Charles Dickens' final novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, was left unfinished upon the author's death.
But what if it wasn't just a novel? What if there was some truth to the tale?
Dan Simmons imagines that very possibility in his latest tome, Drood. Readers familiar with Dickens' last work will find recognizable elements throughout Simmons' story; I confess my Dickens background is a little light, so, for me, the story was a complete surprise.
The book begins a few years before Dickens' death. Dickens life is in shambles: his wife has been sent away in favor of another who has caught his eye, his health and well-being are compromised by a terrible train accident that robbed him of his peace, he is in pain and is feeling the hot breath of mortality on his neck.
Wilkie Collins, as narrator, has an intimate view into the life of Dickens. They are friends and co-workers who know each other's secrets. Wilkie Collins is a reliable narrator, which is an invaluable element of this book. Without a trusted tale-teller, the tale would be too fantastic and amazing for the reader as it snakes above and below Dickensian London, with dead men, drug addiction, scarabs, mesmerism, train wrecks, illicit love affairs and a lime pit.
The story is compelling and full of surprises. With each chapter is a new revelation, richly imagined and described with a clarity and detail that brings the tale alive to the reader. One does not just see the underbelly of London, but smells and touches it. Class division, a foreign concept to Americans, is alive and well in this book.
The tale is fabulous, but it would have been limited to words on a page if not for the lively characters. Collins brings to live an amazing cast, from the poor pension-free and disgruntled police detective, to the bodyguard whose final experiences literally shocked me into bad dreams, to the lady with the green skin who calls into question the narrator's very fiber of being— or does it?
In the end, who to believe? Dickens, who appeared to have no reason to mangle the truth because there was no real benefit to him? Collins, whose very reality begs the question be asked in the first place? An unpublished story that makes Collins' waking life seem like a fantasy? I do not need an answer. What I need to do is re-read Drood and see what I missed during my sleepless nights of reading as I rushed to a finale I could not have anticipated in my wildest dreams.
Then I need to get my hands on a few novels by the authors in question and enjoy them with a different perspective. Maybe Drood is fiction, but it's real enough for me.
Showing posts with label Drood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Drood. Show all posts
6/11/09
4/10/09
Reading a Long Book
What do you do when faced with an immense book, one that very well could take you the rest of your natural life to read?
Do you plod steadily, reading page after page, until the end? Do you break it up: read a little of the big book, then a short book — if only to feel as though you have actually accomplished something?
Or does it depend on the book?
Recently, I discovered that for me, it depends on the book. Drood was one of the longest books I had read in a while, and I was captivated. The first chapter was a little dry to me, but I was rewarded with one of the most original stories on the shelves today.
But it wasn't easy. In fact, it was a challenge. Don't get me wrong: the book was fabulous, and Carole and I will discuss it soon on this blog. However, after a week of staying up late and eschewing most other kinds of entertainment just so I could see what happened next, I was exhausted.
The book was weighty enough, but the story was equally weighty. In this tome were real-life people weaving stories amongst others whom I can only hope are fictitious and even others whom I hoped were real. The story captured the mores of the day with a touch of 19th century sensibility wrapped in modern-enough language. (I love 19th century literature, but some is a little ornamental for my everyday interest.)
Some books can be short (or short enough) and yet feel very long. The first 80 pages of The Mighty Queens of Freeville felt like an eternity. The 7th Victim was the normal length but insufferable.
Even good books can feel long, at least in part: The City of Dreaming Books was a teeny bit slow at the beginning, ramped up to a fevered pitch, then kept going and going. The Lord of the Rings is very complicated and riddled with Elvish and Middle-Earth language, but the story is compelling and a reader is catapulted forward. (One can see a little of the wisdom of breaking the book into three separate novels.)
From time to time, I read recommended books that aren't up my alley, and sometimes those books feel long as well, no matter how many pages. The ones I don't enjoy don't always feel like like an albatross around my neck. For the most part, though, I am keen to continue (or start) a book only if I'm interested enough to give it a certain amount of time or pages.
However, after the thrill that was Drood, I won't worry about a book's length — and I might have a little more courage to pick up the new Dumas find again, after a few years of its presence on the shelves. It's the quality, not the quantity, right?
Do you plod steadily, reading page after page, until the end? Do you break it up: read a little of the big book, then a short book — if only to feel as though you have actually accomplished something?
Or does it depend on the book?
Recently, I discovered that for me, it depends on the book. Drood was one of the longest books I had read in a while, and I was captivated. The first chapter was a little dry to me, but I was rewarded with one of the most original stories on the shelves today.
But it wasn't easy. In fact, it was a challenge. Don't get me wrong: the book was fabulous, and Carole and I will discuss it soon on this blog. However, after a week of staying up late and eschewing most other kinds of entertainment just so I could see what happened next, I was exhausted.
