Go Set a Watchman, Harper Lee

I am fiercely glad that this book was published, because I can relate a lot to adult Scout. I can relate to her frustration with coming home and seeing your racist/sexist family with new eyes, and I can relate to her concerns about getting married and losing her self. It's exactly the stage I am in life, and I am grateful to have Scout keep me company in my rage against what it's like to grow up.

I began reading this thinking, this is a perfectly good book, in line with most contemporary fiction at the time, whatever inspired her to write To Kill a Mockingbird instead? Whatever inspired her editor to think that she'd be capable of To Kill a Mockingbird, when the story of a liberal twenty something's disillusionment upon returning to her small southern hometown might've felt far more relevant and modern? The answer came to me as the story went on, though: I don't know much about the politics of this time, but I wonder if Harper Lee decided that -- instead of writing a novel about a young person's who's critical of racist politics, and being just another New York voice condemning the racial dynamics in Alabama, why not write a novel that logically lays out the social conditions, and ties racial injustice back to the Constitution? Maybe somewhere in the writing process, she did realize that she could make more of a difference deriving proof of human kindness, than expressing her frustration with it.

The Silkworm, Robert Galbraith

Robert Galbraith is killing it. His second book is ever more impressive than the first, which was already fantastic.

I think Jo's partly writing a satire here: award winning literary book veer towards abundant sex, discomfitting brutality and gore, more sex especially focusing on genitals, pretentious stuff like Balzac and palpitating balls, and characters that are completely unlikeable. And now Jo comes along and shows us you can write a perfectly good book with warm characters (rich with personal dilemmas beyond the realm of the job), good plot, and not much view of anyone's balls (although we can't escape the occasional dick).

The Vorrh, B. Catling

I thought this book was highly inconsistent and, in many parts, lacking.

The first chapter shows the promise of a concise, erudite short story that is unique in its conception and thoughtfully detailed; in other words, I think B. Catling proves himself capable of doing a lot better than he did. Then the rest of the book has great ideas, but they seem lackadaisically executed. Essenwald is a fascinating concept -- a city that feeds on a forest -- but the descriptions of it are highly generic. I wanted to know more about this place that sounds much like something you'd find on Geoff Manaugh's BLDBLOG, but we're not given the kind of specific, thoughtful details that make a setting tangible rather than a vague anyplace. The setting merely seems like feels like a weak mirror of present day or historic social, political and economic dynamics between city and industry. That's how I felt about most of the rest of the book: very interesting ideas, undeveloped.

I found it hard to care about the characters, and I didn't get the sense that the author cared that much about them, either. The cyclops, Gertrude, Cyrena, the frenchman... are all interesting, but that's like reading a miscellaneous piece of news in the papers and going "oh, interesting." I find them forgettable after I close the books. Most of the characters that populate the book seem incidental and not really relevant, which may be the point of surrealist art, but with an omniscient narrator and a story whose rasion d'etre is obscure, what is there to glean from scrutinizing the minute interactions between them? The only character who felt truly fleshed out is Muybridge, and I suspect this is because he is based on a real person. I know from writing fanfiction that it is far easier to write about a ready-made character, than to develop characters yourself to the point where they feel convincingly like real people. And maybe that's the problem here: the author is a better at writing about real events, real people, using real models for a place. It is not enough to imagine an interesting place like the Vorrh and call it done, for a setting to matter, it has to be fleshed out.

Yes, you can have a great novel with a generic setting and incidental characters, focusing instead on exploring a particular philosophy or scientific theory, or a single generic character's rich internal world. But the Vorrh is ostensibly about a place, and if the place is vague and elusive, then it must be through the character's adventures that we learn about it -- and the characters leave us little to learn.

crazy rich asians, kevin kwan

kevin kwan wrote the book that i'd never write, dealing with a topic (asian culture) that i'm super interested in writing about.

guys, i know people like these. spendthrift aunties, sensitive bromance guys, smart girls who go to top schools whose life is incomplete according to their families until they marry.

kwan's world is so rich with stereotypes, references, canto "pidgin" dialect (i love it when writers introduce dialect to english novels), all the secret acronyms popular amongst asians. like rachel, i'm only dimly aware that there are crazy rich asians, but this is the world i grew up in. kwan gets it and shows it so well.

i think a good writer is a good observer of human nature (and culture), and kwan's characters and settings ring true. this book is really a documentary, with the very conventional catty chicklit plot as a vehicle for us to be voyeurs to a culture that is largely undocumented. most hong kongers live these lives that are materialistic, paradoxical, but few reflect upon it (unless they've had some sort of foreign contact) because it's the norm. and kwan has captured it in all its material contradictions, its habits, all the -las and fucky fucks that locals think and talk in.

at times i was frustrated that kwan doesn't go deeper be literary rather than poppy -- he's quite capable of it, just read his sentences, acute one-liner descriptions of a character of full chapters devoted to the shallow Christian aunties -- but i think the shallowness is intentional. crazy rich asians is unabashedly voyeuristic, and i think it works that way. too much self-reflection gets didactic; here we're forced to draw our own conclusions, feeling slightly guilty that we enjoy the details of rich people's lives so much.

it's not a bad thing to write for a pop audience -- i think, now, of how many people more people are made aware of this social phenomenon of the dynastic families and the nouveau rich of asia. the beginning is perfection -- we all have these stereotypes about asians, right? and with Ormsby/Wormsby's racism at the outset, kwan's saying, get ready for a whole new set of stereotypes. a set more intricate and nuanced than you're aware of.

i wonder if, two hundred years ago, Vanity Fair would've been put on the chicklit shelf. if victorian novels of the nouveau rich were just newcoming bestsellers. this book is GOOD. maybe there's nothing wrong with it chasing a pop formula.

Seraphina, Shadow Scale, and Sex-Positive YA Lit

NOTE: Contains Spoilers for Seraphina and Shadow Scale

Rachel Hartman's Gorredd, the quasi-medieval fantasy world that Seraphina and Shadow Scale are set in, is particularly awesome for its sexual diversity, with a full cast of LGQTB characters.  In an interview on The Midnight Garden, she says that "Diversity is very important to me, and I honestly don’t see how one could populate an imaginary world without it."  What I like even more is that although this is YA, she doesn't shy away from sex at all: sex doesn't just come up as romance, it simply is, matter-of-factly, part of the story.  After all, Seraphina is the love child of a dragon and a human.  Raunchy jokes sprinkle the text as part of the fabric of medieval life (very believable, as any scholar will know, read Pantagruel and Gargantua for a start) rather than something written in for sensational reading, and Seraphina, a witty sixteen-year-old, is no stranger to sexual innuendo.

"Banished men, and likely troublemakers?; scoffed Guntard. 'They’re locked in the eastern basement, the proper donjon being full of wine casks for some significant state visit coming up."

"Sweet St. Siucre, which one might that be?" someone asked with a laugh.

"The one where your mother beds a saar and lays an egg. Omelette for all!"

-- Chapter 12, Seraphina

He thought we’d been up to something back here, with the curtains drawn. Tuning each other’s lutes, as they say. Practicing our polyphony. Playing the crumhorn.

-- Chapter 16, Seraphina

“All great houses are near a village and a river. We have a proverb: ‘In highlandts, every man is earl of his own valley.’ Thet means a lot of valleys. Also, means a rude joke in Samsamese.”

"Uh, I don't need that one spelled out."

-- Chapter 11, Shadow Scale

While Kiggs and Seraphina respectively revere and wrestle with propriety almost religiously (a self-imposed standard that we discover is of their own making), amid a conservative cultural background -- one where illegitimate children are scorned and Daanites (gay) are persecuted, and human-dragon intercourse seen as the most revulsive of all -- the characters we get to know are unhesitatingly sex-positive.  Speaking about watching her dragon mother fall in love with her human father, Viridius tells Seraphina, "I'm a Daanite, I don't judge other people's love affairs." (Chapter  The elderly and ailing Viridius cohabits with a much younger, oversized half-dragon.  A decidedly unattractive, bald, white man falls in love with a transgender, dark-skinned ityasaari.  Eskar, though devoted to Orma, apparently has no qualms being non-monogamous: 

"I wonder if Eskar will consent to be mated?"

“She chose Orma,” I said throatily, still coughing.

“Nothing stops her from choosing me as well.” The old saarantras gave me a sly sidelong look. “Sometimes our reason will lead us to the same morality as your empathy and feeling, and sometimes it won’t. I find that …” His mouth formed not-quite words, waiting for his mind to catch up. “Exhilarating?” he offered at last.

-- Chapter 27, Shadow Scale

At the end of Seraphina, Kiggs (remember he's an eighteen year old boy) blushes to think of the mechanics of Seraphina's conception.  At the end of Shadow Scale, Seraphina is unfazed by Dame Okra's learing comments about how Glisselda and Kiggs will produce an heir (Dragons have artificial insemination technology, right, Rachel?).  Seraphina's reply politely indicates that she doesn't give any fucks about what Dame Okra thinks.

So many readers are uneasy with the ending, because it presents a lie, a fabrication not so different from the one that haunted Seraphina's childhood.  I think there is a difference.  Bluffing, wit, stealth, and deviously legal loopholes, have never been a liability in Seraphina's world: falsehoods are not inherently wrong though they have consequences, but honesty is not black and white, not without consequence, either.  The truth that liberated Seraphina was a personal truth, coming-to-terms with whom she is and finding acceptance for that.  A younger Seraphina -- the one tortured by all the rude jokes about dragons -- might have blushed to hear Dame Okra's insinuations about her sex life.  Seraphina at the end of Shadow Scale is perfectly confident in her new role.

Eighty years later, it appears that the people -- or historians -- of Gorredd were not fooled by this subterfuge.  "Is it true that you and Prince Lucian Kiggs, Heaven hold him, confessed your love for each other before the dragon civil war even began?" Father Fargle asks her.  Seraphina, who was so tortured about having to remain discreet in her adolescence, has completely owned discretion now, to a degree that even the historian was complicit in, for he says, "yet I felt and still feel that her twinkling eyes answered, even if her tongue would not."    

