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Book Review: The 7 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

Intriguing concept, a bit of a slow start

I’m not sure what I make of Stuart Turton’s novel, The 7 ½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle. I was intrigued by the premise but not terribly engaged with the start of the story.

Turton’s novel is an Agatha Christie-style whodunit, situated at Blackheath, a decrepit manor, where a murder occurred 19 years earlier. All the guests who had been present at the time of Thomas Hardcastle’s murder have been gathered again to “commemorate” the anniversary of his death.

Unlike a traditional murder mystery, this one involves a Groundhog Day-like motif: the hero, Aiden Bishop, must relive the day until he solves the murder. Part of the difficulty is that he hops into a new identity each day. One day, he is Dr Sebastian Bell, another he is the solicitor Edward Dance. He jumps from sketchy Jonathan Derby to the horribly beaten butler, Roger Collins.

Each time this occurs, Aiden has to adapt to the changed personality. He knows a bit about his host’s life through random memories, but often he is scrambling to adapt to the ever-shifting environment. Through the conceit of a repeated day, Turton is able to turn the camera on different groups of characters, so Aiden (and the reader) are seeing events through a new set of eyes.

So far, so good. I’m intrigued.

Turton’s style is engaging. His prose is precise and evocative, at times poetic. Also, he navigates the broad range of characters particularly well. While the main character Aiden is rediscovering his own personality, he is saddled with the quirks and prejudices of his hosts, as well. As a result, Aiden as Lord Ravencroft is an intellectually different character than the scoundrel Jonathan Derby.

Turton also layers the mystery with all sorts of new discoveries as well as misdirections. Even during the conclusion, when the pieces are coming together, there are surprises. His explanation for the Groundhog Day motif works quite well.

All in all, an enjoyable book. The story will stay with me.

And yet, I keep struggling with the paradox that I was both initially intrigued and unengaged. This struggle occurred mostly in the beginning quarter of the book where Turton is laying the groundwork. There are plenty of pieces to get into motion as well as a broad cast of characters to introduce. The author is careful not to load the reader down with too much information.

Perhaps my problem with the first part of the book is that it focuses on Aiden as Dr Sebastian Bell. He has woken to a strange identity, doesn’t know who he is or where he is, and he is visibly shaken by an inexplicable attack. The episode acts as something of a red herring, not insignificant, but it does not carry as much weight as what comes after. It feels like the author is deliberately misdirecting the reader from important details so that the reader can adjust to the story’s framework. It’s like getting into a tub of cold water and waiting for the temperature to rise.

But rest assured that the effort to keep going with the story is worth it. By the midpoint, I was hooked. The mystery kept me guessing, and the conclusion was satisfying, which definitely makes it worthwhile.

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Book Review: The Shining

A red-paneled elevator at the end of a hotel corridor: a tidal wave of blood ruptures through the seams of the closed doors. 

 

Two identical young girls in blue frocks with satin ribbons around their waist: they beckon a little boy to come play with them.

 

An axe rips open a bathroom door: “Here’s Johnny!”

 

Iconic images from Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining. In the summer of 1980, when the movie was released, my family rented an apartment at the beach for a week’s vacation. The first time my sister took a shower, the steam revealed a single word written on the mirror: REDRUM. Evidently, a prior vacation renter had written the telltale word in soap on the mirror, only visible after a hot shower.

 

In 1980, I wasn’t old enough to see the movie, so I decided to read the novel. It was one of my first forays into contemporary horror fiction. Reading it made me feel very grown-up. But the novel lacked those images from the film. There was no gushing blood-filled elevator. There were references to the Grady twins, the two girls standing in the corridor, but no actual appearance in the story. And Jack Torrence didn’t use an axe; he wielded a roque mallet.

 

A few years later, I did see the movie, albeit an edited version for network television. They bleeped out the swearing, and they censored the scene of a dead woman rising from the bathtub, a strategically placed gray cloud over her naked torso. Even so, Kubrick’s film was chilling. I had never watched a movie quite like it. The tracking shots of the camera. The extended sequences of silence. The overall tension that continues to mount, even from the first frames of the film. 

