So how was the book?

A Year in Reviews

2013-01-04T09:33:00.002-08:00

Besides writing reviews for my own pleasure, I also write them for Kirkus Reviews. I get the "indie" or self-published books, which are quite a mixed bag. Since Dec. 29, 2011, I've written 62 reviews. A few reflections...

I've learned that truly bad novels are fun to laugh at and easy to review, truly good novels are very few and an honor to review, and hardest of all are mediocre romance-y kinda books where I pretty much hate the characters and their supermarket-aisle-magazine values because they're boring and stupid, but I can't just say that and be done with it.

I've come to hate: "smirked," overworked synonyms for "said," the phrase "broke the kiss," "matching' as synonymous with good taste, characters who fall in love because they're both hot and that's about it, frequent mention of brand names cool or uncool, male writers leering at their female characters, lurid descriptions of child abuse even/especially if true, self-involved hipsters, and vampires.

I love: writers. Even the bad ones are trying, and are not deliberately out to bore me and piss me off. The good ones? You are my life's chief delight. Thanks for getting the words out of your head and onto paper.

Young Romantics: the tangled lives of English poetry's greatest generation, by Daisy Hay

2012-10-19T10:24:00.002-07:00

This book focuses on the Shelley/Keats/Byron circle, which first took shape as a group supporting journalist Leigh Hunt (the original for Harold Skimpole in Bleak House). Though Hunt later becomes a tangential, even denounced figure, the principle of sociability he represents is important, Hay writes, to understanding sociability in general among the later Romantics (those coming after Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Blake).

Other important members of the fluidly changing groups discussed in the book are Claire Clairmont, Mary Shelley's sister and (for a time) Byron's mistress. She was very much part of the Shelley menage, accompanying Mary when she ran off at age 16 with Shelley. Other figures include Hazlitt, the Lambs, Thomas Love Peacock, and musician Vincent Novello. The book locates these Romantic figures in the context of their relationships with, between, and among one another. Hay does an especially good job of showing how Shelley, Mary, and Byron would, in some rented villa or another in Italy or Switzerland, spend the days wandering, sailing, picnicking, playing with the children, and then getting together at night to read and listen to each other's work.

The book also makes clear what a raw deal "free love" was for the women in the group. Claire Clairmont, young and hungry for love, threw herself at Byron and became pregnant. By the laws of the time, he as father was entitled to custody of the daughter, and he forced penniless Claire to hand over the 15-month-girl she doted on--just so Byron could ignore her and eventually stick her in a convent, when she was only four years old. Claire begged and pleaded to take care of her own daughter and get her out of the convent's unhealthy situation, but Byron ignored her, and the girl died at 5 from typhus.

Hay wants us to focus on the nature of shifting relationships and sociability, but my overwhelming impression was that when young men philosophize about radical politics, free love, life on the road, and all that, it's young women who suffer the heaviest consequences. Mary Shelley lost two small children in one year from illness and suffered greatly from depression, while Percy wrote self-pitying poems about how she was inexplicably cold to him. Claire was treated abominably. Shelley left his first wife, Harriet, for Mary, and she eventually drowned herself.

Keats, to me the most interesting poet of this group, gets little treatment in this book. He was too poor and too ill to really socialize much, and because he doesn't fit the author's thesis, we get little discussion of some of his greatest poems--The Eve of St. Agnes rates only a mention.

Hay takes us past the deaths of Keats, Shelley, and Byron to follow Mary and Claire and the remaining figures to the ends of their lives. It's interesting stuff--especially when Mary, a depressed, almost penniless widow returns to Britain and one of the first things she discovers is that Frankenstein is a huge hit as a stage production. But Hay's focus on "tangled lives" is as much about the fraying of that tangle by the end.

I found the emphasis on sociability to be of some, but limited interest, and would have liked more discussion of the poetry as such. Still, I learned a lot about the biographies of these fascinating and talented people, and would recommend the book to anyone interested in the period. I recommend it too for fascinating tidbits like the Novellos. Vincent Novello helped to found the London Philharmonic Society, and founded a publishing company whose central principle "was that music should be made available to all and not just those who could travel to London to hear it." It's thanks to a man like Novello that parlor piano music, that mainstay of Victorian musical evenings, became available and cheap. Now there's sociability.

The Journal of Beatrix Potter from 1881 to 1897

2012-03-02T10:13:00.002-08:00

Full title: The Journal of Beatrix Potter from 1881 to 1897, translated from her code writings by Leslie Linder. I think it's most unfortunately out of print; I got my copy from Amazon used books.

Beatrix started her journal when she was 15, and since there's nothing embarrassing in it, it's not clear why she developed a code (mostly simple substitution) except for more privacy. The book includes an explanation of how it was deciphered and plates showing her early and later styles. Other plates show photographs of Beatrix and family, places she lived, and her early artwork.

Victorian girls were supposed to be sweet, sentimental, feather-headed simpletons, and I love the contrasting picture that emerges here of young Beatrix: confident in her opinions, especially on art; interested in everything; full of common sense. At just 18, reflecting on religion, she wrote "Believe there is a great power silently working all things for our good, behave yourself and never mind the rest." Bracing!

