November 30, 2009
Help Me, Jacques Cousteau by Gil Adamson
On the back of Gil Adamson’s success with The Outlander (a popular novel even before it became a serious contender for Canada Reads 2009), House of Anansi has republished her first work of fiction, Help Me, Jacques Cousteau (published in 2000 by The Porcupine’s Quill). Which is kind of strange, actually, seeing as Help Me, Jacques Cousteau has little in common with The Outlander— they’re siblings a decade apart, after all. Somehow, I just don’t see Nicholas Campbell getting behind this one, but the very good news is that I can. While The Outlander was not quite my cup of tea, I delighted in this story collection.
Essential to note, however, that Help Me, Jacques Cousteau is a linked story collection, which follows a character called Hazel from young childhood into her late teen years. And though episodic, these stories do come together to create a narrative arc that would satisfy a reader with a craving for a novel. A little bit like Emma Richler’s Sister Crazy, but not quite as leaden in the end, and with a dash of the spirit of Adrian Mole, what Help Me… has in common with The Outlander is prose constructed with a poet’s deft hand, attention to each sentence, and the paragraphs. Rhythm, cadence, alliteration, precise imagery and perfect word choice. Two sentences stuck together like these ones: “My mother is physically fantastic. She’s long, tall, elastic.”
But what Help Me… also has is wry humour, and a remarkable narrator in Hazel, who is blessed with remarkable powers of perception. Her voice is an anchor in this text of eccentric characters and bizarre goings-on, a voice unchanging as the world around her spirals out of control. This unchangingness works, however, because what does change are the things that Hazel perceives with her remarkable powers as she grows older– eventually, her parents’ fallibility, the strain in their marriage, that things fall apart, that no one (including herself) is quite who they’re supposed to be.
Adamson attributes to Hazel a peculiar deficiency of long-term memory which keeps the collection from being an exercise in nostalgia. Also notable, that Hazel is not the stereotypical misfit, in that she has friendships (however fraught, but this is high school) and boys willing to make out her (plenty of them actually, which is a novel plot device for a poetry-loving teen) so that we’re not taken down that familiar road that always ends with bulimia and somebody’s initials carved in a thigh.
So though its formula is tried and tested, Help Me… is infused with originality. Hazel’s family and her neighbours come to life through her eyes– her fantastic tall mother, strong enough to open any spaghetti jar; her brother and his solar curtains; her experience pet-sitting for a neighbour in a house of tropical fish; a grandfather who frequently turns up unexpectedly, and makes himself comfortable in a bath; a bevy of uncles and aunties; a bed full of cousins; a father who rewires the house when he’s anxious.
Help Me… begins with an epigraph from the Talking Heads’ song “Heaven”: “Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens.” Hazel’s life, on the other hand, is a place where something always does, and though Hazel might desire a bit of a reprieve, at least we get the good fortune of reading all about it.
November 28, 2009
On James Wood on Byatt, and the Universe
Too many magazines come to my house, and after I had a baby in May, I didn’t get around to reading any of them for ages. So it’s only just now that I’ve read “Bristling With Diligence”, James Wood’s review of A.S. Byatt’s The Children’s Book (because I’m superstitious about reading my periodicals and their contents out of order).
Like all of James Wood’s reviews, this one was as fascinating to read as the book it pertained to. There was not a single point upon which I really disagreed with him (except for “Byatt is a very ordinary grown-ups’ writer”), he got the book right on, and yet I loved The Children’s Book and James Wood distinctly didn’t. And this is where an objective approach to criticism breaks down, I think, or where I cease to understand it. Wood lets his evidence speak for itself, but what that it says something quite different to me?
I realize that Wood has an agenda of sorts, or rather an “approach” to fiction, and that I’ve not been paying much attention to what that is, so let us not make that the point. Instead, I want to point out the curiousity of Wood taking down Byatt for characters who are “dutiful puppets, always squeezed and shaped for available meaning.” That as author, Byatt “dances, with leaden slippers, around the thought-sleep of her characters… [with] that teacherly, qualifying, authorial judgment.” That “an atmosphere of historical typicality drapes the stories’ individual forms.” That “Whenever a detail could be selected at the expense of another one, Byatt will always prefer to buy both, and include the receipts”. (I love that sentence. Honestly, that every book review could be so vital and engaging, but I digress…)
To all of which, I reply, “Yes, yes, yes! And isn’t it marvelous?” Because it occurs to me that what I like best about fiction is not its realism (sorry, James Wood), but the way that a novel or story can be its own little universe. I confess: I like witnessing Byatt’s manipulations. I like writers that move their characters around like pieces on a boardgame, and I like omniscience, and I like a guiding hand. Ruby Lennox at the beginning of Behind the Scenes at the Museum: “I exist! I am conceived to the chimes of midnight on the clock on the mantelpiece in the room across the hall.” Realism, this isn’t.
