The Louise Penny Mysteries

There is a scene in "The Cruelest Month" that nicely illustrates what I dislike about Louise Penny's writing.

Armand Gamache, the hero, is watching his little grandson. The grandson walks too close to a pond. Armand stands to correct the error, and his wife stops him. "Don't," she says. "That is your son's job now."

Touched by this feedback, Armand kisses his wife, in a reverent way. "Thank you," he whispers. He doesn't say the words; he whispers them.

All of this reeks of bullshit. Who says a grandparent can't save a small child from drowning? And, in a marriage, even a functional long-term marriage, might one spouse be tempted to say to the other, in a peevish tone, "I wasn't actually seeking any guidance here" --?

I sometimes have to take a few deep breaths so that I don't throw the physical object, the book, across the room.

That said, I like Penny's use of an omniscient narrator. This feels old-fashioned. The narrator closely observes several of the characters, dipping into their thoughts, jumping out, pulling the camera backward, pulling the camera in. A Penny novel feels a bit like "The Sopranos"; I'm often in Tony's point of view, but I'm not *always* in Tony's point of view. Penny also has a curious approach to a villain. A chief antagonist in "The Cruelest Month," Yvette Nichol, seems insufferable: She consistently feels she has the right answer, and she is dismissive and cruel toward colleagues when they seem to waste her time. Yvette's scenes are compelling because Penny clearly has empathy for her; Penny seems to be saying, to the reader, "I know that *you* have behaved this way, as well."

I also like Penny's sense of place, and her decision to do her own thing. These Three Pines novels do not follow several current trends; we don't see an unreliable narrator, or a weird resistance to linear storytelling, or a reliance on reconstructed emails, or text exchanges, or letters-to-the-editor. Penny is writing for herself. I appreciate that.

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic. She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

Liars and Saints

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