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.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, January 30, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
A Bird in the House, Margaret Laurence
I was surprised to encounter a child narrator reminiscent of Scout Finch when I began this book. Vanessa MacLeod is precocious and defiant. She is also a budding writer. The book opens with a description of a brick house, "an ancestral home" in a small-town world, dominated by striking female characters. I was reminded of Margaret Laurence's statement that "all Canadian women's fiction began with L. M. Montgomery" - for of course, Vanessa is an attic-cat Emily, a shrewd observer, perceptive and calculating like the girls in Munro's stories, and sensitive to the tenor of human tragedy like Gabrielle Roy's Christine. Grandmother MacLeod has precedent in Montgomery's stiff, starched grandmothers of a bygone generation whom the young cannot relate to, and Aunt Edna has all the fire and spunk of a Montgomery heroine. In a typical Montgomery twist, Grandmother Connor shows unexpected strength, meanwhile, domestic tyranny and clash of (female) wills reoccur.
I have no doubt that the writing is autobiographical. The theme is no more than the web of family relationships and a portrait of Canadian life, but the writing is erudite and the dialogue captures the atmosphere easily, without pretense. When I read something like this the images that have been engraved in our own minds and heart require much skill to be told with great subtlety. Even telling a story that is based on one's own childhood is an art.
There is something to be said for the short story format. Montgomery knew it well, and Anne of Windy Poplars and Anne of Ingleside (as well as her journals) are particularly full of "other women's stories" and gossip, for this is the pre-WW2 female perspective. The stories deal with external incidents and have psychological meaning. Munro and Gabrielle Roy are notable short story writers, too (Munro, of course, becoming arguably the world's best short story writer). Even Mockingbird was originally a chain of short stories: each chapter is poignant and complete unto itself, each tells its own finished story and advances the plot. That is the beauty of the short story format, versus conventional chapter-books where the ending is no more than a section break, and cliffhangers are desirable. I think the short story format is very effective in conveying life lessons.
The chapter that moved me most of The Half Husky. What a cruel story!
Well, one of these days I need to read the rest of the Manawaka books. I really enjoy Laurence's writing: it is less stylized than Munro's and Atwood's, but very readable. Again, great "representational art."
I have no doubt that the writing is autobiographical. The theme is no more than the web of family relationships and a portrait of Canadian life, but the writing is erudite and the dialogue captures the atmosphere easily, without pretense. When I read something like this the images that have been engraved in our own minds and heart require much skill to be told with great subtlety. Even telling a story that is based on one's own childhood is an art.
There is something to be said for the short story format. Montgomery knew it well, and Anne of Windy Poplars and Anne of Ingleside (as well as her journals) are particularly full of "other women's stories" and gossip, for this is the pre-WW2 female perspective. The stories deal with external incidents and have psychological meaning. Munro and Gabrielle Roy are notable short story writers, too (Munro, of course, becoming arguably the world's best short story writer). Even Mockingbird was originally a chain of short stories: each chapter is poignant and complete unto itself, each tells its own finished story and advances the plot. That is the beauty of the short story format, versus conventional chapter-books where the ending is no more than a section break, and cliffhangers are desirable. I think the short story format is very effective in conveying life lessons.
The chapter that moved me most of The Half Husky. What a cruel story!
Well, one of these days I need to read the rest of the Manawaka books. I really enjoy Laurence's writing: it is less stylized than Munro's and Atwood's, but very readable. Again, great "representational art."
To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
I have been friends with this book for a long time. I won it, long ago, in Mr. F's class for a reading award or somesuch, and he bequeathed it to me with remarks that it was his favourite book. Which is slightly awkward, after all... favourite books are such intimate things. I don't quite know what my honest assessment of Mr. F is, because I didn't know him very well and was influenced by the malicious class atmosphere and petty gossip. Besides, he came after Ms. J., whom we admired so wholeheartedly that he was no rival. But judging by the repertoire of fiction that he really, really loved: LotR and Mockingbird amongst others - and tried to impress that love upon us (I don't know how many of us appreciated it), there were probably unsounded depths to his personality.
