February 24, 2007

Injurious Reads

Everyone is right. Disgrace is wonderful. And Decca: The Letters of Jessica Mitford is impossible to take in morsels– I keep binging. Now reading Family Happiness by Laurie Colwin. Upcoming: The Library at Night.

I had a reading-related injury today when I read whilst brushing my teeth, paid too little attention to the latter activity, brushed too hard and and now my poor sweet gums are ailing. Reading is a dangerous business really. Sometimes holding the book makes my elbow ache.

I just came back from a splendid dinner at the beautiful new home of Natalie Bay whose fine company made the evening fly by. We’ve lived in all the same countries and so we spend most of our time talking about things no one else can stand to hear about. Which suits us well. And we’re off to Peterborough for the weekend, and the temperature calls for brass monkeys.

Further, Tide Simple Pleasures has rendered our apartment redolent with something slightly synthetic, but we like it. It smells better than we do. And, all real pleasure this week has been brought to us by crumpets.

February 21, 2007

Blood Sports by Eden Robinson

Where Eden Robinson’s first novel Monkey Beach was a supernatural story mixed with Native lore, Blood Sports is a gritty urban suspense tale, though both books have in common a startling brutality and no aversion to gore. The new book’s differences in tone, style and subject matter do help to keep comparisons with Robinson’s incredibly successful first novel from being a first point of criticism, and they also demonstrate her development as a writer.

Blood Sports is the story of Tom, who is trying to put his past behind him and focus on the future with his partner Paulie and their baby daughter Mel. However as the story opens with a letter written to Mel to be read on her eighteenth birthday, a reader can infer that his domestic dreams will be thwarted. Soon into the book Tom and his family are launched into an absolute nightmare of torture, connected to events in his and Paulie’s pasts involving drugs, crime and dodgy deals. And these scenes would be unbearable to read if we did not know from his letter that Tom, Paulie and Mel emerge all right in the end, however damaged.

Where Robinson’s writing is most compelling is in her depictions of light in the dark. Tom and Paulie’s relationship is strong against all odds, in a bleak and horrible world. Similarly Tom’s love for his daughter is ever present throughout all his agony, particularly in the letter he writes for her. And of course, as in Monkey Beach Robinson also writes the dark with skill– scenes of torture and desperation that had me cringing and wincing, and she didn’t shy away from any of it. So of course, I couldn’t either.

Robinson has produced a literary thriller. Literary because her prose is important, but also because one cannot rip right through this book in order to get quick to the end. This is not an overly accessible text– parts are written as flashbacks, hallucinations, letters and video transcripts, all of which provide quite subjective perspectives upon the book’s events. Robinson spells out nothing. The reader must tread carefully through the story and put the pieces together, keeping an eye out all along for more answers. This technique is engaging and for the most part successful, though I did lament the absence of a narrative voice in the rather mechanical video transcripts, only because Robinson’s voices are so wonderful.

February 18, 2007

Don't eat things you find

Today was a rather bookish Sunday, as Stuart devoured Chart Throb and I turned page after page of To Kill a Mockingbird to get to its magnificent end. Oh Atticus. When I read this book ten or eleven years ago, the precocious children impressed upon me, but the greatness of their father got lost in adultland. This time around he was the centre he was meant to be. Again, that this book is extraordinary is hardly news, but it’s nice to be reminded. And afterwards I baked banana scones from this recipe. I used whole-wheat flour instead, but they were absolutely exquisite. Oh, and last night we watched Rocky II. We loved it.

February 16, 2007

Fierce

Upon a recommendation, I read A Passion for Narrative by Jack Hodgins and found it so illuminating. I don’t really believe you can learn fiction from a book (except books of fiction, of course), but I’m right in the middle of my big project and reading such a guide at this stage is quite practical. Shines light on what might be wanting, and made me think of a few things I never even considered. And then I can go right to my story and apply what I’ve learned. The book also dealt with matters of structure I’ve been grappling with. My aim is to have my story done by the end of this month so that I can spend March dealing with it as a whole. Though this aim would be more achievable if February were just a bit longer. Though if February were any longer, I would probably lose my mind.

On lending books— most people who know me know me well enough not to even ask. Lending out a book fills me with terrific anxiety and I don’t feel better until it’s back in its home. Because as much as I love books as objects, I love my library as an entity even more. When I prune my shelves, however, I always make sure I give away the discards. I have a moral objection to profiting from books. I feel that karmically I will benefit somehow by spreading that love– whether to a college book sale, or a friend.