I like Margaret Drabble, her novel The Radiant Way, and how “an atmosphere of historical typicality draped… individual forms.” Perhaps fiction is not so informed by history, but I think it works especially well the other way around. Also, I like how in Drabble’s novel The Gates of Ivory, a character from The Needle’s Eye appears out of nowhere, and how these novels are seemingly unconnected otherwise, the character is minor in both novels (which were written nearly two decades apart), but how this connection gives impression of a Drabbleverse, and that I am privy to it.
I think all of this is now old-fashioned, though it was once so modern they made an “-ism” of it. For I think Mrs. Dalloway was that kind of book, and so was To The Lighthouse. Whose characters stood for things, and knew things they didn’t even know they knew (though Mrs. Ramsey did). I think Zadie Smith’s fictional worlds are like this too (though I don’t this has to do with Wood’s “hysterical realism”, but I could well be wrong. I often am about things like that).
By chance (or for some deeper reason as determined by a guiding force, who knows?), I read Wood’s review as I was reading Penelope Lively’s novel Cleopatra’s Sister. Lively (who won the Booker Prize in 1987 for her extraordinary novel Moon Tiger) is a critically-underrated writer (which doesn’t mean she doesn’t get good reviews, but that is something different). Her novels– and this one in particular– deal with ordinary lives intersecting with history, the trajectory of destiny, teleology. Her recent novel Consequences is about what it sounds like; her pseudo-memoir Making It Up is a fictionalized autobiography, supposing different paths she might have taken in her life.
Cleopatra’s Sister is about history as random or inevitable, and Lively shows that it is both or n/either as she brings her two main characters together through a series of events that begins with Gondwana (and rapidly does proceed to the present day, do not fear; Clan of the Cave Bear this book is not). “These events are chronological; they take place in sequence and are in some senses contingent upon one another. Remove one– extract a decade, or a century– and the whole historical ediface will shift on its foundations. But that ediface itself is a chimera, a construct of human intellect. It has no bricks and stones– it is words, words, words. The events are myths and fables distortions and elaborations of something that may or may not have happened; they are the rainbow survivors of some vanished grey moment of reality.”
Which has a double-meaning, of course, in that this is fiction, but reality as we make sense of it is only “words, words, words” too. Which makes the concept of realist fiction sort of absurd to consider.
Achieving reality itself as the goal of fiction is one thing, but I think the construction of a fictional self-contained universe (like the Drabbleverse, the Livelyverse) is just as noble a fictional pursuit. However, not so much in the realm of the fantastic (excuse me, my bias is showing), where in order to be authentic, you just make everyone sound a little bit Welsh. But rather, universes that so resemble this one, but which are consciously constructed. Because what marvelous constructions these are, I always think. The details required in such creation (which is exactly why Byatt would get both, and receipts). It’s like rebuilding the whole world again, brick by brick, and guiding its people up and down the streets. Controlling traffic. And setting in play a chain of circumstances, like say, the New Years Eve during which Archie Jones tries to kill himself, fails, and then meets Clara, the Jamaican daughter of a devout Jehovah’s Witness, and then we’re off! for a few hundred pages.
Of course, all this, like everything, is a matter of taste. I was discussing Amy Jones’ story collection What Boys Like with a friend the other day, and she told me that her least favourite story was “The Church of the Latter-Day Peaches”– which had been one of the ones I liked best. (Note: We agreed our mutual favourite was “All We Will Ever Be”, but I digress. Again.) My friend felt “Church of…” wasn’t as strong as the rest of the collection due to its storiedness–its cuteness, its beginning, middle and end, such a tidy shape, the patterns, how it contained its own lore, how parts of it meant something other than what they were. That it didn’t stand for life itself. And when all of that had been what I’d enjoyed so much about it– there really is no accounting for other people, is there?
