I am not yet tired of hearing about the pregnancy of the Duchess of Cambridge, but I am
tired of hearing people moan about how they don't want to hear about
it. It's been only two days, and I am already blisteringly weary of
dismissals of the news: "Who cares?" and "Just another celebrity
pregnancy media frenzy." Sorry. Tisn't.
I
will grant that many are far too wrapped up in the lives of
celebrities, and the hysteria some Brits show over the Royals can
sometimes seem over-the-top and bewildering. I hope (probably in vain)
that the Duke and Duchess can live out her pregnancy in some kind of
normalcy (and in health--that the Duchess has been hospitalized for
hyperemesis gravidarum
is a cause for some concern), but there is no escaping the fact that
she, her unborn child, and her husband are walking history. That is a
future monarch she is carrying there, and questions of the wisdom and
feasibility of the continuation of a monarchy in Great Britain aside
(that's a topic for another time), the pending birth of a future monarch
is a big deal.
Not
as big a deal as it would have been four, or even one, hundred years
ago, but a big deal still. Whatever one's opinion about the royal
family, there is no denying that who they are and what they do is
considered to be top news by millions: it is estimated that some 300 million people watched Prince William and Catherine Middleton's wedding in April 2011, 1.2 million people lined the royal pageant route on Queen Elizabeth's Diamond Jubilee and 14.7 million watched the Diamond Jubilee Concert in June 2012, and 10 million people
a year in Britain alone have tuned into the Queen's annual Christmas
Speech in recent years).* The members of the House of Windsor fascinate
their subjects (even while they and the royal system which they embody
may infuriate some of their subjects as well), and, if interviews with
some of those who come out to line The Mall during celebrations such as
Royal Weddings and Jubilees are any indication, their service to the
Commonwealth engenders loyalty, admiration, and gratitude in many. That
being the case, the birth of a child who will change the line of
succession and thus change the future face of the British monarchy is
certainly newsworthy.
But
what is infinitely more compelling to me, what has me excited to hear
about this pregnancy, is the sense of history that comes with this
news. So much of Britain's history rests on who sat on the throne and
who could or could not produce a legitimate successor, and while the
political ramifications of not producing an heir are less dire now than
they have been in Britain's past, the event of Prince William's marriage
and Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge's, subsequent pregnancy
connects us to that past. I have always thought that the British seem
to be more aware of their history during their day-to day lives than we
are--a result, perhaps, of having a national figure who is a living,
breathing link to hundreds of years of royal and political history. The
royal family we see today--Queen Elizabeth, Prince Charles, Prince
William, and, of course, all the rest of the Queen's children and
grandchildren--are a result and a reminder of hundreds of years of
history. The current Queen's father gave a rousing speech at the start
of WWII that helped unite a country under threat; her uncle was at the
heart of a scandal that tested the relationship between the monarch and
parliament; her grandfather ruled during WWI, her great-grandfather had a
period named after him (Edwardian), her great-great grandmother, too
(you might have heard of it). When we watch The King's Speech
and get swept up in the story of that man's life and the history he
lived, is it not marvelous to realize that the dignified woman we see
celebrating sixty years on the throne is his daughter? Or to think,
when we see that episode of Doctor Who
with Queen Victoria that plays on the history of her family, that that
story (in more realistic terms, perhaps) is still being told?
Millions
of people the world over can do this, too, can trace their ancestry
back hundreds of years, can point to the historical events their
families influenced or were a part of. And history, after all, is made
up not just of the names and deeds everyone knows but of the names and
deeds no one knows. But the children of the Duke and Duchess of
Cambridge will be the next step in a part of history that we can see,
and that is just mind-bendingly brilliant. To think that these children
will be the direct descendents of people who stare at us out of black
and white plates in our history books; to realize that the past isn't
dead, that, in fact, it walks about, living, breathing, falling in love,
having children; to be reminded of this is simply grand.
And
we Americans, who are so unfailingly interested in trying to pull the
beliefs and attitudes of our founding fathers into the present, who are
fascinated by the complex histories of our own important ruling familes
(the Adamses, the Kennedys, the Bushes), and who have a history of the
family Bible with its carefully filled out family tree at the center,
should have no trouble at all understanding why the impending birth of
the great-great-great-great-great grandchild of a figure of such
national and international historical import would be breaking news.
*The population of Britain in 2010 was
~62 million, meaning about 16% of the population watched the Queen's Christmas Speech. By contrast, about 37.8 million people watched President Obama's 2011 State of the Union Speech, or about 12% of the US population.
These comparisons are not strictly one-to-one (I don't mean to equate
the President of the USA's State of the Union Address and the Queen's
Christmas Speech; they do not serve the same function), but the point
that people care about the royals is adequately made, I think.
**Also, a nod to Jane Murray's The Kings and Queens of England, which is always my go-to for sorting who-came-after-who and who-was-who's-father.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Book Review: Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell
A fascinating novel, mostly made so by its intriguing structure and deft handling of many writing styles. Cloud Atlas
consists of six different narratives, each taking place at a different
time in history (and some in the future), dealing with different
characters, and employing different styles and methods of narration. The
novel begins with the narrative furthest back in time (call it
Narrative A), continues with the next narrative in chronological
succession (Narrative B), and keeps going through its several narratives
until it arrives at Narrative F, then works back in time through each
narrative once again. So the structure looks something like this:
ABCDEFEDCBA. Eventually it becomes apparent that there are connections
among these seemingly separate narratives, and Mitchell's skill in
handling this structure becomes increasingly clear as he works his way
back down his narrative ladder (on the EDCBA side, if you will). Working
the hints of connections into the first half of the novel strikes me as
something not overly difficult; backing out through the second half of
the narrative and picking up all those disparate threads to make the
whole create sense and answer questions seems like it must have been
mind-bogglingly difficult. For manipulation of this structure, for
making it work, I give Mitchell all the credit in the world. His
skill at working so well within so many different styles is also
remarkable. He succeeds, as well, in making the reader care about each
of his narratives, about all of his characters, despite wrenching her
away from each narrative just as it is getting really good and asking
her to invest in yet another scenario.
