October 5, 2007
Tropical Thanksgiving
Tomorrow night I’m scheduled to be roasting my turkey just as the temperature outside “feels like” 40 degrees. Hmm. Some October. Perhaps we’ll just sweat off the calories?
October 5, 2007
The Search for the Secret River by Kate Grenville
Australian writer Kate Grenville was sure The Secret River was going to be nonfiction. The story of her great-great-great Solomon Wiseman, sentenced to death for stealing in 19th century England, but sent to Australia instead. Though was she going to be entirely faithful to the facts, or would memoir creep in? Eventually Grenville would understand that answering such questions wasn’t going to be up to her, and that in order for her story to be invested with life, it would have to become a novel. When names are changed, history is freed, and suddenly the story grows wings, though this winged-creature is very different from what Grenville started with, which, with books, it seems, is often the way.
There was a memoir in all of this after all, though, with Grenville’s new book The Search for the Secret River. Though I haven’t read The Secret River I was attracted to The Search for… by promises of an exploration of the lines between fact and fiction, thoughts on writing by one seasoned in the art (who had written writing guides previously), and by a consideration of the implications of history. Grenville didn’t disappoint, and I do imagine that for fans of the novel, The Search for the Secret River will provide rich insight into its creation, a sort of fly-on-the-wall perspective, which is rare with authors and books.
I approached this book foremost as a writer, and found it valuable in this respective. The deftness with which Grenville slips her wisdom into the narrative, avoiding didacticism and alienation of those to whom such advice might not be applicable. Her “mantras”: Never have a blank page one; Don’t wait for the mood. “Never mind. Fix it up later”. Words which might ring emptily, were it not for their contexts. She deals with practical matters of reimagining dialogue, investing characters with life, how to write “the other”.
Divided into three parts, the first deals with her research into her family background, her understanding of the facts of her ancestors as colonials, the impossibility of uncovering history at all, let alone bringing it back to life. How “history” can take us so far in the wrong direction, and how often the answers are always in places we’d least expect them, and found usually by chance. The second part of the book is a fascinating recounting of how nonfiction turned into a novel after all, and the final third considers the practical matters of this process.
This was a most enjoyable memoir, the sort of narrative that only a novelist could write. And I use the term “narrative” quite deliberately, for this what Grenville manages to create, out of her fact, her fiction, and so many moments of her own confusion. She’s written another story, no more or less powerful for the truth at its core, but rather for the strength of its parts and construction alike.
October 5, 2007
Places to Go
Check out the fabulous promotional videos for Douglas Coupland’s new book The Gum Thief. Read Heather Mallick “perpetuating her own political views”, well according to one reader, though I thought, more importantly, that she’s written a great piece on language, in addition to any perpetuation– oh, but that an article can do two things! Take the Vanity Fair: Know Your Asshole Footprint quiz. Read Rona Maynard on Holden Caulfield. Jennifer Weiner, wonderfully, on talk in the blogosphere, and what woman are permitted to do, and be and look like.The Walrus loves Late Nights on Air as much as I did. (And how I am loving their new vamped-up books section this month).
October 4, 2007
More from Kate Grenville
“In the years after Lilian’s Story was published, our children Tom and Alice were born, and I added another mantra: Don’t wait for time to write. I learned to work in whatever slivers of time the day might give me– one of my favourite scenes in Joan Makes History was written in the car waiting to pick up Tom from a birthday party, on the only paper I could find, the inside of a Panadol packet. I had slivers of time, so I wrote in slivers of words: a page here, a paragraph there. Eventually the slivers would add up to something.” –Kate Grenville, from Search for the Secret River
October 4, 2007
So much history
“Was there so much history in Britain that it could be treated casually? There weren’t enough glass cases to hold it all”. –Kate Grenville, Search for the Secret River
October 3, 2007
An ideal marriage
An ideal marriage I have discovered, as indeed I am longing to get through the nonfiction books in my stack, but I can’t bear to give up lies for too long. So I am reading two books at once now, nonfiction complemented by a collection of short stories: the former being Kate Grenville’s Searching for the Secret River, and the latter is Jack Hodgins’ Damage Done by the Storm. Perfect! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?