Regarding prudery over nude pictures, she wrote (again at 18) "I do not see the slightest objection to nude pictures as a class, nor are they necessarily in the least more indecent than clothed ones. Indeed the ostentatious covering of certain parts only, merely showing that the painter considers there is something which should be concealed, is far worse than pure unabashed nudity. The shame of nakedness is for the naked, not the observer, and the pictures cannot feel." She is exactly right on the prurience of the half-clothed. Even when young, she refuses to praise what she doesn't like, disdaining Michaelangelo, for instance ("the colour was beautiful but painfully brilliant and hard").

She doesn't say much about her situation as a dependent except to remark a few times how nice it would be to have some money of her own, which seems to have been the chief motivation behind her books. Her wealthy parents kept her on a tight leash. She does reject the Victorian ideal of the Angel in the House (age 29): "There is supposed to be some angelic sentiment in tending the sick, but personally I should not associate angels with castor oil or emptying slops." Again, bracing.

Wherever she goes, she observes (sometimes in exhausting detail). People, landscape, customs, natural history, geology, fungi (a special interest), and always animals. She worries about badly kept livestock, delights in the antics of her various pet animals, and considers the merits of, say, one kind of cow over another. When you read the journal, it's less surprising that the author of Peter Rabbit gave up writing and drawing in favor of husbandry. She used her proceeds to buy one farm, then another and more, and she eventually left a good deal of land to the National Trust, much of which is now the Lake District National Park.

Roger Sale, in his essay on Potter in Fairy Tales and After: From Snow White to E.B. White, comes away from the journal with the impression that Potter is as straitlaced and humorless as her parents, but I don't know how. She is often quite funny: the station-master at the family vacation spot "is under the delusion that our name is Potts; we are constantly and invariably taken for the servants, but Mrs. Donaldson did remark that she thought my father was a very gentlemanly man for a butler." Sale has a lot of good observations in that essay, but I think he misses something essential about Potter.

This is a delightful book for dipping in and out of. Not every section is riveting, but nearly every page holds something interesting and original. I very much want to read a good biography of her now, and especially learn more about her married life as Mrs. Heelis, breeding prize-winning sheep and preserving land in the Lake District.

Two short reviews

2012-01-22T09:53:00.002-08:00

I recently read Acme Novelty Library #20 by Chris Ware, a graphic story about "Jason Lint." Ware's style is amazing. It starts off in Jason's baby eyes very blocky, with big halftone dots, then gradually becomes more realistic and flowing as he grows up, though there's always a squared-off quality to his drawing. Lint is not a likeable character but the way Ware tells his story is.

One big problem, though, is that the repro is just too small. Even with my +1 reading glasses, some of the writing was teeny tiny. This is a problem I've had before with Drawn + Quarterly Press, who I love for publishing great comic artists like Ware and Lynda Barry, but who I want to shake for making them too small to read!

I also read The Swerve: How the World Became Modern by Stephen Greenblatt. It's a highly praised Pulitzer Prize-winner, about how Lucretius' poem On the Nature of Things was rediscovered by Poggio in the 15th century. The poem sums up ideas like atomism and atheism that seem very modern today, and were fresh air to a culture still caught up in orthodoxy and inquisition.

After reading the book I know much more about Poggio, the state of Renaissance book-collecting, the history of libraries, how manuscripts were copied, along with Renaissance politics and especially Epicurean philosophy. But of course the world didn't become modern in one swerve or with one book, so it's irritating that Greenblatt sets the expectation he'll be able to make that argument.

As for the poem itself, he sums it up, but it was frustrating to keep hearing how elegant and gorgeous it was with maybe one little example to go by. He says several times that it was the poem's literary qualities that excited the book collectors as much or more than its content--so why not discuss those qualities in depth? That might be hard to do for a poem in classical Latin, but then one wonders, why keep bringing it up.

Agnes Grey by Anne Brontë

2012-01-22T09:53:00.000-08:00

It's very much the less talented sister's version of Jane Eyre, stripped down as a simple governess romance. Agnes, a put-upon governess, falls in love with Mr. Weston, a curate, and must wait patiently until he declares himself--that's pretty much the whole story. For me the real tension in the novel isn't romantic, it's spiritual. How will Agnes learn to bear her life? Like Anne herself, with patience and submission.

Governessing involved hard work, or social isolation, and a job where you're supposed to raise children while having no authority over them. Her helplessness pains her the most, and I thought this was interesting, when it comes to animals. She hates the mean-spirited cruelty of her charges, like the boy who enjoys taking nestlings and ripping them apart alive, and finds her highest courage in standing up for innocent creatures. She's one herself, of course, as encoded in her name--Agnes means "lamb."

Agnes isn't always likeable, as when she frets over the eternal souls of the children she watches, because they act like children. A six-year-old girl loves being told she's pretty, "which I had instructed her to regard as dust in the balance compared with the cultivation of her mind and manners." It's not hard to see why these children might not like their governess and make a point of teasing her. She has class issues--she resents having to call an 11-year-old Master Bloomfield--but doesn't even notice that she herself calls an elderly cottager Nancy, not Mrs. Brown.

