I've gushed time and time again over how much I loved the first three books of this series. (I found the fourth book kind of unnecessary and even though I've read it as much as the first three I just don't like it as much) I first read them when I was 14 or 15, (many many years ago) and love them and over the years since read them again and again. 

Elena Gilbert was just the type of girl I wanted to be - queen of the school popular, with great friends, and lived in an awesome town full of Civil War history. Then in comes sexy mysterious Stefan who Elena becomes entranced with but he's just not returning her interest. Its a complete shock to her system. Stefan's Italian history background is captivating. And of course there is the swoon worthy bad boy Damon. Its all very silly really. And Stefan's somewhat stalkery behavior is of course questionable. Damon is a killer with no conscience and no remorse and not above using vampire powers to get what he wants. This should not be sexy. But it kinda is, even though logically its just wrong. Elena does some insanely stupid things. She can be very selfish and stubborn.

I've read series where all these things happen and its driven me up the wall. However, logic does not really apply to reading this series. At least not to me. In spite of the silliness, the friendships, the town itself, the history, the vampires, the magic, the bitchiness of certain characters, the epicness of the romance....I love it as much as grown up as I did a teenager.

I will never get tired of reading these books. 

Reread Square crossed off for Spring 2015 Bookish Bingo. 

I've felt like I've been in a bit of a reading rut lately. It feels like I've been unimpressed by most of the books I've read lately, but I've been getting my recommendations from the same sources and following the same due-diligence procedures as I have in the past. I refuse to believe books are getting worse - while there are many more shitty books being produced then in years past, there are also more good books being produced recently as well. Therefore the most likely culprit for my malaise is myself. Have my tastes changed without my realization? Has my tolerance for anything less than completely amazing shrunk? Am I just generally grumpy and upset and taking it out on my readings?

When the going gets tough, the tough reassess their datum. So I reread Neuromancer for the umpteenth time last week. I don't even know how many times I've read it - at least three dozen times is a rational guess. I read it the first time as a wee lad when it first came out and it completely blew me away. This was back in the days when email addresses used exclamation points instead of ampersands, a megabyte was an unfathomably huge chunk of storage, and the nascent internet held all the promise of a bright and glorious future of an interconnected humanity sharing their science, hopes and dreams. We've come to an interconnected first world sharing pictures of cats, so I guess the dream isn't totally destroyed yet - but I digress.

Neuromancer has spoken to me throughout my life: as a troubled teen, an aimless young adult, an alcoholic adult and a sober middle aged person different parts of the book have syncopated with my thoughts and feelings and not provided answers as much as provided a language for mapping my internal spaces. The way the setting unfolds from every character's position like a tesseract designed by a technofetishist doing rails of coke the size of Sharpies, how every character is filled with loneliness and wrapped in fear but is searching for a way to accommodate their need for companionship resonates with me in a way I can't describe without sounding like a ridiculous fanboy. Which I am, to be honest, but I'll spare us all the details.

So, yeah, I reread my all time most favorite book to see if I'd changed unbeknownst to myself. It turns out I haven't. If anything I appreciate it more as I grow older. I don't look up to Case and Molly like I used to; I don't want to be them or imagine myself living their life (ok, maybe a little...) but instead I think I can appreciate them more as characters that live their own lives separate from me. Even as my relationship with Case, Molly, Finn, Dixie, Wintermute and Rio evolve the world they live in is familiar and comfortable as a well worn blanket, a safe haven of lawless bright lights and technomagic.

I've read this book at least six times, just as good, if not better, every time I read it again.

The next time someone says to me that funny books are always disappointing because they're funny-dumb, I'll be pointing them to this novel: it's funny-smart.

Happiness Economics opens with Will Thorne struggling with the idea of being a poet in a world which does not value poets.

Except that in Shari LaPeña's second novel, the economic theme isn't as heavy-handed as the language that I've used in that sentence.

"It was a crazy, mixed-up world, a world that took economic forecasters seriously -- see everyone hang on his wife's every word! -- and sports figures, and movie stars."

Poets deserve to be taken seriously, Will believes. Or, more accurately, Will thinks.

Believes is a strong word for someone who spends an inordinate amount of time disbelieving.

"Would it be ennui today or despair?"

Will's world is not as concrete as his wife's.

Judy Thorne writes books too, books about investing, instant best-sellers written in a "chatty, informative, accessible" style, but she can measure her success in dollars and cents, in television appearances, in phone calls with influential contacts.

There is no outward measure of Will's success.

He is an engaged father (mostly, except when we forgets to let the kids in for lunch because the ennui/despair is too overwhelming) and he has written some good poetry.

But there's no Governor General's Award to show for it. And when he proposed to Judy that he receive a wage for his childcare responsibilities, she made a counter-offer, a significantly lower figure.

And "[s]he had all her expertise as an economist behind her while he’d only had an article in Chatelaine."

But even Judy -- as great as she presents on camera -- has concerns, even before the events of 2008 which seriously threatened her professional identity.

She is particularly concerned about her children, Alex and Zoe. (And these are not like sitcom kids: they are wholly believable.)

"They had everything. She didn't know what to do about it, so most of the time she simply kept working and telling herself that they should be happy -- they had everything."

And, yet, her family is unhappy, her children in their tween/teen years struggling in the same way that Will is (although the kids are preoccupied with their own concerns and aren't aware of the parallels).

Zoe "vaguely wished to be a pop star -- she watched all the Idol shows -- but she didn't know anything about music, and now it seemed almost too late".

Even at 12 years old, Zoe keeps her pop-star ambitions to herself, recognizing that artsy dreams are fragile, whereas Alex broadcasts his desire to be a police officer, a detective.

"'Right,' said Zoe. 'There's a fitness test, you know.'"

Catch a glimpse of the realistic dialogue there, also all the unstated eye-rolling: Zoe is at that age.

But, there is some truth beneath Zoe's defensive barb; both Will and Judy are unsure whether the amount of sweets that Alex is eating will create a problem for him.

When tension at home increases -- because there is conflict between Will and Judy, particularly as each feels their identity rocked by external events and internal fears -- Alex reaches for a candy bar.

All of the characters in this novel have their own ways of coping with what lurks beneath the surfaces of their lives.

Sometimes the struggle is visible, even to casual onlookers; sometimes the veneer is solid.

Sometimes the choices appear minor, as in whether Zoe should be allowed to attend a Shopping Party for a class-mate's birthday.

Rarely the issues are approached openly, philosophically: "When...does the end justify the means? And how do you measure the externalities, the collateral damage? What is life but the continuous exercise of moral choice?"

For that is the delight of this novel; after you have finished reading, it's clear that the author has deliberately layered the theme throughout, but the reader is simply engaged in the story.

What is truly an obstacle, whether to progress or happiness? What does it mean if we, individually or nationally, decline to participate in a measure of well-being which values war over housing starts?

These are big questions. But in the course of reading Shari LaPeña's novel, the reader simply hopes that someone will honk for the poet who is standing at the side of the parkway with a sign that reads "Honk if you love poetry."

A novel that is wholly entertaining  -- there are some laugh-out-loud moments and countless smirky grins -- and still leaves you with lots to think about? That's good stuff.

A wholly entertaining novel that leaves you with something to believe in? That's grand.

PS If it adds to the value of the book in your reader's mind, Happiness Economics won the Stephen Leacock Medal for being hilarious.

This review originally appeared on Buried.In.Print.