Genre: Short stories
Year Published: 1999
Once upon a time, back in the magical land of college, I had a writing class requirement to get out of the way, so I spoke to my friend, who was the student representative of the creative writing department (as well as a highly regarded poet in her home country of India, but that's another story for another time). I asked her, "Do you think I should enroll in a short-story class, or a poetry class?"
And that wise girl told me, "Poetry. Short-story classes are full of girls who write about sitting in cafés and smoking cigarettes while they discuss their failed relationships."
I took her advice, and I was privileged enough to study and write modern poetry under the auspices of a very accomplished poet. I believe that class changed my life.
But enough about me (at least for the time being). The relevant information in that story, as you've probably guessed, was her remark about the type of material that surfaces in short-story classes. And that, I'm afraid, is what I have to take Melissa Bank to task for.
The Girls' Guide is not poorly written. Some of Bank's turns of phrase and stylistic choices are very well done. Her characterizations are on the nose, and the stories never drag. But at the end of each story, the smoke clears and you realize all Bank has given you is yet another cigarette-filled tale of relationship woe, punctuated by pithy realizations and dry wit.
The protagonist of the book is Jane Rosenal, who is the narrator and main character of almost all of the stories (which can be read as a whole in this book or individually). Her life seems to be permeated by the drifting uncertainty of the quintessential young adult, but with none of the associated passion. Jane is not political; Jane is not ambitious; Jane doesn't seem to give a damn about anyone or anything that's not just under her nose. She is well-read but not cultured; she is blithely upper-class without acknowledging it; she is endlessly introspective without much to show for it. In short, Jane is exactly the sort of character (or author) that my friend was warning me about years ago when I had to decide which writing class to take. Her voice and perspective make The Girls' Guide interesting at first, repetitive in the middle, and irritating towards the end.
Melissa Bank is certainly not a hopeless writer. I think she has a unique voice and an understanding of humor that's rare. But I think she needs to do a few things: one, to branch out to stories that aren't so similarly themed; and two, to ease up on her reliance on Weighty Realizations that no one ever has. (For example: "It occurred to me that if I really had grown up I wouldn't want to be told" and "I realize we sound like strangers who happen to be staying at the same hotel.") My aforementioned poetry professor was fond of forcing people to write poems about love without using words like "love" or "heart" or "soul"; I think if Bank could learn to write stories of people realizing things about themselves without constantly, explicitly referencing their realizations, she'd be on the road to better writing.
Recommended? Not so much. If someone recommends a certain story within the book, ask to borrow their copy just to read that one story. Taken individually, you might be able to get more out of them.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Delights & Shadows (Ted Kooser)
Genre: Poetry
Year Published: 2004
Ted Kooser is a poet of the moment. For the most part, he eschews the sweeping statements poets often make ("To be or not to be," anyone?) and concentrates instead on minute observations about the natural world and people around him. His style is prose-y in its adherence to normal sentence structure and grammar (something I, for one, am thankful for), and he makes little to no use of stanza breaks. He is precise and never jarring in his use of descriptive language.
The end result is a series of still lifes that are like reflections in a calm pond: while there may be deeper currents underneath, those currents are not overly accessible, and the image is all that will remain with most readers.
Here's a short example:
Biker
Pulling away from a stoplight
with a tire's sharp bark,
he lifts his scuffed boot and kicks at the air,
and the old dog of inertia gets up with a growl
and shrinks out of the way.
It's a very well-crafted metaphor, certainly, but I have a hard time getting beneath that to any other sort of truth.
This is not to say that this kind of poetry can't be beautiful or meaningful. It is just a certain style that you may like or not, depending on your poetical predilections. I for one am more fond of poetry that is a little more outwardly emotional, that perhaps pulls the focus back from the beauty of the image and lets some greater image resolve.
It's not surprising, then, that my favorite poems in Delights & Shadows are the ones in which Kooser breaks his own rules a little and allows a little of himself to shine through his work. There's a handful of poems, maybe a half-dozen or so out of the maybe six dozen in the collection, that appeals more to my sensibilities. Obviously the following poem is not representative of the collection, but it is representative of that dazzling handful. I'll leave you all with it:
After Years
Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood in the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.
Recommended? Depends very much on your own tastes. I can't say I'll go back to this book fondly over the years, but it's high-quality, whether or not you like his style.
Year Published: 2004
Ted Kooser is a poet of the moment. For the most part, he eschews the sweeping statements poets often make ("To be or not to be," anyone?) and concentrates instead on minute observations about the natural world and people around him. His style is prose-y in its adherence to normal sentence structure and grammar (something I, for one, am thankful for), and he makes little to no use of stanza breaks. He is precise and never jarring in his use of descriptive language.
The end result is a series of still lifes that are like reflections in a calm pond: while there may be deeper currents underneath, those currents are not overly accessible, and the image is all that will remain with most readers.
Here's a short example:
Biker
Pulling away from a stoplight
with a tire's sharp bark,
he lifts his scuffed boot and kicks at the air,
and the old dog of inertia gets up with a growl
and shrinks out of the way.
It's a very well-crafted metaphor, certainly, but I have a hard time getting beneath that to any other sort of truth.
