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Dorothy J. Heydt, The Interior Life

Auf der Webseite mit Heydts Bibliografie stehen auch die Links für zwei weitere E-Books zur Verfügung, denen ich natürlich nicht widerstehen konnte. Das ungewöhnliche Konzept dieses Buches fesselte mich von der ersten Seite an. Natürlich gab und gibt es eine Reihe Bücher, die eine "reale" Story mit einer Fantasygeschichte verbinden, aber wie hier eine ganz normale ziemlich gestresste amerikanische Hausfrau durch die Interaktion mit Charakteren und Teilnahme an dem Geschehen in einer Fantasywelt die von einer geheimnisvollen Dunkelheit bedroht wird, ihr Leben wieder in den Griff bekommt und ungeahnte Talente entdeckt, ist einfach nur faszinierend. Dem Buch würde ich den Erfolg, den es leider nie hatte (in den 80ern geschrieben, 1990 veröffentlicht und fast sofort sang- und klanglos untergegangen) so sehr gönnen.

Das Rezept für den "Stained Glass Fruitcake" am Ende muss ich irgendwann mal ausprobieren.
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Some things don't change, Sue thought, as she washed dishes for the fourth time that day while Mark splashed in his bath. No matter how far I go, I still have to come back down to earth and wash the dishes.
It's true, said Marianella from her own kitchen. She had six helpers now, but she was cooking for over a hundred. Nothing's certain but birth and death and dinner.

(Dorothy J. Heydt, The Interior Life, 1990)

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Dorothy J. Heydt, The Witch of Syracuse

Nach dem langen schwelgen in den Sword & Sorceress-Bänden, wobei ich natürlich auch wieder etliche Lieblingsgeschichten aus älteren Bänden hervorkramen musste, wollten natürlich auch die ganzen Geschichten um Cynthia wiedergelesen werden und als ich noch einmal mehr nachsah, ob sie es endlich als Buch gibt, stieß ich auf diese Seite (die es natürlich schon über ein Jahr gibt ..) wo man alle Stories zusammengefasst unter dem o.g. Titel als E-Book herunterladen kann, plus einer bisher unveröffentlichen Geschichte. Und umsonst noch dazu. Das machte mich wirklich sprachlos. Und was für ein Juwel das Buch ist, und welche Freude alle Stories in einem Rutsch noch einmal durchzulesen. Ob die neue Geschichte erst kürzlich geschrieben wurde oder damals einfach nicht von Marion Zimmer Bradley für den entsprechenden Sword & Sorceress-Band (Band V) genommen werden konnte, lässt sich schwer sagen. Mir scheint die Story ein wenig aus der Reihe zu tanzen, oder vielleicht war auch die Stelle mit dem ausgesetzten Säugling nicht so recht nach MZBs Geschmack - wer weiß. Ich will's auch garnicht wissen.
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Perhaps she had some inkling of what she was putting into her path; perhaps not; if mortal men could foresee the future, most likely they would never get out of bed at all.

(Aus: Ill met by Moonlight)

"Goodbye, Xanthe," Cynthia said, and sighed. They had begun as enemies, ended as friends, but to lose enemies and friends alike was the way of the world. What are we? What are we not? Man is only a dream of a shadow.

(Aus: Ratsbane)

"You know her," Komi said. "She's part of every woman. And if she's allowed to have her will, she becomes the monster that eats her own children. She must be killed, so that she can be reborn, and then she can become a Goddess indeed.
"In the same way there's a god in every man - I said that once, didn't I? I didn't know what I was talking about. He's the tyrant who wants to see the power of his own arm, the seed of his own begetting spreading out over the land, blotting out all others. He's the bull Mithras slew at midnight in the dark cellar. He's a cruel bloody bastard, and he too must be killed and be reborn, before he can be a god.
"When the false gods go, the true gods can come: your friends the Virtues, and the Power that moves the sun and the stars.

(aus: Journey's End)

(Dorothy J. Heydt, The Witch of Syracuse, 1984 -2017)
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Michael Connelly, Dark Sacred Night

Im neuesten Bosch-Band lässt Connelly seine neue Serienfigur Renée Ballard zusammen mit dem Polizistenveteran ermitteln - anfangs noch nebenbei, als Unterstützung bei der Recherche in einem alten Mordfall, und dann immer enger und intensiver, bis sie sich gegenseitig das Leben retten. Eine private Beziehung bleibt allerdings (erstmal) außen vor. Ein wenig drängt sich hier die Parallele zu Ian Rankins Rebus und Clarke auf und ich vermute mal, dass Connelly genau wie Rankin den Hauptfokus auf die neue Serienfigur verlagern will. Aber seis drum, das Buch ist wieder gewohnt solide aufgebaut und fesselnd von der ersten bis zur letzten Seite, ganz gleich aus welcher Perspektive. Nur darauf kommt es an.

