May 21, 2007
28 by Stephanie Nolen
The one thing of which I am certain is the power of story, and Stephanie Nolen’s 28 Stories of AIDS in Africa is a testament to this power. I’ve been reading this book for a few weeks now as it was too much to take in all at once. Not that it depressing, or overly bleak, but rather there is just so much here. Unsurprisingly, as each of Nolen’s 28 stories is to represent one million people in Africa with HIV/AIDS, a structure which does something toward making 28 million a comprehendable number– no small task. The subjects of these stories come from a variety of backgrounds, and their situations are different: the young Ethiopian girl whose parents have died of AIDS who supports her younger brother; the Congolese doctor who braves civil war violence to keep her clinic operating so patients can continue to receive their antiretroviral drugs; the South African activist who refused ARV drugs, coming close to death, until they were made widely available for those in his country who needed them; the twelve-year-old who began taking ARV drugs and became healthy for the first time in his life; the Ugandan doctor working toward an HIV vaccine; the HIV-immune prostitute who must work to support her family; she who wears the crown of Botswana’s Miss HIV Stigma-Free.
Stephanie Nolen is a phenomenal writer, as anyone would know who has read her work in The Globe and Mail. She allows her subjects dignity and writes with sympathy, making extraordinary stories out of ordinary lives. Nolen has been reporting on AIDS in Africa since the late 1990s, and is equipped with both knowledge and the skills to impart it. I found her introduction to this book fascinating, as I learned of the origins of AIDS in Africa, and how it spread. Nolen’s insight that, “The problem with HIV is that its transmission, in blood and sexual fluids and breast milk, preys on our most intimate moments,” seemed to me a wonderfully straightforward expression of so many complicated issues, and informed the way that I would read her book. And as much as 28 taught me about AIDS, it also showed me Africa: AIDS is the story, but in the background is political upheaval and Civil War in various countries; ordinary lives amidst all this, and in more peaceful places too; the societal constructs and family units. Nolen gives us many of the notorious stock-characters of the AIDS epidemic: the truckers, prostitutes, cheating husbands, betrayed wives. And these characters are never true to type, perhaps the very point. Their situations are far more complicated (and in some cases sensible, in their own contexts) than they are usually portrayed. And as readers, we come away with an understanding– the proof of stories’ power, and Nolen’s stories in particular.
May 20, 2007
Message to My Girl
In the midst of my recent personal Crowded House mania-reborn, I can’t stop listening to Split Enz “Message To My Girl”. Vid here. Oh, for the love of melody.
May 19, 2007
They know about love
“They know after all this time about love– that it’s dim and unreliable, and little more than a reflection on the wall. It is also capricious, idiotic, sentimental, imperfect, and inconstant, and most often seems to be the exclusive preserve of others. Sitting in a room that was slowly glowing dark, they found themselves wishing they could measure its pure anchoring force or account for its random visitations. Of course they could not– which was why, after a time, they began to talk about other things: the weather, would it snow, would the wind continue its bitter course, would the creek freeze over, would there be another power cut, what would happen during the night.” -Carol Shields, “Others”
May 19, 2007
Extra-Media Report
Though the book is my primary medium, I do branch out a bit from time to time. I try not to watch television, as I find it makes time go by too quickly. I allow myself one show a week, which used to be the gloriously awful CSI Miami, but I’ve quit that. There was something so terribly sadistic about it. And I’d fallen in love with Ugly Betty by then anyway. It’s a wonderful show– I like melodrama (if I wanted realism I’d go outside) but what kills melodrama every time is bad writing (hello CSI Miami). This is not the case with Ugly Betty, however, which is funny and poignant, and has brought tears to my eyes way more than once. And so this Thursday night we watched the season finale, which was so engaging I nearly had a heart attack. And then at the very end they tore my little heart right out, and I was absolutely gutted. I haven’t been this upset by a television death since Dennis died on EastEnders. Even so, I absolutely adore that show, and I can’t wait for the next season.