This is not to say that this kind of poetry can't be beautiful or meaningful. It is just a certain style that you may like or not, depending on your poetical predilections. I for one am more fond of poetry that is a little more outwardly emotional, that perhaps pulls the focus back from the beauty of the image and lets some greater image resolve.
It's not surprising, then, that my favorite poems in Delights & Shadows are the ones in which Kooser breaks his own rules a little and allows a little of himself to shine through his work. There's a handful of poems, maybe a half-dozen or so out of the maybe six dozen in the collection, that appeals more to my sensibilities. Obviously the following poem is not representative of the collection, but it is representative of that dazzling handful. I'll leave you all with it:
After Years
Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood in the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.
Recommended? Depends very much on your own tastes. I can't say I'll go back to this book fondly over the years, but it's high-quality, whether or not you like his style.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
Genre: Historical fiction (with a touch of fantasy)
Year Published: 1991
Never again, I swear, will I joke about a book being upwards of 800 pages. Clearly the bluestocking gods decided that for my insolence, I would actually have to tackle such a book: namely, the bestselling Outlander.
Outlander clocks in at 850 pages, and I could not for the life of me tell you why it's so damn long. It doesn't have appreciably more detail or plot than a normal-length novel. You would think that the sheer heft of the book would turn away casual readers, and yet it's the first book in an enormously popular series.
Probably the book's popularity is due, at least in part, to its fairly easy, predictable path. Our heroine, Claire, is a WWII combat nurse who is hurtled back in time to 1743. Imagine any cliché of upscale historical romance novels and it is present here: the woman healer, the gallant warrior husband, the gruff seasoned band of brothers, the unbelievably over-the-top villain, a forced marriage, accusations of witchcraft, ancestors recognizable even six generations removed, multiple incredible escape missions, multiple torrid sex scenes, multiple brushes with death . . . you name it.
And yet . . . and yet Outlander is one of the more compelling books I have ever read. I truly could not put it down, and for someone like me who flits from book to book, that's saying something. Gabaldon never lets the plot drag; there's always a strong pull forward, aided by her style of rather short sections within medium-length chapters. She doesn't waste time transitioning between scenes, but instead trusts her readers to fill in between section breaks. And nothing happens that doesn't in some way contribute to the plot. In a more literary work, this would be a huge detriment, but in a plot-driven tome like this one, it's for the best.
This is not great literature. I'm not even sure it's good prose. It's not fluff exactly -- it's too well-researched and well-paced to be rightfully assigned that epithet. It's a tough novel to pin down. But it's deliciously addictive, and surprisingly educational about life in the given time period.
Recommended? If you don't mind spending the time and effort on 850 pages that won't really enrich your life or change your perspective, I recommend it wholeheartedly.
Year Published: 1991
Never again, I swear, will I joke about a book being upwards of 800 pages. Clearly the bluestocking gods decided that for my insolence, I would actually have to tackle such a book: namely, the bestselling Outlander.
Outlander clocks in at 850 pages, and I could not for the life of me tell you why it's so damn long. It doesn't have appreciably more detail or plot than a normal-length novel. You would think that the sheer heft of the book would turn away casual readers, and yet it's the first book in an enormously popular series.
Probably the book's popularity is due, at least in part, to its fairly easy, predictable path. Our heroine, Claire, is a WWII combat nurse who is hurtled back in time to 1743. Imagine any cliché of upscale historical romance novels and it is present here: the woman healer, the gallant warrior husband, the gruff seasoned band of brothers, the unbelievably over-the-top villain, a forced marriage, accusations of witchcraft, ancestors recognizable even six generations removed, multiple incredible escape missions, multiple torrid sex scenes, multiple brushes with death . . . you name it.
And yet . . . and yet Outlander is one of the more compelling books I have ever read. I truly could not put it down, and for someone like me who flits from book to book, that's saying something. Gabaldon never lets the plot drag; there's always a strong pull forward, aided by her style of rather short sections within medium-length chapters. She doesn't waste time transitioning between scenes, but instead trusts her readers to fill in between section breaks. And nothing happens that doesn't in some way contribute to the plot. In a more literary work, this would be a huge detriment, but in a plot-driven tome like this one, it's for the best.
This is not great literature. I'm not even sure it's good prose. It's not fluff exactly -- it's too well-researched and well-paced to be rightfully assigned that epithet. It's a tough novel to pin down. But it's deliciously addictive, and surprisingly educational about life in the given time period.
Recommended? If you don't mind spending the time and effort on 850 pages that won't really enrich your life or change your perspective, I recommend it wholeheartedly.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Anne Brontë)
Genre: Classic fiction
Year Published: 1848
Sorry it's been so long, dear readers, but Victoriana is a trifle . . . bog-tastic. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is only about 400 pages long, but in terms of how long it took to read, it felt like about double that length.
That's not to say I didn't enjoy it. I did, surprisingly so. (I read it out of sympathy for my little sister, who has to read it for a college English class.) The narrative was far more engaging than I could've hoped. Sure, it suffers from the same malady that I think most classic literature does, that is, it could've really used an editor to prune some of the most overblown passages, but that's not too much a problem here. Brontë, thankfully, has a higher proportion of dialogue to description than Austen does (don't get me wrong, I love me some Austen, but girlfriend needed to trim down some of that prose), but there are still some places that could be cut to the betterment of the novel.
