March 2, 2007
The Myth of Justice
A recent overdose of Decca had a detrimental effect on last night’s sleep. I’ve never dreamt in letters before. To do so is rather maddening. I’m starting Middlemarch today; Bronwyn’s reading it too.
The Guardian World Literature Tour in New Zealand: fascinating to read the discussion in comparison to Canada’s which turned in to an all-out internecine CanLit hatefest. Here for literacy initiatives. The usual suspects for Britain’s favourite books. Here for Granta‘s best American novelists.
Our beloved Curtis’s birthday plans were waylaid last night due to a ferocious winter storm. An emergency birthday party was thrown together with some success. Cake was devoured. Excellent. Bonne fête.
March 1, 2007
Titled
Today my story was named The Evolution of the Village Green. I think it is a wonderful title. Unfortunately it would probably be a better title for a story that wasn’t this one, and I’m tempted to rewrite the whole thing around it. All right, not so tempted. But still, as titles go, I’m awfully fond of it and I’ll keep it around until I find something better suited.
Along those lines, upon Sunday the whole darn thing will be done. Hell or high water, etc. How exciting!
March 1, 2007
The Library at Night
Many book gatherers could perhaps write a book such as this one, inspired by their own collections. Though of course most of them aren’t blessed with Alberto Manguel’s erudition– the feature which makes this intensely personal book of such wide interest. In The Library at Night, Manguel approaches his library as a work in progress whose completion is a most fortunate impossibility. The book itself is similarly constructed, of pieces and anecdotes connected by chance to make a history of libraries, and librariness. And though, as Manguel (via Virginia Woolf) points out, the difference between reading and learning is wide, that one can do both with this delightful book, and with such pleasure, must double its force. The history of the new library at Alexandria, the man who was buried in his apartment in an avalanche of books, book mobiles by donkey in Columbia (the biblioburro), the internet’s undying present, the history of the British library or the contradictions of Carnegie. How to catalogue books, or to find room for books, the best shapes for rooms for books. Political, whimsical, artful and bursting with stuff. The Library at Night was not intended for everyone, but to those for whom it was, this book will prove a valuable and indispensable addition.
February 27, 2007
A Hardheaded Woman
When I proclaimed I would never be brainwashed into a cult, it became clear that there is nothing like obstinacy to make other people irate. Though no doubt I was right, and perhaps Stuart was just short on sleep or in need of a feed, he was made furious by my nerve. That I would never anything drove him to “Hah! I’ll show you.” He never did, of course and I remain free of any cult-like associations to this day.
But I understand what drove Stuart (beyond generic grumpiness). Any person who dares to plant her foot on the ground and say “I will never…” makes one want to cover the world for exceptions, the one circumstance in which that person will. Particularly if one is bossy and a mite controlling (like myself)– to have another escape your limits and plant their foot out there all of their own accord is a wee bit rankling. Especially if the foot-planter is just as hardheaded, which she would have to be in order to say “I will never…”.
The foot planter who’s been driving me mad of late is the Toronto woman who is aiming to produce no garbage. She is blogging about it here. Why, you might wonder, would such a noble endeavour bother anyone? For the reasons I’ve outlined above, I think, but (wait!) there are problems with the plan. First– that they use whatever garbage they do produce as material to make art from (the one example I remember is collages made from the stickers on fruit) and give to their friends. I don’t know. Garbage made into art is still garbage, usually, unless you are really good at art. Basically they just pass their crap onto someone else who can’t throw it out either because it was given under the guise of a “gift”. Second– it’s not so much that they’re producing no garbage, but rather they’re opting not to take it home with them. Living in society you are part of an entire system that produces waste, whether or not you can see it yourself. And so it’s sort of narrow-minded to pat yourself on the back for refusing a napkin for your muffin at the coffee shop (for example) when the napkin is obviously there and you’re supporting the establishment that will give yours out to someone next in line.
I see the value in what these people are doing as a statement. She just recently managed to go 31 days garbage-free. It is excellent that they are raising awareness about the stupid amounts of waste we produce, and the problem of over-packaging. Many of their waste-reduction tips are probably quite valuable to the average person. But still, I’m annoyed. Hah, I’ll show them.
I think I am being difficult (short on sleep and feed, I suppose).
Update: I do wish to affirm that the annoyingness cited in this post is mainly my own. A response to my kvetching is here and sensible.
February 26, 2007
The Worthwhile Quest
Jacqueline Wilson on her own story. My favourite BBC Radio 1 DJ Edith Bowman profiled. Loved this response to this book hate-on from a couple weeks back. (My response on the blog was: “Hating books and authors is a waste of time. The books I don’t like don’t suit my tastes, but this doesn’t mean those books are crap. I like Zadie Smith and evidently others don’t. I don’t understand why this is a point of contention.” I still don’t.)
And how about The Library at Night. Can I just read you the beginning?
“Outside theology and fantastic literature, few can doubt that the main features of our universe are its dearth in meaning and lack of discernible purpose. And yet, with bewildering optimism, we continue to assemble whatever scraps of information we can gather in scrolls and books and computer chips, on shelf after library shelf, whether material, virtual or otherwise, pathetically intent on lending the world a semblance of sense and order, while knowing perfectly well that, however much we’d like to believe the contrary, our pursuits are sadly doomed to failure.
“Why then do we do it? Though I knew from the start that the question would most likely remain unanswered, the quest seemed worthwhile for its own sake. This book is the story of that quest.”
February 26, 2007
The good and the bad
The good news is that I received a wonderful letter recently. My grade three teacher (and that was twenty years ago, please note) saw my story in The Star last summer, and tracked me down. For me, this was the teacher. Whilst under her tutelage at the age of eight, I penned my first poem, short story, received my first publication credit, and decided I wanted to be a writer. And so it was wonderful to hear from her, learn what she was up to these days, and I was so pleased that she’d read my story.
