May 27, 2008
Links for Today
Links for today: we’ve got Emily Perkins’ Novel About My Wife racking up great reviews in The Guardian and in The Toronto Star. (Read my review, and interview. An aside: very exciting, my copy of Perkins’ first book Not Her Real Name arrived in the post today.) Somewhat dissimilarly bookish, how to make a hardback into a handbag (via The Pop Triad) and I’m going to do it! Baby Got Books celebrates the death of the death of online criticism. Mrs. Dalloway Digested is funny. Hilary Mantel remembers 30 years of Virago. Lizzie Skurnick rereads The Girl with the Silver Eyes.
And one of the many highlights of my weekend was reading the actual printed Guardian Review, particularly Zadie Smith on Middlemarch. Citing Henry James’ 1873 review: “It sets a limit,” he wrote, “to the development of the old-fashioned English novel.” Writes Smith, “It’s strange to see wise Henry reading like a dogmatic young man, with a young man’s certainty of what elements, in our lives, will prove the most significant.”
May 10, 2008
Fiery First Fiction
Oooooh– Fiery First Fiction! A fantastic promotion by the Literary Press Group. Events are being held across the country, and I’m looking forward to attending Monday night’s in Toronto at Supermarket. FFF is promoting 14 first novels published by Canadian small presses. Buy one at participating independent bookstores and get a free durable book bag– I just got mine, and durable IS the word. I love it. Though I could only get one book today (I am trying to curb book buying habits to no more than one daily) so I selected Things Go Flying by Shari Lapeña. And yes, I chose it by its cover, but I think I’m on to something good.
I was at the bookshop with my friend Bronwyn, which has always been one of my favourite experiences. She’d also brought her spare copy of Rebecca to pass along to me, so it’s been an evening of fine new acquisitions.
May 8, 2008
What I have been waiting for
Last night I got to attend the Kama Reading Series again, with superstar readers Lawrence Hill, Anand Mahadevan, Kelley Armstrong and Miriam Toews. It was such an impressive assemblage, though I must say the ladies stole the show. I hadn’t heard of Armstrong before, but she really took that whole “I write vampire fiction” thing and ran with it– she was fabulous. Truly, I don’t get enough vampire fiction. And then Miriam Toews– I’ve only ever read her incredible memoir Swing Low: A Life, which is one of very few books that have ever left me sobbing. So I knew she was a good writer, but I hadn’t yet been exposed to how funny this woman is. She was hysterical, deadpan, right-on, and I could have listened to her read for ages. I would like to pay her to sit in my house and entertain me. And now I absolutely have to read her fiction– what have I been waiting for?
This week I’ve been reading Geek Love by Katherine Dunn, and getting ready to tack a huge stack of periodicals that have arrived in the post. Also enjoyed rob mclennan’s essay “Rereading Sheila Watson and Elizabeth Smart at the Garneau Pub, Edmonton”.
May 6, 2008
Elaine Dundy
From Maud Newton’s blog, I discover that the writer Elaine Dundy has died. Except that I’ve never heard of Elaine Dundy before, but being currently afflicted with an obsession for the alligator pear, her novel The Dud Avocado caught my attention. Though I don’t know what the book has to do with avocados, but my obsession doesn’t really have much to do with them either (more their essence, naturally). And so I’m going to read this novel, which means I’m jumping onto a just-deceased author bandwagon again, however I feel less bad about it than usual. Elaine Dundy, who once wrote a book on Elvis, is quoted on the source of sources as saying, “I didn’t know that Elvis was alive until he died”.
May 4, 2008
Unmistakably hers
In the Paris Review Interviews, II, from Toni Morrison: “There is no black woman popular singer, jazz singer, blues singer who sounds like any other. Billie Holiday does not sound like Aretha, doesn’t sound like Nina, doesn’t sound like Sarah, doesn’t sound like any of them. They are really powerfully different. And they will tell you that they couldn’t possibly have made it as singers if they sounded like somebody else. If someone comes along sounding like Ella Fitzgerald, they will say, Oh we have one of those… It’s interesting to me how those women have this very distinct, unmistakable image. I would like to write like that. I would like to write novels that were unmistakably mine, but nevertheless fit into African-American traditions and second of all, this whole thing called literature.”
Defining what to me are “the two kinds of books in the world”. How extraordinary it is as a reader to come across those “unmistakable” books. To be turning the pages and think, I’ve not read anything quite like this in my entire life. And how vastly different that is from “Oh we have one of those…” These derivative works have their own place of course, they are made to be read, but more easily forgotten.
