I read the first two books of Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy a couple years ago and I’ve just started the third. Why did I wait so long to crack open the copy of The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest gathering dust on the bookshelf? Because, even though the first novels were entertaining, the lack of editing was too distracting – I kept getting pulled out of the story by redundancies and unnecessary exposition. What made me pick up the third novel? The latest movie version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

David Fincher does a great job of directing but it’s the work of the screenwriter, Steve Zaillian, that makes this 158-minute movie a thrill to watch. Zaillian cut what wasn’t essential to the story and left in the elements that make the novel so entertaining. (The script also makes one significant change that I won’t go into here lest I spoil it for you.) With the fat cut away, the story emerges leaner, meaner – and better.

The movie reminded me that Larsson created a fantastic character in Lisbeth Salander.

Characters grab our imagination when they work against our expectations, and this is certainly the case with Salander. She is petite and young and we expect her to be vulnerable yet she is fierce; she is (apparently) mentally incapacitated yet also brilliant. Above all, though, is the fact that this character so brutally treated by powerful male villains uses her strengths to get back at her tormentors in ingenious ways. This is a female action figure no one had seen until Larsson gave her to us. The screenwriter pared the story to its essentials, thereby letting Salander shine more brightly, but it was Larsson who imagined her  into life. Back home from the movie theater, I decided that for a character like Salander, I could put up with poor editing. After all, no book is perfect.

I’m about halfway through Hornet and despite glossing over several passages of unnecessarily detailed background, I am enjoying it. However, the best thing about this trilogy, our tattooed heroine, has spent over two hundred pages lying in a hospital bed doing basically nothing. I hope Larsson gets her out of bed soon. But I have no doubt that even if he doesn’t, a good screenwriter will.

For more on the Larsson/Salander phenomenon, see

• Is the Hoopla over Stieg Larsson Undeserved?
• The Author Who Died and Left a Story Better Than His Blockbuster Novels

In my family, the pleasures of Christmas have always had more to do with good food and drink and thoughtful conversation than with gifts. But we do give each other presents and by far most of these (since mp3s pushed CDs off the list) have fallen into the literary category. I make my husband’s life easier by giving him a list of books I’m interested in and letting him choose a couple. This year, I’m interested in Stephen King’s 11/22/63. At least, I was until I went to the bookstore and checked it out.

It wasn’t a bad reaction to his writing – I always read the first page or two to help me decide whether or not to buy and these did not disappoint – but the size of the thing. It’s a doorstop of a novel, weighing in at 2.9 pounds. (That’s 1.3 Kg in Canada, where I read.) I hoisted a copy off the display table and held it up with both hands: Did I really want to go to bed with this baby? Was it going to feel comfortable on my lap? Shouldn’t it come with some sort of padding?

Another book I’m interested in is Steve Jobs, by Walter Isaacson. (A big year for Steve books, no matter how you spell it.) This one is 2.2 pounds, an improvement, but not by much.

So far, I haven’t officially added either of these books to my wishlist. I’m thinking about them. But now I’m also wondering if this should be the year I break down and get an e-reader. (It took me weeks to decide on a smartphone; it would take me at least this long to do iPad/Kobo/Kindle comparisons. On the plus side, by then we’ll be into January sales.) Meanwhile, I’ve decided to browse the bookstore for some “lighter” fare. There’s no reason I can’t wait until my local bookstore has 11/22/63 and Jobs in paperback for me to try it out. Or until it has a sale on e-readers.

For more on the subject, check out Deccan Chronicle’s Future of fat books.

In honor of Mother’s Day, I browsed my bookshelf looking for novels with mothers of note. Here, listed in no particular order, are ten books I’ve enjoyed:

• Stone Angel, Margaret Laurence
• Unless, Carol Shields
• Beloved, Toni Morrison
• The Good Mother, Sue Miller
• We Need to Talk About Kevin, Lionel Shriver
• Sons and Lovers, D.H. Lawrence
• Diary of a Mad Housewife, Sue Kaufman
• I Don’t Know How She Does It, Allison Pearson
• Delivery, Betty Jane Hegerat
• Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen (Would any of this happen without Mrs. Bennet?)

To all mothers: May your weekend include at least some time with a great book!

Ever wonder why it is readers are ravenous for Nordic noir? I recently attended a talk by Icelandic author Yrsa Sigurdardottir, who attempted to explain—or at least provide an indepth examination of—the phenomenon.