What I’m slowly getting around to then is questioning the assumption that fiction has to be real. Which is hardly original, I know, but I wish to point out what a feat still is an excellent novel without realism as its intention. That such a novel
November 27, 2009
Pym Up A Ladder
As I’ve written already, I’m having a terrible time finding Barbara Pym novels, and it seems I just have to wait for her fans to die because there’s no other way they’re going to let her go. I sort of fancied just walking into any old used bookshop and buying up her library for a dollar or two, but alas, no dice.
This is bothersome because I fell in love with Pym just a few weeks back (via Excellent Women), and then Maureen Corrigan kept going on about her, and now DoveGreyReader has just posted a marvelous ode. In which she notes Pym’s A Very Private Eye: An Autobiography in Diaries and Letters, which is available at Ten Editions Bookstore, at the end of my street, no less.
So I had no excuse not to go and fetch it, and why not the Pym novel No Fond Return of Love while I was at it? It was a hardcover, in excellent condition and with a gorgeous dust jacket (that put me in mind of Persephone Books) and not too expensive. So that’s done, and it’s fine, because I’ve shown excellent book buying restaint this past month. Except A Child’s Christmas in Wales that I bought yesterday, but that doesn’t count, because it’s illustrated with woodcuts by Ellen Raskin and she wrote The Westing Game.
The very best part of all of this is not my purchases themselves, however, or even my supposed restraint, but that the books I bought today were to be found high up a ladder. The kind that slides along the shelf of course, and I sought permission before I felt free to climb it. Permission granted, and I’ve never found a book in such a fashion in my bookbuying life. Such a monumental moment, to be commemorated with a photograph of course. The whole thing was very exciting.
November 27, 2009
Six Months With Harriet
Harriet is six months old today, which is older than she’s ever been before. I remember when she was six weeks old, which I thought was ancient, and now I can’t believe that she was ever that small, and fragile, and terrifying to consider.
We’ve been taking photos on each of her montheversaries of Harriet in the gliding chair with Miffy — the strange wavy armed baby on the right is Harriet at 1 month. And from the progression of photos, it has become obvious that not only is the gliding chair now absolutely covered in puke, but that the baby has grown. Which is kind of what we expected, but I still can’t quite get over how strange it is that right before my eyes, she has turned into this sturdy, hilarious, little person. And I didn’t notice a thing.
Six months is really good. We spend our days doing the things that make Harriet laugh and smile (singing “Boom Boom, Ain’t It Great to be Crazy”, dancing stupidly, bouncing her up and down in the air, round and round the garden like a teddy bear) because Harriet’s laughter and smiles are so absolutely gorgeous. And these days, she’s even got her own sense of humour– according to Harriet, there is nothing funnier than the chicken puppet. She is very discerning.
She’s cutting her first tooth right now, once in a while elects to sleep up to four hours at a time, is in a rolling frame of mind, enjoys listening to Elizabeth Mitchell, Miley Cyrus, The Beatles and Vampire Weekend, listens also to a lot of CBC Radio 1, seems to attract lady-bugs, loves it when her dad gets home from work, eats books, eats food too (blueberries tonight!), likes to chew on her rubber duck and make it squeak, enjoys sucking on her toes, playing with her ball, is showing an affinity for Miffy, growing hair(!), likes to jolly jump, pokes eyes or gets her eyes poked depending on whether we’re hanging out with other babies older or younger than she is, she goes from Wibbleton to Wobbleton (which is fifteen miles), pulls bookmarks out of books, wants to touch everything, and two weeks ago she ate the shopping list.
It’s so hard. And I don’t think it ever gets easy, but it gets easier. And then harder too, of course, in all new ways, but the whole thing is also totally worth it in a way I’m really beginning to understand now. Only beginning to, though, because it’s an understanding I can’t articulate or even make sense of to myself, and it’s more a steady current inside of me than a feeling at all.
She is delightful, and fascinating, and amazing, and I can’t remember a world in which Harriet was not the centre. Which is not to say that sometimes I don’t wish for a different focus for a little while, but it would always comes back to her anyway. It always does. And it will forever, but how could it not?
We’ve all come a long, long way.
November 26, 2009
Remarkable
That my library owns a DVD copy of the movie It’s Pat is quite remarkable, but what’s even more so is that sometimes the movie is signed out.
