The Patron Saint of Ugly/Marie Manilla (prose of the day)

Sometimes life intervenes. Frankly, life ALWAYS intervenes. Which is to say I simply cannot read as thoroughly, as completely, as everlastingly as I would like to do.

Case in point: The Patron Saint of Ugly, a forthcoming novel by Marie Manilla, is so rocking, so unusual, so full of 'tude and flair ... but I haven't had the time to finish reading it yet, and I don't wish to rush through. At the same time I want you to know now about this writer, sooner being better than later, and so my methodology, on this Monday morning, as other pressures press, is to advertise, then to excerpt.

So first, the set up, from the flap copy: Born in Sweetwater, West Virginia, with a mop of flaming red hair and a map of the world rendered in port-wine stains on every surface of her body, Garnet Ferrari is used to being an outcast. With her sharp tongue, she knows how to defend herself against bullies and aggressors, but she finds she is less adept at fending off the pilgrims camped outside her hilltop home, convinced that she is Saint Garnet, healer of skin ailments and maker of miracles. Determined to debunk this "gift" rooted in her past, Garnet reaches back into her family's tangled history, unspooling a tale of love triangles on the shores of the Strait of Messina; a sad, beautiful maiden's gilded-cage childhood in blueblood Virginia; and the angelic, doomed boy Garnet could not protect.

Now an excerpt, to prove my assertion that Marie Manilla writes jangling, animated, original prose, that she ceaselessly surprises, that she is hilarious, that she sings a song to the wild, flame-hued tunes in her head.

Garnet, our storyteller, is addressing the Archbishop:

It's a stormy day in our smudge on the map. I'm impressed you visited, since getting here involves a series of ever-smaller planes—jets, turboprops, hamster-powered Cessnas—topped off with a spiraling drive up to my door. Even you commented on West Virginia's low status, its reputation maligned thanks in part to industrialists, Johnny Carson, and Virginians—our Siamese twins still fuming over that nervy Civil War split.

I can't wait to finish this book. You shouldn't wait to order it. It's due out on June 17th from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Editor: the one and only Lauren Wein.

Congratulations, Marie Manilla.

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In the Chicago Tribune: Reviewing Charles Finch and Gina Frangello

Thwarted by winter—as so many of us have been—I have found myself failing and flailing here on the ole blog as well. Here is one post designed to help correct a few recent gaps. Another post, planned for later today, will reflect on a new novel—Family Life by Akhil Sharma (W.W. Norton)—that I picked up at ALA Midwinter after one of the very kind people manning the Norton booth recognized me from my years and books ago with Norton. What an esteemed house that is, and how lucky I was to once be part of the family. Later this week I'll be blogging about The Patron Saint of Ugly, a forthcoming debut by Marie Manilla (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, another wonderful house and former home).

I will catch up. I promise. In the meantime, here are my thoughts on two new books by powerhouse writers: The Last Enchantments by Charles Finch, and A Life in Men by Gina Frangello. Both books have London, England, as a critical backdrop. Both reviews can be found in the pages of the Chicago Tribune. My review of A Life in Men, up this weekend, begins like this:

Love is brutalized throughout Gina Frangello's second novel, "A Life in Men." The pursuit of it, the act, the possibility. Love is what two young American women think they want, are perhaps even owed, but violence — premeditated, haphazard, self-inflicted — intervenes.

One young woman, Nicole (or Nix), will vanish. The other, her best friend, Mary, will live her life trying to collect every experience and many a man before the clock ticks out on her. In Mary's case, the clock is ticking fast: She has cystic fibrosis. Her skin tastes like salt. Her lungs fill with mucous. She survives with the help of all manner of medical paraphernalia. Sometimes it seems that she will not survive at all.

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