Wildfell Hall is the first feminist novel, or one of the first. But it's hardly about a strong woman kicking ass; it's about a dutiful woman whose horrible husband emotionally and spiritually tortures her. He's a dissolute, hateful drunkard, as are his friends, and the poor wife is stuck in the marriage because of a woman's inability to file for divorce. Now, everyone says that Brontë was arguing in favor of a change to that law, but I have to say, I didn't see it. Wildfell Hall is so imperturbably Victorian that it doesn't seem like any sort of instrument for social change.
Incidentally, its sheer didactic Victorian-ness is where I feel the real fault of the book lies. Obviously, the author was a product of her time, but there is an inherent contradiction in the values Brontë seems to espouse and the place that her narrative ends up: on the one hand, her heroine is extremely religious, in the old Protestant God-fearing way, and seems to endure all her suffering with the calm knowledge that she will win Heaven at the end of her life. On the other hand, everyone in the book gets exactly what they deserve: the pious achieve happiness, while the sinners are mired in the unpleasant aftereffects of various vices.
It seems to me you can't have it both ways. Either Heaven really is the only thing that matters, and thus (if Brontë were to be honest with her readers) sometimes, while on Earth, the sinners gain while the pious lose out. Or, if you'd rather, life on Earth is in fact very important, and characters (both religious and not) must act in ways that will win them the greatest happiness, even if their actions are not as scrupulously moralistic as perhaps they'd like to be. To have people act in precise accordance with such strict moral codes and then achieve earthly happiness seems like a terrible cop-out to me. If Brontë is making any sort of radical statement, I would venture to guess that it's less about a woman's right to divorce and more about the absurdity of a religious/moral system that would order a woman be subjugated to her husband (even if she eventually extricates her own heroine from those chains). But then again, I may be reading my own displeasure onto her narrative. It's very tough to tell.
Recommended? It's certainly good for its time period. Pick it up, read a chapter or two; if you're not driven crazy by the description, you'll make it through just fine.
Year Published: 1848
Sorry it's been so long, dear readers, but Victoriana is a trifle . . . bog-tastic. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is only about 400 pages long, but in terms of how long it took to read, it felt like about double that length.
That's not to say I didn't enjoy it. I did, surprisingly so. (I read it out of sympathy for my little sister, who has to read it for a college English class.) The narrative was far more engaging than I could've hoped. Sure, it suffers from the same malady that I think most classic literature does, that is, it could've really used an editor to prune some of the most overblown passages, but that's not too much a problem here. Brontë, thankfully, has a higher proportion of dialogue to description than Austen does (don't get me wrong, I love me some Austen, but girlfriend needed to trim down some of that prose), but there are still some places that could be cut to the betterment of the novel.
Wildfell Hall is the first feminist novel, or one of the first. But it's hardly about a strong woman kicking ass; it's about a dutiful woman whose horrible husband emotionally and spiritually tortures her. He's a dissolute, hateful drunkard, as are his friends, and the poor wife is stuck in the marriage because of a woman's inability to file for divorce. Now, everyone says that Brontë was arguing in favor of a change to that law, but I have to say, I didn't see it. Wildfell Hall is so imperturbably Victorian that it doesn't seem like any sort of instrument for social change.
Incidentally, its sheer didactic Victorian-ness is where I feel the real fault of the book lies. Obviously, the author was a product of her time, but there is an inherent contradiction in the values Brontë seems to espouse and the place that her narrative ends up: on the one hand, her heroine is extremely religious, in the old Protestant God-fearing way, and seems to endure all her suffering with the calm knowledge that she will win Heaven at the end of her life. On the other hand, everyone in the book gets exactly what they deserve: the pious achieve happiness, while the sinners are mired in the unpleasant aftereffects of various vices.
It seems to me you can't have it both ways. Either Heaven really is the only thing that matters, and thus (if Brontë were to be honest with her readers) sometimes, while on Earth, the sinners gain while the pious lose out. Or, if you'd rather, life on Earth is in fact very important, and characters (both religious and not) must act in ways that will win them the greatest happiness, even if their actions are not as scrupulously moralistic as perhaps they'd like to be. To have people act in precise accordance with such strict moral codes and then achieve earthly happiness seems like a terrible cop-out to me. If Brontë is making any sort of radical statement, I would venture to guess that it's less about a woman's right to divorce and more about the absurdity of a religious/moral system that would order a woman be subjugated to her husband (even if she eventually extricates her own heroine from those chains). But then again, I may be reading my own displeasure onto her narrative. It's very tough to tell.
Recommended? It's certainly good for its time period. Pick it up, read a chapter or two; if you're not driven crazy by the description, you'll make it through just fine.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Beware of God (Shalom Auslander)
Genre: Short stories
Year Published: 2005
Have you ever read the Old Testament and thought to yourself, "Goodness, that God character is one homicidal, psychotic jerk"? Then this is the book for you.
In a passage typical of the book, a man who's being "stalked" by God is consulting his therapist for assistance.
The whole book is filled with similar indictments of the Jewish God (Auslander was raised Orthodox, and all his characters are Jews, some religious, some otherwise), executed with brilliant black humor. In pieces where God is actually present, He is universally depicted as a world-weary, out-of-touch braggart with little mercy and no answers.
