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...

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...

My Favorite Pop Song

One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...." I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...

Liars and Saints

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