Sometimes I feel like I don't give comics the time they deserve. But I think Seconds is actually going to be wonderfully re-r...moreMan, this was delightful.
Sometimes I feel like I don't give comics the time they deserve. But I think Seconds is actually going to be wonderfully re-readable.
I really liked it: it's recognizably by the same guy who did Scott Pilgrim, and it tells a similar story - but it's grounded in some really beautiful ways. And I liked, too, that it is as much about finding a friend as it is getting back the One That Got Away. Also, about getting over yourself. Like, is that the hardest thing? I think maybe it is.
Plus, the jokes are good. "She hid under the covers. But in like a defiant and cool way."(less)
I was thinking, on this second read, about how people often react in two ways to Dorothea: 1) her marriage to Will at the end is a waste of her. Of course, Eliot is pretty straightforward about this, including it in the Finale (!):
Many who knew her, thought it a pity that so substantive and rare a creature should have been absorbed into the life of another, and be only known in a certain circle as a wife and mother.
And, 2) "Wouldn't Dorothea have been much better suited to Lydgate, though?"
And these two reactions aren't mutually exclusive - I think people often have them together.
I'm not at all sure either of these reactions speak to me. I'll admit, I have a visceral horror at the idea of Dorothea marrying Lydgate, and not just because 1990s Rufus Sewell. (Will is blond in the book, which is maybe the only bad idea Eliot ever had, for one thing.) But really, Dorothea and Lydgate wouldn't have been well-suited, and I think their marriage might have been even worse than her marriage to Casaubon because Casaubon dies so soon, yay - but also, Dorothea would have engaged in the same kind of self-abnegating practices that she attempts with Casaubon and Lydgate would 1) have let her do that and 2) have thought it was precisely his due. He thinks wives should behave like Dorothea thinks wives should behave (at least, when they marry Miltons and Hookers - let's be honest, Lydgate totally thinks he's on par with Milton and Hooker). Now, Lydgate's ambitions are of a higher order than Casaubon's, I think, so maybe Dorothea would have got quite a lot out of it. But she had £700 a year, which is actually kind of a lot - but not enough to be a Patroness. Just, you know, enough to support your young doctor husband.
Even if they wanted to marry each other, which they don't.
And that first reaction makes a good point, but also had the invisibility of women's labor in the home problem. (It's also hard for me to avoid reading it as a Confucian text, which is totally not fair but, hey, this is literary criticism of the lowest order anyway.)
Rosamond is actually kind of great.
I mean: she's terrible. But there's something so wonderful about her monstrousness.
She's like an unlucky Lorelei Lee, right? Imagine how dangerous Rosamond would be if she had a sense of humor! She would have been fatal with a sense of humor and a dollop of self-awareness. (Would she have been happier? I don't know: she might have died young of syphilis, but she might also have fucked more princes. The intersection of Eliot and Colette.)
She's like Betty Draper, but again without the luck (though Rosamond's second marriage is better than her first, too) or the wit, or the repressed lesbian desire. "You've just listed everything characteristic about Betty Draper." No, no, it's the role, you guys. They have the same role. A trophy wife for your first marriage?! Come on, guys.
And I really like that Eliot is so frank about money. We know how much Dorothea has each year, and from where. We know how much Lydgate is in debt for, and what his house costs (£90 a year! jealous!). It's interesting.
I've read some biographies of E. M. Forster so I have some idea of how much Dorothea's money would have grown as the 19th century wore on. It makes her "sacrifice" to Ladislaw less of a sacrifice.
And back to Dorothea: I'm not sure she ever realizes anything?
This actually troubles me a lot.
But I have to go to a party now . . . (many hours and beers later) By this I mean: I'm not sure it ever dawns on Dorothea that her marriage to Casaubon was really a Terrible Idea and it was a Bad Marriage (it is Pinterish in its badness, no, it is worse than that). And this, I think, is the saddest thing about Middlemarch, that Dorothea doesn't definitely realize the depth of her mistake.
You can make a case for her realizing that Casaubon (I can spell Zhuangzi and Nietzsche right on first try, but not Casaubon or restaurant) was unworthy of her. I'm not sure you can make a case for her realizing that her ideas about marriage and worthiness are flawed. (See above re: Lydgate).
And this is troubling, isn't it?
I think the most interesting literary dichotomy for women is Scarletts and Melanies.
Dorothea is a Melanie. Celia is a Melanie (I know! you're surprised!). Mary Garth is a Scarlett (again, a surprise; you could make a case that she's Belle Watling but that's cheating). Rosamond aspires to Scarlett (much like Scarlett aspires to Ellen, but doesn't really understand Ellen) but is actually just a Maybelle Merriweather (if you're generous, I suppose she is Suellen).
This doesn't mean anything, but it's interesting.
Also interesting: everyone loves Elizabeth Bennett but doesn't Fanny Price seem more relevant to Middlemarch?
Eventually, literature is ready to acknowledge, for example, the Schelgel sisters and Daisy. But it takes a while.
It's funny: failure to successfully communicate and understand another person is a cliché of a romantic comedy. It's nice in a rom-com because it's so easily resolvable.
But Middlemarch relies on those same failures - and they're almost never resolved.