I have always admired Mockingbird, and upon rereading after many years my assessment is still the same: this book is so PERFECT. it does everything right. it's an essay about an important issue, and it has a heroine you can really love and grow up with. it's so easy-to-read, and not a single thing is out of place or amiss. There are books that are instructive, not preachy but designed to enlighten on a certain issue: The God of Small Things, or the Life of Pi, fall into this category. Singular of purpose and meticulously executed works of art. Then, there are books where the plot is a breathing ground for the main character: Anne of Green Gables and Harry Potter are novels of this type, with heroes/heroines you really learn to love. Mockingbird does both. You can be friends with Scout and Dill, and you come away moved and wiser by the events of the story.
I began Laurence's A Bird in the House just after closing this book. I was surprised to find the same erudite prose and child's eye view I found in Lee. I began thinking of "traditional" prose, like in Lee and Laurence and even Harry Potter, and Austen and Tolstoy, versus stylistically beautiful prose like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Pasternak and Ondaatje. Even Mark Haddon's Dog in Nightime falls under the stylistic category. And I think, masterpieces as Love in the Time of Cholera and The English Patient are, there is nothing like a traditional, "storytelling" story. I guess it's the equivalent of the debate between representational and non-representational art. As beautiful and moving and profound as abstract art is, there is nothing as comforting and easy to relate to as a really well-done realistic painting. I admire experimental fiction and art, and I think it's necessary that we seek out new means of expressing ourselves and to react to societal change, but for me, there is nothing quite like the classics. A really great work of art relies on more than style, of course. Nevertheless, I think it is more challenging to paint or write really well within classical constraints. Orwell, for instance, has not defied the "elements of style and grammar," but his prose is well-tuned, sound.
Lastly, I will have to track down some Truman Capote. I'm increasingly intrigued by the friendship between Harper Lee and Truman Capote, given that Lee seems to be influenced by Capote to pursue a writing career, that she "toiled for years" while he was successful and popular. Given that Capote seems to be the quintessential affable, social homosexual. And given that there are some nostalgic paragraphs in Mockingbird that make me think she must have loved him.
I have always admired Mockingbird, and upon rereading after many years my assessment is still the same: this book is so PERFECT. it does everything right. it's an essay about an important issue, and it has a heroine you can really love and grow up with. it's so easy-to-read, and not a single thing is out of place or amiss. There are books that are instructive, not preachy but designed to enlighten on a certain issue: The God of Small Things, or the Life of Pi, fall into this category. Singular of purpose and meticulously executed works of art. Then, there are books where the plot is a breathing ground for the main character: Anne of Green Gables and Harry Potter are novels of this type, with heroes/heroines you really learn to love. Mockingbird does both. You can be friends with Scout and Dill, and you come away moved and wiser by the events of the story.
I began Laurence's A Bird in the House just after closing this book. I was surprised to find the same erudite prose and child's eye view I found in Lee. I began thinking of "traditional" prose, like in Lee and Laurence and even Harry Potter, and Austen and Tolstoy, versus stylistically beautiful prose like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Pasternak and Ondaatje. Even Mark Haddon's Dog in Nightime falls under the stylistic category. And I think, masterpieces as Love in the Time of Cholera and The English Patient are, there is nothing like a traditional, "storytelling" story. I guess it's the equivalent of the debate between representational and non-representational art. As beautiful and moving and profound as abstract art is, there is nothing as comforting and easy to relate to as a really well-done realistic painting. I admire experimental fiction and art, and I think it's necessary that we seek out new means of expressing ourselves and to react to societal change, but for me, there is nothing quite like the classics. A really great work of art relies on more than style, of course. Nevertheless, I think it is more challenging to paint or write really well within classical constraints. Orwell, for instance, has not defied the "elements of style and grammar," but his prose is well-tuned, sound.
Lastly, I will have to track down some Truman Capote. I'm increasingly intrigued by the friendship between Harper Lee and Truman Capote, given that Lee seems to be influenced by Capote to pursue a writing career, that she "toiled for years" while he was successful and popular. Given that Capote seems to be the quintessential affable, social homosexual. And given that there are some nostalgic paragraphs in Mockingbird that make me think she must have loved him.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
the Curious Incident of the Dog at Night-Time, Mark Haddon
I wonder if Mark Haddon is one of those writers who write, or those who must write. I'm inclined to think the former.
