Khaled Khalifa, author of In Praise of Hatred contends—in the book's forward written by Robin Yassin-Kassab—that he does not want us to read his book because he is an oppressed writer; rather, he asks that we read it because we are interested in the story and because we enjoy it.

First, I am interested in Middle Eastern life, religion, history, and politics while admitting that my understanding here is fragmented and woefully naïve. In all honesty, Khalifa's book served to increase my confusion, especially concerning the events leading up to and during Aleppo's war between Islamist rebels and the Mukhabarat and how this event fit into a larger framework.

Second, some men can write stories in a female voice; others cannot. I would put Khalifa in the later group. The unnamed narrator's lustful obsessions, for example, were not thoughts I would attribute to a woman's worldview. Therefore, I did not find the book enjoyable.

I may be a poor judge of Kelly Parson's new novel "Doing Harm" since I am not a routine reader of mysteries/thrillers. Overall I thought the story was entertaining and, because the author is a medical doctor who works in a similar environment, his descriptions of a university hospital's protocols and politics were credible. What I found less plausible was Dr. Gigi (G.G.) Maxwell. Her actions, and her motives for those actions, were unconvincing, even with her (undiagnosed) psychopathology. I also thought that no person—in this case, Dr. Steve Maxwell—with remarkable technological knowledge and skills would ever share a highly confidential username and password with anyone, for any reason. I certainly would not.

Ayse Kulin's engaging and illuminating "Last Train to Istanbul" is, throughout its pages, a story of separation and connection. From a broad perspective, Turkey struggles to remain disengaged from the war raging throughout Europe while England, Germany, and Russia seek to draw it (not she, as used in the story) in. At the same time, but from a more focused perspective, the main characters—individuals, families, and Turkey's courageous and honorable diplomats—grapple with distances (literally and figuratively), discord, and constancy between and among themselves.

I learned a great deal from reading Kulin's book. As with Thomas Keneally's "Schindler's List", I came to understand a bit more about morality, valor, and decency during dishonorable and abhorrent times.

Jincy Willett's new book, Amy Falls Down, is an interesting read about a random accident that changes the life of a reclusive author. I must admit that I was challenged by Amy's complex, paradoxical nature: she's cloistered, yet gregarious; fearless in her writing, but fearful of life's obstacles; principled and opinionated, although and at times, halfhearted or apathetic. Even the book's synopsis describes her as "endearingly bitter." While reading, I was never quite sure which Amy would appear -- for an interview, during a phone conversation, or in her own thoughts. Having said this, I must admit that I liked her very much, incongruities, eccentricities, and all and I would love to have her for a friend. (Yes, I'm aware of the irony here!).

Thomas Keneally's book, "The Daughters of Mars" follows the two Durance—"if you put an 'en' in front of it, you have one of the most flattering of words"—sisters, Sally and Naomi. The people of Macleary, the sisters' rural Australian home district, have a difficult time keeping the two straight "since both girls were aloof and looked similar—dark and rather tall." This view of the sisters as interchangeable and indistinguishable is an important theme of the story and begins the opening chapter: "It was said around the valley that the two Durance girls went off, but just one bothered to come back." Which one actually comes back might be unclear to the people of Macleary, but this lack of distinction plays a considerable role at the end of the novel.

Keneally presents several interlocking moral dilemmas for the reader to consider as he contemplates the idea of humans "playing God." First, the sisters struggle with their mother's death from cancer, and their possible role in her demise. Later, Charlie Condon, Sally's friend, suggests that killing a soldier who fights for the same side is sometimes necessary and humane, noting: "Imagine this. Imagine a man who went out on a patrol last night and got somehow stuck out there no-man's land, wounded, thirsty beyond belief, in pain without morphine, hanging on the wire and calling to us in our trench. Calling, 'I'm here!' Calling, 'Help me, cobber!'" (page 421). If they try to rescue this man, Charlie argues, then the enemy will shoot them. But they are intolerant of the man's suffering—in much the same way that Sally and Naomi are intolerant of their mother's—so what are they to do?

