January Blues

Posted on January 29, 2024 by jfkaufmann

I don’t like January, that time after holidays when life tries to get back to a normal routine but somehow fails. At work, this is the beginning of a new fiscal year; in other words, work soars up after the December slowdown – the gear shift, although expected, still seems sudden and sharp.

That’s not a big deal for me. I ‘m happiest when I’m busy at work, although this year, due to some unexpected absences, I notice the heat more than before.

Like many others, I feel deflated after all the holiday hoopla. My family keeps Christmas on a very moderate level, focusing on its non-commercial aspects, but still. We also celebrate two Christmases, which doesn’t translate to two X-mas shopping and gift exchange by any means, but still involves some preparations, cooking, and going to the Orthodox Church on January 6th – the pinnacle of the holiday season for me.

January Moods

January 7th is the end of Christmas season and then, every year, I know I have to face what I call my January blues. The first month of the year seems the longest as well. At work, there is no a long weekend until mid-February. Days are still short, barely noticeably longer than in December.

As a cherry on top, we had a couple of weeks of a brutal cold spell here – the temperature dropped below -35 C, which felt like -45 C with wind chill — an experience you feel you want to share you grandchildren one day.

And then, I heard some bad news. They’re not about my family nor me, thanks God — my painful and annoying issues with arthritis are ever present but stable — but still close enough to deeply affect me: a friend with some unclear CT scan results, another friend whose son went under serious medical treatment, a sudden, unnecessary and senseless death of my sister’s close friend, not the perfect post therapy outcome one of my girl-friends faced after an excruciating year of evasive therapies… At the same time, my sister is in Ottawa, my friends in Herzegovina, Croatia and New Zealand – not nearly close enough for any kind of direct and effective support.

On a bright note, my first read of 2024 was a wonderful, fresh, unusual romance novel, People We Meet on Vacation by Emily Henry. I really, really liked it.

It’s a slow read, something I don’t mind at all. It was just what I needed between the end of December and the beginning of January, when you don’t know what day or date it is. Although it follows the basic three-act structure of any other novel of any genre, the construction of it is subtle — not concrete blocks but a bamboo frame, so to speak. Lovely and intelligent writing as well, unhurried and measured built of the tension, believable, realistic, yet deeply moving and satisfying. So skilfully threaded I expected now and then for the story to end sad and heartbreaking. (Thankfully, the cover was reassuring). It captures the very essence of the best-friends-to-lovers experience, and you know it even if you have never fallen in love with your best friend. This is one of my most beloved subgenre of romance. In real life, this kind of love is not that uncommon, and I truly believe that such relationships have all the potentials to be the most stable and successful.

The other reason is pure personal. I wrote a novella with the same theme – a budding, confusing, irresistible love between two best friends. It was reassuring and confirming to see that someone who is a best-selling author on one side, and I on the other, have touched the same cornerstones of such a relationship. With no intent to compare myself with Emily Henry, I couldn’t help to see some kind of validation of my own work. Her novel, much longer and detailed, rose the same emotional tide I’d felt when I was writing my more condensed and time-contained novella, Best friends and Other Lovers. It told me, well, I did it right.

I hope your January is brighter than mine. After a four-month hiatus, I made a painting today, pouring onto the canvas my tangled and conflicting perception of January. It’s almost the end of it, so I try to look ahead.

How do you feel about January? Is it a common experience, or is it just me?

What was your last read of 2023, or the first read of 2024? How did you like it?

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2023 in books: “Meh.”

Posted on December 18, 2023 by jfkaufmann

This parting year was a bland reading experience. I couldn’t pick out more than a few books that made a lasting impression on me. I re-read a lot, though, which gave me some balance.

I kicked off my 2023 reading by listening to audiobooks, having been unable to read for weeks. I went through quite a few Louise Penny’s novels, despite the irritating voice of one of the narrators. Later, I switched to paper/e-book format, until she started repeating herself, slowly but surely choking out the life of her characters and having increasingly sillier plots.

I continued with a couple of non-fiction publications but I could only emphasize two: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari, which I missed reading when it was published, a few years ago, and the more recent Irreversible Damage by Abigail Shrier, the finest example of investigative writing, an eye opener that won’t open any eyes.

After overdosing on Louise Penny, I needed a palette cleanser, and for something like that, nothing works better for me than a well-written romance. Someone at work recommended Lucy Score and Kristan Higgins. The former can go to the “meh” category: too long, too detailed, and occasionally shallow and silly. I enjoyed K. Higgins much more: lovely writing, interesting characters, and believable storylines. Her stories are funny and light, but not without depth — she doesn’t hesitate to tackle some real-life issues. Still, not something I would read again, but then most romances are for single use anyway.

The following months, right to the end of the year, were just a search for a next decent read and return – for the lack of success – to my old book friends, mostly in my native language.

The latest book I read, just days ago, was a 30-year-old mystery novel, Borkmann’s Point by Hakan Nesser, one of those books that can trigger my frustrated inner reviewer. It won a prestigious Swedish award, although I can’t see why. The main character, Inspector Van Veeteren, wants to be no less than Hercule Poirot, relying on his intuition rather than the evidence (which he is not looking for at all). I half expected him to praise his “little grey cells”. An annoying character at his finest: cocky, unreasonably self-confident, unconvincing. He spent most of time musing about things irrelevant to the story. He constantly chews on a toothpick, reusing the same ones for quite a bit, keeping it in his pocket. Unless he sucks on an olive pit. The other character sucks on a pen. The rest smoke cigarettes — in short almost everybody has something in their mouth almost all the time. Makes you wonder.

Nesser didn’t bother to explain how Van Veeteren solved the case, he just solved it; we should be content with that. The translator was lost in translation. There were way too many exclamation marks in the book, together with unnecessary and unprovoked emotional outbursts. The reading was stiff and bumpy, heavily peppered with, I guess, Swedish idioms converted into English word by word. At moments, it sounded like YouTube closed captions – it didn’t make much sense.

And that’s not all. Several female characters’ names start with the B: Brigitte (Bitte), Beatte, Beatrice, together with a few of males (Bausen, Bart). There is a Moerk and a Moen, a Meuhlich and a Munster (sometimes spelled with an “ü”, sometimes not), a Maurice and a Meuritz, a Mooser and Melnik… (“‘Apart from Moen,’ said Beate Moerk” is the actual sentence in the book).

