January 23, 2008
Four Letter Word by Knelman and Porter
Whatever it is that’s just a bit thrilling about despair, it’s the very reason “Long Long Time” has been running through my head for about fifteen years. Linda Ronstadt warbling the entire spectrum of human emotion, with no intention of cheering up anytime soon, and though it’s enough to make tears pool at the brim of your eye, you’re not going to cry. As another song goes, “It’s only love, and that is all… but it’s so hard…”
Only love. As wrong as the most empty conjunction I’ve ever read: “mere happiness.” How much its writer mustn’t know, for there is nothing “mere” about happiness. And there is also nothing “only” about love, but who wishes to be “mere” or “only” anyway? With just a simple injection of despair (“living in the memory of a love that never was”) love is elevated to the stuff of epic drama, or at the very least the stuff of cheesy seventies pop lyrics. Warble warble warble.
Which is not to say that Four Letter Word is the stuff of pop lyrics, warbled or otherwise. Rather than this book has set me thinking about love, what we make of it. And what happens to love when we set it down in letters, here letters in the fictional: an ingenious premise for an anthology. By some absolutely brilliant writers, including some of my favourites, and a dust jacket to die for (I wish you could see the spine and how it’s printed like a whole packet of different sized and coloured letters, all gathered by a ribbon thank you Kelly Hill).
These fictional love letters were collected by editors Rosalind Porter and Joshua Knelman in order to “resurrect [the] dying custom [of the love letter] and to remind us of how seductive words are.” Indeed, these letters manage to seduce us with entire stories, communicated in one voice with limited perspective, often with second-person narration, some in just mere paragraphs. What a literary feat, I think, for what results is not a gimmick, epistolary indulgence, but storied stories, with all the voice, character and plot one would look for in such a thing.
And that it’s not “only love” and very rarely “mere happiness” which run through these stories is unsurprising, considering their form. As romantic as love letter might be, they’re indeed a sign of something gone wrong, for shouldn’t lovers be together? Kept apart by distance, death or fate would bring inevitable despair. Peter Behrens’ soldier writing from the front, traumatized by France 1944. Nick Laid’s Ruth writing to her deceased father: “Do not come back to us. Do not come back.” Joseph Boyden’s husband looking for his wife in post-Katrina New Orleans: “I didn’t want to let go of your hand.”
Certainly there is darkness here, letters by vulnerable children with no idea of the burdens they bear. Letters which we, the readers, know will inevitably go unsent, unreceived or unread. But there is considerable humour too, even amongst the despair. From a lovelorn chimp to “Miss Primatologist Lady in the Bush Sometimes”. Lionel Shriver’s Alisha’s emails, increasingly erratic as she’s not responded to. Tessa Brown’s letters in which a lover scorned critiques her boyfriend’s phone messages are disturbingly amusing (with footnotes).
Interesting that the stories here which come closest to “mere happiness” are not written to people at all: James Robertson’s ode to hillwalking, Jan Morris’s song to her house. The always-impressive Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie does write a letter tinged by possibility rather than loss, and driven by an undercurrent of joy.
Four Letter Word is useful on a variety of levels: being definitely readable, time slipping by like the letters were true and addressed to you. Inspiring thoughts of what love means, today and for always. Providing exposure to a variety of contemporary writers from a variety of locales and even (!!) some in translation. And being completely unlike any anthology I’ve ever encountered before, a whimsical exercise resulting in a collection with literary solidity and truth.
January 22, 2008
Brilliantly Before Them
Congratulations, with so much love, to my best friend Jennie and to Deep, who has become a friend in his own right. For they’re getting married, and it’s official. Throughout the last three years they’ve begun a wonderful life together, and the future lies brilliantly before them. I couldn’t imagine anyone more perfect for she than he, who is smart, hilarious, astounding in his generosity, and unflinchingly honorable. Moreover he is good enough for my gorgeous, accomplished, amazing friend, which in itself is truly something.
January 22, 2008
Stuff and Links
Now reading Four Letter Word, which is really lovely, and fascinating as anthologies go– more to come on that. I finished reading The Gathering last night, though I’ve not yet formulated my reaction. Too bogged down in hype and expectations for clarity yet, but my sense was that it was very good. Perhaps the story itself was more ordinary than I would have liked, but then: “Because, just at this moment, I find that being part of a family is the most excruciating possible way to be alive.” And challenging language in a way that was most rewarded. Yes then, I think I liked it.
