Paperblog A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

"Mabel's not crazy... she's unusual."

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Broken Harbor By Tana French: A Review

I allowed myself the luxury of reading an entire book this week, mostly in my bed, eschewing obligation in favor of pure joy. This afternoon, rather than working, I lay all curled up with an iced coffee and a bowl of candy corn, and finished it.

The book was Broken Harbor, the fourth mystery novel by Tana French, an Irish writer whom I much admire. I first heard about her from Cathy Isaacson, the wife of Walter Isaacson, the biographer of Steve Jobs, and the CEO of the Aspen Institute. “What are you reading right now?” I asked her a few years ago, at a New Year’s Eve party at the aforementioned institute, for lack of anything more interesting to say. I won’t get into the specifics of why I was there, but I certainly didn’t belong.

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Broken Harbor Ireland Literature Mystery Novels Tana French reviews
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I just spent a while putting books on the bookshelves Caleb built for me last night, and now I feel calmer than I have in years. While I was alphabetizing them, an insert from The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk floated out. It read: If the riches of the Indies or the crowns of all the kingdoms of Europe were laid at my feet in exchange for my love of reading, I would spurn them all. —Francois Fenelon I think that most of you who read this blog have the same sentiments. I certainly do. Books are the great love of my life. A few friends emailed me asking for book suggestions this week, which is coincidental. They are going on vacation. One is coming down from Middlemarch, and wants something just as delightful. The other is going to some paradise in Florida (I hate you), and doesn’t want to read scripts. Given those parameters, here are my suggestions for the two of you: 1. Tana French’s mystery novels, starting with In The Woods. 2. Laurence Durrell’s Alexandria series, starting with Justine, because they weave poetry out of Egypt. I read them in Borneo, with a group of famous scientists studying orangutans. “Huh, so you’re not dumb?” one of them said to me, puzzled, when he saw me reading it. 3. JFK: Reckless Youth by Nigel Hamiliton. One word: salacious. 4. The Transit of Venus by Shirley Hazard, because it’s beautifully written. 5. Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, because his words fly, and it’s post-apocalyptic science fiction. 6. The Leopard by Giuseppi Tomasi di Lampedusa, just because. 7. All the King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren, which I read on the beach of Hualtulco, feeling bowled over by unrequited love. 8. Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow, because it’s easy, and fun. I read it on the Jersey Shore. 9. Do The Window’s Open by Julie Hecht, because she is fucking neurotic and hilarious. 10.Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh, because it’s a book about English aristocracy written by one of the most sneering, judgmental, romantic, and brilliant voices in 20th century literature. My hands smell like old paper now, and I fucking love it.

I just spent a while putting books on the bookshelves Caleb built for me last night, and now I feel calmer than I have in years.

While I was alphabetizing them, an insert from The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk floated out. It read:

If the riches of

the Indies

or the crowns of

all the kingdoms of Europe

were laid at my feet

in exchange

for my love of reading,

I would spurn them all.


—Francois Fenelon

I think that most of you who read this blog have the same sentiments. I certainly do. Books are the great love of my life.

A few friends emailed me asking for book suggestions this week, which is coincidental. They are going on vacation. One is coming down from Middlemarch, and wants something just as delightful. The other is going to some paradise in Florida (I hate you), and doesn’t want to read scripts.

Given those parameters, here are my suggestions for the two of you:

1. Tana French’s mystery novels, starting with In The Woods.

2. Laurence Durrell’s Alexandria series, starting with Justine, because they weave poetry out of Egypt. I read them in Borneo, with a group of famous scientists studying orangutans. “Huh, so you’re not dumb?” one of them said to me, puzzled, when he saw me reading it.

3. JFK: Reckless Youth by Nigel Hamiliton. One word: salacious.

4. The Transit of Venus by Shirley Hazard, because it’s beautifully written.

5. Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, because his words fly, and it’s post-apocalyptic science fiction.

6. The Leopard by Giuseppi Tomasi di Lampedusa, just because.

7. All the King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren, which I read on the beach of Hualtulco, feeling bowled over by unrequited love.

8. Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow, because it’s easy, and fun. I read it on the Jersey Shore.

9. Do The Window’s Open by Julie Hecht, because she is fucking neurotic and hilarious.

10.Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh, because it’s a book about English aristocracy written by one of the most sneering, judgmental, romantic, and brilliant voices in 20th century literature.

My hands smell like old paper now, and I fucking love it.

Evelyn Waugh Literature Robert Penn Warren Tana French my life
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On Tana French and Truth in Art

I was speaking to a friend yesterday about art, and what makes something a great artwork. In a world that measures cultural weight (in literature, music, films, painting, etc) with commercial value, does the proverbial cream rise to the top? Is great art judged based on nothing but marketing and celebrity, or has art always been (and will always be) about the inexorable flow of history, in the sense that what lasts becomes what is great? Is true value not a part of the equation, and if it is, then what is value in the first place?

Wa wah, I’m pretentious as fuck.

The question is too vast to answer, especially not by myself, as I am not only not smart enough, but also not awake enough, for it is Friday morning and I just crawled out of bed after sleeping for four hours.

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Tana French social commentary
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“‘The Walsh clan built this keep in the fourteenth century, added a castle over the next couple of hundred years,’ he said. ‘This was all their territory, from those hills over there’—he jerked his head at the horizon, high overlapping hills furred with dark trees—’to a bend in the river down beyond the gray farmhouse. They were rebels, radiers. In the seventeenth century they used to ride into Dublin, all the way to the British barracks in the Rathmines, grab a few guns, whack the heads off any soldiers they saw, and then leg it. By the time the British got organized to go after them, they’d be halfway back here.” Those are my people. (The passage is from Irish writer Tana French’s mystery novel, In The Woods, which I am thoroughly enjoying if you’re looking for something to read. The Washington Post just named the third installment in the series, Faithful Place, the best book of 2010.)

“‘The Walsh clan built this keep in the fourteenth century, added a castle over the next couple of hundred years,’ he said. ‘This was all their territory, from those hills over there’—he jerked his head at the horizon, high overlapping hills furred with dark trees—’to a bend in the river down beyond the gray farmhouse. They were rebels, radiers. In the seventeenth century they used to ride into Dublin, all the way to the British barracks in the Rathmines, grab a few guns, whack the heads off any soldiers they saw, and then leg it. By the time the British got organized to go after them, they’d be halfway back here.”

Those are my people.

(The passage is from Irish writer Tana French’s mystery novel, In The Woods, which I am thoroughly enjoying if you’re looking for something to read. The Washington Post just named the third installment in the series, Faithful Place, the best book of 2010.)

Tana French Walsh social commentary
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