November 25, 2009
Leave me alone, I'm reading
I spent the weekend enjoying Maureen Corrigan’s book Leave Me Alone, I’m Reading. (My copy is an ARC I picked up at the Vic Book Sale, and may I say it makes me happy to know that an ARC can have its life extended?) Other than the fact that I’m into reading books about reading books (lately, Howards End is on the Landing and Shelf Discovery), before I picked it up, this book didn’t hold a ton of appeal to me. I’ve never listened to Corrigan’s reviews on Fresh Air, and her focus on detective fiction and Catholic martyr stories didn’t exactly turn me on, but she’s a wonderful writer and the whole book was engaging. Also, I realized I recognized the “Catholic martyr story” Karen and With Love From Karen by Marie Killilea, which I don’t think I ever read, but I remember from the paperback rack of every school library I ever browsed through.
Like most books about a reader’s relationship with books, the shape of the narrative was bizarrely (but pleasingly, I thought) random. Corrigan weaves the books of her life into the story of her life– how women’s “extreme-adventure” tales led her to her adopted daughter from China, how detective fiction helped her find her way out of the mire of academia, how she remembers her father through the WW2 history books he used to read. Also, how Maureen Corrigan finally found love, her quest for “work” in the novel, how a woman who reads for a living could be two generations away from a grandmother who never learned literacy. She also mentions Barbara Pym (whose books are proving hard to find used, by the way. Seems those that like her books also like to keep them).
As I read Leave Me Alone, I’m Reading, I had to keep going online to put books on reserve at the library– in particular, and in transit to me as I write this (!), I am excited to read Gaudy Nights by Dorothy L. Sayers (which features a literary Harriet) and Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott. And Quartet in Autumn by Barbara Pym. After discovering Corrigan’s reviews online, I’m also looking forward to reading The Man in the Wooden Hat.
I just finished reading Lost Girls and Love Hotels by Catherine Hanrahan, which was too gritty for my English old-lady tastes (though I am Canadian and thirty. I am just not cool). From that experience, I realized that I get incredibly irritated reading about people spiralling toward rock bottom, and that is just my sensibility. The ending of the book, however, made it for me. Shocking, gross, and brilliant.
Now I am reading Cleopatra’s Sister, which is a novel by Penelope Lively, which means that I’m enraptured. (The book has a whiff of Moon Tiger about it, which has been my favourite Lively novel yet.)
November 23, 2009
Happy Birthday, Stuart!
Every year around this day, or to be more specific, on this day, I get to say aloud what I think all the time, which is, “What a terrific man is this Stuart character I’ve somehow got myself hooked up with.” Because he really is fantastic, and in seven years I’ve not even begun to get enough of his marvelous company, and I’m so proud of the thirty-year old man who’s made a life for himself that that twenty-three-year old I met years ago would be in awe of. So grateful also that he’s so unfailingly good to me, and for the life we’ve made together.
In short, he’s fantastic, and during the past six months he’s been put to the test, with his patience, caring nature, hilarious sense of humour, much relied-upon ingenuity, and his understanding rarely waning. And that they rarely waned rather than never did only shows he’s human, but what an extraordinary one. Harriet and I are so very lucky, because he’s an excellent husband and a wonderful dad. I love him very much.
Happy Birthday!
November 23, 2009
Reasons for and Advantages of Breathing by Lydia Peelle
Perhaps Lydia Peelle’s stories seem a bit old fashioned because most of them are so blatantly about something. So that I finish reading one, for example “Phantom Pain”, exclaiming that the story was amazing, and when I’m asked what it was about, I can say, “A one-legged taxidermist and a mountain lion on the loose.” And then, naturally, whoever I’ve been talking to wants to read the story now.
A bit of their old-fashionedness also comes from these stories’ deep investment in history, and a focus on farming and the land. “The Mule Killers” is three generations contained in one single tale, which navigates changes in farming life (mule killers are tractors). “Sweethearts of the Rodeo” looks less far back, an elegy-that-isn’t-an-elegy to a summer two girls on the cusp of adolescence spent working on a horse farm. “Kidding Season” takes place in the present day, but recounts a troubled young man’s experiences working on a goat farm. In “Shadow On A Weary Land”, a motley collection of characters (one of whom is apparently communing with the spirit of Jesse James) search for treasure buried by James’ brother on property outside of Nashville that is rapidly being developed into subdivisions.
Peelle’s agrarian history is no idyll, however. A seminal moment in the “Sweethearts of the Rodeo” summer involves the head of a dead pony in the jaws of a dog. The ending of “Kidding Season” is so sickeningly devastating, you’ll read the final paragraph again and again, willing it to say something different. The narrator of “Shadow On A Weary Land” is an octogenarian stroke victim/former drug addict, and the yarns he spins are a product of his past.
