look. If you get a chance to visit Ottawa, be sure to dip into its National Gallery of Art!

 

Frank Carmichael, The Hilltop 1921

Harris, Lake Superior North Shore, 1926. Steve Martin collects his work.

 

 

Harris, Sun on Lake Superior, 1924. Harris is also my favorite of the 7.

A. Y Jackson, 1924. Note the human figures in this one.

J. E. H. MacDonald, March Morning, Northland

 

F. H. Varley, Stormy Weather Georgian Bay 1921

 

Emily Carr, British Columbia Totems, 1930 (My 2nd favorite of the Seven)

 

 

 

Carr, Graveyard Entrance, 1912   

You might notice that some of the landscapes are similar. I like Harris because he went to the Arctic North and captured spectacular landscapes, and Carr because she worked in British Columbia and likewise recorded different subjects. 

 

The Group of Seven (sort of) disbanded upon MacDonald's death in 1931. However, several of the Seven took part in the Canadian Group that formed in 1933 and initially had 28 members with more to come. Here are a few other paintings and, I suspect, they simply "look" Canadian. Where else, except northern Maine or Wisconsin could they be with all semblance of human activity immersed and at the mercy of Mother Nature? Such was the impact of the Group of Seven. 

 

Clarence Gagnon Village in the Laurentians (PQ)

 

 

 

Kathleen Moir Morris, Byward Market, Ottawa

 

 

Marc Aurele Fortin, Saint Urban in Winter, 1942

 

 

Yvonne Housser Rossport Lake Superior, 1929

 

Harris, Halifax

 

 

 

 

Rob Weir

The Names: Fascinating and Frustrating

 

 

 

The Names (2025)

By Florence Knapp

Viking/Penguin, 328 pages.

★★★

 

Perhaps you’ve heard of the “butterfly effect,” which avers that the smallest variable introduced into an experiment or scenario can dramatically alter the outcome. The movie Run, Lola, Run is a brilliant depiction of it. Novelist Florence Knapp plays with that butterfly premise in The Names.

 

The book opens as Cora, a former ballet dancer, and Gordon Atkin have just had a son. In Gordon’s mind there is only one choice for his name: Gordon. His family has had a Gordon for as many generations as anyone can remember. Cora doesn’t think it fits and prefers Julian, but her husband orders her to go to the city hall and register the name Gordon. Maia, the baby’s sister, has taken to calling her brother Bear and the name is growing on mom. When Cora actually registers the name Bear, Gordon goes ballistic. Although he is a skilled doctor respected by his patients, he’s a bully and an abuser who pummels Cora for defying his will. She gets it again when she goes to city hall and changes it to Julian. This time, something very serious happens to a neighbor.

 

What would have happened had the boy been named Bear? Or Julian? Knapp imagines differing scenarios via snapshots in six different years: 1987,1994, 2001, 2008, 2015, and 2022. Her stories are sometimes discrete and sometimes continuous. Remember, that a small change can lead to very different outcomes. Our supporting characters–father Gordon, Cora, her mother Sílbhe, Maia (“Bees”), and Cora’s friend Mehri–are retained, but depending upon the timeline they have different lives, friends, and personalities. 

 

Gordon 2 bears some of his father’s traits, though he is better at recognizing the effects of internalized anger. Nevertheless, Gordon 2 is mostly a reactive character, as if his father is a magnet and he a flimsy piece of metal. The externals of Gordon I change according to which timeline is at play. It’s hard to be specific without venturing into spoilers. It would be fair to say, though, that Gordon 2 has the least interesting life.

 

Bear is exactly as young Maia envisioned him. Most people like him and he ends up marrying his longtime squeeze Lily, though Bear’s quiet, cuddly charm presents challenges. As his name suggests, Bear loves nature. Julian, by contrast, moves to Ireland and develops a dislike for the English and crass commercialism. One of his grandmother’s former lovers, teaches Julian silversmithing and he goes on to become a skilled jeweler. He will wed Orla, also an artist.

 

It is often in the supporting cast where the butterfly changes manifest most dramatically. That’s because Knapp has something up her sleeve. We get more background on Sílbhe, who was once a hippie, and has had an (ahem!) adventurous love life. Maia is a lesbian who, in 2008 is married to a woman named Charlotte, but this changes. Mehri is Cora’s best friend, but her personality is fungible. Characters we’ve not previously met appear in different scenarios. 

