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.
February 21, 2007
Book Eating
Thank you to Patricia for referring me to The Incredible Book Eating Boy by Oliver Jeffers. As a book eating girl, incredible or not, of course I’d be interested.
Along those lines I’ve been ransacking libraries lately. I came home from work yesterday with Disgrace by JM Coetzee, Amsterdam by Ian McEwan and Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner by Alan Sillitoe. At the public library, I’ll soon be due to pick up Family Happiness by Laurie Colwin, The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri, and Son of Rosemary, which I bet will be absolute crap but Rosemary’s Baby was such a stunning tale (really), Stuart and I have to see what happened next, even if the future was very badly written.
Lately time has been wasted on my absolute fascination with Eric Delko. Ever since he was shot– there’s nothing like a man brought back from the dead. I’m totally in lust. His real life counterpart keeps an offical website here.
At our house we’re currently obsessed with red grapefruit.
February 20, 2007
Life Changing
I really am rarely won over by television advertising (save the 1998 Gap Khaki Swing ads, and that was a huge mistake because they looked terrible, and I never learned to dance). However there was something about Tide Simple Pleasures that proved irresistible, mainly because laundry that smells like vanilla and lavender is sure to change my life, don’t you think? I will keep you posted.
February 20, 2007
Decca
Now reading Decca: The Letters of Jessica Mitford. Though, indeed, it is ever-so-popular to dislike the Mifords (because, really, grumpy people must find it within themselves to hate anything the least bit fabulous lest the universe be disturbed), I’ve been a fan since I read The Mitford Girls in 2003. Though by no means are their stories comfortable, they’re undeniably storied stories and I love them for that reason. Anyway, Decca’s letters run long and of course with my appetite for fiction, I’ll only be able to read them in dribs and drabs by my bedside. Like treats to savour. In celebration I will reshare with you my favourite poem I ever wrote, Mitford-inspired or otherwise.
Extremism was so fashionable that first season
“Why must all my daughters fall for dictators?”
~ Lady Redesdale (Sydney Mitford)
Extremism was so fashionable
that first season.
At the races my daughter won herself a diplomat
and my husband and I my husband and I
concerned with crashing stocks had our veritable sigh
and we folded our hands and nodded then,
as he stood on a box and took up his pen
because she looked on so loving
I couldn’t help but be pleased,
in spite of his wife, in spite of their life
and his radical politics leaning far right.
There was the matter of war in Spain
which (she said) was just a prelude.
This was the littlest daughter, always contrary,
“I will run away, you’ll all be sorry.”
When she finally fled, it was to throes of war
and she didn’t bring a stitch to wear,
to fight for the reds or marry for love
just to be where the action was happening.
She had to deny her former life
to prove her worth as working-class wife,
they came back to fight for the cause from their home
on the slummier side of South London.
The man of the year was a small man
seeking room to grow.
My middle daughter found him on her travels
my sullen, silly girl, by his words became so serious
when she sang them in her own voice
we consented, it was her choice
but he was such a charming gentleman
when he had us all to tea.
(But this is when the trouble starts, as you will see)
Solidarity was demanded on the homefront
but for us, this was impossible.
My golden older daughter and her lover- now her husband-
the coincidence of their ideological proximity
translated to sympathy for the enemy
and this daughter of mine, fond of long days and wine,
spent war years charming the Holloway Prison for Women.
The littlest one fled to America, still wedded to her cause,
kept her affiliations testifiable, and sincerity undeniable-
she had rallies and babies and books to write and
for seventeen years she refused to cross the line,
she fought the fascist front known as The Family
My husband and I- my husband and,
as his opinion of the Germans was established years before
when he’d lost a lung fighting in the First World War
and he could not abide by the company
of the leader with whom I’d had the pleasure of tea.
Especially not while the world was coming apart
at its bursting Versaillesian seams.
And my silly daughter could not abide by bursting seams
to choose between England and the man of her dreams
on September first, nineteen thirty-nine
she put a gun to her temple in an attempt to stop time.
My outspoken daughters had been drawn to men
who could outspeak them.
They dared to defy us with dictators- an original act of rebellion-
typical; no middle men, they loved instead
their moustaches and regalia their marching men with unbending knees
Prussian fortitude, Yugoslavian ingenuity
and all those ideals that had the trains run on time.
I could not raise a shallow woman; my daughters
my twentieth-century casualties, there was a time
behind every powerful man was a good woman
and I had birthed nearly all of them.
February 18, 2007
Don't eat things you find
Today was a rather bookish Sunday, as Stuart devoured Chart Throb and I turned page after page of To Kill a Mockingbird to get to its magnificent end. Oh Atticus. When I read this book ten or eleven years ago, the precocious children impressed upon me, but the greatness of their father got lost in adultland. This time around he was the centre he was meant to be. Again, that this book is extraordinary is hardly news, but it’s nice to be reminded. And afterwards I baked banana scones from this recipe. I used whole-wheat flour instead, but they were absolutely exquisite. Oh, and last night we watched Rocky II. We loved it.
