June 21, 2007

Carry Me Down by M.J. Hyland

I’ve written here before about my interest in young protagonists, or perhaps “my uninterest” would be a more applicable term. So many young protagnonists grate on my nerves and I’ve done my best to try to figure out why they do while others don’t, and I think M.J. Hyland’s Man Booker-Shortlisted Carry Me Down may have pointed me toward the answer.

Hyland’s young protagonist is John Egan, an eleven year old Irish boy who has suddenly found himself with a grown man’s body, and who is convinced that his ability as a human lie-detector will one day win him a place in the Guinness Book of Records. John’s parents are loving, but they have troubles of their own, and socially he is isolated at school. Similarly to Clare Allan’s Poppy Shakespeare, this is a novel written from the perspective of a mentally disturbed character. However without Allan’s agenda (which was satire, and provided some sort of guideline for interpreting said perspective), there is no choice but to trust in the character and seek the clues where they turn up.

John Egan’s perspective is so thoroughly convincing that the reader buys into his sense of reality quite easily, examining a disturbing world through his filter. In the instances where that filter becomes apparent, that world is made disturbing all the more. And it is this convincing nature which makes John Egan function so effectively as a young protagonist. That there is no space at all between his character and the narrative voice, and his eyes are all we get, and the spell never breaks.

The novel is written in the present tense, which of course adds to its immediacy. So much is withheld from John, and from his own perspective, that a kind of suspense unfolds over the most ordinary occurrences. In a related way, the extraordinary is interpreted as rather banal from his point of view, particulary at the novel’s climax, and the true extent of John’s troubles become especially clear. The book reads quickly; there is a sense of unfolding, although into what I was never entirely sure. As a whole, the structure of the novel is not perfect, though I don’t see how a novel from John’s point of view ever could be. But it was that point of view, I thought, which made the novel worth it anyway. It works as a character study and as a story that stands up in its own right.

June 13, 2007

On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan

My favourite thing about Ian McEwan’s characters is how solidly these fictional creations reside in the world. His Edward and Florence in On Chesil Beach only underline this, and how their ties to the world are expressed in this small and subtle novel is a testament to McEwan’s talent.

As in the brilliant novel Saturday, ordinary lives are drawn not on the periphery of history, but firmly entrenched within it, almost powerless against it. Edward and Florence are a young couple on their wedding night in 1962, honeymooning on Dorset’s Chesil Beach in the South of England. “This was still the era… when to be young was a social encumberance.” On the cusp of a new era, with whole languages yet to be invented, particularly pertaining to sexuality, and it is for want of these words that the penultimate moment of the novel spirals so horrifyingly out of control. And in the chapter which follows, McEwan’s communication of miscommunication should be particularly commended.

The reasons I love McEwan’s writing are similar to why I so enjoy Margaret Drabble’s work–characters who live in the world, constructed of details, backstories and even their own paths not taken. Edward and Florence are recent graduates, Edward a historian and Florence a musician. These occupations inform the novel– Edward’s interest in “semi-obscure figures who lived close to the centre of historical events”; the pace of Florence’s music in the background, and the cohesion of her string quartet analogous to the tautness of this narrative. And it is the combination of their respective situations which renders the novel’s climax so inevitable and wholly realized. Such details are what allows, so essential in a novel so sparse, everything to mean something. Which I find truly a rich trip to discover.

June 9, 2007

Town House by Tish Cohen

Three cheers for Tish Cohen’s Town House, which proves that popular fiction does not have to be stupid. The eponymous town house is in Boston, home to Jack Madigan, the agoraphobic son of a dead rockstar. Life presents particular challenges for him, unable to step beyond the front door. These challenges are only underlined when they involve Jack’s teenage son, his somewhat batty real estate agent, and the precocious little girl who crawls in from next door through a hole in the wall. Cohen has created a cast along the lines of a John Irving novel, or The Royal Tenenbaums, and she uses sympathy to negotiate a balance between quirky and real. It was apparent to me that Cohen must have so loved these characters, to invest them with multi-dimensions and have them keep surprising us. When their lives turn out a little too tidily, we’re glad they do, because we have come to love them too.

