I’m cutting plot discussion, just in case Dalziel’s identity isn’t known to those reading this review. Royce Varisey, commonly known as Dalziel, was merely his father’s heir when he disobeyed the pater’s wishes and went into the service, in some sort (as a spymaster). Now his father has died, and Royce is now the duke of a giant marcher duchy, up near the border of Scotland. Not only does he not have any closure, but before the funeral is even over, the grandes dames in the ton have decided that he must be married ASAP. Oh, and the last conspirator in the giant web of Napoleonic agents that he’s spent the last few years ferreting out is still on the loose. Can his life possibly get any more complicated? — Oh yes. Enter his obliviously perfect chatelaine . . .

Stephanie Laurens’s heroes are almost identical, and her heroines generally get the same cavalier treatment. Her heroes are always unreasonably large (men that tall aren’t terribly common today, let alone nearly two hundred years ago), super-alpha, and usually desperate for land and family. The ones who already had land are very, very possessive about it. As a matter of fact, they’re generally possessive about everything, especially their potential wives. As strong as those last few lines are, they’re really an understatement. What it comes down to is that these men are sort of vaguely-civilzed versions of Genghis Khan, although, of course, they’re so much better-looking and phenomenal in bed and they occasionally have a thought about the idea of consent. Royce Varisey is no exception to this rule, although he’s got a good set of Daddy Issues that they don’t all have.

The women are usually feisty, or at least stubborn, and very smart and generally above polite society in so many ways. Minerva Chesterton has been running a giant duchy for quite a few years, even if most of it is managing the duke, and she is, of course, in most ways a match for Royce. But not QUITE a match: she, of course, succumbs to her charms, even though she is completely untouched and has never found a man other than him she has ever even found remotely attractive. (Did I mention that she’s known him nearly her entire life?) I should mention here that Stephanie Laurens is also guilty of the ‘virgin widow’ trope, although not in this volume. (Given, she explained it almost adequately, but still.)

I think the worst part about this is that I KEEP READING HER NOVELS. I really LIKE the Stephanie Laurens novel, since it’s the same one written over and over. My favorites — please keep in mind that I read the first eleven or so in a very short period of time, so there wasn’t the time-lapse fatigue — are the first Bar Cynster novel, Devil’s Bride, and the twelfth volume, The Truth About Love (the hero is the brother of the heroine of the second novel). What I think is so addicting about them is the level of overwrought passion, and the well-described and copious sex. It’s really a heck of a lot of fun, especially in small doses — say, two books a year.

The Bastion Club books are, in general, not as good as the Cynster books, but this is a relatively common example of Stephanie Laurens’s style and subject matter. Royce is actually a little too close to ignoring the concept of consent for my tastes; other heroes are at least more subtle about their domineering, or in the case of Devil and Honoria, better matched. The idea that one good shagging will cause a heroine to be inextricably entwined with the hero bothers me, and in this volume, it’s a bit too blatant for my tastes. Readers who loooooove alpha heroes with every ounce of their souls will find Royce quite appealing, and those who want the cap to the Bastion Club novels will definitely find closure here (even if it is a bit trivial, after all that buildup). If Devil’s Bride is a five-star Stephanie Laurens book (not an absolute five-star book; it’s maybe 3.5/5 stars overall), then this is probably more like a 3.5/5 or 4/5 star Stephanie Laurens book which — and my math is really sketchy — means it’s about a 2.75 or 3/5 star book overall. Again, though, it’s essentially a ‘if you like these, you’ll like this one’ type of book, and I do recommend it for those who are addicted. Not a good place to start, though: try the aforementioned Captain Jack’s Woman (the prelude to the Bastion Club series) or Devil’s Bride (first book in the Cynster series).

At the ends of their wits, one day three young women become frustrated with the general quality of the young, eligible men in the ton, and determine to teach three of them — one each — lessons. In The Rake, the first volume, Lady Georgianna Halley decides to instruct Tristan Carroway, Viscount Dare, with whom she has had an adversarial relationship for the last eight years. Of course, their adversarial relationship is masking the fact that there’s a deep attraction there. A year or so later, Lucinda Barrett, the last of the three friends, realizing that the other two ended up marrying the objects of their lessons (oh, come on, not a spoiler), chooses Lord Geoffrey Newcombe. Lord Geoffrey, aside from being handsome, is safe and her father, General Barrett, likes him. Unfortunately, Robert Carroway, Tristan’s younger brother, has sort of gotten in the way . . .