Sigurdardottir, a civil engineer when not writing, displayed a set of tables and stats to make the point that, relative to other countries in the world, Sweden, Denmark, Iceland and Finland all have few murders per capita. So, why are crime novels set in this peaceful region of the world so popular? Sigurdardottir postulates that when compared to a corpse in a crime-ridden area, a body found in a non-violent, “innocent” locale is more striking. Think of blood on snow—it’s dramatic.

Novels in the Nordic noir genre tend to share certain characteristics. (This argument doesn’t apply to the Stieg Larsson novels, which are a class unto themselves, and also have a riveting sidestory.) The settings tend to be small (towns, villages) and are more often than not desolate, dark, cold and—once the body’s been found, if not before—a bit creepy. Nordic noir characters tend to be ordinary souls, and the murderers are not evil but have been driven to kill for a reason. Not “super” at much of anything, these characters are credible.

I’m especially happy to see an Icelandic crime wave hitting English-speaking shores, because of my Icelandic heritage—I perk up at pretty much anything connected to the “old country” I’ve visited only once (so far). But you don’t need to have Viking genes to appreciate Nordic noir, and if you’re looking to widen your reading in the genre of crime fiction, look to Sweden, Iceland and the rest of Scandinavia has to offer. I’m going to try one of Sigurdardottir’s books. I also enjoyed Silence of the Grave, by Arnaldur Indridason, for its Reykjavik setting, and his novel Jar City is on my very long to-read list. (Note to self: Watching Wallander on TV doesn’t count; must actually read a Sweden-set Henning Mankell novel, as well. Or, is are the TV shows better? What do you think?)

photo credit: di_the_huntress

So, I’ve painted my nails green and perused my bookshelf for a favourite Irish read to thumb through with a pint of Guinness. It didn’t take me long to decide: Are You Somebody?, the gutsy, candid and often heart-breaking memoir of Irish writer and journalist Nuala O’Faolain. It came out in 1996, and The New York Times noted the book incorporates many of the familiar features of the 20th-century Irish narrative—booze, religious repression, sexual guilt—while avoiding the affectations and sentimentalities that often afflicts “a certain sort of self-consciously ‘Oirish’ literature…” Somebody has been called the feminine—and feminist—counterpart to Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes. If you want to know what it was like to be a female coming of age in Ireland in the 1960s, try this.

Another book on my shelf is O’Faolain’s My Dream of You, her fictional account of a middle-aged travel writer, desperate for love, who returns to a remote village in western Ireland to research the history of a scandalous affair that unfolded in the aftermath of the great potato famine. Also recommended. (You know I have a thing for well-told stories of mature women; if I ever make a formal list of my favorites, Somebody and Dream will be near the top.)

I saw O’Faolain speak at a writers festival in the early 2000s. She was on a panel with three other Irish writers discussing what made modern Irish literature unique. While the others gave thoughtful and in some cases self-consciously erudite presentations, O’Faolain was baldly honest and completely unsentimental about her mother country—and herself. I loved her.

One of the great things about taking stock of your past reads is discovering you’ve somehow neglected a book by a favourite author. I’ve just added Almost There, O’Faolain’s memoir that picks up where Somebody left off, to my to-read list. When the author in question is no longer with us (O’Faolain died of cancer in May 2008) it’s truly a gift to be reminded of such an oversight.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all readers—and please do share the titles of your favourite Irish books with me!

Like many others this time of year, I’m reviewing my highlights. For me, this includes the best books I read. It was difficult to choose but here it is, one literary nonfiction book and six novels:

The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work, by Alain de Botton – Sometimes people ask my opinion on what differentiates literary nonfiction from the regular kind. I tell them that literary nonfiction (also called narrative or creative nonfiction) draws you into a different world. Your local newspaper, for example, may give you valuable information about the logistics industry, but it won’t give you a sense of the immensity of a warehouse or describe the boxes of strawberries within in a way that makes you want to paint one. Read this and you’ll never feel the same way about a cargo ship, a box of biscuits or that slab of frozen tuna in the supermarket.

Solar, by Ian McEwan – Apparently critics have grumbled that this is not McEwan’s best work. I wouldn’t know; I’m not an expert on his oeuvre. I do, however, feel confident in saying that if you want a story about a darkly comic anti-hero stumbling around the politically-correct world of climate change, you will be entertained. And hey, McEwan’s “second-rate” is better than many other writers best efforts, anyway, right?

So Much for That, by Lionel Shriver – This is one writer who doesn’t shy away from difficult subjects – as anyone who’s read Shriver’s Orange Prize winner, We Need to Talk About Kevin, already knows. So Much can at times feel like a polemic against the U.S. healthcare system but the characters, especially protagonist Shep, pulled me right into the story. While Shep’s willingness to play doormat/provider for not only his wife but his whiny sister can make you want to give the guy a slap, I could (almost) see myself behaving the same way in similar circumstances. Think a story about a cancer diagnosis could never turn into a riveting tale? Try this one.