June 5, 2007

Cease to Blush by Billie Livingston.

Though I might argue that ten million ecstatic reviews could be wrong, I would also add that they must be indicative of something. Billie Livingston’s second novel Cease to Blush was enthusiastically received by critics and readers, and though I had some problems with the book, I do see why one would be keen on it. Vivian, our heroine, is the daughter of famous feminist academic who has just died of cancer. Vivian is a walking backlash to her mother’s principles, wayward, sexual, a bit actress who plays dead prostitutes in cop shows, drinks vodka from the mo she rolls out of bed, and her boyfriend is an absolute sleazebag. So what happens when Vivian delves into her mother’s (literal) trunk of secrets, and discovers that before this sister was doing it for herself, she was a famous stripper, singer, gangster moll, and one-time paramour of RFK? Naturally, Vivian jumps into a red convertible for a roadtrip to put together the pieces of her mother’s secret life. With the help of true-crime books, biographies, google searches, and a lot of luck, Vivian creates her mother’s story for herself, though all the while her own story is woven throughout this fiction. In learning about her mother’s past, Vivian is able to make sense of her present.

I was attracted by the initial premise of this book, as Vivian attends her mother’s funeral in a bright red suit, somewhat conspicuous amidst her mother’s crunchy friends. Her relationship with her mother’s partner Sally is also compelling, as these two women try to fit into one another’s contexts. Though I must admit that Vivian’s story fell off the rails for me not too far in, by mid-way through the book I was quite caught up in the adventures of Vivian’s mother, even if the adventures were not necessarily the truth and just a product of Vivian’s mind. It was a good story all the same in parts, suspense and intrigue all around, and the glamour of the Rat Pack and glitzy side of the sixties. I think that this story was probably what other readers loved best- the sense of fun, rollicking party all night long. Many times I did wish that this had been the entire book.

Because the rest of it, I struggled with. It bothered me that the dichotomy between “feminist” and “slut” is never reconciled. What was I supposed to take from this? That within every womyn lies a former burlesque dancer? I believe that women are more complicated than this book suggests. In terms of plot, I also thought there were real problems– the penlight on Vivian’s keychain for one. Now Vivian was an absolute screw-up, and not the type to carry a penlight, and perhaps the penlight was meant to symbolize that Vivian was more than her stereotype, but I got the sense that it functioned more as a plot device. The penlight was so out-of-character for Vivian, I didn’t buy it. Another such unlikely occurence: that when Vivian goes to an address she finds written on a 40 year-old piece of paper, of course the present occupier isn’t who she’s looking for, but occupier does have a forwarding address for her. I don’t anyone keeps records that good. Results of Google searches, and items Vivian comes across in books similarly serve to propel her journey along without her having to do any propelling herself. The story falls into her lap, and the plot felt so flimsy to me. Vivian never seems bothered by the fact that her mother lied for her entire life, and seems quite unfazed by the revelations. Minutes after finding out her mother’s stage name, she’s referring to her by it– there is never any confusion. Vivian never feels betrayed or confused, but rather “Cool, Mom was a stripper. Let us hit the road.” I also didn’t buy how smart Vivian was supposed to be, which we are to infer because she corrects her friends when they use words wrong. But if Vivian is so smart, why did it take her over 400 pages to come to her epiphany, which was only that she should no longer let her scuzzy boyfriend sell their homemade p*rn on the internet? I was really pleased when Vivian figured this out, but I could have told her ages ago. And I really wished I could have, because reading about her journey to this point was very tedious.

As a reader, I felt like this book thought I was stupid. As stupid as Vivian even, which was a bit insulting. But I am not going to out and out dismiss it, because flaws aside, it might have a place. Cease to Blush is suited for a beach, I suppose, or the tub, or any day you’re not feeling altogether demanding of your fiction.