Taking my thoughts about abortion’s inherent boringness and narrative challenge a bit further, Tabatha Southey dares to make it all a comedy with brilliant results. On why we should go back to myths (for it seems that snazzy modern takes do not suffice). My friend K. has a new blog called The Pop Triad. Dictators don’t do it better.
January 21, 2008
This Little Golden Book belongs to…
I read a review today of a wonderful-sounding book called Golden Legacy. Which set me awash in nostalgia; my favourite Little Golden Book remains We Help Mommy, for reasons which probably have more to do with said nostalgia than literary merit (or the lessons it imparted, which seem to have been minimal). Though there is literary merit, and the illustrations are beautiful. All of this led me to the Little Golden Books website, which tells their story. They were treasures of my childhood, these books. I remember spending ages studying the characters populating the little train on the back of the book, lining up the shiny spines, and the “This Little Golden Book belongs to:” label on the inside cover: here was a book and it was mine!
January 21, 2008
Common readers are everywhere
New Descant blog post on the commonness of reading: “Encounters with Books: Everywhere“.
January 20, 2008
Chance and fortune
I make a point of posting photos of Stuart and I at weddings, hoping to fool posterity. So good old posterity might forget the days I spend wearing very large hooded sweatshirts, baggy cords, long-johns, and three pairs of socks (for it is very cold outside today and inside too). Sometime we look nice (even with my hair a bit scruffy) and so here are we yesterday, at the wedding of our wonderful friends Carolyn and Steve. Who are actually the subject of the point I want to make, which was not my appalling fashion sense.
For much like Carol Shields, “I do have quite a bit of faith in the endurance of love”. It’s pretty impossible not to with these two in mind, who in seeking one another found the rest of their lives. Who speak of each other with perpetual love and admiration, treat the other with such respect, and they enjoy each other’s company in a way which makes being around them a pleasure.
I will never forget our rooftop bbq at their place in May, as both of them took me aside at separate times to whisper that an engagement would be forthcoming. Their joy was palpable, as it was throughout their beautiful day yesterday. I will never cease to marvel at not only the chance and fortune of finding love, but also the miracle of finding friends. We’re truly blessed with these two.
January 19, 2008
Love is a walkman
I have a soft spot for objects that last. My favourite umbrella (which is semi-retired now). Jeans that will turn four this year, my blue corduroy bag which is five, my always reliable ipod-shuffle, which is three. I so respect solidity, and staying power. That when I spend a few extra bucks, I can be amply rewarded.
But there is one object in particular, revered above all others. Which is my Sony Sports Walkman (1990-2001). In vivid yellow, from Bush to Bush, from the Cold War to the War on Terror, from elementary school to university, and every single time I mowed the lawn. It was dropped, manhandled, made to be play mix-tapes with Air Supply and Peter Cetera, survived the Abba Gold craze, my Beatles obsession, songs taped off the radio, and the theme from Titanic.
Rewinding killed the batteries so I would flick the button to play the other side of the tape, and I got to know the exact second to flick back over when the obsessional-song-du-jour would start up on the other side. A gift from my parents for a school trip to Ottawa, it finally died one day while I was riding the subway East on the Danforth Line, listening to Summer Mix 2001 which contained songs by Sloan, Debbie Gibson, Sophie B. Hawkins and Robbie Williams. (Currency was never my strong suit). The motor went kaput altogether, not surprisingly as for months before songs had been playing too slow.
I kept it for awhile, playing the radio; after eleven years, it was hard to let go. When I replaced it, it was with a Panasonic walkman that I dropped from a six foot height never to listen to again, replaced by another Panasonic that died for no discernible reason (and was hideous), and then a cheap mini-disc player, followed by not-cheap mini-disc player (what a folly, I know!). And then my beloved Ipod shuffle, whose three-year-so-far life span I now know not to take for granted. Dare I hope for a similar reliability to the personal music player I once knew? But ah, few people get so lucky twice in a lifetime.