The book was weighty enough, but the story was equally weighty. In this tome were real-life people weaving stories amongst others whom I can only hope are fictitious and even others whom I hoped were real. The story captured the mores of the day with a touch of 19th century sensibility wrapped in modern-enough language. (I love 19th century literature, but some is a little ornamental for my everyday interest.)
Some books can be short (or short enough) and yet feel very long. The first 80 pages of The Mighty Queens of Freeville felt like an eternity. The 7th Victim was the normal length but insufferable.
Even good books can feel long, at least in part: The City of Dreaming Books was a teeny bit slow at the beginning, ramped up to a fevered pitch, then kept going and going. The Lord of the Rings is very complicated and riddled with Elvish and Middle-Earth language, but the story is compelling and a reader is catapulted forward. (One can see a little of the wisdom of breaking the book into three separate novels.)
From time to time, I read recommended books that aren't up my alley, and sometimes those books feel long as well, no matter how many pages. The ones I don't enjoy don't always feel like like an albatross around my neck. For the most part, though, I am keen to continue (or start) a book only if I'm interested enough to give it a certain amount of time or pages.
However, after the thrill that was Drood, I won't worry about a book's length — and I might have a little more courage to pick up the new Dumas find again, after a few years of its presence on the shelves. It's the quality, not the quantity, right?
3/10/09
Dinner Companions: A Response
A recent New York Times article asked authors what books they consider their best dining companions, so we asked ourselves the same question.
Chris:
I vividly remember, at age 17, brunching at the neighborhood Denny's with Kramer vs. Kramer. The food wasn't stellar, and I can't remember what was on the plate, but I do remember experiencing the intimacy of the couple's anguish in the glossy movie tie-in paperback.
I rarely dine alone at restaurants because, for me, the joy of restaurant dining is in the company I keep; otherwise, it's just food. I have been known, however, to occupy a table at my old bagel shop for hours with Spanish homework (because I could get help from the women who worked there), a cup of coffee slowly making me jittery. Most of the time, though, a bagel and coffee were merely sustenance during a long afternoon of studying.
Now, when I do eat and read, I do not sit down to a meal; instead, I'll stand at the kitchen counter. Usually, if the book is that good, eating becomes the path of least resistance. (See "food equals sustenance" reference above.) The menu depends on how long I feel like can I leave the book on the kitchen counter — which translates to how long I can keep the book out of my hands. Is it quicker to pour cereal versus make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Which is easier to eat while holding the book, and should I choose something that doesn't require both hands or an instrument?
Some books are good enough to skip a meal if necessary. Had David not fed me, I would not have eaten during the summer of 2007 when I read the last Harry Potter novel.
Then there are the books Carole and I read together. Those I find impossible to put down during dinner not only because they're good but because I want to catch up with Carole, who always seems to get ahead of me, especially at the beginning of a book.
Lunch is an easy meal to read through, if only because most lunch food I carry for solo dining is finger food. I always carry a napkin — I don't need Cheetos prints on the pages to remind me what I was eating during the good part. I will remember, even if I don't mean to. Odd how that happens with Cheetos.
I guess I'm more excited about books than I am about any food. Except for the cooking of a few people (Carole and David are in that select group), food is just the fuel that allows me to read.
Now, food while talking about books — that's a different blog altogether....!
Carole:
Wow! Some of these authors read some heavy stuff while eating. I find that if I'm reading something really intense, I'll forget to eat. Which, for those who know me, is saying something. I'm ALL about food! Which makes me wonder if these authors really read these books while dining alone or they just like the way it makes them sounds to SAY that's what they read while dining alone.
The only time I generally eat alone at a restaurant is when I travel for business and cannot talk family or friends into going with me. I don't generally mind being a party of one, particularly if I have a book. I do find, however, that servers tend to be especially attentive when you dine alone, which can make you re-read the same paragraph over and over. Coincidentally, I'm attending my conference this week, so I've actually given this some thought.
Because I like to people watch myself, I wonder what my table for one, propped-open book, and glass of wine says about me. "Isn't that sad? She's obviously lonely--reading a trashy romance all alone, drowning her sorrows in vino." Or "I bet this is the first time in years that she's had an entire meal without having to mop up spilled milk! She should be reading something better than that!" Or "She probably just worked herself half to death at the conference across the street--good for her not caring if people judge her for reading bodice rippers in public!"
Actually, I generally reserve bodice rippers for the beach, but you get the idea. I'll probably take Drood with me this week. I'm exciting to read it--it should cover me for plane and restaurant meeting. The trouble with dining with thick, hardback books, though, is keeping the book open while manipulating silverware. Something to keep in mind when ordering.
If the book is REALLY engrossing, though, that's what room service is all about. Then you can have food, book, and slippers! Heaven!
Chris:
I vividly remember, at age 17, brunching at the neighborhood Denny's with Kramer vs. Kramer. The food wasn't stellar, and I can't remember what was on the plate, but I do remember experiencing the intimacy of the couple's anguish in the glossy movie tie-in paperback.