May 29, 2007

After Dark by Haruki Murakami

I am new to Haruki Murakami, as I’ve noted. which becomes my approach to his latest novel After Dark. While reading I am conscious of treading in unfamiliar territory, that the bounds of the novel are stretched in a way that feels strange to me, that this fictional world blurs the line between fantasy and reality, and all this is quite disquieting. Which is appropriate really, for After Dark is the story of the city at night, the known in the darkness, the familiar gone strange.

Mari, sitting in a Denny’s drinking coffee, meets Takahashi who remembers her from years before. Their interaction is not terribly significant, but begins a chain of random events which reveal unsavory elements of the city at night. Seemingly random connections are explored, as characters meet one another, or pass by unknowingly. The night is presented as a kind of monster, each individual enveloped by the very same darkness. And throughout all of this Mari’s sister Eri is sleeping in a mysterious room, but we don’t know why.

Point of view is the most significant aspect of this narrative. Detached, limited, but exact, Murakami’s narrator is not much more than a recorder, albeit self-aware. The narrator explains, “It’s not that difficult once we make up our mind. All we have to do is separate from the flesh, leave all substance behind and allow ourselves to become a conceptual point of view devoid of mass. With that accomplished, we can pass through any wall, leap over any abyss.” And so he does, recording all the way, but never more than this. The connections must become clear on their own, and the narrative becomes a careful negotiation of questions and revelations, betraying only what is essential and never giving too much away.

I find reading books in translation a frustrating but fascinating experience. The Japanese novel is constructed differently than those I’ve come to know, founded in a system of thought which is foreign to me. Translation means that the words came after the concepts, and I can read that strangeness in awkward expressions, but then it me think about words and expressions differently, outside their contexts. I have to twist my head around what is being said to make it fit, but having to work like that allows for an engagement many other books can’t offer. Analogous to the city at night, I think, in its strangeness, offering an altered perspective of the world come morning.

May 21, 2007

Bang

I really should have known. The Girls came recommended by Patricia Storms, Richard and Judy, and everybody else in the whole wide world. If, like me, however, you were put off by all the hype, and by the prospect of a story about craniopagus twins, you really have been cheating yourself. Lori Lansens’ The Girls casts a perfect spell, expresses every lovely notion I’ve ever had about the world, and says so much about perspective, writing, and love. (Those of us who love Kate Atkinson will definitely find something to love here.)

I was under that perfect spell from the very start, probably due to Lansens’ dramatic beginning. A lot gets said about great opening lines, but what about great opening scenes? It’s actually the second chapter of The Girls: “A tornado touched down in Baldoon County on the day Ruby and I were born”. And Lansens’ describes the tornado with such energy, intricacy, and action, I could almost feel the wind. I was hooked from then on. It was the best story opening I’ve read since Arthur Seaton fell down a flight of stairs in the pub and puked all over a woman in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. Since the moment of Ruby Lennox’s conception in Behind the Scenes at the Museum. Sometimes it pays to start with a bang.

Bookwise, what’s ahead? Cease to Blush and then The Children of Men (upon the recommendation of my husband!).

May 21, 2007

28 by Stephanie Nolen

The one thing of which I am certain is the power of story, and Stephanie Nolen’s 28 Stories of AIDS in Africa is a testament to this power. I’ve been reading this book for a few weeks now as it was too much to take in all at once. Not that it depressing, or overly bleak, but rather there is just so much here. Unsurprisingly, as each of Nolen’s 28 stories is to represent one million people in Africa with HIV/AIDS, a structure which does something toward making 28 million a comprehendable number– no small task. The subjects of these stories come from a variety of backgrounds, and their situations are different: the young Ethiopian girl whose parents have died of AIDS who supports her younger brother; the Congolese doctor who braves civil war violence to keep her clinic operating so patients can continue to receive their antiretroviral drugs; the South African activist who refused ARV drugs, coming close to death, until they were made widely available for those in his country who needed them; the twelve-year-old who began taking ARV drugs and became healthy for the first time in his life; the Ugandan doctor working toward an HIV vaccine; the HIV-immune prostitute who must work to support her family; she who wears the crown of Botswana’s Miss HIV Stigma-Free.

