Shelly ReubenCritiques

arson investigators

"Weeping" is a peculiar novel, part murder mystery, part fire investigation manual, but mostly a, first person, let-me-tell-about-what-I-love-and-why, from a personable young woman, called Fritillary Quilter (named after a butterfly) who goes from accidental arsonist at the age of eleven to fire investigator in her twenties and wants to share with you exactly why that happened, how she feels about it, what makes it exciting and how it's all odd but true.

Sorry for the long sentence but the book feels like one.

I thought "Weeping" was quiet fun, mainly because I like Fritillary (or Tilly for short) and found her enthusiasm for, well... almost everything, infectious.

The plot is respectably complex. The details on fire detection are an (entertaining) education but the success of the book lies on whether or not you like Fritillary. This is the story of who she is. The rest is incidental.

Most of us are aware of trees which are a well-respected landmark. Yes, there are many instances throughout history of special trees.

In this heartwarming and unique fable, we learn the tree does a lot of eavesdropping and is narrating the story. And not just any tree, but a climbing tree that is over eighty-years-old, and refers to its branches as arms.

Every Tree has a story to tell!

I think the first time I realized this was as a child. I toured our local history museum with my parents and we paused at a tree to look at its life events.

In this trees autobiography, we see it recognizes everything. It describes the many people that take advantage of the space within to sit and rest on its arms. It watches as children and pets grow up and adults grow older.

The tree has a great appreciation for the written word. Yes! The tree enjoys poetry and can tell the story of O Henry's, 'The Voice of the City', better than most humans.

It tells of a sad day when people in dark green overalls stake metal signs at its feet.

We learn the tree feels pain as well as joy and a slew of other emotions.

The tree is observant. It knows of jovial exchanges and it knows of death.

The tree loves and is loved.

I received this charming autobiography of a climbing tree through the generosity of the author for an honest review.

Lovely little story highly recommended. Perhaps a too much for smaller ones to understand and perhaps a little too rough language for the same little ones

I feel mixed on this one, but ultimately it irritated me too much to finish. On the good side, the author presented the legal and arson forensics clearly and well. Reuben obviously knows the subjects on which she builds her mystery, and I'll give her points for a knowledge of torts that appears textbook perfect. The details on classic cars and arson were truly intriguing. Like much hard-boiled detective fiction, this was written first person with an attitude, and the lawyer and narrator, Max Bramble, evinced a good sense of humor and turn of phrase. I quite liked Wylie Nolan, a retired Fire Marshall who assists him in the investigation and who evinces a deductive flair worthy of Sherlock Holmes.

The problem is more that the right-wing politics was way too much to the fore--and I say that as someone right of center. No author lacks a worldview, left or right, and often you can subtly (or not so subtly) detect it. Dean Koontz strikes me as right of center, Stephen King as on the left. It doesn't bother me in their books, though, but it does with Reuben. The plot deals with Bramble and Nolan investigating the conflagration of a classic car, a Duesenberg worth two million dollars, in which the wealthy and powerful media mogul Stanfield Standish is killed. His estate sues the company that restored the antique car for 23 million and Bramble is retained for the defense.

Standish is an obvious--and I mean obvious--stand-in for Ted Turner. And boy, Bramble sure makes it clear he detests him. We're led through the reasons why people had reasons to hate Standish. Such as a on air personality at "SNN" fired because he took a patriotic slant on a documentary rather than attacking America, offending Standish's "neo-internationalism." Or the ill-feeling when Standish buys the film archive of a major studio and begins to alter them by electronically inserting contemporary faces superimposed over those of classic actors. One of those modern actresses is described as one of those bizarre and iconoclastic left-wing performance artists.

In other words, this is right-wing pornography. And despite the fact I could describe myself as on the right side of the political divide, I found this too preachy and eye-rollingly heavy-handed for my tastes.½