I very much enjoy The Rake, because it is the best possible use of the Big Mis(understanding) plot. It’s not annoyingly offensive in the way that most Big Mis plots are. The entire issue of Georgianna trusting Tristan couldn’t actually be resolved by one conversation, although they do have that conversation well before the end of the story. A normal Big Mis plot, of course, uses some sort of stupid idea — like the heroine thinks the hero is poor (see On a Wicked Dawn, Stephanie Laurens) and agrees to marry him because of that. (Something that is generally rather easily resolved, unless there’s a series of misunderstandings based on that, or a time-lapse issue.) Not so with this one.

England’s Perfect Hero is rather well-known throughout the romance-novel world for being the best discussion of post-traumatic stress disorder in a romance novel, ever. Even in the first book, it’s pretty obvious to those who know something of the symptoms of PTSD that Robert suffers from it, due to his experiences in the Napoleonic Wars. Unlike other romance novels with PTSD characters, especially historical ones, this one doesn’t magically heal Robert twenty pages in so that he can get to Lucinda. He isn’t really even healed by the end of the book, although he is significantly better. He struggles, though, on nearly every page, and Lucinda’s love isn’t the Magical Healing Device(TM) that it can be in so many other novels.

This volume is pretty much my favorite romance novel of all time. As a matter of fact, I have three copies of it at present. I understand this book has issues; apparently there’s some stuff with the horses that isn’t terribly realistic. But, more than many other books, for Robert, there are actual consequences to his actions. He dances all evening, after having not danced for years (and having a knee blown out), he cannot walk for the next few days. He forces down panic attacks, and they build up to a later, larger one. (Most of that happens off the page, though.) He disappears and comes home late, on more than one occasion, and his littlest brother Edward is mad at him. (Or all of his brothers.) Robert is cool to Lucinda one day, and she merely leaves.

The characters, who are generally the same between the two books, are outstanding. Robert has one quite useful scene in The Rake that sets up his story in the third volume (and the idea that he can even be a romance novel hero, despite his tortured past). I can’t remember if I actually read vol. 3 before vol. 1, because I think I read them originally in 2005, but it seems likely, based on my vaguely-remembered reaction to Robert’s appearance in the first volume. (In other words, don’t overlook him.) I love all three of the heroines — Georgiana, the highest-born, most outspoken, and the one with the most to hide; Evie, the still waters that run deep; and Lucinda, the calmest and most organized one. Their personalities — which are even developed back as far as the mostly-shared prologue to each volume — definintely influence their stories (in other words, these are not interchangeable heroines) and their choices of mates.

There are some minor characters, like Tristan and Robert’s brother Bradshaw and Lucinda’s father General Barrett, who are outstanding as well. I rather enjoyed every moment that they appear on stage in both volumes. Bradshaw is rather not as exemplary as his brothers; I can’t see that she ever gave him a short story or anything, so he remains a rogue with some suspect taste. It’s nice to see men of good family who are actually sort of mixed, as opposed to both Tristan and Robert who had to be at least partially reformed (good intentions at the very least) at some point.

Overall, these two (and, of course, the intermediary volume, my copy of which is 750 miles away and not recently re-read) come highly recommended, and I would actually suggest that they form a good introduction to Regency-era historical romance. 4/5 stars for The Rake, and 5/5 for England’s Perfect Hero.

This is, as the introductory note says, Julia Quinn’s marriage-of-convenience story. Two weeks before his time runs out, Charles, Earl of Billingsley, falls out of a tree onto Miss Ellie Lyndon, the sister of Miss Victoria Lyndon and a vicar’s daughter. Due to some vague attraction and the determination that she might not be so bad to be married to, he explains the situation — if he doesn’t marry in the next two weeks, he loses all of the monetary portion of his inheritance. Ellie understands this, being that she’s in her own monetary difficulties — she’s been investing her pocket money and cannot get to it. (Also, there’s an Evil Stepmother involved.) So they have a go of it. Will it work?