Now reading Ladykiller, which I would sum up as “fierce”.

My Valentines Day haul was ace: I got a box of Celestial Seasonings Tea. I gave Stuart a grapefruit. And I also made him a chocolate treat from a recipe in Globe Style (“Triple Chocolate Attack”), though I made plenty and got to enjoy as much as he did.

February 14, 2007

Radiance by Shaena Lambert

Radiance would be the story of Keiko, a “Hiroshima Maiden” who comes to America in 1952 for plastic surgery on her facial scars. It is quickly apparent, however, that this story belongs instead to those she meets during her sojourn– people who see her as an opportunity to fulfil their own personal longings. And all of them want to hear her story:

~’Tell me about Hiroshima.’ But she is. She is. It is a map she carries in her body, where north holds the hills and, beneath them, the wide suburban avenues, the streetcar rails dusted with snow. South is full of winding cobbled streets, smelling of fish. East beyond the castle is a flat plain that reminds her of her father. Here soliders practice their drills and formations, carrying black bayonets.~

Hiroshima is a place of many stories. For me, for many years, Hiroshima was a book by John Hersey and a photo of a mushroom cloud. While we lived in Japan, we visited the city twice and it became one of my favourite cities in that country, with beautiful canals, a vibrant atmosphere, and nearby Miyajima, which might just be my favourite place in the world. Lambert plays with the idea of a storied Hiroshima in a marvelous way. How a city’s name has come to stand for such atrocity, and yet behind it are the stories of the people who live there. And similarly are stories woven throughout the novel– in particular the story of Daisy Lawrence, Keiko’s American “host mother” who is dealing with her own personal trauma when Keiko comes to stay. Keiko herself remains a cipher right to the novel’s ambiguous end.

Daisy comments that once Keiko comes, everything seems to be “carrying a double shadow, so that you could never be sure if what you saw was strange or natural.” It is the same experience for the reader, who can never be sure whether incidents are interpreted through characters’ neuroses, or can be seen for what they are. This ambiguity is particularly effective as the narrative takes place during the era of McCarthyist paranoia, and Daisy’s own husband is called to testify about his affiliations. But at the same time, so many unanswered questions leave a reader a bit unsatisfied too. More of a focus could have aided this: with so many double shadows, and you long for something solid to hold.

The multitude of perspectives is one problem in this text. Swinging between characters results in such bizarre situations as Daisy seemingly noting her husband sitting in the car “watching her stout, muscled buttocks” as he dropped her off at the train station. Similar awkwardness exists in some of the prose: a sentence like “The pilot… stepped jauntily down the steps” is absolutely crying out for a better verb, or an editor. I was uneasy about some of the metaphors connected Daisy and Keiko: that the former takes off her girdle and is imprinted with flowers, as victims of the atomic bombs are burned by the patterns on their kimonos, and while the connection is jarring, I did not find it particularly informing.

But as the above passage about Hiroshima indicates, Lambert is capable of very strong writing. And this story gathers momentum as it goes, culminating in twists and turns that took me completely by surprise. Perhaps Radiance is a book of too many stories, but the story at its core, which is Daisy Lawrence’s, is well-played out until the very end. And Keiko’s story too, even in her reticence. She proves a most intriguing trickster figure, never explained away and this contibutes to the novel’s magic aura. Using a remarkable blend of Japanese and American lore, Shaena Lambert’s Radiance tells the stories which underwrite the history we think we know.

February 11, 2007

Cheating

I’m totally cheating because I’ve gone on a YA spree. I am justifying this by explaining that I am dealing with a young protagonist at the moment and so it’s good to have some exposure to that kind of voice, but the truth is that I love the Anastasia books. They are so clever. I went to the library yesterday to return one and brought home four more, as well as a couple of other young adult novels. And I say that I am cheating because I read one in an hour, and then mark it on my list of Books Read Since 2006 and now I’m at 199 and I don’t know if that’s quite right. Now reading Happy All the Time by Laurie Colwin. I love Laurie Colwin.

February 8, 2007

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was absolutely stunning. If you read it, I promise you will like it. The story of Arthur Seaton, a factory worker in 1950s Nottingham with insatiable tastes for married women and liquor, and the smartest, deepest soul. Really a cracking story with humour, a marvelously rich and complex character, a reflection of a time, and oh the language. Concluding with “Well, it’s a good life and a good world, all said and done, if you don’t weaken, and if you know that the big wide world hasn’t heard from you yet, no, not by a long way, though it won’t be long now.” This is the most subtly delicate masculine book I’ve ever read.

