July 27, 2007
Animal Vegetable Miracle Update
Just like one of my favourite bloggers, I found Animal Vegetable Miracle quite inspiring when I read it last week. And it was quite timely, I thought, that this book came my way right about the time the garden started exploding. The lettuce may have bolted, but we’ve got cucumbers and tomatoes at the mo, and red peppers and watermelon still ahead of that. (Please excuse my rubbish photo, but I forgot to get one while the sun was out). As well this was the June I finally got my act together, and made strawberry jam. Half of which I plan to save until the dead of winter, so we can pull it out and remember what fresh berries tasted like, and I’m going to freeze some sauce made out of our tomatoes so I can do a similar thing. (I do not know how to can yet, and I will wait until I no longer live in an apartment to do that).
And so riding the wave of my blooming garden, and the Kingsolver book, I’ve made a pledge to eat (more) locally. Thinking of small steps, as the book urges. We went to Dufferin Grove Farmer’s Market last week, and I got Deborah Madison’s Local Flavors from the library. We revelled in swiss chard, basil, zucchini and garlic with flavours we’d never given these veggies credit for. When we went shopping at the regular grocery store (which has to happen, unfortunately, as the farmer’s market is only around weekday afternoons and by the time we got there after work, all the treasures were gone) we resolved to only buy Ontario produce, and we got beets and greens, swiss chard again, kale, leeks and zucchini. The fruit, ashamedly, had to come from California. But we did pretty well, and it was fun to try food we’d never had before, and find new recipes instead of the ones we’ve used over and over.
But all of this is a bit lame– I’ve managed to bring my meals only moderately closer to home, and this at the peak of the season. I want to better. First, I want to learn what is in season, and when– the Kingsolver and Madison books are geared to more southern climes. How can I learn about Southern Ontario’s bounty? Are there markets more accessible (though St. Lawrence market is on Saturdays, and I could get down there once in a while)? What are we going to dinner come winter when the only Ontario produce is an icicle? And fruit fruit, we hardly knew you. What if I dare to eat a peach?
All of this and more will be grappled with in future updates, and any advice you could offer me, I would be happy to receive.
July 27, 2007
April in Paris by Michael Wallner
Michael Wallner’s first novel April in Paris (translated from German by John Cullen) was fascinating to read having recently finished The Portrait of a Lady. Not that Wallner’s scope could be considered Jamesian by any means, but Roth, his protagonist, reminded me of Isabel Archer. This in his youth, in his worldiness-acquired-by-library, in his belief that he could “walk between the lines”, not “take up a position.” That he wants to be in the world, but not of it. Which is always a dangerous game, but particularly if you’re a German soldier in occupied Paris.
Roth’s work translating confessions for the Gestapo exposes him to the reality of the Third Reich, making him question his war in a way his fellow soliders might not be inclined to do. Seeking an escape, Roth sneaks away in civilian clothes whilst off-duty, assuming the persona of a Frenchman he calls “Antoine”. Matters become complicated when Antoine falls in love with the daughter of a bookseller, and she turn out to be working for the Resistance. As best he can, with luck and guile, Roth gets away with his double-life for a while, until the plot becomes too thick, and he is suspected of involvement with the bombing of a club attended by German officers. From this point Roth is no longer in control of his story, and the character he becomes through subsequent events is certainly not one of his choosing.
In this life, as a superior explains to him, “No one decides what’s going to happen to him.” Roth’s attempt to defy this from the outset becomes his downfall. Like Isabel Archer, Roth is terribly young. As readers we know nothing about his past, not even his first name. His is a tabula rasa; his self is inchoate. He thinks of himself in the third person, imagines how he looks from the outside, and thinks of “Antoine” as a character from a book. Unable to grasp the consequences of not playing by the rules in his society, Roth is tricked by the unreality of his every day into thinking nothing is real at all.