I am a cat, Soseki Natsume

At first this cat was tedious, but the relentlessness of the cat's musings, or the persistence of the (presumably) faithfulness in translation, brought me, eventually, fully, into his world.



pg. 104
Cat's paws are as if they do not exist.  Wheresoever they may go, they never make clumsy noises.  Cats walk as if on air, as if they trod on clouds, as quietly as the stone going light-tapped under water, as an ancient Chinese harp touched in a sunken cave.  The walking of a cat is the instinctive realization of all that is most delicate

pg. 223
Even this gathering of gasbags cannot wheeze on forever, and the pressure of their conversation is now fast whimpering down toward exhaustion.

pg. 278
One seeker after inspiration, convinced that the secret of its attainment lay in constipation, assiduously strove for that prior condition by eating a dozen unripe persimmons for fruitless years on end.

I'm sure no good can come of encouraging a cabbage, that creature born to craven passiveness, to indulge himself in loafing gloomy idelness. ... But bigots such as he would never listen to a cat's advice; so I decided to let him stew in his own dull juice..
 pg. 312

I am a cat.  Some of you may wonder how a mere cat can analyzehis master's thoughts with the detailed acumen which I have just displayed.  Such a feat is a mere nothing for a cat.  Quite apart from the precision of my hearing and the complexity of my mind, I can also read thoughts.  Don't ask me how I learned that skill.  My methods are none of your business.  The plain fact remains that when, apparently sleeping on a human lap, I gently rub my fur against his tummy, a beam of electricity is thereby generated, and down that beam into my mind's eye every detail of his innermost reflections is reflected.  One day, for instance, my master, while gently stroking my head, suddenly permitted himself to entertain the atrocious notion that, if he skinned this snoozing moggy and had its pelt made up into a waistcoat, how warm, how wonderfully warm, that Kittish Warm would be.  I at once sensed what he was fthinking, and felt an icy chill creep over me.  It was quite horrible.  Anyway, it is this extrasensory gift which has enabled me to tell you not only what my master said but even what he thought throughout this dreary evening.  pg. 349

The Flying Troutmans, Miriam Toews

With my internet block on, I ended up getting distracted by real books and finished The Flying Troutmans by Miriam Toews last night.  I've read one of her other books, which deals with similar issues: very messed up families.  Her other book, A Complicated Kindness, is about a repressed mennonite family and this one is about a family with a mentally unstable mother.  I suspect these stories come from personal experience.  What's great about her books is that they have melodramatic, cliched storylines but the drama is mostly subtext.  On the surface we get (the fabric of everyday life) ordinary conversations with characters who are lively or moody, funny, and very real, rarely do they get melodramatic: the story is serious but the tone isn't.  People are fundamentally kind, though unhappy, although things get better and worse the characters prove themselves capable of enduring, so it has an optimistic message.  I think this aligns with my own world view.  Cynicism is fun - and funny - to indulge in but I don't actually have that little faith in humanity, while sentimental stories seem to lack self-awareness or self-respect; and although the story deals with difficult issues it avoids either.  I think she's an impressive conversation writer.    

Atonement, Ian McEwan

I was looking at reviews of Atonement, which I'd read over a year ago. I had been very disappointed. It had come recommended as worthy of comparison to the classics, probably in its prose, which was luscious and echoed Jane Austen. But I had felt very ambivalent about the whole book, plot, characters, and structure.

The events were very contrived, and the author attempts to disguise this through elaborate piercing insights into the characters' motivations. But the characters in their turn did not elicit my sympathy. I did not care about them. And I think the fault is that, as this review pointed out, it is more interested in exposing flawed characters than creating sympathy for flawed characters.

I think, as a writer, I would like to learn to create sympathetic characters. A pretense of insight into human psychology is just a means of showing off.

2666, Roberto Bolano

Here are five thoughtful reviews of the five books of 2666, authored by a blogger who – from circumstantial evidence, like a title quotation to do with snow, a penchant for Victorian lit and knitting, and the use of an Emily Climbs bookcover in her avatar – sounds like a kindred spirit:

Part 1: The Part About the Critics

Part 2: The Part About Archimboldi

Part 3: The Part About Fate

Part 4: The Part About the Crimes

Part 5: The Part About Amalfitano

Here is the running list of things I jotted down on the back of a sales receipt during my first reading:

- I think every sentence is perfection.
- The characterization shines.
- I enjoy the summary, even dismissive introduction of Liz Norton: “Liz Norton, on the other hand, wasn’t what one would ordinarily call a woman of great drive, which is to say that she didn’t draw up long -or-medium-term plans and throw herself wholehearted into their execution. She had none of the attributes of the ambitious. When she suffered, her pain was clearly visible, and when she was happy, the happiness she felt was contagious.” (pg. (The latter line reminds me of the girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead “when she was good, she was very good; when she was bad, she was horrid.”) The lives of the critics, though, which center around Liz, render her a very enigmatic female.
- I was fascinated by Archimboldi’s Lola: her breadth of experience, her whole life story which has panned out because she was seized by passions, and the political and societal ramnifications of the geographic areas she lands in, or the people she encounters
- Bolano’s microscopic eye – I like all the revealing details, descriptions of people, places, thoughts. It is all showing, a presentation of scenes: no overarching analyses or telling. Part I is a series of moments, Part II the minute illustration of Archimboldi’s life. In Part III – juxtapositions of absurd events, Part IV returns to minute documentation. Only in Part V is there a traditional, kind of inverted fairy-tale like narrative pace.
- I can’t help but wonder: what propels Bolano to include certain elements in a scene? Do smaller objects play a symbolic role for a larger them?
- All this illustration is also highly subjective: the character’s emotions, always portrayed, are intimate and incredibly hyperbolic
- There is so much revelation of different characters, different human beings

Here are the quotations I tagged:

Probably the most famous quotation from this book, no doubt resonant with a generation of book-fiend fans:

“Leaving aside the fact tha A Simple Heart and A Christmas Carol were stories, not books, there was something revelatory about the taste of this bookish young pharmacist, who in another life might have been Trakl or who in this life might still be writing poems as desperate as those of his distant Austrian counterpart, and who clearly and inarguably preferred minor works to major ones. He chose The Metamorphosis over The Trial… and A Christmas Carol over A Tale of Two Cities or The Pickwick Papers. What a sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afriad to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or waht amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle agaisnt that something, that something that terrifes us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench.” (pg. 277)

Disregarding all the aspersions this casts on the characters’ attitudes towards the killings, this is also a very accurate assessment of (what can be considered) literary “masterpieces.” Middlemarch, Atlas Shrugged, the Harry Potter series, and even 2666 itself are all flawed. Their authors are capable of more minor, “perfect exercises.”

“When poor people make money, they should admit publicly to having made only half as much. They shouldn’t even tell their children how much they really have, because then their children will want the whole inheritance and won’t be willing to share it with their adopted sibilings.” (pg. 249)

!!!

This brutal statement, delivered by Seaman, characterizes the black preacher. Perhaps it does more. I can’t help admiring that this sentence was crafted by the single poetic mind we met in earlier chapters.

“Those Spaniards believed in a mongrel whiteness. But they overestimated their semen and that was their mistake. You can’t rape that many people. It’s mathematically mpossible. It’s too hard on the body… They might have gotten some results if htey’d been capable o raping their own mongrel children and then their mongrel grandchildren and even their bastard great-grandchildren.” (pg. 288)

The theories people come up with, in a drunken tirade!

“A sketch of the industrial landscape in the third world,” said Fate, ” a piece of reportage about the current situation in Mexico, a panorama of the border, a serious crime story, for fuck’s sake.”

“Reportage?” asked his editor. “Is that FRench, nigger? Since when do you speak French?”

“I don’t speak French,” said Fate, “but I know what fucking reportage is.”

“I know what fucking reportage is, too,” said the editor, “and I also know merci and ua revoir and fair l’amour, which is the same as coucher avec moie. And I think that you, nigger, want to coucher avec moie, but you’ve forgot the voulez-vous, which in this case ought to hvae been your first move. You hear me? You say voulez-vous or you can get the fuck out.” (pg. 295)

I’m inadvertently struck by the crude, it seems, but talk about elegant speech amongst intelligentsia!

“Sometimes, especially on his days off, Inspector Juan de Dios MArtinez would have liked to go out with the director. That is, he wanted to be seen in public with her, eat at a downtown restaurant with her, neither a cheap nor a very expensive resaturant but a normal restaurant where normal couples went and where he would almost certainly run into someone he knew, to whom he would introduce the director naturally, casually, coolly, this is my girlfreind, Elvira Campos, she’s a psychiatrist. … The perfect happiness, goddamn it, thought Juan de Dios Martinez. But Elvira Campos wouldn’t even hear of a public relationship. Phone calls to the psychiatric enter, yes, so long as they were short. Meetings in person every two weeks. A glass of whiskey or Absolut vodka and nocturnal landscapes. Sterile goodbyes.”

Interesting, this intimate scrutiny into casual relationships, interesting, the divergence of the lover’s wishes, preferences, and weaknesses.

“She dreamed, for example… and then she dreamed about flying to Paris, where she would rent a tiny apartment, a studio, say between Villiers and Porte de Clichy, and then she would go to see a famous doctor, a wonder-working plastic surgeon, get a face-lift, get her nose and cheekbones fixed, have her breasts enlarged, in short, when she got off the operating table she would look like someone else, a different woman, not fiftysomething anymore but fortysomething, or better yet, just o ver forty, unrecognizable, new, changed, rejuvenated, although of course for a while she would go everywhere wrapped in bandages, like a mummy, not an Egyptian mummy but a Mexican mummmy, which would be something she enjoyed, walking to the metro, for example, knowing that all the Parisians were watching her surreptitiously, some of them even giving up their setas for her, imagining the horrible suffering, burns ,traffic accident, that this silent and stoic stranger hand undergone….and then someone brings a mirror and she stares at herself, she nods at herself, she approves of herself, with a gesture in which she rediscovers the sovereignty of childhood… I’m crazy about you the way you are, said Juan de Dios Martinez.” (pg. 535)

Who comes up with imagery like this?

“Her hands were tied behind her back with plastic cord, the kind used to tie up big packages. On her left hand she was wearing a long black glove, the kind used by the highest class exotic dancers. When the glove was removed they found tow rings, one on the middel figner, of real silver, and the other on the ring finger, workedi n the shape of a snake. On her right foot she was wearing a man’s sock, brand name Tracy. ANd most surprising of all: tied around her head, like a strange but not entirely implausible hat, was an expensive black bra. Otherwise the woman was naked and had no identification on her.” (pg. 575)

“The factory buildings were tall and each plant was surrounded by a wire fence and the light of the big streetlights bathed everything in a vvague aura of hast, of momentousness, which was false, since it was just another workday… Damp, fetid air, smelling of scorched oil, struck him in the face. He thought he heard laughter and accordion music on the wind.”

