Review: Spirit of Lost Angels by Liza Perrat

I loved this book and highly recommend it to those who wish a glimpse of the poorer classes on the eve of France's revolution. It is a passionate and well-told story of survival and of overcoming obstacles faced by every day French women in the late 18th century. 

But it is much more - it vividly depicts Paris during that period, with a keen knowledge of the city's geography and of the injustices which saw the classes pitted against one another. It is also a mystery - where the main character's integrity comes under question. And last, it is a triumphant affirmation of the bond between women and of the power some women can have to better the lives of their sisters - a theme not often explored.

The main character is Victoire, a young woman from the country, who suffers tragic losses, mistreatment, betrayal, imprisonment, and as a mother, the worse tortures of the mind. Perhaps it was the author's background in nursing but I felt that the passages depicting Victoire's growing emotional instability during a difficult period in her life, were believable and evocative. I enjoyed the medical attention to detail around Victoire's ordeal and her dramatic passage into the very darkness of Paris. 

Jeanne de la Motte 

painted by Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun

Without spoiling it for readers, I want to say how much I enjoyed the entertaining and saucy intrigue which begins with the appearance of Jeanne de Valois-Saint-Rémy in the story. Though I had read about l'Affaire du Collier and the scandal it created around Marie-Antoinette, I ignored much about Jeanne. The adventuress can be credited for much of the spice and reversal of fortune injected into this wonderful tale. I love when authors take daring approaches to speculative history and this was perhaps my favorite passage in the book. 

One detail that stood out for me is the author's sensitive attention to nature, a considerate touch given the main character's country origin. Nature's presence is pervasive in this novel, not only through weather and its effects on crops and the socio-economic upheavals of the time, but also through what the main character glimpses from her surroundings, as these reflect her mood and consciousness. 

Victoire's touching letters to her daughter Lucie, her beautiful and enterprising relationship with her husband, Armand - who was my favorite character - gave much heart to this novel. The love of a mother shines in many passages. 

In all, a well-researched and highly enjoyable read.

Review: Habibi by Craig Thompson

Exquisite storytelling. 

Craig Thompson has a gift for conveying complex emotional messages through images alone. One can guess at his vision, which is one of tolerance, understanding and peace, and is delivered subtly in delightful images, always with compassion for his characters; compassion for people in all walks of life. 

I was highly moved and entertained by this wonderful tale of love and life. Aside from the original narrative, both the novel's intriguing non-linear progression and its subtle humour offer compelling reasons to keep reading. 

Craig's artwork sways gently between the divine and the erotic. I had never read his other book, Blankets; it was Habibi's cover and the beautiful Islamic calligraphy of the cover's interior which drew my eye. 

I had to own Habibi! I was not disappointed.

Review: The Last Romanov by Dora Levy Mossanen

A celebration of beauty and art weaved masterfully into a historical tale of great interest. 

This story affords an intimate glimpse in the lives of the Romanovs, and their chilling end. The novel's grandeur and opulent expression seemed to me to be a metaphor for the main character's refusal to discard her dignity and monarchist hopes following the Russian revolution. I found it effective and always artfully constructed. 

I enjoyed this novel and was grateful for the author's evocative depiction of Rasputin. He really did come alive for me and the macabre circumstances of his death constituted one of the more gripping passages in the novel.

Unforgettable.

Goodbye for now

I have just turned 43 and more than ever, I discover that as a writer, nothing is more regrettable than two activities. 

One: revealing myself when my natural tendency is to opt for secrecy. I would choose evasiveness any time rather than divulge what I am writing or researching. In the past I always felt compelled to say something, describe anything, so as to justify the long writing silences and offer meaning for the months spent in incubation with nothing to show. I would share and share to prove that there was an idea being hatched, that I was authentic and that it was all true and there existed a work in progress. But I won't do that anymore. I don't need to prove myself.

My work is something I would rather not reveal until complete. Either way, when I shared a little in the past, I always sensed a lack of a connection with others about what I was trying to describe. Unless they actually ended up reading the entire completed book, it gave me an uneasy feeling that they had understood nothing. 

Nothing gives me less satisfaction than people knowing what I am up to when they don't really understand it. To make matters worse, given I am likely to remain purposefully enigmatic about the work in progress, then there is no point in speaking much of anything until the deed is done. 

Otherwise it is a waste of time. Which brings me to...

Two: spending time writing long emails, articles, marketing posts or any other self-promoting posts when I would rather be researching and writing; there is nothing wrong with author marketing and I respect it when it makes sense, but if it takes away from my current work in progress, especially when I am so limited in time, then I resent it. 