The bad news then? She tracked me down by sending the letter to my dad’s house. He received it ages ago, opened it, read it, proceeded to lose it, found various pages again, and finally the whole letter. I finally got my paws on it when I was home this weekend, but there is no sign of the envelope. Which was of course where the return address would have been found. And so I have this wonderful letter, but no way to reply. I’ve done some searches on Canada411 but to no avail. What a mess!
February 24, 2007
Injurious Reads
Everyone is right. Disgrace is wonderful. And Decca: The Letters of Jessica Mitford is impossible to take in morsels– I keep binging. Now reading Family Happiness by Laurie Colwin. Upcoming: The Library at Night.
I had a reading-related injury today when I read whilst brushing my teeth, paid too little attention to the latter activity, brushed too hard and and now my poor sweet gums are ailing. Reading is a dangerous business really. Sometimes holding the book makes my elbow ache.
I just came back from a splendid dinner at the beautiful new home of Natalie Bay whose fine company made the evening fly by. We’ve lived in all the same countries and so we spend most of our time talking about things no one else can stand to hear about. Which suits us well. And we’re off to Peterborough for the weekend, and the temperature calls for brass monkeys.
Further, Tide Simple Pleasures has rendered our apartment redolent with something slightly synthetic, but we like it. It smells better than we do. And, all real pleasure this week has been brought to us by crumpets.
February 22, 2007
The best possible time
I’ve long adored the line from Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia: “It’s the best possible time to be alive, when almost everything you thought you knew was wrong.” Those times make the best stories. And there was one particularly upside-down period in my life when stories were absolutely omnipresent. My one regret is that if I turned them into fiction, no one would believe me.
The last time everything I thought I knew was wrong, I ran away to England, took up residence in a backpacker’s hostel, and lived off expired cans of tuna. And I got my job with Child and Family Social Services which for almost two years served to significantly broaden my perspective on the possibility of human experience. That job was all about stories. More dramatic, however, were the stories I witnessed whilst living at the hostel. Of course, after three months I moved out into a terrace house with my dear friend Matthew who’d been banned from the hostel for “attitude”. And this week he and I have been emailing, waxing nostalgic over lost time. Wherein lies my point– these stories, and what can possibly be done with them.
If I wrote a story about the small man with a mullet who lived in the attic, slept with old ladies who carried all their wordly goods in a picnic basket, and, so I’ve heard, resides at the hostel to this day, you would not believe me. And how on earth could I write about Goldtooth. Goldtooth? She turned up on a dark and story night with a gold tooth and gold spray-painted running shoes. Partial to sit-ups in the nude. She claimed to be searching the country for an Israeli soldier she’d once slept with, and she spent her days inscribing strange symbols into a scrapbook with photos of Paula Yates decoupaged all over the cover. Then there was the pretty Australian girl-child and the Spanish boy who became her boyfriend, and the message of love they left behind, preserved in the hostel’s guestbook for all eternity. The Catholic Bisxual Northern Irish member of the British Territorial Army. The very old man who veiled his bunk with beach towels, and huddled inside them most days transcribing something about Nostradamus. He claimed that if you ate just enough lentils, you would be able to see spirits, and the Norwegian chorister who slept on the bunk above him (and was fired from his job because of flatulence) became his devotee. And all this happened. How can one possibly contemplate fiction in this reality?
It will take time, some distance. Nearly five years later, and I’ve written two stories inspired by then, though of course “then” has served as a jumping off point and all reality is usually filtered out in the end. And as those days get farther away, I think they’ll be plenting more mining to be done with them.
February 21, 2007
Blood Sports by Eden Robinson
Where Eden Robinson’s first novel Monkey Beach was a supernatural story mixed with Native lore, Blood Sports is a gritty urban suspense tale, though both books have in common a startling brutality and no aversion to gore. The new book’s differences in tone, style and subject matter do help to keep comparisons with Robinson’s incredibly successful first novel from being a first point of criticism, and they also demonstrate her development as a writer.
Blood Sports is the story of Tom, who is trying to put his past behind him and focus on the future with his partner Paulie and their baby daughter Mel. However as the story opens with a letter written to Mel to be read on her eighteenth birthday, a reader can infer that his domestic dreams will be thwarted. Soon into the book Tom and his family are launched into an absolute nightmare of torture, connected to events in his and Paulie’s pasts involving drugs, crime and dodgy deals. And these scenes would be unbearable to read if we did not know from his letter that Tom, Paulie and Mel emerge all right in the end, however damaged.
Where Robinson’s writing is most compelling is in her depictions of light in the dark. Tom and Paulie’s relationship is strong against all odds, in a bleak and horrible world. Similarly Tom’s love for his daughter is ever present throughout all his agony, particularly in the letter he writes for her. And of course, as in Monkey Beach Robinson also writes the dark with skill– scenes of torture and desperation that had me cringing and wincing, and she didn’t shy away from any of it. So of course, I couldn’t either.
Robinson has produced a literary thriller. Literary because her prose is important, but also because one cannot rip right through this book in order to get quick to the end. This is not an overly accessible text– parts are written as flashbacks, hallucinations, letters and video transcripts, all of which provide quite subjective perspectives upon the book’s events. Robinson spells out nothing. The reader must tread carefully through the story and put the pieces together, keeping an eye out all along for more answers. This technique is engaging and for the most part successful, though I did lament the absence of a narrative voice in the rather mechanical video transcripts, only because Robinson’s voices are so wonderful.
