August 29, 2007
Senseless destruction
Disemboweled remains of a book were spotted on the corner of Harbord and Spadina this morning, torn pages blowing in the breeze. A thorough investigation managed to retrieve the book’s title and copyright page at the scene, identifying said book as The Rise of the Canadian Newspaper by Douglas Fetherling, published in Toronto by Oxford University Press in 1990. Witnesses to the aftermath of this violence reported being “sickened” by the senseless destruction, the book evidently torn to pieces in a fit of rage, page by page stripped from the spine. Front and back covers could not be found. The Rise of the Canadian Newspaper will probably be missed by Neil Reynolds, to whom its dedication page was inscribed.
August 29, 2007
Incendiary vs. harmonic
Now reading If Today Be Sweet by Thrity Umrigar, the story of a Parsi woman from Bombay who must decide whether or not she should move to be with her son in America after the death of her husband. And it’s strange reading this, so soon after Digging to America by Anne Tyler, and not so long after Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake too. Of course I realize that a Parsi family, an Iranian family, and a Bengali family are each entirely separate entities, but what is interesting is the way that together these books might suggest otherwise, forming what seems to be a generic perspective of the American immigrant experience.
In each of these books a widowed woman somewhat acclimatized to America must approach it as someplace new following the loss of her husband. She must grapple with the American-ness of her beloved only son, and find her place within his family and his new life. Son must struggle between his mother and his wife, and their differing values. A grandchild will be the subject of misplaced adoration and expectations. The woman and her husband will have been upstanding, as immigrants themselves working hard and succeeding. Their son will live in an even nicer neighbourhood in Ohio, Baltimore or Massachusetts, and have two cars in the garage. He will sometimes question the American dream, and his mother will wonder if it was all worth it in the end.
The same-ness is phenomenal. Each of these stories has its own merit (and the Tyler and Lahiri in particular are amazing books), but it is almost as though American immigrant fiction has fallen into that proverbial melting pot.
Further, to compare it to the similar British literature I can think of off the top of my head– White Teeth and Brick Lane. These novels are so much more gritty and their narratives take such incendiary turns, in great contrast to the bird-chirping harmony almost audible in the American books. What does this tell us about each country then? Are the stories really so different, or is it just in how they’re told? Do these works function in respective British or American literary traditions?
I may have to sleep on this one. Or you could tell me?
August 28, 2007
Nothing on earth can equal
Curtis is moving to Ireland, and he wants us to come visit him. Last night he told us that in the new flat “we’ll have a spare bedroom”. And there was something in his “we”– I had to get down To the Lighthouse and get Virginia Woolf to explain:
“‘We went to look for Minta’s brooch,’ he said, sitting down by her. ‘We’ — that was enough. She knew from the effort, the rise his voice to surmount a difficult word that it was the first time he had said ‘we’. ‘We’ did this, ‘we’ did that. They’ll say that all their lives, she thought…”
It was the second time in the past while that I’ve needed Virginia Woolf to sum up love– in June, you might remember, I read this passage from The Voyage Out at Bronwyn’s wedding, and nothing has ever been more appropriate. And Mrs. Ramsay was able to describe what made Curtis’s “we” so significant, far more succinctly than I ever could have. I love the relevance of VW’s words, not long from a century after they were written. A room full of ordinary people, ordinary conversation on a Sunday night, and that Virginia Woolf mattered there. It surprises people, I think, what she knew about love. What she knew about joy.
What then, for the whole story? How do we reconcile that beautiful passage from The Voyage Out with what happened to Rachel? Paul Rayley’s “we” with what happened to “the Rayleys”? With what happened to Mrs. Ramsay? Should the inevitable darkness in Woolf’s work necessarily obliterate the light? I like to think not. Yes, Woolf is dangerous out of context, but there is nothing wrong with pushing the darkness back sometimes– this is what life is. This is what hope is.
Hope is moving away to Ireland on the trail of a girl, and even knowing what I know, twentieth century aside and all, I look forward to hearing Curtis say “we” all our lives. To Bronwyn and Alex, and the refreshingly solid ordinariness of their love, whose power can bring tears to my eyes. It is seeing the world all around us, and venturing forth anyway, and hope is, surely, as Woolf knew, a most heroic act.
August 28, 2007
Rosie Little blew my mind
(I will write a composed post in a moment, for now, can hysteria guide my way?)