 

As the novel wends its way through time, Knapp springs a surprise. Most of the characters appear in the same timeframe, as if there were a merging of the various Gordon I’s, Gordon 2’s, Bears, Julians, and Coras. This flight into the multiverse is common in graphic novels, but not every reader is going to applaud Knapp’s use of the technique. Frankly, I have mixed feeling about it. On one hand, it’s a bold shift; on the other, it’s often hard to figure out exactly what’s happening to whom and, if I might, who “whom” is at a given moment. Nor is it entirely clear what we are to conclude about Knapp’s foray into trifurcation. Any of a number of possibilities emerge. Is there one narrative with the same son switching identities? Are three parallel universes in play? It’s interesting to contemplate what another you would be like in a different universe, but it’s ultimately a dead end as we have objective evidence that a multiverse exists.  Knapp selected her time periods carefully: 1987 was the end of stagflation,1994 the year the first Web browser appeared, 2001 Y2K and terrorist attacks, 2008 the end of the Great Recession, 2015 the legalization of same-sex marriages, and 2022 the next page of her seven-year cycles. (Are we reading a postmodernist 7 Up?)

 

We can but speculate. I found The Names both a fascinating and perplexing read.

 

Rob Weir

 

Let’s Hear It for Massachusetts Politics

 

 

Rally vs. Trump in Northampton on his birthday

 

Readers of this blog know that I lambast politicians on a regular basis just to stay in shape. This time I’m here to praise a few, not bury them. I’m lucky enough to live in Massachusetts, where politics is serious stuff. We actually expect our elected officials to listen to us. If you’re not good with constituent service, you’re chum for bigger fish.

 

Let me lead with something that made me proud to live in Northampton. On Saturday, thanks to the tireless efforts of our friend Devin Bruce and a generous donation from Marjorie Hess, we dedicated a roofed, outdoor stage at the Forbes Library. Such things happen across the country, but how often do you find a state senator dancing with the city mayor? Mayor Gina-Louise Sciara was unabashedly sashaying with Senator Jo Comerford, as Representative Lindsay Sabadosa, several city councilors, library trustees, the Forbes director, and the audience applauded. This wasn’t a political stunt; it’s how Jo and Lindsay act most of the time. Some in the crowd were elderly and I watched Jo and Lindsay offer their arms to help them get up and down. Jo told me it’s one of her favorite things to do. I hugged both of them, whom I see at my local café, and told them they “rock.” I don’t always agree with our mayor, but I’d be the last to say she doesn’t care. 

 

A shout out to U.S. Representative Jim McGovern. He lives in Worcester, an hour away, but his district is large. Jim is a member of the Amherst Cinema and attends all manner of events west of Worcester. How many people can say that about their U.S. Reps? He’s also an outspoken critic of Donald Trump. Jim attends protests and holds town forums on current politics that fill halls and large churches.

 

Most of us in Western Mass also love U.S. Senator Elizabeth Warren and find it rude, crude, and unrefined when Trump calls her Pocohantes. He hates her because she speaks truth to power and is uncowed by his bullying tactics. She knows way more about economics than Trump, supports working people, and thinks that consumer protection is far more important that unbridled capitalism. Nor is she afraid to rub noses with the masses.

 

Our governor is Maura Healey, the first lesbian governor of any state. Yeah, she’s the kind of person Republican radicals think is immoral. She was attorney general before she was governor and here’s what her “lifestyle choice,” as conservatives like to call it, affects her job. Not. One. Damn. Bit. I sometimes wish she was more forceful, but she has a 60% approval rating. Trump’s is 39%. ‘Nuff said.

 

How about Mayor Michelle Wu of Boston? She calls herself a “pragmatic liberal” and embodies that label. She not only supports working women, she has served on both the city council and as mayor while nursing her newborns. Wu helped develop the Boston Green New Deal, stood up to Trump when he claimed Boston was riddled by crime by using actual statistics, has told ICE it’s not welcome, and gets along well with cops and fire fighters. Right-leaning opponents got behind Josh Kraft, son of the New England Patriots owner. Wu crushed him in the primary with 72% of the vote.

