October 28, 2009
Howards End is on the Landing
My own discovery of Susan Hill came via DGR, and I have found her to be quite a curious woman. She is a literary novelist who writes detective fiction (which I’ve read and enjoyed), she is a publisher, she was a prolific blogger until she gave it up, and on her blog she used to rave passionately about how climate change is bunk. She is fiercely opinionated, intelligent, a bit grumpy and very sort of fascinating, and her new book has the most exquisite dustjacket I’ve laid eyes upon in ages.
Howards End is on the Landing is the story of a literary year, from one book to another, during which Hill resolved to stop accumulating new books and revisit her own library instead. A chance encounter with Howards End (on the landing, naturally) had had her realize just how many of her own books she hadn’t yet read, or how many others required rereading, and which of the rest would be essential favourites if she had to choose. And the book that resulted is a catalogue of sorts– not of the reading per se, but of hypothetical reading as Hill decides which books to spend her year with. She finishes the book with her “final forty” of books she couldn’t live without, but also explores books she hasn’t read and will never read, and why. Books she hasn’t read yet, but she’s waiting. She considers her daughters’ YA novels, an extensive collection of pop-up books, the books that bring literature to life for children now (Harry Potter) and then (Enid Blyton). Why certain books are grouped together on her shelves (for height, for example) and the unlikelihood of some of this organization, why her library remains resolutely uncatalogued, bookplates are for weenies, and chance encounters with characters from EM Forster to Ian Fleming throughout her literary life.
I’ve read this kind of reading commentary referred to as “book chat”, somewhat dismissively in regards to bookish blogs. But I actually think that these discussions of how books relate to one another, how every day life and reading life overlaps, of the library as a diary– it’s fascinating, when done right, and opens up the literature in question exponentially. And it sends waves out into the world– Hill has left me wanting to revisit Elizabeth Taylor, it was because of her I purchased The House in Paris by Elizabeth Bowen at the airport bookshop, and I’m now interested in plenty of other writers as well who aren’t even called Elizabeth.
It leaves me wanting to go in and re-explore my own bookshelves too, which are now richer for this addition.
October 13, 2009
The English Stories by Cynthia Flood
This weekend, I had the distinct pleasure of being utterly captivated by Cynthia Flood’s collection The English Stories. The stories are linked by the experiences of eleven-year-old Amanda Ellis who travels to Oxford, England in 1951 with her parents. Her academic father is on sabbatical, researching for a book about Shelley and Keats, and the family spends their English year (which stretches into two) at The Green House guesthouse. When her father’s research takes him further afield, Amanda indulges in every colonial girl’s deepest fantasy by becoming a boarder at her school, St. Mildred’s.
The story title “The Margins are the Frame” gives a good impression of Amanda’s point of view. Amanda– by her age, culture, language and nationality– is alienated from everyone around her. And from the margins, her perspective of England, of home and away, of her parents and their relationship, of her schoolmates and teachers is surprising, misinformed, illuminating, tragic and true. And although Amanda is the anchor of the entire collection, the stories also come from additional perspectives– from other guests at The Green House, from teachers at St. Mildred’s, all of these characters on margins of their own.
This was an England not long out of war, in the throes of an age of austerity, coming to terms (or not yet) with fundamental changes in values and beliefs, and grappling with centuries of a empirical past that was quickly becoming irrelevant. And though Flood’s protagonist is young, her stories’ themes are not, which becomes the point– Amanda struggling with the gap between the world as it is and her limited understanding. Understanding which is little achieved here, for Amanda is only eleven after all, and then just twelve, and thirteen. Far too young yet for “coming of age” and Flood doesn’t do such neat resolutions anyway.
What she does do is a marvelous sentence: “At lunch on the rainy February day the King died, the sweet was custard and stewed damsons” opens “Early in the Morning”, or “The Spring term in which Kay died and Constance disappeared from St. Mildred’s, and I broke my glasses featured a school wide obsession with mealtime talk of sex” begins “Magnificat“. These sentences both convey the way in Flood encapsulates the world wide and near, the great and small, inside her literary universe. And while I want to write about my favourite stories and what each one was “about”, but I’m not sure I can contain all that in the space I have here.
But I will try: “Religious Knowledge” from the perspective of Miss Flower, teacher of religion, who has not yet mastered her own life and then becomes responsible for another when she learns about one of her pupil’s disturbing homelife; “Miss Pringle’s Hour”, the headmistress’s diary hiding a tragic love story inside it; “The Promised Land” shows the Ellis’ at the end of their sojourn and provides them with a new perspective on Canada (amongst other things); “The Margins are the Frame” in which Amanda takes up shoplifting, is ostracized at school, and learns that the maid at The Greenhouse is an unmarried mother.