I like the commingling of loveliness and industrial waste in this scene.

“Hers [life story] had been mostly a disaster. She tried to be a theatre actress in New York, a movie actress in Los Angeles, tried to be a model in PAris, a photographer in London, a translator in Spain. she set out to study modern dance but gave it up the first year. She set out to be a painter and at her first show realized that she had made the worst mistake of her life. she wasn’t married, she had no childre, no family, no projects. It was the perfect moment to return to Mexico.” (pg. 604)

“When hans Reiter was ten, his one-eyed mother and one-legged father had their second child. It was a girl and they called her Lotte. She was a beautiful child and she might have been the first person on teh surface of the earth who interested (or moved) Hans Reiter… As far as Hans was concerned, his sister was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and many times he tried to draw her in the same notebook where he’d drawn different kidns of seaweed, but the results were always unsatisfactory: sometimes the baby looked like a bag of rubbish left on a pebbly beach, other times like Pterobius maritimus, a marine insect that lives in crevices and feeds on scraps, or Lipura maritima, another insect, very small and dark slate or gray, its habitat the puddles among rocks.

“In time, by stretching his imagination or tastes or his own artistic nature, he managed to draw her as a littel mermaid, more fish than girl… but always smiling, always with an enviable tendency to smile and see the positive side of things, which was a faithful reflection of his sister’s character.” (pg. 648)

I love the bizarre, ethereal, mad romance of Archimboldi and the madwoman Ingeborg:

” ‘I hate first editions and pyramids and pyramids and I hate those bloodthirsty Aztecs,’ said Ingeborg. ‘But the light of the stars make me dizzy. IT makes me want to cry,’ said Igneborg, her eyes damp with madness.” (pg. 831)

What I can glean from a first reading is scant. I really like the aforementioned blogger’s analyses of the book’s structure:

“The first three books tighten into an ever-more tense and surreal vortex, narrowing uncomfortably toward the mysterious wrongness in Santa Teresa, Mexico, which is related to the sexual homicides being committed there. Just as the third part reaches a climactic pinhole, the narration suddenly widens, becomes a stark, straightforward descent through a pile of dead bodies, the hardboiled chronicling of the female corpses of Santa Teresa, and of the inability of police, private citizens, detectives and seers to stop the perpetual appearances of more. As opposed to the increasing tension of the first three parts, I experienced the fourth part to be even throughout, tension released and stark reality confronted. Then, in The Part About Archimboldi, the narrative turns a sharp corner into something more like a traditional bildungsroman, in which a young boy grows up, lives his life and finds his calling: a calling which gradually curves toward the literary world of the first part, and a life which, even more tangentially, intersects with the Santa Teresa killings. “

I so love the perfection of the prose, that I will happily read it again and again. I hope there will be many more rereadings.

Homesick: My Own Story, Jean Fritz

This is the autobiography of an American girl, growing up in China in the 1920s, fiercely proud of being American. She is – like so many YA fiction heroines, like Caddie Woodlawn or Patty in Summer of My German Soldier, willfully different, stubborn, full of secret delight in the world. But while I found these traits — best expressed in the yearning for her grandmother, the summers at the sea, the little sister who died– easy to relate to in many novels, and especially inspiring in my favourite LMM characters… I simply found Jean a little annoying. Maybe I thought her bursts of patriotism were a little too immature and grating.

The backdrop for Jean’s childhood is Hankow, during the revolution. Jean’s father, who works for the YMCA, is directly involved in… helping out? But the revolution stays in the background of Jean’s own life and childhood dramas, which I think is effective. Jean’s friends disperse, she notices differences in the attitude of their Chinese servants, and Jean and her mother are forced to evacuate, but Jean’s world remains very sheltered: nothing happens to her immediate family or causes them delay. Instead her concerns are her best friend, Andrea’s parents’ divorce, Andrea’s stylish silk stockings, the loss of freedom in being able to wander all over Hankow, her cat…

The appropriate conclusion is that when Jean gets to her grandmother’s house, and begins 8th grade in Washington – she learns, as she combats the ignorance and insults of her classmates – the China was more a part of herself than she had acknowledged. Jean’s very minor troubles at school are still sheltered by the love and sympathy of her grandmother and aunt, and the book ends with laughter.

Upon rereading, each chapter does function nicely as a short story on growing up – each themed on a tiny grief, or milesone, of childhood, like singing the American national anthem, or the anticipation and death of Jean’s baby sister.

The Cat Ate My Gymsuit, Paula Danziger

I found this book lacking, despite the quirky title and a sarcastic teenage narrator. Marcy Lewis, narrating in first person, paints a picture of her crappy junior high life what with obesity, friendlessness, hating gym class, boring writing assignments, and a verbally abusive father. Then a new English teacher comes and changes her world. Unconventional Ms. _________ is a hippy, doesn’t teach by the curriculum, but inspires in her students the aptitude to get to know their true selves and to use the English language with witty metaphors. Marcy’s crush, Joel, begins to notice her and admire her for her intelligence, and their friendship begins with many quick-witted exchanges.

All very promising, right?

Unfortunately, Ms. __________ gets suspended for her rebellious teaching methods and the book turns into a battle for justice. Marcy, Joel and their friends team up to undermine the principal, and Marcy’s “put upon” mother rallies against their father to help. There’s a lot of household drama and too many blatant messages about “I don’t need to be/dress/act like everyone else.” Caring parents (it also bugged me that Marcy and her mother were both weepy, and hugged one another a little too much — not all moments of affection need to be documented in a novel!) tell their children how much they’ll learn from the experience, unsupportive parents are utter jerks. Realistically, Ms. _______ wins her hearing, but resigns out of personal principle. I’m thankful that Marcy and Joel don’t have a hackneyed fairytale ending. Marcy’s mother is empowered to escape her father’s clutches and get a job.

I’m thinking of Budge Wilson’s short story, “The Metaphor”, which is a similar tale of a life-changing English teacher. Wilson’s story, though, is a simpler and more sophisticated — in “The Metaphor,” the narrator encounters her favourite teacher again in high school but is too embarassed to acknowledge her, because most of her friends found the said teacher uncool. To me, that’s a far more tragic and appropriate expression of growing up, change, and self-realization.

Dear Mr. Henshaw, by Beverley Clearly

I think this is a simple story of a tragic contemporary situation, well told.

The premise is unique: a boy writes to his favourite author, Mr. Henshaw, about his parent’s divorce. Henshaw’s replies are terse, but Leigh writes persistently, eventually -at the writer’s suggestion – keeping a journal to “Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw” to abate his loneliness. Leigh’s character is shown through his writings, and as he journals, we can see Leigh grow, and his voice develop.

In the middle of the story, Leigh asks Henshaw for advice on a story he is writing.
“In a story, a character must grow or change in some way.” Leigh acknowledges the advice: “I guess a wax man who keeps melting isn’t really the kind of change you’re talking about.”

Heeding her own advice, Clearly’s character changes perceptibly: each of three strands of Leigh’s life – school, family, and writing – change and become resolved. As his relationship with his father (whose irresponsible behaviour has always been jarring to the sensitive boy, particularly in his inability to express affection – “Keep your nose clean, kid,” is all Leigh gets when he wants to be addressed by his first name and be told he’s missed) worsens, Leigh’s writing improves: at the climax of the story, Leigh calls his father after a long silence and discovers that not only has he neglected to call his son, but that he has lost his dog, and has a girlfriend with a son. In his incredible pain, Leigh finds that he is able to journal for himself: he finds that he no longer has to write to Mr. Pretend Henshaw, “I have learned to express my feelings on a piece of paper.” When home life falls apart, Leigh has his writer’s epiphany. Eventually, his intelligence – which takes expression in fashioning a burglar alarm for his lunchbox (his stolen lunches has been a source of humour and a way to portray his out-of-place- status at his new school), he finally garners friends who think his skills are all too cool.

Leigh continues to write honestly and wins a prize in the yearbook writing contest. In his composition, he had described a memory of an afternoon with his father, which apparently – according to the jury writer – conveyed the place, and his feelings truthfully. This reminds me of Emily of New Moon‘s trial to write “only the truth” for three years, and her writing improves from illustrating facts. “Write what you know” (although there’s a good deal of writing limited by what the author knows, -> see The Cat Ate My Gymsuit). Dear Mr. Henshaw is also the classic novel-for-aspiring-writers, in which the bookish main character gets their first recognition for their dreams – but for all its perfection in plot and structure it is no Emily, which will always be a true psychological portrait of a writer’s mind, and “alpine path,” for me.

The book culminates in this awkward scene when Leigh’s father comes back and tries to reconcile the divorce, and we can tell that Leigh’s writing talents have become articulate enough to convey the charged emotions of this moment. It’s a poignant scene, and artful of Clearly to choose to tell it from the limited perspective of a child narrator.

Princess Diaries, Meg Cabot

I had a lovely forenoon eating my grilled eggplant salad and finishing Princess Diaries which, to my surprise and delight, is absolutely hilarious and not teeny-boppery at all.

Cabot can write literature - not just Disneyfied potboilers. Mia is an opinionated ninth-grader and snarky diarist with real teenage problems: I don't mean the princess deal, but a flat-chest, the lack of a date, and a quarrel with your best friend from kindergarten is all truly heartrending stuff in the high school world, not that the book is sappy or cliched at all. All her issues are set in this great hyperbole in NYC, with her activist friend Lilly, and the succession to the Genovian throne, and her mother's bohemian life... not for a moment do you believe it or are swept away by the escapism, but you do laugh your head off because it's just so ironic and fantastic that Mia is handed the royal crown and she thinks it's the most horrible thing that has ever happened to her, and she would take any way out.

The diary format is perfect. As per tradition Mia warns us that she is an unreliable narrator with a penchant to lie, but all throughout her voice is convincing. She uses big words and comments on current events all through the eyes of a teenager who is developing her own opinions. She might despair about her appearance, while being astute enough to notice that her mom is "hot" (comment prior to mom's date), but she completely avoids being a whiny or stereotypical teenager. Mia is very much her own person. Her strong vegetarianism, how readily she confesses how comfortable she is around the Muscovitzes, her immature but oh-so-funny disgust of Mr. G. dating her mom, the dorky Boris, her dad's testicle cancer... etcetera. And the tone of her diary is perfectly complemented by the algebra notes in the margin, and the notes and essays she clips into it. That she does manage to journal so often at school, and in restrooms during a crises, is a little hard to believe, but the immediacy of all her thoughts and situations make the book such an engaging read.