"It's hard to be a person."
I've said almost nothing about Mary Garth and Fred Vincy, still; nor Celia and Sir James, or the Bulstrodes. Or Mr. Farebrother or the Cadwalladers! There's just too much. Of course people have made careers of Middlemarch!
I almost want to make a career of Middlemarch!(less)
There's a twist in The Quick that I'm not going to talk around the way I should, maybe - so here's a warning: there's a twist!
Twists aren't everythin...moreThere's a twist in The Quick that I'm not going to talk around the way I should, maybe - so here's a warning: there's a twist!
Twists aren't everything, but I suspect that if, unlike me, you are lucky enough to have heard good things about The Quick but have escape the spoiler (in which case you are also canny, and shouldn't click on the Goodreads page for it) then you should preserve your innocence. A work of art should never rely on the "HAHA I FOOLED YOU" unless it's going all out I guess? (I'm sure there are good examples of books doing that but I can't remember them right now; don't suggest Atonement, thank you.) And The Quick goes all out, but not on that. On other stuff.
Oh, and the last thing before I actually start to talk about that twist and the way Owen handles it - the blurbs are a real coup, good job Lauren Owen's people. Kate Atkinson, Hilary Mantel, and Tana French?! The sources for those blurbs are maybe a more accurate reflection of what it's like to read this than the summary suggests - I've stashed The Quick on my trashy-but-brilliant shelf, and it is kind of trashy. But mostly, it is just . . . grim.
Like, unrelievedly. I sort of thought it would be a romp, and it really is not. (Okay, spoilers now.)
It seems like The Quick would be friendly to camp, but actually there isn't any camp here, nor is there any glamour. It is the opposite of a CW show. It's a bit like Sarah Waters, but The Little Stranger Sarah Waters - not the Tipping the Velvet Sarah Waters.
And that is nowhere more evident than in the way Owen writes about vampires. I'm not sure it's ever been less attractive to be a vampire - maybe Let the Right One In? They're remarkably free of allure or charisma. Or humor or charm or wit. (At least, this is true of the rich vampires with the Fancy Club. The working class vampires are scrappy and some of them are kids, so they are kind of interesting - at least, they have bonds with each other, which is good.) And they're also not . . . super bright. Vampires lose much of their emotional psychology when they're vampires, and it's interesting to see how hollow they become. (Presumably Mould can only stick around because fear of death, and he's already pretty messed up, and also I think he still hopes Edmund will hook up with him?)
So that's something that's very interesting, and which I was unprepared for but really appreciated.
The other thing I was a little bit unprepared for was that there isn't really a main character. I sort of thought it might be Charlotte, but really this is a patchwork kind of book, composed of diaries and excerpts from books (books about vampires, natch), and close third person chapters from a variety of people. I got the impression that Owen had cut a great deal of material from the book - and I think that was a good decision. There is enough here to tease you in a way that the things that remain unresolved at the end are creepy, instead of frustrating. (Well, with one or two exceptions, perhaps.)
Oh, and also, Owen is a beautiful writer. She gets to play around the most with James Norbury, who is a Literary Sort of Person and is well-suited to imaginative turns of phrase. The other characters offer fewer opportunities for that sort of thing, but she's so well-attuned to what they require that it doesn't feel like a loss, really.
Man, I am talking this book up! I will say, my attention lagged a bit in the middle because the plot kind of treads water for a while. I thought the Oscar Wilde stuff was a little bit, uh, hacky, sorry, Lauren Owen. (Though ultimately, I came around to it, I think.) And I do think the patchwork quilt effect is interesting, but not 100% successful. Sometimes it just feels like a lack of focus?
But: I do think probably this will reward re-reading, because there must be more callbacks than I noticed the first time around. Read The Quick, every body!(less)
Sometimes it seems like The Cookbook Collector came and went, but if you've read that, and liked it, I bet The Hundred-Year House would be your thing...moreSometimes it seems like The Cookbook Collector came and went, but if you've read that, and liked it, I bet The Hundred-Year House would be your thing too. It's less obsessive, and ultimately it's much sadder (though we don't quite realize how sad until we're almost at the end) but some of the thematic material is similar, and it's rather wry in the same way. And of course, the problems of academia are at the forefront. So it's a bit like Tamara Drewe as well, I think.
The ghost story could have been made more of, I think - this wasn't anything like as spooky as I'd hoped. Though as a through-line, Makkai uses it cleverly and effectively. There are some gothic touches that don't seem totally at home in the general style of the novel, and perhaps if the ghost story had been more prominent, they wouldn't have seemed so close to . . . inessential? Or tacked on. Like, there's a BIG REVELATION and it's a little bit . . . it seems odd, like suddenly we're in a Nicholas Ray movie or something. Nothing against Nicholas Ray, except until that point we'd been in something more mannered.
It could have been longer, though; I'll be honest - I would read a huge novel about the artist colony in the 30s.
Maybe oddly, this also made me think a bit of The Luminaries. Perhaps because it moves back in time? And because there's a puzzle at the center of it?(less)
Stayed up too late finishing this. I regret nothing.
I was thinking before I started The Paying Guests of how I kind of miss early Sarah Wat...moreStayed up too late finishing this. I regret nothing.