Stephanie Nolen is a phenomenal writer, as anyone would know who has read her work in The Globe and Mail. She allows her subjects dignity and writes with sympathy, making extraordinary stories out of ordinary lives. Nolen has been reporting on AIDS in Africa since the late 1990s, and is equipped with both knowledge and the skills to impart it. I found her introduction to this book fascinating, as I learned of the origins of AIDS in Africa, and how it spread. Nolen’s insight that, “The problem with HIV is that its transmission, in blood and sexual fluids and breast milk, preys on our most intimate moments,” seemed to me a wonderfully straightforward expression of so many complicated issues, and informed the way that I would read her book. And as much as 28 taught me about AIDS, it also showed me Africa: AIDS is the story, but in the background is political upheaval and Civil War in various countries; ordinary lives amidst all this, and in more peaceful places too; the societal constructs and family units. Nolen gives us many of the notorious stock-characters of the AIDS epidemic: the truckers, prostitutes, cheating husbands, betrayed wives. And these characters are never true to type, perhaps the very point. Their situations are far more complicated (and in some cases sensible, in their own contexts) than they are usually portrayed. And as readers, we come away with an understanding– the proof of stories’ power, and Nolen’s stories in particular.

May 18, 2007

Poppy Shakespeare by Clare Allan

Clare Allan’s Poppy Shakespeare is one strange book. It received rave reviews when it came out in hardback last year, was much-hyped all around, and I’ve been reading all about it for ages, and it still managed to be nothing like what I had expected. Part of that, of course, is that it hasn’t got much precedent. I’ve read of this book compared to works by authors as divergent as Chaucer and Ken Kesey, and though we’ve got the perspective of a mad girl, The Bell Jar this ain’t. No, the one adjective applied over and over to this book is “original” and it’s a very fitting one.

Poppy Shakespeare is a comedic social commentary employing elements of both satire and the fantastic. This is the story of N, a patient at the Dorothy Fish, a day centre in a fictional psychiatric hospital in North London. The thing is, however, that N and co-patients have no desire to be discharged. So isolated from mainstream society (the divide represent by Borderline Road which runs around the hospital like a moat) and so comfortable within their place in a rather absurd system, they scheme to display more symptoms and up their diagnoses. The wrench into this system arrives in the form of Poppy Shakespeare, a rather stroppy but decidedly normal woman who has been admitted to the Dorothy Fish against her will. Her claims of mental soundness are interpreted as a reluctance to confront her problems. When she tries to engage a lawyer to help her out of her predicament, she finds she is only eligible for legal aid if she is diagnosed as mentally ill. The spiral goes downward from there, as told by N who watched it happen, or perhaps was more culpable than she might let on.

The object of Allan’s satire is the “results-oriented” approach which has been employed in Britain during recent years toward state services such as education, social services, and mental health. Patients at the Dorothy Fish begin to be randomly discharged so that the hospital can boast high rates of curing– even if the cure usually leads to the patients’ suicide. And none of this sounds like very funny stuff, but it is. This is partly because of N’s perspective and her language–blunt, colloquial, playful and true to her character. Allan doesn’t shy away from the sordid, but turns it all the way on its head until it becomes a joke. And what is comedy if not blurring the line which is sanity, but then the message is ever-present, just below the humour. This is a novel which is doing many things.