I am such a fan.

I have been a fan of the movie for years, and have a hard time picturing Mia as a tall, short-haired blonde rather than dark-haired Anne Hathaway. And while the Disney movie has very little of the edgy humour there is in the book (of course, testicle cancer, mom's date with the algebra teacher, and Mia's hilarious comments about being brought up out of wedlock had to be censored), I do think they captured the message of the novel and of Mia's character: a princess who is true to herself, who holds fast to her own unique identity.

When I think of Miriam Toews' mennonite novel, A Kindness, I think there is almost the same level of humour. Toews' sarcasm was darker and she had a heavier subject to deal with, but essentially, it's the same theme: teenage girls, coping with family drama and growing up, journalling by request of an adult, to sort through problems. I laughed just as hard in either novel and I think Mia is much more likeable (and worthy of sympathy) than Nomi. I hope Princess Diaries receives more critical acclaim, because it's so easy to dismiss it as a popular teenage novel, just because it has a bright pink cover and a princess theme - when - in my opinion - it really does touch on the deeper issues of growing up without being maudlin.

Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great, Judy Blume

Okay, i see why judy blume is awesome. Sheila is complex, exactly her age, and hilarious. Her self-denial is so realistic and it makes her very down to earth. What a great character! I love how she admits everything reluctantly, but does come to admit it after all… what a great inspiration for pre-teenage-hood.

Totally digging blume and i can’t believe i missed out on her growing up. I was so close to reading Superfudge. Well, i’ll read more of her sometime.

The Silver Chair, C. S. Lewis

So The Witch, the Lion and the Wardrobe is Edmund's struggle, Prince Caspian is - all of the children's, - Dawn Treader is Eustace's and The Silver Chair is Jill's.

Jill, who shows off, and forgets to repeat the signs - or say her prayers, and so, "muffs up" the sequence of things in the story. The children in the underworld, where, like Plato's cave, all is darkness and we can be conned into believing that sunlight and God are imaginary because there is no visible proof. The children brainwashed into this by the Green Lady and her lute and fire, like Meg and Calvin with IT in A Wrinkle in Time.

As always, very clear images. Not as purely symbolic as Dawn Treader, though.

The passage of time hurt me in this story as much as it hurt Eustace. It is one of my least favourite parts about the Narnian series - first, that the time in the two worlds aren't relative, second, that we MUST jump from character to character and to differernt eras. Then, too, we know Caspian as a bright young man, and it does hurt to see him aged - frail - dead. (His "ascension", the thorn and blood and rejuvenation is beautiful and symbolic and joyous, though. And I'm glad Caspian got to visit the world even if he plays a very minor role.) There is SUCH sadness in the Silver Chair, out-rivalled only by the finality of The Last Battle. That's my other point of contention with the Narnia books - the end always has the sadness of farewell.

In that way, The Horse and His Boy is one of the happiest stories of Narnia, although I can't love these characters as well as the Pevensies.

Lewis is a snarky writer. Puddleglum is hilarious and wonderful. His insights into Jill's acting innocent is hilarious, and his comments on the Experiment House are definitely political. He's extremely critical of "modern" ways through Eustace and Eustace's school, and in doing so he sets up this battle between Christianity and Modernity. As for his comment that the "Head... went into parliament, and there she lived happily ever after"... I can hardly believe this sort of snark is in a children's book. Then again these aren't children's books per se... I'm convinced they are family books, meant to be read aloud, therefore full of humour that will enliven the elocutionist's reading.

The landscape is distinctly British.

WELL: project for next month: read Mere Christianity!

Quidditch Through the Ages, J. K. Rowling

I really do enjoy Rowling's "charity books" more than the Potter novels. She is such a skilled parodist. The factual tone is flawless. The mock-historical accounts of broomsticks for flying, early broom sports, are perfect (and of course, perfectly hilarious) too.

The Giver, Lois Lowry

I have a precise memory of The Giver sitting on the shelf by the carpet in my fifth grade classroom. I turned the book over in my hands many times during silent reading, and considered reading it, intrigued that the name "Jonas" was a character I liked in one of my favourite books. I never did read The Giver, and years afterwords I regretted that I didn't. Somehow I felt that I had missed out on something I would have cherished growing up.

Well, I finally did read it today, hungry for reading material while watching tests. It's a one-sitting thing - although I did carry it with me to three separate sittings. Now that I've finished I don't want to give the book back - it's so well done I want to savour it again, and again.

Such a well-crafted book! In the beginning I had no idea what was going on, and the differences between our world and Jonas's world dawned on me gradually. Then I admired how the author could make us relate to Jonas even though he lived in a limited world. I appreciated how the dystopia was complex, but made easy for children to understand with classifications like the "Nines" get bicycles, the "Twelves" get careers chosen for them. The precision of language is a really interesting point (as are "comfort objects", that get recycled.)

I really like how the plot worked for Jonas's coming of age - all the trepidation over a future career, and then the mysterious role of receiving knowledge, pain, and wisdom. Growing up and a metaphor for growing up. Then all of a sudden he is called to his own act of bravery....

The story is really well paced. The ending, though, leaves me dissatisfied... what really happened to the community after Jonas released his memories on them? What about Fiona? What really happened to Jonas and Gave as they slid downhill?

I'm glad I googled and found that there are sequels!

Twilight

It's actually not bad! A little high-falutin, and certainly on the sappy and cliched scale. I like Bella a lot, though, and can really relate to her: how she's friendless, hates gym, can cook, and has read all the Brontes and Shakespeares. I would have enjoyed this story as a teen and I still do. All the Edward moments are very sweet, but they are overwrought, as are Bella's many admirers. Seventeen is too old for Bella, I think - she would have fared better as a fifteen or sixteen year old.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

HP5 flows much better than HP4, but I still find satire so hard to read. I don't enjoy reading about Umbridge and the tortures she inflicts on students, although her come-uppance by Fred and George is hilarious. There is just too much badness in this book, save for brief moments of laughter. The Department of Mysteries IS a perfectly wonderful bit of imagination. I have to admit - I can't put this book down.

The Enchantress of Florence, Salman Rushdie

This book is beautifully written and the idea is captivating, but it didn't captivate me. I was bored by it. The things in it have already been done. And that is that.

New Moon

Oh... I really like Bella Swan. She is terribly obsessive, but I am the same way -- incorrigibly constant. The way boys fall for her is completely unrealistic, but what girl's story wouldn't want that? Jacob... in fact, all of the characters.... rely on description from Bella's part, so they aren't very well drawn. I think of rubygillis's classic pattern of a romantic boy and his comic rival, and she does it so much better - so much more lively - than S. Meyer. The climaxes are always extremely melodramatic. I really enjoyed this one because - isn't Volterra the fictional city in Maurier's Flight of the Falcon, which was in turn based on Urbino? I had thought so, but I could be mistaken.

Eclipse

Oh dear. You have to admit this is a pretty good love triangle. I like Jacob, and I like Edward, and I don't despise Bella.

Breaking Dawn

Utter crap, as in, Smeyer's writing needs SO much editing to tone down her language, but still such a guilty pleasure. I'm surprised that Bella really DID become a vampire after all the times and delay. I'm not fond of the half-breed baby as a plot device. Having Bella and Edward start a family right now, it's too soon to think of them as parents. I'm also not sure if the switch to the Jacob chapters were effective.... the book has been so consistently about Bella's voice, and Bella is a decent narrator. I'm glad Bella and Jacob's friendship has been resolved, but

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, J K Rowling

If you ask me, I'd say that, as much as I truly enjoy them, as pieces of literature the Harry Potter series is imperfect. HP4 is probably the most flawed.

My main critique is length. I have no problem reading long books; War and Peace is one of my favourites. HP4, though, is unnecessarily long.

Consider a summary of plot points from HP4:

INTRO
- Wormtail and Voldemort make plans for Voldemort's return
- Harry's scar hurts, he writes to Sirius
- Quidditch World Cup: meets Bagman and Crouch, Winky, students from different schools, ogles Krum, Fred and George are trying to start their own joke shop - products and gathering funds

ASCENDING ACTION
- Dark Mark appears when Death Eaters torture Muggles for fun, Harry loses wand, Winky sacked
- Mad-Eye teaches Defense Against Dark Arts (unforgivable curses), Sirius returns
- Triwizard Tournament begins and Harry chosen as fourth champion
- Rita Skeeter begins giving Harry bad publicity
- 1st task - Hagrid tips Harry off that there are dragons, Sirius and Mad-Eye help,
- Hermione starts SPEW
- Yule Ball: Cedric/Cho/Harry drama, Ron/Hermione/Krum drama, Hagrid/Mme Maxine
- 2nd task, Cedric and Dobby help Harry
- accidentally meets mad Mr. Crouch in Forbidden Forest, but he's gone by the time Dumbledore comes
- memories of Death Eater trials in pensieve

CLIMAX
- 3rd task: Dark Lord returns, Cedric killed, Priori Incantatem when Harry & Voldemort duel
- Harry gets away

DENOUEMENT
- Barty Crouch impersonating Mad-Eye is revealed
- Fudge doesn't believe Dumbledore
- Rita Skeeter turns out to be a beetle animagus
- Harry gives Fred & George his prize galleons

compared to HP3

INTRO
- Harry's birthday & presents from friends: Weasleys won the lottery and are on Egypt holiday
- murderer at large on Muggle news

ASCENDING ACTION
- Harry blows up Aunt Marge by accident, runs away and travels by Knight Bus
- Fudge does not punish him, encourages him to stay in Diagon Alley
- sees Firebolt in shops
- Hermione purchases Cruikshanks, pet cat that keeps harassing Ron's rat
- Harry faints from Dementor on train, saved by Lupin
- Hermione takes too many subjects and has a ridiculous time table
- Malfoy is hurt in Hagrid's class by Buckbeak, Buckbeak put on trial by Ministry
- Divination: Harry begins to fear that the black dog he keeps seeing is "The Grim", an omen of death
- Lupin is sick every month
- Black gets into Gryffindor tower
- Harry gets Marauder's map and sneaks into Hogsmeade, overhearing the story of how his parents were betrayed
- gets a Firebolt mysteriously for Christmas, after his last broom was destroyed
- Snape finds Marauder's Map
- Trelawney makes a real prediction

CLIMAX
- Harry, Ron and Hermione try to help Hagrid through Buckbeak's execution
- Dog drags run through Whomping Willow tunnel
- discover Black is an animagus, Lupin appears, Snape appears, Wormtail caught
- Lupin transforms, Wormtail escapes, all are in danger, Black caught and turned over to ministry/dementors

DENOUEMENT
- Harry and Hermione use time turner to help Black and Buckbeak escape
- Harry produces a patronus
- Lupin's identity as a werewolf revealed to the school
- Owl post from Sirius, owl becomes Ron's new pet

As you can see, the plot of HP4 isn't any more action-packed than the previous books. I'd argue that it's far less dense, probably because it is so long. The plot doesn't merit its length.