Jane at Dear Author did a pretty good job of explaining why this plot is absolute bunk, which I can’t find, but I’ll send her an email and update this if I do. She’s a lawyer, and should know. However, the whole must-marry-to-save-inheritance, generally due to some weird clause in a father’s will, is a pretty common one — and for good reason. It’s one of the few ways to force a marriage of convenience in this particular society. (Although it can be said that most marriages during the time were marriages of convenience, I’m not going to make that argument today.) And, of course, marriage-of-convenience plots are really a lot of fun and quite compelling, despite the essential disconnect between what can happen and what did happen, and this one is no exception.

Charles isn’t quite as attractive a hero as his friend the Earl of Macclesfield (Robert); however, that may be my own personal biases showing. Charles is a bit of a playboy; as a matter of fact, that precise piece of information causes one of the misunderstandings in the course of their story. The Earl of Macclesfield is (while undoubtedly also a rake; this is Regency England, after all) a bit of a nerd, as well, and seems more genuine to me. Charles, though, has more of a sense of humor, and the fact that he loves Ellie does sneak up on him in quite a bewildering and appealing fashion.

Ellie is stubborn and really spends a lot of the book having people not believe in her. I found frustrating, a bit, but pretty realistic, given the circumstances. Ellie’s lack of power frustrates her to no end, and I liked seeing her struggle, even though I wanted the best for her and wanted her to find her happy ending. All in all, it’s really quite a delightful little tale. It’s not particularly possessed of any sort of deep insights, or particularly deep currents of emotion, but I wouldn’t say that detracts from its eminent readability or a reader’s enjoyment. The characters are sweet; the tale is pleasant, and I believe it’s exactly what it purports to be. 4/5 stars.

*I tried. I forgot Colin Bridgerton and Penelope’s volume’s title (which turns out to be Romancing Mr. Bridgerton). Also, I can’t remember Daphne Bridgeron’s husband’s name. Other than those, though, I was spot-on. *sigh* Other than that, I got ‘em all. Sad, huh?

Verity Durand is the most famous — and infamous — chef in England. Famous, because her food makes angels weep and grown men slaver; infamous because, well, she had an affair with her last employer, Bertie Somerset. Of course, Mr. Somerset has since died and his younger half-brother, Stuart, has inherited the entire place, including Verity’s services — as a chef, of course. Stuart Somerset is a politician; originally a barrister, he’s now an MP and holds the ear of the Prime Minister; he works twenty-four hour days trying to get bills past. He rarely has time to eat, let alone enjoy his food. Oh, and he’s engaged to a Miss Lizzy Bessler. However, ten years ago, he had one amazing night with a lady he’s never seen since, despite searching. Only a totally crazy situation would throw them back together . . . wouldn’t it?

I keep forgetting that Sherry Thomas is about the best historical-romance writer out there. I continually read good-enough historical romance (see: unfortunate taste for Stephanie Laurens novels) where the men are homogenized to the point where they’re all heavily dominantly Alpha under all circumstances. The women, to match, are exactly feisty enough to be attractive but, of course, completely submissive in bed for absolutely no reason. The plots generally have some sort of random mystery thrown in just to provoke a confession of love at the point where either the hero or the heroine is about to die. This novel reminded me that there’s more than just that.

To start, her prose is on a level all its own. I can’t pinpoint the differences, but when I read it, I immediately knew the difference between ‘adequate’ and ‘good,’ or even ‘good’ and ‘exemplary.’ The book starts with a comparison to a Cinderella tale (pointing out that the narrator/author is self-aware) and then goes on to a description of a kitchen, which nonetheless kept me rapt. (For those interested, the opening can be found here.) Her structuring, with time jumps between 1882 and 1892 (1892 being ‘the present’ for the story), was quite well-orchestrated, and I never felt as if she left part of the story hanging unintentionally or improperly. The way she chose to unfold all the details of the story made it feel as if there was a real mystery (without the amateur sleuthing of the more recent Stephanie Laurens tales). While the ‘mystery’ had a lot of importance to the lovers involved, it didn’t have much impact on society or the greater world (even bringing a murderer to justice is an impact on society), and I felt it was the sort of ‘mystery’ plot that amplified the emotion, rather than just providing a convenient excuse for actions.

