The Carousel, by Richard Paul Evans (2000)
It's tough to come down hard on someone so saucer-eyed sincere, but treacle is treacle. Peacock-green ink aside, this schmaltzy tribute to cliches is a bad influence on pseudo-romantics. An excerpt from one character's diary begins each chapter, and never have I seen so much rehashed popular philosophy combined with so much tripe and nonsense. "Oftentimes, only in standing alone do we keep from falling" is a typical example. The book follows suit: with honey-coated fist it forces home such points as "God is in the details," "Love will find a way," and "Make yourself feel better by doing nice things for other people."
Preachy yet insubstantial, the book relies on pressing sentimental buttons rather than digging for true feelings and characters. A truly revolting example of what an Evolved, Sensitive Man can write if he puts his mind to it.
A Good House, by Bonnie Burnard (1999)
From 1949 until 1997 we watch several generations of a family as they go about the usual business of being people: some marry or divorce, some have children, some die, some have affairs, some become ill, some have secrets. When well-written, this is my favorite sort of book--and this book is very well-written. The test: when turning the last page, the reader should feel satisfied but should also feel like begging the author for a sequel. I closed the book with a happy sigh, then seconds later turned to the author biography to see if she'd written other novels.
Pigs in Heaven, by Barbara Kingsolver (1993)
Barbara Kingsolver and I have this little communication problem. I think her writing is brilliant, amusing, entertaining--and then she drives me up a holy TREE with elements of the plot. We'll be getting along just fine with a great story line and amazing living/breathing characters, and then some big political sub-plot starts creeping in just as the more entertaining main plot has me hooked. I'm being careful with my wording here, because the views she puts forth can be so inflammatory for me that I want to stay away from labeling them, especially considering that many, many other people would find her opinions pleasingly compatible with their own, rather than considering them smug, self-righteous, judgmental, finger-pointing, Caucasian-blaming, U.S.-slamming political CRAP...er, that is, rather than considering them alternate points of view which are equally valid but nevertheless displeasing. I've never liked the fiction-as-sledgehammer method of getting a viewpoint across, and I have a particularly hard time with the viewpoint that minority groups are automatically culturally/spiritually superior by virtue of being minorities.
I will say that this book had less of this problem than The Poisonwood Bible (see review). I still don't think it's impressive when a Caucasian United States citizen bashes Caucasians and the United States for not being any other color or any other country (if no one can be judged by skin color or country of origin, then NO ONE can be judged by skin color or country of origin: using derogatory slang terms or sweeping generalizations to refer to Caucasians is just as offensive as using them to refer to any other group), but at least she kept herself more in check this time and didn't keep yelling from a soapbox long after the story had come to a natural end.
In this book, the author's pet minority is the Cherokee tribe. The Cherokees, I now know, have no human flaws: anything that appears to be a human flaw is in fact an exemplary virtue. This is in sharp contrast to White People, as you might expect. After a Cherokee woman commits suicide, her daughter is taken in by the woman's sister. What happens next is unclear, but some time later the woman's sister hands a sexually abused toddler to a total stranger because it's inconvenient to keep caring for her. Unfortunately for the Cherokees, the stranger is a White Person. Her name is Taylor, and she adopts the little girl and lovingly nurtures her through the next three difficult years of recovery. When the Cherokees discover this fresh exploitation of their tribe, they go after Taylor to make her give the little girl back to the family that abused her and handed her over to a stranger--and it turns out that being Cherokee means they can do this. Taylor does what nearly any mother would do: she puts her beloved little girl in the car and she runs for it. This is labeled a selfish thing to do, very typical for the self-serving United States citizen; the Cherokees, on the other hand, are acting for the common good.
Despite how pissy I feel about the whole Cherokees/Caucasians "compare and contrast" essay, the story is terrific when the author isn't making her maddening little remarks (e.g., "That must be why whites took over the world" or "There are things I can't explain to white people"). Taylor is a completely real, full-fleshed person, and so are her boyfriend, her adopted daughter, her mother, the lawyer who's after them, and every other major and minor character. People are genuinely lovable and amusing without being artificial or overly witty, the dialogue is clever but not forced, and the ending works things out just about the fairest way possible. No one is one-dimensionally bad except The Whites, but at least the individual white characters are permitted to have their good sides.
Wideacre, by Philippa Gregory (1987)
"Goal-oriented" doesn't begin to cover Beatrice Lacey. The woman is totally obsessed with the estate where she grew up, called Wideacre. In the beginning her love for Wideacre makes her a sort of goddess there, fulfilled by the role she can play in its upkeep. The day she realizes she can never inherit Wideacre because of an entail that ensures it can only be owned by men, she sets her sights on doing whatever is necessary to possess Wideacre herself. You will be amazed at what "whatever is necessary" turns out to include, particularly when the prize seems so unworthy. Sounds like it's a nice place, but not THAT nice. Not nice enough to commit murder, particularly not of beloved family members. Not nice enough to commit incest. Not nice enough to allow long-time tenants to die of starvation. After awhile Beatrice's pile of crimes and manipulations and lies grew so high I was in a constantly adrenalized state while reading, tense and upset and sick to my stomach. It's just one horrible, horrible thing after another, until you'll want to beg her to stop this astonishing process and salvage what she can. She won't listen to you, either.
I see on the back flap that there's a sequel, and I'm of two minds about whether to check it out. On one hand, I want to know what happens next. On the other hand, the ending of this book satisfied me and I would be disappointed if the next book just started everything over again. I would also be disappointed if I had to start another book that described the heroine's eye/hair color (green/jade and copper/bronze, respectively) on every other page and used the word "plump" so often I nearly ceased to understand the meaning of the word.