I came away from Cloud Atlas impressed by Mitchell's writing and his ability to reel one into a story and wowed by his handle on structure. But in the end I was never sure what all of that structural whizzbang was for (beyond being an incredible feat in and of itself). I'm not entirely sure what the novel means to say about the interconnectedness of people and events or about our ability (or inability?) to recognize those connections. Without that understanding I was left a bit befuddled. Which is not to say that I think this isn't a book worth reading. I think it is. There's enough here that is satisfying to outweigh that discontent in the end. And the novel avoids feeling like an experiment which succeeds technically but fails to tap into the emotional life of the reader. The novel is an amazing achievement, if not a wholly satisfying one. But absolutely worth the read, even if only to marvel at how Mitchell works that ABCDEFEDCBA structure. Seriously.
This review originally appeared on my LibraryThing account.
I came away from Cloud Atlas impressed by Mitchell's writing and his ability to reel one into a story and wowed by his handle on structure. But in the end I was never sure what all of that structural whizzbang was for (beyond being an incredible feat in and of itself). I'm not entirely sure what the novel means to say about the interconnectedness of people and events or about our ability (or inability?) to recognize those connections. Without that understanding I was left a bit befuddled. Which is not to say that I think this isn't a book worth reading. I think it is. There's enough here that is satisfying to outweigh that discontent in the end. And the novel avoids feeling like an experiment which succeeds technically but fails to tap into the emotional life of the reader. The novel is an amazing achievement, if not a wholly satisfying one. But absolutely worth the read, even if only to marvel at how Mitchell works that ABCDEFEDCBA structure. Seriously.
This review originally appeared on my LibraryThing account.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Tales from the Library Book Sale
The library I frequented the last time we lived in Roanoke is closed now. The building still stands there, across from the post office, looking sad and empty and alone. I will miss it--its fiction aisles were just the right width apart for proper browsing and none of the books were beyond my (admittedly short) reach. The fiction collection was large enough for one to be assured of finding something good to read but not so big as to be overwhelming. But! There is a new (I think new) library not more than a few extra minutes' drive from our apartment (we are living now in effectively the same place we did before), and it is big without being impersonal and there's wood and lots of seating and many of the librarians from the old closed branch work there now. I was happy to see those same faces again, though I will miss, too, seeing them go about their business in that old branch, which was small enough that it felt (pleasantly) as if the building really were their domain. This new building sort of hovers over everyone; I think the librarians belong to it now, rather than the other way round.
I got a new library card in short order (much easier than getting a new driver's license, as it should be), picked up a volunteer form, and asked for the quick standing tour. New books and DVDs behind you, Children's thataway. Fiction, nonfiction, and quiet study upstairs. Oh, and we're having the last day of our fall book sale down that hallway in the meeting room to your left.
I had seen some notice of that book sale on the website, but thought I had missed it, thought it had ended at the weekend. How serendipitous to have idled out to the library on just this day, on this day when I had planned to do nothing more than laundry (which, incidentally, languishes still). I made my way to the sale, giving myself a stern talking-to as I went. "You will be restrained," I insisted. "Money is a little tight, and, anyway, you couldn't fit more than two or three more books into the apartment, and then only if you get the cats to teach you that thing they do with parallel dimensions." As luck would have it, the sale was "fill a box for $3" on this last day, so the money problem was well in hand, and the books were so well-picked-over after five days of sales that taking home a box-full of books I actually had any interest in would have been a challenge. But I did manage an impressive and exciting haul of five books, all in excellent shape.
The first treasure I found was a near-pristine paperback copy of Island of the Blue Dolphins from the seventies. Not worth anything, I'm sure, but I almost invariably like better the covers of children's and young adult books from around the time I would have been the right age to read them than the covers they put on those same books today. And somehow I've never managed to read Island of the Blue Dolphins, so I considered my book-sale foray a success within minutes of browsing its long tables of collapsing rows of still unwanted tomes. Next I found The Red Tent, which I have almost taken home at full price from book shops several times and of which I am somewhat wary. But people whose opinions I trust have recommended it to me, so I tucked it under my arm along with Island and carried on, figuring if there ever was going to be a time, at $3 a box, now was probably it.
Somewhere about a third of the way through the fiction, a nice-looking elderly gentleman browsing on the other side of the table from me tapped his fore-finger on the spine of a hard cover standing on its edge in the middle of the table. "If you're looking for a good one, that one," he said.
I smiled. It was a Jean M. Auel novel, a Clan of the Cave Bear installment from somewhere in the middle of the series. I have Clan of the Cave Bear, and I've been told that it's best to stop with that one.
"It's a whole series," my new friend said, pulling the book up and handing it to me. "Prehistoric stuff."
"Oh? How interesting," I said, or something similar, as I took the book and pretended to look through its opening pages. I was caught off-guard by the recommendation and couldn't summon the words to express my lack of interest without coming off rude.
