June 9, 2007
Home Again
It’s bad to be home, only because away was so extraordinarily good. Our landing was delayed by last night by a fierce thunderstorm which forced us to land for an hour in Ottawa. We finally got home to find that lightning or wind had wrangled with our tree, knocking most of it down, which is quite sad. But otherwise all is fine, and we’re exhausted after a week of super touring and nonstop fun. Stay tuned for pictures, and for more pictures throughout the summer as I extend my vacation in spirit. Now rereading Bliss and Other Stories by Katherine Mansfield, on the tale of the marvelous Thieves. Coming up: On Chesil Beach!!
June 9, 2007
Town House by Tish Cohen
Three cheers for Tish Cohen’s Town House, which proves that popular fiction does not have to be stupid. The eponymous town house is in Boston, home to Jack Madigan, the agoraphobic son of a dead rockstar. Life presents particular challenges for him, unable to step beyond the front door. These challenges are only underlined when they involve Jack’s teenage son, his somewhat batty real estate agent, and the precocious little girl who crawls in from next door through a hole in the wall. Cohen has created a cast along the lines of a John Irving novel, or The Royal Tenenbaums, and she uses sympathy to negotiate a balance between quirky and real. It was apparent to me that Cohen must have so loved these characters, to invest them with multi-dimensions and have them keep surprising us. When their lives turn out a little too tidily, we’re glad they do, because we have come to love them too.
June 9, 2007
Heft
To me, England is the land of books, and we came home with our carry-on full. From the bottom, shall we? The last three acquired at the airport Waterstones on 3 for 2, as we had pounds stirling to burn. A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Marina Lewycka, which I’ve been meaning to get to for two years now, and comes recommended by my sister in law. Stuart chose The Book of Dave by Will Self, and I imagine I shall read it too. And Ian McEwan’s Atonement, because I’ve fallen in love with him and everyone says that this is the best.
Next we come to the 3 for 2s we got in Lancaster. Double Fault by Lionel Shriver who I adore. Pies and Prejudice: In Search of the North by Stuart Maconie, because we’re on our Northern kick. And So Many Ways to Begin by Jon McGregor, because I loved his last book, the reviews were great, and plus he lives in Nottingham.
Continuing on to my Persephone books, gifts from Bronwyn who must have read my mind. I got Hetty Dorval, the first novel by our very own Ethel Wilson. Also Kay Smallshaw’s guide How to Run Your Home Without Help, which I suspect will mingle useful, hilarious, and relictness. And It’s Hard to be Hip Over Thirty, poems by Judith Viorst (who wrote Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day).
Next we’ve got Making It Up by Penelope Lively, which was her newest book until quite recently, and I picked that one up in the Oxfam book shop in Lancaster. The last two books are also gifts from Bronwyn: How to be a Bad Birdwatcher by Simon Barnes, and more poetry with Mean Time by Carol Ann Duffy.
The shelves are bursting with delight.
June 6, 2007
Best books won
How cool! Best books won. Though I am on vaca, I could not resist spreading the news that Karen Connelly won the Orange Prize for New Writers for her magnificent The Lizard Cage, and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie won the main Orange Prize for Half of a Yellow Sun. Absolutely brilliant, as these were two of the very best books I read last year.
June 6, 2007
Brief Pickle Road Report
That all I’ve eaten save supper during the last few days are scones with jam and clotted cream, and I’ve consumed enough tea since Friday to float a boat. That we’ve had enormous fun in Lancaster, Cleveleys, and to the Lake District (to Bowness-on-Windemere, where Stuart rowed me in a boat and quothed original poetry, and Hawkshead, where more scones were eaten and a man was noted on his tombstone as “an observer of rainfall”). I have started a tea towel collection. The road into Hawkshead was so narrow we thought death was imminent, and everyone behind me honked as I had to stop whenever another car passed by. That we walked home yesterday skipping stones and collecting interesting pebbles. That it never rains in the North of England. That I haven’t driven into a hedge, stone wall or another vehicle, but I’ve driven into the curb, twice. That I have watched EastEnders and Two Pints. That I closed my English bank account and got £14. That both of us are going to come home with those famous Northern English sunburns. Tomorrow we’re off to Skipton.