The problem with this book is, that it overdoes the mandate "show, don't tell." The first chapter is a slow-motioned description of the circumstances of Frank Bryce's death. The description does very little to enhance our knowledge of Frank Bryce or the Riddle house. This strategy of an alternate setting, and a portrait of the "other side", was done with more humour and suspense in HP6 and HP7. The second is inconcise language, and, bad grammar. I'm a snob when it comes to style in novels: I think it's unprofessional when published authors have bad grammar.

The plot is weak, too, in my opinion. I'm not that well versed in the Potterverse, so maybe I'm picking up on contradictions that have already been clarified, but the contradictions are still there.

Why did they have to use a muggle campsite for the World Cup? Why couldn't they simply summon the egg for the first task? How do people with such age difference and interests get together (Krum is 18 and a star athlete, Hermione is 15, nerdy and doesn't like sports)? Fifteen and Eighteen are huge differences when you're that age. If Hermione couldn't dig up any spells for the second task, why did the other students find means to deal with breathing underwater? Is two month's dating really enough to make Hermione and Cho be the things their boyfriends miss the most? Those bonds are of a different nature than Harry/Ron's friendship, or the Delacour sisterhood. Why couldn't Sirius pretend to be Harry's pet, if no one knew he was an animagus? If Barty Crouch imitated Mad-Eye with such skill that even Dumbledore was hoodwinked (not to mention that he overcame a skilled Auror), he must be a very skilled wizard. I find Crouch's story the most unconvincing and unnecessarily complex. Why not simply have him run away at the World Cup? What does Wormtail and Voldemort coming to rescue him add to the plot? Too complex.

Other Voices Other Rooms, Truman Capote

Even since I found out that Harper Lee is a character in Truman Capote's novel, I simply *had* to see how he rendered her. There is so little biographical information about Harper Lee that I was - well, curious. Besides, there is one wonderfully nostalgic paragraph in Mockingbird saying that "summer was Dill... stealing kisses when Jem wasn't looking," so I *had* to see what love there was between Lee and Capote, Capote who turned out to be gay. Perhaps it's prying, but it's without malice. I'm very fond of Scout. I can't help wondering.

The book is beautifully written. The language and the portrait of life in the south, lazy and redolent and slightly creepy, really draws you in. I don't know about the "intensity of Capote's writing" lauded on the cover of my book, because I didn't find it intense, I found it detailed and poetic. The conversation and turns of phrases are reminiscent of Mockingbird, so I'm sure Lee was influenced by Capote's novel, which got published first. I had fun deciphering the transmogrification of names - it's "Noon City" here for "Meridian," no doubt, and there's a homestead called the "Landing" too. I recognized Capote/Dill at once in Joel: the short boy with britches too small for him, sensitive and a hand at hatching lies. I LOVED our first glimpse of Idabel/Lee, a really ferocious tomboy whom the sensitive (and gay) Joel is intimidated by. In Mockingbird, through Lee/Scout's own perspective, we know that Scout is a tomboy but her manner is much more aggressive described from the outside. She has a ladylike sister to compare against - Lee, I remember, had a sister, too. Idabel and Joel go skinny dipping in the creek and Idabel makes no qualms about it, so I'm sure that was only a proprietary reference in Mockingbird when Jem and Dill tell Scout she can't come cause they were going in naked! Joel and Idabel try to run away.

I'm hard pressed to see how Idabel shows Joel "the closest thing to love" (also quoted from my bookcover). Joel does long to show her affection after he becomes her friend, but she fights him when kissed. (So yes, there must be some germ in the Scout/Dill romance, too!) The ending also loses me completely. Why is Joel suddenly indifferent to Idabel, if she is his only friend? That disappoints me. Also, although Joel is very sensitive, I thought the novel was supposed to be an exploration in homosexuality, and the only reference I have is Joel seeing two men kissing, and being puzzled by it. Is it because he faced female temptation (via the circus midget lady) that he's scarred? Does he withdraw from Idabel because he's come to terms with his sexuality? Is Cousin Randolph gay?

I am probably really lost.

Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie

WOW. - from the first page I was astounded, Rushdie writes well, like a next-generation Gabriel Garcia Marquez with epic plots and a style that flows on the quirks and obsessions of life. The religious and cultural references are lost on me, but the images (falling through the sky, singing, rebirth) are from the beginning very basic, and catch my imagination. Magic realism.

The Moving Finger, Agatha Christie

I have never read Agatha Christie before, but since she's a favourite of one of the bloggers I follow, I made note to read something by her. In fact - since she has written so many novels, I had to google for her bests. The Moving Finger (incidentally a chapter title for A Tangled Web, thus making me think that it's a quotation) sounded very promising, being one of Christie's own favourites.

Well, I was thoroughly converted into a fan. The beginning was nothing more than a suspenseful and ominous statement - mysterious letters - followed by a series of character sketches of all the curious personages in town. Of course, you immediately survey and sum them up as suspects. Each character is conveyed through a quick few paragraphs of description, and his/her conversation:

Consider Megan's pattern of speech:

"She spoke, as usual, in a kind of breathless rush.

.. 'Shouldn't they? They all do around here. Are you walking down to the town? I saw you were alone, so I thought I'd stop and walk with you, only I stopped rather suddenly.'"

compared to the force of Aimee Griffith's:

"Extraordinary child," said Miss Griffith. "Bone lazy. Spends her time mooning about. Must be a great trial to poor Mrs. Symmington."


The plot thickens every chapter, and is very well paced. You're made to suspect Megan all along, although the narrator never does, and you're infuriated with him for his blindness and dread the revelation. Then, of course, an unaccountable plot twist occurs. Very clever stuff, great book, holds together excellently.

A Complicated Kindness, Miriam Toews

This is my short review:

"I think Toews nailed the small-town teenage girl. I know people like Nomi and places like her dump of a town. Nomi's wit and sarcasm really makes the book, as in, the humour really balances out the drama. I don't know, though, it's missing something. Maybe it's the lack of proper quotation marks in conversation that bugs me. Maybe for all their depth, the paragraphs are too long. Maybe it's because Nomi reminds me too much of your usual Margaret Atwood heroine (passive, but with a mind of her own, and secretly rebellious), but the plot isn't quite as clever and unexpected. So awesome characterization, but I think Toew's prose could use more spunk."

I had so many thoughts as I read this book today. First, I was annoyed by the stream-of-consciousness tone. Too stylized, too imitative of Margaret Atwood. I would have preferred wit and regular punctuation. I fell to wondering again: does anybody (worth his/her salt) write in a "representative" manner instead of in stylized prose these days? Unless you're writing fantasy or children's books?

I also had misgivings about Nomi and the state of affairs in her life. Nomi is your typical rebellious teen, who dabbles in delinquency, drug, and sex. I think it's realistic, but if I knew her personally, I would find her (at least her lifestyle) intimidating. And it's a grimy picture. Is that the only modern life we have to depict, unless (again) you're writing fantasy or for children?

What I really loved was that, despite Nomi's vindictive tone, perhaps as the (slightly cheesy, awkward) title implies, the book is gentle. Despite the ready condemnation of religion and society, never does it reek with hate or true bitterness. Nomi loves her family, and through her quirky but loving eyes you believe in the goodness and good intentions of all the characters.

The book made me WANT to understand the small Canadian towns that I've lived in, want to befriend the goth girls smoking crack on the fire escapes instead of looking askance and pityingly at them. It made me examine why small towns are the crux of Canadian literature, why I (a suburban girl) am attracted to some romanticized aspect of them, and how if I were to write a story I would deal precisely with this fascination of mine, as if this were a heritage I somehow long for in all my stability.

Nomi's recollections of her childhood made me reminiscent - no, made me see all the potential in my childhood, too. That quirkish way of thinking.

"I had an imaginary friend who hated me and was trying to kill me."

"This was a bedtime ritual. I dug the shunning story. I couldn't wait to hear it. What a gem. It completely reinforced my belief system of right and wrong. And everyone had to stand up in church and publicly denounce them. Yeah! I'd say. Denounce them! I'd always loved the sound of that."

"I wasn't pretty enough to be the complex, silent girl and yet I never knew what to say. I didn't want to be the ugly, quiet girl. There was no such thing as the ugly, mysterious girl. I could be the tortured, self-destructive girl. But where does that ldead? I remembered a conversation I'd had with Tash on the same trampoline a hundred years ago when it only cost a nickel."

Those are a *real* teenage girl's thoughts, not contrived at all.

"For some reason when we were in the library, Tash and I often pretended that we were German spies and we called ourselves Platzy and Strassy. We'd hide bits of information in books and then give each other clues about how to find them. There are probably still little notes stuck in Billy Graham books that say things like: I was brutally tortured for several hours this afternoon but I am fine. Let's meet for drinks at the UberSwank at eight. Platzy."

So awesome! Fantasy, but not told in a traditional way at all. Once again, not contrived.

Well-- I should, I think, attempt to write a story in the structure of Toews or Budge Wilson. It will be good practice. I have a long way to go in finding my own voice.

