November Surprise

No, I’m not talking about the election results—they were a shock, a blow.

The surprise here is the slow, unfolding pleasure of reading Lori Ostlund’s novel, After the Parade.

But, in fact, the two are connected. In the past weeks, as I have felt overwhelmed and shattered at Trump’s election, I have retreated into reading—maybe denial, maybe a way to escape the awfulness of the election and the endless chatter from pundits on why things went wrong. The book I had at hand was After the Parade. I disappeared into the novel. And what solace it turned out to be. A reminder that decency and complexity and forgiveness do matter.

As I’ve written before, increasingly, I give up more quickly on books that disappoint; there’s just not enough time. And, also increasingly, I become irritated with bad editing and bloated prose (definitely related), lazy plotting, pedestrian style. So, I was prepared to commit After the Parade to the library giveaway pile after a few pages. But I persisted, out of loyalty to my current book group, which had chosen the book for our December meeting. Whew! Good-girl behavior pays off for a change!

The basic story is simple. It’s about leaving and being left, about the impact of abandonment on others, on oneself.

As the book opens, Aaron Englund is packing a few household goods in a U-Haul, preparing to leave Walter, his lover of 20 years. Aaron struggles to sleep before his departure, but finally relents and creeps off in the hours before dawn, heading for San Francisco and a new, solitary life.

Decades before when Aaron was five, his mother Delores had left him in much the same way, sneaking off into the night, leaving no note, no explanation. Aaron knew his mother was deeply unhappy, knew that she’d been institutionalized after the accidental death of her husband, a brutal abusive policeman. Still, despite this awareness, Aaron was a child then, abandoned, dependent on the charity of neighbors to raise and care for him.

The book toggles back and forth between scenes of Aaron’s childhood and his adult life, working as an ESL teacher in San Francisco. This familiar structure can feel contrived, but in After the Parade, it works. The connection between childhood trauma and present-day dysfunction emerges slowly and makes sense.  The reader thinks, “Oh, that’s why Aaron feels invisible, anxious…”

It’s not a straight line, though. The book is studded with dozens of scenes that work almost as short stories; some are sad, some are funny, especially the stories of the ESL students.  In an interview with Richard Russo, included in the book, Ostlund explains why she chose the non-linear structure: “…I was trying to mimic the way that memory works, particularly in times of transition or upheaval, when everything you see or hear triggers thoughts of the past, and those memories often come to you in fragments.”

Many anecdotes in the novel explore Aaron’s relationships with “misfits,” people who, in some way like him, are viewed as “other,” people who are misunderstood and reviled by society. Because he accepts these people, he can begin to accept himself, flaws and all. Other relationships, such as with Walter’s sister Winnie,  offer him a combination of unconditional love and tough-talk wisdom.

Over time, Aaron comes to acknowledge his rage at his most profound abandonment—his mother’s deliberate disappearance—and, at some level, to forgive her. As the ever-accepting and ever-wise Winnie comments, “Sometimes, the most you can do is save yourself.”

But this richly textured novel also suggests that forgiveness is the way to save yourself.

The end of the world--or is it?

One of the many benefits of participating in a book discussion group is being nudged, occasionally, toward books you wouldn’t ordinarily choose. I know many people who don’t like to join book groups because they are “forced” to read books they don’t like—they’d rather read their own choices exclusively. And I get that. There are so many books, and so little time…

But sometimes the book group nudge is just what you need to discover something wonderful, something you’d never have chosen on your own.

Case in point: Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel.

Typically, if I’m reading a book review and see the tags “science fiction” or “dystopia,” my eyes glaze over and I move on. I know my favorite genres, and those don’t apply.

So, I’d never have read Station Eleven, if it hadn’t been a selection of my book group about  a year ago. Even then, I was not inclined—hmmm, maybe this would be a book I’d just skip and maybe even skip the meeting. But I like the woman who recommended it, and I respect her judgment, so I gave it a try. Am I ever glad! It’s a book that resonated in my mind and dreams for days. In fact, I recently re-read the novel and liked it even more than the first time.