I was thinking before I started The Paying Guests of how I kind of miss early Sarah Waters (Tipping the Velvet was published in 1998, which means Waters has been around for over 15 years and that is just amazing and delightful). (I should say, right now, that I haven't read Affinity because as far as I can tell nobody likes it. But I watched the adaptation because I really like Anna Madeley.) I mean: there was something playful about the early books, even though they were high stakes and kind of put you through the wringer, emotionally. And The Night Watch isn't playful. And The Little Stranger isn't either, that I recall. (I like both those books very much.) And here is The Paying Guests which isn't really playful either, I don't think - although it's sort of like The Little Stranger in the way it engages genre fiction - thrillers, noir, pulp, women's novels.
I liked it tremendously. I liked the beginning, which is all about housework, basically. Housework and hair cuts. And then the middle, is more or less about sex. And then the end - well! I often read Megan Abbott novels and think, "this is great, but I wish this homoeroticism would come to fruition" and there's something in the last part of The Paying Guests that addresses that wish. Although, this is generally a drabber book than Queenpin, for example. And "drab" isn't a slur or a knock or anything; I think that's just right for this book.
And I'm looking forward to re-reading this at some point, because there's something . . . There's something about Lilian and Frances that I need to work out how I feel about it. I'll put it under a spoiler cut. (view spoiler)[Their relationship isn't great, right? They need to break up, right? I'm happy that they found each other, but they super need to find other people. But good luck to them doing that now - it sort of seems like they're stuck in an actually-pretty-unhealthy relationship for the foreseeable future. I kind of enjoyed feeling conflicted about them, but I'm not sure I was supposed to feel that way. (hide spoiler)]
Anyway, this is great, you should read it! Tell your friends!["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>(less)
Here is the thing about magical realist novels: they tend to be long on vividly dreamy imagery and short on characters you can, like, give a shit abou...moreHere is the thing about magical realist novels: they tend to be long on vividly dreamy imagery and short on characters you can, like, give a shit about. (Toni Morrison is an exception - kind of.) (I did like The House of the Spirits a lot.) And Lopez Barrio's book doesn't, for me, manage to shuck that.
But it is quite good at a lot of things, and the translation reads beautifully. I'm sure it's better in Spanish, but. (less)
The Observations is a lot of fun. It occupies that hard-to-find sweet spot between really trashy and genuinely literary (I mean, ugh, "literary" but w...moreThe Observations is a lot of fun. It occupies that hard-to-find sweet spot between really trashy and genuinely literary (I mean, ugh, "literary" but whatever). The most obvious comparison is probably Sarah Waters, although there's something a bit serious about most of Sarah Waters' books (The Night Watch, anyone?) and The Observations does a very good job at the sleight of hand: you hardly notice the serious social commentary going on underneath Bessy's pungent, wickedly clever and frank narrative voice and the "oh no don't do that" train wreck of the plot. She's not exactly an unreliable narrator, but no one in this novel is reliable, really - she's just where she belongs.
Note: It's also sort of like the flipside of Helen Humphrey's Afterimage. Or maybe a burlesque of that book. (Not on purpose, of course!) It was interesting to read this novel having thought fairly recently about that one.
(view spoiler)[I definitely thought that Bessy and Arabella were going to hook up. I'm still not sure why the novel worked out so they didn't. Not even a little! It doesn't make any sense. I am not the only one who thought this, either. (hide spoiler)]["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>(less)
When I read/devoured Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You this summer, it was part of a string of books about depressed young(ish) men. I hadn't co...moreWhen I read/devoured Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You this summer, it was part of a string of books about depressed young(ish) men. I hadn't consciously decided that I was going to read books about depressed youngish dudes or anything - it just happened. And I came out of it wanting to read some books about depressed youngish women. Now, Coral Glynn is otherwise quite different from Someday This Pain - but the similarities shared by the protagonists are striking. Coral Glynn - the person, not the novel - reminded me also of Eilis, from Colm Tóibín's Brooklyn ("Is everything that you read from now on going to be compared, favorably or un-, to Brooklyn?" you ask. To which I can only say, "Um.") though if possibly Coral is even more at-sea within herself and her milieu.
I did really like this book, but I do think it wasn't as good as it could have been. It starts out pretty gothic, and is quite successful at the creepy parts: I was pleasantly unnerved for the first 100 pages, or so. But then the novel shifts, and becoming more of a psychological drama ... or something. It was still interesting, but it was less exciting, and therefore a little bit of a disappointment. The characters are meticulous, and there are many wonderful moments, but I think it could have been more adventurous and accomplished many of the same things. It's odd when a book starts out as Daphne de Maurier and ends up George Eliot. I like both writers - I LOVE both writers - and they might even be two great tastes that taste great together, but I don't think Cameron did his best to unify them in this case. Also, the ending felt tacked on. Please understand: I never think endings feel tacked on. I am pretty much always 100% okay with them. This one felt tacked on.
Books I was reminded of: Jane Eyre, The Hand That First Held Mine, The Little Stranger, The Turn of the Screw, Rebecca. Also, given frequent use of "muddle," Forster. I quite liked Coral Glynn, less fond of Coral Glynn.
