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Levi, Lia. The Jewish Husband. 209 pages. (Originally published in Italy in 2001 as L'Albergo della Magnolia. Translated into English by Antony Shugaar. Published in 2009.)

Tonight, unexpectedly, I've decided to write to you. I probably won't mail it. At least not for now. But if I can bring myself to begin, I know I'll keep writing you, and for a long time. Maybe you'll read this all in one piece; perhaps these words will never reach you. Fate will determine that, or I will, if I decide to ask fate to lend me some of its power for a little while.
There was a war here. I imagine you know about it.

Who is our narrator? Who is he writing? I'll gladly answer the first one. But I hope to leave you guessing on the second! Our narrator is a young professor, Dino Carpi, his parents own a great little hotel, the Albergo della Magnolia, in fact, the family lives there. True, his childhood may not have been that typical. With hotel guests coming in and out all the time. Perhaps he's a bit more bookish than he might have been otherwise. But, all things considered, things are good. Then he meets Sonia. And wow. He's in love. Oh, he's in love. He finds himself changing--and fast--just to please her, to please her family. His parents and friends aren't all that happy with this new Dino, but, whatever makes him happy, right? The problem? He's Jewish. She's Catholic. It's Italy. In the 1930s. Mussolini rules. And he's getting chummier and chummier with Adolf Hitler. Will Hitler's master plans for the Jewish race become the new policy in fascist Italy? Can love survive these odds? Will Dino have his happily ever after?

I liked it. It was a compelling story. Well-written. I found this narrative approach interesting, his letters kept me hooked. Especially trying to figure out where the story was going...and who he was sharing his heart with. The details are intimate, in a way, but in a way that's raw and honest. (By intimate, I mean personal. Not sexual. Though there is some of that.) I didn't think the emotions were ever over-the-top. I didn't feel manipulated. Or cheated. Dino was not a political man. He was not an activist. (Though some of his friends were.) But he didn't need to be in order for his story to matter to me. This was his story of how the war interfered with his life, his marriage. A boy meets girl story with obstacles on a larger scale.

This one won the Moravia Prize for fiction.

Other reviews: Bookslut, The Front Table, Jew Wishes,

© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

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Jerome, Jerome K. 1900. Three Men On the Bummel. 168 pages.

J, George, and Harris are back. The stars of Three Men In A Boat return for a second adventure. This time round they're not boating. No, these three good friends are biking--biking round Germany. This travel-book (that is anything but a 'travel' book) is much too fun to be missed.

Two of the three gentlemen are married. And at first, there is some concern over how to convince their wives that this trip is a good idea. Why these men should leave their wives (and children) behind to go away together. But to their surprise--almost dismay--the wives seem a bit eager for their husbands to go. So the preparations begin. And that's where the fun starts.

There may be a better land where bicycle saddles are made out of rainbow, stuffed with cloud; in this world the simplest thing is to get used to something hard. (199)

He handed me a small book bound in red cloth. It was a guide to English conversation for the use of German travellers. It commenced “On a Steam-boat,” and terminated “At the Doctor’s”; its longest chapter being devoted to conversation in a railway carriage, among, apparently, a compartment load of quarrelsome and ill-mannered lunatics: “Can you not get further away from me, sir?”—“It is impossible, madam; my neighbour, here, is very stout”—“Shall we not endeavour to arrange our legs?”—“Please have the goodness to keep your elbows down”—“Pray do not inconvenience yourself, madam, if my shoulder is of any accommodation to you,” whether intended to be said sarcastically or not, there was nothing to indicate—“I really must request you to move a little, madam, I can hardly breathe,” the author’s idea being, presumably, that by this time the whole party was mixed up together on the floor. The chapter concluded with the phrase, “Here we are at our destination, God be thanked! (Gott sei dank!)” a pious exclamation, which under the circumstances must have taken the form of a chorus.

At the end of the book was an appendix, giving the German traveller hints concerning the preservation of his health and comfort during his sojourn in English towns, chief among such hints being advice to him to always travel with a supply of disinfectant powder, to always lock his bedroom door at night, and to always carefully count his small change.

“It is not a brilliant publication,” I remarked, handing the book back to George; “it is not a book that personally I would recommend to any German about to visit England; I think it would get him disliked. But I have read books published in London for the use of English travellers abroad every whit as foolish. Some educated idiot, misunderstanding seven languages, would appear to go about writing these books for the misinformation and false guidance of modern Europe.”

“You cannot deny,” said George, “that these books are in large request. They are bought by the thousand, I know. In every town in Europe there must be people going about talking this sort of thing.”

“Maybe,” I replied; “but fortunately nobody understands them. I have noticed, myself, men standing on railway platforms and at street corners reading aloud from such books. Nobody knows what language they are speaking; nobody has the slightest knowledge of what they are saying. This is, perhaps, as well; were they understood they would probably be assaulted.”

George said: “Maybe you are right; my idea is to see what would happen if they were understood. My proposal is to get to London early on Wednesday morning, and spend an hour or two going about and shopping with the aid of this book. There are one or two little things I want—a hat and a pair of bedroom slippers, among other articles. Our boat does not leave Tilbury till twelve, and that just gives us time. I want to try this sort of talk where I can properly judge of its effect. I want to see how the foreigner feels when he is talked to in this way.”

It struck me as a sporting idea. In my enthusiasm I offered to accompany him, and wait outside the shop. I said I thought that Harris would like to be in it, too—or rather outside.

George said that was not quite his scheme. His proposal was that Harris and I should accompany him into the shop. With Harris, who looks formidable, to support him, and myself at the door to call the police if necessary, he said he was willing to adventure the thing.

We walked round to Harris’s, and put the proposal before him. He examined the book, especially the chapters dealing with the purchase of shoes and hats. He said:

“If George talks to any bootmaker or any hatter the things that are put down here, it is not support he will want; it is carrying to the hospital that he will need.”

That made George angry.