 Kubrick’s images are pretty indelible. It’s practically impossible to think of The Shining without conjuring up that elevator or Jack Nicholson’s chilling performance.

 

But here’s the thing: they aren’t like the book.

 

Reading The Shining again, forty years later, I can now appreciate why Stephen King has never been a fan of Kubrick’s film. The movie doesn’t represent the story that he wrote. It deliberately distorts the plot for a decidedly different purpose. Kubrick excels at creating a chilling atmosphere, but he fails to engender any warmth for the characters. Right from the start, Jack Torrence seems a bit off. Nicholson gives him a mad-eyed demeanor, what with those arching eyebrows and the Joker’s grin. Shelley Duval’s Wendy is mousy and jittery. And little Danny, with his Shining abilities, is so isolated from his parents that he may as well be raising himself.

 

But that’s not what King’s novel is about. He starts with the Torrence family in crisis. Jack is a recovering alcoholic who is struggling to keep his family together. But an impulsive act against a student causes him to lose his job. To tide the family over, he takes a job as the winter caretaker at the Overlook hotel, isolated at the top of a Colorado mountain. 

 

Once the family is settled at the hotel, the Overlook begins to exert its influence over Jack, tickling his curiosity about its seedy past. As the ghosts begin to rise up, Jack struggles between his addiction and his desperate love for his family. Danny recognizes how the place affects his father, and he has premonitions of future dangers. Even Wendy isn’t quite sure whether she trusts Jack anymore. She has justifiable fears that he will fall off the wagon.

 

King takes time to introduce the Torrence family to the reader. He wants you to care about what happens to them. Jack, for all his mental collapse as the story progresses, is still a sympathetic character. He is struggling to withstand the violent temptations. Wendy has the fortitude to defend herself once the situation begins to deteriorate. And even Danny, who understands the horrors that are arising from the hotel, does not want his father to succumb, but he suspects that the Overlook may be too much for poor Jack Torrence.

 

King writes swiftly. There is a lot of propulsion in his storytelling, and as you get closer to the end, it’s that much harder to put the book down. For all the creepiness and mounting tension in the story, it works because you care about the family. You don’t want Jack to fail. You don’t want Wendy to fear for her son’s safety. You don’t want Danny to be hurt.

 

I certainly felt for the family in Kubrick’s film, but not in the same way. Kubrick presents the tragedy as a foregone conclusion. There will be blood. King, on the other hand, holds out hope to the reader that maybe, perhaps, just possibly it will work out right in the end. When it doesn’t, well, that’s the tragedy.

 

I will always have an immense appreciation for Kubrick’s The Shining. It is a phenomenal movie. But it isn’t Stephen King’s story. You have to go to the novel for that. And the book offers so much more.

Book Review: Katherine Kurtz' Deryni series

After I finished reading The Lord of the Rings, I went in search of another fantasy series. Frank Herbert’s Dune was popular, but I couldn’t get into it. Likewise with Anne McCaffrey’s Pern series. Even stand-alone books such as Watership Downcouldn’t quite grab me, though I did enjoy Ursula LeGuin’s Earthsea trilogy.

 

Then a friend recommended Katherine Kurtz’ Deryni series. This became my new Tolkien. All through high school, I read about King Kelson and Camber of Culdi, always eager for the next book.

 

After many, many years, I am now revisiting Kurtz’ pantheon of novels – currently 18 in all, comprised of five trilogies, one stand-alone novel, and two short story collections. I’ve completed the first two trilogies in chronological order: The Legends of Camber of Culdi, and the Heirs of Saint Camber. 