Love at first line– that was all it took. And then Danielle Wood’s Rosie Little’s Cautionary Tales for Girls managed to grow more fulfilling with every line that followed. I’ve absolutely fallen in love and so wholeheartedly. I will tell you, as it goes, that I thought I’d known love, but now I realize…. Oh but now…
Yesterday morning I sent out an Emergency Book Recommendation urging friends to obtain this book. When informed yesterday evening that a friend of mine had purchased it that afternoon, that I was responsible for just one copy of Rosie Little being sold was immensely gratifying. And my friend will like it. I can’t think of any youngish woman I know who wouldn’t (except the horrible ones, but even they might). I will become this book’s champion. You may receive it as a gift from me in the future, and you will not receive a gift receipt because I know that you most definitely will not need it.
Oh the perfect book– these come along so rarely. I kept waiting for Rosie Little to let me down, because there is no such thing as a free lunch or life isn’t fair, or other such pathetic reasons, but Rosie never faltered. Would it be way too ridiculous to say that RLCTFG blew my mind? Because after all when you begin with what appears to be the pinnacle of pleasure which only intensifies, isn’t that what happens?
Do you remember that first line to which I fell in love (and I will quote it in my review-to-come). From that to the last line? Particularly if you are me? “In a moment, I would take a bold and good-sized step, out into the woods again. But first, I would finish my tea.” Yes yes yes. I finished this book on my lunch break today and returned to my desk unable to function. Symptoms of this are lingering as this post probably makes clear.
The one problem with Rosie Little’s Cautionary Tales for Girls is, interestingly, in regards to one of the coolest things about it– design. A little black hardcover with a red spine, polka dots and a red shoe on the cover, black endpapers and flyleaf, fairytale fonts. A bit of whimsy, like Rosie herself– small but fierece in mean red boots. Ingenius, I think, but then when I was at Book City on the weekend, I saw it on display beside the cash register with novelty books. I was aghast. Mean boots indeed, this book is substance incarnate. As its champion I may be forced to complain to store management, and really, at this point, I wouldn’t put it past me.
August 22, 2007
Author interview
The fabulous Deanna McFadden has an interview with Janice Kulyk Keefer up here at CBC Words at Large. And you know, it’s not yet too late to still make The Ladies Lending Library a summer read. I started the season out with it (oh, and where has the time gone), and it was wonderful. You will gather as much from Deanna’s interview.
August 22, 2007
On cheap paperbacks
My copy of The Blind Assassin is a mass-market paperback. And though I don’t remember reading it the first time, surprisingly I do remember buying it– that little burst of joy upon realizing here was a whole book for 11.99 and, moreover, I could afford that. The book is wonderful this time around, by the way, but I am also taking particular joy in its mass-market paperbackness. It’s the first such book I’ve read in a long time, and I’d forgotten how satisfying its little bulk can be. Bulk, yes, but fits so conveniently into my bag. I like the way the spine cracks whether I want it to or not, and so the book can’t help but come to be lived in. The Blind Assassin in particular lends itself to this form, I think, in that the novel within the novel is inevitably paperback. The cover design is perfect too, with the gold embossed letters suggesting the sordidness and drama of the story, all the while spelling out “Margaret Atwood”. Which, actually, is exactly right.
August 22, 2007
Big Book of the Berenstain Bears
So I’ve been giving some thought to the types of books I read as an adolescent, but what about the books from even earlier? The picture books? Once again I wish I could tout some high-falutin lit cred from way back in the day, but what I come up with is almost just nonsense. Bookish poppycock, oh, but GOOD bookish poppycock. I loved Amelia Bedelia, Jillian Jiggs, Miss Rumphius (who was not nonsense). Etc. etc. But most of all I did love The Berenstain Bears.
And so I was excited about the re-issue of Big Book of the Berenstain Bears by Stan and Jan Berenstain, and by the chance to go back in time and remember why I liked these books so much. This book is actually five books in one, in which the Bears have a new baby (she appears while Brother and Papa are in the woodshed), get a sitter (nicer than she seems), are afraid of the dark (solution=nightlight), go to the doctor (won’t hurt a bit), and clean their room. A little preachy (life is better when you keep your closet tidy), and not so fashionable in terms of gender roles, but still these are nice little stories. Perhaps they are more suitable for application to real life than flights of the imagination, but this big book would strike me as sensible to have around in the event of children, and five in one is good value to boot.
