26. The Martian Chronicles

    

26. Martian Chronicles. Ray Bradbury. HarperCollins. 1958/2006 edition. 268 pages. [Source: Library] [5 stars, science fiction; short stories; classic; audiobook]

One minute it was Ohio winter, with doors closed, windows locked, the panes blind with frost, icicles fringing every roof, children skiing on slopes, housewives lumbering like great black bears in their furs, along the icy streets.
And then a long wave of warmth crossed the small town. A flooding sea of hart air; it seemed as if someone had left a bakery door open. The heat pulsed among the cottages and bushes and children. The icicles dropped, shattering, to melt. The doors flew open. The windows flew up. The children worked off their wool clothes. The housewives shed their bear disguises. The snow dissolved and showed last summer's ancient green lawns.
Rocket summer. The words passed among the people in the open, airing houses. Rocket summer. The warm desert air changing the frost patterns on the windows, erasing the art work. The skis and sleds suddenly useless. The snow, falling from the cold sky upon the town, turned to a hot rain before it touched the ground. Rocket summer. People leaned from their dripping porches and watched the reddening sky. (1)

ETA: I listened to The Martian Chronicles on audiobook. It is narrated by Scott Brick. It was an awesome audio book. I'm not surprised that Ray Bradbury's book makes such an excellent listen. His writing is SO good. AND his characters, plots, story twists, everything grabs your attention.


I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE Ray Bradbury's The Martian Chronicles. This is the second or third time (probably fourth) I've read this one. And each time I read it, I end up loving it even more. It's like each time I'm surprised by how much I love it. Like in between readings I forget how engaging and compelling it is. I settle into thinking that it was just me exaggerating things (again). That it couldn't possibly be that good. But no. It is that good.

The edition I read this time had twenty-seven stories; some of these 'stories' are just vignettes, or short preludes, transition pieces of a paragraph or two. But many are full-length stories. There are some great stories in this one.

• January 2030 Rocket Summer
• February 2030 Ylla
• August 2030 The Summer Night
• August 2030 The Earth Men
• March 2031 The Taxpayer
• April 2031 The Third Expedition
• June 2032 --And the Moon Be Still as Bright
• August 2032 The Settlers
• December 2032 The Green Morning
• February 2033 The Locusts
• August 2033 Night Meeting
• October 2033 The Shore
• November 2033 The Fire Balloons
• February 2034 Interim
• April 2034 The Musicians
• May 2034 The Wilderness
• 2035-2036 The Naming of Names
• April 2036 Usher II
• August 2030 The Old Ones
• September 2036 The Martian
• November 2036 The Luggage Store
• November 2036 The Off Season
• November 2036 The Watchers
• December 2036 The Silent Towns
• April 2057 The Long Years
• August 2057 There Will Come Soft Rains
• October 2057 The Million Year Picnic

I wasn't aware that there were different editions of this one, and that the stories could vary depending on the edition. Also the dates have been modified (by thirty years) in some editions, like the edition I read this time around. The very, very newest edition has the original dates, 1999-2026. This newest edition does not have "The Fire Balloons." Also, instead of "The Wilderness" it has "Way in the Middle of the Air."

My thoughts on individual stories, and, first sentences from the stories

"Ylla"

They had a house of crystal pillars on the planet Mars by the edge of an empty sea, and every morning you could see Mrs. K eating the golden fruits that grew from the crystal walls, or cleaning the house with handfuls of magnetic dust which, taking all dirt with it, blew away on the hot wind.

A story told solely from the perspective of the Martians, in this case, a husband and wife. A husband has a very definite reaction to his wife's strange dreams. She dreams of a man, Nathaniel York, coming in a ship, in a rocket, and landing. The dream even tells her where and when. But her controlling and perhaps jealous husband has a way of dealing--for once and for all--with his wife's dreams.

"The Earth Men"

Whoever was knocking at the door didn't want to stop. Mrs. Ttt threw the door open. "Well?"

The story of the second expedition. Let's just say that the welcoming committee wasn't quite what they expected! First, NO ONE wanted to bother with them, then they were greeted by a strange assortment of Martians all claiming to be from Earth. And then....well, that wouldn't be polite of me to spoil it!
"The Third Expedition" (aka Mars is Heaven)

The ship came down from space. It came from the stars and the black velocities, and the shining movements, and the silent gulfs of space. It was a new ship; it had fire in its body and men in its metal cells, and it moved with a clean silence, fiery and warm. In it were seventeen men, including a captain. 

This one is a classic short story that you may have stumbled across in another context from The Martian Chronicles. (I've heard two radio adaptations, for example.) And the title is self-explanatory. It is the story of what happens when the third expedition lands. It is the story of what they see and  WHO they see. It is a story that stretches you, perhaps. But it's a good one!

"--And the Moon Be Still As Bright"

It was so cold when they first came from the rocket into the night that Spender began to gather the dry Martian wood and build a small fire. He didn't say anything about a celebration; he merely gathered the wood, set fire to it, and watched it burn.

And now we're on to the fourth expedition, the fourth rocket ship to successfully land on Mars. This time they manage to stay alive past the initial day or two or three. This is the story of what happens when one of the crew members, Spender, goes off on his own to learn the Martian culture, to explore the ruins, to explore the cities, to examine the artifacts and remnants of a culture that is gone with the wind. What happens next...well....there are a million reasons why readers shouldn't sympathize with Spender, but, like Captain Wilder, they may feel the pull all the same.

"The Settlers"

The men of Earth came to Mars. They came because they were afraid or unafraid, because they were happy or unhappy, because they felt like Pilgrims or did not feel like Pilgrims. There was a reason for each man. They were leaving bad wives or bad jobs or bad towns; they were coming to find something or leave something or get something, to dig up something or bury something or leave something alone. They were coming with small dreams or large dreams or none at all.

One of my favorite vignettes. For some reason it reminds me of John Steinbeck.

"Night Meeting"

Before going on up into the blue hills, Tomas Gomez stopped for gasoline at the lonely station.

There is something haunting and fantastical about this short story of a human and Martian meeting and not exactly seeing the same reality.

"The Fire Balloons"

Fire exploded over summer night lawns. 

 I first read "The Fire Balloons" in another collection of Ray Bradbury stories. I didn't, at the time, see it as being part of The Martian Chronicles. (And, in fact, it wasn't part of the edition I first read.) But now it is one of my favorite stories! In it two priests go to Mars as missionaries. One at least was expecting, was hoping, to meet Martians, to actually BE a missionary TO Martians, to an alien species. So when given the opportunity of going out into the hills and trying to communicate with blue balloon-like hovering creatures OR ministering to humans who have migrated to Mars, the answer is clear to Father Peregrine. But do the Martians need his church? This story has one of my favorite quotes:

"Father Peregrine, won't you ever be serious?"
"Not until the good Lord is. Oh, don't look so terribly shocked, please. The Lord is not serious. In fact, it is a little hard to know just what else He is except loving. And love has to do with humor, doesn't it? For you cannot love someone unless you put up with him, can you? And you cannot put up with someone constantly unless you can laugh at him. Isn't that true? And certainly we are ridiculous little animals wallowing in the fudge bowl, and God must love us all the more because we appeal to His humor."

 "The Wilderness"

Oh, the Good Time has come at last--
It was twilight and Janice and Leonora packed steadily in their summer house, singing songs, eating little, and holding to each other when necessary. But they never glanced at the window where the night gathered deep and the stars came out bright and cold.

This is another story that I ended up loving. And it was new-to-me too, it not being part of the original. But in this story we meet two women who are about to travel to Mars to get married and settle down. (The men having gone first.) The story likens exploring and settling Mars to exploring and settling the Old West (places like Wyoming, California, Oregon, etc.) It is about how the two handle their last night on Earth.

Is this how it was over a century ago, she wondered, when the women, the night before, lay ready for sleep, or not ready, in the small towns of the East, and heard the sound of horses in the night and the creak of the Conestoga wagons ready to go, and the brooding of oxen under the trees, and the cry of children already lonely before their time?...Is this then how it was so long ago? On the rim of the precipice, on the edge of the cliff of stars. In their time the smell of buffalo, and in our time the smell of the Rocket. Is then then how it was? And she decided, as sleep assumed the dreaming for her, that yes, yes indeed, very much so, irrevocably, this was as it had always been and would forever continue to be. 

