Four stars because it's been a few years since I read this book, but I remember that I liked it!

What I enjoyed about this book was that the author twisted what we do know to create a great "what if" story. What if Anne Boleyn did this or that? What if Elizabeth I had to do something drastic to protect her position as queen?

Who knows what really happened? Will we ever understand what motivated peoples' behaviour? The fun of it is that we probably ever will!

There are items in this book that a historian could use to make a good argument for as being true, but of course, because the events took place so long ago, there is no way to test their veracity. But supposition is something we historians love to do. Hey, people may not read our journal articles about the truth, but they will read the historical fiction!

Celebrated Chicana poet and children's author Pat Mora once again contributes an essential collection to the growing body of U.S. Latina/o literature. Her new and selected poems for young adults address diverse themes, and each section contributes to the empowering vision of the collection. The section titled "Thorns" reveals society's wounds, but the possibility of hope to rise above harsh circumstances.

(The fifth star belongs to the next reader, the next young writer.)

Mora's poems carve a necessary voice in U.S. poetics. She is a healer with a vision, and the speakers in her poems are mostly witnesses, mapping their own space.

Boucher, faithful to the atmosphere of Conan Doyle's books, invented radio plays from cases that Watson only vaguely refers to in his stories. He uses Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce for the dynamic duo. The only problem is the commercial breaks, even if they also enhance the old radio atmosphere!

"It is only as an aesthetic phenomenon that existence and the world are eternally justified."--Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy (Section 5).

On the final page of his book, Anthony O'Hear, Professor of Philosopy at Bradford Univ., quotes with approval Nietzsche's early aphorism. By claiming that aesthetics is the key to wisdom, Nietzsche--and O'Hear--advance the thesis that "existence and the world" cannot be justified eternally metaphysically, logically, epistemologically, morally, politically, scientifically, or religiously.

O'Hear believes that philosophy during the 20th century, whether the cool reasoning of the Anglo-American tradition or the hyper-charged jargon and rhetoric of the European tradition, has been a dismal failure. The scientism of the former and the nihilism of the latter both end, he believes, in sterility and aridity.

The question to which O'Hear's book is primarily addressed is where, in the new century, philosophy ought to go--if it is to throw light on fundamental questions of life and how life should be lived. "If philosophy is to have a future in the twenty-first century," he writes, "it must not sacrifice rigour. But to regain relevance and significance, it must turn away from scientism and cultural nihilism, the philosophical dead-ends of the twentieth century.

O'Hear's essays deal with wisdom, the search for meaning, epistemology, the individual and other persons, nature and society, science, aesthetics, religion, death, and the "promise" (the problem and challenge) of a relevant philosophy.

The story is told of a soldier in the American Civil War who, undecided about whether to support the Union or the Confederacy, donned a blue coat and gray trousers--and was shot at by both sides!

O'Hear himself stands in such a precarious predicament. Those in the camp of "scientism" (who make the presumptuous claim that science has all the answers) will criticize him for making "theistic noises." Dogmatic theologians (who make the presumptuous claim that religion has all the answers) will criticize him for making "atheistic noises."

O'Hear points out that the spirit of his book is Aristotelian: Philosophers must seek a golden mean or balance (some would say a compromise) between rationalism and spiritualism. The rigorous pursuit of knowledge, O'Hear believes, should be wedded to the "religious impulse"--the aesthetic and moral concerns of humanity. "Something of the Aristotelian promise," he writes, "is thus redeemed. We move towards theoria, towards a non-religious form of contemplation."

PHILOSOPHY IN THE NEW CENTURY is a fascinating survey of the contemporary status of philosophy. One could have wished, however, that O'Hear had been clearer in stating his personal positions regarding controversial issues.

This is a very important book. People these days think that 'only good news sells' and that it is necessary to be positive at all times. Tony Fry's book shows that it is more important to face up to the true extent of the world's current problems. Fry asks: how did we become so unsustainable? His answer is: by design. He looks at key aspects of modern design and finds, rather than something to celebrate, a history of 'defuturing', that is, case studies of how our futures are being taken away from us. In arguing his points, Fry demonstrates an extensive knowledge of the history of design (for example streamlining, the Bauhaus, but also television and computers), and a comprehensive command of philosophy (for example Heidegger and Confucianism). The result is indeed a new design philosophy, one that is urgently needed given how ignorant many designers are about ramifications of design decisions. This is not an easy book, but what it teaches about the way most designed products in turn design unsustainable lifestyles is crucial to learning how to design sustainable futures.

This is a very good introduction to the most famous French baroque composers: Lully, Charpentier, Lalande, Couperin and Rameau. The book gives an account of each of the composers' lives, lists all their works and comments on their style and major achievements. It is easy to read and one quickly gets a basic overview. However, if you are interested in a deeper exploration of the composers' opus, you may find yourself wanting more details. In that case you may want to read "Marc-Antoine Charpentier" by Catherine Cessac for more information on Charpentier or "Jean Baptiste de Lully and his Tragedies Lyriques" by Joyce Newman. Both books are very informative and detailed.

Martin, the hero of 'The Devil's Doorbell' and first of the Five, discovers the existance of a second gate into the place where the Old Ones, evil prehistoric beings, were imprisoned by the Five in a previous incarnation. He must follow the clue found in the home of a murdered antiquitarian to Peru, where the second gate waits. In Peru he teams up with the last of the Incas and the second of the Five, Pedro, in a desperate attempt to prevent their modern disciples from opening the gate and returning the Old ones to earth! Although the plot is fairly standard, the story flows well and there is plenty of action. The ending has an unusual twist that is not fully revealed until the third book in the series.