And now, musically speaking. Yesterday I was listening to BBC 6 Music when I heard the new Crowded House single. And surprised I was, for though I have long considered Crowded House one of my favourite bands, I don’t follow them too closely- particularly since they were broken up. But they are apparently back together, and have an album coming out this summer. Which thrills me. I really liked the single, and imagine the chance to see them live? And so that was all very exciting.
Now back to the bookish life.
May 19, 2007
Tempus does not fugit
“And then, suddenly, I realized it meant nothing. Tempus did not fugit. In a long and healthy life, which is what most of us have, there is plenty of time. There is time to sit on a houseboat for a month reading novels. There is time learn another language. There is travel time and there is stay-at-home time. Shallow time and fallow time. There is time in which we are politically involved and other times when we are wilfully unengaged. We will have good years and bad years, and there will be time for both. Every moment will not be filled with accomplishment; we would explode if we tied ourselves to such a regimen. Time was not our enemy if we kept it on a loose string, allowing for rest, emptiness, reassessment, art and love. This was not a mountain we were climbing; it was closer to being a novel with a series of chapters”- Carol Shields, “Afterword” from Dropped Threads
I love this. Though Shields’ own tragically shortened life gives this a sad resonance, I think it still stands. Though there is never enough time, at the same time life is long. Every day is bursting with hours, and weeks with days. That you make the time you have enough. And I love that idea– if I only had a houseboat.
May 19, 2007
It's all summers
My beloved Bronwyn is getting married two weeks from today, and I am so thrilled we’re going to be there. Since we met six years ago, Bronwyn’s and my lives have been much entwined: we moved to England at the same time, fell in love with Northern boys, she even came to stay with us in Japan for two weeks. And even now, when our lives are quite divergent (I moved back to Toronto, whereas she is living a sweet London fairy tale), we’ve remained so close. She was there on my wedding day, and I am honoured that I’ll be there for hers. That we’ll share in wifedom, which seemed a million miles away, or even impossible, back when we met. And we look forward to our parallels continuing; she emailed me a few weeks back and said, “When I think about it I think of sunshine, which can only be a good thing. Looking forward, it’s all summers!” I imagine the future the very same, and I am so excited for it.
I am going to be doing a reading at Bronwyn’s wedding, however, and I went a bit insane trying to locate something good. When thumbing through my own library turned up nothing, I turned to the internet. Who would have thought? The “Unique Wedding Readings” on Google turned up nothing spectac (unless Kahil Gabran is your bag). I wanted to find something lovely and fitting, and I eventually did (but it’s a secret for now). I really wanted something from Carol Shields, because really who knows more about love and marriage than she did? But nothing was quite right for a wedding ceremony. Still, however, some of what I did find needs to be shared nonetheless. Stay tuned then.
May 18, 2007
Poppy Shakespeare by Clare Allan
Clare Allan’s Poppy Shakespeare is one strange book. It received rave reviews when it came out in hardback last year, was much-hyped all around, and I’ve been reading all about it for ages, and it still managed to be nothing like what I had expected. Part of that, of course, is that it hasn’t got much precedent. I’ve read of this book compared to works by authors as divergent as Chaucer and Ken Kesey, and though we’ve got the perspective of a mad girl, The Bell Jar this ain’t. No, the one adjective applied over and over to this book is “original” and it’s a very fitting one.
Poppy Shakespeare is a comedic social commentary employing elements of both satire and the fantastic. This is the story of N, a patient at the Dorothy Fish, a day centre in a fictional psychiatric hospital in North London. The thing is, however, that N and co-patients have no desire to be discharged. So isolated from mainstream society (the divide represent by Borderline Road which runs around the hospital like a moat) and so comfortable within their place in a rather absurd system, they scheme to display more symptoms and up their diagnoses. The wrench into this system arrives in the form of Poppy Shakespeare, a rather stroppy but decidedly normal woman who has been admitted to the Dorothy Fish against her will. Her claims of mental soundness are interpreted as a reluctance to confront her problems. When she tries to engage a lawyer to help her out of her predicament, she finds she is only eligible for legal aid if she is diagnosed as mentally ill. The spiral goes downward from there, as told by N who watched it happen, or perhaps was more culpable than she might let on.