"Usher II" (aka Carnival of Madness)

"During the whole of a dull, dark and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself, as the shades of evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher..." Mr. William Stendahl paused in his quotation. There, upon a low black hill, stood the house, its cornerstone bearing the inscription: 2036 A.D.

I remembered this as being one of the stories in A PLEASURE TO BURN, a Ray Bradbury collection celebrating the creative stories leading up to the writing/publishing of Fahrenheit 451. And it was first published as "Carnival of Madness." But it was also part of Ray Bradbury's book, The Martian Chronicles. And it is perhaps one of the most memorable of the collection. It is a true must read for anyone who loves Fahrenheit 451, for it continues on some of the same themes. I don't want to say too much about it really, because it shouldn't be spoiled at all if you want to get the full enjoyment of it!

"The Martian"

The blue mountains lifted into the rain and the rain fell down into the long canals and old LaFarge and his wife came out of their house to watch. 

An elderly couple have come to Mars and one night they are surprised by the appearance of their "son" (who died and was buried back on Earth). Their "son" doesn't want to leave the house, and is enjoying his family too much to risk getting "trapped" by going into the city and interacting with others. This story is creepy.

"The Luggage Store," "The Off Season," "The Watchers," "The Silent Towns," "The Long Years," "There Will Come Soft Rains," and "The Million Year Picnic."

These stories, I feel, work best as a sequence showing what happens both on Earth and Mars when the worst happens--atomic war on Earth. In "The Luggage Store," one speculates that his business will improve greatly if the war happens, if the worst happens. He feels that everyone will want to go back home to Earth to be with their loved ones, to find out if their loved ones are okay, to try to piece their society and civilization back together. In "The Off Season" readers learn that the war has started and the destruction has begun. There is nothing truly comical about it, but, it does happen to be told from the point of view of a man who has just opened a hot dog stand. "The Watchers" shows the people leaving Mars to return to Earth--for better or worse. "The Silent Towns" and "The Long Years" are two stories set on Mars. The first, "The Silent Towns" is told from the point of view of a man who chose to stay behind. He's lonely, but not THAT lonely it turns out. He does meet one woman who stayed behind, but, he decides that his own company is enough after all. "The Long Years" sees the return of Captain Wilder, I believe, who discovers a man and his family. There is a twist, however, which prevents this one from being a happy story. "There Will Come Soft Rains" is a very, very, very lonely story where we get a glimpse--just a small glimpse perhaps--of the desolation and destruction of life as we know it in at least one human city. We see the ending of an era, perhaps. There are no human characters in this one. "The Million Year Picnic" resonates even more when seen back-to-back with "There Will Come Soft Rains." In this story, readers meet a family: parents and sons who have come to Mars on their own private Rocket--a rocket that has been hidden away for many years, a rocket that has been saved for a true emergency. We meet a father who has prepared for THE END in a big, big way.

Read The Martian Chronicles

• If you love science fiction
• If you like science fiction
• If you enjoy short stories; if you don't enjoy short stories
• If you are a fan of Ray Bradbury
• If you are a fan of the Twilight Zone

© 2026 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

23. A Canticle for Leibowitz

23. A Canticle for Leibowitz. Walter M. Miller Jr. 1959. 335 pages. [Source: Bought] [4 stars, science fiction, apocalyptic, post-apocalyptic, classic]

First sentence: Brother Francis Gerard of Utah might never have discovered the blessed documents, had it not been for the pilgrim with girded loins who appeared during that young novice's Lenten fast in the desert.

Premise/plot: Canticle for Leibowitz is divided into three parts: "Fiat Homo," "Fiat Lux" and "Fiat Voluntas Tua." Centuries pass between each part, I believe. Essentially what you need to know is that it's post-apocalyptic. The novel opens several centuries (at the very least) after nuclear disaster has wiped out society--at least as we know it. Knowledge is feared and simplicity embraced. A group of monks in the desert cling to what remains of book-knowledge. They memorize. They copy. They wait. They wait knowing that humanity may never be ready for their wisdom. Readers get to know a few monks in each part. The book is not bleak from cover to cover, however, by the end the message is that humanity is incapable of learning from their past mistakes and no matter how many centuries pass, humanity is always its own biggest threat.

My thoughts: This is the first time I ever-ever wished I'd paid more attention in Latin class. Just as Jane Eyre is sprinkled with French, this one is sprinkled with Latin. My general thoughts are that once is not enough to really get everything there is to get. I was reading for big-picture ideas, and not really savoring the details and looking for all possible meanings. My first impression is that it's good, but, depressing. Also thought-provoking.


Favorite quotes:

• "How can a great and wise civilization have destroyed itself so completely?" "Perhaps," said Apollo, "by being materially great and materially wise, and nothing else." (119)
• If you try to save wisdom until the world is wise, Father, the world will never have it. (208)
• It never was any better, it never will be any better. It will only be richer or poorer, sadder but not wiser, until the very last day. (216)
• The freedom to speculate is essential...(216)
• Men must fumble awhile with error to separate it from truth, I think--as long as they don't seize the error hungrily because it has a pleasanter taste. (218)
• If we're born mad, where's the hope of Heaven?" (240)
• When mass murder's been answered with mass murder, rape with rape, hate with hate, there's no longer much meaning in asking whose ax is the bloodier. Evil, on evil, piled on evil.(259)
• Too much hope for Earth had led men to try to make it Eden, and of that they might well despair until the time toward the consumption of the world.(264)
• It is the soul's endurance in faith and hope and love in spite of bodily afflictions that pleases Heaven. (292)
• The trouble with the world is me. (305)

© 2026 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

12. Frankenstein

12. Frankenstein (Oxford World's Classics). Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. 1818/1998. 261 pages. [Source: Library, Audiobook, classic, science fiction, speculative fiction.]

First sentence: You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.

Premise/plot: Robert Walton is on the adventure of a lifetime; he's always, always, always wanted to be an arctic explorer. He just wishes he had a best-good-buddy to share it with. As he's sharing his longing for a friend with his sister--via letter--he stumbles across a candidate for the job. He's a strange, odd man with one super-crazy story to tell. He's also a man full of warnings and woes. His name is Victor Frankenstein. You might have heard of him. Maybe.

Victor Frankenstein understands dreaming big. If asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he might have responded oh-so-seriously: GOD. You see, Victor spends way too much time thinking about how life is created. Well. Perhaps I should rephrase that. When he's thinking about creation, he's thinking about how to reanimate DEAD BODIES and RECREATE life.

Frankenstein becomes more than a little obsessed with his science project. I personally could never figure out the appeal. He isn't interested in bringing the dead back to life--as is. That is, reanimating the life of a specific person. He is interested in piecing together bits and pieces of dead humans into a new super-human form. Taller. Stronger. Bigger. And definitely uglier. He isn't interested in prolonging life or reuniting families. What does he hope to gain by his creation? Does he see himself as a Creator? What does he owe his creature--if anything? What does his creature owe him--if anything?

If man is created in the image of God, is the monster created in the image of Frankenstein? Does the monster share the characteristics of Victor Frankenstein? Are the two more alike or different? Does the monster reveal the heart and mind of his Creator?

My thoughts: I've read Frankenstein so many times now. I think I've really only ever read the 1818 text of the novel. Most of the time I stick with the same copy I used in college.

I love the book.

 

© 2026 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

7. The First Four Years

7. The First Four Years. Laura Ingalls Wilder. 1971. 134 pages. [Source: Library] [historical fiction, classic, series book, 3 stars]

First sentence: The stars hung luminous and low over the prairie.

The First Four Years was published several decades after the death of Laura Ingalls Wilder. It was published after the death of Laura and Almanzo's daughter, Rose Wilder Lane. It is based on three hand-written notebooks. The story is believed to have been written in the mid to late forties. It is also believed to have been shelved by Laura Ingalls Wilder after the death of Almanzo. She never went back to work on it again. She never polished it up. She never sent it to the publishers. It is what it is, a first draft.

