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.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
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.
"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.
Friday, February 06, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
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.)
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.
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.
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.
Monday, February 02, 2009
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?
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?
Sunday, February 01, 2009
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.
"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.
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