You might think this would make for a terribly depressing read, and for the most part, you'd be correct. Interestingly, though, the truly difficult stories in the book are the ones in which God is not a character. There are a few allegories, which are obvious almost at the level of political cartoons with labels, but they manage to work anyway: two hampsters, one who believes their owner will return, the other a doubter, debate; the characters of Peanuts divide themselves into inventive religious factions; a man makes a golem and realizes he has no idea how to treat his autonomous creation.
However, the story that is saddest and perhaps most telling of Auslander's obvious distaste for certain aspects, at least, of religious Jewish culture is entitled "Holocaust Tips for Kids." It is long -- for Auslander, at least, whose stories tend to fall short of the 20-page mark -- and written in the unmistakable voice of a child. The child in question, never named, is a young boy, perhaps nine or so, who has been taught things about the Holocaust and religion that (the reader begins to think) should have been saved for later years.
This line of thinking is, unfortunately, pretty familiar to any Jewish kid exposed to the facts of the Holocaust at an early age. But what differentiates this story from the typical Jewish kid's musing on that subject are the voices of his mother and rabbi, who tell him, respectively, "[Kevin's] mother is a no-good anti-Semite" and "the Holocaust happened because the Jews assimilated" (among other things). Beyond the terror of imagining that the Holocaust could happen in modern-day America, the child is made to doubt and fear the non-Jews around him, and to believe that his religion is less about joy and faith, and more about guilt and punishment. Auslander skewers this attitude, not only in this story, but throughout the collection.
Recommended? This might be a for-Jews-only read. Hey, Christians can have Left Behind; we can have our own unique brand of dark satire.
Year Published: 2005
Have you ever read the Old Testament and thought to yourself, "Goodness, that God character is one homicidal, psychotic jerk"? Then this is the book for you.
In a passage typical of the book, a man who's being "stalked" by God is consulting his therapist for assistance.
Most stalkers, explained Dr. Herschberg, are lonely, isolated members of society, seeking intimacy or friendship. The stalking is simply a partial satisfaction of their voyeuristic, sadistic tendencies.
"That sounds like Him."
"You need to stop responding," said Dr. Herschberg.
"That's what my wife said," replied Schwartzman. "He's not easy to ignore."
"Are you afraid he might become violent?"
"If history's any indication."
The whole book is filled with similar indictments of the Jewish God (Auslander was raised Orthodox, and all his characters are Jews, some religious, some otherwise), executed with brilliant black humor. In pieces where God is actually present, He is universally depicted as a world-weary, out-of-touch braggart with little mercy and no answers.
You might think this would make for a terribly depressing read, and for the most part, you'd be correct. Interestingly, though, the truly difficult stories in the book are the ones in which God is not a character. There are a few allegories, which are obvious almost at the level of political cartoons with labels, but they manage to work anyway: two hampsters, one who believes their owner will return, the other a doubter, debate; the characters of Peanuts divide themselves into inventive religious factions; a man makes a golem and realizes he has no idea how to treat his autonomous creation.
However, the story that is saddest and perhaps most telling of Auslander's obvious distaste for certain aspects, at least, of religious Jewish culture is entitled "Holocaust Tips for Kids." It is long -- for Auslander, at least, whose stories tend to fall short of the 20-page mark -- and written in the unmistakable voice of a child. The child in question, never named, is a young boy, perhaps nine or so, who has been taught things about the Holocaust and religion that (the reader begins to think) should have been saved for later years.
Kevin calls my yarmulke a beanie. I am Beanie Boy.
If Kevin becomes a Nazi, the first place he'll tell the SS to look for me and Deena is in his attic. But we'll be in Florida.
Anne Frank was murdered in Bergen-Belsen after someone reported the family to the Nazis, so really -- don't tell anyone where you are going.
They're not really showers.
They'll probably make New York City into a ghetto, like the Warsaw Ghetto. If you live in a big city where there are Jews and one day there's a Holocaust, you should leave right away.
This line of thinking is, unfortunately, pretty familiar to any Jewish kid exposed to the facts of the Holocaust at an early age. But what differentiates this story from the typical Jewish kid's musing on that subject are the voices of his mother and rabbi, who tell him, respectively, "[Kevin's] mother is a no-good anti-Semite" and "the Holocaust happened because the Jews assimilated" (among other things). Beyond the terror of imagining that the Holocaust could happen in modern-day America, the child is made to doubt and fear the non-Jews around him, and to believe that his religion is less about joy and faith, and more about guilt and punishment. Auslander skewers this attitude, not only in this story, but throughout the collection.
Recommended? This might be a for-Jews-only read. Hey, Christians can have Left Behind; we can have our own unique brand of dark satire.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
The Ladies of Grace Adieu and Other Stories (Susanna Clarke)
Genre: Short stories
Year Published: 2006
If you haven't read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, dear readers, I tell you now in no uncertain terms: go find it. Pick it up secondhand, find it at a library, I don't care. Find it and read it.
All done? (I imagine you've been gone for several weeks, dear reader; the book does loom on 800 pages. How are you? How's the family been? Good? Good.) Now we can talk about The Ladies of Grace Adieu.
As you now know, England is a magical place, and fairies are capricious beasts who meddle in human affairs without compunction. This collection of seven short stories illuminates seven different occasions upon which the world of humans and the world of fairies clashed, and with what results. (The author seems to be quite biased towards humans, thankfully.)