And I read it because of this article from The Observer last month about Nottingham now versus then, and the idea of reading any book set in Nottingham really appealed to me because I used to live there and I miss it all the time. There is something about reading about a place where you’ve lived (I particularly remember feeling this whilst reading Russell Smith’s books when I was an undergrad). Even if the book is set fifty years before you set foot in that town, and the Raleigh Factory is gone now, and all the rough places are even rougher and even the nice places aint so nice anymore. I would posit that reading a book about a place you know well is a vastly different experience from reading a place you’ve never been, or a place that never was. They’re whole different species of reading, I think.

It was also interesting to read Saturday Night and Sunday Morning having just read No Longer at Ease and Things Fall Apart (which was published just a year after Sillitoe’s novel). And the relationship between Achebe’s postcolonial Nigeria and Sillitoe’s 1950s Industrial Midlands, which is just fascinating. And I thought this even before the African character Sam rolls into Nottingham and they reckon he’s so good at darts “as a legacy left over from throwing assegais”. Just these similar themes and emotions experienced by the protagonists, and the fact that a “Morris” automobile is a status symbol for Achebe’s Obi, and yet Sillitoe’s Arthur dismisses an ancient one as a step below a car.

It’s a brilliant book. I wanted to read it slow and well, just to see how the words worked. And I have been making an effort to read more books written by men, as I’ve been far too discriminatory in the past. I’ve enjoyed this broadening of my horizons. It was also nice to see that Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was one of the 1001 books I must read before I die. That list is a bit man-heavy, really, and lately I’ve been wracking up a score.

February 4, 2007

Welcome back to Capeside

We’ve been a regular Angst Central over here at Pickle Me This during the past week. Existential, creative, ancestral, you name it. Every day an early episode of Dawson’s Creek, or a page from a Norma Klein book. And now it’s -28 degrees outside, and just as cold in our uninsulated bedroom and so we’re confined to the kitchen with no intention to go out of doors. Luckily I am reading a Kate Atkinson book, Emotionally Weird and so the world is a good place no matter what else. And Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was legend. I didn’t even see it coming. And we’ve had a nice weekend anyway, with dinner at Erin’s on Thursday, the lovely Erica G for supper Friday (and the spicy squash risotto was a success), and then brunch in Kensington occasioned by the marvelous luck of Kate in town, but all the company was wonderful and we both had an excellent time.

February 4, 2007

The End of the Alphabet by CS Richardson

I write my name in all my books, in pencil these days because sometimes ownership is temporary, but it must be asserted all the same. I don’t know why. But I do, write my name, and the date. I used to write my address and telephone number, but that was many years ago (at least five or six) and now I’m usually always in the same place anyway and so it’s unnecessary.

In my new copy of The End of the Alphabet by CS Richardson, I’ve been provided a place to write my name, which I think is brilliant. Inside the front cover, “If lost, please return to ________ “. Which made me vow to never lose this book ever. But I can’t bring myself to write my name, because this book is so absolutely lovely I shant mar it. The only other book that has ever struck such a chord with me is my Snowbooks Edition of Virginia Woolf’s The London Scene. It’s mine, but you’d never know it to look at it. Some books are so absolutely perfect unto themselves that a tiny name in pencil (even mine) would be sacrilege. Even if the space for it comes ready-provided.

CS Richardson is a book designer, and this becomes obvious. But he has also written a beautiful little novel that I read tonight in the bathtub, and small as it is, he’s crammed a whole world inside. I wanted to read it again as soon I was finished. The End of the Alphabet is a lesson in subtlety, love and language. An A to Z in a variety of respects. And I could tell you more, but I think this book deserves reading instead of a summary.

February 1, 2007

Shot to hell

My resolution to read slower has been all shot to hell. I finished Youth this morning, and really enjoyed it. The only book by Coetzee I’d read was Elizabeth Costello, which I enjoyed but I don’t believe it was very demonstrative of his work so far. I’m finishing the last short story in The Portable Chekhov this evening (“In the Ravine”) and I’ve definitely enjoyed my January Classic. I’ve got a head start on February, however, and Huckleberry Finn is wonderful so far.

One thing I’ve noticed is that reading challenges make life appear to go by very quickly.