January 21, 2007

Confronted by Fiction

The book I just finished, I am embarrassed to name, and the book I am reading at the moment, I don’t like much at all. This state of affairs is a deep dark hole which doesn’t please me, and I’ll be climbing out of it in a day or two.

Part two of the Treatise of Zadie Smith. “To read The Virgin Suicides followed by The Idiot followed by Despair followed by You Bright and Risen Angels followed by Bleak House followed by Jonah’s Gourd Vine followed by Play it as it Lays is to be forced to recognise the inviolability of the individual human experience. Fiction confronts you with the awesome fact that you are not the only real thing in this world.” (Oh Zadie I swoon!). Edith Wharton in France. Go Hillary! (How refreshing– a chance for a better world!)

The Robber Bride’s TV adaptation is on tonight. I’ll be watching, mainly because I’ve just started a knitting project and TV becomes handy then– particularly when it’s bookish.

January 18, 2007

Joons and Places

Last night’s Asian meal out was brought to us by Joons for Korean with Curtis, and I had bibimbap– the deliciousist. We have to stop going out for dinner though, before we become chronic. In other news, I’m reading The Hunters by Claire Messud, which is actually two novellas. The first was stunning, and the second currently has me in its grip. Remarkable too, as the first story (“A Simple Tale”) takes place in Toronto, and the second (“The Hunters”) is set in London. And of course, The Emperor’s Children, which I read last November, is all about New York. I like that writer can evoke so many different places, but then again Claire Messud gets around.

January 14, 2007

This land

I’m about halfway through This Is My Country, What’s Yours?, and it’s so overwhelmingly good, I’m not sure what I’ll be able to say about it once I’m finished. Though undoubtedly a book about literature, this is a book about Canada first and foremont, informed by its stories. And so to read this book is to learn more about Canada than CanLit, really. In the past day, I’ve come across this program on the Westray Mining Disaster, and this article on violence and suicide in Nunavut, and my perspective on both is different than it would have been had I not just encountered these issues/places in Richler’s book. How incredibly current and important this book is. And I’m so glad I’ve got the hardcover, because I think it’s only going to mean more with time.

January 12, 2007

Peppermint Love

I’ve just learned that my household has acquired Apples to Apples, which is one of the most enjoyable games I’ve ever played. Though I hate most games so my perspective is limited, and this one is bound to infuriate serious game-lovers, as it has no rules. Though I still lost at it when we played, but I lose at all games. It’s my constitution. And so that’s fun news, and more fun is that I’ve got a date with my husband this eve. We’re having company for dinner tomorrow night and I’m looking forward to that (as well as a chance to break out the game?). And so life continues lamely, but nicely.

I finished rereading Alice Munro’s Who Do You Think you Are? yesterday. What an incredible book. I reread the legendary Lives of Girls and Women last summer, and wasn’t as impressed as I’d wanted to be. I think that Munro was constrained by “A Novel”, and Who Do You Think…, while definitely connected, was obviously composed of short stories and she’s better at that. In fact, she is extraordinary at that. I know I’m certainly not the first one to say so. It’s just nice to be reminded. And I’m now reading Noah Richler’s This Is My Country, What’s Yours?”, which is cool because the only other book on CanLit I’ve ever read was published in 1972, and certainly a lot has happened since then.

Here for an article on Richler’s and a few other unusual Canadian atlases, and their lessons on Canadian identity. 50,000 copies of Andrea Levy’s brilliant Small Island have been distributed through parts of Britain “to encourage reading, and discussion”. (Wonderful connections between Levy’s novel and Kate Atkinson’s work have just dawned on me). Here for Literary Pop Idolatry. Type Books in the press (and the business press to boot).

My new teapot is full of peppermint love, and I shall get down to an afternoon of glorious work.

January 8, 2007

Only Connect

Lucky Lori Lansens, whose novel is the first Canadian book selected by Richard and Judy’s book club. Britpop enters its latest golden age. On le history of chapbooks.

I just finished reading the bizarre and wonderful Never Let Me Go, and the imaginary sounds of Judy Bridgewater are playing in my mind. Next up is Human Croquet by Kate Atkinson, who is always a treat.

The basement neighbours’ screaming match is entering its 49th hour. We’ve deciphered that she quit her job, he never shows her affection, he declared her unreliable and she is no longer allowed to eat his bread. Moreover she has outstanding debt on rental cars and owes him a ton of cigarettes. It’s difficult to keep track of because they move between inside and out, and so we have to keep moving between the vent and the window to get the details. It’s all getting a bit tiresome, however. We’re hoping they kill each other before bedtime.

In literary connexions, my mom met a man at a party yesterday who is uncle to Ms. Z. Smith’s own Laird.

January 3, 2007

Short

I’ve taken a one-week break from my long project to write short stories– two or hopefully three. Concurrently, I’m reading Cathedral and listening to my new Badly Drawn Boy CD for inspiration.