The further I get from this book, the more it sours in my memory, so.(less)
I read this collection in more-or-less three sittings; with somewhat sharply delineated experiences - I think how you feel about the poems depends how...moreI read this collection in more-or-less three sittings; with somewhat sharply delineated experiences - I think how you feel about the poems depends how you feel when you read them, and I had kind of an up and down, highly stressful week. But, actually, the poems were more "revelatory" early on, when my week was more stressful. But my favorite was probably "Brushing Lives," which is in the last third. The book made me think of Harper Lee, like what Harper Lee might write if she wrote poetry. There's a kind of sad youngness, an interest (sometimes an immigrant's [or first generation] interest) about the poems. They often reflect - and on death.(less)
I didn't realize until I was about halfway through The Cookbook Collector that it was essentially the book I'd hoped for in On Beauty. But then again,...moreI didn't realize until I was about halfway through The Cookbook Collector that it was essentially the book I'd hoped for in On Beauty. But then again, I didn't realize it was riffing on Sense and Sensibility until I was like fifty pages in - fall makes me stupid, sometimes. So, anyway, this is a charming and thoughtful novel about two sisters and the people around them . . . and about pretty much everything that happened from 1999 to 2002 in America. It's an easy, understated read, with plenty of insight to offer. I particularly liked that, although the narrators are not unreliable (and not exactly narrators, either - it's third person/omniscient) Goodman is very clever at showing their subjectivity and mistakes, while keeping them sympathetic and (even) likeable.(less)
The Children's Book is basically Possession, except about pottery and children's literature and it's a sprawling family saga and it's not as sentiment...moreThe Children's Book is basically Possession, except about pottery and children's literature and it's a sprawling family saga and it's not as sentimental. Mostly it's not as sentimental. It still hits the sentiment pretty hard, though. I mean, I like a eucatastrophe as much as anyone, but really. Your time would probably be better spent watching Fanny and Alexander. So, I don't mean it's like Possession in the specifics of time and place and character (although it starts with the Victorians, and has roman à clef elements [a possible game: take a shower every time you tell yourself, "This is definitely about Eric Gill"], and fairy tales, and so on), but rather in its undercurrents. Probably, if you liked Possession, you would like The Children's Book.
But, I'm one of three people, apparently, who didn't like Possession. Perhaps I just don't like Byatt - I don't know, yet, she gets one more chance with me before we're quits - but I liked The Children's Book more. Although it really does fall apart at the end. Actually, at the end, it seems to get quite lazy: all of a sudden there are quotes from political correspondence, brief summaries of important historical events, characters disappear, Rupert Brooke's sex life becomes relevant . . . it is like Byatt and the novel ran out of steam and had to hurry it up in order to make a deadline. I'm not opposed to a collage of a novel, in fact I think it can be very effective, but it's not effective to suddenly switch from focusing on the lives and hearts and minds of your characters to focusing on a history lesson.
Also like Possession, the treatment of sex[uality] is frankly bizarre and unconvincing. It is like someone once told Byatt that sex was important to lots of people, and so she thought, "I guess I had better include it in my books, then." (Certainly, it was important to the Fabians and British intellectuals in the late 19th century generally.) But there is something so coy about it! Something awkward, forced, and embarrassed. Actually, there are many parts of The Children's Book that seem forced - particularly in the meta-texts that run throughout the novel and in the musings about creation. And the plot is basically a soap opera. I would put it on my trashy-but-brilliant shelf, except that it takes itself so seriously and . . . isn't really brilliant. The focus is too diffuse to be really effective, so there is very little resonance. There are a handful of really effective characters, but there are many more who never stand on their own or who owe to much to people who really lived, and so the whole thing feels a bit cheap and inauthentic.
The Children's Book deals with a lot of subjects I quite like: Arts and Crafts, World War I, sex lives of the Edwardians, class conflict, socialism. It wasn't difficult to read. It could have been quite good, but the best parts are the descriptions of lovely things. The descriptive passages make the novel almost worth it.
20 July 2012:
The other thing The Children's Book is good at is miscommunication. People in this book are always feeling one way and being thought to feel quite differently, and then everyone is alarmed by the fall-out. But in a repressed way, because this it England 1890-1919 that we're talking about.(less)
1. Maybe it's just because I recently read Atwood's The Year of the Flood that I noticed the striking similarities between this novel and that one, bu...more1. Maybe it's just because I recently read Atwood's The Year of the Flood that I noticed the striking similarities between this novel and that one, but on second thought, no: they are kind of the same book any way you slice it. I think I prefer Year of the Flood because, well, I'm not sure - I think Year of the Flood is a more nuanced book, although it's still pretty In Your Face. But at the same time, maybe I'm not being fair to He, She and It, maybe it's only because Atwood got me thinking about these issues and themes that I find them repetitive.
2. But at the same time, HSaI is ... sentimental. Kind of squishy. Earnest. I don't want to harp on the similarities or divergences (which seems unfair since TYotF came out about 15 years after HSaI and also Atwood has a higher profile than Piercy), but Atwood's book has a wicked sense of humor that this one lacks - it made the novel bitter rather than, well, weepy. Also, I kind of feel like the main character in HSaI was obsessed with men - rather, with the men she had relationships with; that's not a particularly interesting character to explore.