It’s not easy, however. When I finished it I saw its worth, and Allan is clearly a spectacular writer, but the novel wasn’t altogether enjoyable to read. And that’s not just because of the bleak subject matter (actually there is very little bleakness here). Though N’s voice was perhaps the most remarkable aspect of this book, it went on long sometimes. Though typical of the character, her narrative takes a long time to get on track. Her perspective is not capable of percieving depth of character, though at times this is just the point– that in such a system, depth gets lost. And I do get the feeling that with any such criticism of this book, I could find a way to explain what Allan is doing. Here is a novel that is more “interesting” than “good”, but I don’t mean that in an altogether bad way. Though I do feel that the novel could have benefitted with a little more editing, some tightening up, on the whole Clare Allan has successfully realized her vision. A vision of a part of society most of us are not usually privy to, and for that alone, I think, it’s worth a look.

May 15, 2007

Wooden leg first

I think it’s quite cool that my rereading of A Good Man is Hard to Find coincided with Flannery O’Connor in the news, as a new letters archive is opened. Maud Newton provides excellent coverage, as well as links to previous O’Connor posts she has written. I especially like her “But it is a wooden leg first”.

“If you want to say that the wooden leg is a symbol, you can say that. But it is a wooden leg first, and as a wooden leg it is absolutely necessary to the story. It has its place on the literal level of the story, but it operates in depth as well as on the surface. It increases the story in every direction, and this is esentially the way a story escapes being short”.

May 9, 2007

The Ladies' Lending Library by Janice Kulyk Keefer

I wanted to know that “beach read” and “literary” weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. I wanted a book that spelled summer, but didn’t make my head go numb. And I was so pleased that Janice Kulyk Keefer’s new novel The Ladies’ Lending Library lived up to expectations, satisfied my impossible desires. Here is a summer book through and through, all the while substantial, well-written, and I would recommend that you pack it along this season, no matter where you’re going.

But particularly if you’re off to Cottage Country, which would be fitting. The Ladies’ Lending Library is the story of a group of Ukrainian-Canadian families who spend summers together up on Georgian Bay, and it explores the curious intimacies which emerge in this kind of community. Cottageness is captured vividly– waves pound the beach throughout the novel, whole days spent in the sunshine, fathers at the weekend, rotting wooden steps and slapdash suppers. The story takes place during the summer of 1963 (as does Ian McEwan’s new On Chesil Beach, and I look forward to seeing how these books relate). 1963– before the Beatles, before Kennedy was shot, when everybody called Baby “Baby” and it didn’t occur to her to mind. Such a cusp would be rife with stories, and Kalyna Beach is no exception. Dissatisfied mothers, wandering eyes, immigrant experiences which permeate the present, the perils of puberty, adolescent humiliation, sex, sex, and the contemplation of sex, trashy magazines, breasts, and the foxy sixteen year old in a bikini who is the object of everybody’s fascination.

My one criticism of this book would be its title, which is misleading. The lending library of which it speaks is an official-sounding excuse for the mothers of Kalyna Beach to meet weekly and exchange trashy novels, but is hardly at the forefront of this book. Though the ladies themselves are central to the plot, such a title undermines the Kulyk Keefer’s broad narrative range. The sweeping points of view throughout the novel are one of its most interesting elements, incorporating the daughters’ perspectives alongside their mothers’. Though the men in the story are given their say, female voices are much more present. And I enjoyed the seamlessness as one perspective worked its way into the next, and how the female characters, of such various ages and experiences, were thus linked.

I am grateful that a novel of “women’s concerns”, and with subject matter so beachy, could be so thoughtfully treated and well-written. These are stories which deserve to be told well. Kulyk Keefer writes such beautiful descriptions, sympathetic characters, and realistic situations (however heart-wrenching or amusing). Like any book you want for the beach, this one is a pleasure, but moreover you’re better for having read it. The ending is particularly perfect. “And she wants to shower them with rose petals, to rush down to the dock to wave them off on their reckless, needy journey into possiblity.” So did I.

I closed this book quite satisfied.

(Note that for a last minute Mother’s Day gift, this would be a fine pick! )