October 3, 2007

An ideal marriage

An ideal marriage I have discovered, as indeed I am longing to get through the nonfiction books in my stack, but I can’t bear to give up lies for too long. So I am reading two books at once now, nonfiction complemented by a collection of short stories: the former being Kate Grenville’s Searching for the Secret River, and the latter is Jack Hodgins’ Damage Done by the Storm. Perfect! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?

Grenville’s book is wonderful so far, though I am approaching it from a strange place having never read The Secret River. It’s asking a lot of the same questions as Bernice Morgan’s novel Cloud of Bone, but from an Australian point of view, about remembering and forgetting, and the price we pay for either. Even some of the scenes are reminiscent, which is strange for two books of nonfiction and fiction respectively. And just getting into the Hodgins (one story before bed, you know). I’ve read his A Passion for Narrative before, and am excited to see his theory in action.

I have also become a compulsive squash buyer. Soon this will have to stop.

September 30, 2007

Resurrection

On Wednesday I found out that my next-door neighbour died– the man who’d helped us with our garden. I’d heard one of the kids who lived there talking about a hospital, and so I asked one of them what was wrong. “My grandfather is sick,” he told me. I asked him if he was all right, and the kid reported that he’d died this morning. And so I went in my house and cried, and Stuart was also sad, in his mannish-less-emotional way. All I could think of was my neighbour’s beautiful garden going untended, and that I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him. That I would never see him again, and I kept looking out the window expecting to.

I baked a batch of muffins that night (actually two, as the first didn’t turn out) and took them over to their house, gave them to another grandson. In the morning I saw one of the man’s sons out in the backyard, aimlessly fidding with the garden, and I was thinking that this poor guy had just lost his dad, and I felt terrible. I went to work feeling just as bad, and as I got to feeling better as the day progressed, I felt guilty for my good humour. That life goes on, as it did.

It was strange then, this morning, to see the dead man from next door out working in that garden. Needless to say, we are considerably confused, and I keep dissolving into hysterical laughter. And I am also really quite embarrassed about the fact that I took them over a batch of muffins, and I wonder what they thought that was all about. Or what it truly was all about? I’m also worried that this may warp my conception of life and death, and that every time someone dies from now on I am going to expect this to happen.

Life is weird, particularly in my neighbourhood.

September 23, 2007

Where you live with who

This morning I conducted a scientific study. (How exciting!) A study which is made a bit questionable by the limits of my own library, and the fact that my library has many more books by women then men. But still, I looked through my contemporary novels at author biographies and found the following results.
– 50 books did not make reference to the writer’s partner or family, and 24 books did.
– the 50 books with no reference were split evenly along gender lines.
– Of the 24 books that mentioned partners/families, 1/3 were by men, which was more than I had supposed.
– None of the authors who I knew were gay and lesbian made any reference to spouses/partners
– Writers with famous spouses who are less famous than the writers themselves mention their partners by name
– Writers with spouses who are more famous than they are either don’t mention them at all, or don’t name them

I’ve been wondering lately about this sort of information being included in author biographies– why it is important or relevant? I understand why husbands/wives/partners are so gushingly regarded in book dedications and acknowledgements. (Author acknowledgements are my most favourite extra-textual feature). Of course the writer wants to give due credit, but is this necessarily important to the author biography? One might argue that readers want details of authors’ lives, but these details are so vague, there’s little point. They basically say, “Oh, and yes, she is married.” Or is “…she lives with her husband and children” just another way to say that although she’s smart and writes books, she’s not turned her back on femininity altogether? Which would make me uncomfortable.

I’ve had to write three little writer bios this past while, and in none of them have I noted that I live in Toronto with my husband. Though I would have liked them to. If my novel ever sees its way into the world, I would like my biography to end just like that. But I am not sure why– why does it matter to my professional life? (It is also important here to note whether or not authors actually write their own biographies on published books– this I do not know). I suppose for many female writers, it’s a question of marketing– readers might like a writer they can relate to, and domestic details make an author seem more accessible. I think also that many writers would argue that their family is an essential part of their life, whose support makes writing possible, and therefore the family deserves a place in their life story. I would assume that a writer of children’s books would note if they were a mom or a dad.

And so my scientific study was just as inconclusive as “Do Plants Need Air?”– my famous experiment at the grade eight science fair. There are just too many variables, and so still I am curious. Why is where you live with who important? Is it really important at all?