2a. I much preferred reading about Chava, whose story is perhaps the only place where Piercy strikes that balance between self-absorption/exploration and codependence: Chava recognizes the value of your community and of your self, although I don't think Shira does and I also am not sure Piercy has any idea about that balance either. 2b. The characters assert at some points that gender roles have changed, but that doesn't seem to be the case at all - and notably, single or celibate lifestyles don't seem to be viable; everyone has to pair up at one point or another. It's boring!
3. The comments on creation and motherhood are interesting, though? I guess?
4. The stuff about personhood is much more interesting. And I liked the use of parallel narratives here, which allows the book to be both kind of historical fiction and sci-fi (or speculative fiction, whatever).(less)
1. Books etc. I was reminded of while reading Cold Comfort Farm: Bleak House, The Pursuit of Love but especially Love in a Cold Climate (Flora ≈ Cedri...more1. Books etc. I was reminded of while reading Cold Comfort Farm: Bleak House, The Pursuit of Love but especially Love in a Cold Climate (Flora ≈ Cedric, also shares qualities with Fanny), Mary Poppins (and I am sure, if I'd seen it, Nanny McPhee), Under the Greenwood Tree, Terry Pratchett's witch books, Vile Bodies (not Scoop so much, despite Jill Neville's blurb on the back; Scoop is bitter in ways Cold Comfort Farm emphatically is not), The Reluctant Deubtante, I Capture the Castle (although Smith's novel is much sadder and less amusing - takes itself more seriously? - than this one), Little Dorrit, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (I hear it's a book, though I've only seen the film), and of course - Gibbons is very invested in this and makes a point of the similarities - Jane Austen's novels.
2. Cold Comfort Farm is a book about a young woman insistent on bring her relatives forward into the 20th century - or perhaps back into the 18th, you get the feeling that either destination would suit Flora just fine, but since the 20th century has amenities like daily baths, hot water, and cold champagne she'd really rather they went forward. Her goal is to bring them out of Brontë books and into Austen books - or out of tragedy and into comedy. She's rational, organized and orderly, urbane, interested in happiness rather than romance. (Not that she doesn't appreciate romance: her reshaping of Elfine is much more thoughtful and layered than it might look at first.)
3. Ultimately, it's a very funny book. Gibbons blends the pastoral with comedy and romance, and even (surprisingly and rather awkwardly) with science fiction - I think that is the book's biggest flaw for me. The science-fictional flourishes do not mesh well with the other genres, and more importantly they don't fit well with Flora herself, who seems so rooted to the time period in which the novel was written and published that it's difficult to imagine she would actually have been born after it's 1932 publishing date. I guess that's not really Gibbons's fault, since she couldn't have predicted the enormous changes that would take place in the next decade, but I still think it mars the overall atmosphere of the book.
4. But, man, the jokes are really good - especially the ones that clearly take aim at other books. There is a delicious amount of wordplay in Cold Comfort Farm, and my favorite instances were probably the ones where there'd be a lush but gloomy passage describing a Starkadder or focusing on something nature-related . . . and then Flora breaks the mood with her equanimity and cool common sense. It's a lot of fun.(less)
I get the feeling I would have loved Wilce's Flora Segunda if I had read it when I was still in the target age group. There's a heavy dose of whimsy t...moreI get the feeling I would have loved Wilce's Flora Segunda if I had read it when I was still in the target age group. There's a heavy dose of whimsy that turns a bit sour if you've reached the saturation point - like, I've already seen a Zooey Deschanel movie this month, okay? - and it can be difficult to get past the up-to-my-eyeballs-in-this-already feeling if you don't have the literary flexibility and willingness to experiment (open-mindedness, okay, I said it) that I had as a teenage reader. Because what I loved about reading as a teenager was that I was willing and able to love everything I read. I don't long for the good old pre-critical days, but ... you know. I want to be able to appreciate something like Flora Segunda wholeheartedly. Because I think it's the kind of book that is most rewarding if you engage with it in that way: openly and wholeheartedly. I think it does a lot of things well. And yet, I was very conscious while reading it that it just wasn't for me.
But I still gave it four stars? Because I think it would be really good for lots of other people. If you have a cousin or niece or younger sibling, you should give it to them. You should also give them The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. And then you should feel annoyed that these books weren't out for you, when you were the right age to read them. But don't feel too bad for too long, because after all you can poor yourself a glass of wine or make a sidecar without worrying about people finding out.