April in Paris is packed with action and suspense, but there are multiple dimensions to this narrative. The poetic language and musical references attribute it a certain melody. And I did love this story’s bookishness, naturally. Here is a story in the very most storied sense, start to finish, with an ending that is brilliantly invested with hope.
July 26, 2007
Like life itself
In literary happenings, Booklust passes on word of the newDouglas Coupland Exhibit of Penguin Collages– I won’t miss it. And summer is truly here, because out comes The Atlantic Fiction Issue. Now just-finishing April in Paris— review up tomorrow. Also stay tuned for an Animal Vegetable Miracle update. And indeed, Laurie Colwin’s A Big Storm Knocked It Over cured everything what ailed me. “It was magical… that unexpected, magnificent, beautiful release, like the unexpected joy that swept you away, like life itself.”
July 24, 2007
Bruising
Kim, of the marvelous Kimbooktu Book Gadget Site, has set up a new page featuring home libraries. Mine’s there, and you can submit yours too. Voyeurism at its best. Due to my current line of work, I found this article on CEO libraries particularly fascinating (via Bookninja). I thought David Halberstam’s essay The History Boys in the latest VF was just extraordinary.
July 24, 2007
Truth is Overrated
I’ve been thinking a lot about the authenticity of fiction, and the Penelope Lively quote I cited a few weeks back:
Story is navigation; successful story is the triumphant progress down exactly the right paths, avoiding the dead ends, the unsatisfactory turns. Life, of course, is not at all like that. There is no shrewd navigator, just a person’s own haphazard lurching from one decision to another. Which is why life so often seems to lack the authenticity of fiction.
As a woman who yesterday fell over a ledge, landed hard at the foot of concrete staircase, and has spent today at home packed on ice, there is plenty I could discuss about this from a personal perspective. I will, however, refrain, because I recently watched the movie Breach, which I enjoyed for the reasons I like most movies involving Russians and espionage, but I also found the things wrong with it so worthy of discussion.
Breach, you see, is BASED ON A TRUE STORY. As a result, the tension is subtle, pacing is slow, and various aspects of character don’t make a lot of sense. The main character has a wife who is East German, which is incidental to the plot. Afterwards we were discussing the movie and I said, “I just don’t get why she was East German.” And then I remembered– oh yeah, because she was. It’s that simple. Why didn’t the movie come with much of a climax? Because real life doesn’t tend to take the shape of an arch. Why did some bits drag? Because that what days do. And so on– I suspect the mini-climax this movie offered was fictional; it seemed implausible. There were other bits which suggested mere spice, and it was jarring to be knocked in and out of truth and fiction this way. I might have even felt manipulated, had they actually managed to do it well.
The movie lacked the authenticity of fiction. Forced to be based on truth, a fascinating story was stripped of liberties, bound, gagged, and wrapped up in a 110 minute package where it faltered. A better script might have saved the film, but its relationship to real events would have always been troubling. Life is stupid, for example people fall off ledges. And later we will tell the story, its very point being unreality, but in the realm of the unreal, the story doesn’t function. The story is without context, like most things. Threads will fail to tie up neatly, and people will keep insisting upon being East German for no reason. And all of this mess isn’t even truth, but just somebody’s supposed version of it. At least with fiction you know what you’re in for, and you can do with the story what you may.
July 23, 2007
Things fall apart
Joan Didion is not best read, I find, when one’s recent grasp of good sense has been tenuous. Or perhaps she is best read in such a state, but then the reader is not so great to be around after. As I should know, having spent the last day with me. Neuroticism is contagious, but then Didion’s writing is so absolutely fine-picked and lovely, it seems a shame to let it go to waste. And so I’ve been rereading Slouching Toward Bethlehem, and have been immersed in that world of thirty years ago where “Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.” It seems it’s same as it ever was, and I don’t know if such a constant should be reassuring or otherwise. And I am thinking differently about “On Keeping a Notebook” than I did, and “remembering the me that used to be” seems less important that it used to. And all the California bits, which seem more pressing having read Where I was From.