The basic premise: a horribly virulent pandemic flu wipes out most of the population of the world and basically brings civilization as we know it to a halt. No electricity. No Internet. No cell phones. No water or sewer systems. No planes, trains, or cars. No grocery stores. No hospitals or antibiotics. 

And, because the mortality rate is 99%, no chance—or virtually none—that your family, loved ones, or friends have survived.

How would you cope? After a dramatic opening the evening before the flu hits, the novel fast-forwards to Year 20, introducing us to an array of characters who did survive and have coped. Among them are dozen or so people who have formed a traveling troupe to perform classical music and Shakespeare for people in towns around the Great Lakes.

Shakespeare—really? Aren’t there more compelling needs for the remnant of civilization? According to St. John Mandel, Shakespeare and music are as important as ordinary sustenance. This phrase echoes throughout the book: “Survival is insufficient.” (Star Trek fans will recognize the phrase from a Star Trek Voyage episode.)

So, the Traveling Symphony performs, with battered instruments and ragged costumes, transcendent music and poetry for small communities eager to be lifted out of their survival mode. After a few days in each town, the Symphony hitches up its horse-drawn wagons and heads to another town. This peripatetic troupe of  musicians and actors form an extended family: “…it was their only home.”

Only, sometimes, the players are met with hostility or overt violence. A religious zealot threatens them. In this fractured world, who can be trusted?

As counterpoint to this atmosphere of dark uncertainly, the novel opens with a dramatic scene on the last day before the pandemic hits. A well-known Canadian actor, Arthur Leander, dies of a heart attack during a final scene of King Lear staged at a Toronto theater. The novel traces Arthur’s professional rise and personal life, cutting back and forth in time, providing a more conventional narrative to counter the story of the pandemic’s aftermath.

Initially, it’s not clear how the two stories relate. But several strands align over time. Kirsten, a little girl who acts in Lear becomes the fearless leader of the Traveling Symphony. A lawyer friend of Arthur’s becomes the de facto curator of the Museum of Civilization, which contains a collection of objects from “before”, eg, an iPhone, a driver’s license, a laptop, a pair of stiletto heels. A paparazzo who stalks Arthur’s wives grows into a skilled medical provider and resourceful family man. And not least, a graphic novel—Station Eleven—links several characters and is, itself, a survivor—and a metaphor for how to re-build society after disaster.

The book is smart, with an impressive structure and an unfussy, eloquent style. Although the novel is dark and sometimes tense, a current of humanity runs through the story. And, at the end, a hint of hope and light (literally) promises to begin to heal the 20-year collapse of civilization.

First, the summer--then the horror

Bucolic setting in the English countryside—check. Plucky heroine who grapples with misogyny and small-town prejudice—check. Handsome doctor who slowly comes to recognize the appeal of plucky heroine—check.

All the elements above might sound like ingredients for a comforting stew of a romance novel—familiar, basically a feel-good story.

But The Summer Before the War transcends the clichés and offers readers plenty of food for thought, as well as balm for the spirit. Set in 1914, the novel braids the themes of women’s fight for independence and the effect of World War I on the lives and psyches of British people, both on the battlefield and at home.

As the 100^th anniversary of The Battle of the Somme nears (July 1), there seems to be a resurgence of interest in the impact of WWI. It was said to be “the war to end all wars,” and thousands of British soldiers enlisted, expecting the conflict to be over and to be home in time for Christmas. Troops were cheered with parades and celebrations in towns all over England as they prepared to embark for France or Belgium. It promised to be a glorious war.

The reality, as we know, was horrifically different.  The British army suffered more than 60,000 casualties on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, alone. By the end if the war, more than 900,000 forces from the British Empire had been killed, more than 2 million wounded, and 200,000 taken prisoner or missing.  An entire generation of young men was lost. 

