Outside of a dog

I was pretty sure I was going to like Dennis Lehane's new book, Live By Night, when I read this line on page 36, referring to a gangster who had strangled a guy:

"It had been over opium, a woman, or a German shorthaired pointer; to this day Joe had only heard rumors."

You just don't get that many GSP references in fiction.

Fortunately, by the time I reached the end of the book I had lots of other reasons to like it. You can read them in my review that ran in today's Miami Herald.

Awesome German shorthaired pointer photograph by Mark Hedden, shot yesterday at Wahoo Key.

Hype, lived up to

As I rapidly approach what can only be called middle age (gulp), I do not think I am becoming more conservative in my personal or political views. If anything, I'm heading in the opposite direction. I am, however, developing a serious contrarian streak, which means if some book or movie is nearly universally praised by the people and media outlets to which I pay attention, a strong inner resistance kicks in. Which is why I haven't seen Brokeback Mountain, or The Artist. And why I haven't read Jonathan Franzen, or Ann Patchett. I would probably enjoy or be enlightened by them if I did. I just don't want to succumb to my own self-constructed framework of cultural peer pressure. Yeah, I know. That doesn't make any sense.

Fortunately, I had other reasons to take a look at Gillian Flynn's latest novel, Gone Girl, which is accomplishing that rare trifecta of critical acclaim, genre respect and bestseller status. I read her first novel, Sharp Objects, because a friend recommended it and because she was a writer for Entertainment Weekly, a magazine I like lot. Sharp Objects kept me up very late reading it, the very definition of a page-turner, even though its genre (thriller) isn't my usual thing.

Gone Girl, as you may have read in several other places, has the same page-turning quality but Flynn has gotten better, fiendish in her plotting and almost unbearably smart in her characterizations. The unbearable-ness comes from the points of view of the characters themselves, especially Nick Dunne, who is suspected of doing away with his wife, Amy, after she disappears on their fifth wedding anniversary. Nick's real-time first-person account is interspersed with entries from Amy's diary from the previous seven years, tracking their relationship from giddy courtship to cool New York City couple (with a lovely brownstone in, where else, Brooklyn) to their current less cool and unhappy post-recession residence in Nick's hometown of Carthage, Missouri.

Any plot spoilers would negate a lot of the reason to read this book so I'm going to stop here. All I'll say is I'm glad I had good reason to overcome my contrarian impulses and give this book a read. Especially if you like psychological suspense and even if that isn't your usual thing, it's worth it.

Bone Island Bike Blog (scofflaw edition)

It's a book blog, sure, but it's my blog so if I've got something to say on another subject I might as well say it here. And I've got something to say about bikes. This is a true story. Recently, on a Thursday, I was riding home from the library for lunch and got stopped by a Key West police officer at the corner of Grinnell and Virginia streets. Yes, I had rolled a four-way stop sign (more on that later). He was kind enough to give me a warning rather than a ticket but I did get a talking to and he ran my license, which is annoying (you don't have to have a driver's license to ride a bike, right?).

On the same day, on my way home after work, I was riding down Eliza Street when a (different) Key West police officer pulled out in front of me on Georgia Street. At that intersection, I did not have a stop sign. And he did. Fortunately I have learned to ride defensively in these parts so I didn't hit him.

This was an almost unbelievable real-life demonstration of exactly what makes so many of us who rely on bikes as our primary transportation on this island so very angry about the official attituide toward cyclists. It seems we are the problem and efforts to improve the safety of cycling target us, rather than recognizing the real dangers we face daily.

Since that Thursday, I have also seen: a Key West police car roll a stop sign into traffic at the corner of Amelia and Simonton, and a gray SUV come extremely close to hitting a cyclist who was proceeding, with the green light, on United across White Street. The SUV was turning left, and had to lock up the brakes so hard that there was a loud screech and the car actually jumped a bit. No cops in evidence for that one.

I am, of course, in favor of the enforcement of traffic laws, including laws governing cyclists, especially the ones that endanger the cyclists themselves as well as other cyclists, pedestrians and drivers (running stop lights, going the wrong way on one-way streets, riding at night without lights, etc.). I will say that rolling a stop sign seems like a strange place to focus enforcement. My approach to the far-too-plentiful four-way stops in this town is to proceed cautiously and make sure no other traffic is approaching. That's what I did the day I got pulled over. That's what I've seen Key West police officers on bicycles do at the corner of Olivia and Windsor. That's what Randy Cohen, the ethicist, does according to this column in today's New York Times.

Yes, I realize that rolling a four-way stop is not obeying the letter of the law. But there are plenty of laws in the cyclist-car universe that are enforced flexibly or, as far as I can tell, never. For instance there's the state law (F.S. 316.083, LOOK IT UP), which requires cars to stay at least three feet from bicycles when passing them. As far as I know, that law is never enforced. For obvious reasons -- it's inconvenient for cars in our small town with narrow streets.