Her characters are — different. Yes, of course, there’s the requisite members of the nobility (duchesses and whatnot), but Bertie Somerset is merely a fairly well-off country gentleman (no title), and his brother is a barrister, having been born out of wedlock but later legitimized. (That’s not much of a spoiler.) Verity Durant has been a cook for years — an upper servant, sure, but that’s all. While we are talking about the late Victorian era — 1892, after all — I don’t particularly remember too many historical romances about almost ordinary people. (Although that’s a very big ‘almost.’) Also, Stuart is not terribly alpha male. Certainly he stands up for that in which he believes, but he’s, well, a nerd. I thought he was fantastic.

The story is very intensely emotional, but a smidge lighter than Private Arrangements. It isn’t all sweetness and light by any means; there are a lot of thorny patches on the way to the happily-ever-after. (Readers will, I trust, forgive my mixing of fairy tales.) The emotion, though, was another factor that kept my attention steadily in the story. Most romance novels manage to keep my interest, usually by the will-they-obviously-yes-but-when line of the emotion, but in this one, it wasn’t so much that as the sheer quantity and depth of the many different kinds of love shown in the story. Overall, I’d definitely recommend this to fans of historical romance, and those who haven’t read much but are willing to be convinced. Be warned, though: most of what you find won’t be nearly this good. 5/5 stars.

One of my study group members (I’m in law school) was, er, less than enthralled with whatever it was we were supposed to be doing so took a moment out to look up the upcoming movies for this week. One of them was described as ‘hot Regency chastity,’ I think by the New York Times, and was clearly a costume drama, so we made plans to see it as soon as possible. Directed by Jane Campion, it starts Abbie Cornish as Fanny Brawne and Ben Whishaw as the poet John Keats.

Fanny is young — late teens or early twenties — and rather more interested in fashion than poetry when she makes the acquaintance of John Keats and his friend and collaborator, Mr. (Charles Armitage) Brown. The two come into closer acquaintance and then fall in love, despite the fact that Keats has less than no money and Fanny, whose father is dead, cannot marry him. Nonetheless, they enter into an affair of the heart, and although the world — and Keats’s health — conspire to keep them apart, they find ways to remain together.

The phrase ‘hot Regency chastity’ is pretty accurate; there’s no on-screen sex, but Fanny and John’s closed-mouth kisses are hotter than they should be — on a par with Newland Archer (Daniel Day-Lewis’s character) removing Ellen Olenska’s (Michelle Pfeiffer’s character) glove in The Age of Innocence. To give a better comparison, they’re as hot as the pottery scene in Ghost. No, really. Campion, the actors, and the scriptwriters all do a very good job of putting those scenes, especially the first, together.

Fanny’s interest in fashion isn’t superficial; she spends many a scene in the movie designing and sewing her own clothing, and it’s obvious seeing her in scenes with the other women in the film that she is wearing clothing that is significantly different from theirs. She wears more colors; she shows up in a dress with sheer sleeves at one point; she makes a statement about how she is wearing the first triple-pleated mushroom collar in the area. While some of these outfits look a little silly to modern audiences (especially modern audiences raised on the bland, albeit accurate, clothing from other BBC adaptations set in this era), by the end of the movie, Fanny’s obsession with fashion is not only accepted but interesting. Because of her rapidly-changing wardrobe, we notice a bit more that Keats pretty much wears the same blue coat for the entire film. We also notice that his friend, Mr. Brown (they take great pains to pronounce his name differently from Fanny’s) looks moderately silly in a plaid suit for nearly the entire film.

I don’t know that we’re supposed to like Fanny at first; she comes across as somewhat snobby and abrasive. Eventually we come to realize that it’s just Mr. Brown to whom she is actually mean; she’s much milder to Keats, and is downright sweet to everyone else in the movie. Keats is quiet; I think we’re supposed to see Mr. Brown as causing at least as many problems as he solves. Fanny and John’s relationship builds amazingly organically. For a story with very little plot, it (as my fellow student said) kept our interest surprisingly well for the two hours plus of the film. I wouldn’t call it my favorite example of romantic costume dramas — it would take more than an ill-fated pair of lovers to knock Andrew Davies’s Pride and Prejudice off its throne — but it is absolutely worth watching and has fantastic acting, cinematography, and costuming. 4.5/5 stars.