The war’s devastating impact resulted in major social and cultural change in the orderly tempo of life in Edwardian England. In particular, many women cast aside traditional roles and took on “men’s work,” running farms, teaching schools, and taking on nursing duties.

This is the context of The Summer before the War. In the summer of 1914, Beatrice Nash, a beautiful, brainy young woman, arrives in the Sussex Village of Rye to take on the job as Latin teacher in the local grammar school, a definitely untraditional role and one viewed with considerable suspicion by many townspeople. Her father has recently died, thoughtlessly tying up a modest inheritance in a trust controlled by an unsympathetic relative. So, becoming a teacher is not necessarily a career choice, but an economic necessity.

Still grieving her father’s death and feeling socially isolated in a new town, Beatrice finds comfort in the support of a local matron who has championed her hiring. Agatha Kent also welcomes two nephews, who often visit from London: Hugh, a doctor in training, and Daniel, a would-be poet. These young men’s lives will be upended by the war, but for the summer of 1914, they savor indolent days in the countryside. However, although the setting is more modest than Downton Abbey and the social stratification less rigid, many stifling social mores prevail.

Fans of Simonson’s first novel, Mr. Pettigrew’s Last Stand, will find similar insights about social constraints and the ways that sympathetic characters overcome them. Although the time periods and settings differ, both novels share a wry sense of humor and a disdain for silly social constraints. And both feature protagonists who are endearing, even if occasionally misguided and tone-deaf.

Over the course of the novel, Beatrice’s courage and independence strengthen, despite (or perhaps because of) social opposition. At the same time, she comes to recognize and appreciate the joys of companionship.

And Hugh endures the horrors of trench warfare, coming to relinquish his dream of a fancy Harley St. surgical practice in favor of a more modest country practice. His cousin Dan continues to write poetry, although he sheds his esthete persona as battlefield reality matures him.

The book’s ending is bittersweet. Some characters forge new lives in the new, post-war world. Others don’t survive.

Years after the Armistice, several of the characters visit a small cemetery in Northern France, where so many British died in battle and are now buried. One of the visitors observes that, despite her current happiness,  she experiences “a thin vein of sorrow that millions  like her would feel down the years.”

[The sorrow] did not stop their feet from walking, or prevent the quotidian routines of life; but it ran in the population like the copper wires of the telephone system, connecting them all to each other and to the tragedy that had ripped at their hearts just as it had ripped at the field outside her window.

One Thing After Another

Faith Sullivan says of her latest novel, Good Night, Mr. Wodehouse, published in October, “It has no plot, no dramatic arc like you’re supposed to have….It’s just about how we live.”

The novel’s narrator, Nell Stillman charts how she lives through six decades in the small midwestern town of Harvester, knitting quotidian pleasures and challenges with tragic events and major changes of the 20^th century.  Throughout it all, Nell maintains a steady presence, comforted by her love of reading—especially books by P.G. Wodehouse.

At the book’s opening in 1900, Nell has been left a young widow with a toddler son, Hilly; penniless, she tries to tamp down panic. Soon, Juliet and Laurence Lundren, an influential couple in the town and the first of many “angels” to appear in Nell’s life, help her procure a job as a third-grade teacher. The position gives Nell a solid position in the community, as well as a modest income. The couple’s intervention is the first of many examples of “the kindness of strangers” that mark Nell’s life, eventually deepening her circle of support and friendship.

But this is no saccharine tale and Nell is no beatific heroine. Small-minded townspeople judge and sometimes threaten her (the school board tries to fire her because of guilt by association—her baby sitter leaves town suddenly, and everyone assumes that she is pregnant). And Nell is shattered when her beloved son Hilly returns from World War I shell-shocked and broken. Throughout the years, through vicissitudes and small joys, Nell just keeps on—and finds solace in reading Wodehouse.