The Tales of Beedle the Bard, by J. K. Rowling

I think this simple little book shows Rowling's skill as a writer, more than the entirety of the Harry Potter series. You can tell that Rowling is a master of imitating a voice and style, and of course a master of parody. (Hello, the entire magical world mimics and mocks the structure of ours?) The whole thing is a Russian-doll framed narrative, with Rowling editing an imaginary Dumbledore. The purpose of the book is made evident in the first commentary: (other than simply for reading pleasure, it's) to parody fairy tales as cultural artifacts. Rowling continues her muggle/wizard racism thesis, noting that the Hopping Cauldron story has been bastardized throughout the centuries to A) show no muggle favouritism, B) censor tales too violent and gruesome for children. This is, of course, a laugh at people who say her stories are too dark for children: right in the middle of the book is a story that sounds like traditional fairytale, with lovers literally ripping one another's hearts out.

I'm less sold on the Hogwarts mentions, which I think are awkwardly inserted. I don't think Dumbledore's bitter tone regarding his feud with Lucius Malfoy has any real place in a mock-academic work; nor do Professor Kettleburn's lack of limbs. Dumbledore's occasional footnotes to "... many brilliant wizards... [footnote] such as myself," too, are a little overboard arrogant.

Lady Chatterley's Lover, D. H. Lawrence

I am very lucky that I was raised in a household where books are believed to be good. No ban has ever been placed upon my reading, other than the chastise that I would ruin my eyesight. I still remember that my parents had no qualms buying me two five-dollar novels at the Costco checkout, one being a titilating V. C. Andrews, the other what none of us realized was a (non-)harlequin(-published) romance. It did not have a suggestive cover illustration, and was really no more lewd than V. C. Andrews. It was my seventh grade teacher who raised an eyebrow when I, in all innocence, brought out the novel for silent reading. He asked me if I enjoyed it with a strange expression, and I assured him I did, very earnestly. I had read every word, but I still didn't see how it was objectionable. Reading is good, it broadens your mind and expands your vocabulary: I didn't think anything in a printed book should be censured.

I think I will raise my kids with that maxim. They are free to read whatever they like.

So I intend to quote and comment on Lady Chatterley's Lover. Now, nobody who tries to please both sides ever succeeds or ever ends up sitting comfortably on the fence; nevertheless, I live by the tenet that I must think for myself. And sex is a fascinating topic to ponder on. I guess I am one of those cerebral types who read but have not done; but I don't think discussing sex is a sign of lust, or corrupts. I am both Catholic and the picture of a good girl all prunes and prisms, people would say it's creepy and wrong if I had "dirty" thoughts, but curiosity isn't inappropriate, and if I'm curious, I'm only human. And so I read books with sex scenes, and I think about them.

Lady Chatterley's Lover has some interesting proclamations: first, that sex is really meaningless, and that it certainly does not imply the giving away of something sacred (namely, yourself.)

A man was like a child with his appetites. A woman had to yield him what he wanted, or like a child he would probably turn nasty and flounce away and spoil what was a very pleasant connexion. But a woman could yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. That the poets and talkers about sex did not seem to have taken sufficiently into account. A woman could take a man without really giving herself away. Certainly she could take him without giving herself into his power. Rather she could use this sex thing to have power over him.

We have been having the same holy war of first kisses and more, in which are pitched those who say you should say yourself for your ideal, against "i hope that whatever the essence of "me" is, is not weak or insignificant enough to be completely destroyed to the point of worthlessness because i let a man touch me before my wedding day... i dont think i have ever given part of myself away, not when i've loved a person or simply lusted after them. even when i've been in love and it didn't work out, i emerge from it changed in subtle ways but still essentially the same person, or at least still a full, complete person."

I, predictably, have been trying to appease both sides with no avail.

" 'In that case I love to give a part of myself away! I am a firm believer that you have to kiss a lot of frogs in order to find "prince charming". ' "

I like that way of putting it, too.

Once upon a time, long long ago, I was very happy about my first kiss and who it was with. I was pretty sure I would grow up and marry him. It would've been very sweet if it worked out that way, but life isn't always like that.

You can save yourself for someone, or be sure they're the one, etc., but people change and even engagements can break. So if you love someone, why not cherish the moments now that you have together?

As quoted in Emily's Quest books:

Since ever the world was spinning
And till the world shall end
You've your man in the beginning
Or you have him in the end,
But to have him from start to finish
And neither to borrow nor lend
Is what all of the girls are wanting
And none of the gods can send.
"

I, on the one hand, know I have a (religious) allegiance to chastity, on the other I know I can only be true to myself, and then, most of all I would like to know passionate love.

So here it is: a book published in 1928 that in the very first chapter takes the idealism out of sex and social constructs of fidelity. As a beginning it is extremely effective and captivating, like the thesis stated at the beginning of an essay: really this is the book that Two Solitudes should have been. Constance is a heroine whose life shows her philosophy, instead of a demographic sample or exemplary character created to show the point of the story, like the ones in Two Solitudes. Both novels are essays in that they propel a certain view and critique of modern society, but Lawrence has woven the discussion artfully into the novel and MacLennon's conversations seem contrived, inserted.

What are Lawrence's conversations, though? His basic beliefs outlined in the first chapter, I am surprised that the characters can go on and converse about - nothing, really - for pages. How do you write this stuff? No, I'm not a Lawrence fan, and his books leave me feeling strangely desolate and empty: not because of Lawrence's opinions, but maybe because of the life depicted. How do you paint a picture to show that something is essentially meaningless? Doesn't that make your work of art itself meaningless?

Compared to Anais Nin (from whom I first read about Lady Chatterly's Lover) Lawrence's psychology is really one-sided, limited to the affairs of the upper-class and working classes. Nin's short stories are captivating, and each one reveals more about sex and human personalities than Lawrence's whole book. What does Lawrence gain by length? A greater time-span and more conversation, it seems; probably all that anchors it in its society and its contemporary notions of bolshevism and socialism, but I know so little of that world. Instead, what shines in the novel to me is that chapter of Constance and Mellors's lovemaking, when Constance falls to mimicking in Mellors' dialect, and Mellors elucidates the meaning of someone having "balls" to us. I have always thought that expression vulgar, but now, glamourized by Mellors, I find it charming.

But I don't know if all the beauty, artistry, and classical allusions of Mellors' and Lady Chatterley's romance rivals the love scene between Paul and Heather. The latter is so natural. The former; well, I still find Lawrence's archaic sexual language awkward, and I suppose I must be well-read enough or I wouldn't understand what he means, because he is very detailed, without being graphic or "lemony", no: his sex scenes are as a dream or a classical painting.

For my sex education, here is the blunt and brutal you get in Lawrence: "No, it's hopeless! I just simply can't vibrate in unison with a woman." This compared to the glamourized versions I see in fanfiction and film where everything is perfect! Oh, of course I see the point of those who will say that "good girls" shouldn't be reading stuff like this, it teaches you too much for your own innocence and makes you wonder whether you will really get satisfactory love-making of your own. It makes you really pity those who don't know what they're missing, and makes you wonder if you have the adequate physique for this sort of intense pleasure. Oh, I'm sure all they had a point: ignorance is bliss.

I do like the ending: curiously, after so many pages of passion, the ending is about chastity and waiting; something that speaks for the magnitude of true love, I think. After all the whole book shows that (after much sexual frustration) it is possible to experience great passion, which promises to last forever.

A tremendous mental effort to finish, but I'm glad I did.

Gabrielle Roy: Creation and Memory, Linda and Bill Clemente

I suppose once you have exhausted all of an author's works, it is natural want to find out more about her life. In Gabrielle Roy's case, I have always been sorry that she died before completing all the volumes of her autobiography, so Enchantment and Sorrow only covers the years before she became a published writer. Reading Gabrielle Roy has always been an inspiration to me, and this tale of her life has made me rethink and reaffirm so many feelings I have had over the past months, faults I have struggled with all my life, perhaps. In terms of how it has affected me and can change me, it may be the most important book I have read these months.

A good biography, I believe, makes you relate to the life described. Like with Maud in The Gift of Wings and Looking for Anne, I became convinced that I am very much like Gabrielle, and began to hope that I would attain a measure of success like hers. Clemente writes in the same delicate and compassionate style as Gabrielle herself, so reading the biography was like treading on familiar ground, almost as good as reading one of Gabrielle's books. That is one thing I find a little amiss in L. M. Montgomery biographies: aside from Mollie Gillen, whose The Wheel of Things breathes with Montgomery's own poetic writing style, many biographers have been very objective, and as a result the text is sensitive and tactful (all very understandable given the complexity of Montgomery's life) but a little dry.

Creation and Memory is not chronological: rather, it begins with the epoch of Roy's life in Europe, where she was "endlessly and aimlessly walking, walking, walking, upbraiding herself, wallowing in indecision and, doubtless, self-pity."(18) How familiar I am with this sort of constant self-berating! "Supposedly trying to uncover her destiny, and, like most of us, she still felt accountable for her actions."(19) I feel as Gabrielle does that, in my present confusion, I am trying to "break free" in some way: "Her actual motivation, however, she simply could not articulate at this juncture in her life: 'I had no definite ideas in mind,' she would say to an interviewer almost fifty years later... this brave woman [was] driven by something ill-defined to search for something unknown."(12) Upon her return to Canada, Gabrielle remained on her own in Montreal instead of returning to live with her mother, perhaps to "stay free" (14): "In her mind, going farther west from Montreal would now mean a surrender to all she had sought to escape. A return to St. Boniface would demote those two years in Europe to the status of a fling, and it would also preclude the possibility of further personal and professional growth."(51) This was "one of the most anguished, selfish, and painfully ambivalent decisions of her life, as decisions based largely on one's personal desires and welfare must be."(52) And like Gabrielle, I write best from a distance... I can recall so clearly those hours in my Crouch End attic, when inspiration seemed to spark from homesickness and isolation, and despite my surface melancholy I was perfectly content with my work. "Before discovering new shores, we must be content to lose sight of land completely." (Fragile 186)

THERE is the conflict of my heart of late: that on one hand, I am duty-bound to remain at home, that permanently moving out would be the selfish act of abandoning my parents. Besides, I love my home dearly. It is a veritable paradise to me, with its blossoming pear trees, the shy, secretive star-lilies down by the gate, the great "watching pine" outside my window, the "little half chick" weathervane on the garage roof, and my very own, maple-flanked "bend in the road" beyond. Inside, there are low, wide windows inside, gossamer curtains, and a stained-glass lamp that gleams at sunset. I am grateful that my parents have kept such a haven for me, and I am afraid that if I were to leave, I would sever it from my life forever: my parents would sell the house, and I could never truly come "home" again. That is how my romantic notions run; on the other hand I cannot reconcile myself to the picture of living as a dependent, and working and saving towards a future that to me is entirely undefined, but promises little more than a parent's conventional expectations of stability and marriage. I need to be on my own and to run my own life, but to anyone's mind that is an incredibly lonely and pitiful existence.

