The Grave's a Fine and Private Place by Alan Bradley: A review

This might be my favorite Flavia de Luce novel so far. I'm not sure it is the best; it may just be that I was in the mood for it. You know how it is when a book hits exactly the right spot at the right time. It makes for a very pleasurable reading experience.

Flavia is now a teenager and an orphan. Her beloved father had died just six months previously after her mother, the sainted Harriet, had died when she was only a baby.

Harriet had left the family home, which had come down from her side of the family, to Flavia, the youngest of her three daughters. Now that her father is gone, a decision must be made as to what to do with that home. Flavia's bossy aunt thinks it should be sold. But it's the only home Flavia knows. How can she sell it? Besides, what would happen to the loyal family factotum, Dogger, and the family cook? And, of course, her sisters Feely (Ophelia) and Daffy (Daphne)?

Well, Feely is about to marry her fiance, Dieter, so that's her sorted. Their wedding had had to be postponed after her father's death and she has not taken the delay well. She and Dieter fight constantly.

Daffy will be headed off to college soon but not quite yet, and in the meantime...

In the meantime, the girls plus Dogger have taken a brief holiday in the village of Voglesthorpe. While drifting in a boat on the river one day, Flavia idly trails her fingers in the water and catches a floating corpse!

The body is that of a young man who was a noted local actor in the village theater. He was also the son of the local canon who two years earlier had been convicted of killing three women in a church service by poisoning the wine or wafers of the Holy Communion. The canon was a beloved figure in the community, but he was executed after being found guilty. He confessed to the crime, although there doesn't seem to have been a motive.

And now his son is dead. Murdered. Why? Is there a connection between the crimes? These are just the sort of questions that Flavia can get her teeth into and that will distract her for a while from her sorrow and the problems of her own life.

Flavia is a talented chemist and Dogger is her equal and her assistant in performing experiments. They are extremely creative in devising those experiments. MacGyver had nothing on these two!

We are treated to detailed and intricate explanations of the tests which they perform to prove or disprove their theories. Because, of course, they must solve the mystery of the young man's death, as well as those other deaths, the ones for which it seems the canon may have been wrongfully executed, in spite of his confession.

One of the best things about this present entry in the series is that we see the personality of Dogger being fleshed out a bit more and the relationship between him and Flavia blossom. Flavia may no longer have her father, but she has a guardian angel and stand-in father in Dogger.

And soon it seems she will have him as a partner in an agency for "discreet inquiries." That should be interesting, for when was Flavia ever discreet?

The plot of the book was a bit weak, but its strength was the Flavia/Dogger relationship. It seems that the author has laid a strong foundation for the development and continuation of the series. I look forward to further entries.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

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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