The last straw for me was the wife of one of the detectives giving her small children “a tiny bit” of sleeping pills so that she and her husband could have some private moments. The book was written three decades ago, but drugging children was not acceptable even then. Come on! Later, the husband, one step away from adultery a few days before, contemplates if she has more of these pills for kids, for their next adult time.

Everything that could go wrong in this book went wrong. Nonetheless, it had caught the attention of an agent (how? why?), it had had an editor (who missed a heard of elephants in the room), it was publicized and marketed, it won an award (Best Novel in 1994). The Times London, Toronto Star, Library Journal and Esquire, among others, wrote flattering reviews, filled with oohs and aahs about the plot, the Inspector, the pace, the fabulous twists and turns… name it, and it’s there. It has a 4.2 average rating on Amazon, so the readers liked it, too, and only a few of the reviewers caught the many flows of this mishmash of unimaginative writing, terrible translation, flat characters and thin plot. Without deserving it, at least not with this book, Nesser became a big name in mystery fiction. I don’t know if he later justified his high standing, perhaps he was, but I don’t have desire to find it out. I love Scandinavian noir, but it seems to me that, back then when it was at its peak, it was enough to be from that part of the world to become popular. I read and loved many of them: Arnaldur, Henning Mankell, Assa Larsson, Stieg Larson… I also tried to read and didn’t like quite a few, like Jo Nesbo and Helene Tursten, and now Hakan Nesser.

This wasn’t a good year for writing either. I can’t sit for long, which limits my time spent on the computer. Still, I managed a couple of blog posts, worked a tad on my next novel, and was featured twice in my former magazine, which always gives me incredible joy.

Before I leave, I just want to mention that my WP refuses to re-activate notifications for the blogs I follow. I have to remember to check JetPack to see what’s new, which sometimes I forget, and that’s the reason why I am often late or absent with my likes and comments.

I wish you a very Merry Christmas (to those who observe it). To everyone, have a happy new year, filled with health, joy, inspiration for writing and a plethora of good books for reading!

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Who Is Your Dostoevsky?

Posted on November 26, 2023 by jfkaufmann

What do you not like that most people seem to like?

I stumbled upon a YouTube clip in which someone asked Emma Thompson this question and stayed long enough to hear her answer – cupcakes.

For me, when we talk about food, it’s basil. I can’t stand it. (It doesn’t apply to Thai basil, which I love. The subtle variation in flavor between Thai basil and regular basil is a world of difference for me).

Drink: milk. I know I’m not that unique there, but my aversion to milk is strong. Having said that, I love all things dairy. Go figure.

Snow at Zojoji Temple by Kawase Hasui

Art: I don’t get the Mona Lisa. I learned to appreciate it as one of the most important masterpieces in art history, and I understand all the reasons for it, but she doesn’t speak to me. I’ve never seen the original painting, so I have to add a disclaimer here. Maybe when seen in the Louvre, she is what everyone says she is. All I can see, however, are unappealing yellowish-greenish colors, the fact that she doesn’t have eyebrows but has thin hair, and her smile seems to me just an ordinary half-smile. I don’t see anything mysterious in it.

The art I love never ceases to amaze me even when I see it on a post stamp. The thrill never gets old no matter how many times I’ve seen a particular art piece: in person, in a book, on the screen—from the cave paintings of Altamira to the granite Egyptian statues and the head of Queen Nefertiti, otherworldly beautiful yet so alive… to Medieval manuscripts, Botticelli, Titian, Leonardo’s other female portraits…El Greco, Velasquez… I can weep every time I see a photo of Brunelleschi’s dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, or Hagia Sophia. Every time I look at Japanese woodblock prints like The Great Wave off Kanagawa or Snow at Zojoji Temple, I feel the same rush of excitement, the same fulfillment only pure beauty can elicit. Mona Liza leaves me flat.

I’m skipping popular fiction – this area is waste and impossible to narrow down to the genres and authors universally loved. But in the art of writing it is Fyodor Dostoevsky.   


The image that needs no caption

It always puzzled me because I truly love Russian literature and I liked—occasionally I still do—diving into the dark sides of human nature. I strived to read Dostoevsky’s novels and stories in high school and during my university years. It didn’t go well; I haven’t managed to finish anything. I thought, well, maybe I was too young for such deep philosophical/psychological literature, but my last attempt a few months ago when I tried to listen to Brothers Karamazov (in Serbian, to make it easier) failed again. After several hours, the familiar “Dostoevsky symptoms” started rapidly developing: I was annoyed out of my mind, bored, and angry for torturing myself.

I wouldn’t go so far as to agree with one of my friends, a well-educated and well-read columnist, who said that Dostoevsky was overrated. I believe that he is a literary giant, of course he is, I just don’t understand him.

This made me think, for the umpteenth time, about why we like or dislike things and what connects us with a particular person, piece of art, historical period (I’m especially drawn to European Middle Age, then, after a jump of several centuries, to the time of Enlightenment), and geographical area (for no apparent reason, I like Japanese Edo Period, and Japanese culture in general). I love David Lynch’s Dune (1984), for example, and among my favourite novels of all time is Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose (the fact I keep repeating here on my website, as you know). From talking to others, receptions, reviews, etc., I know that most people don’t share my passion.

Not that I’m any closer to the answers. First of all, these are not important questions although, I believe, they occasionally do cross everyone’s mind, and secondly, the reasons for liking or disliking this or that are so numerous and personal that it would be impossible to find universal answers.

Nonetheless, do you have uncommon likes and dislikes? Who is your personal Dostoevsky?

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Secret Sorrows and a Few Joys of Linguistic Duality

Posted on November 12, 2023 by jfkaufmann

To exist in two languages, in my case my native tongue and English, implies having two identities.

Learning a foreign language as an adult is a tough mission. Even describing the process of learning a foreign language is not easy. All I could remember from those early immigrant days was a cacophony of sounds and the feeling of being isolated, vulnerable and insecure. At some point — and it didn’t take me long mostly because I didn’t have a choice but to dive into it — the fog started to lift, and the words began to connect with their meanings.