June 5, 2007
Cease to Blush by Billie Livingston.
Though I might argue that ten million ecstatic reviews could be wrong, I would also add that they must be indicative of something. Billie Livingston’s second novel Cease to Blush was enthusiastically received by critics and readers, and though I had some problems with the book, I do see why one would be keen on it. Vivian, our heroine, is the daughter of famous feminist academic who has just died of cancer. Vivian is a walking backlash to her mother’s principles, wayward, sexual, a bit actress who plays dead prostitutes in cop shows, drinks vodka from the mo she rolls out of bed, and her boyfriend is an absolute sleazebag. So what happens when Vivian delves into her mother’s (literal) trunk of secrets, and discovers that before this sister was doing it for herself, she was a famous stripper, singer, gangster moll, and one-time paramour of RFK? Naturally, Vivian jumps into a red convertible for a roadtrip to put together the pieces of her mother’s secret life. With the help of true-crime books, biographies, google searches, and a lot of luck, Vivian creates her mother’s story for herself, though all the while her own story is woven throughout this fiction. In learning about her mother’s past, Vivian is able to make sense of her present.
I was attracted by the initial premise of this book, as Vivian attends her mother’s funeral in a bright red suit, somewhat conspicuous amidst her mother’s crunchy friends. Her relationship with her mother’s partner Sally is also compelling, as these two women try to fit into one another’s contexts. Though I must admit that Vivian’s story fell off the rails for me not too far in, by mid-way through the book I was quite caught up in the adventures of Vivian’s mother, even if the adventures were not necessarily the truth and just a product of Vivian’s mind. It was a good story all the same in parts, suspense and intrigue all around, and the glamour of the Rat Pack and glitzy side of the sixties. I think that this story was probably what other readers loved best- the sense of fun, rollicking party all night long. Many times I did wish that this had been the entire book.
Because the rest of it, I struggled with. It bothered me that the dichotomy between “feminist” and “slut” is never reconciled. What was I supposed to take from this? That within every womyn lies a former burlesque dancer? I believe that women are more complicated than this book suggests. In terms of plot, I also thought there were real problems– the penlight on Vivian’s keychain for one. Now Vivian was an absolute screw-up, and not the type to carry a penlight, and perhaps the penlight was meant to symbolize that Vivian was more than her stereotype, but I got the sense that it functioned more as a plot device. The penlight was so out-of-character for Vivian, I didn’t buy it. Another such unlikely occurence: that when Vivian goes to an address she finds written on a 40 year-old piece of paper, of course the present occupier isn’t who she’s looking for, but occupier does have a forwarding address for her. I don’t anyone keeps records that good. Results of Google searches, and items Vivian comes across in books similarly serve to propel her journey along without her having to do any propelling herself. The story falls into her lap, and the plot felt so flimsy to me. Vivian never seems bothered by the fact that her mother lied for her entire life, and seems quite unfazed by the revelations. Minutes after finding out her mother’s stage name, she’s referring to her by it– there is never any confusion. Vivian never feels betrayed or confused, but rather “Cool, Mom was a stripper. Let us hit the road.” I also didn’t buy how smart Vivian was supposed to be, which we are to infer because she corrects her friends when they use words wrong. But if Vivian is so smart, why did it take her over 400 pages to come to her epiphany, which was only that she should no longer let her scuzzy boyfriend sell their homemade p*rn on the internet? I was really pleased when Vivian figured this out, but I could have told her ages ago. And I really wished I could have, because reading about her journey to this point was very tedious.
As a reader, I felt like this book thought I was stupid. As stupid as Vivian even, which was a bit insulting. But I am not going to out and out dismiss it, because flaws aside, it might have a place. Cease to Blush is suited for a beach, I suppose, or the tub, or any day you’re not feeling altogether demanding of your fiction.