I was surprised that Gabrielle's ambition to be an actress during her European years was so strong; most true writers know from childhood that they must write. (I did find out, later in the biography, and also from recollections of her writings, that she did write avidly as a child despite her mother's disapproval.) Then, too, I felt a little alienated by her dramatic abilities: I could certainly never breathe fire into a performance, nor can I lay any claims to sparkling wit and powers of mimicry... but haven't there been points in my life when I too am full of vivacity and life? Despite her outbursts of animated feeling, Gabrielle was by nature reclusive, "I never knew a person more secretive or more of an enemy to herself."(16) That is exactly how I am. I share Gabrielle's fragile self-confidence, her perfectionist tendencies (best exemplified by her scholastic achievements and how she would stay up late to study until her mother cut the fuse), and her tendency to block time out by projects and accomplishments rather than by a regular schedule. "Given the teenager who was so ardent in her studies that her mother unscrewed fuses to force her to get sufficient sleep, empathetic readers who feel equally driven will easily understand the anxiety that interruptions provoke in those who work not over the course of a day with frequent breaks, but who labour intensely for hours at a time with no breaks... For a writer of Gabrielle Roy's ilk, an interruption could change the course of her novel."(163-164) After all, I was not so foolish when I protested in first year that the calibre of my drawing would change if I took a dinner break, and had to be bodily carried away from my desk.

I am, too, heavily affected by my mother's tendency to view life as a tragedy; and my mother's many sisters are in turn the product of my grandmother's incredible will and sorrow. As Gabrielle writes of her own siblings, "All of us - all Melina's children - have a tendency to live too much on our nerves. It makes the fire burn bright, true enough, but later we pay for it dearly, don't we?" (94)

What I dislike most in biography literature is the finality of reality, in which some lives are irretrievably damned. Her sister Adele is the black sheep of the story, unsuccessful, spiteful, laughed at and pitied by her family. I can't help studying others' lives as if to seeking for a formula that will tell me that outcome of my own. How do I know if I am really like Adele, whose "constant shifting indicated serious problems," who "would stay for a year or two until life became a little easier, and then, perhaps fearful or feeling herself undeserving of peace or happiness, would move again, farther north, farther away" (102)? Gabrielle herself wandered aimlessly, and these were to her immensely valuable experiences: "writers should seek experience actively in their youth, should travel as much as they could geographically and emotionally; then at about the age of forty, they could, as she put it, 'draw in.' "(156) What did Adele do wrong that Gabrielle did right, and how do you know which you are doing?

The years that fascinate me most are those just after Enchantment and Sorrow ended: the seven years before she "arrived" with the publication of The Tin Flute. She determined to throw away her stable career as a teacher, to live on her own, and to write, and she did. She managed to support herself in a lifestyle of her choosing. She became an excellent journalist, and was so in her element was she that her natural shyness must have vanished by necessity, even if she were to return to great privacy in later life. "Almost as though life had finally given her the go-ahead signal, Roy gathered momentum and was not to be stopped. The adventurer out for a good time in Provence turned into the adventurer who had found her calling. All her endurance, initiative, temerity, capacity for hard work and intellectual brilliance she now channelled into what she did best: writing. She wrote, more over, about what interested her most: human relationships. And she wrote using the method that was her forte: close, analytical observation. By all accounts she had a wonderful time honing her talent." (143)

There are several particular episodes in this biography that are a bright beacon of hope to me: one, that Gabrielle was to revisit her beloved haunts in Europe with success on her brow. I have been so heartbroken over saying goodbye to those cities where I have loved being me, that it embitters me to think that if I ever went back things would never be the same. Two, that if Gabrielle's perfectionism and drive (and her great dread of failure) brought into life a multiple-prize winning novel, won't I do something worthwhile someday? (Part of my reason for not beginning grad school right off, I think, is a vague fear of failure, or in otherwords of mediocrity, in which my sense of self would be reduced to nothing.) Three, that this period of pursuing writing as a career presents an appealing alternative life-path to me: it seems very unattainable, for there are thousands of people who long to be published, but though I enjoy the work, I have never felt a true calling to be a designer, whereas I have always longed to write. I would write no matter what, and it is immensely satisfying to me to produce a good piece of writing, and no other achievement brings me such exultation. Yet I know the little stories I spin in spare moments are lacking - lacking life experience, lacking dedication, lacking true training for a discerning eye? I come to wonder: isn't true writing a full-time job? I would be dreadfully afraid to take the plunge of such a commitment on such a precarious path: but this what Roy did, what Harper Lee did. Doesn't it make sense that I should develop my craft through more than my sporadic and highly emotional stories? But how do you find an opening into such a world?

Two Solitudes, Hugh MacLennan

This book is well-written, but I found it largely inaccessible. The portrait of the elite in Montreal is entirely foreign to me, and for the first three parts, the years move so swiftly and the drama drifts from character to character that never are we given to chance to *know* these figures beyond what they represent to society. At the end of the novel Paul Tallard is writing a book on Canada, stating just what MacLennan has been trying to do:

"As Paul considered the matter, he realized that his readers' ignorance of the sessntial Canadian clashes and values presented him with a unique problem. The background would have to be created from scratch if his story was to become intelligible."

Curiously, the criticism that applies to his previous book, and Paul's remarks on art in general, are precisely my critique of Two Solitudes:

"A novel should concern people, not ideas, and yet people had become trivial."

"Your characters are naturally vital people. But your main theme never gives them a chance. It keeps asserting that they're doomed."

People in the book discuss the politics of Quebec and ponder on the Canadian identity every day, so the issues the novel is concerned with are no secret. I think an essay would be more suitable to this debate than the stilted conversations of the characters, though. In this case, the characters become mouthpieces.

There is so much background, so much descriptive text for every character that walks on stage, but this is more "telling" than "showing." Characters are introduced this way, but behave only in a predictable manner afterwords. Athase's death is central to the plot, but Kathleen and Marius, both very complex and promising characters, disappear from the scene partway through the book: is it because their purpose has been exhausted? The time-lapse is really disconcerting for Kathleen, Marius, Daffy and even McQueen's stage exit: each make a brief appearance to show their fate before dropping out of the plot. We do not see their growth and progress, we do not learn what they really think.

Yardley I truly love. He is a creation I recognize: the Maritime sailor, rough and charismatic, who lives according to his own rules and righteousness, and remains full of curiousity about the world. I know people like him. I do not know many McQueens or General Methuens, whose world is so glamourous I can only believe it exists in movies, and whose roles are entirely cliched.

The romance between Paul and Heather redeems all of the ennui of this saga, in which MacLennan must be trying to construct a Tolstoysian novel of Canada with its vast cast of characters and intertwined drama. The love between Paul and Heather I can relate to and believe in. How their friendship develops, and that first, charged encounter in the car - "You know GReek, and you understand cars, and your'e a hockey player. It's a fascinating combination. What else have you been doing since we all went fishing together in Saint-Marc? // Paul - am I very different from what I used to be?), then in Heather's studio is one of the finest pieces of the novel. It touches on essential matters, shows their shared intellect and interests, and then the insecurity that comes with romantic involvement. Paul and Heather should have been the hero and heroine from the beginning. Each one's introspective thoughts are worth reading. I think the novel has been designed to show precisely what attracts and binds them to one another.

"What was love anyway, but the knowledge that you were not alone, with desire added?"

"For there was no loneliness now, not even when she was awake and he was asleep."


I think what Paul says of art is true:

"An artist had nothing to offer the world except distilled parts of himself."

In other words, write/paint what you know.

Is Paul autobiographical? Does this describe the creation process of MacLennon's own book?

"Out of Marius, out of his own life, out of the feeling he had in his bones for his own province and the others surrounding it, the theme of his new book began to emerge. Its outlines grew so clear that his pencil kept moving steadily until three in teh morning. He was not forumlating sentences; he was drafting the design of a full novel. He had never been able to see so far into any work... Outlines of scenes he would later create followed each other inevitably, one by one out of his subconscious. he picked up ten pages covered with scrawled notes, and as he reread them he found tha teach scene had retained in his mind the trasparent clarity of still water."

It sounds so grand: this stroke of inspiration, but fills me with despair if this is how writing should be, for I struggle with every episode and rarely does a whole book flash into my mind completed.

Silas Marner, George Eliot

I have been having a royal literary feast. In the last two days I read A Wrinkle in Time, Many Waters, Silas Marner and Narnia. All great stories, really stories told in grand tradition that can be read out loud.

Silas Marner is a fairytale. It begins with an evocation of time past "I have been having a royal literary feast. "IN the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the farmhouses -- and even great ladies, clothed in silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of polished oak -- there might be seen in districts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, certain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a disinherited race.", and is a tale with symbolic characters, lost treasure and cherubic infants, and a happy, heartwarming ending. It is the only George Eliot book I have read with a truly happy ending, one where there is no sacrifice or compromise. I wonder why it is George Eliot (and L. M. Montgomery's) favourite book, and the only reason I can come up with is that it is a simple tale, probably to popular taste, sophisticated told. George Eliot's writing is more refined here than in any other book, and the lilting rhythm of her prose is echoed in Montgomery.

But oh! It does not have the far-reaching grasp of humanity, and that delicate bond between humans who involuntarily torture one another, that is the hallmark of Middlemarch and The Mill on the Floss. Silas Marner is too simple and... too happy. I can't see the piercing psychology in having a cheated man grow isolated, absorbed in his work, and miserly. That is how the fairytales characterize misers. I'm interested in Eppie, but I think the bond between Silas and his daughter is too sweet, too simple and idealistic. Were I in a place where I meant the sun and moon and stars to my guardian, I would feel fettered. And since Eppie falls for the first man we hear of her with, since there is no real love story or drama to her life save her birthright, I feel like we don't really know her, and I can care less about her fate. So, too, is the abrupt coming to light of Dunstan, and Godfrey's confession without true precedence or motivation. He really needn't reveal his secret since Dunstan had taken it to the grave with him, so why now? And after all, it is unsatisfactory that Godfrey should miss Eppie's wedding.