It has a completely different feel than the other Little House books. It doesn't have chapters, for one thing. But more than that there is an emotional undertone of sadness and regret that makes it pointedly different than its predecessors. It is just very melancholy. Yes, it captures all the horrible things that happened next. Yes, it's probably accurate enough to assume that most if not all farmers experienced this many brutal hardships. The other Little House books often dealt with hard issues as well. But I suppose they felt more balanced. I think she injected enough hope and light to lift them up.

Personally, I'd rather have the "happily ever after" ending of These Happy Golden Years than the brutal hardships of The First Four Years. Not that I'm promoting the unrealistic fairy-tale ending where marriage is problem-free. But to read of all the hardships with the farm, the land, the money problems, the debt, the worries, the health problems, the weather/environment problems, etc. It's just so hard, so brutal, so depressing.





© 2026 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

122. Anne of Windy Poplars

Anne of Windy Poplars. L.M. Montgomery. 1936. 288 pages. [Source: Bought]

First sentence:  DEAREST: Isn't that an address! Did you ever hear anything so delicious? Windy Poplars is the name of my new home and I love it. I also love Spook's Lane, which has no legal existence. It should be Trent Street but it is never called Trent Street except on the rare occasions when it is mentioned in the Weekly Courier . . . and then people look at each other and say, 'Where on earth is that?' Spook's Lane it is . . . although for what reason I cannot tell you. I have already asked Rebecca Dew about it, but all she can say is that it has always been Spook's Lane and there was some old yarn years ago of its being haunted. But she has never seen anything worse-looking than herself in it. 

Premise/plot: Anne and Gilbert are engaged at last! But Gilbert still has three years of school to go, and, so Anne finds herself a job as principal of a school in Summerside. Anne of Windy Poplars gives us an intimate look at those three years. Much of the book provides glimpses into the letters Anne writes Gilbert. But there are some traditional chapters as well.

My thoughts: Anne of Windy Poplars is such a delightful (late) addition to the Anne series by L.M. Montgomery. I love, love, love it. Even if Gilbert himself is absent. (We only see her letters to him, never his letters to her.)

This book showcases what Montgomery does BEST: bring her characters to life. It doesn't seem to matter if we spend two paragraphs with a character or two chapters. I CARE about every character she introduces.

Some of the characters we meet in this one: Aunt Kate, Aunt Chatty, Rebecca Dew, Dusty Miller (cats count as characters, right?!), Little Elizabeth, Nora Nelson, Jim Wilcox, Esme Taylor, Dr. Lennox Carter, Cyrus Taylor, Teddy Armstrong, Lewis Allen, Katherine Brooke, Mrs. Adoniram Gibson and Pauline, Cousin Ernestine Bugle, Jarvis Morrow, Dovie Westcott, Frank Westcott.
 

Favorite quotes:

I have a scratchy pen and I can't write love-letters with a scratchy pen...or a sharp pen...or a stub pen. So you'll only get that kind of letter from me when I have exactly the right kind of pen. 

You know I've always been one to whom adventures come unsought. I just seem to attract them, as it were.  

School begins tomorrow. I shall have to teach geometry! Surely that can't be any worse than learning it. 

Isn't it queer that the things we writhe over at night are seldom wicked things? Just humiliating ones.

I don't like reading about martyrs because they always make me feel petty and ashamed...ashamed to admit I hate to get out of bed on frosty mornings and shrink from a visit to the dentist!

Nobody is ever too old to dream. And dreams never grow old.

I said drenched and I mean drenched.

Oh, no, babies are never common," said Anne, bringing a bowl of water for Mrs. Gibson's roses. "Every one is a miracle."

It seems so strange to read over the stories of those old wars...things that can never happen again. I don't suppose any of us will ever have more than an academic interest in 'battles long ago.' It's impossible to think of Canada ever being at war again. I am so thankful that phase of history is over. 

Nobody is ever too old to wear just what she wants to wear. You wouldn't want to wear it if you were too old.


© 2025 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

121. Anne's House of Dreams

Anne's House of Dreams. L.M. Montgomery. 1919. 227 pages. [Source: Bought]

First sentence: “Thanks be, I’m done with geometry, learning or teaching it,” said Anne Shirley, a trifle vindictively, as she thumped a somewhat battered volume of Euclid into a big chest of books, banged the lid in triumph, and sat down upon it, looking at Diana Wright across the Green Gables garret, with gray eyes that were like a morning sky.

 ETA: I don't know how many times I've read this series--dozens??? scores???? My most recent read through is December 2025...and I listened to the audio book. It is just as magical as when I first discovered the series in the late 1980s. 

Premise/plot: Anne Shirley marries Gilbert Blythe in this oh-so-lovely, oh-so-charming book by L.M. Montgomery. Technically, it is the sequel to Anne of the Island! Anne of Windy Poplars was written in the 1930s, decades after Anne's House of Dreams. In this Anne book, the happily married couple settle down in their first home together near Four Winds Harbor and Glen St. Mary. 

Anne's House of Dreams introduces many new characters--some of my favorites I admit--Captain Jim, Miss Cornelia, Leslie Moore, Owen Ford. Marshall Elliot. Susan Baker. Who would ever want to forget their stories? Captain Jim's life-book. Leslie Moore's tragic past but enduring spirit. Miss Cornelia. She's got to be one-of-a-kind. Just a truly spirited character with so much heart and full of gumption. Practically everything out of her mouth is quotable. She sure is great at banter!

My thoughts: I love and adore this one!!! I love how emotionally satisfying it is. The Anne books may have sweet moments, but they pack in reality as well. No one can make me cry like L.M. Montgomery.

Quotes: 

“Stoutness and slimness seem to be matters of predestination,” said Anne.

Jane was not brilliant, and had probably never made a remark worth listening to in her life; but she never said anything that would hurt anyone’s feelings — which may be a negative talent but is likewise a rare and enviable one.

“I’ve heard you criticise ministers pretty sharply yourself,” teased Anne. “Yes, but I do it reverently,” protested Mrs. Lynde. “You never heard me NICKNAME a minister.” Anne smothered a smile.

Their happiness was in each other’s keeping and both were unafraid. 

“Miss Cornelia Bryant. She’ll likely be over to see you soon, seeing you’re Presbyterians. If you were Methodists she wouldn’t come at all. Cornelia has a holy horror of Methodists.”

“I know we are going to be friends,” said Anne, with the smile that only they of the household of faith ever saw. “Yes, we are, dearie. Thank goodness, we can choose our friends. We have to take our relatives as they are, and be thankful if there are no penitentiary birds among them. Not that I’ve many — none nearer than second cousins. I’m a kind of lonely soul, Mrs. Blythe.” There was a wistful note in Miss Cornelia’s voice.

“Were you able to eat enough pie to please her?” “I wasn’t. Gilbert won her heart by eating — I won’t tell you how much. She said she never knew a man who didn’t like pie better than his Bible. Do you know, I love Miss Cornelia.”

“Our library isn’t very extensive,” said Anne, “but every book in it is a FRIEND. We’ve picked our books up through the years, here and there, never buying one until we had first read it and knew that it belonged to the race of Joseph.”

A woman cannot ever be sure of not being married till she is buried, Mrs. Doctor, dear, and meanwhile I will make a batch of cherry pies.

“I wonder why people so commonly suppose that if two individuals are both writers they must therefore be hugely congenial,” said Anne, rather scornfully. “Nobody would expect two blacksmiths to be violently attracted toward each other merely because they were both blacksmiths.”

The p’int of good writing is to know when to stop.

There’s only the one safe compass and we’ve got to set our course by that — what it’s right to do.

Logic is a sort of hard, merciless thing, I reckon.

“Since you are determined to be married, Miss Cornelia,” said Gilbert solemnly, “I shall give you the excellent rules for the management of a husband which my grandmother gave my mother when she married my father.” “Well, I reckon I can manage Marshall Elliott,” said Miss Cornelia placidly. “But let us hear your rules.” “The first one is, catch him.” “He’s caught. Go on.” “The second one is, feed him well.” “With enough pie. What next?” “The third and fourth are — keep your eye on him.” “I believe you,” said Miss Cornelia emphatically.

Cats is cats, and take my word for it, they will never be anything else.