I have high praise for this book. The writing is easy and approachable. The book is clear, in purpose and execution, too - it is like a very well-formulated, clearly illustrated essay. It is exactly one idea that has been completely fleshed out: everything in the book works. The plot was unexpected, unpredictable, and so the suspense is part of what makes this book such an engaging read. I did not know that the trivial scene of a dead dog would blow into such a drama. At first I doubted whether the incident was real, or a deranged figment of Christopher's imagination. I questioned the timeline. I expected it to have a different catch, really, one deeper and more psychological. I hardly thought it would be a family drama, so I can see how it makes for dramatic film material with a unique perspective. I really expected Christopher to get caught when he ran away, but I can see how well it works that he succeeded in his quest to London. I think the ending is realistic, but a little flat and "factual" after the intrigue of all the other chapters. It lacks Christopher's unique voice, and is too motivational.
This book made me reflect upon and become more deeply convinced of some things: one, that there is truth in stories. I would learn more about autism reading this, or watching its film rendition, than a thousand textbooks or an "awareness" pamphlet. Literature arouses compassion, and changes lives. And that is why I would really like to write.
Also, I can see how I'm... not autistic, but has the germs of it. I'm not truly affectionate and I'm selective about physical contact. I have trouble deciphering facial expressions (and I actually have trouble remembering faces, but that's another story.) I like logic, but I share Christopher's implicit convictions... or superstitions about signs for good and bad days. My memory is fairly remarkable, and I detest it when furniture is moved. I could not talk or eat for extended periods. My world is so delicate that very little could make me erect a wall to protect it and to shut out what hurts or frightens me.
Perhaps that is Haddon's best achievement: to make autism so accessible and easy to relate to. I'll think twice from now on about the crazy man in the subway. The prime numbers, observation (like the billboards in London - oh how nostalgic this makes me for London!), the Hound of Baskervilles book report, the lists, his Mom's spelling mistakes and the slightly awkward turns of phrase like "do sex" really make it real.
Haddon's math and logic does have flaws though, and I do nitpick. For instance, if Christopher's fear of his father and his feeling of safety are an inverse relationship, fear(constant)≠ fear(father) x safety. it would be fear(father) / safety. And Christopher says he does not like metaphors, but at the very end he describes the pain of missing his A-levels like putting a finger on the radiator. That's a metaphor. What Haddon means is that Christopher doesn't get idioms and common expressions, like "you're the apple of my eye." That's *not* a metaphor.
I find Christopher's family entirely realistic in the modern context. I think it's realistic that his Mother felt trapped by taking care of him, and envious of her husband's ease of managing him. The partner swap is maybe a little too soap-opera. And lastly, it's realistic that there is no resolution for his parents' relationship, but they do work together to ensure the best possible for Christopher.
But that's not how my family would've handled it. I'm not too conservative - over the years I've become a fan of non-traditional families (and, in all honesty, desensitized to and sympathetic of having affairs), but Christopher's family makes me sad. It troubles me how much a person has to give up to care for their child. I don't think I could ever handle such a responsibility - what a daunting thing it could be to bring a life into the world! It also troubles me that Ed showed no mercy to Judy even though they both had Christopher's best interests at heart. You'd think that, if she was his wife, if they both still love the child they brought into the world, he'd let her stay in the house. I don't know, it's not very realistic, and I'm not talking in terms of romance, but my family would have different values in this situation, and I'm ashamed to say that my rebellious ways would probably make me shirk duty (to the child and to one another), and my parents wouldn't.
And last of all, the book is a well-presented argument, but it is JUST a well-presented argument. I learned from Christopher, but I would not grow in him. That is the difference between a stand-alone piece of this sort, and a true classic like Anne, or Jane Austen, or even - I daresay - Harry Potter. And if I ever made it, I do not know what kind of writer I should prefer to be, after all.