I rarely dine alone at restaurants because, for me, the joy of restaurant dining is in the company I keep; otherwise, it's just food. I have been known, however, to occupy a table at my old bagel shop for hours with Spanish homework (because I could get help from the women who worked there), a cup of coffee slowly making me jittery. Most of the time, though, a bagel and coffee were merely sustenance during a long afternoon of studying.
Now, when I do eat and read, I do not sit down to a meal; instead, I'll stand at the kitchen counter. Usually, if the book is that good, eating becomes the path of least resistance. (See "food equals sustenance" reference above.) The menu depends on how long I feel like can I leave the book on the kitchen counter — which translates to how long I can keep the book out of my hands. Is it quicker to pour cereal versus make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Which is easier to eat while holding the book, and should I choose something that doesn't require both hands or an instrument?
Some books are good enough to skip a meal if necessary. Had David not fed me, I would not have eaten during the summer of 2007 when I read the last Harry Potter novel.
Then there are the books Carole and I read together. Those I find impossible to put down during dinner not only because they're good but because I want to catch up with Carole, who always seems to get ahead of me, especially at the beginning of a book.
Lunch is an easy meal to read through, if only because most lunch food I carry for solo dining is finger food. I always carry a napkin — I don't need Cheetos prints on the pages to remind me what I was eating during the good part. I will remember, even if I don't mean to. Odd how that happens with Cheetos.
I guess I'm more excited about books than I am about any food. Except for the cooking of a few people (Carole and David are in that select group), food is just the fuel that allows me to read.
Now, food while talking about books — that's a different blog altogether....!
Carole:
Wow! Some of these authors read some heavy stuff while eating. I find that if I'm reading something really intense, I'll forget to eat. Which, for those who know me, is saying something. I'm ALL about food! Which makes me wonder if these authors really read these books while dining alone or they just like the way it makes them sounds to SAY that's what they read while dining alone.
The only time I generally eat alone at a restaurant is when I travel for business and cannot talk family or friends into going with me. I don't generally mind being a party of one, particularly if I have a book. I do find, however, that servers tend to be especially attentive when you dine alone, which can make you re-read the same paragraph over and over. Coincidentally, I'm attending my conference this week, so I've actually given this some thought.
Because I like to people watch myself, I wonder what my table for one, propped-open book, and glass of wine says about me. "Isn't that sad? She's obviously lonely--reading a trashy romance all alone, drowning her sorrows in vino." Or "I bet this is the first time in years that she's had an entire meal without having to mop up spilled milk! She should be reading something better than that!" Or "She probably just worked herself half to death at the conference across the street--good for her not caring if people judge her for reading bodice rippers in public!"
Actually, I generally reserve bodice rippers for the beach, but you get the idea. I'll probably take Drood with me this week. I'm exciting to read it--it should cover me for plane and restaurant meeting. The trouble with dining with thick, hardback books, though, is keeping the book open while manipulating silverware. Something to keep in mind when ordering.
If the book is REALLY engrossing, though, that's what room service is all about. Then you can have food, book, and slippers! Heaven!
3/6/09
Books Coming Out in March — Great Expectations!
I have such a towering stack of books I am not sure where there's room for new material — yet I must make room because there's some great-sounding stuff coming out this month.
First of all, I can't wait for Ariana Franklin's newest novel, Grave Goods. I have enjoyed both Mistress of the Art of Death and The Serpent's Tale, and I doubt that I will be disappointed with this new book.
Then there's the new book by the gifted novelist Keith Donohue. I read The Stolen Child when it first came out and even now, when I think about it years later, I still find it unsettling, imaginative and very satisfactory. His latest novel, Angels of Destruction, hearkens the same great potential, and I must pick it up soon. (Definitely before his local reading.)
I'm frightfully behind on my February novels, with Drood sitting heavily in the wings — but Carole is a few pages in front of me, and I have to catch up so we can discuss it. I know Carole is eyeing Fool with great interest, and I can't wait for her to read it so she can tell me how much she enjoyed it. (I have a non-fiction book in the wings titled Traffic; maybe as the month progresses, we can graduate to titles with more than one word....)
What do you have on your nightstand?
First of all, I can't wait for Ariana Franklin's newest novel, Grave Goods. I have enjoyed both Mistress of the Art of Death and The Serpent's Tale, and I doubt that I will be disappointed with this new book.
Then there's the new book by the gifted novelist Keith Donohue. I read The Stolen Child when it first came out and even now, when I think about it years later, I still find it unsettling, imaginative and very satisfactory. His latest novel, Angels of Destruction, hearkens the same great potential, and I must pick it up soon. (Definitely before his local reading.)
I'm frightfully behind on my February novels, with Drood sitting heavily in the wings — but Carole is a few pages in front of me, and I have to catch up so we can discuss it. I know Carole is eyeing Fool with great interest, and I can't wait for her to read it so she can tell me how much she enjoyed it. (I have a non-fiction book in the wings titled Traffic; maybe as the month progresses, we can graduate to titles with more than one word....)
What do you have on your nightstand?
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