(Even as I'm composing this review, I'm cognizant of how Clarke's impeccable British faux-eighteenth-century diction has crept into my writing patterns, leaving me to get my point across with big words and complicated grammatical structures. But no matter: if need be, I will sacrifice my newfangled prose in service of praising her.)
The Ladies of Grace Adieu is not flawless; I didn't even enjoy all the stories. The title story was all right, but I thought it was too oblique to hold the opening slot, and it was disappointing to see Jonathan Strange himself given such a bit part. I was not particularly fond of "On Lickerish Hill," the second offering, which cast back in time before the Jonathan Strange era, so the reader must parse words like "alwaies" and "owd" ("always" and "old," for those not well-versed in Elizabethan English). That would be forgivable were the story not an utterly predictable retread of "Rumpelstiltskin," and not the most amusing one, at that.
But the collection picks up nicely in the middle. We get work that's more original: though "Mrs Mabb" hearkens back to the second (less dark) half of "Tam Lin," it's different enough that it works on Clarke's terms. "The Duke of Wellington Misplaces His Horse" is an absolute delight, and "Mr Simonelli or the Fairy Widower" (the longest of them all) is fun, since we experience a realization that there are fairies, and that they are mostly malevolent, through the eyes of an entirely average clergyman. "Tom Brightwind or How the Fairy Bridge Was Built at Thorseby" finishes off the middle section with a bang: it is the only time in the volume we see fairies and humans at anything approaching equal footing, and the magic that Tom Brightwind utilizes is very funny to watch in action.
The book peters out a little disappointingly: there is a short tale about Mary Queen of Scots that doesn't amount to much, and it ends with "John Uskglass and the Cumbrian Charcoal Burner," which, as it's about the Raven King, is certainly interesting, but it's supposed to be a fairy tale (in the usual sense), and as such is a little too simplistic (though it is funny).
If there's anything that really made me sad about the collection, it's that we are not given even a hint of resolution on the issues that were left unsettled at the end of Jonathan Strange. I have no desire to spoil anything for those who haven't lived between those covers yet, but suffice it to say that the uncertain circumstances at that novel's end are made no less uncertain by this book. We can only hope she writes more on that subject in the future.
I will say this: Grace Adieu desperately made me want to reread Jonathan Strange. So that's what I'm doing now, though I imagine I'll have to intersperse other books if I want to keep up any sort of regular schedule on this blog. One of the bluestocking's superpowers is being able to read many books at once, though, so I'll be fine.
Recommended? Only as a follow-up to Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell; if you've read that one, then make this your next read!
Year Published: 2006
If you haven't read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, dear readers, I tell you now in no uncertain terms: go find it. Pick it up secondhand, find it at a library, I don't care. Find it and read it.
All done? (I imagine you've been gone for several weeks, dear reader; the book does loom on 800 pages. How are you? How's the family been? Good? Good.) Now we can talk about The Ladies of Grace Adieu.
As you now know, England is a magical place, and fairies are capricious beasts who meddle in human affairs without compunction. This collection of seven short stories illuminates seven different occasions upon which the world of humans and the world of fairies clashed, and with what results. (The author seems to be quite biased towards humans, thankfully.)
(Even as I'm composing this review, I'm cognizant of how Clarke's impeccable British faux-eighteenth-century diction has crept into my writing patterns, leaving me to get my point across with big words and complicated grammatical structures. But no matter: if need be, I will sacrifice my newfangled prose in service of praising her.)
The Ladies of Grace Adieu is not flawless; I didn't even enjoy all the stories. The title story was all right, but I thought it was too oblique to hold the opening slot, and it was disappointing to see Jonathan Strange himself given such a bit part. I was not particularly fond of "On Lickerish Hill," the second offering, which cast back in time before the Jonathan Strange era, so the reader must parse words like "alwaies" and "owd" ("always" and "old," for those not well-versed in Elizabethan English). That would be forgivable were the story not an utterly predictable retread of "Rumpelstiltskin," and not the most amusing one, at that.
But the collection picks up nicely in the middle. We get work that's more original: though "Mrs Mabb" hearkens back to the second (less dark) half of "Tam Lin," it's different enough that it works on Clarke's terms. "The Duke of Wellington Misplaces His Horse" is an absolute delight, and "Mr Simonelli or the Fairy Widower" (the longest of them all) is fun, since we experience a realization that there are fairies, and that they are mostly malevolent, through the eyes of an entirely average clergyman. "Tom Brightwind or How the Fairy Bridge Was Built at Thorseby" finishes off the middle section with a bang: it is the only time in the volume we see fairies and humans at anything approaching equal footing, and the magic that Tom Brightwind utilizes is very funny to watch in action.
The book peters out a little disappointingly: there is a short tale about Mary Queen of Scots that doesn't amount to much, and it ends with "John Uskglass and the Cumbrian Charcoal Burner," which, as it's about the Raven King, is certainly interesting, but it's supposed to be a fairy tale (in the usual sense), and as such is a little too simplistic (though it is funny).