Reading this novel reminds me what a powerful achievement Jane Eyre was--that Charlotte Brontë could make Jane so much her own person and an actor in her own life. It also reminds me, though, what a fantasy of governessing Thornfield Hall is, with just one child to teach and a biddable one at that, and consideration made within the household for Jane's comfort and convenience. Not so in this novel. At one point Agnes is a guest, kind of, in a former ward's house, stuck in her room, not knowing when to come to dinner because there's no clock in her room and she "was not rich enough to possess a watch." That kind of detail makes Agnes Grey an interesting, and more realistic, read.

Singled Out

2011-12-11T12:19:00.000-08:00

Singled Out: How Two Million British Women Survived Without Men after the First World War by Virginia Nicholson (2008)

The 1921 Census in Great Britain revealed some 1.75 million “surplus women,” those left single because the men they might have married had been slaughtered on the battlefields of World War I. At a time when the only acceptable fate for a woman was marriage and child-raising, how did surplus women cope? In her fascinating, utterly compelling social history, Virginia Nicholson examines contemporary accounts, memoirs, biographies, advice manuals, novels, and personal memories to find out. Many women suffered poverty, loneliness, and social disapproval. But, Nicholson shows, many also found new opportunities for financial and personal independence—and happiness.

A woman’s destiny was to get married and have children. But after the war, there were simply not enough men to go around, and those remaining had their pick. If you were unlucky enough to be left on the shelf, that was it: no husband, no social status, no children, and often, penury. Working class jobs were grueling and underpaid. Middle- and upper-class women, who grew up assuming they’d be supported by their husbands (and learning little beyond water-colors and conversational Italian), found few opportunities for making money. Jobs were for men, at least when the soldiers returned from war.

British society offered some sympathy to surplus women, but also contempt. Despite the shortage of men, spinsters were assumed simply to have failed to attract a husband—and such a woman was a complete failure. Bereaved and lonely, unable to have love and sex without great risk, she was often mocked as a sour, frustrated, dried-up spinster. She couldn’t win.

But she could cope. Nicholson discusses the many strategies such women adopted to combat loneliness in fulfilling ways, and quotes from contemporary diaries and memoirs to show that, often, these strategies worked well. For example, a woman who loved children could become a beloved nanny, often closer to her charges than their own parents. Single women could share digs and become lifelong friends (or sometimes more). They could pursue their own interests.

As the social landscape changed between the wars, determined women banged on the doors of politics, science, business, social work, and other professions. Nicholson draws from many autobiographies and memories to illuminate the lives of some pretty amazing women. Her variety of sources is wonderfully helpful in showing the spectrum of possibilities for single women. Especially open were the worlds of academia and Bohemia; women with intelligence, talent, and enough money to get by could live surprisingly independent, powerful lives, and did not at all regret missing out on housework and childcare. They drew their happiness from success.

“Surplus” women, Nicholson also suggests, often benefited society rather than becoming the drain on it that contemporary commenters feared. Many well-educated single women of the time became superb teachers for the next generation, probably better teachers than most students get today. It was a golden age for social work and the caring professions, which drew in unmarried women in great numbers, and they had enormous influence. Many women’s lives were greatly diminished by not having men to marry, but, Nicholson shows, many found unexpected freedom and power for the same reason.

________________________________________________

Although they don’t detract from the book’s useful and riveting account, a few problems exist. Nicholson doesn’t spell out some unfamiliar acronyms like VAD, PEN, and ICI. The first is for Voluntary Aid Detachment, the field nursing service; the second, I think but couldn’t determine for sure, is PEN International, an NGO that’s originally short for Poets, Essayists, and Novelists; as for ICI, where Bessie Webster worked—even Google couldn’t help me there. I found the occasional infelicity, like the women who “had sex with men, and in some cases children.”

When Nicholson turns to literary sources for illustration, her remarks can be ill-considered. For example, she’s most unfair to Dorothy L. Sayers, citing her indelible “image of the academic spinster . . . as a round-shouldered woman in a yellow djibbah,” but ignoring the wonderful Miss Climpson, whose energy and intelligence are highly valuable to Lord Peter, and he knows it. And Miss Marple as any kind of failure? She’s a woman to be reckoned with, just like Miss Climpson. If they get away with a lot because society writes them off as old maids, that’s part of the point. And Nicholson quite misunderstands the typist in The Waste Land, calling her “pretentious.”

However, Nicholson does discuss many contemporary novels now little known today and that reveal much about conditions for women of the time. I do wish she’d included Winifred Watson’s Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (1938), which would have been a perfect illustration of the hard-up lady’s companion type who finds happiness in an unusual, creative way, partly through breaking class boundaries—this would have fit in well with her argument. But that’s a quibble. Her bibliography for those wishing further research is highly useful. This was a terrific, eminently readable, valuable book.

Charles Dickens: A Life by Claire Tomalin

2011-12-06T13:45:00.000-08:00

Works on Charles Dickens are sprouting up like weeds lately, no doubt at least in part because of the upcoming bicentennial of his birth on Feb. 2, 2012. Claire Tomalin and Robert Douglas-Fairhurst have both just published new biographies, and these follow several recent ones: Peter Ackroyd's 1991 Dickens and Michael Slater's 2009 Charles Dickens. I read the Ackroyd, which was strange in places, but valuable and evocative of the man's complexities.

