Sunday, January 8, 2017
Sunday, December 4, 2016
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.
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
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.
Sunday, April 3, 2016
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 100th
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.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
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 20th 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…”
Saturday, February 6, 2016
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.
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