May 27, 2013
Reading in the here and now.
I just finished rereading A Glass of Blessings by Barbara Pym, which I remember reading for the first time about 3.5 years ago in my room with the lighting so dim I could hardly see the words, and there was a little baby napping on my chest. Oh, is there anything worse than a little baby napping on your chest and then feeling a coughing spasm coming on? I remember that too. Of the many ways in which I’m in limbo at the moment, reading-wise is one. I have the new Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie novel waiting on my shelf, but it’s huge and I can’t make such a commitment to anything at the moment while I’m waiting for baby to begin to arrive. After baby comes, I will crack open Where’d You Go Bernadette, but I’m saving it ’till then. I reread Happy All the Time by Laurie Colwin last weekend when I was sick. “What to read next?” is not usually a question I spend much time grappling with, as the books usually seem to be lined up for me, but not here and not now. Which is kind of lovely, a luxury–the only bit of this waiting in which I’m really revelling. And all I really want to do is reread. I think I’m going to pick up a Margaret Drabble next–the follow-up to The Radiant Way (my first and best Drabble…) which is A Natural Curiosity–I read it once the summer I got married. (I keep plucking these books off the shelf and they’re covered with dust.)
You might recall that my computer died in June 2009, with nothing on it backed up, including my list of Books Read Since 2006. Which means that I soon after started a new list, which is basically “Books I’ve Read Since Harriet’s Birth”. I updated it this evening–503 books read in my child’s lifetime. Not counting the hundreds and hundreds of books I’ve read to her.
And speaking of Barbara Pym, whom I am really anxious to reread all summer long, a fun online reading project will be taking place in celebration of her centenary on Sunday. Barbara Pym Reading Week runs from June 1-8, with giveaways and a virtual tea party even. Ideally, I’ll be lost in newbornhood by that point, or even pulling off my ultimate celebratory stunt (giving birth on the big day), but I think I may be rereading Excellent Women at some point in solidarity.
I do so love Pym, whose essence was Englishness, who knew much about nuance, psychology, tea, womanhood, longing and romance. But who perhaps knew less about motherhood, if this passage from A Glass of Blessings is anything to go by…
“We were in her bed-sitting-room after supper, and I had been telling her about Sybil’s forthcoming marriage and what an upheaval it was going to make in our lives.
‘Yes,’ said Mary, ‘marriage does do that, doens’t it?–and death too, of course.’
‘But not birth.”
‘No–people seem to come more quietly into the world…'”
Which is not exactly how I remember it. But maybe I remember it wrong?
June 29, 2011
Drabbling 2011
I fell in love with Margaret Drabble in 2004, when I was living in Japan and first read The Radiant Way. After that, every trip to Kobe necessitated a trip to Wantage Books so I could pick up a few more battered Penguins with bright orange spines (or, more often, with orange spines now so faded that they’d become yellow). When we left Japan, I insisted on sending all of my battered Drabbles home by surface mail. Before we came to Canada, we spent six weeks in England, and I bought a whole pile of mid-period Margaret Drabble books at various charity shops. I read her latest The Red Queen. And then I’d read all the Drabbles in the entire world, and suddenly new Drabbles were a rare and precious thing.
This doesn’t happen to me so often. Most of the writers I like have huge backlists and are usually dead, and so I have many resources at my disposal when I want to feast upon their oeuvre– new books, used books, libraries, random boxes on curbs. When I want anything, I rarely have to wait for it. I don’t know the anticipation of lining up for things at midnight, whether it be for Harry Potter or an iPad, but sometimes I wish I did.
Because I kind of do know it, actually, and it’s wonderful. I’ve known it since Drabble’s The Sea Lady came out in 2007, then The Pattern in the Carpet in 2009, and now as I’m reading Drabble’s collected stories A Day in the Life of a Smiling Woman. New Drabble prose: precious and rare . I savour every bit of it, and even when there’s no new Drabble in my immediate future, I am comforted by knowing that in this very room, Margaret Drabble is busy cooking up more.
November 28, 2009
On James Wood on Byatt, and the Universe
Too many magazines come to my house, and after I had a baby in May, I didn’t get around to reading any of them for ages. So it’s only just now that I’ve read “Bristling With Diligence”, James Wood’s review of A.S. Byatt’s The Children’s Book (because I’m superstitious about reading my periodicals and their contents out of order).
Like all of James Wood’s reviews, this one was as fascinating to read as the book it pertained to. There was not a single point upon which I really disagreed with him (except for “Byatt is a very ordinary grown-ups’ writer”), he got the book right on, and yet I loved The Children’s Book and James Wood distinctly didn’t. And this is where an objective approach to criticism breaks down, I think, or where I cease to understand it. Wood lets his evidence speak for itself, but what that it says something quite different to me?