I've just read Tomalin's 2011 Charles Dickens: A Life, and the first most obvious question is, why a new biography at all? This book cries out for an author's introduction explaining what's new about her outlook, her evidence, her sources, or whatever. But none is given. (Luckily for readers, the New York Times reviewer David Gates nicely summarizes the Dickens biography situation in his review "Being Charles Dickens."

What I found most valuable was Tomalin's attention towards Catherine Dickens and Ellan Ternan. The biographies I've read before don't give much sense of poor Catherine, calling her "shadowy" or "passive" and having done with it. Tomalin shows how hard it was to stand up to Dickens, and shows Catherine's good nature--her kind, pleasant nature, her love of puns, her fortitude in all the difficult Victorian travel they did.

Tomalin has written before about Ellen Ternan in Invisible Woman: The Story of Nelly Ternan and Charles Dickens. She provides a good deal of strong evidence to show how deeply they were involved, even (perhaps; Tomalin makes it seem likely) having a baby who died in infancy. This relationship is something other biographies tend to skim over, and Ackroyd even maintains that Dickens and Ternan probably never consummated their relationship. Anyone weighing the evidence will want to read Tomalin's account.

Tomalin's scholarship, while admirable, can become tiresome. Dickens traveled frequently, and Tomalin seemingly records every train trip, every ferry crossing. Details of the publishing process, copyright law, and so on were less than riveting.

Tomalin obviously loves Dickens's writing, and she also provides useful, thoughtful summaries of his works. While she never looks away from his considerable faults, she understands what makes him irresistible to readers. "He left a trail like a meteor, and everyone finds their own version of Charles Dickens." And perhaps that helps explain why all the biographies, 142 years after his death.

Sandman Slim by Richard Kadrey (2009)

2011-12-05T09:49:00.001-08:00

The first punk-noir novel I can think of, Sandman Slim imagines a world where some people have magical abilities, and James Stark’s have been honed by 11 years fighting off demons in Hell. Now escaped, Stark has some serious scores to settle with the ex-friends who put him there. The story plays out in a traditional noir setting, Los Angeles, but here it’s a magician gang fight being battled out among L.A.’s gritty alleyways and expensive private clubs.

Lots of this novel is great fun and I want to read the next one. But I had a lot of trouble with the hero (we never learn why his other name is Sandman Slim). He’s as much of a haughty snob as are the rich fucks he despises; it’s just a different set of sensibilities, punk-approved. Chuck Taylors instead of Ferragamos. Motocross jackets instead of London tailoring. Girls with green hair and tattoos instead of being body-sculpted and waxed.

But Stark occasionally shows some insight, and I had to remind myself that he’s stuck emotionally at age 19, when he entered Hell and then spent 11 years being abused by demons: not a great developer of character. And he has a moral compass in his lost girlfriend Alice, reminding himself that Alice wouldn’t like it if he did this or that. Also, it’s again traditionally noir for the hero to be compromised in some way. He does seem somewhat changed at the end, more aware of his own faults and ready to be less angry at the world.

Infelicities in the book include lots and lots of typos, such as three or four instances of “bought” for “brought.” Three references to the Beverly Hillbillies to indicate lameness—really? Nothing more up to date than a show that’s been off the air since 1971? Also, I felt the gladiatorial arena in Hell perhaps owed something to Kage Baker’s similar theme in her 2008 novel The House of the Stag, where the hero similarly fights almost impossible battles with hellish opponents to please his owner.

In all: Fun, not perfect, and I’ll read the next one.

Blabber Blabber Blabber: Volume 1 of Everything by Lynda Barry

2011-12-02T09:36:00.000-08:00

Drawn + Quarterly Press has been publishing Lynda Barry, my favorite cartoonist, for some years. Now they're putting out collections of her early work, some of it long out of print, in Blabber Blabber Blabber: Volume 1 of Everything, comics from 1978-81.

I used to have all Barry's books beginning with Girls and Boys, but sold most of book collection when I was out of money in the early 90s. Getting these back again, plus a lot of her weekly strip Ernie Pook’s Comeek, is a real treat.

Also a treat is Barry's illustrated introduction where she talks about how her drawing style developed. I especially liked her distinction between "sweet" (like Peter Max) and "bitter" (like Robert Crumb) and how she needed to reach a bittersweet style for better expressing what was true to her.

You can see her line changing drastically through the book, yet always retaining something that's Lynda Barry. Her characters also change quite a bit: early on, a lot more grownups and adult romantic difficulties than her current work, which is almost entirely from a childhood point of view. Re-reading these strips made me wish she'd explore more grownup themes in her work.

Not all of her early work is especially strong, and I was baffled by such repeated themes as the six-inch-tall person on the breakfast table. Some of it is just "Huh?" If you're a devoted Barry reader, like me, the book will be most valuable for how it shows the development of a great artist.

A quibble: The publishers chose a rectangular format that fits with the recent Barry books on writing and drawing, but since her comics are square, this means a lot of wasted space and squeezed-in panels with tiny writing.

The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness by Elyn R. Saks

2011-11-28T12:14:00.000-08:00

For anyone, Elyn Saks’s accomplishments would be impressive: multiple degrees from distinguished schools including Vanderbilt, Oxford University, and Yale Law School, plus a PhD in psychoanalysis; four books published and many articles; and important awards, including the MacArthur “genius grant.” Saks did all this while suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. Her story is nothing short of astonishing.