Anyway: Flora Segunda, good for lots of reasons, but not really The Right Book For Me.(less)
One of the things I found interesting about The Story of Lucy Gault was that it's a novel of personal (family or domestic) tragedy. So much Irish writ...moreOne of the things I found interesting about The Story of Lucy Gault was that it's a novel of personal (family or domestic) tragedy. So much Irish writing links personal tragedies with the national tragedy, so that all Irish Stories can seem to be Stories About IRELAND. Lucy Gault isn't, particularly, although its historical setting is very much a part of the story (because otherwise why make it historical fiction?). Still, it's not about Ireland, but about Lucy Gault and her family, and the people who care for her - or can't care for her, depending. Trevor carefully examines the crippling effect of grief on this group of people. It's distressing to read about, but then it really should be nothing less.(less)
I think Emma may be Austen's second-best book (Persuasion, of course, must be the best). It's nearly the lightest in tone - the purest comedy of manne...moreI think Emma may be Austen's second-best book (Persuasion, of course, must be the best). It's nearly the lightest in tone - the purest comedy of manners, with the lowest stakes for the characters (except, perhaps for Harriet Smith) should their plans and desires remain unfulfilled, and the highest concentration of really ridiculous side characters. These things make Emma sound like a fairly inconsequential novel, and indeed it was accused of lacking plot and significance when it was first published. However, I think it's a very personal story, about a young woman's growing up and self-realization (Emma as existentialist novel?) that utilizes a great deal of social consciousness (and possible social criticism) to frame Emma's journey.
Emma is a deeply flawed character. She is selfish, prone to believing what she wants, slow to examine her own motives and feelings, spoiled . . . in short, a product of her time and class, with the added problem of having had a pampered childhood and now finding herself among people eager to fawn on her. The few people who do dislike Emma (Mrs. Elton) are even more flawed than she is, with little chance at redemption - whereas Emma is all about Emma avoiding the trap of her natural inclinations. Given her environment and responsibility, Emma already has that responsibility - and mostly she rises to it. However, she is not required to alter her character until the point at which we meet her.
Elizabeth Bennet has a similar (but not identical) journey in Pride and Prejudice, but I think Emma surpasses that one because of how thoroughly Austen commits to Emma's character and flaws. The writing style is slightly altered - it's more energetic, but Emma is a more energetic woman than Lizzy - and if Emma were the narrator we would praise Austen's use of the unreliable narrator technique. She doesn't go that far, but it's close. Instead, Emma's character saturates the narrative, without ever making her the narrator, so the reader can see her flaws and her mistakes before she does.
It's also worth mentioning that Knightley's proposal is one of the most romantic scenes in literature.(less)
Okay, so I don't love this novel, but I do sort of admire it. I rank it above Sense and Sensibility, but below all the other Austen novels I have read...moreOkay, so I don't love this novel, but I do sort of admire it. I rank it above Sense and Sensibility, but below all the other Austen novels I have read, although I'm not sure that's fair because it's really a very different kind of novel than the others. There are similarities, of course - Mansfield Park and Persuasion could be the same book, with most cosmetic changes - but really MP isn't what we think of when we think of Austen. Or rather, it is the social-satire side of Austen, instead of family drama or comedy of manners/errors.
I will confess to not liking Fanny, but mostly because I don't think she's much of a character. She seems to basically be a pair of eyes for judging the other characters. And it's not that they don't deserve her judgment, because they really, really do. They are idiots. Even Edmund, the object of Fanny's adoration, is kind of an idiot. Perhaps Sir Thomas comes closest to avoiding idiocy, although he screws up enough to make up for that. But anyway, what bothers me about Fanny is that she doesn't seem fully realized or convincing, mostly because she doesn't say anything. She spends the whole novel listening to other people, and then Austen gives us paragraphs and paragraphs about Fanny's feelings. True, her feelings are very much wrapped up in her ideas of propriety, but they never feel like they belong to a real person. (Also true: I kind of hate books about feelings.) Since, I'm pretty sure, we're supposed to take Fanny's side, this is kind of a problem. I've heard people have problems with Fanny Price because she moralizes, but I would have been able to forgive moralizing. Mary Bennet moralizes - but what kills her for me is that she is boring. Fanny isn't boring, but she does seem to lack a sense of humor, and it's hard to value someone who takes everything seriously and is more likely to weep than laugh. It borders on self-pity, actually, and that's not an engaging character trait. (Mostly, it gives me second-hand embarrassment.)
The other characters, however, are drawn splendidly. Even if they are (and justly so!) the targets of Austen's ire, she does a magnificent job with them. Seriously, they belong in a Restoration comedy, that is how good they are. So it kind of makes up for Fanny, even though a lot of the satire is Very, Very, Obvious. (This is maybe another reason MP belongs on stage?)
Also worth noting: there's at least one really dirty joke in here.(less)
Mostly, I think Walk the Blue Fields is exquisite. And if you don't believe me, the back cover informs you that many of your favorite authors agree wi...moreMostly, I think Walk the Blue Fields is exquisite. And if you don't believe me, the back cover informs you that many of your favorite authors agree with me.