 

The kingdom of Gwynedd is a recognizably Anglo-Christian-style monarchy, though it has nothing to do with actual British history. The difference in Kurtz’ world is that humans are divided into magic (Deryni) and non-magic. The magic that the Deryni possess leans toward extrasensory perception, the ability to share thoughts and memories, and in some cases physical healing. They can Truth-Read to determine if a person is lying, and they can conjure hand-fire and defend themselves with blasts of power. More questionable, though, is their ability to manipulate other people’s memories or even coerce them into certain actions.

 

I can’t emphasize enough how important this series was to me as a teenager. I was just starting to write stories of my own, Tolkien-esque there-and-back-again stories, but I was certainly influenced by Kurtz’ careful detail of medieval culture, with its emphasis on political maneuverings. Also, the way she employed magic in her novels had to do with innate ability. There were limitations, but one could certainly develop their skills.

 

Reading the novels this time around, I’m having a rather different reaction to the series. I’m paying more attention to the racist culture that is portrayed. Venomously anti-Deryni factions treat the Deryni as heretics and label them as less than human. When a band of non-magic regents usurp the power of the throne, they ignite a kingdom-wide racial cleansing. What makes it even worse is that the Church endorses these actions.

 

Kurtz could have kept the plots as simple Good vs Bad, but she is much more curious about the gray areas of morality. Certainly, the regents are a reprehensible lot, but the Deryni sometimes manipulate people against their will, ostensibly for the preservation of their race. Camber and his son, Joram, often debate the use of magic and whether the ends justify the means. The readers’ sympathies always lay with the Deryni, but I think Kurtz is more nuanced here.

 

To be honest, I’m surprised that my thirteen-year-old self could handle Kurtz’ extensive descriptions. The author, who has a background in medieval history, fills page after page with the pageantry of the court. What the characters wear – from the linen tunic to the gold thread on the cuffs, from the episcopal robes of a prelate to the single ruby in an earring – is given in minute detail. For each court function, there are paragraphs on the order of the procession (who stands where, who follows whom). For High Church functions, Kurtz describes the celebration of the mass.

 

These scenes, individually, are beautifully crafted. However, after a while, they get a bit tedious. I’m not sure how it enhances the story to know every last article of clothing that Javan wore at his coronation:

 

“Over the priestly robe of white linen went a new tunic of cloth of gold, stiff with bullion and laidwork and scarlet-winking jewels, ablaze in the summer sun that beat mercilessly through the stained glass windows. Around the king’s narrow waist the archbishop fastened the white girdle of chivalry studded with jewels, while two of his knights fasten the golden spurs upon his heels…. And over all, the great crimson mantle of earthly majesty – damask silk reembroidered with the Haldane lions in a darker shade of crimson and set with gems for eyes, lined with cloth of gold rather than fur for this summer rite, but no less rich, with a wide band worked round the hem in stiff bullion and gems, as wide as a man’s two hands.”

 

The other hitch in Kurtz’ style is her need to inform the reader of the position of each character in a room. This is not reserved for the primary characters, but rather for all the minor characters – personal aides, priests, knights – who might be in attendance. Again, I am not sure how it moves the scene forward. Instead, I feel like I must wait until each individual gets settled into his or her seat before the story’s action can resume. As a result, I find myself skimming pages.

 

I’m not sure if Kurtz’ focus on male characters is meant to be an accurate representation of medieval political structure. It seems that women don’t play any significant part in the plots. In The Legends of Camber of Culdi series, Camber’s daughter, Evaine, acts as a sort of research assistant for her father, who studies of Deryni lore. She only comes onstage when it is necessary to relate some arcane piece of knowledge. Her secondary role is the wife of healer, Rhys Thuryn. In The Harrowing of Gwynedd, she plays a somewhat more prominent role, but again she is frequently pushed to the margins.

 

The curious thing is that Evaine and Rhys are pretty much the sole representatives of male-female relationships, in particular marriage. They are cutely flirtatious, but you don’t get much of a sense of depth in their relationship. They love each other, as we are told repeatedly, but rarely do we see them interact in any manner, other than as affectionate. 

