Sacred Hearts by Sarah Dunant

Any reader of my reviews knows that I’m a sucker for historical fiction. If it sucks, I will finish it anyway, bitching all the way. If it’s good, I thank the fiction gods above. Sometimes it’s hard to find that good novel that makes an honest attempt at historical facts and attitudes while also maintaining an engaging writing style. Sarah Dunant’s Sacred Hearts has it nailed.

I’ve read several of Dunant’s novels before, all set in Renaissance Italy. She has a fascination with women, art, and the Counter Reformation. This one is no different. Set in Italian convent of Santa Caterina, it explores the world of high-born nuns who aren’t necessarily in the convent for spiritual reasons. Because the price of dowries skyrocketed in the 16th century, many noble women were placed in nunneries at a far reduced price, imprisoning women who had no desire to enter a marriage with Christ. To alleviate these woes, Dunant’s Santa Caterina convent allows these women to be nominally nuns, but to also pursue the art of music, writing, and conversation. Amidst all of these noble nuns is Zuana, the herbalist in charge of the infirmary. Steady and faithful, she is put in charge of a troublesome, duplicitous, frightened novice. As Zuana struggles with her own beliefs, the structural hierarchy begins to fall around her as the Counter Reformation picks up steam.

Sacred Hearts is so well-written that you feel encased in the walls of the fictional convent, even a little frightened when you get brief glimpses of the outside world. You follow these nuns in their ecstasies, in their hysterias, and in their struggle to preserve their way of life from infiltrating fanaticism. It’s almost a shock when the novel comes to its inevitable end because it’s like leaving otherworldly sisters behind. Maybe it’s because I went to an all girls camp for 10 years, but I was comfortable in that women’s world, their haven from the rules of patriarchy. Whatever it is, I look forward to re-reading this book when I have the time.

My Lobotomy by Howard Dully

Alright, so imagine you're a normal 12 year old boy. You've got all of the standard 12 year old boy issues, but with the added bonus that your beloved mother died when you were young. You've been living at home with your father, stepmother, biological brother, and two stepbrothers. Your stepmother, for some reason, hates you. To her, you're a budding psychopath, a towering inferno of rage and malicious intent.

So she has you lobotomized.

Yep, she and your father pay a man to stick a glorified ice pick in your eye sockets, wiggle it around a little in your gray matter, then send you on your way.

That's what happens to Howard Dully, author of the memoir My Lobotomy. Dully's experience with the actually lobotomy is only half of the story. He spends his life shuttling between half-way houses, institutions, and jails-- wanted by nobody. Finally, he gets the chance to read his medical file and learn the horrifying truth behind his brutal surgery.

I'll admit, I was a little skeptical for the first 100 pages. The evil stepmother story is as old as time-- surely there must have been some medical reason to justify scrambling the brains of a pre-teen. Yet, as I continued reading, Dully presented actual notes from the doctor who performed the surgery, which left me depressed over the lost childhood of an innocent kid. This book is not a work of art, but it's a decent exploration of insanity and family.

The Last Queen by C.W. Gortner

It was the dark of night and the last e-ink page had been turned, leaving me staring anxiously at a list of books that had either already been read or didn't interest me at the moment. I began to tremble, sweat sprang from my forehead with all the vigor of Victoria Falls. I had failed to line up my next book and I was already suffering withdraw, literary DTs. Blindly, I scrambled with my Kindle, flipping frantically through Amazon's Kindle Store. A historical fiction novel lept out at me, though I had sworn to stay away from them for a few days. It was empty calories, a quick fix, a potential shot to the veins. And it was well praised by Amazon reviewer. I pressed "buy" with all the desperation of a back alley junkie.

And I read. When I finished, I put my head down and cried.

Screw you, you foul Amazon review bitches.

I'm not sure what I was expecting from C. W. Gortner's The Last Queen, but I got what I deserved: pap, plain and simple. It's not that it wasn't thoroughly researched, because it seemed to be. It just kills me that I couldn't be more drawn into a book about Juana the Mad, which should have been terribly exciting. Think about it: the daughter of the Catholic Kings of Spain is sent to marry a Flemish archduke, who eventually ends up being a royal douche. She then stands to inherit the the combined kingdoms of Aragon and Castile as all of her older siblings drop dead. Eventually, she stalks her husband's casket all around Spain while trying to hold on to the throne. I ask you, how can this not be interesting?

My answer would be that the fault doesn't lie with Juana's story; it's with the storytelling. Gortner spends an entire novel trying to establish a character that is truly grounded and a fighter against impossible odds-- a woman at the mercy of the machinations of men. This Juana is calculating and shrewd, though a little too trusting when it comes to her family. Then, suddenly, she's insane for about three pages. Then she's back to her old self again, never to relapse. It's a weird, uneven characterization that just doesn't work.

I've got a dozen other petty complaints with which to waste a reader's time, but I'll spare you the details. Instead, I can let you know that I am seeking therapy-- no person should have to suffer from poor reading material, no matter how desperate they are for the warm velvet of literature. Don't do it, guys. It's not worth it.