But really, these descriptions don’t do these stories justice. With mere words (though there is nothing mere about her words), Flood has recreated a time and a place and an atmosphere so steeped, I could trace my finger along the patterns in the wallpaper (and she doesn’t even mention the wallpaper). These stories are challenging, tricky, ripe with allusionary gateways to the wider world of literature. And so rewarding, for the richness of character, the intricate detail, and careful plotting that holds just enough back, keeping us alert and anticipating what’s around every next turn.
October 12, 2009
On Before Green Gables
It was an enjoyable and fascinating experience to finally read Before Green Gables, the Anne of Green Gables prequel written by Budge Wilson, published last year. Budge Wilson was an author I particularly loved when I was young– the Lorinda Dauphinee stories, including A House Far From Home, The Best/Worst Christmas Present Ever, and Thirteen Never Changes. She certainly had a formidable task set before her, to write the Green Gables book. And I began reading prepared for disappointment (after all, I’d once read Scarlett by Alexandra Ripley), but found myself enjoying it after all. There is nothing disappointing about this book itself.
But. Of course. I think what is disappointing is the entire exercise, and its execution. I’m not sure why we needed a “prequel” anyway, and then to have it written by a children’s author is rather incongruous with the original material. Because Before Green Gables is distinctly a children’s book– this is what Budge Wilson does, after all. In fact, it’s basically a pared-down version of Anne of Green Gables itself, as Anne– from the age of three or four– begins to entrance all who meet her (including her alcoholic wife-beating foster father), conjure magic in unlikely places, and spin the world into something delightful. And of course part of this is her nature, but Wilson has her nurtured too– her guardians display moments of genuine goodness, she meets a surfeit of generous, spirited school teachers along the way, she learns about poetry from her foster-sister who is uncannily Anne-like herself, she meets good friends, people look out for her, and not one heart here is not warmed at one time or another.
The thing is, however, that Anne of Green Gables was not a children’s book, or was not distinctly so. And however much all of the above events also came to pass in the original novel, where they achieved their poignancy is from the awfulness of Anne’s early life. The specifics are never made particularly clear, but such silence is telling– there is a reason Anne’s story began in Bright River. I believe Marilla Cuthbert alludes to this at some point, the unspeakableness of Anne’s early history, what she might have witnessed and been subject to in the homes where she spent that part of her life. Anne is who she is, not because of kindness she met along the way, but because of sheer lack of it. Her Anne-ness is primarily a survival mechanism in a brutal world where she was completely, utterly and scarily alone.
Her life from Green Gables was indeed a kind of fairy tale, but how dark is a fairy tale at its root, after all?
Budge Wilson has written a wonderful children’s book, but a children’s book doesn’t do Montgomery’s own work justice– or at least this one doesn’t. Because there is only light here, and Anne becomes a caricature. Before Green Gables also suffers from being so unorganic, where it is obvious that the narrative was always a means to an end and not the end itself. But what’s missing most of all is the subliminal, what’s left unsaid, all those aspects of the narrative that fly over kids’ heads leaving them sensing something there, and loving the story all the more.
Montgomery’s work was full of that stuff, which is why we return to her again and again.
October 9, 2009
Generation A by Douglas Coupland
In the early 1990s, I sort of thought that Douglas Coupland would marry Naomi Klein, because he’d written a book called Generation X (that I hadn’t read because I was 12 and too busy reading true crime), and her column in The Toronto Star had the very same name. The match, however, was not to be, and this is apropos of nothing except that some things come full circle (while some things don’t, because Naomi Klein no longer writes lifestyle columns).
While certainly no slouch (he’s a novelist, an artist, recently a groomer of one enormous beard), Douglas Coupland has been doing the same thing for nearly twenty years. Which is fine, because apart from a few bookish missteps (which I’ve heard him reference as “failed experiments” and fair enough), Coupland does what he does very well. He writes quirky, pop-culturally infused literature that reads a bit like junkfood and/or sushi. His characters tend to all speak in the same kind of voice, peppered with colloquialisms, as self-aware as their author, victims of the air they breathe. He writes about lonely people in a world that is exciting, colourful and ripe with possibility, and somehow also cold and empty at the very same time. But then all these lonely people together are therefore not alone, and Coupland has made a career out of the hope of that. There is solidarity to be had in the collective voice.