 

Which brings up the issue of personal relationships in general. Kurtz rarely touches on male-female relationships at all, so any sort of emotional connection is reserved for male-male friendships. Given how the Deryni can share thoughts and memories, there is a degree of intimacy that borders on homoerotic. I doubt that Kurtz is suggesting there is any gay subtext, but it is curious to me that males can share connection with one another, but rarely with any female. This may be due to the number of characters who are celibate clergy, so they are males who are in close proximity to each other on a daily basis. 

 

I do plan to finish reading the rest of the series, so I may have more thoughts on Deryni in later posts.

 

 

Book Review: Longbourn

In Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet and her four sisters frequent balls, suppers, and smaller social gatherings, where they are always respectably attired.

 

Who makes sure that they look their best? Who keeps their dresses spotless and in repair? Who styles their hair into perfect ringlets? Who fetches the roses to adorn their shoes?

 

The servants, of course. In Jo Baker’s Longbourn, the reader is taken into the servants’ quarters of the household, where it is revealed the extent of the backbreaking work: cooking, washing dishes, doing laundry, making soap, dusting and sweeping, emptying chamber pots, running to the market, etc.

 

Sara, a young housemaid, is ambivalent about the work. At times, she takes pride in making the Bennet girls pretty for their balls. She hopes for Jane’s success with Mr Bingley; she appreciates Elizabeth’s attention over sharing books with her. At other times, Sara resents the hopelessness of her position. Is this all her life is meant to be – cooking and cleaning in perpetuity? 

 

The reader is also introduced to Mrs Hill, the housekeeper and cook. A long-time employee of Longbourn, she recognizes that her financial security is reliant on always doing her best. With a keen eye, she knows how each member of the Bennet family operates. She is ready with the opium tincture for Mrs Bennet, whose moods can be overwhelming. She respects Mr Bennet’s private retreat to the library. Only when matters are crucial will she enter his sanctum sanctorum.

 

Mrs Hill shares the same philosophy with Mrs Wilson, from Gosford Park: “What gift do you think a good servant has that separates them from the others? It’s the gift of anticipation….I know when they’ll be hungry, and the food is ready. I know when they’ll be tired, and the bed is turned down. I know it before they know it themselves.”

 

Life would continue uneventfully, if it wasn’t for the sudden appearance of a ragged young man in search of work. At the request of Mrs Hill, Mr Bennet hires James as the footman. James proves secretive and taciturn, which ignites Sara’s curiosity. She is determined to unravel his mysterious past.

 

Baker keeps the scope of the novel to the same time frame as Austen’s. What might be thrilling for the Bennet daughters – such as the arrival of the Bingleys at Netherfield – has a very different effect on Sara or Mrs Hill, who has to conjure a respectable dinner at a moment’s notice. By focusing on how these events affect those below stairs, Baker provides an alternative perspective on life during the Regency period.

 

Baker has a keen eye for detail and description. The prose is beautifully precise and evocative. Overall, I was thoroughly engaged with the story. My only reservation was the sudden shift in narrative style during Part Three. The story itself is still compelling, but suddenly Baker uses shorter chapters, as though the events are propelling forward at a breakneck pace. The problem is that the prose style becomes choppy. I felt as though the author was eager to wrap up the Pride and Prejudice portion of the story so that she could then return to Sara’s and Mrs Hill’s stories.

 

Any work that challenges the reader’s perspective on a well-known subject is welcome. Because of Longbourn, I doubt I will be able to read Pride and Prejudice in the same way ever again.

 

Book Review: Pride and Prejudice

How do you even begin to review Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice? It is a dearly beloved novel. It has been analyzed and critiqued for over 200 years. The story has been adapted for stage and ballet. It has been filmed for television, movies, and YouTube. It has inspired multitudinous sequels and reimaginings. Recently, I read a social media thread that recreated scenes from the novel via Instagram photos and Facebook posts.