 

The cherry on the sundae is that because we border Vermont, Bernie Sanders is a frequent visitor!

 

Area Code 413. That's us!

 It's true that neither Vermont nor Massachusetts is a utopia, but if you’re a dispirited progressive and can’t stand living in a red state any longer, move to Deep Blue Massachusetts. Even better, come to Western Mass, as pockets of old-style machine politics proliferate in Eastern Mass. In addition to the pols I praised, other progs in Western Mass include: Natalie Blais, Mindy Domb, Adam Gómez, Homar Gomez, Robyn Kennedy, David LeBouef, Jake Oliveira, and Budd Williams. Massachusetts grades strictly by percentages on the progressive scale. If you only vote according that scale 71% of the time, you get a C-! My apologies if I missed a few progressives. What a treat to live in a region where the list of hacks is short and mayors dance with state senators. 

 

Rob Weir

Musings on Charlie Kirk

 

 

Cut Off the Oxygen

 

There’s a John Prine* song with a chorus that goes: Blow up your TV. Throw away your paper/Go the country. Build you a home/Plant a little garden. Eat a lotta peaches/Try an’ find Jesus, on your own.

 

I already have a home in the woods, albeit in the ‘burbs, and my gardening skills are minimal, but the rest of the song (“Spanish Pipe Dream”) resonates. I pulled out one of my guitars, sang it, and smiled, though I was in terrible voice. (This happens about every other time I play these days.)

 

This is my prelude to Charlie Kirk. I had never heard of him until he was shot. I wish he hadn’t been; I was much happier when he was a complete unknown instead of a right-wing martyr. I’ve known lots of guys like Kirk and have done my best to ignore them rather than getting bent out of shape about what they say. The town where I grew up had/has many evangelicals and very few Jews or Catholics. I’ve not done a head count but it’s possible evangelicals outnumber mainstream Protestants. I have gone to a few evangelical services out of curiosity. To say they were not my thang is an understatement.

 

During my young adulthood there were other voices that conflated faith with capitalism, love of celebrity, or both. I admire religious people who hold fast to faith as a way to live a good life. I too was once involved with a youth group when I was searching to make sense of–to use Douglas Adams’ words–life, the universe, and everything.* It was not, by the way, Campus Crusade for Christ, which was way too conservative. I have no idea if it’s still around and, if so, what it’s like now. Back then, though, CCC seemed more interested in condemnation than salvation. The 1970s and 80s were when TV evangelists sprouted like weeds: Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, Joel Osteen, Oral Roberts, Pat Robertson, Jimmy Lee Swaggert, Robert Tilton…. It didn’t require a college education to know that most were hucksters milking gullible cash cows to keep them in mansions, luxury cars, and (in some cases) hookers. There were also those like Hal Lindsey*, who were latter day Millerites predicting the apocalypse. I’m looking out my study window and can report that Earth is still here.

 

I don’t wish to tar every minister or person of faith with a brush of fraud. I’ve also known religious leaders who were the proverbial salt of the earth. I’m not Catholic, but I knew Father Mike of St. Michaels College in mid-80s and he’d get my vote for canonization. I won't embarrass locals I'd lump in the same camp. There is, however, a reason why movies like Elmer Gantry, Boy Erased, Frailty, Guyana, Jesus Camp, Leap of Faith, The Night of the Hunter, Martha Marcy May Marlene, Marjoe, The Master, The Magdalene Sisters, and scores more exist. And I’ve not even touched upon those blowing the lid off of hucksterism in other faiths. My standard comes from Mary Chapin Carpenter who reminds us: forgiveness doesn’t come with a debt.

 

It also doesn’t come with a complete disregard for human nature. Or reason. Millions of kids go through youth groups and hear messages akin to those of Charlie Kirk. As they age, most eventually go down a different path. Why? All the usual human reasons linked to ideals versus desire. Mainly they find an ascetic’s life too confining, either because it’s impractical or the messenger doesn’t practice what he preaches. To go back to John Prine, the disillusioned realize they need to work out things for themselves.