Grenville’s book is wonderful so far, though I am approaching it from a strange place having never read The Secret River. It’s asking a lot of the same questions as Bernice Morgan’s novel Cloud of Bone, but from an Australian point of view, about remembering and forgetting, and the price we pay for either. Even some of the scenes are reminiscent, which is strange for two books of nonfiction and fiction respectively. And just getting into the Hodgins (one story before bed, you know). I’ve read his A Passion for Narrative before, and am excited to see his theory in action.
I have also become a compulsive squash buyer. Soon this will have to stop.
October 2, 2007
Alice I Think by Susan Juby
After much pondering, I’ve finally discovered it. Why will Lee Fiora never be Holden Caulfield? She’s got way too broad a perspective, that’s why. She tells her story in retrospect. She is absolutely aware of herself, which makes her story only ordinary. Holden Caulfield, on the other hand, has no idea (or control over) how he is seen by the outside world. He thinks he does– the guy’s got some kind of charisma, which is why you read Catcher in the Rye when you’re fourteen, and fall in love with him. But he’s really clueless, afterall, which is how he manages to break your heart fifteen years later. That he is so sad, and hurt, and young. Holden’s powerlessness is powerful, narratively speaking.
Susan Juby’s novel Alice I Think manages this very same power, which is the reason why this book was successful in its YA incarnation, and why it deserves the same success now that it’s been repackaged for grown-ups. Teenaged Alice has been traumatized by years of homeschooling, and is now about to be unleashed upon the real world. She has to deal with her embarrassing hippie parents, her complete lack of social skills, her counsellor’s demand that she compile life goals, and the fact of her small town of Smithers B.C. Admittedly, the premise sounds a bit formulaic, but it’s not, because nothing gets solved. Alice MacLeod is unforgiveably atrocious, in that horribly odious way only insecure teenagers are capable of. In the way that poor Holden Caulfield was, with a take-no-prisoners attitude that could be interpreted as “cool” only if you were his peer. Also similar to Holden, with a relationship with a younger sibling firmly establishing sympathy.
Alice, a diarist, is also much like Adrian Mole. I adore Adrian Mole, and wouldn’t make such a comparison lightly, which is not to say that what Juby has done here is not original. 25 years after the fact, in Smithers BC instead of Leicester, she wants to be a cultural critic instead of an intellectual, and Alice is most definitely her own person. But she is indeed a tribute to Mole, who, like Holden, changes as we do. (The diary format, with its immediacy and voice particularly lends itself to this solidification of perspective). All three of these characters are teenagers so horrible that their parents can hardly stand them, and that they are written in a way that they are simultaneously so loveable is really quite amazing.
Alice I Think is hilarious and well in tune with the zeitgeist for a novel depicting someone so far outside of it. Younger readers will identify with this “outsiderness” (a staple of young-adult novels after all), and older readers will view it in a clearer light– she’s so sure of herself, but of course she’s not. All ages will be amused though– I laughed out loud throughout. Juby is an excellent writer and her Alice a marvelous creation whose voice is all her own and never fails.
October 1, 2007
So many Penguins
Well, my fears were unwarranted. The Victoria College Books Sale had more than enough books for me and the WOTS crew. And there’s still more, and you can fill a box tomorrow morning for a tenner if you’re interested. But I am finished. From the top left: Forever by Judy Blume, so my future-children can have naughty books around the house appropriate to their age group; Volume Two of Woolf’s Diaries, as I’ve only read the last one so far; Penelope’s Way by Blanche Howard, who I’ve wanted to read since her letters were published last Spring; Larry’s Party by Carol Shields, which, though I can’t believe it, I’ve never read; The Tree of Life by Fredelle Bruser Maynard; Rose Macaulay’s The World my Wilderness; Breath, Eyes, Memory by Edwidge Danticat; another Penelope Lively– Cleopatra’s Sister; The Penguin Encyclopedia of Places from 1965, purchased for charm and not currency; At Home in the World by Joyce Maynard, whose sister has already demonstrated that Maynards write good books; Woolf’s last novel Between the Acts; Look at Me by Anita Brookner; Dominick Dunne’s Another City, Not My Own, as we love his books at our house; Lessing’s The Golden Notebook even though Joan Didion doesn’t like it; Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis; two Graham Greenes– The Heart of the Matter, which I’ve read, and Brighton Rock, which I haven’t; Perfect Happiness by Penelope Lively; The Last Thing He Wanted by Joan Didion; Beach Music by Pat Conroy, which my mom, sister and I love together, and my previous copy I left in Japan.