© 2025 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

91. 4:50 From Paddington

91. 4:50 From Paddington. (Miss Marple #8) Agatha Christie. 1957/2007. 288 pages. [Source: Bought]

First sentence: Mrs. McGillicuddy panted along the platform in the wake of the porter carrying her suitcase.

Premise/plot: Poor Mrs. McGillicuddy! She witnesses a crime when she's on a train--the crime takes place on a passing train--and NO ONE believes her. No one but Miss Marple that is! Miss Marple knows her friend did not imagine a man strangling a woman. Since the police aren't going to bother with an investigation, it's up to her and her friends. Miss Marple hires a woman--Lucy Eyelesbarrow--to do the job. Lucy gets hired on at an estate--the nearest estate to where Miss Marple thinks the body might have been thrown off the train--and in her spire time Lucy will hunt for the body. It doesn't take her long--not really, not all things considered. What takes time is identifying the woman. Who was she? What was she doing in England? Is she in any way connected to the family or the estate? Could Lucy be living with a murderer?

My thoughts: I love, love, love this murder mystery. The murder occurs BEFORE Christmas but most of the book occurs in January or thereabouts. Lucy is working for a very eccentric, quirky family. Some of these family members are quite memorable, almost delightful. Miss Marple is staying nearby and posing as Lucy's aunt.

This is a well-written mystery novel that is fun to read and reread. (Though to be honest you should let a few years go by so that the details get a bit fuzzy in between readings.)

Quotes: 

"Well," she said, "it looks as though you were right." She produced her findings and gave the details of their discovery. "Perhaps one ought not to feel so," she said, "but it is rather gratifying to form a theory and get proof that it is correct!" (39)

"At a certain stage one is inclined to think everyone knows a little more than they are willing to tell you." (81)

"If you have not committed a murder, it naturally annoys you if it seems someone thinks that you have," said Inspector Craddock mildly. (129)

"The truth is people are an extraordinary mixture of heroism and cowardice." (144)

© 2025 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

89. The First Men in the Moon

89. The First Men in the Moon. H.G. Wells. 1901. 213 pages. [Source: Library] [3 stars, adult science fiction, classic]

First sentence: As I sit down to write here amidst the shadows of vine-leaves under the blue sky of southern Italy, it comes to me with a certain quality of astonishment that my participation in these amazing adventures of Mr. Cavor was, after all, the outcome of the purest accident. It might have been any one. I fell into these things at a time when I thought myself removed from the slightest possibility of disturbing experiences.

Premise/plot: Mr. Bedford has money troubles; he is looking for a relatively quick and easy 'out' for those troubles. He is trying his hand at writing a play. He's gone to the country to write that play and obviously hopes for peace and quiet. Dr. Cavor, his neighbor, is anything but quiet. He's a mad scientist though perhaps Mr. Bedford doesn't realize quite how 'mad' this mad scientist is when they meet. Mr. Bedford, perhaps, should have minded his own business and not lost his temper. Then again, that would have been a short book indeed! Dr. Cavor is out to create a gravity-defying element--which, of course, he'll name Cavorite. Working together--somewhat--they decide to use Cavorite on a sphere Dr. Cavor builds to go to the moon. Obviously. What else would you do if you could defy gravity?! What they find on the moon is quite shocking, especially to Mr. Bedford though he has his regrets before even leaving earth.

My thoughts: I enjoyed the book. It was silly. It requires you to suspend your disbelief. But it was good. I definitely enjoyed it more the second time around. HOWEVER, I will say that the movie adaptation from the 1960s while not faithful to the book particularly, was certainly more entertaining. They added a LOVE INTEREST to Mr. Bedford and had her 'accidentally' forced along for the ride. The ending is much improved in the movie, in my opinion. I also loved seeing CHICKENS IN SPACE. It was silly and over the top but also delightful.

Quotes:

"Can it be," he said, "that I have formed a Habit?"

What is this spirit in man that urges him for ever to depart from happiness and security, to toil, to place himself in danger, to risk even a reasonable certainty of death? It dawned upon me up there in the moon as a thing I ought always to have known, that man is not made simply to go about being safe and comfortable and well fed and amused.

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. "Just think of all the trouble we took to get into this pickle! What did we come for? What are we after? What was the moon to us or we to the moon? We wanted too much, we tried too much. We ought to have started the little things first.

"It was I found the way here, but to find a way isn't always to be master of a way. If I take my secret back to earth, what will happen? I do not see how I can keep my secret for a year, for even a part of a year. Sooner or later it must come out, even if other men rediscover it. And then...governments and powers will struggle to get hither, they will fight against one another, and against these moon people; it will only spread warfare and multiply the occasions of war....What good would the moon be to men? Even of their own planet what have they made but a battle-ground and theatre of infinite folly? Small as his world is, and short as his time, he has still in his little life down there far more than he can do.

I think that going to bed was one of the luckiest ideas I have ever had in an emergency.

© 2025 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

84. The Return of the King

84. The Return of the King. (Lord of the Rings) J.R.R. Tolkien. 1955/1965. Houghton Mifflin. 440 pages.
 
First sentence: Pippin looked out from the shelter of Gandalf's cloak.
 
ETA: I listened to The Return of the King on audio narrated by Andy Serkis. It was great. I've listened to The Hobbit, Fellowship of the Ring, Two Towers, and Return of the King all narrated by Andy Serkis. He's a fabulous voice actor and it was a great experience.

So Return of the King consists of books five and six of Lord of the Rings. In book five, narrators shift from chapter to chapter to chapter. Essentially we spend time with everyone but Sam and Frodo. We spend time in Rohan and Gondor. Scarlett O'Hara would be nothing but bored, bored, bored for this one is all about WAR, WAR, WAR. If they're not actually IN battle, they're marching towards battle, planning battle tactics, or recovering from battle. Did I personally find it boring??? Far from it, it is INTENSE and heartbreaking in places. (For example, Theoden's end.) I would actually say almost all the action happens in book five.

Book six starts out as being all about Sam and Frodo, but, it doesn't stay their book. The climax to the trilogy comes early in book six. Soon the fellowship is reunited and readers get the full cast of characters they've become so attached to. Here we have two to three romances squeezed in. If I had any advice for new readers it would be this: don't expect the book to be as focused on ROMANCE and FEELINGS as the movies are. 

So does book six drag? Is the end of the war coming so early in the novel a weakness in the book? I'm going to say perhaps and NO. I love that the book shows what happens next. I love that the book focuses on soldiers going home, on trying to settle back into life after the war. I love that we see the effect of the war. I love that we don't get a polished, rushed happy ending. It would be so easy for a movie to end in a parade and award ceremony. (Think Star Wars!) But life isn't like that. It isn't always easy for soldiers to adjust back into life, into society. I love that we see the ongoing consequences of war. We see how war has changed everyone--not just the Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin--but everyone in the Shire.

Favorite quotes:

Well, no need to brood on what tomorrow may bring. For one thing, tomorrow will be certain to bring worse than today, for many days to come. And there is nothing more that I can do to help it. The board is set, and the pieces are moving. 

‘Nine o’clock we’d call it in the Shire,’ said Pippin aloud to himself. ‘Just the time for a nice breakfast by the open window in spring sunshine. And how I should like breakfast! Do these people ever have it, or is it over? And when do they have dinner, and where?’

‘I am no warrior at all and dislike any thought of battle; but waiting on the edge of one that I can’t escape is worst of all. What a long day it seems already! I should be happier, if we were not obliged to stand and watch, making no move, striking nowhere first.

‘So we come to it in the end,’ he said: ‘the great battle of our time, in which many things shall pass away. But at least there is no longer need for hiding. We will ride the straight way and the open road and with all our speed. The muster shall begin at once, and wait for none that tarry. Have you good store in Minas Tirith? For if we must ride now in all haste, then we must ride light, with but meal and water enough to last us into battle.

‘O Sam!’ cried Frodo. ‘What have I said? What have I done? Forgive me! After all you have done. It is the horrible power of the Ring. I wish it had never, never, been found. But don’t mind me, Sam. I must carry the burden to the end. It can’t be altered. You can’t come between me and this doom.’