I realize that Wood has an agenda of sorts, or rather an “approach” to fiction, and that I’ve not been paying much attention to what that is, so let us not make that the point. Instead, I want to point out the curiousity of Wood taking down Byatt for characters who are “dutiful puppets, always squeezed and shaped for available meaning.” That as author, Byatt “dances, with leaden slippers, around the thought-sleep of her characters… [with] that teacherly, qualifying, authorial judgment.” That “an atmosphere of historical typicality drapes the stories’ individual forms.” That “Whenever a detail could be selected at the expense of another one, Byatt will always prefer to buy both, and include the receipts”. (I love that sentence. Honestly, that every book review could be so vital and engaging, but I digress…)
To all of which, I reply, “Yes, yes, yes! And isn’t it marvelous?” Because it occurs to me that what I like best about fiction is not its realism (sorry, James Wood), but the way that a novel or story can be its own little universe. I confess: I like witnessing Byatt’s manipulations. I like writers that move their characters around like pieces on a boardgame, and I like omniscience, and I like a guiding hand. Ruby Lennox at the beginning of Behind the Scenes at the Museum: “I exist! I am conceived to the chimes of midnight on the clock on the mantelpiece in the room across the hall.” Realism, this isn’t.
I like Margaret Drabble, her novel The Radiant Way, and how “an atmosphere of historical typicality draped… individual forms.” Perhaps fiction is not so informed by history, but I think it works especially well the other way around. Also, I like how in Drabble’s novel The Gates of Ivory, a character from The Needle’s Eye appears out of nowhere, and how these novels are seemingly unconnected otherwise, the character is minor in both novels (which were written nearly two decades apart), but how this connection gives impression of a Drabbleverse, and that I am privy to it.
I think all of this is now old-fashioned, though it was once so modern they made an “-ism” of it. For I think Mrs. Dalloway was that kind of book, and so was To The Lighthouse. Whose characters stood for things, and knew things they didn’t even know they knew (though Mrs. Ramsey did). I think Zadie Smith’s fictional worlds are like this too (though I don’t this has to do with Wood’s “hysterical realism”, but I could well be wrong. I often am about things like that).
By chance (or for some deeper reason as determined by a guiding force, who knows?), I read Wood’s review as I was reading Penelope Lively’s novel Cleopatra’s Sister. Lively (who won the Booker Prize in 1987 for her extraordinary novel Moon Tiger) is a critically-underrated writer (which doesn’t mean she doesn’t get good reviews, but that is something different). Her novels– and this one in particular– deal with ordinary lives intersecting with history, the trajectory of destiny, teleology. Her recent novel Consequences is about what it sounds like; her pseudo-memoir Making It Up is a fictionalized autobiography, supposing different paths she might have taken in her life.
Cleopatra’s Sister is about history as random or inevitable, and Lively shows that it is both or n/either as she brings her two main characters together through a series of events that begins with Gondwana (and rapidly does proceed to the present day, do not fear; Clan of the Cave Bear this book is not). “These events are chronological; they take place in sequence and are in some senses contingent upon one another. Remove one– extract a decade, or a century– and the whole historical ediface will shift on its foundations. But that ediface itself is a chimera, a construct of human intellect. It has no bricks and stones– it is words, words, words. The events are myths and fables distortions and elaborations of something that may or may not have happened; they are the rainbow survivors of some vanished grey moment of reality.”
Which has a double-meaning, of course, in that this is fiction, but reality as we make sense of it is only “words, words, words” too. Which makes the concept of realist fiction sort of absurd to consider.
Achieving reality itself as the goal of fiction is one thing, but I think the construction of a fictional self-contained universe (like the Drabbleverse, the Livelyverse) is just as noble a fictional pursuit. However, not so much in the realm of the fantastic (excuse me, my bias is showing), where in order to be authentic, you just make everyone sound a little bit Welsh. But rather, universes that so resemble this one, but which are consciously constructed. Because what marvelous constructions these are, I always think. The details required in such creation (which is exactly why Byatt would get both, and receipts). It’s like rebuilding the whole world again, brick by brick, and guiding its people up and down the streets. Controlling traffic. And setting in play a chain of circumstances, like say, the New Years Eve during which Archie Jones tries to kill himself, fails, and then meets Clara, the Jamaican daughter of a devout Jehovah’s Witness, and then we’re off! for a few hundred pages.
Of course, all this, like everything, is a matter of taste. I was discussing Amy Jones’ story collection What Boys Like with a friend the other day, and she told me that her least favourite story was “The Church of the Latter-Day Peaches”– which had been one of the ones I liked best. (Note: We agreed our mutual favourite was “All We Will Ever Be”, but I digress. Again.) My friend felt “Church of…” wasn’t as strong as the rest of the collection due to its storiedness–its cuteness, its beginning, middle and end, such a tidy shape, the patterns, how it contained its own lore, how parts of it meant something other than what they were. That it didn’t stand for life itself. And when all of that had been what I’d enjoyed so much about it– there really is no accounting for other people, is there?
