I just finished The Nautical Chart by Arturo Perez-Reverte (trans. Margaret Sayers Peden). I didn't dislike this book, but I felt the narrative strategy was gimmicky when it was revealed
(I just mean that it seemed to be in kind of third person omniscient, where the narrator had a definite personality - I didn't expect the narrator to show up in the course of the story as a player, and I didn't see the point of doing it that way), and there was also a lot of claptrap about how women are mysterious and unknowable etc. etc. which made me roll my eyes a lot. And I get that it was probably more the narrator than Coy having all those ruminations, but they kind of got annoying after a while,
especially since I was already expecting Tanger to betray him at the end, though I admit that having her team up with the melancholy dwarf was a surprise, especially since he'd killed her dog.
There was a lot of lovely stuff about the sea and the men who sail it, but it was very much about how that is the province of men, and women wait on land for them to come back. I liked Coy and El Piloto, and I wanted to like Tanger, but she didn't feel like a real person; instead, she felt like a composite of a femme fatale from a bunch of different detective novels.
Yesterday, I read Black Sheep by Georgette Heyer, which I enjoyed tremendously. Abby is wonderfully non-missish and full of good sense and good humor, and I liked Miles and his pragmatism quite a lot. The plot is predictable, but never overly convoluted, and nobody acts like an idiotin order to make it work. I think it might be my favorite of hers after Devil's Cub, even more than The Grand Sophy. (Did I mention my disappointment with Faro's Daughter? Because I didn't even finish that one, because I found the whole setup irritating.)
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This morning, while I was at the parents, Alyssa and Anthony came over to play May I, and I won! This never happens! I was losing for most of the game, and didn't go out once, until the last hand, where it is of the utmost importance, because only one person goes down and out. But my hand came together amazingly, and when my father discarded the six of diamonds, that was exactly the card I needed to be able to put my three sequences down without discard. It was awesome!
I came home this afternoon, and then
fleurdeleo and I went out for dinner at The Bar Around the Corner, so we could sit outside and enjoy the gorgeous weather. We ordered a pitcher of sangria, which was new on their menu, and it was gross, so we made them take it back and bring us pints of Stella Artois instead. It was fun. Now I am home and contemplating watching more episodes of Criminal Minds.
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There was fic today!
that bright, tight forever drumDark Angel; Max/Alec; pg; 1,225 words
"Come on in, Max. The water's fine."
Because I really needed to write Max/Alec nightswimming fic. I had a very specific reason for choosing the location - it's a rooftop pool (which the Hyatt in Atlanta used to have, and which was awesome), so it's kind of like a high place, but mostly, because Alec has good memories of Rachel in the Berrisford pool. I couldn't quite work that explicitly into the story, that that's why he goes there, but I hope it works if you know the show. Anyway, thank you to the people who've read and commented; I'm really happy you liked it.
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And lest I forget, today's poem:
For a Daughter Who Leaves
"More than gems in my comb box shaped by the
God of the Sea, I prize you, my daughter. . ."
Lady Otomo, 8th century, Japan
A woman weaves
her daughter's wedding
slippers that will carry
her steps into a new life.
The mother weeps alone
into her jeweled sewing box
slips red thread
around its spool,
the same she used to stitch
her daughter's first silk jacket
embroidered with turtles
that would bring luck, long life.
She remembers all the steps
taken by her daughter's
unbound quick feet:
dancing on the stones
of the yard among yellow
butterflies and white breasted sparrows.
And she grew, legs strong
body long, mind
independent.
Now she captures all eyes
with her hair combed smooth
and her hips gently
swaying like bamboo.
The woman
spins her thread
from the spool of her heart,
knotted to her daughter's
departing
wedding slippers.
~Janice Mirikitani
~*~