Another victim of “I’ll edit it tomorrow,” this has been waiting to go out for a month now. I’m backdating the posted date to protect the canon.

It has been grey and damp all day, the sky persisting in the exact same shade of dullness so that it has been impossible to tell what time it is. It has felt like 11am since 8 this morning, and up until 6pm still felt that way. Perhaps I can blame my obsessive bout of reading on that, though of course we know I need no excuse. I just finished a historical fiction novel – no, not that kind of historical fiction. Or perhaps it would be better just to admit that all fictions are, in one way or another, romances? But this book wasn’t romantic in the true-love sense. Maybe in a gloomy, doomed-ideal sense it could be called romantic, but if you read it for love you’d be entirely disappointed. The history bits, however, are excellent. Not so much a novel as a collection of short stories, it covers the life and fortunes (or misfortunes) of a specific family, in a specific building, from around 530 AD to 1975. And yet, format aside, it was thoroughly a novel: there was a wholeness to the book that made you want to see how the story ended. The author knew her craft well. Even though her characters had very little time on stage, they all seemed round, full people. The time period made sense, and the characters made sense both in the context of their time (as related by the author) and in the larger story of their family.

Naturally this is my first complaint: the people were too realistic. There were nice, thoughtful ones among them, but on the whole they were a proud self-centered lot. Understandable but not admirable. And the ones who cared about something besides themselves were often the worst. Greed is one thing, but all the children ignored in favor of a favorite child? Truly scary. In fact, as often as it showed its face, love was never portrayed as a panacea for human woes or weaknesses. It had strengths of its own but, in all its aspects, seemed always to end in more misery. The marriages of reason and cultural expectations were more likely to prosper and give, if not happiness, at least satisfaction than any of the love-matches. Not that even content couples were happy – I don’t think anyone in the whole 1700 years of family history could be said to have been happy for more than 15 years at a time. Inevitably their first 15 years. But maybe that was the books point – resilience is breed out of a commitment to, not happiness, but survival. The characters compromise the future for both reasons, but compromises for happiness in the world of the book were rarely rewarded. So, though the book ends on a happy note, there is no happily ever after in the minds of the reader. We know that tragedy is going to strike again, shattering the illusion. And the fact that we can survive through it, to live the struggle and disappointment all over again, is hardly a glowing recommendation for the future.

This book made an oddly somber companion to the audiobooks I finished last week, Omnilingual and The Curved Blade (which, now that I think of it, was there a blade anywhere in that book?), and that Heyer mystery I read over the weekend – yes, I fell back into mysteries. Military SciFi is neither as well populated nor as easily dipped into. I did read a sci-fi pirate book two weeks ago – kind of Firefly meets Treasure Planet – but even that was more mystery than MSF. Mysteries are, almost by definition, short, one novel affairs, and MSF is generally exactly the opposite.

Of these three books, I suppose Omnilingual was the most fascinating. Cocktail hours! And all those cigarettes, contaminating the dig site! And no computers, no AI to analyze and draw comparisons. So much to think about from such a short story. And yes, the ending made me think of that one Stargate episode . . . . The Curved Blade was . . .  well, it actually felt like it was written by someone who hated all the characters in it. Which is not an uncommon feeling for a whodunit, but this book had a quite poisonous, mocking edge. Possibly attributable in part to the reader, whose reading voice was . . . distinctive. The women were extremely beautiful, and the author seemed disgusted by the fact that none of the men could suspect either of them as a murderess. In sympathy for the author, and in my desire for the equal representation of the sexes in every sphere, I rather wanted it to be them, partners in crime, but alas – the evidence. All in all, the Heyer mystery was probably the best, if you rate books purely by enjoyment. For one thing, it had less death in it than any of the other books (well, okay, Omnilingual didn’t really have deaths, only corpses). But mostly it was enjoyable because Heyer can, and occasionally does, write likable characters. People who aren’t half bad (or, are only half bad) and who actually care for the people around them. People who have nonsensical, natural conversations with each other about nothing much at all. A lemonade of a book. Even an iced lemonade. I enjoyed the inn book but it has left a bad taste in my mouth, as a penny dipped in honey might.  It might be another book or too before I cease to hear its bitter whisperings, for even now it seems to say “don’t live for tomorrow, it will not thank you for the effort.” Luckily, I have quite a number of books in my queue.