Photo by Babs Gorniak on Unsplash

After that first crucial step, when enough of the new language is adopted for basic communication, many realize that they need more. Not everybody, of course. Some people, often elderly, stay there: they have their children and younger friends to help them when it’s necessary; for all other aspects of their lives, they have their support system in their language: doctors, lawyers, grocers, travel agents, newspapers, TV, church…

The younger, more educated population, people eloquent in their mother tongue, those who don’t want to stay pizza delivery drivers or security guards forever – they all know that they have to, somehow, narrow the gap between two languages.

That crack gets smaller with reading, watching TV, conversing, and, not less importantly, with mental readiness to accept new things, but it never disappears altogether. And there, in that thin crevice between two languages, our other identity is conceived.

When we learn our native tongue, we absorb with it the specific mentality and cultural climate related to it. Language shapes us in many ways; it makes us what we are. When we learn a foreign language, something similar happens, only in a milder form. Along with it, we soak in its civilizational background, forming spontaneously a new, parallel identity. The difference is in the fact that this second entity can never be completely integral because it doesn’t develop naturally, but rather, relatively speaking, under pressure.

Very rarely (almost never) do our children here learn to speak the language of their parents fluently. Even when they believe they know it, it’s on a superficial level and sounds broken, and not only because our language is grammatically much more complicated than English. After all, you can learn grammar, like any other logical concept. Language is not just a “structural system of communication that consists of grammar and vocabulary” but in equal measure the civilizational armature that supports it. That’s the reason why our language is so difficult for our kids to master – there is no identity it can latch on. It is not their mother tongue, it is not their, poetically speaking, “spiritual homeland”. They already have both.

For adult learners of a foreign language, the old and new could complement each other, coexist amicably, or they can clash — all this is mostly a matter of choice. What they cannot do is completely overlap.

I don’t think that many people consciously think about this ambivalence. I didn’t either until I started writing in English, years after I came here. My first significant achievement was no less than a 500-page book, and with it the realization that, when it comes to fiction, I could write it only in English. My novels and stories are a product of my adopted identity. They may be good or maybe not, it doesn’t matter; I like them. I don’t have high expectations of myself. I don’t want to be a “serious”, literary writer, or a bestselling author. I just want to do what I love doing.


Photo by Liam McGarry on Unsplash

If I ever attempted to do something that physically huge in my language (a 500-page book), I would face many obstacles: the expectations that I already mentioned, my education, my former literary taste (a steady diet of classics and literary fiction with almost guilty excursions into pop-fiction) and my much less complicated, guilt-free and more enjoyable present reading habits. What is pivotal, of course, is that I don’t have that kind of talent and abilities. I don’t have the creative capacity for literary fiction. I can read it, appreciate it (or not), but I wouldn’t be able to write it.

My imagination works on a different type of fuel — lighter, sunnier, less deep if you want. It’s entertaining in its essence, not artistic. (Same thing applies to my paintings – they’re decorations, visual joy, not art.) My English alter-ego is much better equipped to turn it into stories. English is like a shield behind which I found a refuge; it allows me to sail into my inner world without fear or prejudices, without hesitation. It gives me freedom I couldn’t dream I would have.

I write in my language as well, but this is limited to my “short forms”: my sentimental journeys into past, my memories about this and that. I write them mainly because they help me to glue my broken pieces (until the glue gets dry and things fall apart again). I wouldn’t be able to write them in English; their very source is in my original identity. I have to translate such pieces into English (which I’m doing right now with this post), balancing and peacekeeping my two linguistical/cultural selves.

Writing in my language offers me a different kind of freedom, though. I have all the words I need at my disposal, I don’t have to agonize over verb tenses and articles or whether I need commas or not. I can use colons, semi-colons, m-dashes… My language loves long, syntactically complex sentences, so I can write them a mile long (some of this spills into my English. My early editors often asked me to make two or three sentences out of one. Speaking of an editor, I don’t need her for my language. I used to be one, and I still am).

I had never thought that I would end up like this, with a “split personality”, or better, a double identity: two languages, two cultures, two ways of thinking, alternating constantly — and now more or less spontaneously — between them, always on crossroads, never on the road. The open road doesn’t exist anymore, not in my native identity, nor in my adopted one.

Sooner or later, we all accept the reality – we can never be whole again, not here, not in the old country. Yet again, this duality has its advantages. I see it as a lifelong entry pass to another life theatre, an opportunity to do something creative and fulfilling, to unlock my potentials, to discover the parts of myself I didn’t know I had, and I’m grateful for that.

Disclaimer: this is my personal experience, mingled with some well-known facts. I didn’t research it. This is a frequent conversational topic between me and some of my linguistically inclined friends existing in similar circumstances, and I believe they would understand what I was trying to say.

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Go Tell Diana that I’m gone

Posted on October 28, 2023 by jfkaufmann

Last month I had the pleasure and privilege to read JP McLean’s newest novel, still in manuscripts, Scorch Marks. My job was simple – to read it and catch small errors and inconsistencies before the book goes to a proofreader. I didn’t find many; the few that I did notice were more suggestions than actual errors.

In my comments to JP, I mentioned that the book felt like a conclusion of the series, which she later confirmed. It wouldn’t be difficult to find a thread and continue, but unlike some popular fiction writers, JP McLean knew where to end her story.

Photo by Didssph on Unsplash

Back in February, after my second cornea transplant, I was precluded from reading, watching TV, or even using my phone screen for a more than a few seconds for a couple of weeks. I had to stay in bed, laying flat, doing nothing. Once again, audiobooks saved me. I had downloaded several dozens of mysteries, romances, general fiction, non-fiction… a small, impromptu library on my phone so that I have options in case that I didn’t like some of them.

Indeed, I didn’t fancy quite a few books. I would start listening, stumble upon something I didn’t like, and move on to another book. It made me think how snobbish I (or readers in general) have become. A couple of decades ago, I would give many of those stories a decent chance. In my hurry to find a satisfying read, I probably missed some good ones. Unlimited access to all sorts of books has made me impatient and spoiled, no doubt about that. But that’s a topic for another time.