December 22, 2006

Special Topics etc.

I will be brief about Special Topics in Calamity Physics as so many reviews have said so much already (I’d link to more reviews, but my internet is dial-upily slow today, who knows why). As always, I would dismiss the opinion of all those who couldn’t get through it because this book’s ending was my favourite thing about it. I also would not accuse the novel of pretentiousness, but rather it is meant to be a critique of pretentiousness– not an entirely successful one, however. Similarly, the novels gestures toward an extreme bookishness, which a reader can’t quite buy as many of the books discussed within this one aren’t even actual books. Comparisons to Donna Tartt are made easily, but Pessl’s characters are not as interesting (in fact, Blue van Meer’s teenage peers are incredibly boring). Comparing anyone to Nabokov is a bit unfair. In typical American styly, the book is big as a brick and I’m not sure it has to be (though I’m hardly one to talk– my attempt at brevity is already failing). The inevitable however. The first third of this book is hardly a slog, but it’s annoying in parts. I think that fake bookishness might be worse than pretentious bookishness. The second third of the book is better, but far too focussed on the secret life of teenagers, which of course is boring. The third part of the book, however, is golden. It’s what I imagine that DaVinci book might be like for people who liked it. Murder mystery/thriller/race to the end/gutting twist etc. Marisha Pessl is trying to do far too much with her debut novel, but the upside of that is that I think most people could find something to like in this book.

Now rereading Jane Eyre, which I read last eleven years ago when I was in grade eleven English. “I hate English!” is written on the title page in my handwriting, but I do remember liking this book and I’m loving it now. Continuing with uTOpia, which actually has many more good essays than bad ones, and I’m learning a lot. I particularly like the way essays unconsciously counter and disagree with one another, which fits the complexity of the issues this book is addressing. Oh, and Curtis bought me a subscription to Vanity Fair, which I’ve been dreaming of for my whole life. He and Erin came over for dinner last night, and my risotto debut was a giant success. We all drank too much wine, and had inordinate amounts of good conversation.

December 20, 2006

From here and there

The Penelopiad is being remade for the stage. And though it happened awhile back, John Steffler is Canada’s new poet laureate (and I liked his novel.)

In terms of non-fiction, I’m reading uTOpia at the moment, which is interesting in parts, but terribly obnoxious in others (one person wrote an essay about how he was connected to each of the forces of Toronto’s cultural renaissance [ie someone was his second cousin, though they’d only become acquainted recently, and he used to go to parties at so and so’s house, etc etc] which I think was supposed to have a point beyond that but I missed it).

The big news is that Bronwyn’s back in town, and showers galore are the theme of the holidays. As matron of honour, I have organized a fete for Saturday afternoon, but then I can’t say anything more because it’s a surprise. Just that it’s bookish. We’re keeping holiday gatherings to a minimum, as I’ve got a lot of work to do these days. Tomorrow night, however, I am learning how to make risotto, which is exciting. We’re getting to the end of the Christmas baking, like the gluttons we are. I realized I made it a week earlier this year, which probably wasn’t the best idea.

December 19, 2006

Holden

I’m now reading the much-hyped, well-loved and well-hated Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl. Almost two hundred pages in, I’m enjoying how it goes, but more about that later. For the moment, I wish to discuss Holden Caulfield, however. And how most modern characters described as “a modern day Holden Caulfield” are so blatantly not.

In particular, I’m thinking about Pessl’s main character, and also about Lee from Curtis Sittenfeld’s Prep. And I am trying to figure out why I find these characters so childish, why these books read like YA Fiction when Holden Caulfield never really did. I’ve determined it’s about perspective. These modern protagonists are all-knowing, and even when they screw up, the screw-up is always in retrospect. At some point, their narratives reveal that they get over adolescence. Holden Caulfield’s never did. Catcher in the Rye is so planted in his head in a way that is absolutely alarming, and that’s what interesting about the book, not necessarily his engagement with the world. Holden never tells us anything that Holden wouldn’t have told us. He exists as himself, and as not as a quirky, clever set of eyes through which to see the world. Herein lies the difference, I think.

When I first read Catcher in the Rye, I was thirteen years old and thought that Holden was cool. Encountering him again ten years later, my heart hurt for this deeply broken boy I’d once had a crush on. The change in his character made this a completely different book each time, and I don’t know that I’d think the same about the modern Holdens. I consider YA fiction fine in itself, but it’s not compelling to me as literature if it’s just the same book twice.

December 15, 2006

Drabbling Again

In our house we have a verb called “drabbling”. It’s like reading, only much much better. I haven’t actually drabbled since I read the wonderful The Red Queen last Christmas. I drabbled a bit in the summer when I reread The Radiant Way and The Middle Ground, but true drabbling is always a first time encounter. And now I’m reading The Sea Lady, I’m drabbling again. I really can only read a few pages at a time because the delight is just too much.