Having just finished and loved Doerr's All the Light We Cannot See, I was eager to delve into a historical account of the women of Paris during transition of France at peace to France in war. My disappointment with Sebba's Les Parisiennes stems from its failure to engage me in the lives of these real women as I had been drawn into those of their fictional counterparts. This is mainly due to the scope of Sebba's project and the vast number of people in her cast. Some of it read like an encyclopedia of facts, some like a gossip column dropping names of celebrities, artists, the creme de la creme of society.
I confess to giving up and not finishing, but if a book can't draw me into its world in the first 100 pages, it's just not for me.

I really wanted to love this book. Not just because Ruth Doan MacDougall's One Minus One was praised by Nancy Pearl who has recommended so many of my favorite reads, but because of the nostalgia factor. It takes place in the late 60's when I was a young woman out of college and finding my way in a first job, and it's set in New England where this transplanted west coast resident grew up. And if that's not enough, a character-driven novel is my cup of tea. What more could I ask for? A lot.
In defense of the novel's protagonist Emily Bean, Nancy tells us you don't have to like or admire a character, but you must be able to understand why they do what they do. But I want more; I have to find the character interesting, and Emily as well as her supporting cast of stereotypical roommates and lovers, fail to engage my sympathy or interest…at least until the very end of the book.
One Minus One does redeem itself somewhat at the surprise ending. Not because it's unexpected, but because it throws new light on the secondary story lines that seem insignificant until you realize that the grief experienced by her grandmother and mother at the loss of their husbands is mirrored by Emily's loss of David. And the device of Ma's diary which seemed only to record the boring details of daily life—who came to visit, what we ate, what everyone wore, are recognized as echoing Emily's memories of life with her former husband. Still, if the reader is not engaged enough to stay with the book, these discoveries are never made. Had I not been reading it for First Impressions, this reader would not have made it to the end.
Having exceeded my recommended 100-word limit, and having broken my mother's first rule of good behavior: "If you can't say anything nice, don't…," I leave you with my 3 star rating.

I began my advance copy of Paris in Love with great anticipation—looking forward to the author’s discovery of my own favorite Parisian bookstores and literary haunts, expecting a slightly more feminine version of Adam Gopnik’s charming Paris to the Moon. But my high hopes foundered when confronted with Eloisa James’ off-putting and fragmented blog-like format, and I put the book away.

Several weeks later with jaw-clenched determination, I began again only to learn that persistence does have its rewards. As I grew comfortable with the James’ posts, the once fragmented pieces began to take shape in the context of the whole, like photographs that tell a complete story when seen in an album, and I began falling in love with Paris in Love.

This is the strength of Paris in Love: the portraits that emerge from its pages. The homeless man who lives with his dog at the Metro stop; the love-sick Frenchman learning the art of courtship from James’ Italian-American husband; the author’s children, indomitable and dramatic Anna and the latent scholar, Luca, who must find their way in an unwelcoming new school; the Italian mother-in-law who dotes on her obese Chihuahua; and best of all the cancer-surviving, romance-writing author who delights in French food and cooking, is wise in her parenting, and rediscovers how to love herself from a Parisian fondness for frilly lingerie.

While I do not share Eloisa James’ interest in haut couture and would have preferred she spent more time in bookstores and less in fashion houses, Paris in Love has found a permanent home in my bookcase next to Gopnik’s more erudite memoir.