The object of Allan’s satire is the “results-oriented” approach which has been employed in Britain during recent years toward state services such as education, social services, and mental health. Patients at the Dorothy Fish begin to be randomly discharged so that the hospital can boast high rates of curing– even if the cure usually leads to the patients’ suicide. And none of this sounds like very funny stuff, but it is. This is partly because of N’s perspective and her language–blunt, colloquial, playful and true to her character. Allan doesn’t shy away from the sordid, but turns it all the way on its head until it becomes a joke. And what is comedy if not blurring the line which is sanity, but then the message is ever-present, just below the humour. This is a novel which is doing many things.
It’s not easy, however. When I finished it I saw its worth, and Allan is clearly a spectacular writer, but the novel wasn’t altogether enjoyable to read. And that’s not just because of the bleak subject matter (actually there is very little bleakness here). Though N’s voice was perhaps the most remarkable aspect of this book, it went on long sometimes. Though typical of the character, her narrative takes a long time to get on track. Her perspective is not capable of percieving depth of character, though at times this is just the point– that in such a system, depth gets lost. And I do get the feeling that with any such criticism of this book, I could find a way to explain what Allan is doing. Here is a novel that is more “interesting” than “good”, but I don’t mean that in an altogether bad way. Though I do feel that the novel could have benefitted with a little more editing, some tightening up, on the whole Clare Allan has successfully realized her vision. A vision of a part of society most of us are not usually privy to, and for that alone, I think, it’s worth a look.
May 17, 2007
A little pocket of time
Do check out the third installment of What is Stephen Harper Reading? Politics aside (though not that they should be), Martel has enclosed a wonderful letter along with The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie, celebrating books and reading. He also has photos of the library at Laurier House in Ottawa, which was home to Sir Wilfrid and William Lyon Mackenzie King. Martel writes, “How did they manage to read so much? Perhaps Laurier and King were excellent at time management. Certainly television wasn’t there to inform them in part and otherwise fruitlessly devour their hours. Or was it that reading was a natural and essential element of being a respectable, well-rounded gentleman? Was it some ingrained habit of the privileged that gave these two prime ministers permission to spend so much time reading?”
Martel continues, “Reading was perhaps a privileged activity then. But not now. In a wealthy, egalitarian country like ours, where the literacy rate is high (although some people still struggle and need our help) and public libraries are just that, public, reading is no longer an elitist pastime. A good book today has no class, so to speak, and it can be had by anyone. One of the marvels of where I live, the beautiful province of Saskatchewan, is that the smallest town—Hazlet, for example, population 126—has a public library. Nor need books be expensive, if you want to own one. You can get a gold mine of a used book for fifty cents. After that, all that is needed to appreciate the investment is a little pocket of time.”
May 17, 2007
Better Days
And so we post a photo of feet in honour of days better than this one. Tonight has been awfully scabby for a variety of reasons, none of which have to do with the greatness of expensive feta or my wonderful husband. Now reading Poppy Shakespeare and The Girls is coming up next. I am always drowning in the periodicals I subscribe to, all of which arrive in the same day or two. And so the moral of the story is that I’m not about to run of reading material anytime soon, no sir. The other moral is that the day flies by too quickly.
May 15, 2007
Wooden leg first
I think it’s quite cool that my rereading of A Good Man is Hard to Find coincided with Flannery O’Connor in the news, as a new letters archive is opened. Maud Newton provides excellent coverage, as well as links to previous O’Connor posts she has written. I especially like her “But it is a wooden leg first”.
“If you want to say that the wooden leg is a symbol, you can say that. But it is a wooden leg first, and as a wooden leg it is absolutely necessary to the story. It has its place on the literal level of the story, but it operates in depth as well as on the surface. It increases the story in every direction, and this is esentially the way a story escapes being short”.