Saks’s descriptions of her delusions and crazy behavior are fascinating and sad. She alarms people by asking “Have you ever killed anyone?” or saying “You are the devil. You are trying to kill me. I am evil. I’ve killed you three times today. I can do it again.” At times she is floridly psychotic, even forcibly committed and put in restraints. (This leaves such an impression that she’s devoted a good part of her professional life to examining issues of consent with mental patients.)

As Saks explains it, the fundamental characteristic of schizophrenia is confusion between what’s real and what’s not, like the feeling when you wake up from a nightmare and aren’t sure yet if it’s over. As crazy as her delusions sound, it takes many years for Saks to accept that they are delusions, not the same things everyone else thinks but doesn’t say. She figures they just have better self-control than she does.

In fact, Saks is amazingly self-controlled, strong, and self-disciplined. She can maintain order and sanity in her life, and being immersed in the work she loves helps keep her sane. Ironically, though—and to me this is one of the most interesting themes in the book—her refusal to surrender keeps her sicker longer. Even when she can be persuaded to take antipsychotic drugs at all, for years she lowers the dose at the first opportunity, despite many, many experiences of getting better at higher doses. After much she work, she can finally accept that yes, she is schizophrenic, and yes, she needs meds.

Slowly, and with the help of talk therapy, Saks does find balance in her life, even meeting someone to love who loves her back. She’s married now, and has good friends too, and that made me want to stand up and cheer. She’s never going to be not schizophrenic, but she has a way to live with it now, and I’m so glad for her.

Sybil Exposed: The Extraordinary Story Behind the Famous Multiple Personality Case by Debbie Nathan (2011)

2011-11-21T15:52:00.000-08:00

I was 10, in the summer of 1974, when I first read Sybil, utterly fascinated and horrified. (My mother told me to skip the abuse sections, but of course I didn’t.) I re-read it many times over in years to come, and anything else I could find about multiple-personality disorder. As nearly everyone did, I accepted uncritically Flora Rheta Schreiber’s account of Sybil’s illness and recovery under Dr. Cornelia Wilbur. The story made beautifully dramatic sense: A severely abused child who is also intelligent, sensitive, and creative could unconsciously save herself from being destroyed by trauma. She could split herself into separate personalities with separate memories and life experiences, each personality having a role in remembering certain events, expressing forbidden feelings, and otherwise protecting the core self. Through emotional confrontations with the repressed past, and with the help of a caring therapist, the patient could integrate into one whole, healthy person.

Except that’s not what happened, as journalist Debbie Nathan explains in Sybil Exposed. The exposé here is not really of Sybil herself (real name: Shirley Mason), but of “Sybil” the created product. (There was even talk, after the book’s success, of a Sybil board game, T-shirt, dolls.) Nathan lays bare how, in their different ways, Wilbur, Schreiber, and Mason each needed and contributed to the MPD narrative. Both Wilbur and Schreiber had reputations to make. Wilbur had been wanting an MPD patient; it was a rare diagnosis, a fascinating one, and she felt she could help. Schreiber was tired of writing fluff pieces for women’s magazines and needed a juicy yet serious subject. Mason desperately wanted love and attention, and her diagnosis guaranteed lots of that. Especially when Wilbur started shooting her up with truth serum in hours-long sessions several times a week, demanding to know who had hurt Shirley.

Besides the Pentothal, other drugs Wilbur prescribed include Seconal, Demerol, Dexamyl, Miltown, Edrisal, and Thorazine. She also made house calls, sometimes to inject Pentothal, sometimes with a portable electroshock box:

Connie would carry her apparatus to Shirley’s apartment and climb in bed with her. She would clamp the paddles to Shirley’s temples, twirl the dials, press the buttons. Shirley’s body would arch and crash with convulsions . . . . Connie was relentless, administering Pentothal round the clock.

Of course, we know now that “truth serum” is more likely to produce rambling flights of fancy, but Wilbur was convinced that every word was gospel. When Mason finally wrote a long letter to her doctor saying she had been lying because she’d been distraught and didn’t even know how she came up with these terrible accusations about her mother, Wilbur called it a defensive maneuver. Wilbur cued her intelligent, suggestible, and needy young patient until she got what she wanted, and rewarded her with hugs, gifts, and money, sometimes paying her rent, getting her jobs, sometimes living with her, going on vacations with her, and other shocking boundary violations that would never be accepted today.

Nathan makes depressingly clear that poor Shirley Mason was made far worse by Wilbur’s treatment. She did need help. Since childhood, she’d been troubled, unhappy, and anxious. Artistically gifted, she was burdened by her parents’ extremely strict Seventh-Day Adventist beliefs, which forbade imaginative play, fictional stories, and art done in non-realistic colors. A lonely only child, she invented imaginary playmates; this too was a sin, but she couldn’t stop herself from escaping into pretend adventures with Vicky and Sam. Sometimes she became so involved she couldn’t remember what was real and what was fantasy. By the time she started seeing Wilbur regularly, Mason had had a lifetime of dreaming up other selves and imagining heroic adventures.

