This book sneaks up on you. Yes, the writing flows with simple yet elegant language--much like the foremost character Henrietta. Why should I care about her, an amateur scientist, a naturalist, an unmarried school teacher in a small town? Yet her life is a series of questions, like most of us she is confronted by decisions that will lead to the next decision--a twisty path of a life, like most of us have. And then there are the impacts her choices have on her family, her students.

This is a quiet book of interconnected stories, focused on women in science in all its permutations. It's a book that lingers, that I didn't want to end. That is my highest accolade.

As a writer, I am hesitant to express negative thoughts about the work of another writer. So I will begin this review with one positive: the background of this book is one that needs to be told and retold. The history of political unrest of Argentina in the 1970s; the resultant abuse of those citizens who resisted the policies of those in power, beginning with Peron and the stories of the "disappeared" have, in practicality, disappeared from our consciousness. I am grateful to Clark for having brought it to the forefront—it is a story that could well serve as a warning to all peoples about what happens when autocracy rules.

However, and this is a big however for me, the romance that is the central theme of the book, one might say the heart, is told in language that is banal. The love scenes might be enjoyable for those in the 14-16-year old range, but the words don't ring true. I found throughout the book that I was bored by language that was describing emotions; they were stodgy and stiff. Additionally, the reader would intuit immediately that Santiago's mother would prevent his letters from reaching his love, of whom his mother disapproved because of her "lower" station in life. Where there should have been tension, there was none.

I hope Ms Clark has an opportunity to rewrite this story. With a good editor, it could be an important book.

Are astrophysicists like you and I? That was the question I raised to myself when I began reading Sara Seagar's memoir, The Smallest Light in the Universe.

In straight-forward prose, Seagar describes her life from awkward, virtually friendless child to naïve scientist to MacArthur genius award winner. Slowly, with the same rhythm with which she develops, I became engrossed in her life, her growth emotionally, and especially, her advances as a scientist.

I was fascinated by her description of exoplanets and her genuine excitement for her science, for each step taken to find an answer to life's most imponderable questions. I also empathized with every moment of her joys and every moment of her sorrows.

She tells her story well, without embellishment, much like her mind works to discover truths about the universe. Hers is a universal story told by a brilliant woman. Is she like you and I—yes and no. I enjoyed each page that led me to my conclusion.

Avid reader though I am, I had never heard of Anne Enright until I requested The Actress for review. Now I plan to read all of her books. What does this say about The Actress?

It is an epic poem in the guise of prose, an epic poem with only the barest whiff of a plot, a fictional autobiography whose central character is not the person "talking" but that person's mother—the glorious red -haired Irish (born English but best for her career she doesn't disclose her origins) actress Katherine O'Dell.

If one is looking for a plot, here it is: a beautiful actress reaches the heights, falters, declines, commits a crime, goes (is she all along?) mad. Her daughter relates all of this while also describing her own life as intertwined with her mother's rise and fall. So simple, but so beautifully told that it is difficult to interrupt reading --not to find out what happens next (this is definitely not a thriller) but what will the characters think next, how will their relationship evolve next, what will be the impact of the ancillary characters.

In the long run, it is not the story, which is simple, but the writing that carries this book—Enright's ability to use simple language to express emotions, forthright descriptions of sex, believable dialogue, her right words in the right order—that made this reader enjoy the book until the final period

I don't like being negative, but I have no choice if I am honest. The first few pages intrigued me--Lebanon, war-time, a free-thinker. Although from time to time an interesting character appears, the book is a series of vignettes tied together by the central character, Pavlov, who is not very interesting himself--he stands on his balcony, smokes, observes. He is cool, detached. His thoughts about those he observes are surface thoughts. The people who appear in the vignettes come and go, no depth of development. This is not a book to enjoy; nor is the basic premise--fire to fire is better than dust to dust--much of a philosophy.

One person's religious tradition is another person's superstition. Shoba Narayan illustrates this charmingly in her paean to her Indian roots. I bring sugar, salt and bread to a new home, a Jewish tradition—she, reluctantly but determinedly, follows her neighbor's by escorting a cow around her new home in Bangalore, a Hindu tradition. It is the thought of blessing that counts.

Narayan's desire to fit snugly into the homeland she left for a lengthy and prosperous life in Manhattan, leads her to a source of fresh milk, straight from the cow, and an unusual friendship with the milk lady. The many uses of milk in the Indian diet was a surprise to me; the many steps one has to take daily to transform the milk into common Indian dishes was astonishing. I admired the author's diligence. I doubt, however, that the slum dwellers who lived next to her modern high rise would have the benefit of time or the money to buy milk on a regular basis. She appears to accept that luxury and poverty living side by side are just the way of India

The author excels in explaining the euphemisms used by the poor she encounters to explain the hardships of their lives. The holiness of cows, though, is the central theme of the book, their significance in the lives of the people. Although the description of the various kinds of cows and their origins became a bit overwhelming, the author's desire to understand the importance of this animal shone through. The lengthy procedure to fulfill her desire to buy a cow in celebration of her father's 80th birthday is described in a factual but humorous manner. It is the author's humor that makes this book interesting and readable.

I have never aspired to travel to India, but this book was a delightful armchair journey.

An old man travels to Budapest to seek justice or revenge for the death of his daughter. A fortyish man leaves security in America and goes to Budapest to join a cast of entrepreneurs seeing to cash in on a potentially new economy; his wife's family misfortunes propel her actions. A young man flees his fuzzy past to build a new life in Budapest. There is lots of foreshadowing as to how these paths will cross. Budapest is the star of this novel, a city downtrodden, its people glum, little hope in their lives, yearning for American dollars. Throw in a few historical facts, a sweet adopted child, and poverty-stricken Roma children for contrast—the Romas a side story that goes nowhere-- and you have this novel. The dialogue is a bit stilted at times and the old man's inner meanderings are repetitive, a device that could give emphasis to his mental condition, but which becomes irritating after the third or fourth repetition. A promising story with too many psychological clichés. I would have rated this "fair" if that option were available. I would not recommend it for our senior community library.

When I started this book, I thought it might be a non-fiction slightly different version of Jodi Picoult's novel, My Sister's Keeper—but after 40-50 pages, I was disabused of that notion. This, too, is a tale about a sick child and a donor sibling, but it is a tale of truth and love and honesty. It is a story of feelings, positive and negative, offered so starkly and expressed so beautifully that the lump in my throat was not one born of despair but of hope that this family would come out the other side of illness more intact than when they embarked upon a cure for their daughter. I was grateful that the author kept notes, day by day, of the family's endurance during their child's treatment. This book will enrich the life of all readers whether they have experienced the tragedy of having a very sick (and ultimately incurable) child as I did or experienced the joy of healthy children or even are childless.

Mix words like perambulation, amanuensis and colloquy, a bright but naïve young woman who must earn her keep, the working mind of Henry James, and titillating bits of information about the James brothers and you have The Typewriter's Tale.

Unless you are a devotee of Henry James you might not be drawn to this novel. I was slow to become involved and thought of giving up after the first twenty pages. But I am glad I persisted. The language became endearing, the innocent typewriter Frieda grew in development and Henry showed some depth beyond his loquaciousness. The supporting characters of Edith Wharton and Morton Fullerton add a bit of derring-do, and together with the household staff give the reader just enough insight into caste conscious early 20th century England to supply atmosphere.

I help select books for our retirement community library. With limited funds, I would not pick this although Michiel Heyns did a good job of writing a Jamesian novel.