I feel reluctant to spend that precious commodity, time - there is enough piracy and unfair treatment of writers as it is without compounding the problem. Do you understand? I don't want to write for free unless I am aiding other writers by composing a review of their work. Our books are already cheapened every year as it is. 

I also feel indignant about being a person that I am not. I loathe the reputation that writers have acquired on Twitter or any other social platform - that of being self-promoting, constantly blasting others with posts about their work. It saddens me that it has come to this when in fact writers are the least likely to be self-promoting by default. Many writers chose that medium because they are introverts in the first place and don't enjoy the limelight. Yes, it is annoying to see writers continually rant about their books. Even I am annoyed by it, though I understand it. It doesn't come to mind to non-writers that we have no choice. If we remain quiet, we will not be read. Even those who are traditionally published are called to do their part in marketing. 

Why do writers have to promote themselves so much? You see, the nature of our medium works against us. To illustrate this, I will say, that today, especially today, the public is slow to take up a book from an unknown writer. A couple of readers might give you a chance but for this, they will need to accommodate you, squeeze you in between the known writers they adulate, make time for you. Time is crucial for readers. Why would they read you when they can read Dickens, Hugo, King. I am guilty of the same. I would drop any unknown writer to spend time with Wilkie Collins. But now a different medium like visual arts has an advantage. An unknown person can post a photo on Instagram and it will be seen by thousands because the eye cannot but see. Visual artists have an advantage because the mode of consumption for their work is instant. You cannot read, let alone comprehend, a 300 page book in the flash of a second, but you can effortlessly consume countless images in a matter of minutes. Hence why writers try to grab your attention. 

Anyway it has come to this. I don't want to be the self-promoting writer even if I will not judge others who choose to engage in marketing. But don't worry, I am not contrived. If I have something exciting to share, I will share it.

Since 2010, I have enjoyed posting in this blog - it was fabulous when there was time, but 2019 is going to prove demanding in so many areas of my life that I have no choice but to say goodbye...for now.

This is not the death of this blog. Or maybe it is...

Perhaps I'll start a new one. After all, this was the second blog after Les Nuits Masquées which I held since 2007. I can't believe that I have been blogging for 11 years. 

Chantilly: A Tale of Carême

I wish I were setting off to the Hofburg Palace in romantic Vienna, but that will have to wait until 2020 when I am in Europe. For now, I am heading to friendly Brisbane where family waits. I have my fourth novel, CHANTILLY, on my Kindle and I can't wait to put on the hat of reader. I am bound to be horrified and realise that there is still much to do, but that's life. I can't see this novel being released for a while. Who knows, it might even be released in France. And so it should! It deserves to be born in France. Marie-Antoine Carême would demand nothing less. 

I have published only three novels, but each time it is the same. I dream up the cover long before the writing is polished. I imagine this book beside a tea set. It has a mint jacket, a familiar pastel hue in 19th century estates. That frivolous word, Chantilly, is a splash of white, its generous curves  dancing just above the middle of the cover.  Blush, peach and light pink flowers bloom across the page, perhaps just above the words "A Tale of Carême". Something like that. Would you have cake with that? Please do.

I've written a blurb too. My goodness, I am terrible. Who does that? 

So you pick up that taunting mint delight and flip to the back to read the blurb. A story about a chef, huh, you mutter as you twirl the tiniest golden spoon in your Assam tea. And hell, why not. 

"From rags to riches, an abandoned child from the worst back streets of Paris will rise to become France's first celebrity chef. 

A heartwarming story of friendship and cake, Marie-Antoine Carême's imagined biography has all the elements of a classic fairy tale.

From the finest patisseries of rue Vivienne, to the dreamlike chateau of Valençay, and all the way to the palaces of Vienna, Carême is swept up in an extraordinary journey, serving desserts for princesses and tsars alike.

But the man who invented the modern toque and revolutionised French cuisine is baffled when Mr Boucher, an ex-maître d'hôtel for the House of Condé, promises to reveal to him the secrets of Chantilly.

Along the way, to help him, is a downtrodden flower vendor, a crippled gastronomic critic, sequestered Spanish princes, and the richest man in France.

But it is the influence of one man that will remain as unforgettable as this wonderful tale.

Because in Carême's words, as in all fairy tales, there is always a prince."

There is always a prince.

A fairy tale, huh. A fairy tale about a 19th century chef. You lay the teaspoon on the pretty saucer. You take a sip and feel a warm rush. And then, it hits you. You realise that you would love a slice of that buttery sponge. And maybe lashings of Chantilly to go with it.

Please do.