He turned away, but just as I was about to return the book to its row, he turned back. I ruffled a few pages, trying to look intrigued. "It's speculative, too. Of course it would have to be, because no one knows what happened in prehistoric times."
Was this a joke? Some kind of religious remark? Or just a statement of fact? I smiled again, and gave a little laugh. "Thanks," I said, probably at the wrong point in the exchange all together. He smiled and nodded, and, this time, really did move on. I scurried away to the nonfiction tables, leaving Clan of the Cave Bear IV behind.
I found there something called The Call of Stories: Teaching and the Moral Imagination, which seems like it can't fail to be right up my street, and a Bill Bryson we somehow managed not to have yet, I'm a Stranger Here Myself. I've peeked into this one already, shortly after I got home, and nearly choked on my afternoon snack laughing at a chapter called "Rules for Living." ("11. Any electronic clock or other timing device on which the time is set by holding down a button and scrolling laboriously through the minutes and hours is illegal. . . . 19. In office buildings and retail premises in which entry is through double doors and one of those doors is locked for no reason, the door must bear a large sign saying: 'This door is locked for no reason.'") And finally, just as I was about to pay for my finds and make tracks (upstairs to see the fiction and nonfiction stacks, where I found, my to my puzzlement, a copy of Dante's The Divine Comedy on the nonfiction shelves), I saw, in a sorry little heap of bedraggled, forlorn-looking nonfic with titles like "The Do-It Yourself Guide to Plumbing" and "Understanding Baby's Diseases Made Easy," a book called The Pencil, written by Henry Petroski, whose The Book on the Bookshelf I read with great delight a year or so back. That someone could be so fascinated by this ingenious little writing utensil to write a whole book about it, and that some other someone could be so impressed by the first someone's enthusiasm to agree to publish the thing, makes me uncommonly happy. And that it sat there, waiting, patiently, amongst such dismal fare, is one of the best arguments for a library book sale I can think of. It is certainly my favorite find of the afternoon.
And so, only five books, and only three dollars spent! Restraint, achieved, I say. But now, where to put them? So far I've had no luck at all convincing the cats to give up the secret to that thing they do with parallel dimensions.
I got a new library card in short order (much easier than getting a new driver's license, as it should be), picked up a volunteer form, and asked for the quick standing tour. New books and DVDs behind you, Children's thataway. Fiction, nonfiction, and quiet study upstairs. Oh, and we're having the last day of our fall book sale down that hallway in the meeting room to your left.
I had seen some notice of that book sale on the website, but thought I had missed it, thought it had ended at the weekend. How serendipitous to have idled out to the library on just this day, on this day when I had planned to do nothing more than laundry (which, incidentally, languishes still). I made my way to the sale, giving myself a stern talking-to as I went. "You will be restrained," I insisted. "Money is a little tight, and, anyway, you couldn't fit more than two or three more books into the apartment, and then only if you get the cats to teach you that thing they do with parallel dimensions." As luck would have it, the sale was "fill a box for $3" on this last day, so the money problem was well in hand, and the books were so well-picked-over after five days of sales that taking home a box-full of books I actually had any interest in would have been a challenge. But I did manage an impressive and exciting haul of five books, all in excellent shape.
The first treasure I found was a near-pristine paperback copy of Island of the Blue Dolphins from the seventies. Not worth anything, I'm sure, but I almost invariably like better the covers of children's and young adult books from around the time I would have been the right age to read them than the covers they put on those same books today. And somehow I've never managed to read Island of the Blue Dolphins, so I considered my book-sale foray a success within minutes of browsing its long tables of collapsing rows of still unwanted tomes. Next I found The Red Tent, which I have almost taken home at full price from book shops several times and of which I am somewhat wary. But people whose opinions I trust have recommended it to me, so I tucked it under my arm along with Island and carried on, figuring if there ever was going to be a time, at $3 a box, now was probably it.
Somewhere about a third of the way through the fiction, a nice-looking elderly gentleman browsing on the other side of the table from me tapped his fore-finger on the spine of a hard cover standing on its edge in the middle of the table. "If you're looking for a good one, that one," he said.
I smiled. It was a Jean M. Auel novel, a Clan of the Cave Bear installment from somewhere in the middle of the series. I have Clan of the Cave Bear, and I've been told that it's best to stop with that one.
"It's a whole series," my new friend said, pulling the book up and handing it to me. "Prehistoric stuff."
"Oh? How interesting," I said, or something similar, as I took the book and pretended to look through its opening pages. I was caught off-guard by the recommendation and couldn't summon the words to express my lack of interest without coming off rude.
He turned away, but just as I was about to return the book to its row, he turned back. I ruffled a few pages, trying to look intrigued. "It's speculative, too. Of course it would have to be, because no one knows what happened in prehistoric times."
Was this a joke? Some kind of religious remark? Or just a statement of fact? I smiled again, and gave a little laugh. "Thanks," I said, probably at the wrong point in the exchange all together. He smiled and nodded, and, this time, really did move on. I scurried away to the nonfiction tables, leaving Clan of the Cave Bear IV behind.