Anyhow, among the books that I listened to was one of the relatively newer Louise Penny’s titles, All Devils Are Here. I knew she wrote many books before that one, and quite a few after. I liked it, so I went back to the beginning of her Inspector Gamache series. I enjoyed them at first, particularly the settings and characters. The plots were, if not mind-blowing and nail beating, interesting enough. Then, after seven or eight books, the cracks started showing: the incredible number of deaths in a tiny village that wasn’t even on the map; the inhabitants, first deliciously but soon foolishly eccentric; people who exclusively eat “fresh” baguette (as if others normally eat stale baguette); dietary habits (rather than the extremely high murder rate) that should’ve attributed to the population slaughter due to coronary diseases. The plot gradually became either dull, predictable, or unrealistic, peppered with senseless deaths. Once interesting characters seemed like frozen in time, no depth or color or shape has been added for way too long. Honest and honorable Chief Inspector and his evil bosses. An alcoholic woman who always caries a duck around her neck, the other that always has chunks of bananas in her hair. It was kind of cute in the first book I read; by book twelve, and after eleven repetitions, that particular banana-remark made me want to scream.

IMHO, Louse Penny overused/abused her characters; through the years and over so many books, she managed to turn them into caricatures, into shadows and empty shells of their former self.

(I needed an immediate palate cleanser, and I found it in Kristan Higgins’ romance novels. I’ve read almost all of her books, except the newest ones. Loved them all.)

Another author that hackneyed her characters and story is Diana Gabaldon and her Outlander series. I wish she wrapped up her saga after the third installment. Yet, in order to continue through several more books, almost every main character was twisted and warped; almost everyone was raped at some point or become a killer, or a cheater, or a traitor. They separated, reunited, were tortured, escaped; they drowned, they were hanged… Eight years passed between book seven and eight, but then, when Go Tell the Bees That I’m Gone finally came out, it was nothing more than a retelling of the previous seven books. Claire and Jamie were among my favourite fictional couples ever in books one to three, I still liked them in books four and five, tolerated them in book seven. To say that I didn’t finish book eight would be an understatement – I barely made it though the first 100 pages before I returned to the library. Diana stopped caring for her characters the moment she made Jamie meet his daughter while urinating in the back alley. To me, it was like a slap. I carried on nonetheless, but gradually stopped caring, too — for him, for Claire, their daughter and grandkids, who kept jumping through time so you never know where they were going to be next time, for all their friends and foes, for Quakers and Benedict Arnold and above all, for the pages and pages and pages of American Revolutionary War seen through the D. Gabaldon’s prism.

The only character I still deeply love is Lord John Grey. He is one of my greatest fictional crushes. Yes, I know, I know, but still. He’s one of the reasons I don’t want to force myself through any more of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander books. I lost Jamie and Claire; I don’t want to lose Lord John. She was an inch from ruining him as well in book seven. It’s safer to go back to him by reading The Scottish Prisoner, The Hand of the Devil, The Brotherhood of Blade… than to risk another disappointment.

Louse Penny and Diana Galablon are not alone, of course. Passion for writing is one thing; financial prospects that come out of endless reuse and recycle of well-known and well-loved characters is another. To be honest, I don’t know what I would do in a similar situation, so I’m not deeply offended by their choice. It’s just a bit sad and a bit more annoying.

So, who did recognize this moment when the story was told, and that continuing it would be only for material gain? Naomi Novik comes immediately to mind, with her nine Temeraire novels. Elizabeth Holt and her Maiden Lane novels. The Bridgertons and other series of Julia Quinn, J. K. Rowling… the list is long and includes some authors I know, like above-mentioned JP Mclean (the Gift Legacy; A Dark Dreams novels) and Audrey Driscoll (the Herbert West series).

The jury is still out for A Song of Ice and Fire. This is a very interesting case – D&D, the obnoxious screenwriting duo of the HBO series, Game of Thrones, already butchered the story and mutilated the characters to no recognition (and this was deeply offensive. Unforgivable, in fact). Now George R. R. Martin seems to be bound to follow that impossible, illogical storyline and the characters’ somersaults if he even plans to finish the series. I could only imagine how he must feel about it. If I were him, I would ignore the mess these two created, and write a completely different closing chapter. Wouldn’t that be awesome?

Do you thing that some fiction series are so long that they stop making any sense? What’s your “favourite” overused string of books?

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The Enchanting World of Comic Books

Posted on February 14, 2023 by jfkaufmann

When I was a teenager and later as a young woman, I loved reading comic books. There was a special time and place for it–summer holidays in my home city, where my “other family” lived: my father and stepmother, my married sister, my maternal grandmother and aunt… who would all make sure to spoil me a bit during these two months they had me for themselves.

Among the other lovely and relaxing things, to me it was a break from school and all the serious stuff we studied, including literature, which was often too advanced for our age. I loved literature, and I believed I had the mental and intellectual maturity to read, for example, War and Peace, or Germinal at the tender age of sixteen or seventeen. I was in the minority, however, and many of my schoolmates struggled with that heavy load. Personally, I wrestled with some other subjects, such as math and physics, and I still believe that neither literature nor mathematics curriculums were tailored to fit an average student, only those few who had natural affinities about them.

Long summers were the times when my father and my beloved grandmother would happily cook whatever I desired to eat (and I loved various food!), when my incredible stepmother, sister, and aunt would shower me with pretty clothes, shoes and other girly things, and when I could read what I wanted and as long as I wanted, often until the wee hours. Life was sweet and easy, and summer days seemed endless.

I devoured popular fiction, mysteries, biographies, non-fiction, old and new bestsellers, translated mostly from English.

And comics. The comic industry was amazingly vibrant and comic books were immensely popular; publishers had licenses for all the best known comics. There were humorous comics like Peanuts, Garfield, Hagar the Horrible, Denis the Menace, Lucky Luke (I still remember the names of his archenemies, the four Dalton brothers: John, Jack, William and Averell 🙃), and of course, Asterix (which I adored then and I still admire very much). I liked Rip Kirby (my grandmother’s favourite comic character) and Mandrake the Magician, action comics (Batman, Superman, Spiderman, Phantom, Tarzan, Flash Gordon, Conan the Barbarian, Prince Valiant, Modesty Blaise), the quite atypical Western comic featuring an anti-hero, Lieutenant Blueberry…

Ah! The list was long and magnificent!

Comics have never been considered “real literature.” Perhaps they’re not; I don’t know. However, they’re a noteworthy branch of the overall written world. The first recorded “stories” in human history were drawings and pictures, not words, after all. Perhaps the role and significance of comic books in our culture are still waiting to be evaluated, defined and explained.

Throughout history, comics have had their ups and downs; they’ve had their passionate supporters and equally fiery opponents, but they certainly haven’t been responsible for “an increase in juvenile delinquency, as well as potential influence on a child’s sexuality and morals”, as American physiatrist, Fredric Wertham claimed in 1954. They have stood the test of time. My grandmother loved Rip Kirby; a half of a century later, I loved him, too. The sophisticated, urban private eye with his signature glasses, a hat and a steady girlfriend didn’t lose his appeal. Many of the characters introduced in comic books have thrived in film art; some have become pop-culture icons.

Is there a better example for the enduring value of comics that the Batman movies? Just think about the actors who played in them–Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer (my favourite Batman), Christian Bale, George Clooney, Robert Pattinson… (The absence of Ben Affleck from this list is deliberate. I never liked him, especially not as Batman). Or directors who directed them. Not to mention the villains–Jack Nicholson, Uma Thurman, Danny DeVito, Heath Ledger, Joaquin Phoenix… One of the greatest living actors, Gary Oldman, had a role in the Dark Night trilogy, as Commissioner Gordon. He wanted to be in these moves, otherwise he wouldn’t be in them.

Arnold Schwarzenegger has forever immortalized Conan the Barbarian. In my mind, in the case of Conan, the comic and the movie character are a perfect overlap, and for once, I don’t mind blending them in my imagination.

And so on…

I’ve only mentioned here the classic comics, most of them from their golden age. The full story is much more complex, of course, and would take much more time and effort to research and write it. This is only a sweet memory of my carefree, long-past summer days that I wanted to share. A bits and pieces about me (mostly in brackets 😉), that’s all.

I wish I could still have all those volumes of comics from my youth to enjoy them every now and then. If nothing else, to feel young and untroubled again, if only for a moment. But they were lost, together with my old life, in a different time and a different place.

Please, share your thoughts and opinions. Do you like comic books? Did you read them or do you still read them? Who are your favourite characters? Who is your favourite movie Batman?

*All the images are from Wikipedia.com and they should quality as fair use.

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The Dubious Art of Book Reviewing

Posted on January 26, 2023 by jfkaufmann

I don’t write reviews often; it takes time and effort to come up with a meaningful retrospection. When I do write them, I have different rules for different types of books, and this customized approach is most apparent within two major publishing categories–indie books and traditionally published books.

Photo by Susan Q Yin on Unsplash

Sometimes I’m so moved with a book that I feel inspired to put down my impressions. It usually happens when I really like it and want to share my excitement (or recommend it) or, less frequently, when I’m frustrated or disappointed. The second scenario–a pissed-off review–usually occurs with a work of fiction unjustifiably praised, in my opinion, for qualities it doesn’t possess.

There are no consequences for the author as I don’t have any influence outside my limited blog space. Even if I did, such authors are fair game: they’ve been paid for their books, marketed, publicized, and promoted by their publishers. They can take some heat.

You can find both examples in my old posts: the first being the Temeraire series by Naomi Novik and Adelle by Leila Smilani, the latest.

Independently published authors are a different story. Here I follow Thumper’s advice: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.”

This is what I think: If someone writes a book, invests (most of the time irrevocably) a bunch of money into editing, proofreading, cover design, formatting, promotion… the last thing they need is someone like me pointing out the flaws in their story; inevitable errors, plot holes and the subjective characters’ shortcomings.

To self-publish a book is a huge undertaking, and whenever I can, I like to acknowledge and celebrate it. Do I like every book I review? No, of course not. It might not be my cup of tea–the style or the characters might not correspond with my inner reader–but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t give it a good review and plenty of stars. I try not to emphasize my personal preferences unless they measure up against some literary values. In other words, I like to believe that I’m able to go beyond what I like and dislike in stories and dig out substantial qualities.

(Not always, of course. These days, thanks to self-publishing opportunities, anyone can be an author. There are numerous written products–I deliberately avoid calling them books–that are simply below any professional standards and are therefore not worth suffering through and reviewing them.)

What kind of reviews do I not care about? After what I’d mentioned above, I don’t think it’s difficult to guess: I dislike reviews that are based solely on personal taste, without any contextual explanation. They mean nothing–if they’re positive, there is no harm done (“I really liked this book.”); if they are not, they can be damaging and hurtful (“This is the worst book ever written.”) But in both cases, they don’t help. If someone says that a story is great and lovely, or boring and dull without explaining why, they are just expressing their personal tastes or reading preferences which nobody asked for or cares about.

The other type of reviews I often frown upon are those long, detailed, and often hard-to-understand tractates about books, full of long and verbose sentences. I like a well-written analysis, but it seems that sometimes reviewers don’t know the difference between the two, especially when it comes to length.

I wrote a series of reviews in December, as a sort of thank you to my fellow bloggers and authors. They illustrate my reviewing “philosophy” well. If I didn’t know the authors, I likely wouldn’t have come across their books. I don’t read a lot of romance fiction although I absolutely adore some romance authors. This is my genre as a writer, after all. Generally speaking, I don’t like dystopian fiction, particularly the novels about totalitarian societies. Such stories can never have happy endings, and I’m a sucker for happy endings. I’m obsessed with Ancient Egypt, but I do not fanatically read everything about it. I like gritty, urban noir fantasies with kick-ass female leads, but there are so many of them, and some are quite good, written by well-known novelists. I could say that my encounter with JP McLean’s novel wouldn’t have naturally happened if I didn’t know the author.

Yet, I truly enjoy the festive, warm and romantic atmosphere of Christmas in Silver Creek. I was in awe of the dark, consuming, and breathtaking force of one of my most challenging reads ever, Dog Meat. I was sucked into the ancient/modern Egypt vortex created in She Who Returns that I could only admire the authors ability to recreate such a vivid and believable world; I was beating my nails and rooting for the protagonists in Ghost Marks.

In the end, I believe I found what was the best in these books and brought it to light. I think that was all I needed to write those reviews. If I couldn’t find it, I would say nothing at all.

Do you like writing reviews? What are your criteria when it comes to book reviewing? Do you think it’s helpful that everybody can write a review, regardless their knowledge, understanding, insights? Do you agree that, sometimes, reviews could do more harm than good?

P.S. I stopped receiving any notifications about the blogs I follow. I might try to unfollow you all and then follow you again, to see if this going to do the trick (Thanks, Priscilla, for the tip!)

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Christmas Review No. 4: Ghost Mark by JP McLean

Posted on December 18, 2022 by jfkaufmann

I’ll conclude this miniseries of minireviews with one of my favourite authors of urban fantasy/supernatural fiction, JP McLean.

I’ve been following her for years. I reviewed all of her books and it’s never been a difficult task: you only need to have a lots of compliments and that’s it. She is that good.

I devoured Ghost Mark a couple of months ago. Like her other novels, it was a nail-biting and addictive read, with a clever plot, finely built tension, and a heart-pounding finale. In short, this novel has everything a suspense novel should have.

The characters are thoughtfully shaped. Some are strong and tough, but brave enough to show their vulnerability. Some are seemingly mean and we don’t like them, just for them to prove us wrong at the end. Some are clever and some not so much, but their their actions and reactions are always logical and justified.

Although JP Mclean’s books have supernatural elements, her narrative is original, credible, and convincing. I always said that I wouldn’t be overly surprised to meet some of her characters in person. To make the supernatural believable is one of the greatest strengths and secrets of JP McLean’s writing.

I like the chemistry between the two protagonists, Jane and Ethan. They are both complex personalities, coming with their own sets of hurts, aches, and traumas. However, they’re fighters, they’re resilient, and they have a strong moral compass. The supporting roles are also well chosen. The most pleasant surprise was Sadie, Jane’s friend. I loved how she matured and changed from the previous book.

Being from the same series, Dark Dreams, Ghost Mark is tightly connected to its predecessor, Blood Mark. I read Blood Mark more than a year ago, and some plot details had faded from my memory. That gap didn’t ruin my experience with Ghost Mark–JP McLean is able to remind her readers of the key facts of her previous novel in a sensible, natural way. The type of ending she’s chosen for her novel is among my favourites. This story has its firm conclusion, but there is a small, delicious crack through which you can see that more is coming. Wonderful!

The Ghost Mark reviewers covered many other aspects of this sophisticated thriller with nice layers of romance and humor, so I won’t touch them in much detail. Just a few things to mention. The setting is awesome. It feels authentic: it’s ragged, it’s rough, and it’s gritty. The narrative has its rhythm and logic, and the balance of exposition, description, and dialogue is perfect. No extra words and no unnecessary idling. It’s a tightly written, exciting, and memorable novel.

Five starts from me, JP! Merry Christmas!

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Free on Smashwords

Posted on December 16, 2022 by jfkaufmann

Just a quick announcement that I will Be Waiting for You… is free on Smashwords until January 1st.

Here is Chapter 1, so if you like it, go ahead and download the full book.

Also, my last Christmas review is coming up on Sunday, Dec. 18th.

Chapter 1

I knew it was going to be a complicated day; I just didn’t expect it to involve an unconscious man bleeding on the light marble floor in the hallway.

The anticipated difficulty was more of an emotional sort and involved Jamie Breckenridge, my daughter’s father. It was Sunday, half past eleven in the morning; later that afternoon Jamie would bring Lyra back home, after a weekend spent with him and his parents in Denver.

He’d asked if he could stay to talk. I’d agreed. It was time for us to sit down and have an honest conversation.

And now, just hours before Jamie and Lyra’s arrival, I had to figure out how to move the dead weight of a six-foot-three man prostrated beside the door and where to hide him, providing he wasn’t injured badly enough to die on me.

God, what was I going to do?

My unexpected visitor wasn’t a stranger to me, and that was why I didn’t run out of the house screaming: Ty Prince was my late husband’s closest friend and teammate. We’d met on my wedding day, years ago. I recognized him as soon as he came out of his car and took a few shaky steps, then zig-zagged the length of the pathway leading to the house. I caught a glimpse of his expression—he seemed baffled by his lack of balance as if he hadn’t realized something was wrong with him.

My late husband—Frank Altman was his name—and Ty had been military intelligence officers involved in missions so secret I didn’t know almost anything about them.

I hadn’t seen Ty since my wedding day. He didn’t have any trouble finding me, however, even though the small town of Bonnybrook was my quite recent and temporary residence.

It didn’t surprise me, it only made me pissed off. Which wasn’t a bad thing; it kept my shock and confusion at bay.

Ty was in some kind of trouble, and he needed help.

I knew better than to call the police or the ambulance unless necessary, or without Ty’s permission. I moved his legs enough to close the door, then crouched down and pressed two fingers to the side of his neck. I let out a sigh of relief—his pulse, although somewhat weak, was steady.

A quick assessment revealed a blood-soaked shirt from a chest wound right below his right collar bone, not expertly dressed and not fresh, a gun tucked in the waistband of his pants—Glock, I’d say—and a mean-looking knife in a leather sheath. The car keys were still clenched in his fist, and his phone was in the breast pocket of his shirt.

I placed the weapons and the keys on the entryway table and dashed to the kitchen. I grabbed a glass and the coffee pot, filled them with water, and snatched a clean kitchen towel.

Kneeling beside Ty’s motionless body, I damped the cloth and gently touched his face. His light brown skin was shiny with sweat and had an ashen undertone.

Ty’s eyes fluttered open. His gaze was blank for a moment before his vision cleared.

“Hey, Harper,” he whispered. “Hope you don’t mind I stopped by. I was in the neighborhood.”

“Hey, Ty,” I said as calmly as I mustered. “Long time no see.”

He gave me a faint smile. At the same time, his fingers closed around my wrist with great speed and strength. “Are you all by yourself here? Where is everybody else?”

“Away till the end of the week,” I said.

He exhaled and closed his eyes. “Thank god for small mercies.”

I didn’t bother to mention that Jamie and Lyra were about to show up soon; it was clear to me that I had to stop them from coming at all costs.

I squeezed Ty’s hand in reassurance, although I needed it as much as he did, and his grip released. “Here, have a sip of water.”

I brought the glass to Ty’s lips, helping him lift his head with my other hand.

“The ranch hands?” Ty asked, after taking a few gulps.

“Some on vacation, some have the day off, a few are outside on the ranch, a good few miles from here. They won’t show up unless there is an emergency, or I call them.”

“Better if nobody knows I’m here.”

“Can’t argue with that. We have to get you to the living room. Can you walk?”

He didn’t answer. He breathed in and out several times, and some blood returned to his cheeks. “I didn’t expect I would faint. I felt fine. Damn, I could’ve fucked up everything… Give me a minute.” He pulled himself into a sitting position with great effort, leaning his powerful frame against the wall. “You probably realized this isn’t just a social visit.”

“I’ve figured that much out. Why are you here?”

He looked at me. “Harper, before Frank died, did he leave anything with you? An envelope with some documents, or a USB drive, something like that?”

During our short marriage, my husband had gone on three missions. Before his last one, he had indeed given me a blue, plain-looking USB flash drive.

I said that to Ty. “Frank asked me to keep it safe until he returned, or to give it to you if you ever come for it.”

Frank never came back, Ty didn’t show up to claim it, and the flash drive stayed in my safe and at the back of my mind. A small mystery I’d never expected to be solved.

“Did anyone ever ask about it? His superiors? Someone from his unit?” Ty asked.

My legs hurt from prolonged kneeling, so I sat on the floor, facing Ty. “No. They came to take his computer and documentation, but I never mentioned the drive to anyone.”

“Have you opened it?” he asked, eyeing me.

I denied with a quick shake of my head. I knew better than to stick my nose where it wasn’t wanted.

“Good,” Ty said. “You can now give it to me.”

I gladly would if I could. “How did you know I had it?” I asked, instead.

“A hunch,” was all Ty said, which explained nothing, and probably wasn’t the truth, but I wouldn’t press him for more. Not now.

“Did Frank die because of what was on there?” I asked. The official report was that Frank died when his helicopter got hit somewhere above the Persian Gulf. His body had never been recovered.

Ty closed his eyes and I thought he might’ve lost consciousness for a brief moment. Either that or he’d done it to avoid answering me.

But when I placed my hand on his upper arm, he whispered, “No, he didn’t.”

“But now someone’s after you because of it?”

Ty’s voice was low but confident, and this time I believed him when he said, “Those who are after me don’t have anything to do with the flash drive.” He managed a soft chuckle. “You may also say I’m after them, depending on your viewpoint.”

“Glad your sense of humor hasn’t leaked out with all that blood you’ve lost,” I said, a trifle less tense. Ty’s explanation sounded reasonable. Frank would’ve never deliberately put me—and ultimately—his son, in danger.

“It’s just a scratch,” Ty tried to assure me. So typical. “Listen, I’m working on a case—”

“What case?”

“A case I can’t tell you anything about.”

No kidding. “But if someone’s followed you here—”

Ty shook his head. “No one’s followed me here, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t going to try to find me. I don’t have lots of time anyway. I have to send the content of that drive to… er, well… to whomever I need to send it, by Thursday.”

So, we have a couple of days to sort out this mess, I thought, unsure if I should be relieved or even more worried.

On the one hand, I was grateful that I was home alone. The rest of my household, as I’d said to Ty, was away: my cousin Simon Archer and his wife Daria, who happened to be Jamie’s sister, were on their honeymoon; my six-year-old son Mathew was on winter break and my grandfather Hugh took him to Denver to spend a couple of days with our relatives. No one would return before the end of next week. If Simon, Daria and Grandpa were home, there would be too many questions: who, how, when, why. Not to mention Mathew’s curiosity.

On the other hand, Simon and Grandpa would know exactly what to do without compromising Ty’s safety, knowing his line of work, especially since Ty was still unaware of the crucial fact—the USB drive’s current whereabouts.

I was on my own, however, and it had to stay like that. I had to convince Jamie to keep Lyra until my inconvenient guest recovered enough to leave. In the meantime, I had to bring Ty the drive, praying that we would all emerge from this strange adventure alive and well.

I would help Ty, of course. Frank had been an honorable man; whatever was on that device was important, and neither Frank nor Ty would get themselves involved in anything wrongful. Slightly illegal, yes, but not unethical.

No, I wasn’t too concerned about the content of the drive. The “case” Ty was working on was a horse of a different color, though.

Two unrelated stories had gotten tangled up, with me in the middle. I could feel another wave of panic stirring inside me and pushed it back.

As if he could hear my thoughts or smell my fear, Ty said, “Just give me the stick, and I’ll be out of here.”

I took a deep breath. “I don’t have it with me. And you wouldn’t get very far with that hole in your chest. We have to patch you up first.”

Ty groaned in frustration. “Where is it, then?”

“In my personal safe in my parents’ house in Calgary.”

He cursed under his breath.

“If you’d only phoned me before you decided to come,” I said, “I would have had it ready.”

“This isn’t something I had time to plan. Your parents are still in Calgary, right? Can one of them bring it here?”

I shook my head. “Impossible. The safe has fingerprint sensors. Only I can open it.” It was pointless to explain that, in fact, my parents could do it, but that the process would require a few legal steps which we didn’t have time for.

“Then you have to go,” Ty said. “How quick can you get it here?”

I shrugged. “Two days?”

Ty lifted his good arm and rubbed his hand over his face. “That should be enough.”

“It has to be.” I jumped up to my feet, took Ty’s hand and gave it a gentle tug. “Come, you can’t stay here in the hallway.”

Despite his condition, Ty was a man of formidable physical strength and, some laborious minutes later, he slumped down on the sitting room sofa. He didn’t faint again, which I took as a good sign.

“You okay, Ty?”

“I’ll live,” he said and attempted to smile at me.

“Let me check your wound.”

He gave me a stern look. “You should be calling the airport for the first flight to Calgary.”

I glared back at him. “My daughter and her dad will be here in a few hours,” I said. “Even if I could get rid of him, what am I supposed to do with Lyra? Are you going to babysit her while I’m away?”

He let out a frustrated sigh but didn’t ask me anything, which told me he knew about Lyra’s and Jamie’s existence. “You said you were alone.”

I shrugged. “Well, I am, am I not?”

“Can’t you ask him to keep her a day or two longer?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I just need to come up with a believable explanation.”

“I guess you can’t tell him you have a hot date with a handsome new guy,” Ty said with a grin that instantly transformed his face.

He had a gorgeous smile, bright and friendly. I remembered him as a laid-back, well-educated and highly intelligent man. Well over six feet tall, handsome as sin and good-humored, at first glance he looked like a fashion model; his appearance and friendly demeanor didn’t fit the archetype of a tough-looking military intelligence operative at all. But under that polished and charming exterior, a careful observer would soon discover a core of steel: a man of great integrity, courage and strong moral compass. A capable and dangerous man at that.

I snorted, imagining Jamie’s reaction. “I think not.”

Ty rubbed his face, and the smile vanished. “You must bring me the drive, Harper,” he said quietly.

“I know, but I can’t go just like that. We need a plan.”

“Here is the plan: you tell Jamie to keep Lyra for two more days. Tell him you’re sick or something. Or that you have a bad period, a migraine, whatever. You go to Calgary, pick up the drive and come back. Couldn’t be simpler.”

Not only did he know about Jamie’s existence, he knew his name as well. A wave of anger washed over me; I pushed it down. No time for that. “And you’ll stay here?”

“I’m not going to throw a party in your absence.”

I shook my head. “How do you imagine I should explain my sudden appearance to my parents? ‘Hi Mom, Dad. I just need to grab something from the safe, and I’m leaving. Don’t pay attention.’ It’s not going to work this way. Besides, what if your wound takes a turn for the worse? Or some of the ranch people come looking for me? What if you—” I stopped right there.

Ty smiled. “I won’t die, I promise.”

“Stick to that, Ty Prince,” I said, as a skeleton of a plan for how to get out of this mess started taking shape in my mind. “It’s crucial that Jamie keeps Lyra for a few more days.” I had no idea how to ask him that without making him suspicious, but I’d do my best. “Then, I’m going to call my grandmother in Calgary. Bridget; you probably remember her from my wedding. She’ll need to keep my parents away from the house until I grab the drive.”

Ty immediately started to protest, of course, but he was not a match for me; after a decade of negotiating six-figure contracts for McCain Drilling, our family company, I knew how to hold my ground.

I raised my finger to stop him. “There is no other way. I’m not going to break into my home and risk getting shot by my own father.” This was a comic exaggeration; Dad didn’t possess any firearm, just a good alarm system, but to Ty, given his occupation and experience, my little lie might ring true. “Bridget can’t pose any risk to you. Now let me fix your shoulder.”

Ty sighed in surrender. “My duffle bag is in the trunk. You’ll find everything you need there.”

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Review No. 3: Dog Meat by Priscilla Bettis

Posted on December 15, 2022 by jfkaufmann

Priscilla Bettis’s novella is a fascinating journey into the blackness of totalitarian regime—a literary sublimation and a paradigm that we have seen before, from Romania between 1945 and 1989 and Stalin’s gulags to the crazy, murderous dictatorship of Pol Pot in Cambodia and the constant blasting of tenets from the public speakers on the streets of Pyongyang.

In other words, I don’t see Dog Meat as a fictional representation of any particular totalitarianism: Mao’s China, or Stalin’s Soviet Union, or Enver Hoxha’s Albania or Ceausescu’s Romania, or Hitler’s Germany or the Borg Collective… (I failed to mention quite a few other “stellar” examples, but you get the idea.) It is the essence of authoritarianism, the idea of complete state control. What we have been witnessing throughout history (and today) were the factual realizations of that idea. The same yellow plastic sandals for every citizen (except for the privileged few, of course), eating in the communal cantinas, applying for permission to get pregnant and having jobs as dog slaughterers or bus packers are only powerful metaphors. Somewhere else, the sandals are green, or the only shoes available for citizens are rubber boots; the only approved clothes for women are burkas; couples don’t need to apply for permission to get pregnant but young girls are married off at a preteen age; spying on your family and friends is a legitimate job.

I haven’t read anything so disturbing since Varlam Shalamov’s Kolyma Tales, decades ago. I don’t read such literature often, but I don’t mind discomforting books as long as causing discomfort isn’t their sole purpose. Dog Meat is far from that: the structure is impeccable; I admire the way the author spun her story, and most of all the idea the novella conveys. Priscilla Bettis’s language is tight and concise and her descriptions heartwrenching and breathtaking. She masterfully delves into the characters’ psychology. Dog Meat is not just a precise dissection of a totalitarian society; it’s a study of its victims–the men, women and children that such a society creates. Even when such states collapse — and they all do, sooner or later — it takes several generations to change people’s mentality and that’s a whole new level of human tragedy.

To make her story even more chilling, Priscilla Bettis throws in certain terminology associated with totalitarian states such as “chairman” and “Politburo”. All authoritarian regimes share a tendency to eradicate or at least change history (“history starts with us!”). This proclivity is often manifested in their need to rename toponyms. The author effectively uses this fact in her story so we have “Victory City”, “Prosperity Street”, “People’s Street” and so on. The choice of Esperanto for the chapter titles and some familiar, intimate words (father, mother) is absolutely brilliant. What other language would correspond with such a dehumanizing society better than this linguistic monstrosity with no roots, no tradition, no written records, and no connections to any specific culture?

Dog Meat is not for everyone and is certainly not a Christmas read. That’s why I’m posting it just as Review No. 3. But, it’s an outstanding piece of fiction written by a tremendously talented writer.

I’m giving this novella five stars, but I cannot recommend it to the general readership. If you, however, like dark and unsettling tales, you’re in for a real treat.

The final Christmas review is scheduled for Dec. 18 and it’s my take on the newest book of an author whose work I enjoy very much.

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