“You talk,” said George, “as though I were a foolhardy boy without any sense. I shall select from the more polite and less irritating speeches; the grosser insults I shall avoid.”

This being clearly understood, Harris gave in his adhesion; and our start was fixed for early Wednesday morning. (207-209)

For they have a way of teaching languages in Germany that is not our way, and the consequence is that when the German youth or maiden leaves the gymnasium or high school at fifteen, “it” (as in Germany one conveniently may say) can understand and speak the tongue it has been learning. In England we have a method that for obtaining the least possible result at the greatest possible expenditure of time and money is perhaps unequalled. An English boy who has been through a good middle-class school in England can talk to a Frenchman, slowly and with difficulty, about female gardeners and aunts; conversation which, to a man possessed perhaps of neither, is liable to pall. Possibly, if he be a bright exception, he may be able to tell the time, or make a few guarded observations concerning the weather. No doubt he could repeat a goodly number of irregular verbs by heart; only, as a matter of fact, few foreigners care to listen to their own irregular verbs, recited by young Englishmen. Likewise he might be able to remember a choice selection of grotesquely involved French idioms, such as no modern Frenchman has ever heard or understands when he does hear.

...

I confine my remarks to French, because that is the only language we attempt to teach our youth. An English boy who could speak German would be looked down upon as unpatriotic. Why we waste time in teaching even French according to this method I have never been able to understand. A perfect unacquaintance with a language is respectable. But putting aside comic journalists and lady novelists, for whom it is a business necessity, this smattering of French which we are so proud to possess only serves to render us ridiculous. (240, 242)

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Jerome, Jerome K. 1889. Three Men In A Boat.

If laughter really is the best medicine, then have I got the prescription for you! Read some Jerome K. Jerome. Start with Three Men In A Boat. You might think since it was published so long ago that it would be dry and stuffy. You don't really--or at least I usually don't--think of classics as being laugh-out-loud funny. But give Three Men a try. Get to know J (our narrator) and his friends George and Harris. And let's not forget the dog, Montmorency. These friends are going on a trip--and you're invited. They're going boating on the Thames.

"THERE were four of us - George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montmorency. We were sitting in my room, smoking, and talking about how bad we were - bad from a medical point of view I mean, of course."

J, our narrator, is an interesting fellow. One that I adored. (You may come to love him too!)

The book is entertaining. It is a 'travel book' that more often than not is stories, jokes and pranks more than actually seeing the sights. J relates this 'current' trip with his two friends but he also shares with readers humorous stories, little asides, about anything and everything. One of my favorite stories is the one about stinky cheese:

Cheese, like oil, makes too much of itself. It wants the whole boat to itself. It goes through the hamper, and gives a cheesy flavour to everything else there. You can't tell whether you are eating apple-pie or German sausage, or strawberries and cream. It all seems cheese. There is too much odour about cheese.

I remember a friend of mine, buying a couple of cheeses at Liverpool. Splendid cheeses they were, ripe and mellow, and with a two hundred horse-power scent about them that might have been warranted to carry three miles, and knock a man over at two hundred yards. I was in Liverpool at the time, and my friend said that if I didn't mind he would get me to take them back with me to London, as he should not be coming up for a day or two himself, and he did not think the cheeses ought to be kept much longer.

"Oh, with pleasure, dear boy," I replied, "with pleasure."

I called for the cheeses, and took them away in a cab. It was a ramshackle affair, dragged along by a knock-kneed, broken-winded somnambulist, which his owner, in a moment of enthusiasm, during conversation, referred to as a horse. I put the cheeses on the top, and we started off at a shamble that would have done credit to the swiftest steam-roller ever built, and all went merry as a funeral bell, until we turned the corner. There, the wind carried a whiff from the cheeses full on to our steed. It woke him up, and, with a snort of terror, he dashed off at three miles an hour. The wind still blew in his direction, and before we reached the end of the street he was laying himself out at the rate of nearly four miles an hour, leaving the cripples and stout old ladies simply nowhere.

It took two porters as well as the driver to hold him in at the station; and I do not think they would have done it, even then, had not one of the men had the presence of mind to put a handkerchief over his nose, and to light a bit of brown paper.

I took my ticket, and marched proudly up the platform, with my cheeses, the people falling back respectfully on either side. The train was crowded, and I had to get into a carriage where there were already seven other people. One crusty old gentleman objected, but I got in, notwithstanding; and, putting my cheeses upon the rack, squeezed down with a pleasant smile, and said it was a warm day.

A few moments passed, and then the old gentleman began to fidget.

"Very close in here," he said.

"Quite oppressive," said the man next him.

And then they both began sniffing, and, at the third sniff, they caught it right on the chest, and rose up without another word and went out. And then a stout lady got up, and said it was disgraceful that a respectable married woman should be harried about in this way, and gathered up a bag and eight parcels and went. The remaining four passengers sat on for a while, until a solemn-looking man in the corner, who, from his dress and general appearance, seemed to belong to the undertaker class, said it put him in mind of dead baby; and the other three passengers tried to get out of the door at the same time, and hurt themselves.

I smiled at the black gentleman, and said I thought we were going to have the carriage to ourselves; and he laughed pleasantly, and said that some people made such a fuss over a little thing. But even he grew strangely depressed after we had started, and so, when we reached Crewe, I asked him to come and have a drink. He accepted, and we forced our way into the buffet, where we yelled, and stamped, and waved our umbrellas for a quarter of an hour; and then a young lady came, and asked us if we wanted anything.

"What's yours?" I said, turning to my friend.

"I'll have half-a-crown's worth of brandy, neat, if you please, miss," he responded.

And he went off quietly after he had drunk it and got into another carriage, which I thought mean.

From Crewe I had the compartment to myself, though the train was crowded. As we drew up at the different stations, the people, seeing my empty carriage, would rush for it. "Here y' are, Maria; come along, plenty of room." "All right, Tom; we'll get in here," they would shout. And they would run along, carrying heavy bags, and fight round the door to get in first. And one would open the door and mount the steps, and stagger back into the arms of the man behind him; and they would all come and have a sniff, and then droop off and squeeze into other carriages, or pay the difference and go first.