This all brought on by an interview with Rob Sheffield at BGB. (I was reading his book just one year ago.) Sheffield remains a mix-tape devotee: “This summer I got pulled out of the security line at LaGuardia because I had a Walkman in my bag. The guy was like, “What the hell is this?” They asked, Why do you have an ipod AND a cassette player? I started to explain I just like listening to “Beggars Banquet” and “Let It Bleed” on tape better than on mp3—but fortunately they let me through.”
January 18, 2008
The Senator's Wife by Sue Miller
There was a moment whilst reading The Senator’s Wife by Sue Miller when I just knew I was not only reading a readable novel, but also a very good one. When Delia Naughton steps into her front hall and is greeted her husband Tom, who calls her “Darling”. What Tom can’t see, however, is their daughter’s friend, already halfway up the stairs, but Delia can. Delia sees the girl turn at Tom’s voice, her face lit up and expectant. “And she knew, she felt it as an undeniable certainty, that something had already begun between them.”
This is the sort of moment upon which stories hang. This is plot, this is life. For it is too easy for revelation to come via google search, a conversation overheard, mis-answered cellphone calls, etc. Very rarely do we find an old tin box hidden under some bed, containing all the answers. Revelation more often does come in a glance, in a breeze, the turn of a head and the expression on one’s face. The sort of thing you can hardly put your finger on, and certainly cannot explain.
And so by such a moment I become confident of this story’s construction. This story about women’s lives, wifedom and motherhood, and that it could be told well. As it is. This is the story of a house, which is always a conceit I enjoy. Two halves of a house, actually, with two families. Meri and Nathan are newly married, new in town. Next door is Delia Naughton, “The Senator’s Wife”, who has been living apart from her husband for some time. A contrast then, between two couples. One together, and another apart (but not wholly), one newlywed and another with a history behind them. Meri finds herself unexpectedly pregnant, and Delia has wisdom to impart from her own years of motherhood. Having missed out on a strong maternal relationship herself, Meri is drawn to her new neighbour. And as Nathan and Meri struggle to adjust to one another and to parenthood, Delia is forced to make her own changes when her husband suffers from a stroke and she must bring him home again to care for him.
There are many fine things going on in this novel, and not just the moments. Here is not just an exercise in contrasts, as Meri and Nathan are so much characters in themselves. First, that Nathan is a nice guy, which is hard to write (for it’s far easier to plot a book with a slimeball). Second, they’re a bit older than average newlyweds. Meri is thirty-seven with her own history behind her, with a job, with experience. Moreover she’s a bit goofy, which you don’t see much with protagonist. As a character she is entirely whole.
It’s a subtle novel, but solid– what you’d imagine of a book about houses. And more than just an exploration of family and marriage, both of which are dealt with beautifully. The Senator’s Wife is not just a rumination, but a story, and with a fine plot to guide it, and an ending that will take you by surprise.
January 17, 2008
Uncommon
My upcoming Descant blog post will be a celebration of the commonness of reading, but I want to briefly celebrate The Uncommon Reader before then. (Which doesn’t seem to be available on Amazon.ca, and I don’t know why, but I am sure it’s out in Canada). Oh, the book is extraordinary and perfect, and not just because of its gorgeous endpapers. Or because Alan Bennett wrote The History Boys (who knew?). Rather I love the book for its acknowledgment and celebration of what I call “serious reading”.
The uncommon reader in question is Queen Elizabeth, who stumbles upon a mobile library by mistake. Not much of a reader is she, but she soon finds that one book leads to another. That books can inform the whole wide world, rendering it more complicated, perhaps. Reading, she finds, is a muscle, and she exercises it by reading with a pencil in hand (which you might recall is my New Year’s resolution). And as a reader she becomes “uncommon” not by her pedigree, but by her devotion to bookishness. By treating reading as a most serious task, not reading willy-nilly, by exploring through the doors books open for her, thinking about connections, ideas, suggestions that books bring forth, and indulging the curiosity towards the world that books awaken within her.
There are so many of us “uncommon readers”, at various levels of uncommonness– with our books clubs, book logs, book blogs, reading challenges etc. Though Steve Jobs may suggest otherwise, in my experience uncommon reading is remarkably common. But then this, of course, is a post for another time.