The character of Ian Kiernan, a "Friend" (Quaker) and Naomi's fiancé, called a "shirker" by military officials and troops, but a "conscientious objector" by the Friends, serves as the voice of non-violence, of uncertainty about the purpose and rightfulness of war. In much the same way, the nurses of the AIF—daughters of Mars, the Roman god of war and son of Juno, the deity, guardian, and counselor of women—question the morality of healing, of succouring soldiers so that they can return to battle to be re-injured or killed.

This is a remarkable book from which I learned a great deal about conflict and suffering, compassion and sacrifice, from a new perspective. When Keneally's book is published I will recommend it to all my bibliophilic friends.

Stacia Brown’s "Accidents of Providence" follows two significant storylines. The main narrative details the life of Rachel Lockyer, an unmarried glove maker who finds herself pregnant at a time in history when all women were marginalized and those unmarried and pregnant were further disdained by society and punished harshly for their unfortunate circumstances.

Another storyline, which is intertwined with Lockyer’s, is that of the Levellers, a socialist political group advocating legal equality (not necessarily for women, though) and religious tolerance. William Walwin, the father of Rachel’s unborn baby, is actively, albeit hesitantly at times, involved with this group.

The story moves through Rachel’s pregnancy, her relationship with William Walwin, the investigation of the events surrounding her baby’s death, her trial for violating “An Act to Prevent the Destroying and Murdering of Bastard Children", and the decline of the Leveller’s influence in 17th century England.

Overall, this is an absorbing book; however, I could see no reason for Rachel to be in love with William Walwin, an insipid and uninspiring character at best.

Although I am quite familiar with the history of western expansion in the United States, "That Deadman Dance" by Kim Scott was my first exposure to the history of early contacts between the British (the horizon people) and the indigenous people of southwestern Australia (the Noongar). Scott presents his story about colonization from several characters’ points of view and with engaging language that takes the reader back in time and beyond familiar places. Overall, an important story that reveals the complexities of colonization.

Loose Diamonds by Amy Ephron was a fun read. Like her sisters, Nora and Delia, she has a way of making just about any situation amusing as well as thought provoking. She does, however, give a great deal of white space to describing her expensive possessions--lost and found along the way--by their supercilious product names. I passed lightly over her descriptions, except for the Piaget watch. That I coveted.

In her novel, Turn of Mind, Alice LaPlante explores themes of contrition, disintegration, and indebtedness. The story concerns Jennifer White, a retired orthopedic surgeon; her husband, James, who is deceased; her two adult children, Mark and Fiona; and her best friend, Amanda, who is the victim in an unsolved murder case. It is also about the debilitating effects associated with Alzheimer’s disease, which, as the story opens and the reader learns, is Jennifer’s unfortunate fate—“to awaken from nightmares and find they were, comparatively, the sweetest of dreams” (p. 297).

Through the blurry lens that is Alzheimer’s and with the help of supporting characters, Jennifer tells her story—her loss of professional esteem, the difficult relationships she shares with her husband and children, and her entangled and turbulent friendship with Amanda.

LaPlante makes effective use of voice. The first half of the story is told from the main character’s point of view. The reader comes to know and understand Jennifer through her introspective and soul-searching observations. By the story’s third part, the author has switched to second person voice—a more passive and outward “you”—as the reader begins to lose touch with Jennifer’s thoughts. In the final section and through mostly third-person story telling, Jennifer is all but lost to the reader and to herself.

If you consider yourself a Janite (i.e., Jane Austen aficionado) and love "Mansfield Park," this book may be of interest to you. Through one of her characters—an English teacher, Omar—Cindy Jones readily acknowledges that “Austen’s work doesn’t adapt well or easily” (p. 37). However, Jones resolves this issue through her protagonist’s (Lily’s) conceptual confidante, “My Jane Austen.” Jones notes that we each have our own “My Jane Austen” through which we filter the 18th-19th century author’s work. And, it is through an understanding of and relationship with our own “My Jane Austen” that we will make interpretations about the meaningfulness of this novel. Overall, an interesting read.