From Euston, I took the cheeses down to my friend's house. When his wife came into the room she smelt round for an instant. Then she said:

"What is it? Tell me the worst."

I said:

"It's cheeses. Tom bought them in Liverpool, and asked me to bring them up with me."

And I added that I hoped she understood that it had nothing to do with me; and she said that she was sure of that, but that she would speak to Tom about it when he came back.

My friend was detained in Liverpool longer than he expected; and, three days later, as he hadn't returned home, his wife called on me. She said:

"What did Tom say about those cheeses?"

I replied that he had directed they were to be kept in a moist place, and that nobody was to touch them.

She said:

"Nobody's likely to touch them. Had he smelt them?"

I thought he had, and added that he seemed greatly attached to them.

"You think he would be upset," she queried, "if I gave a man a sovereign to take them away and bury them?"

I answered that I thought he would never smile again.

An idea struck her. She said:

"Do you mind keeping them for him? Let me send them round to you."

"Madam," I replied, "for myself I like the smell of cheese, and the journey the other day with them from Liverpool I shall ever look back upon as a happy ending to a pleasant holiday. But, in this world, we must consider others. The lady under whose roof I have the honour of residing is a widow, and, for all I know, possibly an orphan too. She has a strong, I may say an eloquent, objection to being what she terms 'put upon.' The presence of your husband's cheeses in her house she would, I instinctively feel, regard as a 'put upon'; and it shall never be said that I put upon the widow and the orphan."

"Very well, then," said my friend's wife, rising, "all I have to say is, that I shall take the children and go to an hotel until those cheeses are eaten. I decline to live any longer in the same house with them."

She kept her word, leaving the place in charge of the charwoman, who, when asked if she could stand the smell, replied, "What smell?" and who, when taken close to the cheeses and told to sniff hard, said she could detect a faint odour of melons. It was argued from this that little injury could result to the woman from the atmosphere, and she was left.

The hotel bill came to fifteen guineas; and my friend, after reckoning everything up, found that the cheeses had cost him eight-and-sixpence a pound. He said he dearly loved a bit of cheese, but it was beyond his means; so he determined to get rid of them. He threw them into the canal; but had to fish them out again, as the bargemen complained. They said it made them feel quite faint. And, after that, he took them one dark night and left them in the parish mortuary. But the coroner discovered them, and made a fearful fuss.

He said it was a plot to deprive him of his living by waking up the corpses.

My friend got rid of them, at last, by taking them down to a sea-side town, and burying them on the beach. It gained the place quite a reputation. Visitors said they had never noticed before how strong the air was, and weak-chested and consumptive people used to throng there for years afterwards.

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Montgomery, L.M. 1925. Emily Climbs. Bantam Books. 325 pages.

Emily Byrd Starr was alone in her room, in the old New Moon farmhouse at Blair Water, one stormy night in a February of the olden years before the world turned upside down.

The second book in the Emily trilogy by L.M. Montgomery. This one focuses in on the high school years of Emily Starr. It sees her leaving Aunt Laura and Aunt Elizabeth and going to live with Aunt Ruth in Shrewsbury. Ilse, Perry, and Teddy are all going to high school in Shrewsbury too. (But they get to live in the dorms.) In exchange for being allowed to go, to keep on with her education, Emily has had to promise to give up writing all fiction. She's still allowed to journal, to scribble in her Jimmy Books, but every word she writes must be true. That doesn't mean she can't have fun in her writing. Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction after all. But it is a hardship for her nonetheless.

Emily Climbs has its charming moments. Emily is more determined than ever to be a writer. And within Emily Climbs, she begins to find success. She still receives rejection slips most of the time. But she's beginning to receive good news in the mail as well. A poem published here and there. And some of these publications--not all of them, mind you, have paid her for her work! It seems that Emily might just be able to pay her relatives back for her education, a particular dream for Emily so that she won't have to be that poor orphan relation.

There is something delightful about Emily and her friends and family. Even something delightful in her nemesis: Evelyn Blake.

As she grows into a young woman, Emily is beginning to receive some attention from boys--Perry is as stuck on her as ever. As is the much-older-and-slightly-creepy Dean Priest. And then there's her wooing cousin, Andrew. But the one boy Emily has her heart set on, Teddy, seems to be a bit too shy to make the first move.

Here's one of my favorite quotes, taken from a conversation with Mr. Carpenter, Emily's former teacher and quite close friend.

"Nothing good about this but it's title. A priggish little yarn. And Hidden Riches is not a story--it's a machine. It creaks. It never made me forget for one instant that it was a story. Hence it isn't a story." (91)

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Boie, Kirsten. 2009. The Princess Plot. Translated by David Henry Wilson. Scholastic. 378 pages.

Scandia was in mourning.

The Princess Plot was originally published in Germany (2005) (Skogland was its name), translated into English and published in the UK (2008), and is finally making its American debut. The book stars a teen girl, Jenna, who is tired of her overprotective mother telling her what to do. There's overprotective, and then in a whole category of her own, there's Jenna's Mother. At least that's how Jenna feels. Why does her mother have to be so paranoid? Why does she have to worry about every little detail?

One day Jenna decides to break the rules. She decides to audition along with all her friends and classmates for a movie. She's pushed into it--urged into it--quite aggressively by the recruiters. And she does seem to be exactly what they're looking for. Almost like she was born to play this role. What's the role? A princess. If the director approves, if Jenna makes the final final audition, she'll be playing the role of a princess. But not just any princess. A modern-day-princess. The princess of a little country called Scandia.
But is everything as genuine as it appears? What do you think? Can life be so easy? This one is a fast-paced, highly-addictive read. As the mystery unfolds and the true dangers are revealed, it becomes nearly impossible to put down. I don't want to say much more than that.