‘So that was the job I felt I had to do when I started,’ thought Sam: ‘to help Mr. Frodo to the last step and then die with him? Well, if that is the job then I must do it. But I would dearly like to see Bywater again, and Rosie Cotton and her brothers, and the Gaffer and Marigold and all. I can’t think somehow that Gandalf would have sent Mr. Frodo on this errand, if there hadn’t a’ been any hope of his ever coming back at all. Things all went wrong when he went down in Moria. I wish he hadn’t. He would have done something.’ But even as hope died in Sam, or seemed to die, it was turned to a new strength. Sam’s plain hobbit-face grew stern, almost grim, as the will hardened in him, and he felt through all his limbs a thrill, as if he was turning into some creature of stone and steel that neither despair nor weariness nor endless barren miles could subdue.

Sam looked at him and wept in his heart, but no tears came to his dry and stinging eyes. ‘I said I’d carry him, if it broke my back,’ he muttered, ‘and I will!’ ‘Come, Mr. Frodo!’ he cried. ‘I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get! Come on, Mr. Frodo dear! Sam will give you a ride. Just tell him where to go, and he’ll go.’ As Frodo clung upon his back, arms loosely about his neck, legs clasped firmly under his arms, Sam staggered to his feet; and then to his amazement he felt the burden light.

Then to the wonder of many Aragorn did not put the crown upon his head, but gave it back to Faramir, and said: ‘By the labour and valour of many I have come into my inheritance. In token of this I would have the Ring-bearer bring the crown to me, and let Mithrandir set it upon my head, if he will; for he has been the mover of all that has been accomplished, and this is his victory.’ Then Frodo came forward and took the crown from Faramir and bore it to Gandalf; and Aragorn knelt, and Gandalf set the White Crown upon his head, and said:
‘Now come the days of the King, and may they be blessed while the thrones of the Valar endure!’ But when Aragorn arose all that beheld him gazed in silence, for it seemed to them that he was revealed to them now for the first time. Tall as the sea-kings of old, he stood above all that were near; ancient of days he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him. And then Faramir cried: ‘Behold the King!’

‘Are you in pain, Frodo?’ said Gandalf quietly as he rode by Frodo’s side. ‘Well, yes I am,’ said Frodo. ‘It is my shoulder. The wound aches, and the memory of darkness is heavy on me. It was a year ago today.’ ‘Alas! there are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured,’ said Gandalf. ‘I fear it may be so with mine,’ said Frodo. ‘There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?’ Gandalf did not answer.

© 2025 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

76. LOTR: Two Towers

   

 

76. The Two Towers. (Lord of the Rings) J.R.R. Tolkien. 1954/1965. Houghton Mifflin. 352 pages. [Source: Library] [5 stars, audio book, adult fantasy, adult classic]

First sentence: Aragorn sped on up the hill. Every now and again he bent to the ground. Hobbits go light, and their footprints are not easy even for a Ranger to read, but not far from the top a spring crossed the path, and in the wet earth he saw what he was seeking.

I am still enjoying my reread of Lord of the Rings. The Two Towers consists of books three and four. On this reread, I am listening to the audio book. It is narrated by Andy Serkis. The biggest difference, for me, is that I've switched up how I feel about books three and four. ON audio, I much preferred book four to book three. In print, I think I love both books, but love the third one perhaps a bit more. No matter print or audio, I ADORE SAM.

 
The fellowship has been broken, and, as a result the narrative has been completely split. The fourth book follows the adventures of Sam and Frodo (and Gollum).  The third book follows the adventures of everyone else: Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, etc.

The book opens with some drama: Merry and Pippin have been taken! Boromir has fallen valiantly in battle trying to protect them. He confesses all to Aragorn moments before he dies. (But the movie does it even better. That death scene in the extended edition is SOMETHING.)

Aragorn knelt beside him. Boromir opened his eyes and strove to speak. At last slow words came. ‘I tried to take the Ring from Frodo,’ he said. ‘I am sorry. I have paid.’ His glance strayed to his fallen enemies; twenty at least lay there. ‘They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them.’ He paused and his eyes closed wearily. After a moment he spoke again. ‘Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed.’ ‘No!’ said Aragorn, taking his hand and kissing his brow. ‘You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall!’ Boromir smiled. ‘Which way did they go? Was Frodo there?’ said Aragorn. But Boromir did not speak again.

The company also learns that Sam and Frodo have left, have "broken" the fellowship. The mission has changed without a doubt, but the remaining members still have purpose.

‘The rumour of the earth is dim and confused,’ he said. ‘Nothing walks upon it for many miles about us. Faint and far are the feet of our enemies. But loud are the hoofs of the horses. It comes to my mind that I heard them, even as I lay on the ground in sleep, and they troubled my dreams: horses galloping, passing in the West. But now they are drawing ever further from us, riding northward. I wonder what is happening in this land!’ ‘Let us go!’ said Legolas. 

They decide to pursue the orcs and attempt a rescue of the hobbits. In their quest to save Merry and Pippin, they meet an old friend in a surprising place!

In addition to meeting an old friend, readers also meet some new characters: Treebeard, Éomer, Théoden, and Éowyn. Merry and Pippin encounter the Ents! Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, (and Gandalf) go to Rohan. I absolutely LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE this third book.

The fourth book concerns Frodo, Sam, Gollum. Readers meet Boromir's brother as well. It's good, very good. But I can't help thinking that it is largely redeemed by SAM.

Favorite quotes:

Gimli ground his teeth. ‘This is a bitter end to our hope and to all our toil!’ he said. ‘To hope, maybe, but not to toil,’ said Aragorn.  

‘Awake! Awake!’ he cried. ‘It is a red dawn. Strange things await us by the eaves of the forest. Good or evil, I do not know; but we are called. Awake!’

‘You may say this to Théoden son of Thengel: open war lies before him, with Sauron or against him. None may live now as they have lived, and few shall keep what they call their own.

The world is all grown strange. Elf and Dwarf in company walk in our daily fields; and folk speak with the Lady of the Wood and yet live; and the Sword comes back to war that was broken in the long ages ere the fathers of our fathers rode into the Mark! How shall a man judge what to do in such times?’ ‘As he ever has judged,’ said Aragorn. ‘Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear; nor are they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among Men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house.’ ‘True indeed,’ said Éomer. ‘But I do not doubt you, nor the deed which my heart would do. Yet I am not free to do all as I would. It is against our law to let strangers wander at will in our land, until the king himself shall give them leave, and more strict is the command in these days of peril.

There are some things that it is better to begin than to refuse, even though the end may be dark.

There are Ents and Ents, you know; or there are Ents and things that look like Ents but ain’t, as you might say. I’ll call you Merry and Pippin, if you please – nice names. For I am not going to tell you my name, not yet at any rate.’ A queer half-knowing, half-humorous look came with a green flicker into his eyes. ‘For one thing it would take a long while: my name is growing all the time, and I’ve lived a very long, long time; so my name is like a story. Real names tell you the story of the things they belong to in my language, in the Old Entish as you might say. It is a lovely language, but it takes a very long time to say anything in it, because we do not say anything in it, unless it is worth taking a long time to say, and to listen to.

‘Of course, it is likely enough, my friends,’ he said slowly, ‘likely enough that we are going to our doom: the last march of the Ents. But if we stayed at home and did nothing, doom would find us anyway, sooner or later. That thought has long been growing in our hearts; and that is why we are marching now. 

‘My name!’ said the old man again. ‘Have you not guessed it already? You have heard it before, I think. Yes, you have heard it before. But come now, what of your tale?’ The three companions stood silent and made no answer. ‘There are some who would begin to doubt whether your errand is fit to tell,’ said the old man. ‘Happily I know something of it. You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits, I believe. Yes, hobbits. Don’t stare, as if you had never heard the strange name before. You have, and so have I. Well, they climbed up here the day before yesterday; and they met someone that they did not expect. Does that comfort you? And now you would like to know where they were taken? Well, well, maybe I can give you some news about that. But why are we standing? Your errand, you see, is no longer as urgent as you thought. Let us sit down and be more at ease.’  