Schreiber never mentions this in the book. Nor does she mention that no one in Mason’s tiny hometown, where everyone knows everyone, could corroborate the savage abuse described in Sybil. Yes, Mattie (“Hattie” in the book) was a bit nervous and strange, and when depressed would ignore her daughter. But no one had a story about her wandering around the neighborhood defecating on people’s lawns. Not a single rumor about the teenage lesbian orgy in the woods Sybil supposedly witnessed. Dodge Center doesn’t even have woods. Although the TV movie claims that doctor’s records validate scars from sexual abuse, no such records were found.

Near the end of the book, we learn that Wilbur mentions in passing that one reason Mason was always so tired is that she had pernicious anemia. The symptoms? Exactly those Mason went into treatment for, including depression, anxiety, headaches, mood swings, hallucinations, and confusion about identity. If she’d just taken some vitamin B12, instead of having MPD iatrogenically produced through powerful, addictive drugs and a dangerously enmeshed psychiatrist, she could most likely have lived a much happier, healthier, more independent life. Schreiber and Wilbur made their careers on her. Mason died nearly penniless. If she’d been willing to sell her paintings as Sybil, she’d have had plenty to live on. But she refused.

As for why, besides inherent fascination, Sybil became a huge bestseller and introduced a new psychiatric diagnosis, Nathan says it’s about female identity after the sexual revolution and how the book was published during a time in history when women were experiencing fragmented selves, needing to integrate their roles as wife, mother, professional, and so on. Maybe; Mason wouldn't be the first woman to be wrongly diagnosed because a woman's symptoms must indicate hysteria. I don’t think you have to look that far, though. The idea that the one who is supposed to love you best is actually a frightening monster out to get you has its own inherent fascination—one that doesn’t need a push from historical currents. After all, I had no role confusion at age 10, and I was agog. It’s ironic that the story of monster disguised as helper winds up being true after all, although the monster is named Doctor, not Mother.

The Spiral Staircase: My Climb out of Darkness by Karen Armstrong

2011-09-22T10:35:00.000-07:00

Karen Armstrong became a nun in 1962, when she was 17, and left the convent seven years later. She'd already written a memoir--since revised--about that experience, called Through the Narrow Gate. I read the unrevised (I think) edition years and years ago, so it was very interesting to read her reflections now on the nunnery and what happened when she left.

Her life wasn't easy afterward, particularly when it came to her epilepsy, which unbelievably enough went undiagnosed for years. She was told she was repressed, hysterical, oversensitive--and this, with a disease that's been described and known since antiquity. All those years of fearing she was going crazy, would wind up in a locked ward, for an illness she now manages well with medication! (Her previous doctors were just lucky that Britain isn't as malpractice-suit-happy as America.)

The spiral staircase image is from Eliot's poem "Ash-Wednesday," the first long poem he wrote after converting to Anglicism. The staircase, where it seems one is always returning to the same place and making no progress, but actually slowly ascending, signifies for Armstrong the pattern of her spiritual and emotional life.

Though she couldn't pray after leaving the convent, and couldn't feel any closeness or belief in God, religion was always her subject. After her failed attempt (in highly unfair circumstances) to get an Oxford doctorate--her topic was Tennyson--she wrote books and presented TV programs on subjects like Jerusalem, St. Paul, the Crusades, mystic poets, and one book titled The History of God: The 4000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.

But does she believe in God now, or what? Her answer is that these words are too small and limited for anything but a small and limited concept of God. She rejects the litmus test of "belief" and says of faith, paraphrasing theologian Cantwell Smith:

Quote:

Faith was really the cultivation of a conviction that life had some ultimate meaning and value, despite the tragic evidence to the contrary--an attitude also evoked by great art.

That doesn't mean you can believe anything you like. There is a test:

Quote:

The one and only test of a valid religious idea, doctrinal statement, spiritual experience, or devotional practice was that it must lead directly to practical compassion.

What largely led Armstrong to this point of view was writing The History of God. First, she found, she needed to write about Muhammed and Islam first, to understand it and to present a counternarrative to the hatred swirling around after Ayatollah Khomeini and the Salman Rushdie fatwa. No accessible life of the Prophet that Westerners could understand existed. So Armstrong wrote it.

To do so, she had to edit out her ego, she says, a practice that became, without her intent, spiritual, as she worked "to penetrate another culture and develop a wholly different way of looking at the world. It required a constant concentration of mind and heart that was in fact a type of meditation." And in writing her History of God, she finds this concentration to be central to all religions at their best and when unsullied by fear or politics.

The spiral staircase does seem an apt metaphor for Armstrong's life. As much as she longed to break free from the nunnery, everything about her life seems nun-like except for the obedience to authority.

Quote:

I tried to break away from the convent but I still live alone, spend my days in silence, and am almost wholly occupied in writing, thinking, and speaking about God and spirituality.

Indeed, a problem in the book is that Armstrong can seem bloodless even when she's suffering and lonely, as if she's someone without any strong carnal desires. (She dismisses her meager love life in a few paragraphs, and herself as a non-starter.) But then, she seldom gives herself sufficient credit for her powerful achievements.

