March 20, 2008
Spring Watch 2008
Spotted this morning: Turdus migratorius, budding green shoots, and precipitation that wasn’t frozen.
March 19, 2008
How to be bad
So let’s begin with the assumption that the purpose of a book is to impart a lesson, though of course this isn’t something of which I am convinced. Children’s books in particular seem to have this expectation foisted upon them, which might be sensible for practical reasons (so much to learn, so little time, so might as well combine some tasks) but this still strikes me as a limited approach to reading (as well as a bit boring).
But what would happen if we approached adult fiction similarly? I believe it would underline the ridiculousness of what we expect kids to be reading, but it’s still interesting to think about. And for the sake of interestingness then, I will consider two books I read this weekend, both of which I enjoyed immensely: Paul Quarrington’s The Ravine, and Louise Fitzhugh’s Harriet the Spy.
Such is the best thing about avid reading, I think– how one book after another can illuminate connections you mightn’t have thought of. Because otherwise, would I have noticed the similar tones of these novels? The identical aspirations of their protagonists, and the tendency of these protagonists to alienate those around them, to choose less effective means of communication, to be mean and often downright awful?
The last point being important as I consider one of Harriet’s few negative Amazon reviews: “Harriet is a mean-spirited little girl… We spent many sessions discussing what was wrong with Harriets positions and perspectives as we went through the book. She is compulsive and obsessive and is in serious grief over the loss of her nurse. These issues were completely glossed over.” From there this fair comment does descend into a bit of madness (“After reading this book, it is obvious to me why the 60s and 70s became a child-rearing society that created the greed, personal lack of accountability, and negativism in the young adults of the 80s, 90s, and new century”), but we won’t think about that part of the story right now…
Because it’s true, Harriet is mean. I don’t know that I would so pathologize her outbursts, but indeed even in all her spirit, she behaves in inappropriate ways. As does Quarrington’s Phil, whose name could be substituted for Harriet’s in a disapproving review of The Ravine. Now remember that we’re assuming the purpose of books is to impart lessons, so isn’t there still something we can learn from characters like these?
Because ideally we would like books to teach us and our children how to be good. But failing that (and inevitably so, I think) isn’t it actually as effective and more realistic for stories to teach us how to be bad? Or more specifically, to teach us how to be bad in the best way possible? Because for most people, badness is going to happen at some point.
Now Quarrington’s prescription is less clear than Harriet’s, whose nurse informs her: “1) You have to apologize 2) You have to lie”. Of course this statement is qualified, but it still strikes me as quite useful advice. Awkward to deal with in “sessions” discussing “glossed-over issues ” and “wrong perspectives” (gross), but realistic and helpful in so many ways. A lesson Phil McQuigge might have been well served by.
Still, what Harriet and Phil are doing is more complicated than what our amazon reviewer supposes. We’re to imagine being them, though we aren’t required to act on that. (Is it that children can’t be trusted to make this kind of distinction?) and this exercise is pointless if a character is morally unambiguous. To me reading has no lesson but this very act of imagining, but what a lesson is that, worlds colliding and all.
March 19, 2008
The best things
The best things I’ve found online of late are as follows: a link to a fabulous radio interview with Lois Lowry. Spitzer through the prism of fiction (via Kate). Rona Maynard’s considered response to The Sexual Paradox. The Orange Prize longlist. Smut of my youth: My Sweet Audrina reread. Anne Enright profiled.
March 19, 2008
Spring Resolutions
I love making resolutions in the spring– they’re so easy. It was this time last year when I vowed to become less of a miserable, venomous cowy bitch, and the new me caught on so well. But now I realize that I just had spring on my side, because I’ve well lapsed back into cowiness as this winter has progressed. So it had nothing much to do with will after all, though at least I have a forthcoming pleasant disposition to count on. Because my disposition has been quite unpleasant of late, due in part to a small run of disappointments. So small, of course– the kind I’m almost grateful for because I’m otherwise so lucky, and therefore can add to my “not likely to be hit by a bus” karma account. But only almost grateful– lately we’ve been doing melodramatic despair like a dance craze. Enough of that though. My resolution– stop seeking happiness in the postbox. And with spring around the corner, this one is sure to be a success.
March 19, 2008
Library in Cartons
Here it is, our library in cartons. We packed the books up Sunday, which took up more time and boxes than we had supposed. And now we’re very grateful that we can afford to hire other people to carry that weight, as otherwise we’d be tempted to pull a Robin Pacific. Do note though that the thought of these boxes is the only reason I was able to leave the Balfour Books Half-Price Sale empty-handed on Sunday (but absolutely no reason why you should– the sale is on for the rest of the week). My prudence then negated today when I picked up my own Harriet the Spy.
Anyway the books will be unboxed in two weeks in the new house where they’ll have their own room.
