Mysteries and such...

Another torrentially rainy day and our apartment is humid with damp clothes strung from every available surface. Two weeks of laundry in one go and a very small drying room - yes I had to touch other people's underwear today (oh how I miss the warm tumbling sounds of an electric dryer). Well, not much to report on the LitheLibrarian front - been working away at some booklists on a volunteer basis. Boy do I miss the quirky world of public library reference...all the interesting people and all the strange conversations that I used to overhear. I rarely overhear conversations in English these days, and when I do they are of the more mundane variety. I am always amazed at how easily I get by speaking English everywhere I go. I feel quite guilty and really sympathize for all those immigrants that don't speak such a global language.

Friday, I rented a DVD for the first time. The clerk was a teenage girl, pleased to try out her English and pretty darn good (despite the self-depreciating remarks everyone makes, people are always excellent around here!) - of course I wasn't in the database, so it was necessary to giver her my boyfriends name. Silly me, apparently I can't even pronounce his last name properly. The way we say it back home means a whole 'nother name over here. Round one - nothing. Round two- tried saying it the Finnish way- nothing. Round three- attempted to spell it, was given a piece of paper to write it down- nothing. Roung four - remembered the dots over the "o" (both of them) that apparently change the whole thing! Anyways, I guess something I should learn, especially if I plan on taking this last name myself someday.

The Tenderness of Wolves by Stef Penney

I read this novel in the hectic days before my trip. I didn't blog about it before, but as I would rate it one of the best books of the year. I picked it up of the new fiction shelf and it had a much nicer cover than the one above (yes, covers influence me, don't they influence you just a little?) Also, once upon a time, a school principal called the class I was so lucky to teach - "a pack of wolves" - for some reason, the fascination with the species remains. Various elements were intriguing - a murder, a mystery of a sort, historical fiction, set in Canada, fur traders, first nations, strong female characters, romance (male-female and male-male)... how could I resist? And I was not disapointed, it was lyrical, literary and utterly captivating. It's currently climbing the ranks on Amazon. By the way, Stef Penney is British and has never visited Canada. This was her first novel and I can't wait for the next...here's an excerpt I found online:

It is a Thursday morning in mid-November, about two weeks after that meeting in the store. I walk down the road from our house in a dreadful temper, planning my lecture carefully. More than likely I rehearse it aloud -- one of many strange habits that are all too easy to pick up in the backwoods. The road -- actually little more than a series of ruts worn by hooves and wheels -- follows the river where it plunges down a series of shallow falls. Under the birches patches of moss gleam emerald in the sunlight. Fallen leaves, crystallised by the night's frost, crackle under my feet, whispering of the coming winter. The sky is an achingly clear blue. I walk quickly in my anger, head high. It probably makes me look cheerful.

Jammet's cabin sits away from the riverbank in a patch of weeds that passes for a garden. The unpeeled log walls have faded over the years until the whole thing looks grey and woolly, more like a living growth than a building. It is something from a bygone age: the door is buckskin stretched over a wooden frame, the windows glazed with oiled parchment. In winter he must freeze. It's not a place where the women of Dove River often call, and I haven't been here myself for months, but right now I have run out of places to look.There is no smoke signal of life inside, but the door stands ajar; the buckskin stained from earthy hands. I call out, then knock on the wall. There is no reply, so I peer inside, and when my eyes have adjusted to the dimness I see Jammet, at home and, true to form, asleep on his bed at this time in the morning. I nearly walk away then, thinking there is no point waking him, but frustration makes me persevere. I haven't come all this way for nothing.

Heir to the Glimmering World by Cynthia Ozick.

It opens dark and mysterious as an aimless girl with no qualifications or skills seeks a job to take her away. She is an orphan who has lost an awful father and lives with a relation, a young man who doesn't see her as the woman she desires him to see. His new girlfriend is a hard Communist activist, and wants her out. Meanders in a poetic way but never reaches any astonishing climax. Almost baffles me how it can really be viewed as a novel...how did this one get published quite like it was. The characters are wonderful and it is written with skill...but it seems incomplete. Still an enjoyable read.

Death du Jour by Kathy Reichs.

Read it when I was feeling a little seasick during our cruise from Helsinki to Stockholm. Laying in my cabin with my small window (facing the life preserver but offering a glimpse of the sea). Good for this kind of thing. Couldn't put it down. I do admire a female detective! The gore was a bit much at times. I don't usually read this type of novel but as it takes place in Quebec in part, I made an exception. There were also some implausible aspects...some inconsistancies - time to get a better editor. Geesh.