Armstrong writes with great clarity about spiritual and human loneliness. Her account of a mind opening, an intellect finding its subject, and a spirit breaking free from oppression, is moving and thoughtful. Her understanding of faith and hope is blessedly free from pink-cloud sentiment. I'm really glad I read this.

The Notting Hill Mystery, Compiled by C. Felix, From the Papers of the Late R.H. Esq.

2011-08-17T09:25:00.000-07:00

Published as part of the British Library's historical collection; originally published in Once a Week, 1865.

This is a thriller detective novel in the form of letters, statements, a crime scene map, and journal extracts. They've been compiled by an insurance investigator to examine claims made by Baron R** following the mysterious death of his wife, Madame R**—a death closely linked to two others.

Madame R** drank poison while sleepwalking—but Baron R** is a well-known mesmerist. So did she die of her own will or of his? The narrator refuses to decide, so has laid out all the evidence for his readers to make a final judgment.

When, by page 29, I had already encountered mesmerism, sleepwalking, and a child stolen by gypsies, I figured I was in for a thumping good read in the manner of Wilkie Collins's thrillers. The Notting Hill Mystery actually predates 1868's The Moonstone, also an epistolary novel, and both books have been called "the first detective novel" in English. However, while I enjoyed the novel, it's clear why Collins is remembered and Felix is not.

With Collins, you have believable, varied characters with psychological complexity and a mystery that unravels as the novel goes on. Felix's characters are thin, just coat hangers for the few attributes to keep the story moving, like "jealous of family pride" or "weak constitution." Also, and worse, the heart of the mystery is laid out so early there's no real suspense. Every fresh document just adds weight to what we already have been told must be the solution--if you can accept the reality of mesmeric control. Otherwise you must accept some amazing coincidences. Either way, it's unsatisfying.

"Charles Felix" is a pseudonym, some think for Charles Warren Adams. He was a lawyer whose firm published another book by "Charles Felix" called Velvet Lawn.

The Biographer's Tale by A.S. Byatt

2011-07-05T09:46:00.001-07:00

The narrator, Phineas G. Nanson, is doing grad study in English literature (sometime in the 90s) and becomes disenchanted with the abstractions of literary theory, wanting something more thing-y to study, more real. An advisor recommends that Phineas investigate Scholes Destry-Scholes, magisterial biographer of a 17th-century explorer/scientist/diplomat.

Destry-Scholes, Phineas discovers, had written some biographical fragments--not all factual--of three different historical figures. Threads woven throughout include travel, exploration, natural history, drama, doubles, polymaths, and spiritual experiences.

In trying to track down facts and things related to his subject, Phineas finds himself going down some odd pathways, taking him more and more out of the library and into thing-ness, but never far away from magic, either. Like Darwin, Phineas finds literature losing appeal in favor of the natural world and its own magic.

The connection between biography and natural history, we come to see, is the magic of sorting, arranging, classification, taxonomy, order: how meaning is both discovered and made and named. (A fascinating bit involves some beautiful glass marbles and a list of names, with endless attempts to rearrange both names and marbles in a way that makes sense.) But our systems also have real-world effects, as a passionate bee taxonomist makes Phineas understand.

I'm making the book sound too remote and intellectual, but in fact it's deeply involving, as much as Phineas tries not to make the book about himself, and often quite funny. There's a strange and wonderful episode involving a sinister customer at the travel guide shop where Phineas works, for example. I loved this book.

I also loved it because this was all right up my alley: my PhD dissertation, had I written it, was going to be about literary biography and how biographers resconstruct lives, and bodies of work, in terms of literary genres like comedy, tragedy, farce, and so on. Byatt provides tons to chew on in considering the biographer's art, and the chewing is delicious.

The Hilliker Curse: My Pursuit of Women by James Ellroy

2011-04-11T09:21:00.000-07:00

This is a second memoir from Ellroy, following My Dark Places in 1996. I'm a fan of his L.A. noir crime novels; My Dark Places was a pretty fascinating investigation into Ellroy's childhood and his mother's murder when he was 10, something that's strongly shaped the rest of his life.

Hilliker was Ellroy's mother's maiden name, and the curse is that three months before her murder, he wished her dead during a big argument. He believes at some deep-down level that he's gotten what he wants in life at the cost of his mother's life.

A lot of this memoir retreads the same ground as My Dark Places, retailing Ellroy's creepy adolescence as a window peeper, shoplifter, and compulsive masturbator. And Ellroy's adulthood--even with him cleaned up, rich, and famous--is just as creepy.

It turns out that he spends most of non-work life holed up in dark rooms, listening to music and fantasizing about women. Sometimes they're real women; sometimes it's a woman he saw briefly once somewhere, and has constructed a whole fantasy around. Often they are, like his dead mother, tall and red-haired. On a book tour through Europe, he yanks the drapes shut in his Paris or Rome hotel room, turns off the lights, and "broods," because travel is stupid and boring compared to fantasizing.

Such arrogance always lies alongside Ellroy's frequent acknowledgements of being unlikeable, uncouth, selfish, and so on. He presents these qualities as if they have nothing to do with him, anymore than eye color or height.