 

I don’t know how sincere Kirk was, but I know it’s stupid to kill people like him. Okay, my Quakerism says it’s stupid to kill anyone, but it’s wicked dumb to create martyrs or applaud murderers. Hucksters, fanatics, celebrities, and influencers feed off our oxygen. Ignore them. Turn off the TV, toss aside the paper, and try to find Jesus/Allah/Buddha/etc. on your own. Ditto music or clothing you like or a Democrat who can get elected. Okay, maybe the last one is far-fetched.  

 

* For the record, Prine was a serious Christian. Adams is the author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy sci-fi series. Lindsey (d. 2004) wrote The Late Great Planet Earth and numerous sequels.

Watching Over Her Imaginative and Moving

 

 

 

 

Watching Over Her (2023 in French, 2025 in English translation)

By Jean-Baptiste Andrea

Simon & Schuster, 584 pages.

★★★★★

 

Watching Over Her won a Prix Goncourt for the best and most imaginative work of the year when it was released in France in 2023. It has subsequently won other awards. English readers are now lucky enough to be able to read it, courtesy of an excellent translation by Frank Wynne. It is a long novel, but an amazing one that transports us to the early decades of the 20^th century.

 

It opens in an Italian monastery in 1986 with a man on his deathbed. He is Michelangelo Vitaliani, a dwarf whose name is nearly as long as he. Vialiani is Italian and made his reputation there, but he was born in France and, much to his chagrin, was often called “Il Francesa.” He called himself “Mimo,” partly to escape the burden of his first name. (That Michelangelo bore the surname Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni and since his death in 1564, has been considered as perhaps the greatest artistic talent of the Renaissance.) It was also Mimo’s fate to also be a sculptor.

 

At birth it wasn’t clear that he would much of anything. His family was mired in poverty, his mother was absent, and his father died of venereal disease contracted from a prostitute during World War I, and no other family member wanted Mimo. After all, who wants a dwarf? In the not-quite-modern world of 1916 Europe, folk tales held that dwarves were bad luck. His father left money for his upkeep, but his first “guardian” passed him on to another who put him to work as a stonecutter. One useful thing his father left him was an ability to carve stone and Mimo quickly surpassed the skills of his fellow workers and masters.

 

Watching Over Her often feels as if it were pulled from The Canterbury Tales. The “her” in the title is Viola Orsini, the bohemian daughter of a proud aristocratic family. They come to each other’s attention when Mimo and other members of “Uncle” Alberto’s crew are working on the Orsini estate. Alberto is not Mimo’s uncle, nor does his dwarfism repulse Viola, as she too is an outcast. As Mimo fashions things in stone, Viola takes it upon herself to fashion his intellect one book at a time. They rendezvous in a cemetery, as her parents would be appalled to see her spending time with a diminutive tradesman. Those meetings in the graveyard are the genesis of one of the oddest and most unpredictable relationships in recent literature. One could call it lovers-not-lovers.

 

Reversal of fortunes is a common literary trope, but that between the Orsinis and Mimo is akin to twin glass elevators, with that of the Orsinis descending as Mimo’s ascends. He soon does commissions for the Orsinis, sups at their table, and smokes Orsini cigars, but is never considered as match for Viola. Mimo also sculpts for the church, which makes him one of the most celebrated artists in all of Italy. That’s rather amusing, as Mimo is more sinner than saint. As his purse bulges, much within it is spent on drink and rental women, though he always yearns for the unattainable Viola. She, in turn, becomes a family pawn as she reaches marriageable age. Think of them as each other’s oddball guardian angel.

 

Do not, however, expect any old-fashioned happy ending. Where Waiting For Her departs from the aforementioned Canterbury Tales vibe is that the 1920s into the1940s are the age of Mussolini in Italy. How does a cash-poor noble family like the Orsinis respond to the often vulgar Il Duce? For that matter, what does a famous sculptor like Mimo do when fascists wish to employ him? To again reference Chaucer, Waiting for Her is also a morality play. If you will, events also tends to bring the glass elevators to the same level.

 

How many books hinge on how the promise of youth is sullied by adult realities? Author Jean-Baptiste Andrea has written something more complex, a novel of great humor, bridled passion, burning ambition, and deep sorrow. In this (sort of) love story, the question of who do you love stumbles over the query what do you love. 

 

#NetGalley 

#WaitingforHer 

 

Rob Weir

Note: This book is scheduled to release in February, but you might want to pre-order it now. It's an amazing work and rumors are that it will be available earlier.