It's 1935 and Desdemona Hart Spaulding's life is far from what she anticipated after years spent studying art in Boston and Paris. Instead of the bright future she imagined of working as a painter in New York, Dez finds herself locked in a marriage of convenience to a kind but passionless pharmacist in the small town of Cascade, Massachusetts; a commitment made entirely for the sake of her dying father and his beloved Shakespeare theater. As Cascade becomes the potential location for a new reservoir to serve the city of Boston, all of the things Dez has put aside her dreams to work for become threatened, including the Shakespeare theater she vowed to someday reopen. She and the rest of the impassioned townspeople are determined to save Cascade, but when Dez begins to fall in love with Jewish peddler Jacob Solomon, a New York-bound artist just as she aspired to be, she finds out what happens when our heart and morality are stretched in two different directions.

There's much more to Maryanne O'Hara's debut novel that I haven’t captured, and I wish I could, but I think a great deal of the novel’s beautiful, melancholic success lies in the natural discovery of its story. This is one of those truly layered books that leave you, by the end, feeling so excitingly full and reflective. I’ll be thinking about it for a long time, pursuing the different powerful emotions and the inner dialogue it created. What it achieves is done through both the profoundly moving visuals it creates and the cerebral reaction that O'Hara's prose evokes. I felt the presence of artistry in so many ways. The idea of a devastating, yet ultimately beguiling, transformation of a town – emptied of its residents and churches and quaint storefronts – into a broad lake; a man-made civilization turned into a natural nothingness. Nature turned to civilization turned to nature; it struck me as a startling and beautiful depiction of the fragility of what we contribute to the world. Likewise, the passion Dez has for painting – and the infusion of wonderfully researched detail – added a different sort of richness that I found fascinating. One of my favorite elements was Desdemona’s most significant painting, The Black Veil, and the symbolic role it played in the novel as a whole. Like the painting, Cascade had the feeling of being shrouded; veiled by the changeability and heaviness of the decisions we make.

Another art that played an entertaining role was that of Shakespeare and his work. I enjoyed how O'Hara incorporated some of the concepts and themes of Shakespeare’s plays so gently into the story that he felt connected without being imitated. One of my favorite plays, The Tempest, takes a particularly central focus and I loved seeing some of my favorite passages repeated and reinterpreted as it was sifted through the novel. Nature, art, literature; the inherent way in which all of these things were combined jumped off the pages, carried along on O'Hara's lovely prose, in a way that felt enchanting as it was almost heartbreaking. Almost, but not quite; I didn't feel that the novel set out to either break or warm hearts, but certainly to move them. There was a sort of breaking away from the typical formula that I really enjoyed. While much of Cascade is about the fragility of the decisions we make and the effect they have on the course of our lives, the story presents that concept to the reader in a way that makes us feel like we’re experiencing it for the first time. The story is far from predictable, and it leans neither in a happy or unhappy direction; it very much creates its own path. In that way the reaction from the reader will be especially subjective, and I think the true test of compatibility with the story lies in the reader’s reception of Desdemona. Her passion often seemed to flounder under the weight of the hand she’d been dealt, but her strength to face her decisions ultimately carries her through. One of the things I loved about her was that she always had courage; I felt like I knew her well almost immediately, and I understood the decisions she made along the way. I wanted her to find happiness, but the exciting thing was that – like Dez herself - I had no idea which path was actually her road to happiness, and I felt as surprised as she did along the way. On the whole, Cascade felt quietly exhilarating, a meaningful debut from a writer especially talented in drawing imagery from words.

(I also have to add my appreciation for Emily Mahon's cover design; I felt like it truly captured the vision I got of the novel -- and it's just gorgeous!)

Title:CascadeAuthor: Maryanne O'Hara Genre: historical fiction, romance, literary fiction Publisher: Penguin Release date: April 30, 2013 (trade paperback Source: Personal Collection Buy the book:Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & NobleConnect with the author:Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

Something about Mary Oliver's latest collection of poems caught my attention when it was first published in October of 2012; maybe the premise of it, the fact that her poetry in A Thousand Mornings revolves around animals and nature, and her joyful interactions with both. Regardless, I saw it again some months ago at the library and started to read it while I lingered in front of its shelf; when I seemed perfectly content to stay there reading the entire collection, I figured it was definitely one to check out.