I have high praise for this book. The writing is easy and approachable. The book is clear, in purpose and execution, too - it is like a very well-formulated, clearly illustrated essay. It is exactly one idea that has been completely fleshed out: everything in the book works. The plot was unexpected, unpredictable, and so the suspense is part of what makes this book such an engaging read. I did not know that the trivial scene of a dead dog would blow into such a drama. At first I doubted whether the incident was real, or a deranged figment of Christopher's imagination. I questioned the timeline. I expected it to have a different catch, really, one deeper and more psychological. I hardly thought it would be a family drama, so I can see how it makes for dramatic film material with a unique perspective. I really expected Christopher to get caught when he ran away, but I can see how well it works that he succeeded in his quest to London. I think the ending is realistic, but a little flat and "factual" after the intrigue of all the other chapters. It lacks Christopher's unique voice, and is too motivational.
This book made me reflect upon and become more deeply convinced of some things: one, that there is truth in stories. I would learn more about autism reading this, or watching its film rendition, than a thousand textbooks or an "awareness" pamphlet. Literature arouses compassion, and changes lives. And that is why I would really like to write.
Also, I can see how I'm... not autistic, but has the germs of it. I'm not truly affectionate and I'm selective about physical contact. I have trouble deciphering facial expressions (and I actually have trouble remembering faces, but that's another story.) I like logic, but I share Christopher's implicit convictions... or superstitions about signs for good and bad days. My memory is fairly remarkable, and I detest it when furniture is moved. I could not talk or eat for extended periods. My world is so delicate that very little could make me erect a wall to protect it and to shut out what hurts or frightens me.
Perhaps that is Haddon's best achievement: to make autism so accessible and easy to relate to. I'll think twice from now on about the crazy man in the subway. The prime numbers, observation (like the billboards in London - oh how nostalgic this makes me for London!), the Hound of Baskervilles book report, the lists, his Mom's spelling mistakes and the slightly awkward turns of phrase like "do sex" really make it real.
Haddon's math and logic does have flaws though, and I do nitpick. For instance, if Christopher's fear of his father and his feeling of safety are an inverse relationship, fear(constant)≠ fear(father) x safety. it would be fear(father) / safety. And Christopher says he does not like metaphors, but at the very end he describes the pain of missing his A-levels like putting a finger on the radiator. That's a metaphor. What Haddon means is that Christopher doesn't get idioms and common expressions, like "you're the apple of my eye." That's *not* a metaphor.
I find Christopher's family entirely realistic in the modern context. I think it's realistic that his Mother felt trapped by taking care of him, and envious of her husband's ease of managing him. The partner swap is maybe a little too soap-opera. And lastly, it's realistic that there is no resolution for his parents' relationship, but they do work together to ensure the best possible for Christopher.
But that's not how my family would've handled it. I'm not too conservative - over the years I've become a fan of non-traditional families (and, in all honesty, desensitized to and sympathetic of having affairs), but Christopher's family makes me sad. It troubles me how much a person has to give up to care for their child. I don't think I could ever handle such a responsibility - what a daunting thing it could be to bring a life into the world! It also troubles me that Ed showed no mercy to Judy even though they both had Christopher's best interests at heart. You'd think that, if she was his wife, if they both still love the child they brought into the world, he'd let her stay in the house. I don't know, it's not very realistic, and I'm not talking in terms of romance, but my family would have different values in this situation, and I'm ashamed to say that my rebellious ways would probably make me shirk duty (to the child and to one another), and my parents wouldn't.
And last of all, the book is a well-presented argument, but it is JUST a well-presented argument. I learned from Christopher, but I would not grow in him. That is the difference between a stand-alone piece of this sort, and a true classic like Anne, or Jane Austen, or even - I daresay - Harry Potter. And if I ever made it, I do not know what kind of writer I should prefer to be, after all.
Monday, January 19, 2009
HP3 (also HP1 and HP2)
HP3 is definitely the most coherent book in the series. Everything fits. There's huballoo in the beginning over a convict, Black, amongst Muggles and wizards alike. Padfoot appears, and McGonagall's first lesson is about the Animagi. Hermione's timetable require a time turner. Hagrid's Hippogriff in the first lesson is a major part of the plot. Crookshanks and Scabbers... of course, and Ron and Hermione's fight is the natural consequence. Harry hears his parents for the first time, and the story is all about his dad's friendships. The Marauder's Map is all about his dad's friends. And everything, everything is resolved in the end.