I found there something called The Call of Stories: Teaching and the Moral Imagination, which seems like it can't fail to be right up my street, and a Bill Bryson we somehow managed not to have yet, I'm a Stranger Here Myself. I've peeked into this one already, shortly after I got home, and nearly choked on my afternoon snack laughing at a chapter called "Rules for Living." ("11. Any electronic clock or other timing device on which the time is set by holding down a button and scrolling laboriously through the minutes and hours is illegal. . . . 19. In office buildings and retail premises in which entry is through double doors and one of those doors is locked for no reason, the door must bear a large sign saying: 'This door is locked for no reason.'") And finally, just as I was about to pay for my finds and make tracks (upstairs to see the fiction and nonfiction stacks, where I found, my to my puzzlement, a copy of Dante's The Divine Comedy on the nonfiction shelves), I saw, in a sorry little heap of bedraggled, forlorn-looking nonfic with titles like "The Do-It Yourself Guide to Plumbing" and "Understanding Baby's Diseases Made Easy," a book called The Pencil, written by Henry Petroski, whose The Book on the Bookshelf I read with great delight a year or so back. That someone could be so fascinated by this ingenious little writing utensil to write a whole book about it, and that some other someone could be so impressed by the first someone's enthusiasm to agree to publish the thing, makes me uncommonly happy. And that it sat there, waiting, patiently, amongst such dismal fare, is one of the best arguments for a library book sale I can think of. It is certainly my favorite find of the afternoon.
And so, only five books, and only three dollars spent! Restraint, achieved, I say. But now, where to put them? So far I've had no luck at all convincing the cats to give up the secret to that thing they do with parallel dimensions.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Book Review: Little House in the Big Woods and Little House on the Prairie, Laura Ingalls Wilder
Little House in the Big Woods
I recently read a review of the whole series of Little House books on the occasion of their being released in a two-volume set by the Library of America. These books were great favorites of mine as a child, but unlike many other childhood favorites, they have remained hidden away in the attic, unrevisited in my adult years. Reviewer Katherine A. Powers's discussion of the books' descriptions of frontier life and of the darkness inherent in it made me long to read these old favorites again. So I trotted off and snagged a few of them in paperback, my attic dwarf being unwilling to stand on her head and paw through boxes to find my childhood copies (which I once mutilated somewhat cruelly (by folding and crinkling the pages) in an effort to make the books look "old"; attic dwarf, in a slightly different role, was none too pleased with my efforts).
I remember that Little House in the Big Woods was not my favorite of the books (I think that was On the Banks of Plum Creek, but I won't be fully sure until I get to it), but gosh do I remember it well. I anticipated every incident, every illustration, even some turns of phrase. I started leafing ahead to see "How far til the stump that looked like a bear?" or "When do we get to the naughty boy and the bees?" Again, unlike other childhood favorites I have read again when grown up, I have little or no recollection of reading these, which makes me think I read them (or they were read to me) when I was so young that they just sort of became part of my own personal idiomythology (that's not a word, surely; surely it should be?). In any case, they were a delight to read now, and not just for the nostalgia. The prose is very simple, but there's often something poetic about it, and despite the episodic nature of the story (there's no plot beyond detailing how people stayed alive and happy in the big woods of Wisconsin in the 1870s), the book was practically a page-turner for me. Incidents that were mostly just adventures for me when I was a child now are tinged with a darkness that did not occur to me then. When Pa is away and Ma and Laura find a hungry bear inside the barn fence, what if the bear had killed Ma? What happens to a seven-year-old, a five-year-old, and a two-year old in the woods, alone, in winter with no way of contacting anyone? The reality of the thing is more real to me now, I suppose is a good way of putting it, and it engenders a respect for the courage of the people who lived these sorts of lives that just knowing that such a life was hard never could. This was fascinating reading, and I'm already well into the next one--or, the third one, really (I'm skipping Farmer Boy for now)--where I expect I may run headlong into some attitudes about native peoples which is going to challenge my fuzzy delight in rediscovering these books, but we shall see.
Little House on the Prairie
I didn't remember this one nearly as well as Little House in the Big Woods, but many of the incidents (and many of the illustrations) were familiar and welcome. I was struck in Big Woods by the ingenuity and courage of the settlers living on the frontiers in the 1870s; in Prairie I am no less impressed by those qualities, but the circumstances of the Ingalls family in this installment gives me the willies in a way that the realities of living in the Big Woods did not. Surely it is because I have always lived nestled among hills and under trees that the descriptions (and illustrations--maybe even especially the illustrations) of the wide open prairie and the notion of a house just plopped in the middle of all that space quite literally gives me the shivers. Do you know a person who must sit with his back to the wall in a restaurant because that open space behind him is discomfiting? That's how I feel about houses. They ought be backed up against the foot of a mountain or at the least tucked in a clearing with tall trees all around. I'm glad, I guess, that there are people who like that kind of open environment (both Pa and Laura in this book seem to take to the flat openness of the prairie particularly well) as not all of us can live at the foot of mountains--there just aren't enough of them. But I leave them to it.
The constant fear regarding encounters with restive Indians lent a sense of suspense to Prairie which was completely lacking in Big Woods. The fears I had about attitudes toward native peoples in this book were perhaps somewhat overblown. There is certainly othering going on here, and a fair amount of prejudice, but Laura (mostly) seems innocently fascinated by the Indians and Pa (though he definitely carries a nice load of white-settler-entitlement around with him) adopts a live-and-let-live attitude, talking his neighbors down from their fears on more than one occasion. Some passages made me squirm a bit, but keeping in mind the context in which the book was written and the time it recalls, and considering the perhaps more-enlightened-than-typical attitude of Pa, those passages weren't enough to ruin a series of childhood favorites. I would be fascinated, however, to read some articles delving into the portrayal of the native peoples in this book and providing some discussion of the political and historical situation. I'd particularly like to read some opinions on the scene where Laura becomes enchanted by an Indian baby with "hair . . . as black as a crow and its eyes . . . black as a night when no stars shine" and demands that Pa "get (her) that little Indian baby!" as well as on the fact that Pa's sense of morality when it comes to usurping the Indian land seems to stem directly from what the government says is okay. If Washington says the Indian Territory is open to the settlers then he's going to have his land and the Indians can go lump it. If they say not, then he'll move on. That the Indians are obviously living on the land and that they were clearly there first seems not to enter into it for him.