The Cinderella story is a common one throughout many cultures, and Ms. Napoli has chosen to set her variant of the tale in Ming-Dynasty China. Xing Xing’s mother dies when she is very small, and her father remarries, to a woman with a daughter close to Ping’s age. The stepmother (called Stepmother) has decided to bind her daughter (Wei Ping)’s feet, in order that she will be able to attract a man of a much higher social status. And of course, once the father dies, Stepmother treats Xing Xing as if she’s the lowest kind of servant, even so far as to sending her off to try to sell green dates as some sort of false miracle cure to raise money. One day, there is a fair in town, and Xing Xing finds some of her mother’s old clothing (including shoes) to wear into town . . .

As with most (if not all) of Ms. Napoli’s books, this is a short volume, barely two hundred pages. However, the story and the characters are, as usual, extraordinarily well-developed in such a short time period. Xing Xing’s father, who barely shows up, is shown to be a great father, albeit a bit ineffectual in reining in his second wife; Stepmother is, of course, cruel, but it is all with love for her daughter. There’s a secondary character, a doctor, who helps Xing Xing considerably, and whose presence I enjoyed for the short time he appears. The details — Xing Xing’s father’s pottery, a fish in a pond, the help that a neighbor gives them — are wonderful, and add crystal points of light to the narrative.

I’m not necessarily one to judge other cultures prematurely and I do understand some of the sociological reasoning behind foot-binding, but from all descriptions that I’ve read (including this one), it’s a painful, torturous practice that generally involves breaking, healing, and rebreaking the feet. There are a lot of places in which the process can go wrong, and it does — Wei Ping’s feet are infected more than once. There’s also an awful scene — straight out of original versions of the tale, I’ll mention — where Stepmother cuts off Wei Ping’s toe. Fortunately, we don’t see much of it on stage, but it still made me cringe. There’s also more cruelty to animals than I’m generally comfortable with. It is, as a matter of fact, a rather violent book, but a good deal of that is in keeping with the original story.

With this story, as per usual with Ms. Napoli’s books, I didn’t feel that I was reading the story for enjoyment so much as edification, and watching the author show off her linguistic and cultural knowledge. Although I do often read books for both edification and enjoyment (look for a review of George Eliot’s Middlemarch before too long), sometimes one overtakes the other and it nearly feels like a chore to read it. I can certainly appreciate her technical skill, but the book felt almost soulless to me. I suspect that other readers may have a different experience, and I will still recommend it highly, but while I could see the emotions intended in the text, they didn’t pull on me as much as I might have liked. 4/5 stars, mostly for achievement rather than enjoyment.

The stories in this volume include: “The Night Garden,” by Mark Onspaugh; “Debts,” by Amanda Pillar; “Under the Chocolate Tree,” by David E. Hilton; “Floaters,” by Michael S. Bumagin, M.D.; “Burden of Proof,” by Jennifer Graham; “A Rustle of Curtains,” by Henry Leon Lazarus; “Pas de Deux,” by Edward McKeown; “Defender,” by Garry Ward; “Expiration Date Not Required,” by A. D. Nailor; “Lazuli,” by Christine Rains; “1-800-VAMPYRE,” by Bob Nailor; “The Vampire Doll,” by Joette Razanski; “Days and Nights,” by Elyse Salpeter; “Down in the Cellar,” by Joe McKinney; “Barney,” by James R. Cain; “Tales of the Vampire,” by Mitchel Whitington; and “Give Until it Kills,” by Joe Sergi.

If anyone needed a grown-up antidote to that book, this is it. The stories range from comedic to horrific to historical to mysterious to weird. In no story is a vampire considered sexy, mysterious, and wonderful just for being a vampire, and in no story does a high school student decide to throw away the entire rest of her life just because the most mysterious boy in school decided to look at her. Yes, vampires are love interests in a few of the tales, and one that I can remember even has a happy ending, but overall these are not the sexy vampires that pervade YA and urban fantasy literature. These vampires have variety.

