July 31, 2007
The Key
Now rereading To The Lighthouse which is more marvelous than it has ever been, but what kind of idiot had this book before me? What sort of moron drew a moustache and eyeglasses on the woman on the cover, and wrote stupid notes in the margins, and an exam schedule on the endpapers? Oh, of course– the idiot who was me, and she clearly hasn’t always revered the bookish object just as much as she does now. Though I suppose my reverence for this particular volume was undermined by my perpetual study of it in undergrad– I read it in Twentieth Century Lit, Major British Writers, and a Modern Novels course. Though my appreciation did increase with every learning (really– I always read Woolf better with guidance), the book itself became less a novel than a device, to be pried open and emptied of symbolism which then got turned into essays. “Waves” get underlined, and every reference to houses. Mrs. Ramsay likes doors closed and windows opened, which puzzled me at the time(s)– what does that mean? I get it now, but I’ve also been exposed to a whole world of Woolf’s fiction, nonfiction and other writing since the last time I read this. This, which was the first of Woolf I ever encountered. How strange then, like rediscovering a cryptic code once you’ve finally found its key, and you find out it was music all along. I’m not far in yet, but when I read of Lily Briscoe and the space between what she saw and what she could paint, and that struggle, and I see all that is wrapped up in that scene now, and what it must have meant to its writer.
July 27, 2007
Pickle Me This goes to the cottage
Oh, how jealous I am of people with cottages. As great is summer in the city, some days I’d donate my kidneys for a dip in a lake, for the feel of a slatted dock under a beach towel, weeping willow trees, screen door slams, and the cry of a loon. Even for a rainy day, drops bouncing off the lake’s surface. And finally, my dream is scheduled to come true. Hurrah! This weekend we’re off to Muskoka for a cottage weekend away with my two friends oldest and dearest. Hilarity is in store, board games are packed, beer bought, compilation CD compiled (inc Spice Girls, Joni Mitchell, Guns N’ Roses, Dixie Chicks, the Chiffons, Enrique and Cam’rom– can you spell eclectic?) Oh I am SO excited. And books planned: I will be reading What the Dead Know, and I’ve just lost my husband to some book about a boy wizard. We leave very early Saturday morning, have a wine and cheese party to attend tomorrow evening, and from where I stand at this point, the next three days promise to be rather fine.
July 26, 2007
Like life itself
In literary happenings, Booklust passes on word of the newDouglas Coupland Exhibit of Penguin Collages– I won’t miss it. And summer is truly here, because out comes The Atlantic Fiction Issue. Now just-finishing April in Paris— review up tomorrow. Also stay tuned for an Animal Vegetable Miracle update. And indeed, Laurie Colwin’s A Big Storm Knocked It Over cured everything what ailed me. “It was magical… that unexpected, magnificent, beautiful release, like the unexpected joy that swept you away, like life itself.”
July 23, 2007
Things fall apart
Joan Didion is not best read, I find, when one’s recent grasp of good sense has been tenuous. Or perhaps she is best read in such a state, but then the reader is not so great to be around after. As I should know, having spent the last day with me. Neuroticism is contagious, but then Didion’s writing is so absolutely fine-picked and lovely, it seems a shame to let it go to waste. And so I’ve been rereading Slouching Toward Bethlehem, and have been immersed in that world of thirty years ago where “Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.” It seems it’s same as it ever was, and I don’t know if such a constant should be reassuring or otherwise. And I am thinking differently about “On Keeping a Notebook” than I did, and “remembering the me that used to be” seems less important that it used to. And all the California bits, which seem more pressing having read Where I was From.
(“You see I still have the scenes, but I could no longer perceive myself among those present, no longer could even improvise the dialogue.”)
Next up I will reread A Big Storm Knocked It Over, which, hopefully, will put me back in my mind.
July 13, 2007
ReReading Kevin
I had a feeling that We Need to Talk About Kevin would be an important book to reread. First read two years ago after a whole lot of Orange Prize and political hoopla, I was doubtful I would like it. It had been cast as variously feminist and anti-feminist depending on who was talking, and employed as a polarizing weapon in the mommy wars. But when I started reading, I realized that easy issues of polarity weren’t what Lionel Shriver was on about, and that she wasn’t spouting rhetoric as much as asking questions. What I remember most about finishing this book the first time was an urgent need to find somebody else with whom to discuss it.
And so to approach it two years later would be interesting. First, that I’d know the big twist was coming– could this book be about more than its sensation? And also reading it in the context of Shriver’s other work, which I’ve become familiar with. Nearly halfway in, I am pleased to report that the work has been even more resonant the second time around. A certain poignancy is offered, reading in light of what has not yet been revealed. Eva’s character is easier understood, her tragedy more pointed. And I see also that while this is definitely Shriver’s most accomplished work to date, it is in no way a departure from her usual. In all her books, Shriver has a tremendous ability to make unattractive characters realistic, evocative and impossibly sympathetic, even as you want to punch them all the while. This time I also see that, as with Double Fault and The Post-Birthday World, Kevin is ultimately not about motherhood and murder as much as marriage.