If there's anything that really made me sad about the collection, it's that we are not given even a hint of resolution on the issues that were left unsettled at the end of Jonathan Strange. I have no desire to spoil anything for those who haven't lived between those covers yet, but suffice it to say that the uncertain circumstances at that novel's end are made no less uncertain by this book. We can only hope she writes more on that subject in the future.
I will say this: Grace Adieu desperately made me want to reread Jonathan Strange. So that's what I'm doing now, though I imagine I'll have to intersperse other books if I want to keep up any sort of regular schedule on this blog. One of the bluestocking's superpowers is being able to read many books at once, though, so I'll be fine.
Recommended? Only as a follow-up to Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell; if you've read that one, then make this your next read!
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Hey Nostradamus! (Douglas Coupland)
Genre: Fiction
Year Published: 2003
I suppose every American born before, say, 1990 remembers the Columbine massacre. It may have hit especially hard for those who were in high school at the time, as I was. But I never much immersed myself in the findings of those who investigated Columbine; I watched the regular news coverage at the time, but I never delved too much into the whole thing. I'm not sure why, but maybe when you have to file into a cafeteria every day to eat your sack lunch, you don't want to have to think about kids who died in theirs. And while awareness of the circumstances of that time and place are more or less necessary, knowledge of the details might be more distressing than educational for anyone.
So let me just say right out that if you're the kind of person who gets upset easily, who'd never want to have to think about the Columbine massacre or anything like it, Hey Nostradamus! is not for you. I understand that impulse, but the summary of the book intrigued me, plus it was recommended by the hostess over at 50 Books, so I picked it up at the ol' library.
Coupland is Canadian, so the book is instead set in Canada, but his inspiration for his school shooting, the event that kicks off the book, is the Columbine massacre. The book is told in four parts: first, by a girl who is killed that day; second, by her secret husband, 11 years later; third, by that man's girlfriend three years after that; and finally, by the husband's father a year after that.
In the hands of another writer, it may have turned into a very moving and/or mundane portrait of grief. But Coupland's gig is disaffection, the world-gone-wrong thing. The thrust of the book is, more or less, how the shootings that day ruined various people's lives, one by one, even fifteen years down the line. He doesn't waste too much time on emotions; instead, he chronicles, in first person, his characters' thoughts and actions, trusting the reader to fill in the emotional blanks. And their actions are often destructive: there is a lot of abuse of drugs and alcohol, a lot of separating themselves from other people, a lot of pain.
The other main theme -- besides violent death and its domino effect on the living -- is religion and belief in God/fate. The girl who dies belonged to a group of young fundamentalists, and while her spiritual cohort is portrayed as pretty morally bankrupt, she herself is a true believer who seems to be narrating from heaven, or something like it. Meanwhile, her now-widowed husband, who had been a believer, spirals into apathy; his girlfriend consults with a so-called psychic under desperate circumstances; and his father manages to drive away nearly all his friends and family with his obsessive adherence to religious strictures. Belief doesn't seem to quite work for anyone, not even the dead girl, who distanced her family in her acceptance of religion.
In the end, Coupland seems to be saying, all we can really believe in is the human race, and look what we humans are capable of. Children can walk into a cafeteria and kill other children. It's a tough message to swallow, but when it's encapsulated in Coupland's straightforward, often hilarious prose, you find yourself accepting it, at least until you close the book for good.
Recommended? Sure, if the above didn't scare you off.
Year Published: 2003
I suppose every American born before, say, 1990 remembers the Columbine massacre. It may have hit especially hard for those who were in high school at the time, as I was. But I never much immersed myself in the findings of those who investigated Columbine; I watched the regular news coverage at the time, but I never delved too much into the whole thing. I'm not sure why, but maybe when you have to file into a cafeteria every day to eat your sack lunch, you don't want to have to think about kids who died in theirs. And while awareness of the circumstances of that time and place are more or less necessary, knowledge of the details might be more distressing than educational for anyone.
So let me just say right out that if you're the kind of person who gets upset easily, who'd never want to have to think about the Columbine massacre or anything like it, Hey Nostradamus! is not for you. I understand that impulse, but the summary of the book intrigued me, plus it was recommended by the hostess over at 50 Books, so I picked it up at the ol' library.
Coupland is Canadian, so the book is instead set in Canada, but his inspiration for his school shooting, the event that kicks off the book, is the Columbine massacre. The book is told in four parts: first, by a girl who is killed that day; second, by her secret husband, 11 years later; third, by that man's girlfriend three years after that; and finally, by the husband's father a year after that.
In the hands of another writer, it may have turned into a very moving and/or mundane portrait of grief. But Coupland's gig is disaffection, the world-gone-wrong thing. The thrust of the book is, more or less, how the shootings that day ruined various people's lives, one by one, even fifteen years down the line. He doesn't waste too much time on emotions; instead, he chronicles, in first person, his characters' thoughts and actions, trusting the reader to fill in the emotional blanks. And their actions are often destructive: there is a lot of abuse of drugs and alcohol, a lot of separating themselves from other people, a lot of pain.
The other main theme -- besides violent death and its domino effect on the living -- is religion and belief in God/fate. The girl who dies belonged to a group of young fundamentalists, and while her spiritual cohort is portrayed as pretty morally bankrupt, she herself is a true believer who seems to be narrating from heaven, or something like it. Meanwhile, her now-widowed husband, who had been a believer, spirals into apathy; his girlfriend consults with a so-called psychic under desperate circumstances; and his father manages to drive away nearly all his friends and family with his obsessive adherence to religious strictures. Belief doesn't seem to quite work for anyone, not even the dead girl, who distanced her family in her acceptance of religion.
