January 6, 2007
A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon
It was at page 133 that Mark Haddon’s A Spot of Bother finally cast its spell upon me; I marked the page. This is the second book by the potentially one-hit-wonderish author of The Curious Incident of the Dog in Night-Time, and this time he’s got an altogether different trick up his sleeve. Each chapter in this book is written from the point of view of each member of the Hall family: George is having a nervous breakdown, Jean is sleeping with George’s former coworker, Jamie is unwilling to commit to his boyfriend, and horrible Katie is about to marry a man everybody else hates. Initially, I really didn’t care about any of them and I considered whether I was actually willing to invest a whole 354 pages in such nasty souls. But then on the 133rd page, suddenly these characters began to engage with one another and the story had me in its grip.
133 pages sounds like a long time to wait, but this is a quick read and the chapters fly by. The action is unrelenting once it finally begins, culminating in a massive blow-out that is equal parts hilarious and heartbreaking. Haddon, who wrote from the point of view of a boy with Asbergers in his first novel, gets points for his portrayal of George Hall’s depression, and also for the reaction of George’s wife who just can’t understand what is wrong with him. Humour abounds through this book, even in the darkest bits. The ending was everything I wanted it to be. This story is a true-to-life portrait of family, showing the ways (unintentional and otherwise) in which we drive each other mad.
And so I’d recommend this book, but I’ve got one reservation: I sort of think it should have been a movie. It was not just the sparseness of Haddon’s prose, but rather the fact that this book didn’t seem to be about language at all. Plot plot plot, which is important and of course I was dying to get to the end, but there was nothing much to savour along the journey. For some people, I think, this isn’t a problem. And it’s not particularly a problem for me either. I certainly don’t subsist on “demanding” books, but I mention in light this novel’s nomination for the 2006 Costa Book Awards and the fact that the shortlist was cited for froth and populism. In the case of this book, I do understand. A Spot of Bother is a good enough novel after all, but there was nothing extraordinary about it. If weren’t for that curious incident awhile back, I don’t know if anyone would have taken much notice of it.
January 2, 2007
Francine Prose: Reading Like a Writer
I must recommend Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for people who love books and for those who want to write them as the most practical writing book I’ve ever come across. Prose uses contempory texts and classics to demonstrate effective techniques for developing character, writing dialogue, using details and also taking advantage of structure– word by word, sentence by sentence and with paragraphs. She expounds upon the importance of close reading and supports her emphasis with examples. I learned a lot from her advice– particularly about dialogue. But what I liked best about this book was Prose’s “anything goes” attitude.
For example, you should use long paragraphs, she says. Or short ones. Or none. You should have a consistant point of view. Or ever-changing. Have your narrator die mid-text. Write from the point of view of an amoeba. Don’t tell us what characters look like. Or describe every bit of their apparel. Her contradictory advice is not confusing in the slightest, because each guideline is given in the context of a working example, and as readers we see that different things work in different situations and toward different ends.
Prose believes one learns to write by reading successful works, rather in workshops in which students take on the role of critic towards works which aren’t even developed yet. And, she writes, “Reading can give you the courage to resist all of the pressures that our culture exerts on you to write in a certain way, or to follow a prescribed form.”
I was surprised to find her chapter on reading Chekhov (who I’ve never read) one of my favourite parts of this book. Prose writes of a workshop she was teaching, and the advice she was dispensing, and how as she’d ride the bus home after her class she’d read one of Chekhov’s stories and see him working very effectively against just what she had been advising (that characters musn’t have similar names, that a story must belong to a certain character, that something must be resolved by the story’s end, etc etc). The point of all this, says Prose, is that there are no rules, and a writer only learns this singular rule and how to use it by reading. Carefully.
December 30, 2006
The Finish Line
And so my bookish goal this year was to read 200 books, and mine has been a triumphant failure. A failure, because alas I’ve only managed 171, but a triumph all the same because I really don’t imagine I could have read any more than that. And I remain ambivalent about stupid reading marathons, because while I’m so glad I read all these books, I know I read some quick. Though my Great Summer Rereading Project did make up for that (and I will continue to hold such projects each summer in the future). But maybe my husband would like to see my face once in a while, rather than just my eyebrows. But it was an absolute joy to be consumed by reading, and to be consuming reading at once. The stack on my bedside was never too too overwhelming.
There is a slight chance I will get to 172 by finishing The Voyage Out by tomorrow, but I don’t think so. My NY Res is to read a mite slower this year, and I’m starting now. (I think Reading Like a Writer will help to underline my pact.) Anyway, it is with great joy that I’ve kept finding friends turned up on my doorstep the last few days, and it’s quite rude to read while hostessing.