In 1867, at a time when he was one of the best known and best selling authors in the world, Anthony Trollope conceived the idea of experimenting with anonymous publication, in order to find out whether the multitude bought his books for their literary excellence or merely for the "brand name" on the cover. Two relatively short novels, "Nina Balatka" and "Linda Tressel", were the result. Taken together, they offer a glimpse of a different Trollope from the familiar chronicler of politicians and parsons.

The two stories have much in common. Each is set in a foreign city that Trollope had recently visited ("Nina" in Prague, "Linda" in Nuremberg), with a plot centered on the impact of an aunt's religious bigotry on a young woman's marital prospects. In one, the zealous aunt is Roman Catholic and opposes her niece's betrothal to a wealthy Jew. In the other, an Anabaptist aunt strives to promote a union between beautiful, wealthy Linda Tressel and a clownish, middle-aged bureaucrat.

"Nina" is the better realized of the two tales. Troubling the course of true love are both the antisemitism of the Balatka family and the countervailing suspicions of the Jewish community, forces that work to drive the lovers apart. Some of the machinations are clumsy, but character is, as usual, more important than incident in Trollope. The portrayal of the mutually hostile religious communities is especially effective, showing a broad range of attitudes in each camp. Nina and her fiancé are themselves complicated figures, for it takes a long time for their love to completely overcome prejudices instilled from childhood.

"Linda", by contrast, suffers from dramatis personae who are mostly caricatures, out of place in a serious, even grim, story. The religious motif verges on the absurd. There are reasons why a 19th century Catholic family would revolt against a relative's marriage to a Jew. There are none to move an Anabaptist to insist on linking her nearest kinswoman to a worldly boor. Indeed, the author does not have much notion of what "Anabaptists" are. (He seems to regard them as a species of Calvinist, which is about like labeling Ross Perot a "Republican".) Religious bigotry detached from any recognizable religion can evoke only laughter, which is not the response that "Linda Tressel" is supposed to arouse.

Trollope's experiment did not turn out particularly well. The mildly unusual settings and themes of these works could not hide his identity from alert critics, several of whom quickly pierced the veil of anonymity. On the other hand, readers were fooled and declined to buy, even though the reviews were generally positive. "Another ten years of unpaid unflagging labor might have built up a second reputation," Trollope wrote in his autobiography, but "I could not at once induce English readers to read what I gave to them, unless I gave it with my name." That is what he did thereafter, bringing the career of the "alternative Trollope" to an end.

"Nina Balatka" and its companion novel "Linda Tressel" represent the oddest experiment of Anthony Trollope's literary career. Long established as a leading novelist, he published these two tales anonymously, wishing to see whether, starting without the support of his fame, he could create "a second literary identity". Reviews were favorable, but sales meager. "Another ten years of unpaid unflagging labor might have built up a second reputation," Trollope wrote in his autobiography, but "I could not at once induce English readers to read what I gave to them, unless I gave it with my name."

So the trial was abandoned, leaving behind two Trollopian novels with an exotic flavor. Both are set in foreign, non-English speaking lands, and, while both deal with romance and religion - themes certainly not foreign to the author - they do so in untypical ways.

"Nina Balatka" takes place in Prague, which Trollope had recently visited. There a gloomy imperial court (of Ex-Emperor Ferdinand, who had abdicated the Austrian throne after the revolution of 1848) presided over an almost medieval city, where the Jewish population, though possessing some degree of civic rights, still lived in a ghetto, and an unenlightened Christianity was a powerful social force.

The story that Trollope sets here, of the family-crossed romance between a young Catholic woman and a somewhat older Jewish merchant, seems far less daring and unconventional now than it did in 1867. The plot, too, is creaky, its mainspring a business about title deeds whose significance is obscure to the reader (and most likely to the author also).

Meticulous plotting and close fidelity to legal niceties are not, however, the virtues that one seeks in Trollope. His strengths lie in the portrayal of manners, emotions and character. In those respects, "Nina Balatka" is worthy of its author. It is also a testament to the power of his imagination. A single visit to Prague was scarcely sufficient to make him expert in the customs of the city's Catholics and Jews. There are glaring improbabilities, chief among them that Anton, the eldest son of a wealthy father in a traditional Jewish community, should have reached his middle thirties as a bachelor. Nevertheless, this largely fanciful society coheres in the reader's mind and seems almost as believable as Barsetshire or Gatherum Castle.

Readers of Trollope, after they have devoured his famous works, tend to become voracious. This flawed but moving novel, though not a gourmet dish, will satisfactorily allay their appetites.

I was introduced to the name "Anthony Boucher' when I happened upon a group of five mystery paperbacks in the mid 1960's grouped as "The World's Great Novels of Detection." Boucher wrote the intro to each book, and since three of the books in that series are among my favorite all-time reads ("Rim of the Pit" by Hake Talbot, "Cue for Murder" by Helen McCloy and "Green For Danger" by Christianna Brand), I gained respect for Boucher's ability to choose mysteries for me. When I happened on this and a few of his other mysteries, I was naturally anxious to read them. They don't disappoint (although they don't soar to the heights of the three books mentioned above.) This one, involving a cult, is fun to read and has some impossible crimes to solve, in keeping with the Golden Age.

(By the way, the other two books in that series were "A Blunt Instrument" by Georgette heyer, and "Cat of Many Tails" by Ellery Queen.)