In the end, Coupland seems to be saying, all we can really believe in is the human race, and look what we humans are capable of. Children can walk into a cafeteria and kill other children. It's a tough message to swallow, but when it's encapsulated in Coupland's straightforward, often hilarious prose, you find yourself accepting it, at least until you close the book for good.
Recommended? Sure, if the above didn't scare you off.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Deerskin (Robin McKinley)
Genre: Fantasy
Year Published: 1993
Inspired by my success with Sunshine, I decided to pick up another of McKinley's books at my local library. I knew I was headed into completely different territory with Deerskin, but I thought I might as well give it a shot.
It was, indeed, very different territory. I still am not sure exactly what to make of Deerskin. On the one hand, the entire book was written in the highhanded, faux-old-fashioned, semicolon-heavy style of a modern author attempting to write something that feels like a fairy tale, and the broad arc of the story was telegraphed almost from page one, like a fairy tale would be. On the other hand, I was genuinely gripped by the narrative, once it progressed past the rape.
Yes, the rape: the entire book is centered around our heroine (Lissla) coming to terms (or, more rightly, failing to come to terms) with her rape by her father. The book is divided into three parts; the first is an introduction of sorts and then a long, long descent for Lissla until, at the end of the section, the rape occurs. The first part is permeated with dread and buckets of foreshadowing, which makes it awfully difficult to read.
The second part forms the meat of the book, but it doesn't begin promisingly: McKinley spends four full chapters with Lissla in a dissociative fugue, the existence of which forms the bulk of the narrative. Every other sentence is about her lack of memory, and it gets very old very quickly.
Finally, by the middle of the second part, the story becomes engaging and not impossible to bear -- not coincidentally, this is where Lissla's new life begins to shape itself. Things follow in a way that are fairy-tale-like, mostly, and even if it's a little thorny at points, it's very interesting and worth having struggled through the previous parts.
Where it all falls apart again, in my opinion, is the last chapter. I won't give away the plot by any means, but McKinley, in her more straightforward fantasy books (e.g. Spindle's End) is given to magically histrionic conclusions that are uniformly overlong and confusing. I had thought I'd escape that tendency this time, but no such luck. There's all sorts of nonsense about flame and blood and reflections and it 1) makes no sense and 2) is drastically different from the rest of the book (which relies only the faintest bit on magic).
I also want to mention, though I feel a bit petty doing it, that McKinley has a terrible habit of endowing her heroines with serious obsessions that seem to coincide with whatever she herself is obsessed at the time. Rose Daughter dedicates an enormous amount of narrative to tending roses; unsurprisingly, McKinley had just picked up the hobby herself. Deerskin, meanwhile, centers around sighthounds; McKinley's profile in the back concludes with, "She lives in Hampshire, England, with her husband, the writer Peter Dickinson, and three whippets." There is, of course, something to be said for writing what you know; however, there is also something to be said for pushing your own boundaries a bit.
Recommended? Meh. I think I would recommend it for a college-level class on "Rape in Literature" or something, but the average reader can give it a pass.
Year Published: 1993
Inspired by my success with Sunshine, I decided to pick up another of McKinley's books at my local library. I knew I was headed into completely different territory with Deerskin, but I thought I might as well give it a shot.
It was, indeed, very different territory. I still am not sure exactly what to make of Deerskin. On the one hand, the entire book was written in the highhanded, faux-old-fashioned, semicolon-heavy style of a modern author attempting to write something that feels like a fairy tale, and the broad arc of the story was telegraphed almost from page one, like a fairy tale would be. On the other hand, I was genuinely gripped by the narrative, once it progressed past the rape.
Yes, the rape: the entire book is centered around our heroine (Lissla) coming to terms (or, more rightly, failing to come to terms) with her rape by her father. The book is divided into three parts; the first is an introduction of sorts and then a long, long descent for Lissla until, at the end of the section, the rape occurs. The first part is permeated with dread and buckets of foreshadowing, which makes it awfully difficult to read.
The second part forms the meat of the book, but it doesn't begin promisingly: McKinley spends four full chapters with Lissla in a dissociative fugue, the existence of which forms the bulk of the narrative. Every other sentence is about her lack of memory, and it gets very old very quickly.
Finally, by the middle of the second part, the story becomes engaging and not impossible to bear -- not coincidentally, this is where Lissla's new life begins to shape itself. Things follow in a way that are fairy-tale-like, mostly, and even if it's a little thorny at points, it's very interesting and worth having struggled through the previous parts.
Where it all falls apart again, in my opinion, is the last chapter. I won't give away the plot by any means, but McKinley, in her more straightforward fantasy books (e.g. Spindle's End) is given to magically histrionic conclusions that are uniformly overlong and confusing. I had thought I'd escape that tendency this time, but no such luck. There's all sorts of nonsense about flame and blood and reflections and it 1) makes no sense and 2) is drastically different from the rest of the book (which relies only the faintest bit on magic).