They all gazed at him. His hair was white as snow in the sunshine; and gleaming white was his robe; the eyes under his deep brows were bright, piercing as the rays of the sun; power was in his hand. Between wonder, joy, and fear they stood and found no words to say. At last Aragorn stirred. ‘Gandalf!’ he said. ‘Beyond all hope you return to us in our need! What veil was over my sight? Gandalf!’ Gimli said nothing, but sank to his knees, shading his eyes. 

Hope is not victory. War is upon us and all our friends, a war in which only the use of the Ring could give us surety of victory. It fills me with great sorrow and great fear: for much shall be destroyed and all may be lost. I am Gandalf, Gandalf the White, but Black is mightier still.’ 

Go where you must go, and hope! 

A king will have his way in his own hall, be it folly or wisdom.

Men need many words before deeds. 

 ‘Yet dawn is ever the hope of men,’ said Aragorn.

That must be my hope,’ said Legolas. ‘But I wish that he had come this way. I desired to tell Master Gimli that my tale is now thirty-nine.’ ‘If he wins back to the caves, he will pass your count again,’ laughed Aragorn. ‘Never did I see an axe so wielded.’ ‘I must go and seek some arrows,’ said Legolas. ‘Would that this night would end, and I could have better light for shooting.’ 

‘We will have peace,’ said Théoden at last thickly and with an effort. Several of the Riders cried out gladly. Théoden held up his hand. ‘Yes, we will have peace,’ he said, now in a clear voice, ‘we will have peace, when you and all your works have perished – and the works of your dark master to whom you would deliver us. You are a liar, Saruman, and a corrupter of men’s hearts. You hold out your hand to me, and I perceive only a finger of the claw of Mordor. Cruel and cold! Even if your war on me was just – as it was not, for were you ten times as wise you would have no right to rule me and mine for your own profit as you desired – even so, what will you say of your torches in Westfold and the children that lie dead there? And they hewed Háma’s body before the gates of the Hornburg, after he was dead. When you hang from a gibbet at your window for the sport of your own crows, I will have peace with you and Orthanc. So much for the House of Eorl. A lesser son of great sires am I, but I do not need to lick your fingers. Turn elsewhither. But I fear your voice has lost its charm.’ 

Now, Pippin my lad, don’t forget Gildor’s saying – the one Sam used to quote: Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.’

‘Don’t hurt us! Don’t let them hurt us, precious! They won’t hurt us will they, nice little hobbitses? We didn’t mean no harm, but they jumps on us like cats on poor mices, they did, precious. And we’re so lonely, gollum. We’ll be nice to them, very nice, if they’ll be nice to us, won’t we, yes, yess.’

We only wish to catch a fish, so juicy-sweet! 

‘Yess, yess, nice water,’ said Gollum. ‘Drink it, drink it, while we can! But what is it they’ve got, precious? Is it crunchable? Is it tasty?’

‘I am commanded to go to the land of Mordor, and therefore I shall go,’ said Frodo. ‘If there is only one way, then I must take it. What comes after must come.’

Sam said nothing. The look on Frodo’s face was enough for him; he knew that words of his were useless. And after all he never had any real hope in the affair from the beginning; but being a cheerful hobbit he had not needed hope, as long as despair could be postponed. Now they were come to the bitter end. But he had stuck to his master all the way; that was what he had chiefly come for, and he would still stick to him. His master would not go to Mordor alone. Sam would go with him – and at any rate they would get rid of Gollum. 

All hobbits, of course, can cook, for they begin to learn the art before their letters (which many never reach); but Sam was a good cook, even by hobbit reckoning, and he had done a good deal of the camp-cooking on their travels, when there was a chance. He still hopefully carried some of his gear in his pack: a small tinder-box, two small shallow pans, the smaller fitting into the larger; inside them a wooden spoon, a short two-pronged fork and some skewers were stowed; and hidden at the bottom of the pack in a flat wooden box a dwindling treasure, some salt. But he needed a fire, and other things besides. He thought for a bit, while he took out his knife, cleaned and whetted it, and began to dress the rabbits. He was not going to leave Frodo alone asleep even for a few minutes. 

Sam drew a deep breath. ‘An Oliphaunt it was!’ he said. ‘So there are Oliphaunts, and I have seen one. What a life! But no one at home will ever believe me. Well, if that’s over, I’ll have a bit of sleep.’

‘I don’t like anything here at all,’ said Frodo, ‘step or stone, breath or bone. Earth, air and water all seem accursed. But so our path is laid.’ ‘Yes, that’s so,’ said Sam. ‘And we shouldn’t be here at all, if we’d known more about it before we started. But I suppose it’s often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually – their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on – and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same – like old Mr. Bilbo. But those aren’t always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in! I wonder what sort of a tale we’ve fallen into?’ ‘I wonder,’ said Frodo. ‘But I don’t know. And that’s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you’re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don’t know. And you don’t want them to.’

Still, I wonder if we shall ever be put into songs or tales. We’re in one, of course; but I mean: put into words, you know, told by the fireside, or read out of a great big book with red and black letters, years and years afterwards. And people will say: “Let’s hear about Frodo and the Ring!” And they’ll say: “Yes, that’s one of my favourite stories. Frodo was very brave, wasn’t he, dad?” “Yes, my boy, the famousest of the hobbits, and that’s saying a lot.”’ ‘It’s saying a lot too much,’ said Frodo, and he laughed, a long clear laugh from his heart. Such a sound had not been heard in those places since Sauron came to Middle-earth. To Sam suddenly it seemed as if all the stones were listening and the tall rocks leaning over them. But Frodo did not heed them; he laughed again. ‘Why, Sam,’ he said, ‘to hear you somehow makes me as merry as if the story was already written. But you’ve left out one of the chief characters: Samwise the stouthearted. “I want to hear more about Sam, dad. Why didn’t they put in more of his talk, dad? That’s what I like, it makes me laugh. And Frodo wouldn’t have got far without Sam, would he, dad?”’ ‘Now, Mr. Frodo,’ said Sam, ‘you shouldn’t make fun. I was serious.’ ‘So was I,’ said Frodo, ‘and so I am. We’re going on a bit too fast. You and I, Sam, are still stuck in the worst places of the story, and it is all too likely that some will say at this point: “Shut the book now, dad; we don’t want to read any more.”’

 

© 2025 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

64. Death on the Nile

 

64. Death on the Nile. Agatha Christie. 1937/2007. Black Dog & Leventhal. 352 pages. [Source: Library] [5 stars, mystery, classic]

First sentence: "Linnet Ridgeway!" "That's her!" said Mr. Burnaby, the landlord of the Three Crowns. He nudged his companion.

Premise/plot: All is not fair in love or war. This Hercule Poirot mystery is set on a cruise of the Nile river. It is the honeymoon trip for one happy couple--or should I say one "happy" couple. For this happy couple is being stalked/followed by a disgruntled (and dramatic) ex. She is not happy to see HER former fiance marry a now former friend. She even introduced them! These three aren't the only travelers with struggles, traumas, and dramas of their own. Poirot picked quite a bunch to travel with. (Not that he had much say in the matter.) But when bodies start to fall, well, he has his work to do.

My thoughts: I LOVED, LOVED, LOVED Agatha Christie's Death on the Nile. It is such a great mystery, very complex! Hercule Poirot and Colonel Race find themselves on board a ship on the Nile, they are in interesting company. Poirot notices the tension between some of his fellow travelers from the very start. And as he takes the time to get to know everyone, to have personal chats with almost every one, his unease only increases. He fears that before the trip is over, murder will have been committed. But who shall the victim be? And who the murderer? Meanwhile, Race is on a mission of his own before a body is even found. He is on the trail of a killer, a radical. He's not sure WHO his man is, just knows that he is almost certainly on board, that is where his clues have led him. When the oh-so-wealthy heiress, Linnet Ridgeway, is murdered on her honeymoon with Simon Doyle, there are plenty of suspects. For not all of the passengers on board are exactly strangers to her....

The first part of this one is set in England, but the rest is all set in Egypt.

This one had me from the start. It was so thrilling! Not only was the plot interesting and surprising and wonderful, the characterization was so well done!!!

ETA: In June 2025 I listened to this one on audio book. It was narrated by David Suchet. 