I don't know that I'd say Princess Plot was the best, best, best book I'd ever read or anything. But it was so much more than I was expecting. It completely surprised me. And I loved discovering it. I hope you will take the time to give it a try as well.


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Ford, Michael. 2008. The Fire of Ares. Walker. 245 pages.

'That's fifty. Stop now!' Lysander heard from behind.

Set in Ancient Greece, The Fire of Ares is the often-ruthless story of a young boy (former slave) named Lysander who discovers--quite by chance--his true parentage (he's half-Spartan) and that discovery leads him down a different path. He begins training (though the typical age to begin is seven and he is already twelve or thirteen) to become a Spartan warrior. Lysander's most precious possession--and it's "illegal" for him to "own" anything by the way--is a jewel, a pendant necklace. The so-called Fire of Ares. This gem has been passed from father-to-son for many generations--if the legend is to be believed--since before the fall of Troy. This necklace is legendary for protecting its wearer and giving strength and courage as well. And then there is the ever-mysterious prophecy.

Though Lysander has inherited this necklace from his mother--his father died in battle before he was born--the necklace soon is lost to him. A few chapters into the book, the reader witnesses the theft of the gem and the brutal beating of the boy.

This is an action-oriented novel full of adventure and mystery and above all else violence. It was a bit too violent for my liking. But I suppose it's true to the culture. They are Spartans after all. So if you can get past the brutality of it--the blood and gore of it--then you'll find yourself an interesting story about a boy with a few choices to make about his Destiny.

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Burgess, Melvin. 2004. Doing It. (Originally published in UK in 2003.) Henry Holt. 326 pages.

You should be able to tell from the start if Doing It will be to your liking. If the title doesn't clue you in, then surely the first chapter will leave you with no doubts. Doing It is "YA Romance" from the male perspective. (Well, if you can have it be a "romance" without it being particularly romantic.) I'd classify it as humor--and believe me I'm sure there will be some that find it quite humorous--but well, some of the jokes are a bit mean, but perhaps even more importantly it is so much more than bawdy humor. (For me, the elements of humor falls more into the cover-the-eyes, it's so embarrassing kind. You know the sort where you laugh at someone else's misery or humiliation or pain.) There is substance hidden under the first thirty layers of teen guys talking about sex--the sex they want to have but aren't always getting. It's a story of friendship, in a way, three guys: Dino, Ben, and Jonathan. And each guy is at a different place in their lives. Dino is a player pure and simple. He is dating, Jackie, a tease of a girl who will only go so far with him. She's always promising more...and more...and more. But always chickening out, getting angry, running away. Ben is a strange one. He's a guy with more than a few secrets. One involving an inappropriate relationship with a teacher. Jonathan is mostly a good guy. Not perfect by any means, he listens to his friends more than his heart I think. He has a friend, Deborah, that is "plump" to some people but out and out fat to others. He's drawn to her. He wants her, there's no denying it. But he's afraid that everyone will laugh at him if he dates a fat girl. Dino especially can be harsh. So he's torn between his feelings--both like and desire--and his "reputation" as one of the guys. Some of the narrators are more likable than others. Jonathan was the one I liked best, generally speaking.

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Jinks, Catherine. 2009. The Reformed Vampire Support Group.

Interesting cover and premise. But only moderately pleasing (to me). Nina is a vampire. She's been a vampire since 1973. She's been trapped in a teenagers body for what seems like forever. Nina in her own words, "The plain fact is, I can't do anything much. That's part of the problem. Vampires are meant to be so glamorous and powerful, but I'm here to inform you that being a vampire is nothing like that. Not one bit. On the contrary, it's like being stuck indoors with the flu watching daytime television, forever and ever." (5) Nina and her vampire family don't sparkle, thank goodness, but they're also not fast or strong or powerful. These vampires are nothing like what you read about; instead we find them weak, sickly, powerless, resigned to their oh-so-boring lifestyles. But when one of their own ends up dead--turned to ash--the threat becomes a little too real and pushes them all out of their comfort zones and somewhat unwillingly into an adventure all their own. For what they find is that someone--a stranger--is onto them. Suspects that they are vampires. And is out to kill them "for the good" of mankind. Can they convince this unknown threat that they're no threat?

I was only moderately entertained by this one. The plot seemed a bit too flimsy for me. The storytelling too clumsy. At one point, the author interrupts the action sequence to spoil her own mystery. Something that I found a bit weird and definitely unnecessary. I mean why work up any suspense at all if you're just going to tell your readers the secrets before reaching what should be the climax and explain every little clue away before the "big reveal" that turned out to be mostly deflated by that point.

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Higgins, F.E. 2007. The Black Book of Secrets. Feiwel and Friends. 273 pages.

When I opened my eyes I knew that nothing in my miserable life prior to that moment could possibly be as bad as what was about to happen.

And our narrator, Ludlow Fitch*, wasn't lying. What his parents had planned for him? So not good! Just thinking about it makes my jaws ache! Fortunately for both of us, he is able to make a daring dash of an escape. After a rather close call, Ludlow finds himself escaping the City and going away...where...he doesn't know. But anyplace has to be better than where he's been, right? Where Ludlow ends up is in the company of Joe Zabbidou** in his pawn shop of secrets. Both Joe and Ludlow are new to the village of Pagus Parvus. And their destinies are tied together now. Ludlow becomes an apprentice of sort. It's a good thing Ludlow knows how to read and write and has such good penmanship! For Joe has a very special job in mind for the boy. Pagus Parvus is an interesting little place with plenty of interesting people. It's a town full of secrets. And that's just what Joe is in the market for. Good and juicy secrets. You unburden your soul, tell Old Joe all while Ludlow records it all in his black book, and in exchange....you leave with a nice sum of money. Enough money to make a difference. But can old Joe be trusted? What does he want with all those secrets? What is he hoping to gain out of the exchange? Was Ludlow right to trust him?

