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.
February 16, 2007
Don't give me no jazz
What a nice day I’ve had, the sun shining through the windows and the cold shut out by the walls. Since September, I’ve been working on the second draft of the story that will be defended as my Master’s theis come April. I’ve worked with the new draft by starting fresh and retyping each chapter with the first draft as a guide, making changes as I see fit and then going over it again (and again after that upon feedback from my advisor). And I’m getting toward the end of my story, and though the ultimate end has stayed the same, so many details have changed. And so I’ve thrown out (most of) the first draft from this point on. And it’s wonderful really, to work with these characters I’ve come to know so well and put them in fabulous places I’d never before considered. To be template-free, and let my imagination take over. All toward the same destination, of course, but I aim to make the ride more interesting than it was the first time around.
Now rereading To Kill a Mockingbird, which is rumoured to be even better than it was when I read it last in grade eleven. In periodicals news, The Walrus was really wonderful this month, and Vanity Fair arrived today.
And it is now the weekend. The Doering-Lui’s will arrive for dinner at 7:00. Tomorrow’s plans include long-awaited fish and chips, Kensington Market, and a search for a DS game on which I will be a trusty sidekick.
February 16, 2007
Fierce
Upon a recommendation, I read A Passion for Narrative by Jack Hodgins and found it so illuminating. I don’t really believe you can learn fiction from a book (except books of fiction, of course), but I’m right in the middle of my big project and reading such a guide at this stage is quite practical. Shines light on what might be wanting, and made me think of a few things I never even considered. And then I can go right to my story and apply what I’ve learned. The book also dealt with matters of structure I’ve been grappling with. My aim is to have my story done by the end of this month so that I can spend March dealing with it as a whole. Though this aim would be more achievable if February were just a bit longer. Though if February were any longer, I would probably lose my mind.
On lending books— most people who know me know me well enough not to even ask. Lending out a book fills me with terrific anxiety and I don’t feel better until it’s back in its home. Because as much as I love books as objects, I love my library as an entity even more. When I prune my shelves, however, I always make sure I give away the discards. I have a moral objection to profiting from books. I feel that karmically I will benefit somehow by spreading that love– whether to a college book sale, or a friend.
Now reading Ladykiller, which I would sum up as “fierce”.
My Valentines Day haul was ace: I got a box of Celestial Seasonings Tea. I gave Stuart a grapefruit. And I also made him a chocolate treat from a recipe in Globe Style (“Triple Chocolate Attack”), though I made plenty and got to enjoy as much as he did.
February 14, 2007
D to the pearls of love
Tomorrow is Valentines. My wise friend Carolyn said that Valentines is really only for women with crappy men in their lives, just so at least one day a year they get a dose of goodness. Those of us with oft-upstanding blokes should expect a day much like any other. Which isn’t so terribly really, but it’s certainly not what the lately-ubiquitous diamond commericals on television have had me expecting. I’m totally holding out for White Day though.
February 14, 2007
Radiance by Shaena Lambert
Radiance would be the story of Keiko, a “Hiroshima Maiden” who comes to America in 1952 for plastic surgery on her facial scars. It is quickly apparent, however, that this story belongs instead to those she meets during her sojourn– people who see her as an opportunity to fulfil their own personal longings. And all of them want to hear her story:
~’Tell me about Hiroshima.’ But she is. She is. It is a map she carries in her body, where north holds the hills and, beneath them, the wide suburban avenues, the streetcar rails dusted with snow. South is full of winding cobbled streets, smelling of fish. East beyond the castle is a flat plain that reminds her of her father. Here soliders practice their drills and formations, carrying black bayonets.~
Hiroshima is a place of many stories. For me, for many years, Hiroshima was a book by John Hersey and a photo of a mushroom cloud. While we lived in Japan, we visited the city twice and it became one of my favourite cities in that country, with beautiful canals, a vibrant atmosphere, and nearby Miyajima, which might just be my favourite place in the world. Lambert plays with the idea of a storied Hiroshima in a marvelous way. How a city’s name has come to stand for such atrocity, and yet behind it are the stories of the people who live there. And similarly are stories woven throughout the novel– in particular the story of Daisy Lawrence, Keiko’s American “host mother” who is dealing with her own personal trauma when Keiko comes to stay. Keiko herself remains a cipher right to the novel’s ambiguous end.
Daisy comments that once Keiko comes, everything seems to be “carrying a double shadow, so that you could never be sure if what you saw was strange or natural.” It is the same experience for the reader, who can never be sure whether incidents are interpreted through characters’ neuroses, or can be seen for what they are. This ambiguity is particularly effective as the narrative takes place during the era of McCarthyist paranoia, and Daisy’s own husband is called to testify about his affiliations. But at the same time, so many unanswered questions leave a reader a bit unsatisfied too. More of a focus could have aided this: with so many double shadows, and you long for something solid to hold.
The multitude of perspectives is one problem in this text. Swinging between characters results in such bizarre situations as Daisy seemingly noting her husband sitting in the car “watching her stout, muscled buttocks” as he dropped her off at the train station. Similar awkwardness exists in some of the prose: a sentence like “The pilot… stepped jauntily down the steps” is absolutely crying out for a better verb, or an editor. I was uneasy about some of the metaphors connected Daisy and Keiko: that the former takes off her girdle and is imprinted with flowers, as victims of the atomic bombs are burned by the patterns on their kimonos, and while the connection is jarring, I did not find it particularly informing.
But as the above passage about Hiroshima indicates, Lambert is capable of very strong writing. And this story gathers momentum as it goes, culminating in twists and turns that took me completely by surprise. Perhaps Radiance is a book of too many stories, but the story at its core, which is Daisy Lawrence’s, is well-played out until the very end. And Keiko’s story too, even in her reticence. She proves a most intriguing trickster figure, never explained away and this contibutes to the novel’s magic aura. Using a remarkable blend of Japanese and American lore, Shaena Lambert’s Radiance tells the stories which underwrite the history we think we know.
February 13, 2007
Self Portrait
We’re tired at our house, which is what happens when we both spend the night having dreams in which we are struggling to sleep. And so for today, in lieu of coherence, Pickle Me This brings you me waiting for the tub to fill. Turban-headed because if my Japanese life taught me anything, it was that a bath sans shower is foul. And I like this image because it incorporates four of my favourite things: books, baths, big mugs of tea and Stuart (for it is his robe after all). Happy All The Time was a splish-splash delight.
Today in the post was a letter from Bronwyn, with whom I’ve defied Laurie Colwin’s quote from Happy All The Time: “Friendship is not possible between two women one of whom is very well dressed”. (That said woman is Bronwyn and not me should be revelatory to nobody). And her note contained the news that she has subscribed me to the London Review of Books, which is sort of like having pennies rain from the sky. I’d say life must be mostly good, with friends like that.
And I think Lucky Beans is one of the prettiest blogs I’ve ever seen.
February 11, 2007
Culling Nothing
Wonderful! Some writers’ rooms (with photos!). This one is Hilary Mantel’s. Here for literary friendships, and rivalries. Calvin Trillin in conversation. The beginning of this article is something a lot of book collectors can related to, on pruning your shelves: “…the same thing happens with every potential discard: You start to read it. Four hours later, you wake up on the floor, having culled nothing.” This article pleased me– on being a good wife. Heather Mallick’s manifesto— it’s always amusing to read the comments of her irate (and apparently avid) readers.