Pa, in fact (and to a somewhat lesser extent, Ma), has become one of the most interesting aspects of these books for me on these rereads. How does he know how to make a life on the prairie anyway? That he should be a competent frontiersman generally can be taken as a given since when we first meet him in Big Woods he's already been making a successful go at that kind of life for several years (at least). But how does he know what the specific dangers of the prairie are? And how to deal with them? As a child, I accepted Pa as the all-knowing performer of crafty miracles and protector of home and family (I knew men like that myself, after all), but as an adult I begin to want to see him as a real person and to question him and to suspect that sometimes his pioneer spirit endangers his family (a number of minor catastrophes in Prairie, which are presented as things from which Pa saves the day, are actually his fault). The question of what children know and what adults know and keep from the children, I think, is a central theme in this book, and one which probably sails right over the head of children readers (except for the few times when it is made explicit as part of the action). I count six instances in Prairie when the whole family is a hair's breadth away from a horrible death, and much of what is interesting to me here (beyond the details of the day-to-day business of staying alive, which is always fascinating) is how these two adults try to--and mostly succeed at--giving their children a happy life which is free from fear and dread.
These reviews originally appeared on my LibraryThing account here and here.
I recently read a review of the whole series of Little House books on the occasion of their being released in a two-volume set by the Library of America. These books were great favorites of mine as a child, but unlike many other childhood favorites, they have remained hidden away in the attic, unrevisited in my adult years. Reviewer Katherine A. Powers's discussion of the books' descriptions of frontier life and of the darkness inherent in it made me long to read these old favorites again. So I trotted off and snagged a few of them in paperback, my attic dwarf being unwilling to stand on her head and paw through boxes to find my childhood copies (which I once mutilated somewhat cruelly (by folding and crinkling the pages) in an effort to make the books look "old"; attic dwarf, in a slightly different role, was none too pleased with my efforts).
I remember that Little House in the Big Woods was not my favorite of the books (I think that was On the Banks of Plum Creek, but I won't be fully sure until I get to it), but gosh do I remember it well. I anticipated every incident, every illustration, even some turns of phrase. I started leafing ahead to see "How far til the stump that looked like a bear?" or "When do we get to the naughty boy and the bees?" Again, unlike other childhood favorites I have read again when grown up, I have little or no recollection of reading these, which makes me think I read them (or they were read to me) when I was so young that they just sort of became part of my own personal idiomythology (that's not a word, surely; surely it should be?). In any case, they were a delight to read now, and not just for the nostalgia. The prose is very simple, but there's often something poetic about it, and despite the episodic nature of the story (there's no plot beyond detailing how people stayed alive and happy in the big woods of Wisconsin in the 1870s), the book was practically a page-turner for me. Incidents that were mostly just adventures for me when I was a child now are tinged with a darkness that did not occur to me then. When Pa is away and Ma and Laura find a hungry bear inside the barn fence, what if the bear had killed Ma? What happens to a seven-year-old, a five-year-old, and a two-year old in the woods, alone, in winter with no way of contacting anyone? The reality of the thing is more real to me now, I suppose is a good way of putting it, and it engenders a respect for the courage of the people who lived these sorts of lives that just knowing that such a life was hard never could. This was fascinating reading, and I'm already well into the next one--or, the third one, really (I'm skipping Farmer Boy for now)--where I expect I may run headlong into some attitudes about native peoples which is going to challenge my fuzzy delight in rediscovering these books, but we shall see.
Little House on the Prairie
I didn't remember this one nearly as well as Little House in the Big Woods, but many of the incidents (and many of the illustrations) were familiar and welcome. I was struck in Big Woods by the ingenuity and courage of the settlers living on the frontiers in the 1870s; in Prairie I am no less impressed by those qualities, but the circumstances of the Ingalls family in this installment gives me the willies in a way that the realities of living in the Big Woods did not. Surely it is because I have always lived nestled among hills and under trees that the descriptions (and illustrations--maybe even especially the illustrations) of the wide open prairie and the notion of a house just plopped in the middle of all that space quite literally gives me the shivers. Do you know a person who must sit with his back to the wall in a restaurant because that open space behind him is discomfiting? That's how I feel about houses. They ought be backed up against the foot of a mountain or at the least tucked in a clearing with tall trees all around. I'm glad, I guess, that there are people who like that kind of open environment (both Pa and Laura in this book seem to take to the flat openness of the prairie particularly well) as not all of us can live at the foot of mountains--there just aren't enough of them. But I leave them to it.
