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On My Nightstand






Women feel, men act.  That statement or mis-statement best exemplifies the latest books I've read.  I'm not sure if that's a sexist remark or not, both are necessary for a balanced life.  I have mentioned before that writers of the female persuasion do, on occasion, belabor the heart's yearnings; men writers tend to belabor action.  Naturally there are exceptions, perhaps most notably Shakespeare himself.  The Bard tended to write of love and its travails.  So please don't send out #MeToo hitmen/hitwomen to straighten me out.

Elizabeth Strout's The Burgess Boys was on the far side of the "feeling" spectrum.  I found it ponderous, glacially slow and given to interminable pages describing the depths of feeling for the characters, none of whom I liked.  I couldn't wait for it to end, and I slogged on to the end thinking there may be some kind of payoff that would make the journey worth it.  That and since I bought it for my Kindle I thought I should get my money's worth.  Paragraph after paragraph was devoted to Helen and what "she thought of Jim and she would sit on the bed and cry and flex her ankles.  She didn't want to be one of those women who cried too easily but what was one to do when confronted with...blah, blah...endless blah."  And when she wasn't focused on Jim she would focus on his brother, her hubby's boss, her hubby's sister's kid who is supposed to be the focus of this book.  This was supposed to be some kind of courtroom drama about a hate crime.  Those scenes lasted about 6 pages.  The rest was the buildup.  I've seen bigger and better buildups by ant mounds.  Of course, if you are into weeping and ankle-flexing by all means, buy this and enjoy.  Me, not so much.         







And then on the opposite end of the feeling/action spectrum lies Ian McGuire's The North Water.  If you like action without much ankle-flexing you might like this tale of 1800's whaling and sealing in the frigid north.  One of the New York Time's Books of the year and a Longlisted for the Man Booker Prize,  I devoured it like Sumner devoured seal blood.  Sumner being the focus of the book.  He is a young surgeon, hooked on laudanum, with a questionable  reputation over something that happened in India.  He signs on as ship's surgeon on a whaling ship.  There's buggery, murder, insurance fraud, conspiracy and, at times, they actually get around to whaling.  

If there is any feminine influence at all it is the whoring that was prevalent in major port cities of the age and later, the Eskimo ladies that provided cooking, cleaning and the necessary submission for the guys.  Blooding drinking, seal meat, whale blubber and all manner of manly deviousness abound.  It is as far from the examinations of the heart as one could imagine having to do with The Burgess Boys.  And I loved it.  While I'd gladly throw, figuratively speaking, Stout's novel in the fire to keep warm, I'd place, reverently, McGuire's tome on the bookshelf to remind me of when men were foul, work was dirty nasty, and reading was fun.

The North Water isn't for everyone.  Ankle-flexers and fans of endless words describing how hearts break and mend should probably move along.  But if you want a rousing sea yarn full of butchery,  thievery, vice, and male duplicity then settle into a darn good read.

The Burgess Boys - D -

The North Water - B +          

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