Not having a particularly in-depth experience of poetry, I appreciated how instantly I was able to connect with Oliver's work. If you're interested in the art of poetry but don’t quite know where to start, I highly recommend A Thousand Mornings. In thirty-six simple and sparkling poems Oliver muses with grace, delight, and a touch of humor on the sort of subjects we all might be inclined to stumble upon in our daily lives. She writes about the transitions of seasons, the unruliness of nature’s beauty, the truth within the simplistic; she writes at length about animals, plenty of birds and some snakes and two heartbreaking, poignant odes to her late dog, Percy; she writes about spring; and, of course, she writes about mornings. I haven't read Oliver's work before, though I know she’s quite revered, and I understand why.

The poems in A Thousand Mornings seem to shed away all the layers of irrelevance in our lives to show us the lasting truth, our connection with the world around us, its naturalness, wildness, and spirit. As she describes herself in one of my favorite poems, "Foolishness? No, It’s Not", this collection itself is also, "in that delicious and important place...full of earth-praise". In "Poem of the One World" she effortlessly touches readers' hearts with the simple seaside observation that merely by being a part of the same world as the beautiful white bird she's watching she herself feels connected to beauty, and she herself feels beautiful. In her poems about her beloved dog, Percy, Oliver reaches perhaps her most personal and touching notes: "The First Time Percy Came Back" which captures the reconnecting of the spirit of the mourner to the spirit of the lost, and "For I Will Consider My Dog Percy", a derivative of Christopher Smart's "For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffrey". The simple and smart "I Have Decided" was another favorite, in which she determines to move to the place of silence and blissful connection in the mountains, and her non-physical method of reaching her destination. Her poems on nature, which consist of everything from conversing with foxes to climbing trees, offer such a sweet, childlike nostalgia that the reader is reminded of the lifelong existence of whimsy.

I can't compare A Thousand Mornings to Oliver's previous work (though I'll certainly be going back to read them now), but from my perspective it was an enchanting and delightful introduction to a most beloved, most beautifully-minded and insightful artist. Read it while you're sitting under a canopy outside in the rain and you'll believe in magic.

---

Get the book: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble

Jenni Fagan's debut novel tells the story of Anais Hendricks, a fifteen year-old Scottish orphan being transferred to a juvenile facility known as the Panopticon. Considered a secure home for teenage offenders, the Panopticon is a prison to its young residents; a circular building observed by an unknown audience in a watchtower, the rooms with doors that can be closed - and locked - by only the staff. At the time of her transfer, Anais has been apprehended by police, found with blood on her skirt while a policewoman lies in a coma. An orphan since her birth, Anais has been moved from home to home with such frequency that she disbelieves a true family ever existed for her; she is an experiment, she tells the reader, created only for the purpose of being observed by people she cannot see – people from whom she is convinced she’ll never escape. As Anais adjusts to the suffocating world inside the Panopticon and grows to know her fellow residents, she’s driven to plan for herself what adults have never been able to provide her with: freedom, and a life of her own. What results is a story, at once heartbreaking and inspiring, that weaves through the dreams and horrors of adolescence in the voice of a fearless young woman determined to come to terms with her own worth. The Panopticon was one of the most shocking and relevant books I've read in a while. Author Jenni Fagan shrouds a very present-day setting with an aura of dystopia, leaving us with a world that feels staggeringly, almost disturbingly true to life. Some elements of the novel take wing on the illusory, such as Anais's determined concept of an experiment watching her. Even the bizarre world of the Panopticon has an air of invention, where children are convicted offenders but attend public schools, have cell phones, and are given clothing allowances. But the figments of The Panopticon are far, very far outweighed by the alarming realities a teenager raised on the streets could face: drug use, prostitution, suicide, murder. Though it’s draped in elements of the surreal, the world of The Panopticon, the struggles of its characters and the narrative's dark wit, cut through to the reader in a way that feels deeply personal, and quite scary. It's amid this beautifully-crafted and harrowing tumult that we find the one unwavering source of optimism: the heroine, fifteen year-old Anais.

Anais Hendricks struck me as women's answer to Holden Caufield. With a penchant for vintage cloths and the starry-eyed dreams of a life in Paris, what makes Anais so unlike the heroines who've come before her is the journey that's lead her to where she is. Despite a life so lacking in familial love that she has actually convinced herself of being spawned in a petri dish, Anais maintains a witty and ultimately positive outlook on life even as she scrambles against the fear of permanent confinement. I can't remember the last time – if ever – I came across such a courageous heroine. She's by no means meek, armed with an arsenal of profanities and a fierceness of spirit that challenges her superiors. What she's seen and done will shock the reader, but what she says and how she thinks will stay with them for much longer. It's amazing that, all the while she's on this journey of loneliness, looking for a place where she can be home, Anais has been at home in her reader's heart all along.