The constant fear regarding encounters with restive Indians lent a sense of suspense to Prairie which was completely lacking in Big Woods. The fears I had about attitudes toward native peoples in this book were perhaps somewhat overblown. There is certainly othering going on here, and a fair amount of prejudice, but Laura (mostly) seems innocently fascinated by the Indians and Pa (though he definitely carries a nice load of white-settler-entitlement around with him) adopts a live-and-let-live attitude, talking his neighbors down from their fears on more than one occasion. Some passages made me squirm a bit, but keeping in mind the context in which the book was written and the time it recalls, and considering the perhaps more-enlightened-than-typical attitude of Pa, those passages weren't enough to ruin a series of childhood favorites. I would be fascinated, however, to read some articles delving into the portrayal of the native peoples in this book and providing some discussion of the political and historical situation. I'd particularly like to read some opinions on the scene where Laura becomes enchanted by an Indian baby with "hair . . . as black as a crow and its eyes . . . black as a night when no stars shine" and demands that Pa "get (her) that little Indian baby!" as well as on the fact that Pa's sense of morality when it comes to usurping the Indian land seems to stem directly from what the government says is okay. If Washington says the Indian Territory is open to the settlers then he's going to have his land and the Indians can go lump it. If they say not, then he'll move on. That the Indians are obviously living on the land and that they were clearly there first seems not to enter into it for him.
Pa, in fact (and to a somewhat lesser extent, Ma), has become one of the most interesting aspects of these books for me on these rereads. How does he know how to make a life on the prairie anyway? That he should be a competent frontiersman generally can be taken as a given since when we first meet him in Big Woods he's already been making a successful go at that kind of life for several years (at least). But how does he know what the specific dangers of the prairie are? And how to deal with them? As a child, I accepted Pa as the all-knowing performer of crafty miracles and protector of home and family (I knew men like that myself, after all), but as an adult I begin to want to see him as a real person and to question him and to suspect that sometimes his pioneer spirit endangers his family (a number of minor catastrophes in Prairie, which are presented as things from which Pa saves the day, are actually his fault). The question of what children know and what adults know and keep from the children, I think, is a central theme in this book, and one which probably sails right over the head of children readers (except for the few times when it is made explicit as part of the action). I count six instances in Prairie when the whole family is a hair's breadth away from a horrible death, and much of what is interesting to me here (beyond the details of the day-to-day business of staying alive, which is always fascinating) is how these two adults try to--and mostly succeed at--giving their children a happy life which is free from fear and dread.
These reviews originally appeared on my LibraryThing account here and here.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Packing for a Reading Retreat: Volume III
It's time for a new edition of "Packing for a Reading Retreat" (though I am a touch late), where I
imagine which books I would take with me if I were heading to a reading
retreat, where there would be no distractions and I would be free to do
nothing but read for a week. I imagine my packing in three categories:
"New to Me," for books I've never read before; "Old Favorites," for past
reads I'd like to revisit; and "Just in Case," for one book that can
always be counted on to save me if one of the other selections turns out
to be a dud.
New to Me
Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell
I've had this one on hand for awhile now, but haven't cracked it open yet (though I have read Mitchell's Black Swan Green, which I gather is a very different sort of book, but which I enjoyed immensely). I saw a preview for the movie version of Cloud Atlas and I quite literally wrinkled up my nose and said, "Cloud Atlas Cloud Atlas? Like, David Mitchell? Is that what that book is about?" It was all science fiction-y-ish with the same actors playing different characters in different time periods. I sort of knew that there was an element of souls appearing in different eras or reincarnation or something in Cloud Atlas, but the feel of the movie preview sort of shocked me in being not what I expected from that book. But it looked like a movie I would like to see and it seems like a book I would definitely want to have read before seeing the movie, so it's been bumped up my mental list of books to read soon.
Canada, Richard Ford
I recently saw a tiny snippet of an interview with Richard Ford which made me think I really ought to read something by him. Canada is his latest, and I can't say that I picked it out of all his works for much more reason than because it is the most recent (and maybe because the story--a teenaged boy has to learn to fend for himself and avoid Child Services after his parents rob a bank--appealed to me).
The Time in Between, María Dueñas, trsl. Daniel Hahn
I have to confess that the cover and the first sentence ("A typewriter shattered my destiny.") are what drew me to this book and remain the chief reasons I want to read it. Though the setting (WWII, Europe), as always, appeals. I mean, who could resist that first line?
Old Favorites
The Little House on the Prairie books, Laura Ingalls Wilder
This is the tiniest bit of a cheat, as I've already dipped in to these, but I am still very eager to carry on with them, so I call it fair. A recent review of the Little House books highlighted the darkness and danger of living on the frontiers, and that prompted me to want to reread these childhood favorites.
Just in Case
Kidnapped, Robert Louis Stevenson
A beloved childhood read about a young man who sets out to seek his fortune and runs afoul of a dastardly uncle, is kidnapped, and then must make his way home through the Scottish Highlands during the turmoil in the years after the '45. A pretty solid adventure story with a fascinating setting and wonderful attention to historical and political detail.
Previous Editions of Packing for a Reading Retreat:
Volume II
Volume I
New to Me
Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell
I've had this one on hand for awhile now, but haven't cracked it open yet (though I have read Mitchell's Black Swan Green, which I gather is a very different sort of book, but which I enjoyed immensely). I saw a preview for the movie version of Cloud Atlas and I quite literally wrinkled up my nose and said, "Cloud Atlas Cloud Atlas? Like, David Mitchell? Is that what that book is about?" It was all science fiction-y-ish with the same actors playing different characters in different time periods. I sort of knew that there was an element of souls appearing in different eras or reincarnation or something in Cloud Atlas, but the feel of the movie preview sort of shocked me in being not what I expected from that book. But it looked like a movie I would like to see and it seems like a book I would definitely want to have read before seeing the movie, so it's been bumped up my mental list of books to read soon.