What else is there to say? Probably not much, other than some personal thoughts and observations.
Christmas 1984: my brother gave me copies of Pride and Prejudice and Silas Marner. I was in my second year of college, majoring in English. So far, my classes had focused almost exclusively on the DWM canon: Pope, Tennyson, Browning, Byron, Melville, Twain, Hawthorne, and Emerson. During my entire time in college, not one literature class ever touched on the works of Jane Austen or George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans).
Add captionWhen I started reading Pride and Prejudice, I had no foreknowledge of the plot. At the time, I was still learning how to read 19th Century literature, with its unique style and idiom. The culture described in the novel was unfamiliar to me, so I had to learn about the importance of courtship, community dances, and daily visits. When Mrs Bennet begs Mr Bennet to introduce himself to Mr Bingley, I seriously did not understand why that was such a significant event. I figured Mr Bennet could go up to anyone he wanted and simply say hello. Evidently, there are protocols for courtesy.
Then I came across this sentence: “Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.”
Hang on a moment. Was that … a joke?
Since when did serious literature ever have a sense of humor? Suddenly, I was reading Austen through a completely different lens. This was not a stuffy, uptight novel, but rather one rich in witticisms. Humor runs like a precious silver vein through a mine. There is so much to be harvested, and how beautifully it shines. 
Since that moment of discovery, I have read all of Austen’s novels multiple times. What fascinates me about her work is that she carefully describes the protocols of respectability. There are specific ways to do things. Every character knows what is acceptable and what isn’t. And yet all her characters have realistic flaws. They fumble, stumble, and commit faux pas. They are insensitive, careless, or downright silly. They are recognizable and relatable – each aspiring to perfect behavior, but Austen is never afraid to topple them from their pedestals. Even Elizabeth Bennet, for all her wit and insight, suffers from a fair amount of prejudice and pride. And Darcy, suffused with arrogance and a rigid moralistic code, has a compassionate side.
It seems to me that Pride and Prejudice holds a special place in Austen's bibliography. While fans of Austen (sometimes referred as Janeites) may argue about which novel is best, it is a foregone conclusion that everyone loves Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy. I know I do.


A helpful guide

How do you even begin to review Jane Austen’s Pride ...

How do you even begin to review Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice? It is a dearly beloved novel. It has been analyzed and critiqued for over 200 years. The story has been adapted for stage and ballet. It has been filmed for television, movies, and YouTube. It has inspired multitudinous sequels and reimaginings. Recently, I read a social media thread that recreated scenes from the novel via Instagram photos and Facebook posts.
What else is there to say? Probably not much, other than some personal thoughts and observations.
Christmas 1984: my brother gave me copies of Pride and Prejudice and Silas Marner. I was in my second year of college, majoring in English. So far, my classes had focused almost exclusively on the DWM canon: Pope, Tennyson, Browning, Byron, Melville, Twain, Hawthorne, and Emerson. During my entire time in college, not one literature class ever touched on the works of Jane Austen or George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans).
Add captionWhen I started reading Pride and Prejudice, I had no foreknowledge of the plot. At the time, I was still learning how to read 19th Century literature, with its unique style and idiom. The culture described in the novel was unfamiliar to me, so I had to learn about the importance of courtship, community dances, and daily visits. When Mrs Bennet begs Mr Bennet to introduce himself to Mr Bingley, I seriously did not understand why that was such a significant event. I figured Mr Bennet could go up to anyone he wanted and simply say hello. Evidently, there are protocols for courtesy.
Then I came across this sentence: “Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.”
Hang on a moment. Was that … a joke?
Since when did serious literature ever have a sense of humor? Suddenly, I was reading Austen through a completely different lens. This was not a stuffy, uptight novel, but rather one rich in witticisms. Humor runs like a precious silver vein through a mine. There is so much to be harvested, and how beautifully it shines. 
Since that moment of discovery, I have read all of Austen’s novels multiple times. What fascinates me about her work is that she carefully describes the protocols of respectability. There are specific ways to do things. Every character knows what is acceptable and what isn’t. And yet all her characters have realistic flaws. They fumble, stumble, and commit faux pas. They are insensitive, careless, or downright silly. They are recognizable and relatable – each aspiring to perfect behavior, but Austen is never afraid to topple them from their pedestals. Even Elizabeth Bennet, for all her wit and insight, suffers from a fair amount of prejudice and pride. And Darcy, suffused with arrogance and a rigid moralistic code, has a compassionate side.
It seems to me that Pride and Prejudice holds a special place in Austen's bibliography. While fans of Austen (sometimes referred as Janeites) may argue about which novel is best, it is a foregone conclusion that everyone loves Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy. I know I do.


