In 1994, though she knew her beloved Robin was dying, Andrea Caverel believed that the medical community would save her beloved spouse from the debilitating unknown virus that destroyed his body. Their three-year old son Francis becomes the seventeenth Baron Caverel, inheriting the vast estate.

South Carolina resident Sarah Wilson has come to London, insisting that she is actually Fleur Caverel and is the rightful heir to the vast estate. Apparently, Fleur claims that her ma was actually a foster mother, whom last month told her the truth about who she truly is. Sarah insists that she is the daughter of Robin's older brother Julian (died in 1978), who was the fifteenth Baron and that she, not Robin nor Francis, should have inherited the estate. The sides begin the battle in and out of the court to determine who is the rightful owner of the Caverel estate.

The recent gains in DNA testing (think Clinton and the dress, and the Romanov line), may make readers think this book is outdated. To the contrary, THE CAVEREL CLAIM remains an intriguing legal thriller that will remind readers of "Anastasia". The story line is fast-paced and the insight into the English peerage and court system quite intriguing. The motives of the characters seem genuine and help propel the tale forward. Fans of a British legal thriller, especially one that is a bit different from the norm, will enjoy Peter Rawlinson's claim to the sub-genre's upper echelon.

Harriet Klausner

This beautiful translation into English, directly from Hebrew, is to be praised for its sound, strong, energetic poetry and more so for its scholarly introduction. Mitchell's interpretation of the book of Job is not one of spiritual acquiescence, of capitulation to an unjust, superior force, but of a great poem of moral outrage, a Nietzchean protest. In it, Job embodies Everyman and grieves for all human misery, and acquiescence at the end of the poem is a result of spiritual transformation, a surrender into the light, the acceptance of a reality that transcends human understanding.

As with so much of Stephen Mitchell's work, it's easy to pick on him for what he's decided to leave out. Here, his translation of Job omits the hymn in praise of Wisdom and the speech (in fact the entire presence) of the young man Elihu. I tend to disagree with his reasons for skipping them. But having read his translation for nearly a decade now, I have to admit we don't miss them much.

His work has been described as "muscular," and that's a very apt term. Not only in Job's own language (from his "God damn the day I was born" to his closing near-silence after his experience of God) but in the voices of all the characters -- and most especially in the speech of the Voice from the Whirlwind -- Mitchell's meaty, pounding, pulse-quickening poetry just cries out to be read aloud.

And as always, I have nothing but praise for Mitchell's gift of "listening" his way into a text and saying what it "wants" to say. In particular, his translation of the final lines has a wee surprise in store for anyone who hasn't already read it. (He disagrees with the usual repent-in-dust-and-ashes version and offers a denouement more fitting to the cosmic scope of Job's subject matter.)

Moreover, all this and much else is discussed in a fine introduction that -- in my opinion as a longtime reader of Mitchell -- may well be his finest published commentary to date.

Essentially, he deals with the so-called "problem of evil" by simply dissolving it. The God of Mitchell and of Mitchell's Job is not a feckless little half-deity who shares his cosmic powers with a demonic arch-enemy and sometimes loses; this God, like the God of the Torah itself (and incidentally of Calvinist Christianity, at which Mitchell takes a couple of not-altogether-responsible swipes), is the only Power there is. Ultimately God just _does_ everything that happens, because what's the alternative? "Don't you know that there _is_ nobody else in here?"

As I suggested, there are a handful of half-hearted jabs at traditional (usually Christian) religion, but for the most part it should be possible for a theologically conservative reader simply to read around them. (This is a nice contrast with Mitchell's Jesus book, which -- to the mind of this non-Christian reviewer -- seems to be brimming with anti-Christian "spiritual oneupmanship.")

So it's not only a fine translation that properly recognizes Job's central theme of spiritual transformation, but a universally valuable commentary into the bargain. If you haven't read any of Mitchell's other work, this is a great place to start. And if you _have_ read some of Mitchell's other work, do get around to this one. It's probably his best.

I'm sure if I had read this version, it would have had the same effect.

Job essentially worships an idol. He worships an orderly God who runs an orderly, boring universe where the good get rewarded and the evil get punished. The real God shows him that things are a bit different. The universe is not simple, it is a grand, messy explosion of beauty where frail, innocent humans often get trampled. Is it just in a way that would conform to human standards of justice? God basically says, "Who cares, look at it."

Thus, a translator/poet has a tough job. In a few pages, he or she has to show the reader God's glorious universe. No easy task (except for G.M. Hopkins).

Mitchell gets it done with short "muscular" phrasing, reminscient of the way Lombardo treats the Iliad. I.e., Job ch 3 reads something like "Damn the day I was born/Blot out the sun of that day . . ." Along the way Mitchell eliminates some of the "interpolations" and "corruptions" that scholars have found were not part of the original text. And I don't think this detracts from either the beauty or the meaning of the poem.

I would have added a more detailed introduction however. If I may recommend a book, please also take a look at The Bitterness of Job: A Philosophical Reading, by John T. Wilcox. If you read these two together along with an orthodox translation like the JPS (mentioned in another review) or the NRSV, I think you will have a good grasp of this text from a wide variety of viewpoints, secular and religious. You can't get too much Job. As Victor Hugo said, "If I had to save one piece of literature in the world, I'd save Job."

This May of 1142, spring has begun late; winter's prolonged grip has been reflected in human affairs. King Stephen, freed by a prisoner exchange after _The Pilgrim of Hate_, raised the Empress' hopes by falling ill, but her move to Oxford was premature; he's now in fine fettle, picking off the empress' outposts. While these events, and the war at large, have little effect on this story, they'll be relevant in the next book, _The Hermit of Eyton Forest_. Cadfael's worries are more immediate, but easing now that the crops have finally been sown and it looks as though the roses will be out by the 22nd of June, the feast of St. Winifred's translation.