Canada, Richard Ford
I recently saw a tiny snippet of an interview with Richard Ford which made me think I really ought to read something by him. Canada is his latest, and I can't say that I picked it out of all his works for much more reason than because it is the most recent (and maybe because the story--a teenaged boy has to learn to fend for himself and avoid Child Services after his parents rob a bank--appealed to me).
The Time in Between, María Dueñas, trsl. Daniel Hahn
I have to confess that the cover and the first sentence ("A typewriter shattered my destiny.") are what drew me to this book and remain the chief reasons I want to read it. Though the setting (WWII, Europe), as always, appeals. I mean, who could resist that first line?
Old Favorites
The Little House on the Prairie books, Laura Ingalls Wilder
This is the tiniest bit of a cheat, as I've already dipped in to these, but I am still very eager to carry on with them, so I call it fair. A recent review of the Little House books highlighted the darkness and danger of living on the frontiers, and that prompted me to want to reread these childhood favorites.
Just in Case
Kidnapped, Robert Louis Stevenson
A beloved childhood read about a young man who sets out to seek his fortune and runs afoul of a dastardly uncle, is kidnapped, and then must make his way home through the Scottish Highlands during the turmoil in the years after the '45. A pretty solid adventure story with a fascinating setting and wonderful attention to historical and political detail.
Previous Editions of Packing for a Reading Retreat:
Volume II
Volume I
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Book Review: Salem Falls, Jodi Picoult
I've never read Picoult before because I am always wary of novels which seem to be About a Topic (capitals intentional there). As in, this novel is About Autism. This novel is About School Shootings. This novel is About Child Abduction. This wariness is a clear result of my thoughts on artful fiction, what it should do, and how it works. I think fiction should arise from discovery and exploration, and little red flags go up for me when I see that a novel is about something specific that we could just as easily be reading in a news magazine. A novel About Adultery seems to me like a very different thing than a novel with betrayal as a theme. I suspect the first of being forcibly made into a story about one particular thing because it is topical; I believe the second has a better chance of arising through writerly discovery. Either book could be terrible. And either book might be very good, I suppose, which is why I decided to give Picoult a try.
I chose carefully, picking a novel I had heard nothing about and whose topic sounded interesting to me. And I tried to read with an open mind. What I found in Salem Falls was better than I expected it to be, but still left me pretty cold.
The novel is the story of Jack St. Bride, who spent eight months in jail as part of plea bargain when an infatuated sixteen-year-old girl on the soccer team he coached claimed they were having a sexual affair. Jack is innocent, and we are never led to suspect otherwise. When he arrives in Salem Falls just after being released from jail, he finds a job at a diner and tentatively begins a relationship with the diner's owner. That Jack is a sexual offender makes its way around town, and a group of fathers in town make it their business to make it clear to Jack (through vandalism and personal violence) that Jack is not welcome. Eventually Jack is accused of rape by one of the town's teenage girls, a girl who readers already know is mad at Jack (for failing to show a sexual interest in her), craves attention, and was almost certainly high at the time of the alleged rape. The book then becomes a courtroom drama, with a lot of focus on gathering evidence and the presentation of the case in court.
Picoult writes pretty well. Sentences are clear and coherent, the story pulls one along, there are few of the kinds of tics that suggest a writer is not taking care with the craft, and the aspects of the story which probably required research ring true enough. But there is a tendency to overwrite and to over-sentimentalize. Honest, every action doesn't require a simile describing it, especially not if those similes try to give the actions meaning they don't deserve. And scars don't form in the shape of hearts on girls whose hearts have been trampled. Come on.
There were a lot of moments like those, those moments where I thought, "This is manipulation. I'm being told to feel something here, not being allowed to discover a truth along with the writer." I have little patience for that sort of thing, but other problems I had with the novel were probably even more important. These characters were cardboard; there was no complexity to them at all. Not one of them did a single thing that furthered the reader's understanding of the character or of the situation they found themselves in. Everyone behaved as expected; nothing ever asked the reader to stretch for meaning or growth. And that is almost disturbing in a novel whose main focus is a man being destroyed by people who can't seem to conceive of things being not the way they appear.
At about the two-thirds mark, I started asking myself what the the point of this book might be. I'll admit to being fairly well engaged--I wanted to know what would happen, I wanted to see if the story would come out the way it should or if injustice would prevail. And if making me want to turn the pages to find out What next? is all the novel was trying to do, well, then, I'd say it succeeds. But the flap of Salem Falls claims that Picoult's novels demonstrate "'a firm grasp of the delicacy and complexity of human relationships.'" That being the case, I would expect to discover something by reading the book. The novel tells me (and even, maybe, in some instances, shows me) that teenage girls sometimes become infatuated with older men; that such infatuation can lead to trouble, not least because teenage girls often don't have the maturity to deal with their infatuation or understand the full ramifications of acting on them; that good people tend to believe the worst about people who have been labeled as "bad"; that fathers protect their daughters, sometimes to the point of blindness toward their daughters themselves. Okay. Agreed. But I'd have agreed before I read word one of the novel; the story doesn't help me see anything new about any of this, doesn't help me understand any of it better or more fully. And without an arrival at some better or fuller understanding, I sort of feel like Salem Falls is just rolling around in Statutory Rape and False Accusations and Witch Hunts in order to pick up the emotions already associated with those topics and pass them on without adding anything worthwhile to the mix.