We have vampire hunters of a few different flavors; in the first story, a group of tough men have decided to form a vampire hunting company with hopes of turning it into a reality show. In another story, a young woman who had been bitten by a vampire as a child becomes a vampire slayer as an adult, and other stories involve underground organizations of vampire slayers. One is the Templars, back to save us again (that particular story, “Pas de Deux,” feels like a sequel to something that may even have been in the first volume and piqued my interest) and another is just a secular organization, but a fascinating one.

The second-to-last story in the book, “Tales of the Vampire,” is about a pair of vampires who long for the good old days, when they got to munch on people instead of ordering blood off the internet, and they attempt to recreate these times. Their results are horrific and hilarious at the same time, and it was one of my favorite tales. Another story stood out because of the twist at the end, but I hate to even tell what the title is because it would give too much away. Garry Ward’s straight-up historical tale was unique for the volume, and it very much felt like his characters were part of a much larger tapestry he has in his head. Overall, while some of the stories weren’t as polished as the tales in other collections and there were some interesting typos (the spine says “More Legend of the Vampire”), the volume shows a great variety of skills and imagination, and it’s certainly worth a look. 4/5 stars.

Estrella de Madrigal is a young woman in sixteenth-century, small-town Spain; her best friend is Catalina, who lives nearby. The girls are very close to each other until Estrella pays a little too much attention to Andres, Catalina’s cousin whom she is intended to marry. Unfortunately, this sets off a streak of jealousy and vindictiveness in Catalina. The town, Encaleflora, is undergoing some awful changes; it’s the time of the Inquisition (although they don’t call it that) and all the Jews and Muslims in town are suspect, even the ones who converted years and years ago. Estrella’s family behaves strangely — is it possible that they are secretly Jewish? And how will they survive?

This is not a happy book. The Inquisition rarely made people happy (that’s an intentional understatement, by the way), and being that our main character and her family are, in fact, secretly Jewish (it says so on the back of the book; this is not a spoiler), it’s obvious that there can be no purely happy ending. Early on, we see a non-secret Jew have all his books burned — religious treaties and medical volumes, mostly — in a public ceremony, of sorts. Later on, we see the dreadful treatment of the Muslims, who live in a cordoned-off section of town, and then, finally, we see the actual results of a trial for heresy on account of being a secret Jew. Obviously we don’t see much of the questioning, torture, and death, but we do see the motivation behind the accusers, which is mostly the 50/50 division of the accused/convicted (same thing) family’s belongings between the accuser and the state.

That having been said, there are some moments of absolute joy and clarity in the story. Andres and Estrella have a lovely relationship. There is a Muslim doctor’s wife who knows of Estrella’s mother’s predilection for the color blue, and the doctor’s wife sends Estrella’s mother some hens that lay blue eggs (and the associated rooster). Eventually Estrella and her grandfather — a surgeon and teacher — come to an understanding, and it is also lovely. Many of the interpersonal relationships in the de Madrigal family are strong and loving, and even despite the horror that is surrounding them, they find the ability to keep their faith strong.

Ms. Hoffman states in the Q & A at the end that she wrote the book as a way to consider many of the issues facing America today, and I can see the obvious parallels between the ‘terrorist hunting’ and the way that the Jews were treated. She also feels that teenagers are certainly old enough to handle thinking about this topic and all the implications, and I certainly agree. Although the book is only 166 pages long, it’s probably best read by those in sixth grade or older, due to the violence. I also feel it’s very important for young readers to realize that what they are reading is a parallel of the current times, and I’m glad that the Q & A and reading-group guides are included. 4.5/5 stars.

Minke (which, I believe, is Dutch for “monk,” and a nickname) is a young man just before the turn of the 20th century, towards the end of his schooling, when, on a random invitation from a friend, he meets the most famous concubine in Indonesia and her family. Nyai Ontsoroh has been running a business empire for years, and she has been teaching her daughter Annelies — who is, of course, half Indonesian, half Dutch — how to run a business herself. Minke himself is entirely Indonesian and the son of a man with some political power, but he attends the Dutch school in a different town. There are all sorts of racial tensions going on, because Minke has fallen in love with Annelies and her with him, and she is considered significantly too good for him, being half Dutch — although she is the daughter of a concubine, which complicates things. How will their love survive?