“Reasons for and Advantages of Breathing” reminded me of Birds of America Lorrie Moore. The stories “Phantom Pain” and “The Still Point” paint the underside of the present day in stunningly vivid terms. “This is Not a Love Story” chronicles an abusive relationship, displaying a wonderful treatment of the “life as a flowing river” metaphor, when that river is a man-made lake that had flooded a town, and how there’s nothing else to do but go around and around. This story in particular undercuts any notion of the good old days: “But wasn’t it worth it?’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t you do it all over again?’/No, it wasn’t worth it, I told her. Not any of it./ Not one damn minute of it./Trust me.”
Peelle displays some self-awareness in “This is Not a Love Story”, her narrator a girl from Connecticut who in the early ’80s decides to become a photographer and “move to the South, where I had never been and which seemed so mysterious: raw and dangerous and full of relics of a long-gone era.” Peelle, a native of Boston, might have been similarly naive when she moved to the South, when she started writing about the South, but her stories show she’s since learned that the dangers are elsewhere, that the long-gone era is an illusion, and relics aren’t the things you might have chosen to last.
But writing about the South, she treads on a dangerous tradition, and thus come the comparisons of William Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor. There are moments when it feels like she might be striving toward these voices, but on the whole I would posit that, as an outsider, Peelle comes at the South from a unique point of view, and hers are even less elegiac than these writers’ non-elegies for a long-gone era that never was and never went.
Where Peelle is like O’Connor, however, is in these moments in which she digs in her knife and twists it, and then you realize that the story you’ve been reading is darker, its people more awful, what has happened is even more tragic than you’ve ever imagined. I mentioned the end of “Kidding Season” already, and can’t get explicit or I’ll ruin it, but Peelle manages to synchronize her readers’ awareness of dawning horror with that of her protagonist in a way that is absolutely masterful. “Phantom Pain” has a similar impact. Everything is loaded.
I like this book for the lines it crosses– Peelle’s history isn’t dead and buried, but keeps coming up again year after year (and kudos for that wonderful asparagus image in “The Mule Killers”). Which is perhaps where she gets her lack of elegy from, for its hard to elegize something so close to the surface. Peelle’s stories mix urban life and farm life, they’re stories of home and of the road (and neither of these so much like the home and road you read in books). I like that if you picked up this book, and read it straight through, you’d have a hard time telling whether it was written by a woman or a man, and in that ambiguity, I think, Peelle’s writing takes on tremendous power.
This is a stunning collection that deserves to be read and celebrated, and I think the one only leads to the other.
November 22, 2009
The only proper way to breastfeed
It’s strange, I think, that while breastfeeding is so ridiculously revered in our society to the point where bottle-feeding can raise eyebrows, the image of breastfeeding itself might raise those brows even higher. Mostly because we never see it, in real life or in the media, which perpetuates breastfeeding imagery as taboo, and so it goes. So I’ve been eagerly keeping track of breastfeeding imagery during this last while, on television (Being Erica) and in children’s books (lately, Busy Pandas).
But I especially like this picture, from Susan Meyer’s Everywhere Babies (which acknowledges breastfeeding as being just one of many ways that babies everywhere are fed).
While we don’t see enough breastfeeding imagery, even rarer is imagery of the only proper way to breastfeed– with a book in hand.
It is telling, however, that the mother has fallen asleep. Some days are just too much for multi-tasking.
November 20, 2009
It had to be stories
I just finished reading the short story collection Reasons For and Advantages of Breathing, which I finally picked up after having it recommended by Lauren Groff and seeing it was selected as one of The National Book Foundation’s 5 Under 35 Fiction Selections for 2009. I am much excited about the book and its author, Lydia Peelle, and I’ll be writing a review this weekend, but in the meantime, why the internet is great as follows.
Her book’s playlist at Largehearted Boy. Her story “The Mule Killers” for your reading pleasure. Lydia Peelle interviewed by Gillian Welch, and in particular this:
“It is like making an album. A short-story collection is like an album in ways that a novel is not; your hope is for the whole to be greater than the sum of its parts. What you want is for each song or each story to stand on its own, but for them to say something greater when collected in one album or between the covers of a book. And sequencing is so important—as I know it is with a record—the way you order the stories; you think about the emotional arc to the whole book. I wouldn’t want a reader to skip around the book, but to read the stories in order. As for the stories, well, I knew it had to be stories …”
