blessed solitude

I'm back from my annual pilgrimage (get it?) to Plymouth. This year, it was storming on and off all weekend, so my usual activities were a little cramped, but I kind of liked it ... I had brought 16 books with me, and felt a lot more like holing up and reading than hitting the tourist spots. I did manage to get my shopping in, although it seemed that the rain picked up every time I had to deposit something in my car.

I reread old favorites Little Town on the Prairie, These Happy Golden Years, Cheaper by the Dozen, and Belles on Their Toes. They never get old, although in the case of the two Little House books I've read them probably once a year (at least) since I learned how to read at that level. I really do find more in them every time I read them, especially in recent years.

In further rereading, I'm now working on Anne Perry's Thomas and Charlotte Pitt Victorian mysteries ... I've read them all, but never in published order, so I'm doing that now. I got through the first four: The Cater Street Hangman, Callander Square, Paragon Walk, and Resurrection Row. All four are pretty solid, if congenitally over-introspective. All of Perry's characters are gifted with supernatural insight into other people's lives, feelings, and thoughts, and are incredibly introspective. You either have to get used to the style and live with it, or not read her books.

I also read two of her Christmas mysteries. A Christmas Secret was pretty good - I liked the characters, the setting was vivid and well-imagined, and the plot was decent. A Christmas Journey, on the other hand, was dreadful. Wooden, one-dimensional characters who were largely the same, a pace that was hard to follow and left a lot of detail behind in its wake, a 'mystery' that was never fully resolved and was left as not much more than a series of suggestions in the mind of the reader and the main character. It felt very much like a novella that was made by cutting off the first and last chapters, and several out of the middle, of a larger book. Big disappointment.

Speaking of disappointment, I read A.S. Byatt's Little Black Book of Stories. Byatt tends to be a little hit-or-miss to me. Some of her work (Possession is a particular favorite) is lyrical and lovely. Others are simply odd, and I find her short stories tend toward the odd. This book featured a story about a woman who turned - literally - to stone (among others along the same fantasy-meets-reality lines). It was an interesting story, but honestly that whole genre just doesn't grab me. I like my fiction to be set in the real world, and my fantasy to be set in a different one ... and never the twain to meet. So while I didn't enjoy Little Black Book, someone of a more imaginative bent might like it better.

I came to the (current) end of the Dead End job mysteries with Clubbed to Death (Elaine Viets). One of her better entries, it was fun, moved quickly, had good lively characters. I like how she's moving the character's life forward instead of leaving her static, and appreciate that the meta-arc is staying true to the character's spirit.

Finally, I read Dark Canyon, by Louis L'Amour. Such an inventive author! L'Amour is never at a loss for a plot. This one is no exception - fresh plot, interesting characters, but still retaining that distinctive L'Amour flavor. Very good.

And that ends the list of my weekend's reading. My brain felt as though it was still in Plymouth for a good 24 hours after I got home, but I think I'm all here now and feel much better for the chance to get away in solitude for a couple of days.