Murder was murder, and Ballard knew that every case deserved the full attention and effort of the police department. But Ballard was always struck by the murder of a woman. Most times the cases she reviewed and worked were exceedingly violent. Most times the killers were men. There was something deeply affecting about that. Something unfair that went beyond the general unfairness of death at the hands of another. She wondered how men would live if they knew that in every moment of their lives, their size and nature made them vulnerable to the opposite sex.

(Michael Connelly, Dark Sacred Night, 2018)
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Jodi Picoult, Harvesting the Heart

Wie alle Picoult-Bände fand ich es anfangs schwierig hineinzukommen, bis die Charaktere und die Story mich nicht mehr losließen und ich das Buch am Ende nicht mehr aus der Hand geben mochte. Und danach war ich einmal mehr beeindruckt wie verständlich und nachvollziehbar Picoult Verhaltensweisen darstellt, die zunächst unerklärlich erscheinen.

He said that most of those Harvard types thought the diner's name was some kind of philosophical statement, and anyway, that kept them coming in. He wandered off, leaving me to wonder why white people named girl babies things like Hope and Faith and Patience - names they could never live up to - and black mothers called their daughters Mercy, Deliverance, Salvation - crosses they'd always have to bear.
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I was starting to see that the past might color the future, but it didn't determine it. And if I could believe that, it was much easier to let go of what I'd done wrong.
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I thought of all the magazine articles I'd read on mothers who worked and constantly felt guilty about leaving their children with someone else. I had trained myself to read pieces like that and silently say to myself, See how lucky you are? But it had been gnawing at me inside, that part that didn't quite fit, that I never let myself even think about. After all, wasn't it a worse kind of guilt to be with your child and to know that you wanted to be anywhere but there?
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But on the other hand, Nicholas couldn't help but remember that marriage was a man-made thing, a statute created by society itself. Two souls that were meant to be together - and Nicholas wasn't saying that was the case with him; he was too scientific to be so romantic - well, two people like that could just mate for life with no need for a paper certificate. Marriage didn't really seem to be about love; it was about the ability to live together for a long period of time, and that was something completely different.
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Still, no matter what, leaving home had to do with more than just me. It may have started out that way, but I was beginning to see how many chain reactions had been set off and how many people had been hurt. If the simple act of my disappearance could unravel my whole family, I must have held more power - been more important - than I'd ever considered.
Leaving home was all about us. I realized this was something my mother had never stopped to learn.
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(Jodi Picoult, Harvesting the Heart, 1993)

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Ian Rankin, In a House of Lies

Rankins neuester Rebus-Band trudelte pünktlich, aber auch zum richtigen Zeitpunkt ein, gerade als mir nach einem soliden und unaufgeregten Krimi war. Hier wird John Rebus mit einem Abschnitt seiner Vergangenheit konfrontiert, die noch nicht ganz so lange zurückliegt (vermutlich zwischen zwei Bänden in 2006 angesiedelt), wo er nicht so gut wegkommt, als durch einen Zufallsfund ein alter Fall neu aufgerollt wird. Wie er es schafft, den Fall so zum Abschluß zu bringen, dass allen Beteiligten Recht geschieht, ist wieder faszinierend und fesselnd zu lesen. Ich spiele schon seit einiger Zeit mit dem Gedanken die Rebus-Serie von Anfang an wiederzulesen - wenn es nur nicht so viele wären ...
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"I seem to have picked up a wee dose of COPD."
"What's that when it's at home?"
"Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease - known as emphysema in the old days."
"Trust you to get something that has the word COP in it."
"Aye, I feel like I drew a winning ticket there."
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It wasn't a bad area, he decided; it had just elements. That was the way they phrased it these days in Police Scotland.
Elements. Meaning a combination of feckless parentin, lack of opportunity, boredom and disenfranchisement. Rebus knew all the buzz words and he didn't necessarily disagree. But knowledge was one thing and politicians' words came cheap.
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He was thinking aout families and the lies they told each other. From the outside, it was hard to know what was happening behind their walls and curtained windows. Even once you'd crossed the threshold, there'd be secrets unshared. In an age of the internet and mobile phones, kids and their parents lived ever more separate lives, sharing confidences but also hiding bits of their true selves behind masks. It had been hard enough in the past to read people, but these days you had to push your way through so much that was fake and misleading. Modern policing fell into that trap, heading straight for technology - computers and CCTV - to replace old skills and the occasional inspired guess or piece of intuition.