This one is just deliciously atmospheric. I loved everything about it: the setting, the characterizations, the language. (Especially the names.) I can only imagine this one would be fun to hear aloud.

*Don't you just love that name?
**Again, an awesome, awesome name!


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Rosoff, Meg. 2004. How I Live Now. 194 pages.

My name is Elizabeth but no one's ever called me that.

When Elizabeth (a.k.a. "Daisy") comes to England to visit her British cousins (and aunt), little does she know that life as she knows it--as everyone knows it--is about to change forever. Suffering from an eating disorder, Daisy has been sent far from home--just as much to 'help' her out as to help the evil step-mother who's expecting. She meets her cousins--Osbert, Edmond, Isaac, and Piper--and they seem to be off to a great start. Good thing too, as they'll be spending loads of time together. Daisy's aunt is off on a business trip. A trip from which she'll never return. Why? Long story short, terrorists. An enemy has invaded England--and other countries as well; bombs having gone off in at least the U.S. and England, and probably other places as well though I'm not exactly sure on that. England is now occupied by the enemy. (And the British soldiers have to regroup to try to invade and reconquer their own country.) At first, these changes don't effect the kids (Piper's the youngest; the rest are teenagers). Food rationing here. No electricity. Inconvenient, yes. Life-and-death altering? Not really. You can live without TV and the telephone. But soon the threat comes closer...and closer. Impacting some more than others. But unsettling, disrupting all. Now this war, this invasion means fight for survival. And Daisy has to grow up quickly. And now that food is a scarcity, Daisy realizes just how sick she was to choose to starve.

Daisy's voice is unique: full of snark but not without heart.

It would be much easier to tell this story if it were all about a chaste and perfect love between Two Children Against the World at an Extreme Time in History but let's face it that would be a load of crap. The real truth is that the war didn't have much to do with it except that it provided a perfect limbo in which two people who were too young and too related could start kissing without anything or anyone making us stop. There were no parents, no teachers, no schedules. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do that would remind us that this sort of thing didn't happen in the Real World. There no longer was a Real World. (46)

Every war has turning points, and every person too. (68)

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Pearce, Philippa. 2009. (Originally published in Britain in 2006). A Finder's Magic. Illustrated by Helen Craig. Candlewick Press. 121 pages.

When a boy loses his dog in a meadow, a magical quest is the result when a strange old man calling himself a 'Finder' shows up to comfort the boy. Together the old man and the young boy will use 'magic' to discover just what happened to the dog. The magic includes using one of the muddy toys belonging to the dog. The Finder allegedly embeds a message within the toy and when it is thrown at various animals, the finder can 'hear' from the animals in question. (Another example, the boy shoves the muddy toy down into a mole hole and waits for the mole's response.) Not learning much from the birds, only learning the slightest from the mole, they seek a cat--a former familiar from a witch--for further clues. This leads to a riddle of sorts. But it is when they seek information from human witnesses that things begin to move along.

For me, this one was a dull book. I wanted to like this book. I just couldn't make myself feel it. The book is the last one written by Philippa Pearce. And the book was written for two of her grandchildren. It is even illustrated by her grandkids' other grandmother, Helen Craig. It was a heart-felt project, inspired by love. And I wanted to connect with it. It just didn't happen. I do think that others might like it more than I did.

© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews
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Plaja, Luisa. 2008. Split by A Kiss.

I am in a cupboard, and I'm snogging the coolest and most gorgeous boy in the whole school. And it's a big school. And really, we're kissing, not snogging. In a closet, not a cupboard. They don't really have snogging or cupboards here--they would laugh and tell me those are dodgy British phases. Except they wouldn't say 'dodgy'. That's just as dodgily British.

Split By A Kiss is both uniquely original and stereotypically typical. I'll probably spend the rest of the review explaining how that's even possible. Split By A Kiss has a very original structure--if they've been others of its kind, I've missed them. Our narrator, Jo (or Josie), 'splits' in two after playing a kissing game with popular guy, Jake Matthews. One personality, Jo, reacts to his wanting to do more than kiss with a slap--and a long list of insults. The second personality, Josie, reacts to his touch just as reluctantly--she does call a halt to things--but she keeps her 'cool' and keeps his interest. The book tells two very different stories. They're told in different fonts. Jo's story is typical--it's been done before; Josie's story is typical as well. Nothing in these individual stories is all that unique. But yet despite the fact that in a way it's all been done before, there is a certain satisfaction that comes from reading these stories. Though they are predictable--you can guess almost from the very beginning just how these two personalities will unite as one again--it's fun too. I liked the stories. I liked the boy that she's meant to be with. I like how it all comes together.

© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

Rees, Celia. 2008. Sovay.

I liked this one a lot. It is about a female--young teen girl--highwayman. She didn't begin her life of crime out of need, or even for thrills. No, she began--her first armed robbery--solely for revenge. 1790s. England. Sovay is a young woman engaged to be married. When she learns that he has cheated on her, she begins plotting her revenge. But what she doesn't know is how trivial this will all seem within a few days. Sovay's family--her father, her brother especially--will soon be threatened; their lives at danger if they're found. For Sovay learns that her family is about to be charged with treason--among other charges--they stand accused of having the wrong views on the French revolution, of being symphatetic with the uprisers in France. The charges aren't exactly true--they support the philosophies not the murderous actions of the people--but true or not...there are people who will stop at nothing to destroy her family. Sovay is an adventurous, strong, intelligent heroine.

I won't go into much detail. It was fun. It was enjoyable. It was delightful. Most of the reviews of this one that I've come across have found it disappointing in one way or another. The readers have read other books they feel are better or more worthwhile. I haven't had that much experience with this time period, with this subject. So I didn't find it disappointing. I didn't find it unoriginal or uninspired. I found it entertaining and well paced. I enjoyed every minute I spent with this one.

Here is the UK book cover. Which cover do you like best?

© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

Today I just came up short on having an international book to share with you. But I did happen to watch an episode of Charlie and Lola. The creator of these characters is British...so maybe it counts a little anyway. The title of this one was "Welcome to Lolaland." Here's the summary: "When Lola finds Charlie and Marv studying Spanish, she asks them all sorts of questions about foreign countries. She wants to know how to get to them, what they eat there, what music they play and more. Then, together with Soren Lorenson, she creates Lolaland. This imaginary new country is an island shaped like Lola's face and features famous landmarks such as the Leaning Tower of Pisa and Big Ben. It even has its own language --- Lola Language."

I love Lola's invented country. A country where you wear sunglasses, striped socks, and rain hats. A country where you eat biscuits (cookies). A country where you do springy-bouncy dances. The whole episode is just too much fun. Lola happens to learn about a few real countries--Spain, India, Japan, Russia--which inspires her to create her own unique country for her to visit since she can't practically go to other countries with her hand-drawn passport--no matter that she's packed and ready to go!

I watched the episode with a big smile on my face. I started to think...if you could invent a country...what would it be like...what would people do...how would they dress...what would they eat...etc. I think this would be fun activity for children (of all ages) to take a few minutes to ponder...

I *hope* that this episode is one of the Charlie and Lola episodes that gets turned into a book. It would be a fun one.

© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

Dowd, Siobhan. 2008. Bog Child.

Don't hate me. But I didn't love Bog Child. I stuck with it because I'm stubborn, not because it was going "good" for me. I found it confusing and a bit on the boring side. Abby has a generally positive take on the novel, but admits that, "This book is not for everyone, but those who can stick with it through the unfamiliar Irish slang and dialog will find a touching, dramatic story of family and sacrifice. Siobhan Dowd's writing is poetic and she builds tension throughout the book. This is an unforgettable story set during a time rife with passion and turmoil."

The novel has received four stars in the review journals. (Kirkus, School Library Journal, Booklist, Publishers Weekly). And those reviewers obviously saw much too praise. It also made Amazon Editors Top 10 List for teen lit. And Publisher's Weekly's Best of 2008 list. I'm sure it will be making many other "best lists" and might even merit an award or honor. [The Printz is notorious at times for choosing books that I wouldn't choose in a million years. Not all the time. Just some years.]

What is it about? A young man, Fergus, on the verge of adulthood discovers half-a-body. The body of a seeming child. (Minus the legs. Plus an ancient-looking bangle). The archaeologists who come to collect the body--and study it--feel it might date from the Iron Age. First century A.D. (What I suppose you'd call C.E. now in these days of political correctness.) The novel is set in Ireland in 1981.

The book is a complex-and-tedious weaving of two or three story lines. Fergus has a brother in prison on a hunger strike. To "help" his brother out, he agrees to smuggle packages across the border at some risk to himself. He doesn't know what he's carrying. He doesn't want to know either. But he fears that it might be materials used in making bombs. During the course of a few months, Fergus begins having dreams about "Mel" the body they discovered. Fergus also falls for a girl, Cora, and has a timid courtship that isn't quite fully explored.

The book offers little in explanations. It presumes that every reader--no matter the age--will have enough background on the troubles haunting Ireland. Their conflicts with the British. In particular the terrorist actions of certain groups within Ireland. I was clueless. I'd imagine many readers would be clueless. And Siobhan Dowd could have easily given just a few brief paragraphs to orientate American readers with what was going on. True, the author is dead. But the publisher might have foreseen that readers might have trouble jumping in on this one.

For a book as complex as this one to work for the reader, you have to care. Care about the characters. Care about the action. Care about something. Obviously Dowd got many readers--at least the ones with review columns--to care and some deeply so. But not this reader.

To read a somewhat spoilerish but thorough review read the Guardian's thoughts on the novel.
Teenreads.com


© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

Eeckhout, Emmanuelle. 2008. There's No Such Thing As Ghosts!. Published by the ever-fabulous Kane/Miller.

This is a small picture book with big charm. I didn't think I'd like it all that much, but it surprised me in a way. I'll try to explain. It's very simple. And simple can sometimes be a very good thing. In this story, the words say one thing, but the illustrations say something very different. There are two stories going on essentially--one revealed by text, one revealed through art. And for some reason or other, this really worked for me. I can't quite explain why.

"When we moved to our new neighborhood, I had to promise my mother that I wouldn't go near the strange old house on the corner. "People say it's haunted," she whispered. Haunted? There's no such thing as ghosts! But if there is...I'm going to catch one!"

So this little boy goes on a ghost-hunt in this house...room by room by room with no luck. But as the illustrations show, there were ghosts here, there, and everywhere.


© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

Manga Shakespeare: Macbeth. Illustrated by Robert Deas. 2008.

This Macbeth graphic novel is set "in a future world of post-nuclear mutation." (That little fact will explain away why Macduff has four arms.) I'll be honest with you now. I rarely understand or "get" the art and design of the Manga itself. Why set Shakespeare's Scottish play in a post-nuclear-disaster future?...for example. But while I sometimes fail to appreciate the illustrative story that has nothing whatsoever to do with the text of the book itself, I almost always love, love, love the adaptation of the play itself. The series has done a wonderful job in adapting these plays and presenting them in new and imaginative ways.

Manga Shakespeare begins with several pages of color art work. Each character is introduced along with a phrase or two that sums up their character or their influence on the play itself. For example, Lady Macbeth's is "But screw your courage to the sticking-place and we'll not fail!" which is a great line to sum up everything she brings to the play.

Most of the graphic novel is in black and white. This is an action-filled play. And the text really works well here. Everything that is memorable and important from Shakespeare's original play is presented within the book. (In other words, all the lines that are apt to be on the test or vital to class discussion.) I love that the language is all Shakespeare. I love that the text becomes more accessible because of the format.

I think Lady Macbeth is a great example of this. With her well-endowed cleavage, corset, mini-skirt, and thigh-high boots. Her manipulations and insults to Macbeth's manhood (and courage) become even more obvious.