Just as a warning and a reminder, there are spoilers after the cut, and some rather frank discussion of unsavory topics.

Obviously the main strength of the book is the fact that it’s a dissection of another culture in another time. There are essentially three castes in Indonesia at the time — the Dutch, the mixed-race (almost always half Dutch, half Indonesian, called Indos), and the pure Indonesians, called natives. The Dutch almost universally feel that the natives are of a significantly lower order — generally stupid and untrainable, despite significant evidence otherwise. The Indos, being half Dutch, are significantly better — not, of course, quite good enough, but better. There are other foreigners in the land — one of the significant secondary characters is French, and there are many Asians — but the Dutch rule the roost, and their laws supersede all other laws. It is, of course, completely barbaric, being that the Indonesians had not only their own social structure but many thousands of years of history. Apparently all they didn’t have was gunpowder, and that was enough to justify their subjugation in the minds of the oppressors.

While I enjoyed the dissection of colonization and castes, I hated — HATED — the ‘love’ story. Minke is about eighteen when the book starts and maybe 19 or 20 when he and Annelies get married, and at that point, she’s still considered underage. (I don’t know how old that would make her, but I was under the impression that she was somewhere between fourteen and sixteen when the book starts.) Minke falls in love with her primarily because she is so beautiful, and secondarily because she’s so child-like and delicate, which he loves. I hate that with a passion. I am completely aware that we’re talking about a different culture AND a different time, but the main reason that Annelies is so childlike (her age aside), with (essentially) a broken psyche, is that her brother raped her about six months before the story began. This is apparently a common reaction to sexual abuse — a kind of reversion — and — ugh. It does not make Annelies proper sexual-partner material, let alone spouse material.

Of course, Minke discovers the rape with a lot of horror and victim-blaming (autre temps, autre mores, I keep reminding myself, but the first words out of his mouth after she says that her brother raped her are “You lie!”) after they have sex, which is so amazing that he has no ability to control himself and describes both of them as “raped” by their animal natures. (This is another old romance-novel trope that drives me crazy — a man’s ability to detect the presence of a hymen while having passionate, out-of-control sex. Secondarily, if this was Annelies’s first time having sex other than the rape, even if she loved and trusted Minke with her entire life and soul, she would still most likely be flinching with pain the whole time — even if it’s just psychic pain. People don’t recover from rape overnight.) Overall, I didn’t find Annelies a strong enough character to have ANYONE fall in love with her, let alone consider as a proper life-mate. She seemed more like a little-sister sort of figure that Minke should have felt the need to protect, not marry.

Obviously I’m having a lot of trouble separating my twenty-first-century morals and feminism from my enjoyment of the book. I cannot think of any other non-Western literature that I’ve read from the middle of the 20th century, well, period (I think I’ll rectify that later), so I don’t know if I’m just being overly sensitive, but in general, I tend to avoid books that fetishize victim-like and overly childish behavior in women who are sexual objects. It should also be pointed out that the other factors as to why Minke fell in love with Annelies are the fact that she’s Indo but would rather be a Native and treats Minke like an equal; and her mother is an extraordinary woman. I suppose they do spend some time together talking, but Annelies never demonstrates any great capacity for depth of conversation or knowledge. I would even postulate that she falls in love with Minke because she wants a protector — one who is Native, like her mother — against the lighter-skinned inhabitants of their world. Therefore, although they may be ‘in love’ and all, I find the love story partially unconvincing but mostly repulsive. Other readers may be less sensitive and disagree; some people do consider Romeo and Juliet a love story, after all.

It is absolutely, entirely possible to be non-Western and from prior to 2000 and to write novels that involve strong female characters — ones who do not capitulate completely when the going gets tough, and ones who are not sexually appealing due to mental illness. I’m certain of this, despite a lack of examples coming readily to hand. I absolutely will do my best to find these novels in the near future.