(Ian Rankin, In a House of Lies, 2018)

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Jodi Picoult, A Spark of Light

Picoults neuestes Buch behandelt wieder ein überaus kontroverses und problematisches Thema - Schwangerschaftsabbruch - und mich wundert eigentlich nur, warum sie es noch nicht viel früher angegangen hat. Außerdem präsentiert sie es auch noch im Rahmen einer Geiselnahme, und als ich nach dem ersten Kapitel feststellen musste, dass die Geschichte rückwärts erzählt wird, und das auch noch nach einem richtig gemeinen Cliffhanger, der erst im Epilog aufgelöst wird, raufte ich mir schon die Haare. Im Nachhinein erkannte ich aber, dass die hergebrachte Erzählweise hier nicht so gut funktioniert hätte, viele Sachen, die in den letzten Kapiteln zutage kommen, hätten zuviel vorweggenommen. Das Buch muss ich auf jeden Fall noch einmal in Ruhe lesen, beim ersten Mal sind mir durch die nervtötende Spannung einfach zuviele schöne Stellen durch die Lappen gegangen.
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There was, of course, the history, too. Women had been property. Their chastity had always belonged to a man, until abortion and contraception put control of women's sexuality in the women's hands. If women could have sex without the fear of unwanted pregnancy, then suddenly the man's role had shrunk to a level somewhere between unnecessary and vestigial. So instead, men vilified women who had abortions. They created the stigma: good women want to be mothers, bad women don't.
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What she would miss were these details. She wondered if, when you left this world, you got to take a certain number of them deep in your pockets, clenched in your fists, or tucked high on the roof of your mouth, with you forever.
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He looked into the eyes of each of the women. Warriors, every one of them. Every day, he was reminded of their grit, their courage in the face of obstacles, the quiet grace with which they shouldered their troubles. They were stronger than any men he'd ever known. For sure, they were stronger than the male politicians who were so terrified of them that they designed laws specifically to keep women down. Louie shook his head. As if that could ever be done. If he had learned anything during his years as an abortion doctor, it was this: there was nothing on God's green earth that would stop a woman who didn't want to be pregnant.
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Today he was reading the research of a team from Northwestern University, who had recorded a zinc flash at the precise instant a sperm fertilized an egg. A rush of calcium at that moment caused zinc to be released from the egg. As the zinc burst out, at attached itself to small, fluorescent molecules: the spark that was picked up by camera microscopes. Although this had been seen before in mice, it was the first time in humans. More important, certain eggs glowed a little brigther than others at the moment of conception - the same ones that went on to become healthy embryos.
(...)
As a resident, he'd sat with his share of terminal patients, and what you heard was true: people who were dying talked of a tunnel, with a warm glow at the end.
It stood to reason that both life and death began with a spark of light.
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She had come to the clinic because she didn't want to be a little girl anymore. But it wasn't having sex that made you a woman. It was having to make decisions, sometimes terrible ones. Children were told what to do. Adults made up their own minds, even when the options tore them apart.
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(Aus dem Nachwort)
The woman who had come in to have that abortion at fifteen weeks had three other children under the age of four. She could not afford another child without compromising the care of the ones she already had. Did coming to the clinic make her a terrible mother, or a responsible one?
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Laws are black and white. The lives of women are a thousand shades of gray.
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Honestly, I do not believe we, as a society, will ever agree on this issue. The stakes are too high, and both sides operate from places of unshakable belief. But I do think that the first step is to talk to each other - and more important, to listen. We may not see eye to eye, but we can respect each other's opinions and find the truth in them. Perhaps in those honest conversations, instead of demonizing each other, we might see each other as imperfect humans, doing our best.

(Jodi Picoult, A Spark of Light, 2018)

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Jodi Picoult, Second Glance

Obwohl primär eine Geistergeschichte wurden von Picoult wieder mehrere Themen zu einer faszinierenden Erzählung verflochten - Trauerarbeit, Vermont hinter den Kulissen der idyllischen Herbstlandschaften, mit einem ganz besonders intensiven Blick auf das Vermont Eugenics Project der 20er und 30er Jahre und dessen Auswirkungen auf die Abenaki, auf bizarre Weise miteinander verknüpfte Familienschicksale - das alles wurde zum Schluß so unerträglich spannend, dass ich das letzte Drittel fast in einem Rutsch auslas. Und das obwohl ich mich am Anfang noch schwertat in das Buch hineinzukommen, aber sobald die Charaktere erst einmal etabliert waren, ließ es mich nicht mehr los.
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Ross had gone to homes with the Warburtons where children had died of disease, or by accident. The mothers wore hope like mantillas, framing their faces as they waited for Curtis to give them back what they'd lost. In those cases, it was not moans and thumps and strange occurrences that had led to the call, it was the lack of them.
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She believed that unadulterated devotion had its share of protective power, as if love were a steel girder the Fates could not snip through. She also believed that the moment you relaxed your guard, the moment you were anything less than ferocious in your keeping, that was the moment it could all be snatched away.
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Shelby knew that some librarians felt the human brain was like a microfiche file, impossibly tiny images and words on transparent leaves, arranged page by page for a person's viewing pleasure. But every time she saw those miniature dossiers, she thought that if any part of the body were similarly catalogued, it would be the heart. She imagined autopsies, the organ sliced thin. One sliver would chronicle the way oyu had cherished a child; one would record the feelings you had for parents and siblings. Another, scarlet, might be etched with moments of passion; angels embracing on the head of a pin. And for those who were lucky, the thinnest slice would be teeming with memories of a love so strong it turned you inside out and left you gasping, and would be an identical match to a slice stored in the heart of a soul mate.

(Jodi Picoult, Second Glance, 2003)