[amazon_link id=”030737839X” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]

[/amazon_link]I’ve finished reading the most recent book of the “No. 1 ladies Detective” series. Of course, it is no secret that I am a super huge fan of Smith’s work and Mma Precious Ramotswe is my favorite female fictional character. Smith weaves truly interesting tales around his main characters : Mma Ramotswe, her assistant Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe’s husband Mr. Matekoni. But his books are more than just cleverly spun stories. They tell tales from the heart, and tell them in wise, witty and wonderful words. Since I loved this book, and many passages in it seemed like the kinds that I would want to re-read and remember, here are a few excerpts :

On taking time to smell the roses :

Nowadays, people were always thinking of getting somewhere – they travelled around far more, rushing from here to there and then back again. She would never let her life go that way; she would always take the time to drink tea, to look at the sky, and to talk. What else was there to do ? Make money ? Why ? Did money bring any greater happiness than that furnished by a well-made cup of bush tea and a moment or two with a good friend? She thought not.

What we all want :

She looked down. He had clasped his hands together, his fingers interlaced. It was a gesture, she thought, of unequivocal pleasure – pleasure at hearing what all of us wanted to hear at least occasionally: that there was somebody who liked us, whatever our faults, and liked us sufficiently to say so.

On picking your battles :

“We cannot always stop the things we do not like.” She knew now what he meant, of course – that nature had to be left to take its course – but she had realized that there was a far greater truth there too. There were some things that one could stop, or try to stop, but it was a mistake to go through life trying to interfere in things that were beyond your control, or which were going to happen anyway, no matter what you did. A certain amount of acceptance – which was not the same thing as cowardice, or indifference – was necessary or you would spend your life burning up with annoyance and rage.

On telling it like it is :

She knew, however, that it never helped to tell another that their troubles were eclipsed by the troubles of others, tempting though that might be. If you have a sore tooth, it does not help to be told that there are people with far more severe toothaches.

On sadness unseen :

One or two people had witnessed the tragedy, or at least seen a part of it . . .But they had only seen a young woman racing after a white van and then stumbling; they had seen her bend down and change her footwear before walking off towards the main road. So might we fail to see the real sadness that lies behind the acts of others; so might we look at one of our fellow men going about his business and not know of the sorrow that he is feeling, the effort that he is making, the things that he has lost.

On miracles (we might take for granted):

She looked at him fondly; that he had been sent to her, when there were so many other, lesser men who might have been sent, was a source of constant gratitude. That we have the people we have in this life, rather than others, is miraculous, she thought; a miraculous gift.

On beauty, and the desire for it :

Mma Makutsi looked away. She did not think that she was beautiful. She would like to be beautiful – when she was a young girl she had wished for beauty with all her heart, but she had become reconciled to the fact that beauty was a gift conferred in the crucible of one’s mother’s womb and was not on offer at any later stage. But to hear Patricia say it made her wonder, for a moment or two at least, whether it was indeed true; whether beauty had somehow crept up and settled upon her, as age, or the signs of worry, might do.

Love in a car garage :

“I love it,” she said. “I am kind to it. And now it has decided to turn against me. What have I done, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, to deserve this?”
“It is not love,” he had said. “It is oil.”

What are feminists ? 🙂

“You should watch what you say,” he had warned. “What if Mma Potokwane is sitting in the office there and hears these things you say ? Or even Mma Makutsi, who has very good hearing? These ladies are feminists, you know.”
“What is that?” asked Fanwell. “ Do they not like meat?”
“That is vegetarian,” said Charlie, scornfully. “Feminists are big, strong ladies.”

The pressure to be thin (and beautiful) :

She noticed, too, that the mannequins modelling the dresses – those posturing moulded figures – were all waif-like and thin, as if the slightest wind might come and blow them away like so many leaves. Why were there not any traditionally built mannequins? Why were there not comfortable ladies in the window, ladies with whom those on the other side of the glass – not thin and hungry ladies, but ladies whose breakfast had clearly been generous enough to see them through the day – could identify? That was another thing that women had to be wary of, thought Mma Ramotswe; that was another way of putting women down – telling them that they should stop eating.