His new novel Generation A is described on its jacket as “mirror[ing] Generaton X“, which isn’t really full circle either. Coupland revisits themes and ideas from his first novel, but this new book offers a re-evaluation. ‘A’ is very far from ‘X’, I mean, which isn’t exactly progress, but perhaps it is when that ‘A’ is a brand new beginning. And certainly time’s ripe for such a thing in Generation A, which takes place in the not-too distant future (2015, I think, because 34 year-old Diana was named for you-know-who, so I calculate her birth date as Royal Wedding 1981).
Everybody is addicted to a drug called Solon that allows one to live without thought of the future. And bees have also mysteriously died out, though life goes on thanks to synthetic pollination, but that can’t really be called life. Or perhaps that it is called life after all says something about how standards have fallen.
Then a bee stings a naked farmer in Iowa (who is plowing obscene shapes into his field of corn, and broadcasting live via webcam), and a young woman in New Zealand who’s making an earth sandwich, and a French World of Warcraft addict, a Sri Lankan call centre zealot, and a girl in Northern Ontario with tourettes. Officials swoop in, the stung are taken away to government centres for testing, and kept in solitary confinement for weeks. Once returned to their habitats, the five find they’re not safe from a crazed public to whom they symbolize hope (and plus their homes have been dismantled for complete investigation). So it is for their own safety that they’re each taken away and assembled on a remote island in British Columbia.
Why were they chosen? What binds this group beyond their bee-stings? And why do crates of Solon keep turning up everywhere? In a kind of Scheherazad-like task, the five are instructed to tell stories to save their lives. When they resist, they’re told that people have become so obsessed with their lives being stories, they’ve forgotten invention. And so the stories begin, and they’re actually wonderful to read (unlike the story within a story in Coupland’s previous novel [remember Glove Pond?] which was meant to be bad, but we still had to read it.) The five grow closer, and the truth gets nearer.
Generation A is funny, sad, illuminating, weird, and the world in a bottle. There is also hope. Coupland has decided against an apocolypse this time, opting for the Scooby Doo ending instead, and though anything that isn’t an apocolypse might be considered a high note, the bottle here is really half-full.
October 6, 2009
Little Women Report #2
Perhaps I spoke too soon awhile back, because the second half of Little Woman was really wonderful. Though the characters were good, they were good in ways that were true to themselves and the ways in which they strayed beforehand weren’t necessarily obvious and were interesting to read. The chapter where Meg makes jelly that doesn’t set on the day her husband brings home a dinner guest without warning was an incredibly realistic depiction of domestic dynamics. Jo’s experiences as a writer were fascinating and so true. Amy became a wonderful mass of contradictions, and the most interesting sister by the end. I really enjoyed this part of the book and am glad I followed through.
But the second half was so different from the first that I could scarcely believe that the two were published a year apart. I’d figured Alcott must have grown significantly as a writer in the interim. Or perhaps she realized her characters had wider appeal than she’d initially planned?
It’s the tone of the second half that is so very different, as though it’s growing up along with the characters. And that’s something I’ve never found in a book before, an omniscient narrator so in tune with her characters’ perspectives. In the first half of Little Women, there is little going on beneath the surface. Of course, you get the sense that Marmee is wiser than she lets on, but it’s so obvious, and the other characters know it too. But it was distinctly a children’s book, whereas the second half wasn’t.
And maybe that’s what young readers like so much about Little Women, that they begin with something quite geared towards their level but the book takes off on its own speed, and by the end the narrative is quite above them. So that it would be a book one would revisit time and again, to find out what has changed since the last time.
Note: I was so glad that Jo didn’t marry Laurie. The Professor is so lovely, however much German and old. Obviously, Jo hadn’t watched enough Sex and the City to be brainwashed into thinking enacting adolescent drama is an aspiration more worthy than mere happiness.
September 25, 2009
On Mem Fox's Reading Magic
I starting this book thinking it was preaching to the choir. I already knew that reading aloud to my child would point her in positive directions. I’ve long delighted in picture books, we live in a house full of books, and those of us already literate are reading all the time. We also both love reading to Harriet, because she’s a baby, and there’s not much else to do with her (because “Pattycakes” gets old quick, and there’s only so many times you can play “The Grand Old Duke of York” without being spat up on from up at the top of the hill). As Harriet’s library was ready before she was, she’s always been well placed to reap the benefits of books, but since reading Mem Fox’s Reading Magic, I feel more confident than ever. Which, as a parent, is really quite novel.
Of course, we were on the right track already, but it’s always nice to have that underlined. And then to learn even more about how to foster not just literacy, but also a love of books— Fox teaches the benefits of reading aloud from birth (and not just at bedtime!), how to read aloud effectively, how to make games out of books to enhance the opportunities for learning, why having the child read aloud might stifle a love for reading, and also the three secrets of reading: an engagement with print, with language, and with the world. I also liked her list of twenty books children will love, which is available on her website.