Highlights of their relationship:

LADY MACBETH

Give him tending;
He brings great news.

Exit Messenger

The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood;
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry 'Hold, hold!'

Enter MACBETH

Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter!
Thy letters have transported me beyond
This ignorant present, and I feel now
The future in the instant.

My dearest love,
Duncan comes here to-night.

And when goes hence?

To-morrow, as he purposes.

O, never
Shall sun that morrow see!
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men
May read strange matters. To beguile the time,
Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under't. He that's coming
Must be provided for: and you shall put
This night's great business into my dispatch;
Which shall to all our nights and days to come
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.

We will speak further.

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust;
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off;
And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.

Enter LADY MACBETH

How now! what news?

He has almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber?

Hath he ask'd for me?

Know you not he has?

We will proceed no further in this business:
He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought
Golden opinions from all sorts of people,
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss,
Not cast aside so soon.

Was the hope drunk
Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since?
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely? From this time
Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard
To be the same in thine own act and valour
As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine own esteem,
Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,'
Like the poor cat i' the adage?

Prithee, peace:
I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more is none.

What beast was't, then,
That made you break this enterprise to me?
When you durst do it, then you were a man;
And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both:
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you
Have done to this.

If we should fail?

We fail!
But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep--
Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey
Soundly invite him--his two chamberlains
Will I with wine and wassail so convince
That memory, the warder of the brain,
Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason
A limbeck only: when in swinish sleep
Their drenched natures lie as in a death,
What cannot you and I perform upon
The unguarded Duncan? what not put upon
His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt
Of our great quell?

Bring forth men-children only;
For thy undaunted mettle should compose
Nothing but males. Will it not be received,
When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two
Of his own chamber and used their very daggers,
That they have done't?

Who dares receive it other,
As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar
Upon his death?

Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.

Exit Servant

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one halfworld
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

A bell rings

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

Exit

SCENE II. The same.

Enter LADY MACBETH

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold;
What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.
Hark! Peace!
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good-night. He is about it:
The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms
Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd
their possets,
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die.

[Within] Who's there? what, ho!

Alack, I am afraid they have awaked,
And 'tis not done. The attempt and not the deed
Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready;
He could not miss 'em. Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done't.

Enter MACBETH

My husband!

I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?

I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.
Did not you speak?

When?

Now.

As I descended?

Ay.

Hark!
Who lies i' the second chamber?

Donalbain.

This is a sorry sight.

Looking on his hands

A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried
'Murder!'
That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them:
But they did say their prayers, and address'd them
Again to sleep.

There are two lodged together.

One cried 'God bless us!' and 'Amen' the other;
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say 'Amen,'
When they did say 'God bless us!'

Consider it not so deeply.

But wherefore could not I pronounce 'Amen'?
I had most need of blessing, and 'Amen'
Stuck in my throat.

These deeds must not be thought
After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,--

What do you mean?

Still it cried 'Sleep no more!' to all the house:
'Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more.'

Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things. Go get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there: go carry them; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.

I'll go no more:
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on't again I dare not.

Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal;
For it must seem their guilt.

Exit. Knocking within

Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes.
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas in incarnadine,
Making the green one red.

Re-enter LADY MACBETH

My hands are of your colour; but I shame
To wear a heart so white.

Knocking within

I hear a knocking
At the south entry: retire we to our chamber;
A little water clears us of this deed:
How easy is it, then! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended.

Knocking within

Hark! more knocking.
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers. Be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.

Knocking within

Montgomery, L.M. 1939. Anne of Ingleside.

Out of all of the Anne books--Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea, Anne of the Island, Anne of Windy Poplars, Anne's House of Dreams, Anne of Ingleside, Rainbow Valley, and Rilla of Ingleside--this one is actually my least favorite of the bunch. Perhaps it is the fact that it was written so many years after the others. Rainbow Valley, the one which chronologically is the sequel to Anne of Ingleside, was published in 1919. (The order of publication for those that want to know is Anne of Green Gables, 1908; Anne of Avonlea, 1909; Anne of the Island, 1915; Rainbow Valley, 1919; Anne's House of Dreams, 1922; Anne of Windy Poplars, 1936; Anne of Ingleside, 1939; Rilla of Ingleside, 1944.) This one always seemed a bit tacked on to the others.

Anne is all grown up with children of her own: Jem, Walter, Nan and Di (the Blythe twins), Shirley (boy with a bit of a girly name), and Rilla, the baby of the family. Anne and Gilbert are still happily wed though we don't see too closely or intimately into their relationship. Susan Baker is their live-in helper. Part nanny. Part cook. Full-time storyteller.

The book is episodic. There isn't one narrator. The role of narrator shifts between Anne and each of her children. (I can't remember if Susan ever gets her own chapters or not.) Each child seems to get a turn in the spotlight. From baby-Rilla being frightened to walk through town carrying a cake to Jem's heartbreaking loss of his first dog. The stories are about family and friendship and at times some of the harder things in life.

My favorite sequence in Anne of Ingleside is the visit of Aunt Mary Maria, Gilbert's aunt who invites herself to stay. No one has the gumption to even hint that it's time for her to go back to her own home. But an accidental surprise birthday party does the trick just fine.

I'm not suggesting it isn't worth reading, but it doesn't have that satisfying grinning ear-to-ear something special feeling about it.

© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

Thong, Roseanne. 2008. Wish: Wishing Traditions Around The World.

Fifteen countries/cultures are explored in this colorful picture book that focuses on wishing traditions and celebrations: Australia, Brazil, China, Guatemala, India, Iran, Ireland, Israel, Italy, Japan, Mexico, Russia, South Africa, Thailand, and the United States. Each two-page spread focuses on a country/culture. Through a quick four-line rhyme and an explanatory paragraph, readers are presented with interesting facts about the world.