There is a certain energy you get whilst reading something entirely new. A frisson of infinite possibility, of personal discovery. I felt that way as I read Emily Perkins’ Novel About My Wife. Here was something I could not explain away by anything I’d read before. This feeling only intensified as I went back and read her previous novels, and gained an understanding of that voice that was “unmistakably hers.”
It’s happened before– the first time I read Grace Paley or Laurie Colwin are two examples I can think of. Immediately afterwards, entire back catalogues have to be explored. And these explorations become journeys into whole worlds we’ve only glimpsed yet. My own literary universe expanding again.
May 1, 2008
Woolf on book blogs?
“But still we have our responsibilities as readers and even our importance. The standards we raise and the judgments we pass steal into the air and become part of the atmosphere which writers breathe as they work. An influence is created which tells upon them even if it never finds its way into print. And that influence, if it were well instructed, vigorous and individual and sincere, might be of great value now when criticism is necessarily in abeyance; when books pass in review like the procession of animals in a shooting gallery, and the critic has only one second in which to load and aim and shoot and may well be pardoned if he mistakes rabbits for tigers, eagers for barndoor fowls, or misses altogether and wastes his shot upon some peaceful cow grazing in a further field. If behind the erratic gunfire of the press the author felt that there was another kind of criticism, the opinion of people reading for the love of reading, slowly and yet unprofessionally, and judging with great sympathy and yet with great severity, might this not improve the quality of his work? And if by our means books were to become stronger, richer, and more varied, that would be an end worth reaching.” –1926, Virginia Woolf, “How Should One Read a Book?”
April 30, 2008
Anything at all
“‘What are you reading?’
‘A pile of things. Books on stuff, you know how there’s always a new one, on tomatoes or love songs or the secret history of buttonholes.’ He grinned at her. ‘I’m waiting for the book on books on stuff to be published. Perhaps I should write it, I’ve read enough of them. Ask me anything you want to know about coriander. Anything at all.'”
–Emily Perkins, The New Girl
April 30, 2008
MacMillan on history
One of the highlights of my whole life has been an undergraduate history seminar with Margaret MacMillan, but I’d think she was amazing anyway. I’m looking forward to reading her new book Uses and Abuses of History, particularly since reading this interview: ‘I don’t think history teaches us clear lessons. I think it’s very dangerous to say that history demands certain things.’
April 25, 2008
We lay no claim…
Today’s Globe F&A essay “Degrees of Separation” is reaching towards the ideas so deftly explored by Sharon Butala in her brilliant new book The Girl from Saskatoon (read my review here). Writer Bob Levin writes, “This isn’t our tragedy, of course – it’s her family’s, her friends’. We lay no claim to it…” But then, what do we do with these connections?
The Girl in Saskatoon is currently #7 on the Globe & Mail Bestseller list for non-fiction.
April 23, 2008
Listenings
Tonight my friend Jennie and I had the great pleasure of going to see Jhumpa Lahiri at Harbourfront reading from her new book The Unaccustomed Earth (recently read). It was a great event, fascinating to see these masterful stories are made by such a young and slightly nervous person– for me, they’re a bit richer for that, of this earth. She was a wonderful reader, reading from her story “Hell/Heaven”, and having heard it in her voice, I do want to go back and read it again.
I’ve written before about my feelings towards readings– that I’ve long found it difficult just to listen, and they force me to use un-exercised muscles. Though being bad at listening is certainly no desirable trait, and I always striving to become better at this, and some readers and some stories definitely make it easy. Of course it’s not all about self-improvement– I do enjoy readings. I like the idea of bookish gatherings, and they do make me feel better about the world in general– a whole room full of people who’ve shown up to be read to. It all can’t be so bad after all…
I haven’t mentioned yet that Michael Ondaatje was also reading tonight. I mightn’t have mentioned at all– I was there for Lahiri. But his reading was stunning. I’ve read Divisidero and found it not unsatisfying but baffling, and all the baffling stuff ceased to matter tonight when I heard the story in his voice. Perhaps his stories are meant to be told more than read, where they are just dissected, may fall apart, his images failing to withstand much scrutiny. But it was such a marked difference when I was listening, the kind of difference I’ve never really experienced at a reading. When I couldn’t perform dissections, refering to previous paragraphs, underlining points and pencilling question marks. Instead it was forward momentum, unstoppable, and I could only go along for the ride. The niggly problems didn’t stand out then, the bits and pieces, but they culminated into something larger, washing over me to cast a spell under which the story was perfectly reasonable. His last line took my breath away, and I don’t even mean it figuratively.