What I’m slowly getting around to then is questioning the assumption that fiction has to be real. Which is hardly original, I know, but I wish to point out what a feat still is an excellent novel without realism as its intention. That such a novel
June 30, 2007
A Memoir of Friendship by Howard and Shields
The thing about a book of letters is that it’s usually going to end with someone dying. And perhaps there is no better metaphor for the death of a writer than the blank page which follows the end of her text. That that writer’s voice has been inside your head for 400+ pages at her most natural and free will only have that page’s silence resound. This week reading A Memoir of Friendship: The Letters between Carol Shields and Blanche Howard, I had the same problem I had with Decca. Both were big books I was intending to read in in bits and morsals but somehow the chronology, the voices, the spirit proved too sweeping and I was entranced. Reading became a race to an ending I knew very well would be a sad one, but the story was too good to take slowly. And that one blank page could be so devastating is certainly a testament to what came before it.
For nearly thirty years Blanche Howard and Carol Shields exchanged letters, beginning in 1975 when Shields wrote seeking advice on a book contract from the more experienced novelist Howard. Of course both women had a particular flair for the written word, and their relationship grew around such commonalities, including their love of books, their interest in CanLit in particular, feminism, politics, marriage and family. As the letters progress, the women become grandmothers, never stop being mothers, discuss aging, seek “the meaning of life”, exchange book reccomendations. Typewriting, to PCs, to email. Shields comes to achieve enormous success as she takes home one literary prize after another, while Howard’s own career progresses more slowly, and she often struggles to get her work into print. Her husband begins a long decline with Parkinson’s Disease, and later Shields is diagnosed with the cancer she died of in 2003. And amidst all this life, overwhelmingly, there is such joy. Inevitable, I suppose, from two women doing what they loved best (writing) and sharing their ideas all the while with an old, loved, cherished friend.
I suspect that there is something about my gender which makes me particuarly fond of collections of letters. It’s the same thing that makes me an assidious evesdropper, missing my streetcar stop, for example, so as not to miss the end of a stranger’s conversation. I find something so delicious about other people’s lives, but when these people’s lives are extraordinary, and when their expression of their lives via the written word is so particularly vivid, the resulting book can’t help but be gripping. And bookishly speaking, what a thrill I get being privy to the genesis of their own works, to their exchanged thoughts on Margaret Drabble’s “latest” The Radiant Way, Shields’ response to Joan Didion’s “On Keeping a Notebook”, to their critical admiration for M. Atwood, and feelings toward other giants in the CanLit scene.
Howard, along with her daughter Allison Howard, has edited these letters wonderfully. Divided into approprate chapters introduced by Howard, and interwoven with other relevant writings to flesh out the context, there is a wholeness to this work. Functioning on so many levels, truly it is a celebration. And not just of Shields and her powerful voice (whose power is undeniable here), and its silence too soon. But a celebration also of engagement with the world, of women, their lives, and, most of all, their friendships.
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
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.
August 18, 2006
Gluttony
Sometimes I know that systematic reading is just an excuse to be a book glutton. Don’t think I don’t know this. I love hotdogs more than anyone I know. I am a bit out of control; I’ve taken up reading whilst walking home from work, but I haven’t been hit by a car yet. Has actually been quite fascinating. I have no problem following the text and navigating myself through the world, and everybody gets out of my way. It adds five minutes onto my half hour walk, but the five minutes are well spent.
Margaret Drabble is just as bookishly gluttonous as I am however. I know this because I got my latest letter from Bronwyn today, and my text-based treat was Drabble’s essay “The Radiant Way and After”, from the 1999 anthology A Passion for Books by Dale Salwah. Containing such declarations as “I am unhappy unless I have a book about my person”, and such fears as being caught in a lift sans book. She goes on to write about not loving books themselves so much, and vandalizing them something terrible, how our early reading affects us, desperation for (any) books while abroad (the same desperation that led me once to read “The Assassination of Marilyn Monroe” in Salzburg). And how it’s not a passion for books she has as much as “a passion for print”. When she was in Japan, she wrote, being unable to read was akin to being deprived of a sense and she found it hard to function. She finishes, “I need print like an addict. I could live without it, perhaps. But I hope I never have to try.” And now why I love Bronwyn is evident.
