Reading in the Garden

Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins is a mystery published in 1868 that involves the disappearance of a precious diamond called The Moonstone, so named because it emanates a yellow color that grows and lessens with the waning and waxing of the moon. The Moonstone is a gift to Rachel on her eighteenth birthday from her uncle who obtained the stunning stone under questionable circumstances. This is no little bauble, no diamond dust, no Cubic Zirconia. It’s the real thing. It is dazzling, absurdly bodacious bling, worth a fortune. More than monetary merit, this diamond is highly valued because it belongs on the forehead of a sacred Hindu statue.  Unfortunately, on the night of Rachel’s party, The Moonstone goes missing and so the hunt for the glitzy gem begins. This book is generally considered the first English detective novel and is rife with twists and turns. I was pleasantly surprised at the writing style. Several main characters narrate the sto

Perceptive Poirot Solves Another Case Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie  is a quick but captivating ride packed with one mysteriously dead American and a dozen suspects. Called to solve a case in London, renowned detective Hercule Poirot takes the Orient Express train from Turkey to France. In the luncheon car, Poirot is sipping coffee with a liqueur chaser when who would interrupt him but an American with “false benevolence of the brow and the small, cruel eyes.” The American had been receiving threatening letters, and asks Poirot to look into it. Poirot, however, wants nothing to do with the ugly American and dismisses his request even after repeated offers of big money.  He explains that he only takes on cases that interest him, and adds that he also does not like the American’s face. Case closed.   When the same American is found dead in his compartment, stabbed multiple times, Poirot suddenly finds interest. Case opened. He starts investigating and disc

Mother Knows Best In my last post, I told you what a great influence my mom was in my love of reading.  The obvious joy and intrigue she found in books had me wanting the same thing. I had to see what she found so addictive between those pages. It turns out that for the most part, we like the same types of books.  Of course, that’s not always the case.  Unlike my mother and sisters, some people claim to not enjoy reading at all. They say they “can’t get into books.”  I’m shocked and saddened. :(  They just don’t know what they’re missing. Time restraints, learning and attention disorders aside, I really think all that most people need is the right book to spark their interest. I believe there’s a reader in everyone itching to surface. If a person is not an enthusiastic reader, then they probably just haven’t found the right genre, writing style, or even author who grabs their attention.  There has to be a true “book connection” out there for every person. So, in continua

Peeling Away Past Memories I get my love of reading from my mother.  For as long as I can remember, she always had a book in her hand.  My father read, too, but he mainly stuck to magazines, and while my mother read both, it's the books she got lost in.  She found herself immersed in other lives, different countries, and time periods, outrageous dilemmas, discoveries, mysteries, adventures, great loves, and tragic losses.  To me, she was like the Pied Piper of reading.  I wanted to follow her into the world of books, to see what she saw. Like her, I wanted to become a voyeur and peek into other people's desires, to read their minds, and follow their paths. She gave me the joy of reading, an unbelievable gift that just keeps giving. As my mother continues to whip through books, she keeps me informed as to the ones that really strike a chord with her, books she recommends.  Five Quarters of the Orange is one of them.  She thought I might like it, and she was right.