Fagan's writing style is quite fascinating, and beautifully executed. The narrative – which, as well as the subject matter, is not for the modest – is told in Anais's own voice, complete with the Scottish accent that she and those around her possess. The style could be challenging for some, but it's incredibly well achieved and the personal touch that it adds to the novel is irreplaceable. This is the sort of novel that defines how subjective literature can be; some will love it and some, much like with Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, will not see its merits. As for my opinion, I think The Panopticon is a startling and brilliant work from an outstanding new talent in the literary world.

Note: Due to strong language and disturbing subject matter it's my recommendation that The Panopticon requires a mature reader.

Title:The PanopticonAuthor: Jenni Fagan Genre: literary fiction Publisher: Hogarth Release date: July 23, 2013 Source: Random House (C/O) Buy the book:Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & NobleConnect with the author:Website/Blog

Laurel Estabrook is a young social worker in Vermont living under the weight of a horrific experience: she was viciously attacked one evening on a bike ride through a northern wood. With the emotional scars still suffocating her seven years later, Laurel immerses herself predominantly in her work securing safe and comfortable residencies for the homeless. But when her job brings her into contact with an elderly and schizophrenic homeless man named Bobbie Crocker, her life changes in ways she never would have expected. After Bobbie’s death she discovers he had possessed a remarkable collection of photography; negatives that he himself had taken throughout his career as a talented and notable photographer from the late ’50s into the ‘70s and beyond. The photos lead Laurel into the truth of Bobbie’s past, a truth that some people will go to great lengths to keep secret: namely Bobbie’s ties to the infamous history of two Jazz Age socialites from Laurel’s Long Island hometown. Thwarted by Bobbie’s last surviving relatives and questioned even by her closest friends, Laurel is on a race to prove the weight of Bobbie’s legacy once and for all. An astonishing literary thriller, The Double Bind leaves its reader with the sort of breathless reaction that exactly defines why reading can move us in remarkable ways. Among its surfeit of unique markings is the way in which Bohjalian approached the structure of the novel; his pacing manages to defy the typical strategies of the suspense genre, creating a book that’s distinctive and truly surprising. The novel’s first pages throw its reader headlong into the tense energy of Laurel’s tragic experience and the final chapters present a thrill ride one will never see coming, but it’s what happens on the pages in between that I found, on reflection, quite interesting. Bohjalian's eloquent prose and his focus on his protagonist, Laurel, created an unhurried tempo that had me feeling comfortable and at-ease with the reading experience; not what I had anticipated for a thriller. As I wondered why I was turning pages casually, and not with more rapidity, I started to see the finite ways in which Laurel's fixation on Bobbie's legacy gently began to erode her judgment. I understood that I was in the midst of a novel that had very finely crafted layers, but seeing through them was impossible. I was lulled into a false sense of security, perhaps even worried that the novel had failed because I had already easily imagined every way that the story could work itself out – and this is exactly what gives the shattering twist in the novel’s final act the astonishing velocity that it has.

While the structure and execution was fascinating enough on its own, Bohjalian’s use of The Great Gatsby as a device was extremely clever and handled with tremendous care, showing clearly the author’s great reverence for Fitzgerald’s classic novel. It makes the experience of reading The Double Bind a particularly cerebral one for readers familiar with Gatsby’s iconic story. The cast of characters were all engaging, but Laurel will stay with me for a long while most of all; her courage and determination brought her to life as an Amazon, empowering and emotional. I was also moved by the novel's nonfiction attributes: namely the real life Bob Campbell, a man whose life took him from photographing celebrities to seeking aid at a homeless shelter, and whose own photos appear printed throughout the novel’s pages, cast in the reader’s mind as the work of fictional Bobbie Crocker. The Double Bind manages to pay appropriate homage to a remarkable real-life man and an unforgettable classic novel, all the while taking readers on a journey that will have them questioning the very tangibility of reality; it struck me as smart and deeply intentional storytelling from top to bottom.