Now rereading Franny and Zooey. I read Wonder When You’ll Miss Me by Amanda Davis yesterday, and really enjoyed it. I wasn’t expecting to, and didn’t at first. This book was an expansion of a short story I had already read, and I found it difficult to get past that. I sort of felt like I was trespassing. And the beginning of the book was awkward, disjointed. I knew that the main character would run away to join the circus, which I didn’t think would be particularly interesting. I feel the same way about books that take place at circuses that I do about books that take place a magical boarding schools in mystical lands, but this is where the combination of Davis’s extraordinary story-making, story-telling and writing skills proved enormously effective. This was an excellent book. It made circus sideshow performers absolutely human, and had plenty of pachydermic content, which is always important to me.
Books in the news: On that difficult second novel. I like the idea of book biographies, but then again, I would. The Geek hierarchy. Poetry workshop in The Guardian. Most these links stolen from Bookninja and Maud Newton. I’ve been busy. Now that Stuart has a job, I have to do housework again. Yawn.
We are going to the island this weekend!
July 11, 2006
Book News
I reread Joan Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem on the weekend, which I read right before The Radiant Way in 2004 and which similarly became one of my definitively favourite books. I read it on the bullet train to Hiroshima for a weekend break at the beginning of that July, and I fell in love with it. I’ve read it again since, and expect to read it again and again regularly in the future. Because it’s brilliant. The writing is just so purely good, and Didion can write about anything and make it mythic and when I have her cadences and rhythms stuck in my head, I am a better writer. I am not sure if that constitutes cheating, but it works. And so after I read this book, I decided to read Elvis and Me by Priscilla Presley, which I thought was the most brilliant book in the world when I read it fifteen years ago. It was sort of Didionesque subject matter if you really think about it, but the writing was so not Didion, and I got to the fourth or fifth page, and, nauseated by Pris’s burgeoning quivering sexuality in Junior High School, I just couldn’t go on. And so I shut the book, which I rarely do. I think if I ever read it again, it will have to be a day when I’m sick in bed and can’t be bothered to think. And so I moved on to The Bell Jar, which was brilliant. I hadn’t read it for years. The narrative voice is so authentic, and much like The Catcher in the Rye, when I read it the first time, I gave the narrator full credit for the story and took it as presented. It’s strange how willingly I did that once upon a time, and now that I am older, older than these characters especially, the books are entirely different. And following that, still riding an Americana wave (with a focus on neuroses), I took up Nine Stories by JD Salinger, and I am exquisitely happy with it.
July 3, 2006
I think I cheated
I finished reading The Master and Margarita on Saturday. I read it last for my Soviet Cultural History class in 2001 and liked it then, but couldn’t much remember it after all this time. I loved it. The rich intertextuality and multitudinous levels of meaning were fascinating and the story was great. But it’s a very heavy book, in every sense. So upon finishing it, I decided to read Don’t You Want Me? by India Knight, which I’d received as a birthday gift. Now I had read My Life On a Plate by India Knight when I lived in England, and thought I’d read this second book too. Upon completion, I realized that I really hadn’t read it. Which I sort of knew all along I think, but after Bulgakov’s epic tale, I wanted a pink novel which a cartoon on the front. I hope that’s ok. Oh my, I read it in a day. A day in which I rolled around laughing hysterically at that little pink book. India Knight is one of my favourite newspaper columnists- deeply provocative, hilarious and well-argued, no matter how outlandish her claim. And she writes funny books. They’re not perfect novels, because as in her columns, Knight fills her books with asides and incidentallys, that don’t exactly carry a plot along. But because one likes India Knight, one is carried along. One is I. This book was absolutely brilliant for a summer’s day involving scrabble and wine on the porch. And I’m now reading The Radiant Way by Margaret Drabble, which is very exciting because this is the book that made me love her (only?) two years ago.
December 30, 2005
Pickles at Pickle Me This!
Today was an exciting day at Pickle Me This. My friend Laura came to visit- and she brought pickles! She worked on a farm this last while and from it she brought pickled cucumbers, pickled beans, as well as tomatoes and tomato sauce. Who ever would have thought we’d have pickling news here at Pickle Me This? She also bought us pizza. We’re big fans of Laura, even if her pickles rival ours.
In less exciting news, our dear propriatress is sick with a strangely annoying symptoms, including sore eyes and sore skin. She is feeling better today than yesterday however.
And it was a Merry Christmas. This old world was quite generous to Stuart and I. We received some money, and a DVD player, a spice rack, and gift certificates, hats, a million books, socks and Miffy got a brownie uniform! Stuart gave me “I’m a Mountain” by Sarah Harmer which is the best CD I’ve heard in ever, and “The Red Queen” by Margaret Drabble. He also got me a beautiful pair of earrings. I also received “The Witch of Exmoor” (now reading) by Ms. Drabble, which completes my Drabble Fiction collection! Who would have thought what that innocent purchase of “The Radiant Way” in Kobe one and half years ago would start? Oh and we just got a million and one things, and feel very lucky and it is nice to have such lovely families and friends caring for us. However I think I can live with a little less Christmas for the next 300 or so days.