For example, Italy reads something like this:

We toss our coins and make a wish whenever we're in Rome. Three for marriage, two for love, and one to come back home! In Italy, people toss coins into Rome's famous Trevi Fountain and make wishes. An old legend says that if you throw three coins over your left shoulder, you'll get married. If you throw two coins, you'll fall in love, and if you throw one, you'll return to Rome.

The illustrations are bright and colorful. The art is by Elisa Kleven.

© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

Chamberlain, Margaret. 2008. Please Don't Tease Tootsie.

This one is "a cautionary tale about looking after your furry friends." Here's how the jacket flap reads, "Tootsie cat and Poochie are furry friends. They don't like to be teased or poked. No... Our pets like to be doted on, stroked! Furry or slimy, scaly or silly, the playmates we love come in every size, shape, and hue. So please make the effort, everyone... be kind to our four-legged friends."

While Margaret Chamberlain has illustrated many books for children, this is her first to write and illustrate. Good message, a teeny tiny bit didactic, but a good message to impart nonetheless. The illustrations are interesting. The writing is straight forward.

Please don't tease
Tootsie,
or provoke
Poochie.
Don't madden
Mutley,
or disturb Dixie.

You get the idea. After a long list of things to don't do...the reader then gets a list of things to do with their pets. And it ends on a happy note,

We will stroke you,
never poke you.
We love you Tootsie Cat!

How do I feel on this one? Well. I realize the message was that all pets--cats, dogs, lizards, birds, etc--deserve to be treated well by their young owners...there wasn't much story. I initially picked up Please Don't Tease Tootsie because Tootsie looked like an interesting character, a cat with personality, a cat with attitude. So I was slightly disappointed that this wasn't the story of one pet and her family. But I know it's not fair to judge a book based on what it's not. So there you have it. I liked it well enough. It won't be making my top ten list of books to avoid by any means. But I didn't love, love, love it either. It probably won't be making my top ten list for best books either. So it's safely in the middle.

It was originally published with the title, Please Don't Torment Tootsie.

© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

Bloch, Serge. 2008. Butterflies in My Stomach. (Published in Canada).

I like this one. Not exactly sure if younger readers will get it. But for older readers (and by older readers I don't mean older older readers) I think this one is a fun and playful examination of the English language. Figurative comparisons--whether you want to call them metaphors or perhaps cliches would be the better word choice--is what Butterflies In My Stomach is all about. Illustrating in a very cohesive (and playful) manner a young boy's first day of school by using figurative cliches on each and every page.

Here is how it begins:

On my first day of school, my mother said I got up on the wrong side of the bed. She asked if we needed to have a heart-to-heart talk so I wouldn't bottle up my feelings. As I left the house, Dad told me to put my best foot forward. On the way to the bus stop, my sister said that on her first day of school, she had butterflies in her stomach. I think I have them, too.

Denton, Terry. 2008. Wombat & Fox. Published by Kane/Miller

I wasn't "wowed" by the cover of this one. But the text had me at hello. "This is a story of what happened to Wombat on Tuesday. I could tell you about Monday, but nothing happened on Monday. So Tuesday it is." See what I mean...does that not say read me, read me? Wombat & Fox is a chapter book--three stories within one book--that would be great for the 7 and up crowd. (Though for a read aloud I suppose it could work for a bit younger crowd.) The book would meet Alice's approval--if she were still around--since its illustrations are liberal. Overall, I'd say it was a nice blend between text and illustrations. The amount of illustrations might be friendly to those intimated by text-only chapter books (novels), but don't be fooled there is plenty of plot within its pages.

Wombat and Fox are friends. And the three stories do focus on them, their friendship, and their adventures. It also focuses on their community as many side characters are introduced. The three stories are "Wombat's Lucky Dollar," "Golden Cleat Fox," and "A Hot Night in the City."

The writing is amazingly appealing. Let me rephrase that. Some books appeal to kids. Some books appeal to adults. Some appeal to both kids and adults. Some books don't appeal to either kids or adults. While I'm not saying that every adult should rush out and buy Wombat & Fox for their own pleasure reading, I am saying that those adults who enjoy children's books and have the occasion to read with their children--parents, aunts and uncles, grandparents, teachers, librarians--would most likely find the writing style to be refreshingly smart and appealing. In a way (and to a smaller extent) like the Frog and Toad books are universally appealing.

So in other words, I liked it.

Remember, you've still got time to enter my anniversary givewaway. Enter here for a chance to win one of four boxed sets published by Kane/Miller. The drawing will be on August 27th. (Full rules are on the initial post.)

Another review: Fuse #8,

© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

This week marks the one year anniversary of my Travel the World Wednesday features here at Becky's Book Reviews. Here is how I introduced this feature last year, "Each week I will review one or two books. What kinds of books? Well, for the most part international books. Books that were first published in another country (not United States) that have since been published here. This includes books that were written in English (Australia, Canada, England, etc.) and those books written in another language that have since been translated into English. But I may also look at a handful of books about characters that enjoy 'traveling' the world and learning about new places and new cultures." I hope you've enjoyed this aspect of my blog, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on what I've done this past year. I hope that I have shown that international literature comes in all shapes and sizes--board books, picture books, early readers, chapter books, novels; fiction and nonfiction and even poetry; kids, young adults, adults; all genres--fantasy, science fiction, realistic fiction, historical fiction, etc. And that it is easier to find than you might think. Reading the copyright and the jacket flap might reveal a shelf full of international titles where you weren't expecting it! I hope I've encouraged you to seek out some international books of your own to read.

If you'd like the chance to win one of four boxed sets: Asia Boxed Set, Discover the World Boxed Set, Travel the World Boxed Set, or Explore the World Boxed Set, please leave a comment on this post answering one of these questions...there will be four winners. Each boxed set contains four books. Please be sure to leave your email address, so I can contact you if you win. Winners will be announced on August 27th. This contest is limited to those living in the United States and Canada.


Who is your favorite international author? Why?
What is your most humorous travel story?
If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go and why?



© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews