A risk one always runs by reading an old book is that there may well be some cringeworthy dialogue. Knowing that, I plowed on, at least for a while. Here's the breakdown of this boring yet incredibly offensive literary disaster: 1. It's 1878. Nephew of dubious employment potential visiting his uncle, Hagar, and Hagar's daughter, his cousin. Spends some time reading. 2. Yellow fever comes to town. 3. Hagar has rental properties, mostly to Black folks. He is rumored to have a "hoard" of cash somewhere, probably in his house. 4. It's hot, which makes everyone testier as the recommendation is to close up the house at night to avoid the fever. 5. MUCH dialogue about the frail little cousin and how she needed to leave, now. 6. She refused to leave unless her father left. 7. Recycle # 5 and 6 ad nauseum, with some confusing promises to leave and then the reneging of those promises, or denials that they'd ever taken place. 8. The Black people are portrayed as simultaneously stupid, lazy, and yet a giant threat to anyone white. 9. Endless denigrating of Black people with the N-word. Endless. It was disgusting to the degree that I not only didn't finish the book, I tore it up into small pieces so no one else ever would read the copy I'd purchased. 10. In the end, (yes, I did look to see if there was possibly anything redeeming in the finale before the shredding, but nope) the uncle dies, and what could make this even more horrible? The cousins take off with the hoard they found and end up getting together. Conjugally. What a surprise. I guess this author was a muckraking journalist, but he was obviously only concerned with social injustices against people with all the advantages. I wonder what his political party would be today?

A book twining together a mystery about a wife's disappearance, family secrets, and betrayal should be a page-turner. But there was very little to care about in this story. The missing "Lagos Wife" (why did they change the title from "Nigerwife", when that's continually how the transplanted wives refer to themselves throughout the book?) seemed shallow and self-serving, as did virtually everyone else in the book. Finally her aunt shows up to do her own investigation and there's a character with some, well, character. She was what compelled me to finish the book, (and I did), but it couldn't be redeemed by her, alas.

I didn't read this book as a Kate Spade brand fan girl, but more as a curiosity of how the business got going and the friendship that helped launch it. It took a couple of chapters to hook me, but author Elyce did get to that place where the book felt like a chat with a friend, and it was easy reading from that point on. Part bio, part whimsy, part confession, the author doesn't shy away from anything (it seems) she might have done differently, and I loved her for that. You feel like you're getting the real story, which must have been very painful at times. A difficult topic handled well.

This book is at once damning and hopeful. It should be required for all humans. Buy it, keep it, refer to it, give it, lend it, borrow it . . . but whatever you do, read it.

What good is getting older if one is miserable? Dr. Kerry Burnight shares her advice from nearly two decades of working with the oldsters. Lots of activities which weren't really my jam were involved, so I skipped and moved along. I'm gonna throw out some spoilers, so beware. The bottom line is: be thankful, keep growing (emotionally), stay connected, be as active as possible, adapting as needed, and keep learning. Although her style isn't mine, it's not bad advice however you get it.

Faced with labels and criticism, people who are neurodivergent are singled out, shamed, "othered", by the general populace and now, by our government. Well, this book shines a new light on these folks and gives a fresh perspective. Several types of neurodiversity are discussed in-depth, and it's all fascinating. What makes various aspects of life difficult for some is what makes them a genius in other areas. You turn that last page realizing that most of what we find exceptional and beautiful in life, whether it's a rocket or a magnificent work of art, was created by those who were different. That's powerful.

This book starts out as a struggling author's Hail Mary attempt to resurrect her sagging career by ghostwriting a book for a scion of business. She is confused by the fact that the handsome "People's Sexiest Man Alive" has hand-picked her for the project . . . why? Well, turns out her first book was a modern take on Rebecca, by Daphne DuMaurier, and said sexyman is convinced that DuMaurier actually stole the story from his grandmother. Convoluted, but still somewhat understandable, right? It takes on a definite house of mirrors feel as you read along and try to figure out what is now, then, or imagination, and I realized I didn't really care at all and was resigned to just bump along until I found my way out of that meaningless reflection.

I've always wanted to learn more about ancient Rome, and boy, did this book deliver. Focusing largely on warfare and political strategies, there were times when I was a tad disengaged, but that's on me, not the author. Colleen McCullough's exhaustive research is notable and impressive in her lists of characters, maps, glossary, pronunciation guide, etc. Honestly, the most difficult thing about this book was the darn names--virtually everything ending with "us". One wouldn't think it would be so confusing but I found myself wandering mentally at times, wondering who the heck I was reading about. Again, not the author's fault. The Roman nomenclature aside, I found this book interesting, enlightening, and entirely enjoyable. Should I read the rest of the series? Maybe after a little break and some regular names . . .

Published in 2024, these teeny stories are, to those who lived through it, obviously pandemic-flavored. The small spheres of regular contact, simple pleasures--while Covid-19 raged through the world and killed mercilessly, there was also a return to the joy of taking a minute to say hello to people just to connect, to find true joy in a lizard skittering along, a bird's unique song, or just anything that would make the day a smidgen different than the day before. Dinnertime conversation would have as the star of the show things one might have found mundane or not worth our time, "before". It was a time of noticing. So, the very, very bad did come with some good. Well, these moments on author Thomas Greene's porch feel very much like that. His kind-hearted, humorous, and profound interactions and observations are lovely and evocative of the warmth of that era. They're not all light-hearted, but he leads you through artfully, and there is beauty in the telling.

Apparently life wasn't challenging enough in 1897 for Adrien de Gerlache, so he decided to pioneer exploration of Antarctica and find the magnetic South Pole. What became of the crew of his ship, the Belgica, is the stuff of nightmares. I cannot fathom such a strain, physically or mentally. Well-written and researched, this book was engaging throughout, and made me absolutely positive I have no desire to visit Antarctica.

When a layoff due to the pandemic and a serious medical diagnosis required Stephen Grant to find some job, any job, with a salary and benefits, he found himself applying at the post office. From the harder-than-one-would-ever-think entrance test to the reality of mountains of mail that make mail carriers cry, I will honestly never look at a postal worker the same again. Grant has found his true calling in writing. His beautifully constructed sentences, thoughts, and stories held me, nose to paper, until the last page was turned. Humor, grief, terror--it's all there, and each letter (!) is exactly where it belongs. I learned so much about the USPS, particularly rural delivery and the impossible things workers do to get the job done--I will gladly pay whatever they want for a stamp until the day I die. Furthermore, I will be looking for more books by this author.

This book had such promise . . . a women's "hotel" (more like apartment building) set in mid-century New York hosts a motley cast of residents. Hilarity is supposed to ensue, but . . . it just didn't. For me, anyway. It felt like the chaos of Mrs. Maisel without any real redeeming plotline. For some reason, the author was developing a new character 20 pages from the end of the book, which was annoying enough. But the real clincher for me was that when one of the main characters decided she was going to start filching things as a regular part of her day, it was portrayed as quirky and cute. Contrast that with the (broadly hinted-at) neurodivergent member of the cast who would take tokens from rooms she would clean in her job as a maid, portrayed as creepy and dangerous. Insulting. This book was a waste of paper.