In To The Moon and Timbuktu, Nina Sovich writes of two type of journeys: her physical journeys to Africa and her psychological journey through the first years of her marriage as she came to terms with living an "ordinary" life in Paris with her husband.

Ms. Sovich writes movingly and well. She creates wonderful pictures of her struggles to get through the countryside, the people she meets, and her feelings as she comes to know them. She also provides enough background and history for her readers to understand the import of what she experiences.

As the author describes her relationship with her mother in her childhood, it seems somewhat distant (although she does pattern herself as a traveler after her mother). On the other hand, her relationships with the African women she comes to know are wonderfully close and warm. They clearly are the high points of her visits to Africa, and, thus, her descriptions of them become the best parts of her book. In her descriptions of the writing of Mary Kingsley and Karen Blixen, she seems to feel a similar closeness to them. Her discussion of their writing led me to decide to go back to re-read Out of Africa and to discover Travels in West Africa for the first time. (The bibliography that the author includes at the end of the book is most helpful for further reading.)

Ms. Sovich's candor about her feelings is both refreshing and startling at times. More than once, I thought her brave to be analyzing her deepest feelings during some of her most vulnerable states while knowing that her husband and other family members would be reading about them.

The book is a combination of travelogue, memoir, and psychological analysis. As Ms. Sovich looks back on her African adventure and sums up how it has prepared her for her life with a child in Paris, she writes about the toughness it created in her, the ability to withstand boredom while dealing with a fussy child, and the ability to live with less, it seems strange to remember that the writer still is in her thirties. I found myself thinking of all the years that lie ahead of her and some of the experiences that she may encounter and wondering whether it it's not too early for some of her philosophizing and whether some of her analysis might not be a little too pat. Nonetheless, I would not give back any of the journey with Ms. Sovich, and I would recommend that others travel in Africa with her, too.

Christina Schwarz's The Edge of the Earth is a wonderful treat. Schwarz's prose is crisp and vivid. She makes the California seashore, the lighthouse where she lives, and all the creatures around them materialize on the pages. The story of Trudy, her husband Oskar, and the other residents of the lighthouse is compelling. The characters are original and believable (except Oskar at a time or two), and the dialogue is done well. What keeps the book from being perfect? Very little. The frame chapters at the beginning and end of the book don't fit as seamlessly as one might like, and the final dramatic event has a bit of the "deus ex machina" about it. Nonetheless, those are mere quibbles. Get the book, and clear your schedule.

The language of The Headmaster’s Wager is as intoxicating and seductive as the opium and morphine that trap the first father-and-son pair around whom the story centers. The plot is tight and fast-paced enough to make one tempted to read through the pages quickly, but it is worth taking time to savor Vincent Lam’s imagery and insights.

The book is set in Viet Nam during the time that United States military was fighting there. As a young adolescent at that time, I learned about the war through a limited perspective; this novel enlarges that view as much as the histories I’ve read since then. The Headmaster’s Wager not only tells a very personal story of love and loss but also reveals the intrusion of the Chinese and the French into the world of the Vietnamese and also the disparity between the excessive luxury enjoyed by the rich and the extreme deprivation of the poor.

Like protagonist Percival, I was surprised by the deception lurking at the core of his world and the extent to which political and philosophical connections trumped personal friendship. Lam presents moments of brutality that are all the more shocking because of their juxtaposition with serene domestic moments that Percival shares with his mistress and son.

Once I escaped the immediate pull of the story, my first thought was that there is no way a woman could have written this book. Even more than might have been dictated by the Chinese and Vietnamese cultures at its center, the book presents a man’s world. There are striking women, but they are important only as they are used by and affect the lives of the men; they seem to have no intrinsic value of their own. The deep emotional bonds are between son and father and between two male friends.

I enjoyed visiting the man’s world of The Headmaster’s Wager as I enjoy a trip to an unknown land—fascinating to see but very unfamiliar.

Rosamund Lipton's Afterwards is a well-written, riveting novel. The characters are engaging; although the twists and turns of the whodunnit plot are surprising, they are believable. Nonetheless, as much as I enjoyed the fast-paced, readable book, I ended up of two minds about it. Why? The two main characters are disembodied souls of critically injured patients, and that situation felt somewhat forced and prevented me from becoming immersed in the story. I do, however, recommend it as a fun read that touches on a variety of current social issues.

To read Peter Robinson’s Before the Poison is to enjoy a comfortable extended visit with protagonist Chris Lowndes in the English countryside. His voice is as smooth and relaxing as his favorite Armagnac. The details of the house and surrounding town are drawn with such a painterly eye that now, a couple weeks after finishing the book, I still have a sharp mental image of them.

Because both the character and the setting seemed so real and down--to-earth, I found myself accepting somewhat improbable circumstances as Lowndes begins to feel the presence of the ghost of a former inhabitant of the house and to investigate the past murder of her husband and Nazi experiments in biological warfare at the house. The plot of the mystery moves at a good pace, but nothing feels forced.

The only aspect of the book that is not covered with total grace is Lowndes’ slowly developing romantic life after the death of his beloved wife. His odd attraction to the ghost of Grace Fox is more satisfying than his relationship with Heather, which remains undefined at the end of the story.

That complaint, however, is minor, and I highly recommend spending time in the company of Chris Lowndes.

My pleasure in reading Laura Lippman's The Most Dangerous Thing grew as the layers of history and competing points of view built up. The story of how five childhood friends became a tightly knit unit that faced both adventures and a final disaster while exploring the woods near their homes is told from the varied perspectives of the young children, the parents of those children, and both groups thirty years later.

At times, the pace of the book is slow, but Lippman's ear for natural dialogue and her ability to choose the perfect descriptive detail made the leisurely pace enjoyable for me. Furthermore, there are interesting plot twists that emerge with each retelling of the story. When I read about the same events from the perspective of the adults, I found richness in already knowing what the children did and thought, but it is the world of the five young friends that is most alive and enticing.

I recommend this book, especially for a time when you can relax and savor its richness.