There isn't a single extraneous element in the story. Everything works together.
To add to that, Lupin is one of JKR's best creations I think - someone who is so likeable, kind, and confident. There's a happy beginning with the sunny days in Diagon Alley, and a happy ending. Easily the most heartwarming book.
In the other books so far, I think the Dobby storyline is extraneous to HP2, and HP1 I never "get" because there's so much going on. The Dragon incident is a climax in itself, but it's not the real climax and takes away from it. The unicorn and the Forbidden Forest fiasco takes away from the climax, too, I think. HP1's ending disappoints me because Harry is simply physically saved from Quirrell by Dumbledore, and a pile of housepoints are awarded to an incident which the rest of the school hasn't even witnessed. HP1 has a strong exposition, I think, but the ending is too glossed over. HP2 is more coherent than HP1, and would be perfect if there was no Dobby - although then I guess Dobby would have to wait until Book 4.
There isn't a single extraneous element in the story. Everything works together.
To add to that, Lupin is one of JKR's best creations I think - someone who is so likeable, kind, and confident. There's a happy beginning with the sunny days in Diagon Alley, and a happy ending. Easily the most heartwarming book.
In the other books so far, I think the Dobby storyline is extraneous to HP2, and HP1 I never "get" because there's so much going on. The Dragon incident is a climax in itself, but it's not the real climax and takes away from it. The unicorn and the Forbidden Forest fiasco takes away from the climax, too, I think. HP1's ending disappoints me because Harry is simply physically saved from Quirrell by Dumbledore, and a pile of housepoints are awarded to an incident which the rest of the school hasn't even witnessed. HP1 has a strong exposition, I think, but the ending is too glossed over. HP2 is more coherent than HP1, and would be perfect if there was no Dobby - although then I guess Dobby would have to wait until Book 4.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Confessions, St. Augustine
I'm reading Augustine of Hippo's Confessions, because I think it would be good for me. I have read it once before, summarily. I believe (I could be mistaken) that Augustine is considered rational by philosophers, and that his Confessions is an intellectual piece of conversion literature. I am reading it slowly, because I want to really process the somewhat dense text.
Book 1
You can imagine my surprise when the first chapter begins: "Man is one of your creatures, Lord, and his instinct is to praise you."
I think a non-believer would find that difficult to relate to and presumptuous. Even I think it's quite an assumption. Augustine doesn't explain why he believes man will instinctively praise and glorify God, and will never be happy unless they worship him. Instead, he wonders if it is necessary to know God to pray to him, or if through prayer we come to know him. Yes, the methodology should be discussed, although I think it's fine either way. What surprised me was that Augustine really does accept the basic truth of Christianity from the outset and does not question it, but is seeking guidance to be a better follower, and thus to truly turn to God.
Yet as I read on, perhaps spurred by growing up in Catholic doctrine, perhaps by the events of the past few days when I wanted to openly thank God for a few good tidings in my life, I found myself agreeing with him that yes, those who find God will praise him. But if Augustine's intention is to explain and convert, I don't see how these assertions answer the purpose.
Then Augustine says that, throughout his childhood (even from infancy), he was a sinner: vain, disobedient, non-studious, given to overindulging in his own dreams and emotions. In fact, he thinks that a baby's cry is sinful, because should an adult cry for food he would be regarded as abnormal. That seems like an illogical comparison: he even acknowledges it is the norm for babies to cry and adults not to. He also claims that just as people know reading and writing is more valuable than daydreams, obedience to God is better than indulging in fantasy. Says who that literacy is worth more than imagination? Finally, he asserts throughout that his attachment to worldly things makes him sin and distances him from God. I have always struggled with this doctrine. For instance, in one section he claims that studiousness is good, in the next that his pride in his intellect is bad. Okay, I get that his intelligent makes him arrogant and unkind, but you can't blame that on worldly attachment in one chapter, and say that dreams (not academic intelligence) was worldly attachment in the last. I think Augustine is advocating some things here: humility, and restraint, two things that are not easily found in a world that values humility and self-indulgence. Well, I like the world and I find many things in it intellectually stimulating. I'd like to win my way into it. And like Augustine, I've grown up Catholic so I feel guilty about my wanton lust for everything luxury (success, romance, intellect) in life. But I can't see how it's wrong to seek success in this world that God created. This is the gap I can't leap: that it is better to be humble and content, I hate the thought of being mediocre and complacent and I'm not sure my faith can make me happy about forfeiting ambition. I know Augustine has equal trouble renouncing his self-destructive ways, so I'll see what he thinks, but I still can't see why he can so easily accept it's a sin.
