I got my authors mixed up and incorrectly noted that Michael Stevenson wrote Evicted. He did not. The correct author is Matthew Desmond. Apologies.
https://www.amazon.com/Evicted-Poverty-Profit-American-City/dp/0553447432/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1483967963&sr=1-1&keywords=evicted
Monday, January 9, 2017
Sunday, January 8, 2017
Reading for a winter's day
I don’t know what the weather’s
like in your part of the country, but here in central North Carolina, it’s
gloomy and bitterly cold. Up to a foot of snow was predicted; what we got
instead was sleet and treacherously icy roads. Our governor, Roy Cooper,
exhorted us to keep off the roads, and stay home. He could have added the
welcome advice (and it would have been novel, too, coming from a politician) to
stay home with a good book.
No complaints from me: I have
a stack of TBR books—plus enough coffee to get me through the next day or so.
For the next “weather event,” though, I’m planning to stock up on one or more
books from “best of 2016” lists. In particular, I am happily highlighting
several books recommended in “The Year in Reading,” the December 25 issue of
The New York Times Book Review. http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2016/12/19/books/review/25year-in-reading.html
I developed my own list of
favorites for 2016 and included it in my Christmas cards this year (see below).
I also invited friends to share books they read and liked in the past year. Here’s their response:
q Barbara D: News
of the World by Paulette Jiles; A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles; Hillbilly
Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture
by J. P Vance
And here’s my 2016
Book List: A Baker’s Dozen
q Victoria the
Queen by Julia Baird
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.
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