I won’t go into more details (much as I’d like to) for the sake of avoiding spoilers; but I do recommend this book very highly, and I recommend that readers see it through to the end, because you think you know exactly what will happen, but you have no idea – and it’s a pretty jarring, exhilarating experience.

Buy the book: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble

Connect with the author: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

Published in 1905, The House of Mirth was the novel that launched Edith Wharton’s name as a celebrated novelist several years into her occupation as a writer. An instant classic, it remains one of the pillars among her bibliography of more than fifty works. Why it took me this long to read it, I’ll frankly never know. The novel tells the story of bold, ethereally beautiful Lily Bart whose impassioned desire for all things luxurious in life clashes with her meager income and single status. Marrying rich seems to be her only option, and that excludes from her a future with Lawrence Selden, the handsome and inadequately-financed lawyer with whom she feels most liberated to be herself. Scurrying through the maddeningly treacherous formalities of the social sphere, Lily must learn to hoist herself up amid the unkind words and devious schemes of people disguised as friends. What makes Lily such a remarkable character, I think, is the rapidity with which she bounces from appearing superficial and pious to soliciting herself to the reader as a woman of genuinely profound insight. The alterations between which seem to be, in the context of the story, her ultimate downfall, but they work in the same way to build her up in her audience’s esteem. I won’t spoil the end of the novel in case anyone reading here hasn’t yet experienced it; but I will reiterate, as many usually do, that The House of Mirth is a heart-wrenching and bittersweet work. And it’s just beautiful.

I can understand, after finally reading it, why it carried Wharton to her initial success as a writer. This first reading has already catapulted her high on my list of favorite authors, and it has me wondering why it ever took me so long to read her. I feel like I've read The House of Mirth at an appropriate age all the same, particularly because it calls on so many emotions which, I think, are more acutely developed now. Lily’s plight, despite appearing here in New York’s Gilded Age, has moments that ring of familiarity to modern readers. The challenge of understanding, on the late edge of her twenties, what it is she should do with herself and finding amongst the torrid waters of social convention the true fabric of her own character can easily strike a chord with the appropriate reader. The difference, of course, illuminates the achievements of feminism in our time, though one could argue that the novel also highlights the continued flaws of contemporary society (a feat Wharton achieved with stunning clarity over one hundred years ago!).

Lily is a woman vastly ahead of her time in her aspirations, which are to be free of social obligation and to live her life in true, unfettered independence; to live however she would like, in her own brand of luxury, and on her own terms. Her convictions to make her future so are admirable, though the reader soon discovers with her that such a future isn’t so readily available. Her many ill-advised decisions, which have occasion to win out over her remarkable intelligence, lead her further from her dream life, but closer, in a tragic way, to a better and more blissful understanding of herself. This was, for me, the novel’s triumph as much as the love story between Lily and Selden. That latter piece, unfortunately, has all the chemistry a reader can want, but far too much distance. When the two share a scene their connection is wonderful, but there's a palpable divide between them that keeps the reader from ever really feeling like they've made a connection at all. It did make me wonder if that was Edith's intention because it adds a sort of final blow to the ultimate tragedy of the novel.

But what Edith went above-and-beyond with was her depiction of society. She was a zinger of a lady, completely unafraid to lay bare the scathing indecencies of Lily Bart’s scandalous social “superiors” and exploring in depth the unraveling of society’s merit in the face of classism, hypocrisy, and declining ethics. The people on whose level Lily aspires to reach are, the reader is quick to understand, decidedly far below Lily herself on a moral scale; but the vision of the social climate refuses to see things in that way, priding instead an affinity for the hollow glamour of wealth and status. It's a stab that resonates into the world of the novel's modern readership and clearly expresses why The House of Mirth has endured over time.

I was enthralled in Edith’s execution of The House of Mirth, from her use of language to the artistry with which she took the reader into the depths of her story. It wound around me with such solidness, such impenetrable realness; the sort of novel that will linger forever on my mind, as genuine classics do. The characters which populate the novel are immense in number – it was, initially, a bit difficult to work through the Trenors and Dorsets and Van Osburghs and Stepneys, etc. – but each came to life to set the stage for the dramatics of Wharton’s story, and I eventually came to know them well. Edith’s writing style and particular narrative language felt genuinely accessible to me, too. Her sentences are constructed in a way that are noticeably beautiful but also truly sensible. At the same time, it has its complexities (the huge cast is a good example), but great authors have a way of making their readers welcome complexities now and then. Edith certainly had a unique ability of encouraging her reader to work a little harder at some points and then rewarding them with the brilliance of her talent when they find themselves struck by some of her most impressive sentences.