This review originally appeared on my LibraryThing account.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Packing for a Reading Retreat: Volume II
It's time for a new edition of "Packing for a Reading Retreat," where I imagine which books I would take with me if I were heading to a reading retreat, where there would be no distractions and I would be free to do nothing but read for a week. I imagine my packing in three categories: "New to Me," for books I've never read before; "Old Favorites," for past reads I'd like to revisit; and "Just in Case," for one book that can always be counted on to save me if one of the other selections turns out to be a dud.
New to Me
The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller
A retelling of The Iliad, as told by Patroclus. Readers of the last installment of "Packing for a Reading Retreat" already know that I am a sucker for retellings. The Ancient World and all the myths, legends, and epics that go with it have always been on the periphery of my imagination. I know they are out there, and I know bits of the stories, but, despite being fairly intrigued by them, I've never really dived in. Perhaps this retelling will inspire me to go to The Iliad itself. Song has gotten a lot of good reviews (I started hearing good things on LibraryThing almost immediately after it was published), so I'm excited to read this one.
The Cove, Ron Rash
Set during WWI in the Appalachians of North Carolina, The Cove is both a stranger-comes-to-town story and a love story. I've been meaning to read Ron Rash for a while, and I find myself drawn to stories set in or about the Appalachians since living in Tennessee and Virginia (though I have always lived in or near the Appalachian mountains).
Widdershins, Charles de Lint
I read a novel by de Lint a few years back, and, though I was ultimately somewhat disappointed with it, I was fascinated by de Lint's style, his used of both urban and fantastical settings, and his use of Hispanic mythology and mysticism. I've been saying I would try another by him since, and the cover of this one drew me in. De Lint is meant to be one of the masters of urban fantasy (and one of its pioneers), and I think he probably deserves a second go.
Old Favorites
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith
I read and enjoyed A Tree Grows in Brooklyn in my early teens, but I've never reread it. It was a bit of struggle for me at the time, and I know much of it went over my head then. The setting of early 20th-century New York appeals to me, and I'd love to read this one again with adult eyes.
The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett
I have a hardback, beautifully illustrated edition of The Secret Garden that was given to me when I was six or seven as a Christmas present by a great-aunt who had a reputation for giving perfect presents. I know I read the story at least once, but my strongest memory of this book is just sitting and looking at the pictures, of reveling in the book as a beautiful object. I haven't looked at the book beyond a quick glance since middle school, and I plan to sit down with it some day soon and turn every page with relish.
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
I love Jane Eyre for the way she stands up for herself and doesn't let fear stop her from doing things. My recent reading of The Flight of Gemma Hardy has rekindled a desire to read Jane Eyre again. It's been too long anyway.
Just In Case
The Mists of Avalon, Marion Zimmer Bradley
The retelling of Arthurian legend from the point of view of the women in the story utterly engrossed me at sixteen. It's still the best contemporary telling of the Arthur stories and would be the perfect book to have along in case of running out of other things to read.
Past Editions of "Packing for a Reading Retreat"
Volume I
New to Me
The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller
A retelling of The Iliad, as told by Patroclus. Readers of the last installment of "Packing for a Reading Retreat" already know that I am a sucker for retellings. The Ancient World and all the myths, legends, and epics that go with it have always been on the periphery of my imagination. I know they are out there, and I know bits of the stories, but, despite being fairly intrigued by them, I've never really dived in. Perhaps this retelling will inspire me to go to The Iliad itself. Song has gotten a lot of good reviews (I started hearing good things on LibraryThing almost immediately after it was published), so I'm excited to read this one.
The Cove, Ron Rash
Set during WWI in the Appalachians of North Carolina, The Cove is both a stranger-comes-to-town story and a love story. I've been meaning to read Ron Rash for a while, and I find myself drawn to stories set in or about the Appalachians since living in Tennessee and Virginia (though I have always lived in or near the Appalachian mountains).
Widdershins, Charles de Lint
I read a novel by de Lint a few years back, and, though I was ultimately somewhat disappointed with it, I was fascinated by de Lint's style, his used of both urban and fantastical settings, and his use of Hispanic mythology and mysticism. I've been saying I would try another by him since, and the cover of this one drew me in. De Lint is meant to be one of the masters of urban fantasy (and one of its pioneers), and I think he probably deserves a second go.
Old Favorites
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith
I read and enjoyed A Tree Grows in Brooklyn in my early teens, but I've never reread it. It was a bit of struggle for me at the time, and I know much of it went over my head then. The setting of early 20th-century New York appeals to me, and I'd love to read this one again with adult eyes.
The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett
I have a hardback, beautifully illustrated edition of The Secret Garden that was given to me when I was six or seven as a Christmas present by a great-aunt who had a reputation for giving perfect presents. I know I read the story at least once, but my strongest memory of this book is just sitting and looking at the pictures, of reveling in the book as a beautiful object. I haven't looked at the book beyond a quick glance since middle school, and I plan to sit down with it some day soon and turn every page with relish.
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
I love Jane Eyre for the way she stands up for herself and doesn't let fear stop her from doing things. My recent reading of The Flight of Gemma Hardy has rekindled a desire to read Jane Eyre again. It's been too long anyway.
Just In Case
The Mists of Avalon, Marion Zimmer Bradley
The retelling of Arthurian legend from the point of view of the women in the story utterly engrossed me at sixteen. It's still the best contemporary telling of the Arthur stories and would be the perfect book to have along in case of running out of other things to read.
Past Editions of "Packing for a Reading Retreat"
Volume I
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)