The Lost Years by Mary Higgins Clark: A review

I may have read a Mary Higgins Clark book at sometime in the past, but I honestly can't remember what and when, so I don't know if this book is typical of her writing. She's been very successful with her suspense novels over the years and one frequently sees her on best-seller lists. Indeed, this book was on The New York Times best-seller list for a while (and may still be), but it's really hard to understand why. It is a particularly bland and simplistic piece of writing.

Simple declarative sentence follows simple declarative sentence ad nauseum and we get to see the story from the perspective of virtually every character in the book. A bit fewer perspectives would have given a cleaner and more readable book, in my opinion, and a few more complex compound sentences might have brought more variety and interest to the reading. Oh, well...

While I was reading the book, news broke that a historian of early Christianity at Harvard Divinity School had decoded a fourth century papyrus that refers to Jesus' wife. As one who is fascinated by archaeology, that added a fillip of extra interest to the book for me, which it badly needed.

The Lost Years revolves around a parchment which is alleged to be a letter written by Jesus to Joseph of Arimathea. Biblical scholar Jonathan Lyons finds the parchment as he is examining documents from a safe in an old church. He is convinced that it is authentic. He confides to some of his closest associates about the find and gives the document to his mistress for safekeeping! Whatever happened to safety deposit boxes?

He can't keep the parchment at home because his wife has Alzheimer's and is given to destructive behavior. He fears she might find it and deface or destroy it.

Meantime, he is appalled that one of the people he has confided in has suggested that he can find a buyer for the parchment on the black market and the two can share the profits. Lyons wants the parchment to be returned to the Vatican Library from whence it was stolen in the 15th century.

But a few days later, Lyons is shot dead while sitting at his desk at home. His twenty-eight-year-old daughter, Mariah, from whom he had become estranged when she learned of his relationship with the mistress, finds the body and discovers her mother covered in blood and crouched in a closet clutching the murder weapon. Did she kill her husband in a jealous rage over the mistress or is the murder somehow related to the parchment? The police think the former; Mariah is convinced it is the latter and is determined to prove it with the help of her friends.

There was just a lot of extraneous schmaltzy fluff in this book that really detracted from the story for me. We never really got to know any of the characters well because the perspectives kept hopping around from person to person. And the author engaged in a lot of deliberate misdirection in trying to keep the reader's eye off the actual villain in the piece. About two-thirds of the way through, I felt that I knew who that person was and it turned out I was right, but I really didn't care much anymore.

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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