But I have a . . . reservation, all the same. I'm not quite sure how to express what it is that nags me, and I do want to stress that I think these are very fine stories. What I can't quite resolve, I suppose, is that there is a disconnectedness to them. I mean, they are all quite prosaic (although they are all full of Dark Secrets, in the way prosaic works often are) but there is an unreality to them and to the people in them that I could never quite shake. Nor, somewhat surprisingly, could I really integrate it into my understanding of the work as a whole. Although I probably only noticed this trouble because it was a collection of stories, and so similarities pop up inevitably. Perhaps I would never notice if I read these stories individually, or in smaller groups. (The other hazard of short story collections, of course, is that one goes through them much, much too quickly.)(less)
This is a new Hilary Mantel experience for me, I say as if I am such an expert in Hilary Mantel (I am not). I've read A Place of Greater Safety and Wo...moreThis is a new Hilary Mantel experience for me, I say as if I am such an expert in Hilary Mantel (I am not). I've read A Place of Greater Safety and Wolf Hall, which are both large historical novels and both overwhelmingly about men. Beyond Black, by contrast, is a contemporary novel with magical-realist elements (I know people say that magical-realism and fantasy are basically the same, that distinguishing between the two is genre snobbism, butttt the two genres never seem to have that much in common to me, even if the difference is difficult to articulate). Also, it is overwhelmingly about women.
Alison, the medium at the center of the novel (Mantel tricks you at the beginning into thinking it's Colette who the novel's about, but really it's about Alison) talks about how old-fashioned the dead are. Which makes sense, really. But there's something a little bit old-fashioned about Alison and Colette, too, about the other mediums, and about the whole of Beyond Black. It's an unexpectedly funny book, but the comedy's all (forgive me) black; despite this, and despite the popular lurking trauma trope, there is something kind of worn-down and worn-out about the whole thing, like the furniture you find in your grandparents' house, or in medium-range antique shops. In a good way; in an interesting and profoundly strange way, too.
I'll confess to liking the first part of the book better. The daily grind + existentialism is the kind of thing that really works for me - the kind of book where nothing actually happens. The second part involves Alison working out her childhood trauma, and ends up being kind of done, like an Inspector Lewis episode with ghosts. I have nothing against stories of self-realization/actualization, but I'm not sure the novel really was headed there organically. It kind of swerves, in ways related to plot and characterization.
Sort of like: Sula or Passing, but with a dose of Angela Carter (there are, actually, some really funny parts), and without the ... high mindedness? I'm not 100% sure that's what I mean, but it's as close as I can come.(less)
I don't know if I've ever read a book so infuriating and unsatisfying. (That's a lie: I definitely have, but I can't remember what it is right now.) E...moreI don't know if I've ever read a book so infuriating and unsatisfying. (That's a lie: I definitely have, but I can't remember what it is right now.) Even The God of Small Things, of which I was strongly reminded while reading Desai's novel, had some sort of fulfillment.
Still, when a book stymies me I tend to admire it, since it takes guts to ignore narrative conventions. I don't mean minor conventions like the unities or quotation marks, but major ones like the emotional journeys on which we expect a work to take us.
This is a coming of age novel in all kinds of ways. There's the traditional coming of age, undertaken and endured by the young people, Sai and Biju. And then the grappling with the modern world of the two sisters in late middle age, Lola and Noni. Held up by Gorkha nationalists hoping for contraband (or, I guess, something that can be turned to contraband) and called to account for some library books, Lola explains
"I always said," she turned to the others [her friends] in a frivolous fashion, "that I would save Trollope for my dotage; I knew it would be a perfect slow indulgence when I had nothing much to do and, well, here I am. Old-fashioned books is what I like. Not the new kind of thing, no beginning, no middle, no end, just a thread of . . . free-floating plasma . . . "English writer," she told the guard.
Now, I'm inclined to be over-generous to any self-aware piece of art (oh, Community!) so naturally I loved this part, Desai's wink at the audience. Because The Inheritance of Loss is a bit of postmodern plasma, indeed; around page 150 I was starting to wonder if the book would be any actual plot. (There is, but it's toward the end.) Not because I have any particular bias against books without plot (if you do, though, let's be Vampire Diaries buddies, because that show has more plot than it knows what to do with and not enough people watch it) but because I like to know what kind of book I'm reading in order to think about it more clearly. I mean: you don't downgrade a gymnast on the vault over the absence of a floor routine.
But I also love that part because it's such a great illustration of the ethnic and class tensions at work throughout the novel. Indian/British, Hindi/Parsi, Bengali/Gorkha, ICS/the help. Actually, the town in Uttar Pradesh is made up of all kinds of bits and pieces of ethnic groups: Tibetans, a [gay] Swiss priest, Nepalis and Gorkhas, Gujaratis, Hindi-Parsi girls educated at a Catholic convent . . . no one really belongs. (The same is true, naturally, of New York.)
I also really liked the relationship between Sai and Gyan, although only once it had soured.
Part of me wishes this had been a short story, though. It was a little bit baggy, and I think in some ways it could have been more effective as a short story.
Note: this book employs Chekhov's Dog, a term I've just made up. I have a hard time reading about animals in peril because x, y, z. Forewarned is forearmed.(less)
Bleak House is a fairly bizarre novel, but this does not stop it from being extremely compelling. In fact, it probably helps.
In Bleak House, Dickens j...moreBleak House is a fairly bizarre novel, but this does not stop it from being extremely compelling. In fact, it probably helps.
In Bleak House, Dickens joins several social issues which he found particularly provoking to quests for identity and happiness. This does not sound strange, because it isn't, but the way in which he executes the novel - in particular the characters with which he populates his world - is so strange! His fascination with the grotesque is really unrivaled by anyone outside of the 1930s American South. The humor Dickens derives from these characters is truly astounding, but so too is the humanity which he can bestow on them (Guppy is, I think, the best example).