July 11, 2007
Wholly visible and reliable
What is it when pathetic fallacy functions in reading? Because at the moment I feel like I’m reading Salt Rain in just the right climate: “the raindrops making an endless circuit from earth to clouds, the same water falling again and again for decades.” 80% humidity is probably as close to the Australian rain forest as Toronto ever gets. It’s a funny thing.
So far Salt Rain is a pretty good story, but then you’ve got to feel sorry for any book that has to follow Henry James. Such an unfair pitting, but the narrative voice feels so slight in comparison. Which came to mind last night when I was reading James Wood’s review of Edward P. Jones’ Aunt Hagar’s Children in The London Review of Books. Writes Wood:
These days, God-like authorial omniscience is permitted only if God is a sweet ghost, the kind with whom the residents can peaceably coexist. This is especially true in most contemporary short stories, where the narrator may be wildly unreliable (first person) or reliably invisible (third person), but not wholly visible and reliable. Few younger contemporary writers risk the kind of biblical interference that Muriel Spark hazards, or that V.S. Naipaul practices in A House for Mr. Biswas, in which the narrative eschatologically leaps ahead to inform us of how the characters will end their lives or casually blinks away years at a time: ‘In all, Mr. Biswas lived six years at The Chase, years so squashed by their own boredom and futility that they could be comprehended in one glance.’ Comprehended by whom?
And now, post-James, I am craving omniscience. And have set myself a little challenge: the next story I begin will have a narrator who is not a sweet ghost at all.
(Update: Oh, yes, I looked it up. “eschatology [esk‐ă‐tol‐ŏji], the theological study or artistic representation of the end of the world.”)
July 9, 2007
Completely a fool
Reading a classic every month takes up so much reading time and reading effort, but oh the payoff. I adored The Portrait of a Lady, which I hardly remembered from my first reading seven years ago. Oh, the mastery. And that Henrietta Stackpole was redeemed in the end; it pleased me that my younger self was not completely a fool. It was interesting, by the way, to see how self-reflexively I used to read my books– the lines underlined. It was as though I used to read seeking myself (“Yes yes yes! That’s meeee!” my notes appear to shriek. “That’s just how it is!!”). Any line that summed up my experience, my struggles, my pain. I once read a book where a character had the same name as a boy I loved, and I underlined every single instance of that name. How ridiculous. And so we’ve come full circle, I suppose. It seems that my younger self was indeed completely a fool.
Now reading a new novel–Salt Rain (from Australia!) by Sarah Armstrong. And so the alternating rereading begins, and next I will get to We Need to Talk About Kevin.
July 8, 2007
Store Bought Women
We shall save the island for next weekend then, as plans were thwarted. For some reason Saturday morning we didn’t wake up until eleven, and this morning we woke up to thunder. Fortunately there was plenty of other fun to be had. Friday night we had dinner at the Brown-Smiths (who become “the Smiths” full-stop come January how exciting!), and relished rooftop patio goodness and finally the CN Tower lit up. I hadn’t seen it before. Clearly I neither get out nor look up enough. Yesterday’s highlight was a swim in the pool at Christie Pitts– what a delight! Sweet relief from the humidity. Today was such a Sunday– I read The Portrait of a Lady (nearly done), worked on a new true story full of lies, and Stuart devoured The Raw Shark Texts in one sitting. This weekend we watched Saturday Night and Sunday Morning and adored it. You might remember that both of us read the book and loved it earlier this year. I love when a film can so well complement the book it came from. Two more days until the new Crowded House! And the big news? This weekend I successfully baked a chocolate cake. This has never happened before, as my cakes have variously exploded, disintegrated, failed to bake etc. But this cake is perfect, and easy. I shall not attempt a different recipe ever again. And tea of the week? Pomegranate Green. Yum zum.
July 5, 2007
Stackpole
Maud Newton has pointed me toward Marilynne Robinson’s review of The Maytrees. Katie Roiphe shows that a literary allusion can make self-reflexiveness much more interesting. Outsider top tens (though they missed the obvious choice).
Still reading Portrait of a Lady, and enjoying it, but then my twenty-first century sensibilities makes the nineteenth century read at a dilatory pace. But no, it’s a rich book. I like the American/English dynamic, which I believe would have gone over my head the first time. And Henrietta Stackpole is not so much an inspiration as absolutely absurd, but perhaps that was always the point.
July 3, 2007
ReReading BeGins
And so The ReReading Project Re-begins with The Portrait of a Lady, last read in August 2000 according to what I wrote on the title page. It was for an undergraduate English course. I was a burgeoning feminist then, and remember being entranced by Henrietta Stackpole who wouldn’t consider marriage: “Not til I’ve seen Europe”. Which became my mantra (not that anyone was dying to marry me anyway), and I did get to Europe (where I found a husband, so there you go). I’ve just glanced at the first page so far, but the first paragraph is far more meaningful now than it must have been back in 2000. Begins the book, “Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.” Yes yes yes!! I didn’t even like tea in 2000, I don’t think, but now I see that no other sentence has ever been so true.
