I love a good historical fiction--it's the only way I learn history. And Maureen Lang didn't let me down. Springtime of the Spirit is set in post-World War I Germany--a time period I knew nothing about--and to learn of the awful government, the despair, the self-interests coat this beleaguered country, I can understand how someone as heinous as Hitler could have gotten a stronghold.
And for those of you who do not care for history in any form, Lang creates a memorable story that will sweep you out of your life and into another world.
Disillusioned Christophe returns from the battlefield wanting to forget the horrors he had to inflict there. The parents of Annaliese Duray ask him to find her. Annaliese had abandoned her capitalistic family for the ideals of socialism and strives to attain fairness for all.
Annaliese also struggles to forget the request Christophe made that caused her sister's death.
In this beautifully layered book, nothing is as it appears and caught in a world between wars, Christophe and Annaliese struggle for reconciliation.
Lang is a master storyteller and Springtime of the Spirit proves it.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
How can justice be served, especially to a young girl who never experienced it? And how can damaged people find healing?
As Christians, we know the obvious answers, but the young novelist, C.J. Darlington, weaves a tale that will keep you reading into the night, turning page after page--your heart aching for those whose lives have been wrenched with pain.
I rarely wholeheartedly recommend a novel, but this one I do. You will be entertained with a good story, uplifted by a strong theme and learn a little about antiquarian book dealing. Darlington's done it all in this Tyndale release. I will read more of her work.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
In a Minute Fiction
She ran her hands along his well-muscled chest, her long fingers stroking the dark whorls of hair. Here was a man who took care of himself, his pectorals firm, his arms solid but not bulky like men addicted to circuit training. Her hands traveled to his hands. She found uncalloused fingers and fine nails with no irregularities, and they weren't manicured. Thank God for that. She hated androgynous popinjays.
She had her fill of that type, full of themselves, filled with lust, concerned only with how she could fulfill their needs since she was blonde and buxom and beautiful.
It's funny, she thought, how the male of this species believes he is so original yet only thought in stereotypes. She'd bump into a Bruce Willis wannabe in Starbucks--he'd look at her chest and the mating dance began.
They never looked at her hands or her mind, never asked about her degree or cared about her career.
But her career was just what this one needed to unlock his mysteries. He lay under her hands: young, well-muscled and mute.
The perfect man, she thought, as she sliced through his chest to begin the autopsy.