How strange - I am always happy to see a book end well, but I think I bear a grudge against Eliot for writing a happy story.

Many Waters, Madeleine L'Engle

I love Madeleine L'Engle and I think she is a wonderful, gracious, faith-filled person. Thus, even if I haven't read all her books, I like them because I like her. I do think the sequels to Wrinkle lack the graceful flow of pen, and the tightness of Wrinkle's plot, and the wide imagination.

Many Waters must have been fun for L'Engle to write: to revisit characters of a beloved family tree and to give them their own stories. I enjoy L'Engle's characterization of Sandy and Dennys, and find them realistic and hilarious for who they are.

I understand, too, some of the prevalent themes: that you have to believe for something to be (unicorn), that non-violence is the best policy (Sandy captured: "Sandy's rejection of violence had nothing to do with giving in. Anything but."), that goodness and purity (Yalith) are more attractive than physical beauty (Tiglah). I was glad to see the Seraphim and the Nephilim, all named: it is wonderful to see archaic names revived in a modern tale. I was, too, glad to know the people of the Flood story: know what their lives were like and the social atmosphere Noah faced when he built his ark.

But in general, the book made very little impression on me. I could care less about life in the oasis, and the complex dramas of Noah's family, and Lamech and Malah. I plugged on in the story waiting for something to happen, and I think it is a little disappointing to end the tale just before the great flood. This is an enjoyable book, but not a fable I'll remember and refer to.

The Last Battle, C. S. Lewis

I have never read Narnia growing up, and so I have been trying to read what I can of the series whenever I can find it. Lewis is also a master of storytelling, and his narrator's voice is conversational, so I think if the books were read to me out loud, I would be alive to their magic. I often wonder where the appeal lies in these stories that have captured the imagination of so many children. Is it the thought that there is this wonderful world somewhere, that exists parallel to ours, only their time runs so much faster? Is it the funny talking animals? Or the fun of engaging in battle and of being indispensible in saving the world?

My imagination fails me here. Growing up, I loved the Wizard of Oz, especially the walled china city where figurines ran to and fro, and it thrilled me to imagine that this microscopic world existed alongside one of real-life humans. So I can see how absorbing imaginary worlds, these "heterotopias" are. But it goes back to the issue of a heroine I can grow with and identify with. I grew up (really grew up, became who I am heart body and soul) on Anne of Green Gables, and Anne is such an absorbing and real heroine, that her soul is knit with mine. I don't know who I can attach myself to in Narnia - Jill? I hardly know her. The only person I really love is Lucy Pevensie, but not every book stars her. And here is, again, where C. S. Lewis's comment that his characters are pawns for his plots instead of vice versa come into play: you like his characters, no doubt, but you never get to know them intimately.

Coming to Narnia as an adult, I cannot fail to see the Christian allegory so evident in the plot and all the symbols. It is very, very effective at explaining the Christian faith. These books make me believe. How much clearer can you get with the stable that is light within for those who believe in Aslan? How much more clearly can you convey that those who say life is crap will find life crappy because that's what they choose to see, than the story of the dwarves who think they are tasting donkey dung when they eat the feast Aslan spreads for them, whose reality is of their own making? Faced with a picture like this, I yearn to proclaim proudly that I believe in God. It seems that it is always better to believe - believe in anything.

Doesn't this show that it doesn't matter what religion you follow, so long as your intentions and works are good? I was brought up Catholic, and brought up to be compassionate and forgiving, and all my religious education (through class, discussions, and books) only affirms my conviction that Christian acts are more important than professing to be Christian. I never try to convert anyone - I don't believe in it. Let each live according to his or her convictions, and be true to his or herself, so long as their faith - in whatever they name their God - causes them to do good. Tenets to the contrary I struggle with, and I hate to say that I have a stone wall in my convictions, but this is it: One can be Christian - "truly Christian", without being so in name.

"Child, all the service thou hast done to Tash, I account as service done to me... Not because he and I are one, but because we are opposites, I take to me the services which thou has done to him. For I and he are of such different kinds that no service which is vile can be done to me, and none which is not vile can be done to him. Therefore if any man swear by Tash and keep his oath for the oath's sake, it is by me that he has truly sworn, though he know it not, and it is I who reward him. And if any man do a cruelty in my name, then, though he says the name Aslan, it is Tash whom he serves and by Tash his deed is accepted.... Bloved, said the Glorious One, unless thy desire had been for me thou wouldst not have sought so long and so truly. For all find what they truly seek."

The image of Aslan's judgement as all Narnian beasts came rushing through the portal is very powerful, and the joy I felt in seeing all our dear Narnian friends again was unsurpassed. I think there is no greater happiness than reuniting with beloved friends, and I agree that there is no better promise for heaven. That is the only idea of heaven I want. Lewis's heaven is lovely, though: a place that resembles those we love best, only better, since this is the true and perfect Platonic ideal. Where countries are connected by mountain ridges, and places that have ceased to be continue here. Where Narnia (or whatever fantasy-lands are dear to our hearts) can be found.

And then, I was shocked to hear that all the friends of Narnia had died in a railway accident. Died! When they are all so young! Without them there is no link from our world to Narnia, (even if Narnia is no more), and there will NEVER be. Unless someone finds the magic rings. Poor Susan, what will she do when she finds out she has lost her siblings and parents? Is THIS Lewis's test of our faith: after a long glimpse of heaven, to see if we would be satisfied with this ethereal place or our own attachment to earthly life? If so, I've failed the test, for I can't help but rebel and be aghast at the thought of Lucy and Edmund and Peter and Jill and Eustace's death. That revelation fast plummetted the book to one of my least favourites of the series.

A Wrinkle in Time, Madeleine L'Engle

I love this book so much. Here is another book on par with Mockingbird for perfection: everything hits the right note. There's the classic and entirely effective opening sentence "It was a dark and stormy night". The whole exposition in the first chapter (introduction of characters, especially the characterization of Meg, and then the stranger in the night) is just enough. Meg is another character you can really love from the start, because she's a teenager struggling with normal teenage problems: hating school, not fitting in and getting bullied; imperfect and unhappy in her shell. She embarks on a great adventure that changes that: and here is the grand and universal theme of love that can defeat all evil. Her adventure is so wonderful, and peopled with such symbolic people: feisty Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who who quotes multilingually because she hasn't learned our speech, wise Mrs. Which who struggles to materialize, the Happy Medium, the two-dimensional planet, the planet of Aunt Beast's where you can't see, and Camazoztz where the horror is conformity and not thinking. Quotations liberally but always aptly used. Perhaps most wonderful of all is that subtle blossom of love between Meg and Calvin that is so sweet, and surprising, and affirms Meg's being. Like Lyra and Will, one journey bonds them forever, but though Meg and Calvin get very little real "romance" time, you love their love.

Madeleine L'Engle is a writer who *can* write. Let me prove it to you:

"It was a dark and stormy night.

In her attic bedroom Margaret Murry, wrapped in an old patchwork quilt, sat on the foot of her bed and watched the trees tossing in the frenzied lashing of the wind. Behind the trees clouds scudded frantically across the sky. Every few moments the moon ripped through them, creating wraithlike shadows that raced along the ground.

The house shook.

Wrapped in her quilt, Meg shook.

She wasn't usually afraid of the weather. -- It's not just the weather, she thought. -- It's the weather on top of everything else. On top of me. On top of Meg Murry doing everything wrong."

Then you are - all on the first half-a-page you have a catching opening line, spectacular imagery, and an introduction to Meg that all ties in to the weather and her problems.

"Curled up on one of her pillows, a gray fluff of kitten yawned, showing its pink tongue, tucked its head under again, and went back to sleep."

Concise, again does not waste words in painting a picture.

Some Meg and Calvin love:

'"Calvin continued to look at the picture [of father.] "He's not handsome or anything. But I like him."

Meg was indignant. "He is too handsome."

Calvin shook his head. "Nah. He's tall and skinny, like me."

"Well, I think you're handome," Meg said.'

"'Mother,' Meg pursued. 'Charles says I'm not one thing or the other, not flesh nor fowl nor good red herring.'

'Oh, for crying out loud,' Calvin said, 'you're Meg, aren't you? Come on and let's go for a walk.'"

Can you say romance?

"Calvin led Meg across the lawn. The shadows of the trees were long and twisted and there was a heavy, sweet, autumnal smell to the air. Meg stumbled as the land sloped suddenly downhill, but Calvin's strong hand steadied her. They walked carefully across the twins' vegetable garden, pickign their way through rows of cabbages, beets, broccoli, pumpkins. Looming on their left were the tall stalks of corn. Ahead of them was a small apple orchard bounded by a stone wall, and beyond this the woods through which they had walked that afternoon. Calvin led the way to the wall, and then sat there, his red hair shining silver in the moonlight, his body dappled with patterns from the tangle of branches. He reached up, pulled an apple off a gnarled limb, and handed it to Meg, then picked one for himself."

"'I wish I were a different person,' Meg said shakily. 'I hate myself.'

Calvin reached over and took off her glasses. Then he pulled a handkercheif out of his pocket and wiped her tears. This gesture of tenderness undid her completely, and she put her head down on her knees and sobbed. Calvin sat quietly beside her, every once in a while patting her head. 'I'm sory,' she sobbed finally. 'I'm terribly sorry. Now you'll hate me.'

'Oh, Meg, you are a moron.' Calvin said. 'Do you know you're the nicest thing that's happened to me in a long time?'

Meg raised her head, and moonlight shone on her tearstained face; without the glasses her eyes were unexpectedly beautiful...

Now she was waiting to be contradicted. But Calvin said, 'Do you know this is the first time I've seen you without your glasses?... Well, you know what, you've got dreamboat eyes.'' Calvin said. 'Listen, you go right on wearing your glasses. I don't think I want anybody else to see what gorgeous eyes you have.'"


"Calvin came to her and took her hand, then drew her roughly to him and kissed her. He didn't say aything, and he turned away before he had a chance to see the surprised happiness that brightened Meg's eyes."

Not much, but every bit worth savouring.

Oh, and wisdom in so many ways.

"We want nothing form you that you do without grace, or that you do without understanding."




I REALLY like that evil is simply not thinking. I'm less fond of Calvin calling everyone "morons", but this was the 60s, and that derogatory name didn't bother me the first time I read it.

Someone NEEDS to make a movie of this book.