I also want to mention, though I feel a bit petty doing it, that McKinley has a terrible habit of endowing her heroines with serious obsessions that seem to coincide with whatever she herself is obsessed at the time. Rose Daughter dedicates an enormous amount of narrative to tending roses; unsurprisingly, McKinley had just picked up the hobby herself. Deerskin, meanwhile, centers around sighthounds; McKinley's profile in the back concludes with, "She lives in Hampshire, England, with her husband, the writer Peter Dickinson, and three whippets." There is, of course, something to be said for writing what you know; however, there is also something to be said for pushing your own boundaries a bit.
Recommended? Meh. I think I would recommend it for a college-level class on "Rape in Literature" or something, but the average reader can give it a pass.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Middlesex (Jeffrey Eugenides)
Genre: Literary fiction
Year Published: 2002
When I told my good friend I was in the middle of Middlesex, she remarked, "Oh, good book. The pacing on that last third will kill you, though."
Alas, my friends know me quite well, and she was perfectly correct. The book begins with the following sentence:
In reaching the first birth, Eugenides has to give us about forty years' worth of family history, beginning with the fraternal grandparents of our narrator, Cal, in their native land of Greece. Then we move into America in the Roaring Twenties, through the Depression, World War II, the Korean War, the Detroit Riots, etc. Eugenides' characters are marvelous -- you believe in every single one of them, and you care so much about them that you can't wait to read each of their stories in turn. Additionally, his prose is usually fairly straightforward, but occasionally he throws in gems like this:
Eugenides works in ideas about masculine and feminine prose, Greek superstition and religion, growing up a hermaphrodite in a time of sexual revolution, race, industrialism, family, and everything else you could want in an epic novel. (It clocks in at 529 pages . . . not quite up to Possession, but damn close. Why have I been choosing all these long books recently? Oh, right, to sufficiently space out the battles in my ongoing war with L.M. Montgomery.)
However, as we move closer and closer to the second birth mentioned in the novel's first sentence, time slows nearly to a halt. We know that Cal will be fourteen when the rebirth occurs, and s/he stays fourteen for . . . a very long time. I lost track, but it had to have been a hundred pages at least. Eugenides teases the reader with canceled OB/GYN appointments and weird sexual encounters -- all of which are very well-written and engaging, but when the reader begins to feel that the revelation is being delayed just for the sake of being delayed, it's not pleasant. You feel as though Eugenides has violated your trust, that he gave you a map ahead of time and neglected to let you know how wacky the scale is.
All this having been said, though, it's really an amazing book, and I'm glad I read it. I must give credit where it's due: Eugenides clearly put a lot of thought and effort into Middlesex, and it shows. Grief about pacing aside, it's a wonderful narrative, and I'm the richer for having read it.
Recommended? Yes. Get ready for a long ride.
Year Published: 2002
When I told my good friend I was in the middle of Middlesex, she remarked, "Oh, good book. The pacing on that last third will kill you, though."
Alas, my friends know me quite well, and she was perfectly correct. The book begins with the following sentence:
I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan.
In reaching the first birth, Eugenides has to give us about forty years' worth of family history, beginning with the fraternal grandparents of our narrator, Cal, in their native land of Greece. Then we move into America in the Roaring Twenties, through the Depression, World War II, the Korean War, the Detroit Riots, etc. Eugenides' characters are marvelous -- you believe in every single one of them, and you care so much about them that you can't wait to read each of their stories in turn. Additionally, his prose is usually fairly straightforward, but occasionally he throws in gems like this:
. . . I like to imagine my brother and me, floating together since the world's beginning on our raft of eggs. Each inside a transparent membrane, each slotted for his or her (in my case both) hour of birth. There's [my brother], always so pasty, and bald by the age of twenty-three, so that he makes a perfect homunculus . . . . Right nest to him, there's me, his sometime sister, my face already a conundrum, flashing like a lenticular decal between two images: the dark-eyed, pretty little girl I used to be; and the severe, aquiline-nosed, Roman-coinish person I am today. And so we drifted, the two of us, since the world began, awaiting our cues and observing the passing show.
Eugenides works in ideas about masculine and feminine prose, Greek superstition and religion, growing up a hermaphrodite in a time of sexual revolution, race, industrialism, family, and everything else you could want in an epic novel. (It clocks in at 529 pages . . . not quite up to Possession, but damn close. Why have I been choosing all these long books recently? Oh, right, to sufficiently space out the battles in my ongoing war with L.M. Montgomery.)
However, as we move closer and closer to the second birth mentioned in the novel's first sentence, time slows nearly to a halt. We know that Cal will be fourteen when the rebirth occurs, and s/he stays fourteen for . . . a very long time. I lost track, but it had to have been a hundred pages at least. Eugenides teases the reader with canceled OB/GYN appointments and weird sexual encounters -- all of which are very well-written and engaging, but when the reader begins to feel that the revelation is being delayed just for the sake of being delayed, it's not pleasant. You feel as though Eugenides has violated your trust, that he gave you a map ahead of time and neglected to let you know how wacky the scale is.
All this having been said, though, it's really an amazing book, and I'm glad I read it. I must give credit where it's due: Eugenides clearly put a lot of thought and effort into Middlesex, and it shows. Grief about pacing aside, it's a wonderful narrative, and I'm the richer for having read it.
Recommended? Yes. Get ready for a long ride.
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