The Angels’ Game, by Carlos Ruiz Zafón – It’s about books, a strange old house, secrets, love and obsession – what’s not to love? A big, fat, dark novel to read on a cold winter’s eve. See my earlier post on Zafón’s great beginning. I’m adding his The Shadow of the Wind to my 2011 reading list.

Lit, by Mary Karr – I love a good addiction/recovery memoir and this year, it was Karr who allowed me to live vicariously that roller coaster of highs and lows. The book covers drunkenness, hangovers and depression but also what Karr calls her journey “from black-belt sinner and lifelong agnostic to unlikely Catholic.”

The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson – Finally got around to reading this classic ghost story and I’m glad I did. If you’re a writer wanting to study the genre of psychological ghost stories (or an enthusiastic reader of same), this should be on your to-read list. The Penguin Classics version has a great introduction by Laura Miller.

The Little Stranger, by Sarah Waters – Another great ghost story. Like Hill House, it’s all the more creepy for its subtleties. Perfect to read on a solitary afternoon when the house around you begins to creak in the wind…or was that the wind?

I love an old-fashioned Christmas that gives food, drink and decorations a much bigger role than gift-giving. On the other hand, my family wants to put something under the tree for me, right? So, here are my suggestions:

• Started Early, Took My Dog, by Kate Atkinson – Behind the Scenes at the Museum made me an Atkinson fan. Her next couple of novels were “okay,” but then she changed direction with Case Histories, which introduced us to Jackson Brodie, a former police inspector turned private investigator. Started Early is book number four starring Brodie. I’m also looking forward to seeing this character on TV—in 2011, the BBC will be broadcasting a six-part series based on the novels, and it’ll  travel across the pond soon after. I hope.

• Room, by Emma Donoghue – Okay, I don’t really want to read this. But people keep recommending it. The New Yorker calls it “a horror story redeemed by radiant prose.” Normally, I’m not drawn to a novel that needs redeeming. Salon says, not to worry: “Don’t be put off by the lurid-sounding premise of this novel; it’s narrated by a little boy who has spent every moment of the first five years of his life in the 11-by-11-foot outbuilding where he and his mother are held prisoner by a man he knows only as Old Nick…”Room” ripens into a truly profound work, a meditation on the interplay between innocence and experience and on the paradoxes and reversals of mother-child love.” So, I’ve decided to give this novel a try.

• Liar’s Club: A Memoir, by Mary Karr – Because 1) I read Stephen King’s On Writing and he raves about Karr’s memoir, says he was “stunned” by its beauty and ferocity, and 2) I read and enjoyed Lit (Karr’s recovery memoir) earlier this year.

• Stumbling on Happiness, by Daniel Gilbert – I watched the three-part This Emotional Life on PBS early in 2010 and I’ve been meaning to read his 2006 book and 2011 is the year.

• Monster: Living Off the Big Screen, by John Gregory Dunne – In 1988, Dunne and his wife Joan Didion began work on a script based on the tragic life of anchorwoman Jessica Savitch. Over the next eight years, studio executives coaxed them to transform it into Up Close and Personal, a mediocre star vehicle for Robert Redford and Michelle Pfeiffer. This book is the story of the journey from idea to screen.

As for my husband, he’ll get The Reversal, by Michael Connelly, because he’s a Connelly fan. Maybe I’ll also get him Innocent, by Scott Turow—because if I get it for him, it’ll be mine to read later.

What’s on your wish list? You are giving and receiving books this year, aren’t you?

See larger image Started Early, Took My Dog: A Novel (Hardcover) By (author) Kate Atkinson List Price: $24.99 USD New From: $11.96 In Stock Used from: $4.34 In Stock

Last weekend at a breezy barbecue, our hostess used books to weigh down her tablecloths—and after dessert, she invited each of us to take a book of our choosing home. This is my kind of party favor. Even better than having a friend press upon you the memoir “you simply must read” is to select whatever catches your fancy from a buffet of bestsellers. Our table had a smorgasbord of nonfiction, including Margret Atwood’s Payback and Joseph Heath’s Filthy Lucre—evidence of the economic downturn’s effect on my neighbour’s book club’s choices, perhaps. I like to read nonfiction, though my to-read pile is so high with novels I usually don’t get around to it. But there’s nothing like a gift book to get you started.