A helpful guide

Book Review: Under the Dome

A word of advice: You may not want to read Under the Dome while in the midst of a pandemic quarantine. 
Stephen King hits the ground running in his novel about Chester’s Mill, a town suddenly and inexplicably trapped inside an impenetrable dome. In less than a week, the residents endure a catastrophic failure in leadership and resources that only worsen their initial predicament. The outside world desperately wants to help, but nothing seems capable of breaking open the barrier.


The massive novel (just shy of 1100 pages) has an equally massive cast of characters. No worries about keeping the characters straight: King clearly establishes who the main actors are and who are the supporting characters. And with his typical style, he makes them relatable.
The main conflict revolves around who is in charge during this crisis. On one side is Big Jim Rennie, a used car dealer and the town’s second selectman. Rennie has always been the power behind the political administration, and the town seems to accept him as the default leader. On the other side is Dale Barbara, aka Barbie, a former Army lieutenant and currently a short-order cook at a restaurant. The U.S. president appoints Barbie as leader, but Rennie will have none of it. 
Rennie has Barbie arrested on trumped-up murder charges and thrown into jail. All the while, Rennie is expanding the police force into his own personal army. He plays on people’s fears by secretly sowing discord and violence throughout town.
As “Us versus Them” becomes the new norm of Chester’s Mill, a small band of renegades tries to figure out how to oust Rennie from his throne. This all unfolds against a rapidly accelerating timeline as Rennie grabs for more and more power.
There is an explanation for the dome, but in many respects that is not the point of the novel. King is fascinated by the inner workings of a community, in particular how individual personalities influence the course of events. In an interview, King stated that when he was writing the novel, he had George W. Bush and Dick Cheney in mind, and their response to 9/11 and the Iraq War: “Sometimes the sublimely wrong people can be in power at a time when you really need the rightpeople.” As King further states, Big Jim Rennie is a superb example of The Peter Principle.
As you may have guessed, I was reading Under the Dome during the COVID-19 crisis and the stay-at-home order. It was not the most soothing book to read while I was hearing daily examples of failures to control the coronavirus. As the current U.S. administration has repeatedly fumbled their handling of this crisis, it seems to echo Big Jim Rennie’s efforts to grab all the power and spread all the blame.
So, when I reached the novel’s climax, it was so much more chilling than I anticipated. Several times I had to set the book aside because it was too upsetting. Much like learning the daily numbers of infected COVID-19 patients and the catastrophic number of dead, world-wide and in the U.S. alone.
King keeps practically a breakneck pace throughout the book. Unlike his other long novels, like It or The Stand, this novel rarely has time to catch its breath. Admittedly, it took me four months to finish Under the Dome. Not because of its length. I am not daunted by long novels. No, it was simply difficult to pick up because the edition I had was so physically unwieldy in size. By the time I got a third of the way through, there was no turning back.
A page-turner? Yes. Daunting? Possibly. Chilling? Absolutely.

Book Review: Map

Blame it on college English classes, the fact that I don’t gravitate toward poetry. After slogging through the Norton Anthology of English Literature, with its selections from The Faerie Queene, Alexander Pope, Wordsworth’s The Prelude, and Percy Shelley, I figured poetry wasn’t my thing. After all, how much landscape symbolism can you digest from all the Romantic poets? I always felt like I was missing something.
If I had started with more readily accessible poetry, would I have learned how to appreciate what the DWM canon poets were trying to do?

