I'd like to entitle this review How I Wish I Liked Geraldine Brooks More and subtitle it (for dramatic effect) How I Narrowly Escaped the Plague.
True story: Last year, right before Labor Day here in the States, our dog became somewhat lethargic and had swelling around his neck. And, though it was hot and the end of August, I was, strangely enough, simultaneously experiencing a sore throat and swollen lymph nodes.
It was the Thursday before the Monday Labor Day holiday (naturally) when I took in our dog and had the vet extract some fluid from one of the swollen spots on his neck. When the vet came back in, he had a weird look on his face and he asked, “Any chance you've been exposed to fleas?”
Well, yes, one of our cats had recently broken free and entered a rabbit warren (which, of course, made me think of Watership Down), killed all of the rabbits, laid them out like a sociopath in the grass in the backyard, and then entered the house with the fleas on his body. I had spent several days combing him and vacuuming the house like Sylvia Plath.
I wondered, why did he ask?
The vet shifted his weight uncomfortably and said, “Well, as you may know, we have confirmed cases of the bubonic plague here, and, between what I'm seeing in the fluid I've extracted, and your experience with the rabbits and fleas. . . it's possible that your dog has contracted the plague.”
Honestly, he could have then knocked me down with a feather pen. I asked, “Is this because I love Shakespeare?” (For real. Maybe it was shock?)
He gave me a light squeeze on my arm (how brave of him to touch me!), and said, nervously, “Um, I'm sure it's nothing, but unfortunately we won't have the lab results back until Tuesday, because it's a holiday weekend.”
So, from THURSDAY TO TUESDAY I wondered if our dog or I or any of the members of our household had plague. THE PLAGUE. Sheesh. It was awful.
Anyway, I'm happy (thrilled in fact) to report that we did NOT have the plague, and we survived, but you can now know my true devotion to books when I share with you that, as soon as we were given the good news that we did not have the plague, the very next thing I thought was. . . those poor people in Year of Wonders weren't so lucky.
I went home, grabbed a copy of the book, took out my notes, and reminded myself that Year of Wonders was a debut novel for Ms. Brooks and it contains some fantastic language. And, obviously, some part of the story stayed with me. I can't think about the plague (though I hope I never contemplate having it again), without thinking of this book.
But, what happens to Ms. Brooks's novels? I've read three of them now, and though they always start with sharp and descriptive and almost poetic language, they all go downhill for me. Crash, in fact, with their bizarre and sloppy endings.
Now that I have faced the possibility of plague, I feel I have developed a kinship with some of her characters. But, still, I hesitate. I wonder. . . why don't I like her books more?