Overall, I think The House of Mirth was one of the most invigorating books I’ve read from our proclaimed list of literary classics. While the romance between Lily and Selden felt on the brink of being barely a romance at all, there was so much else in the novel that boasted substance – really, Lily herself was powerful enough to carry the entire show on her own, right through every amusing, enlightening, and ultimately heartbreaking scene.

Title:The House of MirthAuthor: Edith Wharton Genre: classics, literary fiction Publisher: Charles Scribner's Sons (original) Modern Library (my edition) Publication date: October 14, 1905 Provided by: Personal collection Buy the book:Amazon | Barnes & Noble

In 1915 Elizabeth Endicott, a spirited young American, arrives with her father in Aleppo, Syria, as part of a Boston-based organization whose mission is to aid the struggling survivors of the harrowing Armenian genocide. Amid the throes of World War I, hundreds of thousands of Armenians are being quietly massacred and, stationed at the American consulate in Aleppo, Elizabeth finds herself a rare witness to the tragic circumstances of a civilization being driven out of its own existence. As Turkish soldiers and gendarmes briefly usher in the barely-living women and children who have survived thus far, Elizabeth and her comrades do their best to administer food and medicine and otherwise preserve the preciously frail lives. During her plight she meets Armen, a young Armenian man spared the swift death so many have suffered by working as an engineer for the Germans. Armen has carried the weight of his share of suffering, however, having lost his wife and daughter to the genocide. As Elizabeth and Armen work to overcome the terrors of the world around them they find a connection neither had expected, and their love grows strong even after they’re driven apart. Despite the unimaginable place she finds herself in, Elizabeth is firm in her hope that she and Armen will find their way back to each other. In 2012, novelist Laura Petrosian finds her world turned upside down when a phone call unravels a series of shocking revelations about her Armenian heritage and brings forth a host of secrets that her beloved, enigmatic grandparents took to their graves. As Laura delves boldly into the history of the Armenian genocide she comes to realize the depth of her ancestors’ plight and the many powerful stories of loss, love, and survival which have been lost in time.

As I turned the final page of Chris Bohjalian's fourteenth novel, The Sandcastle Girls, I wondered in fascination how, as a writer and a devout user of words, my mind had managed to overcloud all language with emotion. I never find myself at a loss for words where books are concerned, but The Sandcastle Girls left me with one tiny (albeit very passionate) reaction: wow. Another one came to mind shortly afterward: stunning. With his efforts, Bohjalian has put forth a novel that in many ways transcends description: there’s simply so much to feel in The Sandcastle Girls that what’s left to say almost pales in comparison. He divides the book between two dialogues: that of 1915, which is a third-person narrative in the present tense, and Laura’s first-person, past-tense account of her journey in present-day New York. The reason I note the use of persons and tenses is purely because I found the artistry with which Bohjalian wielded them to be quite fascinating. The two accounts are not noticeably separated, so the author trusts the reader to discern his pattern and grow comfortable with it – a concept that I found daring, and the execution of which I greatly enjoyed. In the way he crafted The Sandcastle Girls, a reader can easily acquire the feeling that Bohjalian has in many ways broken apart the traditional pillars of the novel and rebuilt them as part of his story.

As for the story itself, I was overwhelmingly absorbed in the plight of the Armenian refugees and their American aids through the account of 1915. Beyond the love story of Armen and Elizabeth, Bohjalian illustrates the lives of several other characters, all equally interesting: from Armenian survivors, a young girl and her unanticipated guardian, to German engineers earnestly trying to make a difference, and the passionately dedicated American consul who hopes that someday the world will understand the degree of tragedy as he has seen it. Laura, Bohjalian’s present-day protagonist, also jumps off the page with a warm combination of humor and sadness as she shares her experience of discovery.

Through The Sandcastle Girls the author guides the reader through scenes that evoke every kind of emotion, from the hopeful happiness of a star-crossed romance to the heartbreaking tragedy of the war and genocide. I was alternately beguiled and disturbed at the turn of a page. At the heart of the novel’s success, I think, is Bohjalian’s ability to at once enchant his readers with a fascinating story and educate them on a part of history too often over-looked. The result is a beautiful journey through the fragility of human life and the immortality of will.

Buy the book:Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble

Connect with the author:Website | Facebook | Twitter