In 2012, I happened to read the obituary for Nobel prize-winning poet Wislawa Szymborska. I had never heard of her before. The article described her use of irony and humor as a means of asking questions about the human experience. In particular, it referenced her poem, “Cat in an Empty Apartment”:

Die – you can’t do that to a cat.
Since what can a cat do

In an empty apartment?
Climb the walls?
Rub up against the furniture?
Nothing seems different here,
But nothing is the same. 

What could have been an overly sentimental poem ends up addressing the incomprehensible nature of loss. Rather than employing treacly adjectives, Szymborska focuses on the changes in spatial relation: “Nothing has been moved, / But there’s more space.” Szymborska once said, “I borrow words weighed with pathos, and then try hard to make them seem light.” In my own experience of grief, a death does seem to change the size of a room. I often feel like the person I have lost is somewhere in the next room, if I could only catch up with them.
In many of Szymborska’s poems, she questions our perspectives. There is a status quo to everyday life, yet why is that so? Why do we go about our daily routines? What is the purpose of our activities? Her poetry reminds us to pay attention to the miraculous in the seemingly mundane. She also inverts this expectation by poking fun at the seemingly miraculous as nothing special.

We call it a grain of sand,
But it calls itself neither grain nor sand.
It does just fine without a name
            --View with a Grain of Sand

Her boundless curiosity peeks into corners, under leaves, inside molecules, and up into the sky. Sometimes her work can appear to be a laundry list of details, yet her selection of which items to include are as telling as the theme she is addressing. You get a sense that she may be grinning at her own whimsy, even as she exposes the complex for contemplation.

I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
…
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
That existence has its own reason for being.
            --Possibilities

I could continue selecting examples of her brilliance – and there are many – but I urge readers to discover her work. Map: Collected and Last Poems is an excellent place to start. 
Someone once asked Szymborska why she had published so few poems. She replied, “I have a trash can in my home.”
Szymborska’s work encourages me to not give up on poetry, because wonders still abound.

Book Review: 1984

Given the current ubiquity of video surveillance and manipulative social media, it would be easy to focus on George Orwell’s prescience in 1984. The terms “Big Brother,” “newspeak,” and “thoughtcrime” have become part of our vocabulary. There is an atmosphere of public shaming through internet trolls. Every action we take – shopping in a store under surveillance cameras, making a phone call that is recorded for quality assurance purposes, and using our computers where our internet browsing is tracked so that sidebar ads can market directly to you – gives the sense that we are being watched all the time.
I first read 1984 back before the actual 1984, so my classmates and I loved to speculate how many of Orwell’s predictions would come to pass. Our teacher, however, pointed out that Orwell’s novel was published in 1948, so the last two digits have simply been transposed. She explained that Orwell was writing about contemporary totalitarianism, and although the novel is a projected dystopia, it is meant to speak in a universal tone about the dangers of political manipulation.
The last time I read 1984 was seventeen years ago. I have been intending to read it again for a while, but truthfully, given the current state of the U.S., I did not want to bring myself down any further. The details would be hitting too close to home.
Even so, I am glad that I did, because it reminded me of the power of Orwell’s writing. He is a masterful storyteller, capable of creating a palpable atmosphere with a few precise details. 1984 is a gray book, with its pervading atmosphere of despair and resignation. Orwell’s main character, Winston Smith, drinks oily-tasting gin and eats gray, flavorless stew. Food rationing is so normalized that real coffee and butter can only be purchased on the black market. Yet, no one complains, because Big Brother is perpetually watching.
When I first read 1984, I was frustrated with Winston Smith’s paranoia. I wanted him to act. I wanted him to stand up to Big Brother. Eventually, he does join the resistance, but it seemed to me that he was essentially ineffectual in every aspect of his life. He was a drone, a cog in the machine, and he was destined to fail, no matter what.
This time, however, I caught on that Winston Smith is rebellious, albeit it in a cautious manner. His very first act in the book is to purchase a blank notebook. This, in itself, is cause for suspicion. He knows that if he is caught with the notebook, he will not be able to explain why he would buy such a thing. In private, he begins to record his thoughts for a future generation, a daring moment, especially when he writes, “Down with Big Brother.” Smith is aware from the beginning that he is doomed, and yet he persists in his thoughtcrimes. 
Eventually Smith meets Julia, who entices him to experience sexual freedom as a rebellious act. For Smith, Julia exemplifies a daring expression of individuality, yet she seems to lack any consideration for why the totalitarian government wants to exert control. He tries to instruct her, but she is more interested in ducking the system in small ways.
Smith feels a connection with O’Brien, who appears to be defying his political position by being part of the resistance. He shares with Smith a book that explains how Big Brother came into existence and how it maintains control by eliminating or altering the past. O’Brien swears in Smith and Julia as members of the resistance. And here Orwell’s language is brilliant:

“You are prepared to give your lives?”
“Yes.”
“You are prepared to commit murder?”
“Yes.”
“To commit acts of sabotage which may cause the death of hundreds of innocent people?”
“Yes.”
“To betray your country to foreign powers?”
“Yes.”
“You are prepared to cheat, to forge, to blackmail, to corrupt the minds of children, to distribute habit-forming drugs, to encourage prostitution, to disseminate venereal diseases – to do anything which is likely to cause demoralization and weaken the power of the Party?”
“Yes.”
“If, for example, it would somehow serve our interests to throw sulphuric acid in a child’s face – are you prepared to do that?”
“Yes.”
“You are prepared to commit suicide, if and when we order you to do so?”
“Yes.”
“You are prepared, the two of you, to separate and never see one another again?”
“No!” broke in Julia.
It appeared to Winston that a long time passed before he answered. For a moment he seemed even to have been deprived of the power of speech. His tongue worked soundlessly, forming the opening syllables first of one word, then of the other, over and over again. Until he had said it, he did not know which word he was going to say. “No,” he said, finally.
“You did well to tell me,” said O’Brien. “It is necessary for us to know everything.”

What is marvelous about this interchange is that O’Brien’s questions could just as easily apply to loyalty to the Party as well loyalty to the Resistance. What he is asking of Smith and Julia is that they engage in the very acts that the Party perpetrates on a daily basis. Yet under the guise of the Resistance, the questions sound rebellious. But Orwell’s point is that control of language is the ultimate political power. When Smith struggles over his final answer, ultimately it does not matter whether he says yes or no; he is doomed already. He knows he is doomed, but he is granted the smallest granule of hope by stating “Yes.” And O’Brien response about the necessity of knowing everything is exactly what Big Brother demands of all its citizens.
I read 1984 at the same time I was reading Robert Icke and Duncan Macmillan’s stage adaptation of the novel. In their introduction, they make a significant observation: Orwell’s novel features an appendix about the properties of Newspeak, the language of the Party. Essentially, Newspeak is a whittling process to eliminate specificity in vocabulary, which weakens a person’s ability to communicate in any effective way. In the novel, the 11th edition of the Newspeak dictionary should be completed by the year 2050, at which time language will be minimalized into vague generalities. Icke and Macmillan note that if Newspeak had become the official language, the appendix itself would have been written in Newspeak. Instead, it is written in formal English and most importantly, in the past tense. In other words, the appendix tells the reader that the Party must have failed before 2050; otherwise, the 11th edition of the dictionary would have been completed. Rather, the appendix gives the reader clues that Big Brother must have fallen, and society was able to reestablish itself on a different line. It is a piece of hope at the end of a dystopian novel. 
Perhaps that is reading too much into Orwell’s appendix. Maybe it was simply his version of Tolkien’s own appendices to The Lord of the Rings – giving the reader additional information about the construction of Newspeak. Personally, I like the notion that Orwell leaves us a clue that the totalitarian regime could not last forever.