I came away from this book so absolutely inspired, and excited by the opportunity to have a positive effect on my daughter’s life (and on our relationship– Fox mentions the together time of reading, and cuddling together it requires, which is so important to young kids). It also underlined a hunch I’ve had about being a parent for a while– that however much we fret and feel guilty and unsure, the most essential things that children require are those we give them without even trying.
September 18, 2009
The Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore
The thing about Lorrie Moore, I’ve found, is that everybody loves her. Except me, because I didn’t even read her until I read her story “How to be an Other Woman” in the anthology My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead. Which made clear why everybody loved her, so I read her novel Anagrams next, which might have been a mistake, because while it was good, it didn’t leave me hungry for more. But then something about the buzz from her novel The Gate at the Stairs hooked me– Lisa Moore’s rave review definitely, and the novel’s dealings with children and motherhood, as this is much/entirely my life these days.
Another thing about my life these days, however, is that I’m tired. I am so unbelievably, unrelentingly tired that it’s quite hilarious, and only because when I am this tired, I’ll laugh at absolutely anything. (Baby no longer sleeps for more than three hours at a time, and therefore neither do I.) And for this reason, I think, as I read this novel, I kept thinking I was reading a book by Francine Prose. I am not sure why– it had a bit of Goldengrove AND Blue Angel about it, and was nothing like Anagrams, or something you’d expect from a short story writer, and I was also (as I said) really, really tired. All of which is beside the point. (Yawn. And at least I didn’t get her confused with Francine Pascal.)
I was fortunate, I think, to come to this novel as I did, having not read much of Moore before. Maud Newton posts her own thoughts on the novel and links to others‘, and the consensus seems to be that Lorrie Moore devotees are a bit disappointed. That the novel is brilliant and absorbing in so many ways, but flawed and unsatisfying at the same time. And it’s true that this novel wasn’t perfect, but I was glad to be reading it as one being awed by the power of Lorrie Moore for the very first time. Critics have been unconvinced by Moore’s narrator, Tassie Keltjin, a twenty-year old who seems much more like just a vehicle for Lorrie Moore’s point of view and lingual deftness, but so entranced was I by such a pov and deftness, I wasn’t about to complain.
The novel was so interesting. Which is such a lame way to describe anything, but what I mean by this is that I could think about it forever– about the significance of the title, for example, and the narrative arc which isn’t an arc, and the characters’ stories, and how the narrative was utterly unpredictable, not because it was exciting, but because it was like how life is. How the novel was so accessible, and so challenging at the very same time, and the unending layers you could reveal inside it if you took the time to try.
Yesterday I went into the bookstore to check out Lorrie Moore’s Birds of America. Another shopper saw me reading the back and said, “That book is amazing. Buy it.” I said, “I’m going to. I’m reading her new book right now.” She said, “That’s just what I’m here to get,” and I pointed her towards its spot on the new hardcovers table. “It’s fantastic,” I said, because flawed or not, it is.
And that is the story of how I came to join the legions of those in love with Lorrie Moore.
September 15, 2009
Goodnight Nobody by Jennifer Weiner
All right, I wasn’t planning to blog about this book, because I was reading it for strictly fun, but it turned out to be a fantastic novel worth mentioning. The book is Goodnight Nobody by Jennifer Weiner (and three cheers to whoever gets the literary reference in that title!). It was a little bit Tom Perotta’s The Abstinence Teacher for suburbia satire, a little bit The Ten Year Nap by Meg Wolitzer for a take on the politics of mothering, but it was a thousand times better than both these novels put together. A murder mystery that had me guessing until the very end, amused and intrigued throughout, and reading like a madwoman to uncover whodunit. Her take on the “mommy-wars” manages to be well-considered and hilarious.
My impression of Weiner’s work is that it’s somewhat formulaic (though I could be wrong– I’ve only read one other of her novels and seen a movie of the other) and she has made herself somewhat of a spokeswoman for chicklit (on her own very excellent blog and elsewhere). She is incredibly articulate and great at arguing her cause, though the problem with this is that most of the chicklit she speaks for is not remotely as good as the stuff she writes. Nevertheless, I get the impression from reader reviews that Goodnight Nobody was something of a departure for her, no matter what its cover looks like, and as a lover of good books, I must say Weiner pulls it off with aplomb.