(“You see I still have the scenes, but I could no longer perceive myself among those present, no longer could even improvise the dialogue.”)
Next up I will reread A Big Storm Knocked It Over, which, hopefully, will put me back in my mind.
July 23, 2007
Not Kurashiki
And so here we are, anticipating next weekend in Muskoka in a big way (ha ha). Yesterday we got to Toronto Island, finally, and so it won’t be this summer’s Kurashiki. (Kurashiki was the city in Japan we meant to vist almost every weekend that we lived there, and then we moved away). We had a brilliant day, riding our bikes down to the ferry docks– we adore riding through the financial district on the weekend when the sidewalks are as wide as usual, but perfectly empty. We landed on Ward’s, and had an ice cream. Spent some time on the beach reading our books, and then we rode along the boardwalk. To Centre Island, which was perfectly madhouse, and great in its own way, and then along to Hanlan’s Point where we got the ferry back. And then we rode up to Kensington and picked up blueberries, and then up to Mexitaco on Bloor Street for food aplenty plus Coronas which surely undid all the good our exercise did. Oh well.
Today was not so notable, except that we tried our carrots– they may look bizarre, but they taste good. The big tomatoes are coming out now too, and they’re extraordinary. If all goes well, we might soon have more watermelon than we know what to do with (imagine that predicament!). And a bit of a low point as whilst turning off the hose I fell seven feet off a ledge to the bottom of our concrete basement steps. That was not so fun, and yet fascinating also as I’ve not been so scraped in years, nor can I remember the last time I lost my footing and failed altogether to find it.
In better news, I finally replaced the $10 Canadian Tire helmet I bought when we were broke, and got a fabulous new one— in pink!
July 22, 2007
Dave comes home again
Dave comes home again, for this is what he does. Dave goes out in the morning and he comes home at night, always the same, unwavering. I think about lighting a fire in a wastebasket just to watch him spring up to extinguish it, or collapsing onto the floor so he could rush right to my side. But he wouldn’t. I mean, he’d put out the fire, if a fire was lit, but I’d never hear the end of that, and if I lay down on the floor, he’d know that I was faking. He’d check to see my chest fail to rise before he’d rush right to my side. But then maybe I’m being unfair. He’d only check because he suspects I’m prone to such displays, and in a true emergency he’d be discerning enough to act. Dave “has my back”, I suppose, this defined by the very fact he so perpetually comes back home again. I’m lucky, I know I am, and I love him, but lately that love has been like loving the trunk of a tree, or the back of an elephant. The back of an elephant that keeps coming home again, and sitting down to dinner, puttering around annoyingly in the evening, and then asking, “You coming to bed?”
July 20, 2007
Babyish
Yesterday I became obsessed with the word “babyish” after it dawned on me that I hadn’t said it in about twenty years. When it used to carry real force, but now it floats like a bubble. I found it amusing that the dictionary says a synonym for “babyish” is “puerile”, just because someone who said “puerile” would probably manage to impress me with their vocab, and yet in essence they would just be pronouncing things “babyish”. Which, really, is quite immature.
The most lovely word I’ve learned all day (thanks to Drabble, my vocab instructor) is empyrean.
July 20, 2007
Alluding to my rubbisness
Now rereading Margaret Drabble’s The Seven Sisters, which is a rather curious book. I read it first two years ago in England, around the time I got married. It reads differently now, but I notice different things since I went to grad school. I’m enjoying it, though missing the point of innumerable allusions, because I’ve never read The Aeneid. I am rubbish. Where my project this year is brushing up on the classics of the 19th century, perhaps for the next year I ought to get caught up on antiquity. I do fully intend to read The Odyssey though, which is a start. But even in my ignorance, The Seven Sisters remains a good story. There is always something a bit aloof about Drabble’s characters, but this is made up for in the world she creates around them with such acuity.
Next up, one of my annual rereads. Oh, I can’t wait. Slouching Towards Bethlehem.