September 21, 2007

I am right

While we’re on the topic of feminism, and women’s choices, how about the reponse to this rather silly article in The Globe today about whether women should change their name when they get married. 115 comments, last count. My friend Jennie, who often contacts me in a fury tearing her hair out about idiotic online comments, must be bald tonight. How can so many people be absolutely sure they’re right about something that is absolutely none of their business? How, especially, considering that I am right: women should or shouldn’t change their name based upon what that name is, what their partner’s name is, if they like their dad, love their family, if they are established professionally, if they are especially fond of their name (as I am), if they want to change their name, or if they don’t, or if they can’t be bothered, or if they can, because they think names make a family or because they don’t, or based upon the weather report, if they damn well want it to be. It’s none of my business, and neither is it Matt M’s from Edmonton, or Nancy’s from Toronto. Good night.

September 21, 2007

You must

Because I read so much, so fast, I am quite well-versed at moving on. Books end, books shut. But one book has been positively haunting me since I read it more than a month ago. You might remember that I wasn’t so impressed as I read Vendela Vida’s Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name. I didn’t know where the tale was leading, and the narrative seemed lacking in complexity. The prose was good, but it was all so weird. Intriguingly so, though, and I read to the end. That end. It shocked me, as it was meant to. Not with horror, but with power. Vida took everything I’d ever supposed about fate, family, obligation, story, history, and she turned it on its head. The phrase still resonates: “And when I hear people say that you can’t start over, that you cannot escape the past, I would think You can. You must.” Nothing else has ever been so wise, and the power of that moves me to tears if I think too hard. Of course you must, and I cannot wait to reread the book, galvinized by its now-inevitable close.

September 21, 2007

Friends

Ah, friends– the sugar on my berry. I received an envelope in the post today from one of my oldest friends (“since we were girls” I am nearly old enough to say), inscribed with the same symbolism we used to affix to notes passed in grade nine math. Indeed, I am a great appreciator of history. But then also of new friends: what kind of a miracle are they? Is it not enough that I met brilliant people when I was twelve and was smart enough to discern they’d be good to know, but that I continue to meet brilliant people to this day? How could such a miserable bloody world manage to be so brilliantly peopled, and bloody all the same? That I do not know, but I do know that I came home tonight from an evening with a new friend, quite hysterical with joy. My new friend. All right, I’ve known my new friend for two years now, but for me most friendships require a while to bud. And in the last few months this one has bloomed, positively. La la la my new friend. Our conversations set the world on fire.

September 16, 2007

Tomato Soup

This weekend was less than remarkable, but more than enjoyable. I’ve been tired for ages and now I’m not, and I’ve read a zillion books, and scrubbed my tub. Finally. Yesterday I read memoirs Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy, and Ann Patchett’s Truth and Beauty. Both were extremely well done, but I was also surprised at how much Patchett’s book was a writing memoir more than anything else more controversial. Last night we went to see The Great Space Debate. Should we send people to Mars? It was more hilarious, particularly when Robert Zubrin (president of The Mars Society) became enraged at the premise of colonizing Mars being a sorta bad idea. We also got freeze dried ice cream, which tasted like real ice cream but made us thirsty. Sunday has been such a Sunday, but also v. cool as the abundant tomatoes from our garden were turned into a delicious tomato soup thanks to my husband. And it’s a beautiful day outside– the sun has been pouring in through the windows deliciously.

September 13, 2007

Fictional Fiction

I’ve been thinking about fictional books lately, and of course I’m not the only one. There’s a whole wikipedia page devoted to them (and of course there is). But fictional books have been turning up in my life awfully frequently lately– The Blind Assassin by Laura Chase, A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Nikolai Mayevskyj, Briony Tallis’s Atonement, the Great Expections as retold by Matilda and Mr Watts, My Thyme is Up by Reta Winters. I do believe Mr. Ramsay had written a book to prove he’d reached the letter Q, but I don’t think I know its title.

Please pardon the obscure references (but full points to whoever can get them!). Do note, however, that these are only the fictional books found in books I’ve read since the beginning of August. And I haven’t even started on The Raw Shark Texts, which are primarily constructed of such things. Is there something strange going on here?

Now I understand that the ubiquity could have something to do with the books I choose, and my affinity for books about people who write. But sometimes fictional books do turn up in the oddest places. Some have also had profound effects upon me. And which especially, you may ask? The best fictional book I’ve never read would have be Lo, the Flat Hills of my Homeland by none other than A. Mole. And I am also quite fond of Anne Shirley’s short story “Averil’s Atonement”, though of course its commercial nature put me off a bit in the end.

September 6, 2007

BiblioTravel

A chance google search led me to BiblioTravel. Do you know it? Plug in the name of a place, and BiblioTravel will generate a list of books which take place there. How cool. Peterborough brings up Battered Soles, and I’m intrigued. Montreal’s list is epic, naturally, though the lists are incomplete, I’ve found. Thankfully you can add and amend, in a wiki styly. I intend to explore much further.

September 3, 2007

To be read

Just finished Mister Pip, and now on to October. In both books characters are reading Great Expectations. The universe appears to be sending up flares then, and I found a copy of Great Expectations at my mom’s. Officially to be read.