September 14, 2009
Too Much Happiness by Alice Munro
It was only last winter with Alice Munro’s Best that I finally discovered Munro hadn’t spent her career writing Lives of Girls and Women over and over again, and so I was very pleased to pick up her new short story collection Too Much Happiness. And once again, I was impressed by the scope of her work, in two senses. The first, in that there seems to be no template for an “Alice Munro Story”. Set in the past and present, with first and third person narration, with male and female protagonists, about events remarkable and mundane.
But I was also struck by the scope of many of the stories here themselves, how they begin at a fixed point, and then suddenly zoom far out to show the perspective, and hindsight, of an entire lifetime. “Fiction” begins with young Joyce, who’s just lost her carpenter husband Jon to his apprentice and is devasted, and then suddenly we’re whisked off to Joyce second husband’s sixty-fifth birthday. “Deep Holes” starts with the details of a picnic, with devilled eggs and a nursing baby, and ends years in the future as a mother encounters her long-estranged son. And I love that– how this zooming out turns the story inside out, and makes it something so completely different than we figured we were being set up for.
The final story in this collection seemed out of place to me, however– perhaps because I haven’t read Munro’s The View From Castle Rock, with much of its fiction taken from historical fact? As this final story’s title is also lent to the entire collection, however, I decided to read it again quite closely and view the whole book through such a prism. “Too Much Happiness” is the story of nineteenth century Russian exile, mathematician and novelist Sophia Kovalevsky. The story is a collection of scenes from near the end of her life, which she’d supposed might actually be a new beginning– she’d become engaged to the man she loved, and having previously not been sure “whether she was going to happiness or sorrow”, she decided it was to be “Happiness after all.”
Happiness, we learn from this story, is a trick after all. Sorrow is inevitable, and the trick of happiness seems to be that too much of it is the direct route to sorrow anyway. That the end of the story will always be the same, and seems to be the case in all of these ones, nothing really changed but just confirmed. But yet as the characters realize this, we as readers have realized that things as we’ve been seeing them are not like we’ve imagined them. Munro twisting her plots masterfully to create suspense, tension, absolute horror– these are stories in which things happen, which in the case of the contemporary short story is not as obvious as it sounds.
These are stories that bring us to the brink of discomfort, and Munro compels us over the edge just to see what’s happening there. The woman going to visit her husband in prison for murdering their children, a strange naked dinner party at which our narrator’s buttocks slap against a dining room chair, a woman telling a story to save her life, the man with the birthmark, the girl who detests being followed by her mentally disabled neighbour which leads to fatal consequences…
“Too Much Happiness” is still the odd story out, it seems. Set outside contemporary times, outside of Canada, about a historical figure, however little known. So much a series of sketches, it’s hard to get a sense of the story as a whole, to find the vividness Munro gives us elsewhere. And yet I do suspect there is trickery here too, and I do get a sense that here lies the key to it all. “Actually, this science,” Kovalevsky wrote of artithmetic, “requires great fantasy”, just as the best kind of fiction is a problem to be solved.
September 13, 2009
Worst Nursery Rhyme Ever
My friend Kate gave us a gorgeous Mother Goose collection when Harriet was born, and Stuart and I have been happily reacquainting ourselves with the rhymes since then. And Mem Fox does prescribe at least five nursery rhymes per day (“Begin on the day they are born. I am very serious about this: at least three stories and five nursery rhymes a day, if not more, and not only at bedtime, either”) so we’ve been following her recommended dosages, and then some. We ended up receiving another collection used from our neighbours, and so now we’ve got Mother Goose for upstairs and down. And how wonderful, to discover these rhymes with their words and rhythms, and to realize we’ve known them all along, stored somewhere in the back of our minds but coming back to us just like that.
“Hey Diddle Diddle” is Harriet’s favourite, we’ve decided, because it was the first nursery rhyme she ever heard (on her second day in the world, when we walked part way down the hall in the hospital, and stopped at the “Hey Diddle Diddle” mural, because I could go no further).
But we hate “Bat Bat”. Neither Stuart nor I had heard it before, and when we found it in the first collection, we thought maybe the editor’s son had written it, and they’d included it to be nice. Because it was a load of crap. But it’s in our second book too, so it must be real:
Bat bat come under my hat
and I’ll give you a slice of bacon
and when I bake
I’ll give you cake
if I am not mistaken.
We’re going to start skipping this one, so not to put Harriet off nursery rhymes altogether. They’re all a bit goofy, but “Bat Bat” is idiotic: why would you want a bat under your hat? And would one be enticed by a slice of bacon? Who’d entice a bat? Do bats eat cake? And doesn’t all of this suggest the narrator is indeed mistaken? Nonsense is one thing, but stupid is another.
Worst Nursery Rhyme Ever.