What I have found worthwhile without a doubt, however, is keeping a list of books read. “Books Read Since 2006” says mine, and I’ll maintain it long into the future. It’s an excellent reference and archive, and like a diary of sorts. Moreover, it detects patterns I may not have noticed, and makes clear the gaps in my bookish endeavours. Though perhaps I’ve just got a thing for catalogues.
December 28, 2006
About Alice by Calvin Trillin
What lies behind my fascination with memoirs by widowed spouses? There is something terribly indulgent about reading these books. Why do I cherish The Year of Magical Thinking and The Escape Artist, am looking forward to reading Love is a Mix Tape and have been anticipating About Alice by Calvin Trillin for months now? I have narrowed it down to the fact that I like reading about happy marriages, which are near-impossible to capture in fiction, and require a death in non-fiction in order to be considered book-worthy.
I spent a lovely bit of time tonight with the awaited About Alice, a love letter from Calvin Trillin to his wife. Expanded from his essay “Alice Off the Page”, which was published in The New Yorker last March, this small and perfect volume tells the story of an extraordinary woman, of the man who loved her, and the story of their life together until her death from cancer in 2001. Typically for Trillin, the writing is funny even when it’s sad, though the ending can’t help but break your heart a little. But what is most powerful about this book is Alice herself, or the way in which she is presented in the light of her husband’s love.
A seriously gorgeous woman (as the photo on the book’s back cover attests), Alice Stewart Trillin was also brilliant. Fiercely principled and protective of her camp, she exemplified a life well-lived and served as a force for good. It’s good to read about people like that– a dose of the positive, even with the awful ending. It’s good to know there are marriages like that– such strong foundations in our often dismal world. And it’s hope too, for those of us who want to keep on being happy for as long as we possibly can.
Trillin writes that one of Alice’s signature phrases was “We’re so lucky”. And she was especially lucky to have a husband who writes so well and loves her enough to create such tribute. And the rest of us, of course, are so lucky just to get to read it.
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 19, 2006
The Sea Lady by Margaret Drabble
The necessary disclosure is that I’m in no way qualified to review anything written by Margaret Drabble with objectivity. It’s no secret that she is my very favourite author, and that I would read a phone book so long as it was written by her. So it’s no surprise that I loved The Sea Lady. Which is not to say that The Sea Lady has anything in common with the phonebook at all (apart from some fine names), but I am not fully convinced that it might be everybody’s cup of tea.
I have determined three marked periods in the career of Ms. Drabble. From her first novel A Summer Bird Cage until Jerusalem The Golden, she wrote about very fashionable, fabulous, modern people. This continues to some extent into The Needle’s Eye and The Ice Age as well. Though the characters begin to engage more with the wider world, the world is telescopic. I love these books very much, but due to their 1960s modernity, they come across as a bit dated today.
With The Realms of Gold and The Middle Ground, Drabble begins to develop the style of her middle period which culminates with The Radiant Way Trilogy (which was how she and I fell in love, you see). These books, written from the late 1970s into the early 90s are concerned with vast themes and are sprawling projects, and here she invents her universe, the wonderful Drabble universe where I would love to take up residence and chat with Kate Armstrong and Alix Bowen, and meet Liz Headleand’s cat. Through this period, Drabble wrote the whole world, and captured contemporary England in a sad and desperate way. Rather than appearing dated, these works have managed to capture an era.
Since 1997’s The Witch of Exmoor, I get the impression Drabble has been bored by the confines of the novel, and has tried to push the form in different ways. She has also shifted her focus from “now” to “then”, delving much into the past– her own past in The Peppered Moth, or the life of a historical Korean Queen in 2004’s The Red Queen. Narratively speaking, she does funny things to her texts and leaves ends untied. I am not sure that critics universally love her later works, and I can’t begin to imagine how these novels might read to one who has never read Drabble before. But to me, who is so in love with Margaret Drabble’s writing, these works fit into a scheme whose development I understand by looking at the evolution of her work. I am not sure her intentions are always ultimately realized, but this is the same universe. Its writer is just looking in a different direction.