March 16, 2008
Consolation
I consider myself lucky, that I’ve never been so ill that I couldn’t read, as for me an extended chance to read has always been the one consolation for feeling lousy. It’s also somewhat fortuitous that I jumped on the YA bandwagon last weekend, and put a whole mess of such books on hold at the library. My mind was dumb and tired this weekend, and nothing could have been more fitting than delving into novels for people a third of my age. Namely Mom The Wolfman and Me, which could have been written yesterday (and there is something unfortunate about this in terms of our own progress). Weetzie Bat, which was magic, and has given me the courage to put anything in a book. And oh, Harriet the Spy– must buy my own copy asap. I think I never read her before because I thought she was a girl-detective and I went off precocious sleuths very early on. But no, she is a writer! And her book is actually more practical than many guides to fiction I have read.
I also finished Katrina Onstad’s How Happy to Be the other day and I was knocked down by its goodness– there are columnists-turned-novelists and then there are writers, and Onstad is the latter. Her book is funny, wise, wonderful with prose to die for. Hers is also perhaps the best fictional Toronto I have ever read. I will buy her next novel the instant it is available.
March 16, 2008
The Ravine by Paul Quarrington
‘”All cultures promote secrets,’ said Atwood. ‘But the secrets are of different kinds. There are all sorts of places, in literature, where you go to be by yourself, places where you go to make strange discoveries of the soul. There’s the frozen north, the desert, the desert island, the sea, the jungle… We’ve got ravines, that’s about it.'” –from Noah Richler’s This is My Country, What’s Yours?: A Literary Atlas of Canada
Certainly timely was Paul Quarrington’s Canada Reads victory (his King Leary triumphed) with his new novel The Ravine being released so soon after. Though it was not the hoopla that caught my attention, and I hadn’t even read anything by Quarrington before, but it was the title, the subject matter. I’d spent my childhood growing up on the edge of a ravine, and I know what goes on there. “A negative space,” as Richler puts it, the juxtaposition of suburban wilderness. For me the ravine was mythical, a site of dreams and memories and nightmares, and as a recurring theme in Canadian literature I find that ravines are absolutely fascinating.
The Ravine is very meta-meta, ostensibly a novel written by Paul Quarrington’s character Phil McQuigge, referencing other fictional works, among them a novel with a character called Paul who is based on Phil. Phil is still having the dust settle from the recent explosion that was his life– his wife having left him upon learning he’d had an affair, his job in television lost when his lead character dies under circumstances for which Phil might be responsible. Phil’s brother isn’t speaking to him, old friends think he’s pathetic, and he’s moved into a basement apartment where he writes his novel and drinks.
As in Atwood’s Cat’s Eye, the ravine acts as a netherworld for both reality and consciousness– a dumping ground for suppressed memories. The source of all his troubles, Phil decides, has been a terrifying incident from his childhood that took place down in a ravine with his brother Jay and a boy called Norman Kitchen. What happened isn’t exactly clear, and the trajectory of the novel becomes an effort to clarify this hazy memory. Eventually by way of a road trip, and then a car chase, the possibility of Phil’s redemption, and a most enjoyable read.
The Ravine reminded me of Cat’s Eye not just because of the ravines, but rather how Atwood had described her novel as “a literary home for all those vanished things from my own childhood.” The Ravine functions similarly: the big wooden televisions, suburban geography, the matinees– and where else are there people called “Norman Kitchen”? He’s like a character from my parents’ black and white memories, the fat kid in a checkered shirts in their class pictures, but almost certainly there aren’t Norman Kitchens in the present. Quarrington has authentically recreated a past that is almost palpable in its details.
Further, he has created a disgraceful character who keeps our sympathy– no easy feat. Phil McQuigge has done some awful things, but he’s been the victim of circumstance, and the intimate nature of the narrative gets us into his head so we can understand him. Or perhaps he just means his self-portrait to to charm us, but it does. Not least because the book is terribly funny, even in the darkest moments, but also due to Quarrington’s narrative control. Which is necessary to hold together a book so seemingly loose, and here is ever so subtle but steady throughout.
March 16, 2008
What a relief
“Harriet… ran into her room and flung herself on the bed. She lay quietly for a minute, looking reverently at her notebook and then opened it. She had had an unreasonable fear that it would be empty, but there was her handwriting, reassuring if not beautiful. She grabbed up the pen and felt the mercy of her thoughts coming quickly, zooming through her head onto the paper. What a relief, she thought to herself; for a moment I thought I had dried up. She wrote a lot about what she felt, relishing the joy of her fingers gliding across the page, the sheer relief of communication. After a whole she sat back and began to really think hard. Then she wrote again…” –Louise Fitzhugh, Harriet the Spy
March 15, 2008
Distastrous Combination
I am sick, driven to bed by a disastrous combination of galloping consumption and the dreaded lurgi. Today I got to work from home (but note: not even in quotations) which meant I was done and supine by 3:00, and having since read The Walrus, The London Review of Books, Weetzie Bat and Mom the Wolfman and Me. Now reading Paul Quarrington’s new novel The Ravine.
March 15, 2008
Kate Christensen wins
Kate Christensen wins the PEN/Faulkner Award for The Great Man. (Also whoever wrote this headline hasn’t read the article or Kate Christensen). I am very excited about this, as I loved The Great Man. Maud Newton is also excited, and it was she who brought me to Christensen after all. I hope I can pass on that favour to one of you.
