Sweet and imperfect.
-Mild possible spoiler-
As a reflective meditation on female (mis)fortunes in 20th century English academia, A Piece of Justice was touching in the best way. Where a brilliant math mind made men mathematicians, and off-the charts creativity made men great artists, the same gifts in a woman were relegated by necessity to quilting, a type of genius honoured neither for it's high artistry nor its mathematical prowess, but rather dismissed as a 'craft.'
I also loved the memories this book brought back of the lost decade I teenaged through. Repeatedly I was reminded how hard it was to come by 'basic' information just 30 years ago. But at the time, it just fell like … or rather, was life, and we got by. Someone heads off on a trip, and you cannot contact them. Finding a name or a location took time. And we accepted it. A reference to written information for biography growing scant because of the age of the telephone, reminded me of the panic we were in in the mid-90s, at the nadir of the written word, before texting and the internet gave nearly every living moment a written record (as well as a visual one —��the 1-hour photo development scene was a lovely throw-back).
But the book is imperfect, relying heavily on coincidence, meandering a great deal before getting to the point, and shoehorning inauthentic backstories into the characters’ lives merely in service of the story.
And yet, as a story, it's worth the price of admission. Especially when you see the goal of the novelist as less about making haute cuisine (a la Ratatouille) and more about storytelling (us sitting by the fire, listening to someone spin a yarn). A quilting analogy would be more fitting, but I’ll leave that to a better writer.