The Sea Lady is labelled “a late romance”. The story of Ailsa and Humphrey, who meet as children, meet again as adults and fall into a young love doomed to end badly, and the heart of this novel is their encounter in their sixties, after forty years apart. Humphrey is a marine biologist, and fish permeate the novel’s symbolism, but I didn’t find it tiresome. It seemed appropriate. The biological focus was particularly interesting, due to my interest in scientific literature. Ailsa is a media personality/feminist/art historian/sociologist, and a theme of the novel is the merging of science and the arts– if such a thing is possible, and what is that entity? The novel is structured around Ailsa and Humphrey’s return to the place of their original meeting, and their minds drift backward on their respective journeys. The ending of the novel is strange, twisting a bit shockingly/tidily, and the presence of the Public Orator, which many critics considered the novel’s real flaw, wasn’t troubling as much as it was weird.
But this is Margaret Drabble– her voice, her people, her universe. In some ways, this novel blends her three eras as much as any book she’s ever written. She is smart and the novel is bursting with facts– but not to prove her erudition, rather her passion for knowledge drives her to create a story from it. I think for the first time Drabbler, The Sea Lady would be perplexing in parts, but certainly not unenjoyable. And as a Drabble devotee, I will add it to the long line of Margaret Drabble novels on my bookshelf– a collection which means as much to me as all the other books in the whole library.
December 15, 2006
Half of a Yellow Sun
I can’t imagine what a writer must be fighting with when she sits down to write about a war. How do you fashion a narrative that is not simply an excuse for the backdrop? How can you have characters in all their multiplicity? How do you write about brutality and deprivation, and love, and beauty, all within the same book? In Half of a Yellow Sun, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie has crafted an extraordinary tale, and craft is truly the word. This novel tells the story of Biafra, an independent state formed within Nigeria in 1967, and the civil war that followed before the Republic’s fall in 1970. I’d never heard of Biafra before, and the reason I will never forget it is Ugwu, Olanna and Richard, for this book is their story as much as it is Biafra’s. And this is Adichie’s feat, for it is their stories which awoke Biafra to my ignorant mind. The brutality within this book would have been unrelenting, were it not for broken chronology and alternating narrators with every chapter. The result is a structure which accomodates the vastness of this project, but also facilitates the reader’s engagement with the narrative and each character. What I found most incredible was Adichie’s capacity to generate sympathy for characters who did terrible things, which is essential, in that broken couples had to go on together, and that Biafrans and Nigerians had to learn to live together again once the war was over.
I come away from this book with a similar impression to that I had after reading Sweetness in the Belly— that I had gained an education as much as a story. I remain startlingly ignorant about Africa, and I don’t claim that a novel is any sort of tool toward substantial identification, but I still think that fiction is the best place to go for knowledge. It’s not about empathy, but it’s about learning. That this happened in the world, but I never knew. And thanks to Adichie, I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
December 11, 2006
Not the End of the World by Kate Atkinson
After I had read just three of her novels, Kate Atkinson was added to my list of favourite writers, and I am currently exploring the rest of her work with glee. Her collection of short stories Not the End of the World(2003) was a brilliant read, fun and a bit mind-bending. My favourite thing about this collection was its collectionness. These stories belong together, linked through different characters’ relationships. A passing reference in one story might become the main character in another, which makes for an engaging reading process (and much rereading to understand the emphasis of what you might have passed over the first time). The stories are also link through a theme of “end of the worldness”, though this is interpreted in such various ways that the collection is entirely diverse and at times surprising. She is remarkably adept at portraying lost and loneliness, and she is so edgy, and yet humour ever-present. Some of the stories straddle a strange place in between magic and realist, but I soon found myself trusting Atkinson and her universe entirely. She is a distinctly literary writer, as evidenced by the numerous classical allusions woven throughout the text, but these stories are also heavy in terms of Buffy-content (the vampire slaying variety). These contrasts underline Kate Atkinson’s fundamental unclassifiability, and so we’ll just have to file her (and this book) under “wonderful”.
December 10, 2006
Heartburn/Not the End of the World
Reading Nora Ephron’s Heartburn was a treat. Like her essays, the novel straddles an “in-between space” that doesn’t quite fit into any genre, but she’s such a funny woman and the story is hilariously absurd. The novel is like candy, but really expensive well-made candy. And it’s one of many novels I’ve read lately that have made me wish I knew more Hebrew. So it goes. Now reading Not the End of the World by the brilliant Kate Atkinson and I expect it will be “bloody marvelous”.
December 7, 2006
The Remains of the Day
I just finished reading The Remains of the Day, which in its subtlety just snuck up on me and stole the ground. I’ve lately been thinking about negative capability, and I think this book answered so many questions. A most powerful whisper, and I’m not quite myself as a result of having overheard it.