Once, at the home of a woman who hosted a drop-in book club at her café and was running out of bookshelf space, we were encouraged to peruse novels she’d displayed on her furniture and take as many as we wanted. Is that a great party or what? I picked up a couple of prize-winning novels whose reviews hadn’t quite grabbed me—and if I hadn’t snatched up Ian McEwan’s Atonement and J.M.Coetzee’s Disgrace from Bev’s credenza, I may never have read them, and that (I realize now) would be a shame.

So, if you want to get rid of some books and don’t feel like carting them to a used-book store or donating them to the local school fair, consider a book party. You’ll gain shelf space—and maybe new friends.

I won’t be hosting any such gatherings myself, since I don’t like to part with books I admire (I often pick them up to examine passages for literary technique). By the way, at my neighbour’s barbecue, I chose a book I’ve been meaning to read for a couple of years. The Tipping Point, by Malcolm Gladwell, now sits atop my pile of cherished party favors.

If you have any ideas on what makes a great book party (or some other fun way to share good books), please comment!

photo credit: Homini:)

Here’s one of the things I love about having young adult offspring: they go out into the world and bring back books I’ve forgotten. My daughter recently finished The Razor’s Edge and was singing its praises over Sunday dinner. I’ve never read that novel, I told her; come to think of it, I don’t recall having read any of Somerset Maugham’s books. How did that happen? My son is currently into books by Aldous Huxley. Brave New World, I mused aloud; always meant to read that.

So many books, so little time. I read a lot of book reviews and tend to focus on what’s been published in the past few years.  However, I do on occasion pick up a classic I’ve intended to read for what seems like forever and get the job done. I need a push, though. For example, last year, during a conversation about great acting, I mentioned to my daughter what a great job of Miss Havisham Charlotte Rampling did, and my daughter asked, Miss Who? And I explained that Miss Havisham is a famous literary character, one of the greatest fictional spinsters of all time, etc., and it occurred to me that—though I’d read several other Dickens books—I’d never actually read Great Expectations.

Well, I have now. (And Miss H did indeed live up to her reputation). And though I’m halfway through a novel published last year, on my bookshelf sits another classic I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve yet to read: Madame Bovary. I know the bones of the story, and because other writers mention it in their how-to-write-better books, I’ve read passages of Flaubert’s masterpiece but never the actual book. And beside Madame B sits Jane Eyre. I have, in fact, read this novel by Charlotte Brontë—but it was so long ago, I forget most of it. Which means, I suppose, that once I finally read all the classics on my list, I’ll probably have to start all over again. So many books, so little time…

What about you? Are there any lit classics on your must-read list?

On my husband’s birthday this year, I bought him something to tuck into his kayak for a deserted beach: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, by Stieg Larsson. He’s a couple chapters in and so far, he’s not sure what all the fuss is about. But then, we’re not really a blockbuster-reading family. Still, Globe and Mail calls this book and its sisters—The Girl Who Played with Fire and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest—“this summer’s beach and cottage drug of choice,” and as a self-respecting book-addict I cannot resist. I will read The Girl when the book is free.

And once I’ve read the it, because of my book-to-film interests, I’ll probably rent the movie. Maybe I’ll watch the Hollywood remake of the Swedish one, too, when it’s out—apparently Daniel Craig (a.k.a. James Bond) will play the books’ hero, Blomkvist, which adds a sexy factor though I have to say I like the idea that in the book, Blomkvist is just a middle-aged, frumpy hack. Or so I hear.

But the really great story, the one that I’ve been bringing up at dinner parties and over coffee with friends, does not yet exist on page or screen—though no doubt some big publisher/studio is already working on it.

It’s a tragedy: Larsson died before any of the Millennium books were published. Not only did he suffer a fatal heart attack before he could take his bows, we have to wonder if his $30 million-and-climbing estate went where he would have wanted. Because he died intestate, his father and brother inherited his wealth and his long-time common-law wife, Eva Gabrielsson, got nothing.

But there are rumors she has a big chunk of a fourth book on a laptop. Further gossip suggests Gabrielsson wrote part (or even all) of the trilogy. Oh, it just gets better and better.

As the Globe article points out, reader fascination with the dead author is a huge part of the Millennium publishing phenomenon.

Which makes me wonder: Would the books be anywhere near this big if Larsson was still alive? I like to think so. I need to think so. Because, um, if the author has to die as part of his/her marketing campaign, is the writing life really worth it?

Meanwhile, I eagerly await the story of Stieg Larsson.

Further reading: The Globe on Larsson