Book 1
You can imagine my surprise when the first chapter begins: "Man is one of your creatures, Lord, and his instinct is to praise you."
I think a non-believer would find that difficult to relate to and presumptuous. Even I think it's quite an assumption. Augustine doesn't explain why he believes man will instinctively praise and glorify God, and will never be happy unless they worship him. Instead, he wonders if it is necessary to know God to pray to him, or if through prayer we come to know him. Yes, the methodology should be discussed, although I think it's fine either way. What surprised me was that Augustine really does accept the basic truth of Christianity from the outset and does not question it, but is seeking guidance to be a better follower, and thus to truly turn to God.
Yet as I read on, perhaps spurred by growing up in Catholic doctrine, perhaps by the events of the past few days when I wanted to openly thank God for a few good tidings in my life, I found myself agreeing with him that yes, those who find God will praise him. But if Augustine's intention is to explain and convert, I don't see how these assertions answer the purpose.
Then Augustine says that, throughout his childhood (even from infancy), he was a sinner: vain, disobedient, non-studious, given to overindulging in his own dreams and emotions. In fact, he thinks that a baby's cry is sinful, because should an adult cry for food he would be regarded as abnormal. That seems like an illogical comparison: he even acknowledges it is the norm for babies to cry and adults not to. He also claims that just as people know reading and writing is more valuable than daydreams, obedience to God is better than indulging in fantasy. Says who that literacy is worth more than imagination? Finally, he asserts throughout that his attachment to worldly things makes him sin and distances him from God. I have always struggled with this doctrine. For instance, in one section he claims that studiousness is good, in the next that his pride in his intellect is bad. Okay, I get that his intelligent makes him arrogant and unkind, but you can't blame that on worldly attachment in one chapter, and say that dreams (not academic intelligence) was worldly attachment in the last. I think Augustine is advocating some things here: humility, and restraint, two things that are not easily found in a world that values humility and self-indulgence. Well, I like the world and I find many things in it intellectually stimulating. I'd like to win my way into it. And like Augustine, I've grown up Catholic so I feel guilty about my wanton lust for everything luxury (success, romance, intellect) in life. But I can't see how it's wrong to seek success in this world that God created. This is the gap I can't leap: that it is better to be humble and content, I hate the thought of being mediocre and complacent and I'm not sure my faith can make me happy about forfeiting ambition. I know Augustine has equal trouble renouncing his self-destructive ways, so I'll see what he thinks, but I still can't see why he can so easily accept it's a sin.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
HP1
Upon rereading I think HP1 is more well-written than I remember. I still stand by that while I think JKR's imagination is extraordinary, her powers of description could be improved upon. The exposition, with the Dursley and their horror of anything extraordinary, is excellent. (In my opinion, easily the best part of the book and a classic way of beginning a story, although according to JKR's website it's not very popular: http://www.jkrowling.com/textonly/en/extrastuff_view.cfm?id=1) Harry's life with the Dursleys is pretty unrealistic. The characterization, though, is realistic: Harry, Ron, and Hermione are all realistic people. I still think most of them are caricatures, like Jane Austen characters. I still don't understand how Harry's adventures in this first book made such a sensation, though. At around 10 years old, I would have liked the details of the story - Quidditch, dragons, owls, etc. - but I wouldn't have been very keen by the plot to find out what's being hidden in the castle. And I think Dumbledore's rescue of Harry from Quirrell is a bit of a cop-out.
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