So where did my fierce love of this series stem from? Upon careful consideration of this compendium, I have managed to trace my attraction back to the Berenstain Bears’ tree house. Marvelously pink with chimneys and windows in the boughs, I wanted to live in a house just like it. I think I also used to be fascinated by the way the Berenstain Bears kept popping up in Dr. Seuss easy-reads, thus existing in multiple literary dimensions. That Brother Bear was never identified by name in the Dr. Seuss books only added to his allure, and made him much more cool and mysterious than might be suggested by the stories in which he collects birds’ nests, or peels down to his underpants for a booster shot.
August 19, 2007
Wonderful…
Now rereading Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin, which I remember nothing about. I read it the first time, according to the inside cover, beginning October 8 2001, and finished that October 27 with a note on blank page at the back, “Wonderful…”. Let’s hope it lives up to my previous reception. And that I read it a bit quicker than I did the first time around, as there are so many books I’ve got scheduled to be read before summer is over. Also now reading the latest Walrus which is proving interesting, though The Future of Reading was less interesting than I wanted it to be.
Earlier today I was happy to be reading a little interview with Margaret Drabble (via Maud Newton). “The biggest fate of all is your marriage partner. It’s extraordinary that you should happen to be at such a party or such a university or even on such a bus ride and meet the man that you’re going to marry, for better or worse. I find these accidental conjunctions that turn the plot of your life fascinating.”
News on the homefront: we’ve just cut into our first homegrown watermelon, and we’ve got a Japanese houseguest arriving on Wednesday.
August 19, 2007
On commerical fiction
Once again, I won’t be naming names, as I believe no Google search should take a reader to a review by one who was never meant to read that writer in the first place. Howevert I didn’t start off with a bias. I wanted to read the latest novel by JP because if she’s that popular surely the book would be enjoyable in a summery way, and because I’d read this profile in The Guardian and it intrigued me. I am also very interested in what lies within the massive gulf between fictions popular and literary, and as this latest novel addresses much of the same material as Lionel Shriver’s incredible We Need to Talk About Kevin, I thought here we have a fabulous case study.
In the Guardian profile, JP reports, “I tell my publicist not to send me the New York Times, which if they do write about me only do so in order to be snide. But the best revenge is when I end up top of their bestseller list. Which happens all the time.” (Incidentally I found it amusing that she notes that she is more prolific than Joyce Carol Oates.) I don’t want to be snide at all, but the fact was (and this rarely happens to me) I couldn’t read this book. I tried, I failed, I skimmed to the end and found that I’d called it from the first chapter, and that the big twist at the end was laughably ridiculous.
On top of not naming names, I also believe that those who don’t finish books have no business reviewing them (hello amazon), so I won’t. But I will provide some speculation in regards to that gulf between fictions I noted above. It was interesting that my aborted read of JP’s latest was followed by Digging to America by Anne Tyler. Tyler is literary, but unpretentiously so, and so I imagine her work is easily marketed as commercial, which makes for some effective comparison. Craft: that we are told in the first chapter of the JP book that a character is not what she seems, that nobody knows what lies inside her, while Tyler actually shows us this through multiple perspectives. Character development: that JP’s characters are all basically good albeit with tragic flaws, except the absolute baddie who dies anyway so no matter, whereas some of Anne Tyler’s characters are absolutely rotten, and even the good ones are rotten in parts. Finally: that JP’s story is all situation, a “what-if” but the story never goes beyond that. Could this be the crux then, bad popular fiction at its baddest? That life there seems to be lived entirely on the platform of situation, and nobody ever seems to get off it?
August 19, 2007
If you want your local bookstore to prosper…
A word of advice: if you want your local bookstore to prosper, a good tip might be to give me a gift certificate for it. I regard gift certificates as licence to spend twice as much as usual (naturally– one wouldn’t want to look cheap). I was fortunate to receive a gift from Nicholas Hoare recently, and so yesterday we made a journey out of walking there and back. (I like long long walks. I regard them as licence to eat cake en-route.)
When we arrived at the bookstore, Stuart settled down on a couch with a book of interest to wait out my selection process. (Which is to say that Stuart has come a long way since our trip to Paris’s Shakespeare and Company in April 2003 which was the scene of our very first fight.) And I chose very carefully: I am deeply interested in reading Arlington Park and A Celibate Season, but neither was in stock. However I found eight others, and then narrowed the pile to five, and then three.
What won out in the end were Claire Massud’s first novel When the World Was Steady, Simple Recipes by Madeleine Thien, and Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. Each of these writers have wowed me with their more recent works, and I am excited to be venturing into their back catalogues for more.
