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.
June 5, 2007
Northern Reads
We’ve gone all thematic here on our Northern English tour, as I’ve just started Lancashire Where Women Die of Love by Charles Nevin, and Stuart is reading Pies and Prejudice: In Search of the North by Stuart Maconie. Hooray for common ground.
June 4, 2007
Pickle Report From the Road
Oh, welcome to the North of England. After a whole of night of all flying no sleep, we landed in Manchester and picked up our rental car which, due to a mix-up, turned out to be a brand new Saab 93 Convertible. We couldn’t believe it either. And then we drove three and a half hours up to North Yorkshire, pulling off once when my lack of sleep was making me see triple, this compounded by my baptism by fire driving on these Great British roads (roundabouts and driving on the wrong side are really just fine, but the narrowness and twistiness of these roads at high speed make driving rather terrifying). We finally arrived in Sinnington, where the marquee was already set up on the village green and we saw the bride and groom sorting out last minute arrangements. Dinner down the pub that night, and then we went to bed early at our splendid b&b. Next day was all wedding, and it was all gorgeous, perfect, hot sunny day, gorgeous bride and groom, we got to ride there in a vintage Bentley, the 11th century church was predictably lovely, all the guests were good fun, cupcakes, good company, first dance and then more dance, champagne, hilarity and porkpies. Yesterday we boarded our vintage bus for a trip o’er the moors and an incredible lunch at Byland Abbey (roast lamb shank, followed by sticky toffee pudding). And then back to Sinnington, and we were off with the top down, driving across the countryside on A roads, feeling quite Two for the Road (and me regretting I hadn’t packed a headscarf or movie star sunglasses). England is breathtakingly gorgeous and spreads far and wide. Soon the Yorkshire Dales turned into The Pennines, and then the clouds moved in and thunder rolled. I’ve rarely seen a more dramatic landscape, but then I come from Central Ontario where we don’t do drama much. The sun came out again, and we got on the motorway (the top was back up by this time, as we’d anticipated the rain in time). Eventually after 4 hours of driving, we arrived in Fleetwood Lancashire, and were reunited with our England Mum and Dad, who were quite happy to welcome home their prodigal son and his dotty wife.
What a surfeit of reading I’ve got on at the moment. Reading Town House by Tish Cohen, which is ultra-enjoyable and perfectly read in the little bites I can afford to take during this somewhat whirlwind vacae. But then I’ve also got the weekend papers (which seem to have become more tabloidy over the last two years, and not just in their shape), I’m venturing into Waterstones today, and I’ve also got my bag of tricks from Bronwyn. My bridesmaid’s gift was Cath Kidston bookbag stuffed with Persephone Books and others.
Further, I’ve got four more days of this breeze left, with trips to Lancaster and Cumbria planned.
And all of this conspires to make me the luckiest girl in the whole wide world.
May 31, 2007
Think of England
Pickle Me This is on vaca. We’ll be all summer holidaying the next week or so, fun to be had including learning to drive on the wrong side of the road, weekend in a North Yorkshire village, Bronwyn’s wedding, touring the moors, trekking over to Lancashire, family reunion, seaside fun, Cumbria, and maybe we’ll even see the Wordsworth squirrel? Time will tell.
May 31, 2007
The Printers
It strikes me that I’ve not yet given credit to UK indie band The Editors for their rather bookish name (nor for their melodramatic tendencies, lyrically speaking). And their name makes me wonder what other bands might be out their awaiting rock stardom: The Typesetters, The Copy-Editors, The Proof Readers, The Printers? The fun could, quite possibly, never ever stop.
May 31, 2007
Google is the lamest plot device
I am now completely absorbed by Janice Kulyk Keefer’s Thieves, which is an extraordinary literary mystery along the lines of Possession, but, dare I say, more enjoyable to read? And formidable based upon the fact that Kulyk Keefer writes about characters who actually lived. Layer upon layer of story, and what fun to unravel.