 

© 2025 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

36. All Creatures Great and Small

     

36. All Creatures Great and Small. James Herriot. 1972. 437 pages. [Source: Library] [semi-autobiographical, adult fiction, animals; 5 stars]

First sentence: They didn't say anything about this in the books, I thought, as the snow blew in through the gaping doorway and settled on my naked back. I lay face down on the cobbled floor in a pool of nameless muck, my arm deep inside the straining cow, my feet scrabbling for a toe hold between the stones. 

Premise/plot: The first two books of a British book series were published under the name All Creatures Great and Small in 1972. They are an animal-focused 'memoir' [semi-autobiographical???] of a Yorkshire vet. James Herriot is the pen name of James Alfred Wight.

Is a love of animals required? Perhaps somewhat. Certainly if you absolutely hate animals it might not be a good match for you.

Is an interest in veterinary practices required? Not really. True if you absolutely hate animals and have zero interest in their care and wellbeing, well, it might not be the absolutely best fit. However, it isn't so much *what* as *how*. 

All Creatures Great and Small is a celebration of storytelling. It is HOW the stories are told, the narration itself, that makes this one so delightful, so charming, so worth reading. It is also a celebration of a passing-away-way-of-life. I believe, though I am not sure, they capture rural, country life in the late 1930s, early 1940s. 

The chapters are linked together loosely in that they are stories of his veterinary practice. There are some characters [loosely based on people he knew] that are present for many if not most of the stories. There is a love interest as well--though she doesn't make her appearance until later in the book. But in some ways the chapters are just episodes that could almost be read in any order. 

My thoughts: I was slightly resistant. Slightly. I knew in a fuzzy, vague way that these stories, these books, were among my grandma's favorites. I knew that the television series was based on a book series. I knew that there were two television series. (I haven't seen either yet). I knew that this might be a someday book for me. I'll get around to it...someday. I definitely enjoyed this one. I am not "big" on farm life, farm stories, farm animals. But I found the stories charming. I LOVED him as a narrator. It almost didn't matter that I didn't really *care* care about horses and cows and sheep and pigs, etc.

 

© 2025 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

10. Three Men In a Boat

 

Three Men in a Boat. Jerome K. Jerome. 1889. 174 pages. [Source: Bought] [4 stars, adult classic, travel, humor]

 First sentence: There were four of us—George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montmorency. 

 

 Premise/plot: Three men and a DOG set sail on a boating holiday. Hilarity follows--or in other words nothing goes as planned and nature--both nature nature and human nature gets the last laugh.

My thoughts: I love this one. I can't believe I've only read and reviewed it once twice-and that back in 2009 and 2019. One of the things I love about the book is the narrator, J. He had me at hello. [ETA: I recently watched my first adaptation of the book on film. (1956 adaptation). At the time I wasn't sure how faithful it was. I think they captured several scenes well. They ADDED a lot in an attempt to make it cohesive. The book itself is rambles, rambles, more rambles. They definitely added a lot of nonsense with women and flirting and the like. But overall, I am glad I watched the adaptation.]

It is a most extraordinary thing, but I never read a patent medicine advertisement without being impelled to the conclusion that I am suffering from the particular disease therein dealt with in its most virulent form. The diagnosis seems in every case to correspond exactly with all the sensations that I have ever felt.
I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch—hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases, generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into—some fearful, devastating scourge, I know—and, before I had glanced half down the list of “premonitory symptoms,” it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it.
I sat for awhile, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever—read the symptoms—discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it—wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus’s Dance—found, as I expected, that I had that too,—began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom, and so started alphabetically—read up ague, and learnt that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright’s disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid’s knee.
I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort of slight. Why hadn’t I got housemaid’s knee? Why this invidious reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and I grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid’s knee. Gout, in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there was nothing else the matter with me.
I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a medical point of view, what an acquisition I should be to a class! Students would have no need to “walk the hospitals,” if they had me. I was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk round me, and, after that, take their diploma.
Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I made it a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart. I could not feel my heart. It had stopped beating. I have since been induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had scarlet fever.
I had walked into that reading-room a happy, healthy man. I crawled out a decrepit wreck.
I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, when I fancy I’m ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going to him now. “What a doctor wants,” I said, “is practice. He shall have me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases each.” So I went straight up and saw him, and he said:
“Well, what’s the matter with you?”
I said:
“I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had finished. But I will tell you what is not the matter with me. I have not got housemaid’s knee. Why I have not got housemaid’s knee, I cannot tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, however, I have got.”
And I told him how I came to discover it all.
Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn’t expecting it—a cowardly thing to do, I call it—and immediately afterwards butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out.

and

In the present instance, going back to the liver-pill circular, I had the symptoms, beyond all mistake, the chief among them being “a general disinclination to work of any kind.”
What I suffer in that way no tongue can tell.  From my earliest infancy I have been a martyr to it.  As a boy, the disease hardly ever left me for a day.  They did not know, then, that it was my liver.  Medical science was in a far less advanced state than now, and they used to put it down to laziness.
“Why, you skulking little devil, you,” they would say, “get up and do something for your living, can’t you?”—not knowing, of course, that I was ill.
And they didn’t give me pills; they gave me clumps on the side of the head.  And, strange as it may appear, those clumps on the head often cured me—for the time being.  I have known one clump on the head have more effect upon my liver, and make me feel more anxious to go straight away then and there, and do what was wanted to be done, without further loss of time, than a whole box of pills does now.
You know, it often is so—those simple, old-fashioned remedies are sometimes more efficacious than all the dispensary stuff.

Other favorite quotes:

Why a boat trip...

Harris said he didn’t think George ought to do anything that would have a tendency to make him sleepier than he always was, as it might be dangerous.  He said he didn’t very well understand how George was going to sleep any more than he did now, seeing that there were only twenty-four hours in each day, summer and winter alike; but thought that if he did sleep any more, he might just as well be dead, and so save his board and lodging.

 J on packing:

We must not think of the things we could do with, but only of the things that we can’t do without.

J turns philosophical:

Let your boat of life be light, packed with only what you need—a homely home and simple pleasures, one or two friends, worth the name, someone to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog, and a pipe or two, enough to eat and enough to wear, and a little more than enough to drink; for thirst is a dangerous thing.

J on stinky cheese:

Cheese, like oil, makes too much of itself. It wants the whole boat to itself. It goes through the hamper, and gives a cheesy flavour to everything else there. You can't tell whether you are eating apple-pie or German sausage, or strawberries and cream. It all seems cheese. There is too much odour about cheese.
I remember a friend of mine, buying a couple of cheeses at Liverpool. Splendid cheeses they were, ripe and mellow, and with a two hundred horse-power scent about them that might have been warranted to carry three miles, and knock a man over at two hundred yards. I was in Liverpool at the time, and my friend said that if I didn't mind he would get me to take them back with me to London, as he should not be coming up for a day or two himself, and he did not think the cheeses ought to be kept much longer.
"Oh, with pleasure, dear boy," I replied, "with pleasure."
I called for the cheeses, and took them away in a cab. It was a ramshackle affair, dragged along by a knock-kneed, broken-winded somnambulist, which his owner, in a moment of enthusiasm, during conversation, referred to as a horse. I put the cheeses on the top, and we started off at a shamble that would have done credit to the swiftest steam-roller ever built, and all went merry as a funeral bell, until we turned the corner. There, the wind carried a whiff from the cheeses full on to our steed. It woke him up, and, with a snort of terror, he dashed off at three miles an hour. The wind still blew in his direction, and before we reached the end of the street he was laying himself out at the rate of nearly four miles an hour, leaving the cripples and stout old ladies simply nowhere.
It took two porters as well as the driver to hold him in at the station; and I do not think they would have done it, even then, had not one of the men had the presence of mind to put a handkerchief over his nose, and to light a bit of brown paper.
I took my ticket, and marched proudly up the platform, with my cheeses, the people falling back respectfully on either side. The train was crowded, and I had to get into a carriage where there were already seven other people. One crusty old gentleman objected, but I got in, notwithstanding; and, putting my cheeses upon the rack, squeezed down with a pleasant smile, and said it was a warm day.
A few moments passed, and then the old gentleman began to fidget.
"Very close in here," he said.
"Quite oppressive," said the man next him.
And then they both began sniffing, and, at the third sniff, they caught it right on the chest, and rose up without another word and went out. And then a stout lady got up, and said it was disgraceful that a respectable married woman should be harried about in this way, and gathered up a bag and eight parcels and went. The remaining four passengers sat on for a while, until a solemn-looking man in the corner, who, from his dress and general appearance, seemed to belong to the undertaker class, said it put him in mind of dead baby; and the other three passengers tried to get out of the door at the same time, and hurt themselves.
I smiled at the black gentleman, and said I thought we were going to have the carriage to ourselves; and he laughed pleasantly, and said that some people made such a fuss over a little thing. But even he grew strangely depressed after we had started, and so, when we reached Crewe, I asked him to come and have a drink. He accepted, and we forced our way into the buffet, where we yelled, and stamped, and waved our umbrellas for a quarter of an hour; and then a young lady came, and asked us if we wanted anything.
"What's yours?" I said, turning to my friend.
"I'll have half-a-crown's worth of brandy, neat, if you please, miss," he responded.
And he went off quietly after he had drunk it and got into another carriage, which I thought mean.
From Crewe I had the compartment to myself, though the train was crowded. As we drew up at the different stations, the people, seeing my empty carriage, would rush for it. "Here y' are, Maria; come along, plenty of room." "All right, Tom; we'll get in here," they would shout. And they would run along, carrying heavy bags, and fight round the door to get in first. And one would open the door and mount the steps, and stagger back into the arms of the man behind him; and they would all come and have a sniff, and then droop off and squeeze into other carriages, or pay the difference and go first.
From Euston, I took the cheeses down to my friend's house. When his wife came into the room she smelt round for an instant. Then she said:
"What is it? Tell me the worst."
I said:
"It's cheeses. Tom bought them in Liverpool, and asked me to bring them up with me."
And I added that I hoped she understood that it had nothing to do with me; and she said that she was sure of that, but that she would speak to Tom about it when he came back.
My friend was detained in Liverpool longer than he expected; and, three days later, as he hadn't returned home, his wife called on me. She said:
"What did Tom say about those cheeses?"
I replied that he had directed they were to be kept in a moist place, and that nobody was to touch them.
She said:
"Nobody's likely to touch them. Had he smelt them?"
I thought he had, and added that he seemed greatly attached to them.
"You think he would be upset," she queried, "if I gave a man a sovereign to take them away and bury them?"
I answered that I thought he would never smile again.
An idea struck her. She said:
"Do you mind keeping them for him? Let me send them round to you."
"Madam," I replied, "for myself I like the smell of cheese, and the journey the other day with them from Liverpool I shall ever look back upon as a happy ending to a pleasant holiday. But, in this world, we must consider others. The lady under whose roof I have the honour of residing is a widow, and, for all I know, possibly an orphan too. She has a strong, I may say an eloquent, objection to being what she terms 'put upon.' The presence of your husband's cheeses in her house she would, I instinctively feel, regard as a 'put upon'; and it shall never be said that I put upon the widow and the orphan."
"Very well, then," said my friend's wife, rising, "all I have to say is, that I shall take the children and go to an hotel until those cheeses are eaten. I decline to live any longer in the same house with them."
She kept her word, leaving the place in charge of the charwoman, who, when asked if she could stand the smell, replied, "What smell?" and who, when taken close to the cheeses and told to sniff hard, said she could detect a faint odour of melons. It was argued from this that little injury could result to the woman from the atmosphere, and she was left.
The hotel bill came to fifteen guineas; and my friend, after reckoning everything up, found that the cheeses had cost him eight-and-sixpence a pound. He said he dearly loved a bit of cheese, but it was beyond his means; so he determined to get rid of them. He threw them into the canal; but had to fish them out again, as the bargemen complained. They said it made them feel quite faint. And, after that, he took them one dark night and left them in the parish mortuary. But the coroner discovered them, and made a fearful fuss.
He said it was a plot to deprive him of his living by waking up the corpses.
My friend got rid of them, at last, by taking them down to a sea-side town, and burying them on the beach. It gained the place quite a reputation. Visitors said they had never noticed before how strong the air was, and weak-chested and consumptive people used to throng there for years afterwards.

J on his toothbrush:

My tooth-brush is a thing that haunts me when I’m travelling, and makes my life a misery.  I dream that I haven’t packed it, and wake up in a cold perspiration, and get out of bed and hunt for it.  Of course, I found George’s and Harris’s eighteen times over, but I couldn’t find my own.  I put the things back one by one, and held everything up and shook it. 

J on weather forecasts:

I do think that, of all the silly, irritating tomfoolishness by which we are plagued, this “weather-forecast” fraud is about the most aggravating.  It “forecasts” precisely what happened yesterday or a the day before, and precisely the opposite of what is going to happen to-day. But who wants to be foretold the weather?  It is bad enough when it comes, without our having the misery of knowing about it beforehand.  For the man that prophesies us bad weather, on the contrary, we entertain only bitter and revengeful thoughts.

J philosophizes again:

It seems to be the rule of this world.  Each person has what he doesn’t want, and other people have what he does want. 

J on Harris' singing:

It is one of Harris’s fixed ideas that he can sing a comic song; the fixed idea, on the contrary, among those of Harris’s friends who have heard him try, is that he can’t...Harris never sees what an ass he is making of himself, and how he is annoying a lot of people who never did him any harm. 

J on tea kettles:

That is the only way to get a kettle to boil up the river.  If it sees that you are waiting for it and are anxious, it will never even sing.  You have to go away and begin your meal, as if you were not going to have any tea at all.  It is a good plan, too, if you are in a great hurry, to talk very loudly to each other about how you don’t need any tea, and are not going to have any. 
You get near the kettle, so that it can overhear you, and then you shout out, “I don’t want any tea; do you, George?” to which George shouts back, “Oh, no, I don’t like tea; we’ll have lemonade instead—tea’s so indigestible.”  Upon which the kettle boils over, and puts the stove out.

 J on stomachs:

How good one feels when one is full—how satisfied with ourselves and with the world!  People who have tried it, tell me that a clear conscience makes you very happy and contented; but a full stomach does the business quite as well, and is cheaper, and more easily obtained.  We cannot work, we cannot think, unless our stomach wills so.  It dictates to us our emotions, our passions.  We are but the veriest, sorriest slaves of our stomach.  Reach not after morality and righteousness, my friends; watch vigilantly your stomach, and diet it with care and judgment.  

J on peeling potatoes:

I should never have thought that peeling potatoes was such an undertaking. The more we peeled, the more peel there seemed to be left on; by the time we had got all the peel off and all the eyes out, there was no potato left—at least none worth speaking of.  George came and had a look at it—it was about the size of a peanut. He said: “Oh, that won’t do!  You’re wasting them.  You must scrape them.” So we scraped them, and that was harder work than peeling.  They are such an extraordinary shape, potatoes—all bumps and warts and hollows.    

J on musical instruments:

It must be disheartening work learning a musical instrument.  You would think that Society, for its own sake, would do all it could to assist a man to acquire the art of playing a musical instrument.  But it doesn’t!
There is, it must be confessed, something very sad about the early efforts of an amateur in bagpipes.  

J on work:

It always does seem to me that I am doing more work than I should do.  It is not that I object to the work, mind you;

I like work: it fascinates me.  I can sit and look at it for hours.  I love to keep it by me: the idea of getting rid of it nearly breaks my heart.

You cannot give me too much work; to accumulate work has almost become a passion with me: my study is so full of it now, that there is hardly an inch of room for any more.  I shall have to throw out a wing soon. And I am careful of my work, too.  Why, some of the work that I have by me now has been in my possession for years and years, and there isn’t a finger-mark on.

 No man keeps his work in a better state of preservation than I do. But, though I crave for work, I still like to be fair.  I do not ask for more than my proper share.

J on heroines:

The heroine of a modern novel is always “divinely tall,” and she is ever “drawing herself up to her full height.” 

J on sleeping while camping:

It is surprising how early one can get up, when camping out.  One does not yearn for “just another five minutes” nearly so much.

Their final toast:

Here’s to Three Men well out of a Boat!”

 

 

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