The Widow Perle - 25-year-old Judith Vestier that was - lost her husband to a terrible fever four years ago, despite everything Cadfael could do, then lost her only child in miscarriage shortly thereafter. In the depths of her grief, she couldn't bear to stay in the house where they'd been happy, so she deeded the place to the abbey in exchange for an annual rent of one white rose from her favorite rosebush, to be paid into her hand each June 22nd. (As heiress to the Vestier clothier business, Judith has ample property even without the house; she moved in 'over her shop', as it were, with her widowed aunt and her cousin Miles.)

Since it pays for the lighting of Mary's altar all year around, brother Eluric - the altar's custodian - has always delivered the rent, but this year brings a small crisis. Eluric, given as an oblate to the abbey as a young child, grew up in the cloister; his annual meetings with Judith have been his first prolonged exposure to any woman. Despite his overly sensitive conscience, the inevitable happened, and he's asked Radulfus to relieve him of the duty since he can't help worshipping Judith from afar. Radulfus, not wanting to embarrass the boy publicly or to have a repetition in a few years' time, consults Cadfael and Anselm; Cadfael suggests that the abbey's tenant, Niall Bronzesmith, deliver the rent directly. After all, he's a widower and a decent man...

Unfortunately, other men of Shrewsbury aren't as innocent as Eluric or as decent as Niall, and seek Judith's hand in marriage for mercenary purposes. Godfrey Fuller, whose business complements Judith's very well, proposes marriage as a business proposition. Her chief weaver, Bertred, has an eye out for advancement. Even ne'er-do-well Vivian Hynde is trying to turn his charm into a soft spot for life. Small wonder that Judith has thoughts of the cloister - or that her aunt is gently nudging her in that direction. Both Cadfael and Sister Magdalen advise Judith against it, although from rather different points of view. :)

Then Brother Eluric is found dead in Niall's garden - not a suicide, as the brothers at first fear, but murdered, stabbed by someone who tried and failed to cut the rosebush down with a hatchet. Judith, calling on Niall to pick up a belt buckle he'd repaired for her, stumbles upon the scene - and when Cadfael tells her why Eluric crept out to see the rosebush one last time, she feels guilty that he suffered so much and she never noticed. Turning it over in her mind, she resolves to go to the abbey in the morning and make the house an outright gift - but the word gets out from her servants' gossip, and the next morning she's kidnapped, by someone who'd rather take a chance on forcing her into a marriage and getting *all* her property instead of only half. (Her cousin Miles is beside himself - getting a new boss like *that* isn't something anyone would want, even without a cousin's safety to worry about.)

My compliments to any reader who deduces what happened to Judith before Peters reveals the solution. Eluric's murder - and another later on - are fair puzzles. (Ever the forensics expert, Cadfael takes a wax impression of a distinctive footprint from the damp earth beside the rosebush, to give the town cobblers a chance of catching Eluric's murderer by the heel, for instance.) Niall Bronzesmith, quiet as he is, has problems of his own; after his wife's death in childbirth, he fostered their daughter with his sister Cecily's cheerful family outside town, since he couldn't take care of a small baby alone, although he loves her very much. She's too little to understand why he only comes for frequent visits, and he needs to arrange to bring her back to live with him before she starts thinking he doesn't want her.

Lovely story.

In many ways the plot is actually quite trite, female widow needs husband who's not interested in her money. But the way Peters puts her elements together is unique to her and our hero.

There is a boy named Peter Pan. He sprinkles fairy dust in Wendy and her two brothers. Then he shows them how to fly. He takes them to Neverland and shows them to the Lost Boys who live there. Wendy becomes their mother. She makes up rules, like any other mother would do. The boys have to follow these rules. Everything was fine until Captain Hook came with his crew to where the boys and Wendy were. While Wendy and the boys were at the lagoon, where they go every day after dinner, they see a girl named Tiger Lily, princess of her tribe. She was captured by Smee, one of Captain Hook's men. Then Peter saved her. A few days later Wendy and the boys were on their way to Wendy's house when they too were all captured by Captain Hook. Then Peter saves them. Then the lost boys, Wendy and her brothers go home. All except for Peter.

It is mostly about what the people in the book think is right with childhood. The kids in the book think that if you grow up it is bad, but in our case it is actually good.

Peter Pan is a violent book not really made for children under the age of 10 but people 10 and up can read it. It is violent because of the language that is spoken and the idea that killing could be fun. Also, the vocabulary is very difficult for children under 10 to understand. Even if you're older it is difficult to understand.

Overall, it is a good book but watch out for the violent ideas if you are reading it to little children.

It's difficult to know what to say about a book like this... everybody knows the story. But I guess that unless you've read this book (not just seen a movie or read a retelling), you don't really know the character Peter Pan, and without knowing the character, you don't really know the story. So read it.

By the way, if you enjoy this, you probably would also like "Sentimental Tommy" and its sequel "Tommy and Grizel", both by Barrie. There are differences (for one thing they're not fantasy), but there are also compelling similarities. Anybody who found Peter Pan a deep and slightly bittersweet book would be sure to enjoy them.

-Stephen

One of the best books any child, young or old, can read is Barrie's Peter Pan. Although written in the past century, it has something for any generation at any time. Its humorous views at the world from a child's mind left me rolling over the floor, laughing; the exciting storyline kept me busy with reading until the end; and the serious undertone made me think of whether the world wouldn't be a better place if we realised that deep down, however deep, we are in fact all children. So if YOU are a child, which you most certainly are, get yourself a copy and enjoy your ongoing childhood.