And it occurs to me that the internet might just be the worst thing that ever happened to narrative. I’ve been thinking about this as I read Thieves, which takes place in the late 1980s, and whose questions have to be answered without the convenient aid of a google search. I read a novel last week that did employ the google search as its primary plot device, and the whole thing was just way too easy, shapeless. Can you imagine Atwood’s Cat’s Eye if Elaine had been able to track down Cordelia via the tinternet? If Anne Shirley had googled a potion to darken her red hair to auburn, rather than purchasing said potion from a peddler. If Roland and Maud Bailey had used the internet instead, bypassing the need for them to meet. If any of Reta Winters’ immense knowledge and wisom in Unless had come from an internet search, rather than from her very own mind. Because a character’s store of knowledge tells us so much about them, and what they don’t know too, and to have a whole world of answers at their fingertips almost takes away the very point of a story.
May 29, 2007
Long-Listed!
Ohh! My haiku has made the Bookninja Office Haiku Longlist. Head over and check out the rest of the selection, and then vote for your favourite. Which might possibly be mine, or another…
May 29, 2007
After Dark by Haruki Murakami
I am new to Haruki Murakami, as I’ve noted. which becomes my approach to his latest novel After Dark. While reading I am conscious of treading in unfamiliar territory, that the bounds of the novel are stretched in a way that feels strange to me, that this fictional world blurs the line between fantasy and reality, and all this is quite disquieting. Which is appropriate really, for After Dark is the story of the city at night, the known in the darkness, the familiar gone strange.
Mari, sitting in a Denny’s drinking coffee, meets Takahashi who remembers her from years before. Their interaction is not terribly significant, but begins a chain of random events which reveal unsavory elements of the city at night. Seemingly random connections are explored, as characters meet one another, or pass by unknowingly. The night is presented as a kind of monster, each individual enveloped by the very same darkness. And throughout all of this Mari’s sister Eri is sleeping in a mysterious room, but we don’t know why.
Point of view is the most significant aspect of this narrative. Detached, limited, but exact, Murakami’s narrator is not much more than a recorder, albeit self-aware. The narrator explains, “It’s not that difficult once we make up our mind. All we have to do is separate from the flesh, leave all substance behind and allow ourselves to become a conceptual point of view devoid of mass. With that accomplished, we can pass through any wall, leap over any abyss.” And so he does, recording all the way, but never more than this. The connections must become clear on their own, and the narrative becomes a careful negotiation of questions and revelations, betraying only what is essential and never giving too much away.
I find reading books in translation a frustrating but fascinating experience. The Japanese novel is constructed differently than those I’ve come to know, founded in a system of thought which is foreign to me. Translation means that the words came after the concepts, and I can read that strangeness in awkward expressions, but then it me think about words and expressions differently, outside their contexts. I have to twist my head around what is being said to make it fit, but having to work like that allows for an engagement many other books can’t offer. Analogous to the city at night, I think, in its strangeness, offering an altered perspective of the world come morning.
May 29, 2007
Books on a plane
Just beginning Thieves, which must be finished before we go to the airport on Thursday. For one cannot take a library book away on a plane. What if one lost it?!
I’ve still not decided what to bring to read on the plane. I’ve got an issue of Vanity Fair, and it also might be the best time to finally read my beloved copy of Lancashire Where Women Die of Love. I do suspect it will be an awfully curious book.
May 29, 2007
Summer on the Shelf
I mentioned before the psychological problems books can cause me– when I read Fight Club and became psychotic, and how prairie fiction puts the weight of the world on my shoulders. Here’s a new one, though I can’t blame it on the text. Remember a few weeks back when I said I was going to read Summer? I really had the best intentions, and even went and picked it off the shelf. So far so good, and I opened up the book. I was surprised by the dedication on the inside cover, by a friend who was once a best friend, and is now a friend no longer. I had forgotten the book had come from her, and to read her words and how sad they’ve come to be with time was positively devastating. I am not so much in the habit of losing friends, you see, and blantant proof of that loss was hard to take. And so I put the book back on the shelf where I suspect it will remain.