Mr. Wodehouse, it turned out, was an entirely new experience. He was delicious, lighter than air. Generous to a fault. He made her laugh as no man ever had. Surely, he wrote only for her. His rhythms, the way his wit kissed a phrase and sent it dancing—these armed her like the summer. She laughed aloud and fell in love again and again.

This linchpin of the novel was the hardest aspect for me to relate to—I’ve never been a Wodehouse fan, as Sullivan clearly is: she reports having read his novels for 40 years and having re-read many of them during the writing of her own novel. But never mind. You don’t have to love Wodehouse—you will come to love Nell Stillman.

In contrast to much of contemporary “high concept” fiction, Good Night Mr. Wodehouse is linear, a quiet story that features an entirely reliable narrator, one whose moral compass anchors the story. To stick with a central character for more than six decades, you have to like that person. And who could not like Nell? She is courageous, kind, tartly funny, a good friend, and a determined woman. As she says when she writes her own obituary (“although in perfectly good health”):

She knew the kindness of dear friends and, eventually, the love of a good man.

Sullivan’s publisher at Minneapolis-based Milkweed Editions, summed up the power of the book, saying that the characters would be thought entirely ordinary in real life, “yet, in Faith’s hands as a novelist, they’ve become extraordinary…”

Journey Home

Journey Home

If you read only one book this month, this season, let it be Pax.

The middle-grade novel, written by Sara Pennypacker and illustrated by Jon Klassen, will appeal to readers of all ages—assuming they have a heart. The story feels both mythic and realistic, a cautionary tale about how to overcome old patterns that trap us and to discover the real way home.

Peter, a 12-year-old boy, and his pet red fox, Pax, are separated when Peter’s father chooses to go to war; he forces Peter to release Pax into the wild and then to move 300 miles away to live with his grandfather. Almost immediately, Peter realizes that he has made a terrible mistake and determines to return for Pax, fearing that the domesticated fox will not survive alone in the wild. 

Meanwhile, Pax, confused by the abandonment of his human, struggles to make sense of his new freedom and remains vigilant for the scent of Peter.

Peter’s plan to find and recover Pax is naïve, but along the way, he discovers an unlikely ally who shows him how to become both strong and vulnerable. The eccentric war veteran, Viola, carries her own scars and distrust, but she and Peter come to depend on each other, forging a new family of sorts.

Hundreds of miles away, Pax finds a new family, too: a vixen named Bristle, her brother, Runt, and an older red wolf, Gray. Because Pax had been adopted as a kit and grown up eating kibble and peanut butter, he has no idea how to hunt and feed himself in the wild—nor any idea of how to read behavioral signs of his kin.

At its heart, the novel is a story of a hero’s journey—in this case, two journeys converging. Short alternating chapters tell the tale from Peter’s point of view and from Pax’s. We come to cheer Peter as he grows in skill and compassion, and we are completely won over by Pax’s “voice,” which is completely unsentimental and based on an accurate depiction of red fox behavior. Our heroes face and overcome obstacles, as all heroes must, including encounters with an advancing group of soldiers, who are laying mines all over the countryside. The underlying threat of war—an unnamed country, an unnamed time—lends a dark note to this book, but doesn’t obscure its narrative pull.

Pennypacker infuses her story with astonishingly beautiful prose. Take this description of Pax thrilling to the joy of running free after a lifetime of captivity:

His body was light, the fat burned off from days of scarce food. He ran as foxes are meant to run—compact body arrowing through the air at a swiftness that rippled his fur. The new joy of speed, the urgency of coming night, the hope of reunion with his boy—these things transformed him into something that shot like liquid fire between he trees. Something gravity couldn’t touch. Pax could have run forever.

 Best known for more light-hearted children’s books like the Clementine series, Pennypacker here tackles deeper topics, but wraps them in prose and a story that engage at many levels.  Enriching Pax are marvelous illustrations by Jon Klassen, the artist who gave us I Want My Hat Back. The pair have created a magical book that will linger in your thoughts and heart for a long time.