I am now, quite officially, overbooked.
September 30, 2007
No Nuit Blanche
Here is a photo of Stuart and I experiencing our urban landscape. Alas, we did not get to Nuit Blanche. On the way home from a brilliant night at Rebecca Rosenblum’s (with such good company as Chapati Kid), I shared public transportation with people going to Nuit Blanche, and their company made me want to go home to read. I’m glad I did.
And now we’ve just arrived home from The Word on the Street, which was a brilliant afternoon. I should have paid more attention to the scheduling though, instead of showing up blind, as I’m sure there was a lot of good programming I missed. Such as Elizabeth Hay, whose novel I finished Friday night and was the best book I’ve read this year. I could have heard her read! She could have signed book! I lined up at the author’s signing tent anyway, and told her how much I’d enjoyed her book. Managing not to be too much of a blathering idiot, which is sweet relief. Afterwards I also met the lovely Kim Jernigan of The New Quarterly, which was exciting. And finally to the main event, as Patricia Storms presented and read from her new book 13 Ghosts of Halloween. It was delightful. She was absolutely entertaining, the presentation was fabulous, we got hear her sing!, and after she signed my book. Plus I got to meet her, which was nice. I am an ever-adoring fan.
So a good day, in daylight. I freaked out though, about the proximity of The Vic Book Sale to The Word on the Street Crowd, and wondered if they’d leave anything for the rest of us tomorrow. And then I came to the conclusion, all on my own, that even if they didn’t, I have eight billions books of my own still to read, some of which I bought at the book sale last year, and a whole host of others on reserve at the library. Which I thought was very mature, and I deserved a pat on the back for. Whenever I refrain from childishness, I always feel this proud.
Today I picked up The Beatles Blue Album, which made me fall in love with them years ago, and I want to again. Now reading Alice I Think by Susan Juby, which is out in its own grown-up edition, and, really, it positively should be.
September 30, 2007
Resurrection
On Wednesday I found out that my next-door neighbour died– the man who’d helped us with our garden. I’d heard one of the kids who lived there talking about a hospital, and so I asked one of them what was wrong. “My grandfather is sick,” he told me. I asked him if he was all right, and the kid reported that he’d died this morning. And so I went in my house and cried, and Stuart was also sad, in his mannish-less-emotional way. All I could think of was my neighbour’s beautiful garden going untended, and that I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him. That I would never see him again, and I kept looking out the window expecting to.
I baked a batch of muffins that night (actually two, as the first didn’t turn out) and took them over to their house, gave them to another grandson. In the morning I saw one of the man’s sons out in the backyard, aimlessly fidding with the garden, and I was thinking that this poor guy had just lost his dad, and I felt terrible. I went to work feeling just as bad, and as I got to feeling better as the day progressed, I felt guilty for my good humour. That life goes on, as it did.
It was strange then, this morning, to see the dead man from next door out working in that garden. Needless to say, we are considerably confused, and I keep dissolving into hysterical laughter. And I am also really quite embarrassed about the fact that I took them over a batch of muffins, and I wonder what they thought that was all about. Or what it truly was all about? I’m also worried that this may warp my conception of life and death, and that every time someone dies from now on I am going to expect this to happen.
Life is weird, particularly in my neighbourhood.
