My brother-in-law has recently become a voracious reader, and when we were visiting last weekend he gave me a couple of books that he’d finished. On of them was John Hart’s “The King of Lies,” which popped up on Publisher Weekly’s Best Books of the Year. They are professionals, so I will spare you my synopsis of the book and give you theirs:

Hart’s stunning debut, an exceptionally deep and complex thriller set in the South, compares favorably to the best of Scott Turow.

Now, I don’t think I’ve ever read anything by Scott Turow, so I can’t vouch for that comparison. But “The King of Lies” is set in the South, and it is a pretty complex story. I don’t read alot of suspense/thriller stories anymore,* but I there was a time when that was pretty much all I read. Now I mainly read board books about beluga whales, bears and the ABCs. But the allure of the board book isn’t what made me stop reading suspense; it was the similarities between the “thrillers.” They started to seem formulaic, and more often than not the ending didn’t come as a big surprise. “The King of Lies” did surprise me, though. So I liked it. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Oh, except this: There is some gruesomeness. But it’s about a murder, right? So it would have to be a little gruesome. But there’s grossness and violence beyond the murder, too. I could have done without some of it.

*Although I will be if my brother-in-law keeps giving me books because he loves them.

American Life in Poetry: Column 082

By Ted Kooser,
U.S. poet laureate, 2004-2006
The Illinois poet, Lisel Mueller, is one of our country’s finest writers, and the following lines, with their grace and humility, are representative of her poems of quiet celebration.

In November

Outside the house the wind is howling
and the trees are creaking horribly.
This is an old story
with its old beginning,
as I lay me down to sleep.
But when I wake up, sunlight
has taken over the room.
You have already made the coffee
and the radio brings us music
from a confident age. In the paper
bad news is set in distant places.
Whatever was bound to happen
in my story did not happen.
But I know there are rules that cannot be broken.
Perhaps a name was changed.
A small mistake. Perhaps
a woman I do not know
is facing the day with the heavy heart
that, by all rights, should have been mine.

Reprinted from “Alive Together: New and Selected Poems,” Louisiana State University Press, 1996, by permission of the author. Poem copyright (c) 1996 by Lisel Mueller. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

I finally finished James Swanson’s “Manhunt: The 12-Day Chase for Lincoln’s Killer” today. I don’t read a lot of non-fiction. And when I do, it’s very rarely historical. When “Manhunt” came out, though, I read several good reviews for it. Still, good review alones wouldn’t normally drive me to read historical non-fiction. The real draw here was Dr. Samuel Mudd, the man who set John Wilkes Booth’s leg and was consequently put in jail. Mudd is in my stepmother’s family tree, and I’ve been interested in the Lincoln assassination since I learned there was a family connection.*

Swanson trashes Mudd nearly every time he mentions the doctor. The Mudd story according to the family was that Booth showed up unexpectedly at the Mudd home with a broken leg and that the doctor set the leg, not knowing that he was aiding the president’s assassin. “Manhunt,” on the other hand, says that while Booth’s visit was unexpected, Mudd knew him and had actually been involved in a previous attempt to kidnap Lincoln. When Booth arrived at the house, the book says, Mudd hadn’t yet heard about the assassination. But apparently he did learn of it before Booth left, and he didn’t alert the authorities until well after Booth had gone on his way. I felt an odd sense of loyalty toward Mudd while I was reading all of this.

Also, I learned that John Wilkes Booth was apparently considered a hottie. To which I say: Seriously, 1800s?

Anyway, I enjoyed reading “Manhunt.” It is, as advertised, a pretty thrilling read. And I’m proud of myself for actually finishing a book again. I abandoned the last two I tried to read. And this was a smarty-pants historical non-fiction book! Go me!

*Technically, she isn’t my stepmom anymore. But we still claim her anyway. Love you, Mary!