You know what else is inconvenient? Sitting in traffic on Flagler or South Roosevelt while three years of road construction unfurls on North Roosevelt. You know what would make that situation easier? If everyone who was able was riding a bike instead of a car. I truly wish our police chief, mayor, commissioners and new city manager would just give it a try -- just a week or so, try conducting their lives on two wheels instead of four. They might discover why some of us like it so much -- the freedom and pleasure of seeing the town at the pace and level of a human rather than a machine. And they might learn about some of the hazards we face, from hostile drivers to giant potholes. And these days, they may well get where they're going a whole lot faster and find parking a lot easier (and cheaper).

Stuck in the middle again

Dammit. Now I'm caught up on three different trilogies and am facing a wait of at least a year on each. I guess it's good news that each of the middle installments made me even more eager for the third.

The first was Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel, sequel to her Booker Prize-winning Wolf Hall. And the sequel just made the longlist for this year's Booker; how cool would that be? The second was Shadow of Night by Deborah Harkness, second in her All Souls trilogy about star-crossed witch Diana Bishop and vampire Matthew de Clermont. I liked that one so much I went and re-read the first book, A Discovery of Witches, and liked it way better on a second read. The third middle book was The Twelve, the follow-up to Justin Cronin's bestseller The Passage, a post-apocalyptic vampire epic. (Note to Twilight/All Souls/True Blood fans: These are not sexy kind of vampires.) The Twelve one doesn't publish until October but I got an advanced review copy and devoured it in four days. Three of which I was working for eight of my waking hours.

It's funny but reading, and liking very much, Cronin's work doesn't make me want to go out and get Stephen King's The Stand, the book to which it is frequently compared. I'd be more inclined to check out other dystopias except we've had a lot of that with the recent Key West Literary Seminar and all. If anything the books remind me most of George R.R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire, just for their masterful plotting and command of huge casts of characters and multiple settings. In Cronin's case that even includes jumping around in time quite a bit and he still pulls it off. At several points in this book he would start with a whole new time, place and group of people and my initial thought would be, come on! I want to know what's going on with Peter and Lish, and how am I supposed to keep all these people, places and times straight? And then found myself getting totally absorbed anyway. Definitely the mark of a good storyteller. Now if only he (and our friend Martin) would write faster.

Why this image for this blog post? Well, there are, appropriately, TWO reasons. Anyone want to take a guess what they are?

Finally finishing a book about not really writing a book about D.H. Lawrence

Last night I finished reading Out of Sheer Rage by Geoff Dyer. According to my record on LibraryThing, where I obsessive-compulsively record such things, I started reading it on March 6. So it took me more than four months to read a 256-page book. First up: It was great. More on that later.

I have good excuses. I had a couple other things going on. Moving, mainly, which involved organizing, and packing, and holding a yard sale and unpacking. Most of our books remain in boxes since we still haven't built the Wall of Bookshelves. All that chaos meant I wasn't in the right frame of mind to appreciate Dyer's dry, funny, smart observations on literature and himself. It was easier to dive in to various kinds of genre novels and a true crime book. And I went out of town for a week and that meant I had to read a Patrick O'Brian book because I only read those when I travel and I rarely travel these days. Besides, procrastinating on reading a book that is, in large part, about why and how we avoid doing the things we supposedly want to do, seemed appropriate.

But I kept the book near the surface level of the moving chaos and eventually finished it and am extremely glad I did. Dyer is hysterically funny, writing about his journey to write (or not write) a critical study of D.H. Lawrence, which winds up being this book instead, a memoir of sorts and meditation on the creative process and, not least, on Lawrence and his choices in life.

I especially loved Dyer's rant about academic literary criticism, which is over the top but perfectly expresses the fury many of us feel toward the current "official" approach to literature by its self-appointed judges who appear to be interested only in finding reasons to tear it apart and blame it for humanity's evil excesses, and then express their findings in repellent prose. Who needs it? Dyer speaks for those of us who love reading, and wind up majoring in English or studying literature in some fashion but are horrified by the way academia handles the field.

There's one other good reason to read this book if you're in Key West or interested in coming to Key West this January: Dyer will be here for the Key West Literary Seminar's upcoming session, Writers on Writers. We're holding two sessions -- the first is sold out but there's still room in the second, Jan. 17-20. And Dyer will be here for both, along with an impressive roster of fellow writers. Can't wait to find out if he's as funny and interesting in person as he is on the page (though after reading his comments on Rome, Santa Fe and Taos, I fear a little for Key West in future essays).