That having been said, I wasn’t terribly fond of any of the characters in the book, either. The Nyai (Annelies’s mother) was okay, but I didn’t see what was so compelling about her. Even attempting to ignore my 21st-century notion that those sold into slavery are not different from those who are not, I still cannot find any character traits — other than perhaps directness, generosity, and some mild infamy — that would cause Minke’s near-obsession with the woman. Obviously, that aspect of the narrative didn’t work for me. Minke himself was moderately interesting; a quiet rebel, what he mostly appeared to want was to be left alone to produce his political writings and to live with Annelies. I can respect that, and I found that everything he did was clearly in line with my expectations of his character. Nearly everyone else in the book was unlikeable for one reason or another — being obviously racist, a past history of rape, the need to force Minke into roles he didn’t want, etc.

I am completely willing to own up to the fact that my lack of enjoyment of the book is entirely the fault of my privilege and culture, and not Mr. Toer’s writing. It is, of course, a fascinating view into another world and another time, one of which I knew next to nothing. Some books, I understand, should not be pleasant to read, and since I am definitely in a very high position of privilege compared to all the characters in the book (other than a few Dutch men), I probably should read the rest of the books. I definitely respect Mr. Toer’s dedication to his cause and his willingness to sacrifice so much for that in which he believed. I absolutely understand that his works are very important and that under no circumstances should they (or any other work of literature, for that matter) be censored — in fact, one of my core beliefs is that no work should be censored. However, when it comes down to it, I did not find Mr. Toer’s story enjoyable to read, and although I would recommend it as an important work, I would not suggest that anyone reads it merely for the pleasure of the story. This is a book to read to force one to think about the effects of colonization and consider how those effects might still be affecting countries today. So, 5/5 stars for importance, but 2/5 stars for my personal enjoyment.

This collection of short stories includes apparently 41 of his biggest and best tales, ranging from one of his first published works (“Deep Without Pity”) to three stories that had web debuts within the last couple years (“Straws,” “Golfing Vietnam,” “Fear Itself”). The tales range from a couple of punk westerns, a few pulp-type stories, straight-up science fiction, ultra-short literary fiction, a few that were intended for men’s magazines, and, of course, a few tales about rock ‘n’ roll. I won’t list all 41 titles, as that would take too much time, but interested readers can haunt the Sub Press website until they post the table of contents. This book will be published at the end of November this year.

Three of the stories are connected, as they are all about a Vietnam vet P.I. named Dan Sloane. Not many of the rest have characters that travel between stories, although there are many themes that resonate through his work. Mr. Shiner even comments in the author’s notes for a story called “Jeff Beck” that “[i]f there’s such a thing as a typical Shiner story, this is it: a magic wish that doesn’t work out; a troubled marriage; rock ‘n’ roll; and a big dose of working-class angst.” Quite often, elements from his own life story (there’s a giant autobiography on his website) show up in his stories. The story “Match” nearly happened; the main character in his novel Glimpses has a father who died the same way that Mr. Shiner’s father did. Many of his characters have unhappy marriages (he went through two), as well. One story — “Kidding Around” — is actually about someone else’s family, a writing student of his. (He obviously wrote the story with her permission.)

The last story in the book, “Lizard Men of Los Angeles,” Mr. Shiner describes (in his author’s notes on the story) as his favorite of all the stories he’s written. It’s a pulp-type story commissioned originally by Joe Lansdale, set in 1934 Los Angeles (obviously), and including Aleister Crowley, spontaneous human combustion, a stage magician and his beautiful assistant, a former child star turned ingenue, and, of course, lizard men. I loved the tone of the story; in fitting with the pulp sensibility, it was definitely tongue-in-cheek, and yet serious at the same time. I suspect that I need to read more pulp fiction, or at least the modern homages to pulp fiction. I’d really love to read more about Johnny Cairo and Mrs. Lockhart, although I doubt that any more is forthcoming.

Overall, this is an amazing collection; I would definitely recommend it for fans of his other works, and fans of short fiction such as John Crowley, Jai Claire, and even Charles de Lint, although his tone is not nearly as gentle. There’s something for nearly everyone, and while there are often violent and unpleasant events and even quite a few unlikable characters (or at least hypothetically unlikable ones), overall there’s enough to balance the novel. There’s even a children’s story, “Mark the Bunny,” which has some obvious socialist overtones, and although I wouldn’t recommend the collection as a whole for children, the story’s really hilarious for adults. 5/5 stars.