The two narrator technique was one I found interesting. Esther Summerson gets a lot of flack from critics and readers, for example: my mother started rereading Bleak House a little bit ago, but had to stop because she could not handle Esther again. I found Esther's passages much more interesting than the third person narrator, who seemed overly keen to show off his satirical scalpels and had no problem taking a cheap shot. Actually, I think the third person narrator is sort of the Dickens qua Dickens voice, which means its flaws belong to him just as much as its assets. This makes it into something of a parody of itself, as it presents a part of the narrative that is highly colored, narrow-minded, sentimental and satirical by turns, essentially masculine, convinced of its own value. Esther's drabness is welcome in comparison, if only because it promises us some shading in of those colors. Esther Summerson is not an exciting character, but she is an interesting one. She needn't be exciting - Dickens signals most of the plot developments far in advance of their actual occurrence (Richard and Ada spring to mind) - so what we need from Esther is emotional analysis. She delivers this to us in spades. What others have criticized as coyness I think is an authentic reaction to her childhood and the expression of an easily-embarrassed personality. The pains Esther takes to hide her insight matter as much as the insight itself.
I want to note that this book was emotionally successful for me, and that I think many of the flaws are 19th century flaws: I find them in many other books of the period. So long as they are books belonging to the period, they do not bother me. Contemporary literature is another matter.(less)
Like the Morrison works I've read, it is complet...moreThe God of Small Things reminded me of two literary . . . institutions: 1) Toni Morrison; 2) Naturalism.
Like the Morrison works I've read, it is completely devastating, a portrait of people who are so tangled up in each other that they can't move without collapsing. All they do is hurt each other, but watching this inspires sorrow and pathos in us. Which is why it is a good book, I think.
As for naturalism, the thing that I'm going to remember best about The God of Small Things is the seething, malevolent natural world of Kerala. I thought including it was an interesting choice.(less)
These are the sort of stories I would normally really like, so I guess I must have been in the wrong mood or something when I read them. There was som...moreThese are the sort of stories I would normally really like, so I guess I must have been in the wrong mood or something when I read them. There was something just a little irritating about each of them, but I can't quite pin down what it is.(less)
Upon re-reading, I think Afterimage is a trifle schematic for my tastes - but I wonder if I'd think that if I read it a third time (every re...more02/15/2012
Upon re-reading, I think Afterimage is a trifle schematic for my tastes - but I wonder if I'd think that if I read it a third time (every reading is different!). Also, it's not a very long novel, and it benefits from a sustained mood achieved by reading over a Saturday afternoon or a Sunday morning, which is not how I read it this time. It has a quality I really appreciate in art (especially literature), which is that everything it achieves is on-purpose: Humphreys knows what she is doing, and so the work is controlled without being manipulative. It's an interesting book, and deserves more attention than it gets (although my library has it, so I guess a fair number of people read it?). I'd forgotten the literary allusions, and rediscovering them was really nice.(less)
I've read four of Austen's novels, and although Persuasion is not my favorite*, I do think it is the funniest. The humor a slightly different source t...moreI've read four of Austen's novels, and although Persuasion is not my favorite*, I do think it is the funniest. The humor a slightly different source that Austen's other novels - it's a little broader (or maybe just a little bolder) and the ridiculous characters are 100% ridiculous. Anne's family have nothing to redeem them** . . . except for the opportunities they provide Austen's narrator (which I guess is Austen herself) to snark at them. And they do deserve it: when you are sucking up to your Irish relatives you are 1) pretty far down and 2) pretty stupid. But I think the different humor serves the story very well, because the nature of the romance could very easily slip into a depressing or sentimental plot. Instead, it feels quite true emotionally.
Wentworth and Anne moved me more than Elizabeth and Darcy (although not more than Cathy and Tilney, who are SO ADORABLE, I just want to wrap them up and put them in my pocket so they can flirt with each other by complaining about grammar, talking about books, and wondering at the crazy people around them). I'm not a huge fan of the "girl waits for and moons after the boy she lost" but Jane Austen is Jane Austen for a reason, and it's a plotline that fits perfectly into 1815. Even though it is not the most subtle of Austen's works, I think it is one of the truest and most convincing.
* My favorite is Northanger Abbey, which I know is not a very respectable choice. ** I know Forster said all her characters were at least capable of rotundity, but I am not sure that is the case with Sir Walter.
12/02/10 I think it's interesting that Mr. Elliot is as mixed a character - he's difficult - as Mansfield Park's Henry Crawford. This exchange, for example, gets to the heart of the book in many ways:
"My idea of good company, Mr. Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company." "You are mistaken," said he gently, "That is not good company, that is the best. Good company requires only birth, education and manners, and with regard to education is not very nice. Birth and good manners are not essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in good company, on the contrary, it will do very well. My cousin, Anne, shakes her head. She is not satisfied. She is fastidious. My dear cousin, (sitting down by her) you have a better right to be fastidious than any other woman I know; but will it answer? Will it make you happy? Will it not be wiser to accept the society of these good ladies in Laura-place, and enjoy all the advantages of the connexion as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for."