He often talks about wanting to "contain" the women in his life (real or fantasy) and his fantasies overwhelmingly involve rescuing these women. It doesn't take Freud to see how this all connects back to his mother, to yearning for her and guilt for her. It also seems obvious that the one he wants contained is himself, all curled up in the dark as he is, in another of his womb-like rooms.

Ellroy is a talented novelist, but reading this book becomes increasingly creepy--and also just plain boring. For all the huge drama he puts around his obsessions, they never change. The next woman is always Her.

The Unnamed by Joshua Ferris (2010)

2011-03-23T11:01:00.001-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about this one. This book has been widely reviewed, so you probably know the plot: Tim, a successful lawyer, is smitten with a mysterious disease that compels him to take long walks, immediately and no matter where he is. He falls into a kind of trance on these walks, and finally falls asleep with exhaustion, wherever his legs lead him.

The first half is brilliant in its exploration of what it's like to have a chronic, mysterious disease. Tim's dilemma reminded me immediately of my own, much less extreme, experience with epilepsy, the sickening feeling after a seizure of it's back, I had another one. (And after I thought that, I find Ferris explicitly making the comparison.) Ferris perfectly evokes the gerbil-wheel frustrations of doctor visits, tests that show nothing, medication that doesn't work, and especially, the cruelty of disappointed hope.

Because Tim's condition has no cure. It's a great virtue in our society to never give up, and that expectation can be just a heavy a burden as the original disease--the idea that one must keep fighting no matter what. Ferris gets this so well, how when hopes have been crushed over and over, hopes are worse than having none.

Ferris makes Tim's condition extreme, I think, in order to explore the suffering we all experience because we're human and have bodies, needs, we can't escape from. Wherever you go--or however far you walk--there you are. Even Tim's literal at times mortification of the flesh can't separate soul from body. Anyone with a serious illness knows this in a way the healthy can't.

Because Ferris wants to explore this honestly, without false hopes or easy answers or God, he gets himself into a bind. I think that's why the second half of the novel is so unfocused, as aimless as Tim's wanderings. Every episode or ending that occurs to Ferris--Tim returns to his dying wife, Tim gets answers on an old client, Tim reconnects with his daughter, Tim for some reason reaches out to a security guard from his law building--fades away into nothing much. No epiphanies. No miracle cures.

Ferris's bind arises because he wants to be honest, and good storytelling is inherently dishonest in how it imposes a meaningful pattern. That's what we love stories for. They have a beginning, a middle, and an end, and each leads to the other and makes sense of the whole. But suffering doesn't make sense. It just is.

What Ferris says is true (the way I read it) but the problem is, noble truths like Buddha's "life is suffering--get over it" (loose translation) aren't very dramatic.

But I was amazed by this book. The word that kept coming to mind was "perceptive." I can't believe how well a young writer can understand middle age and its indignities. I was even more impressed by Ferris's earlier novel Then We Came to the End, and I'll certainly be watching for his next one.

A literary tidbit

2011-03-18T11:16:00.000-07:00

I was looking for something to read and picked up a book lying around, an old Robert Silverberg, The Man in the Maze. OMG no. But I thought this was worth sharing:

She unhinged her breast-binders and revealed two firm upthrust white globes tipped with dots of flame. They were high and close together, as though no gravity worked on them, and the valley between them was six inches deep and a sixteenth of an inch in breadth.

The only thing sexxxier would have been in metric.

The Love Hunter by Jon Hassler (1996)

2011-03-18T11:12:00.001-07:00

Hated it.

I could give several reasons, but here's the most important one:

Chris (the main character) is telling Rachel, his best friend's wife, about his feelings for her and how her wonderfulness has given him life and hope. He's been empty inside and cynical since his own divorce.

He gives an example: After his ex-wife Karen and kids move to California, he still must walk Karen's dog, Ms. Rover. Along the roadside, they encounter a pulled-over work truck whose radio or CB is broadcasting dispatchers and such. One voice sounds just like Karen's, and Ms. Rover pulls eagerly, happily toward it, thinking it's her mistress, whom she loves and misses.

After they cross the road, Ms. Rover is still pulling towards the voice. Even though there's traffic, Chris lets go of the leash, and watches as Ms. Rover runs happily toward the voice, and is promptly run over by a delivery truck.

If someone told this to me my response would not be "You poor man. You must have been very unhappy." It would be "You disgust me. You're a piece of shit. Never talk to me again."

And now that's kind of my feeling about Hassler.

Room by Emma Donoghue

2011-03-18T11:11:00.000-07:00

Room is narrated by 5-year-old Jack. Seven years ago, his mother was kidnapped and imprisoned in a soundproof room. Or Room, to Jack. He knows every bit of his tiny world by name, from Rug to Meltedy Spoon. His Ma has endless strategies for varying their routines, inventing games, and so on.

We end up admiring both writer and Ma for the creativity with which they respond to their limitations. Donoghue's choice of a child narrator helps avoid the emotional, potentially melodramatic distractions of such a powerful situation. Jack's narration also provides an interesting twist, since he loves his womb-like world, the only one he's ever known. His problems start when they leave it, and this too Donogue handles with her rich, compassionate imagination.

Two inconsequential but noticeable problems: First, Room is set in the United States, but Dublin-born Donoghue sometimes slips into UK/Irish turns of phrase: "slowcoach" where we'd say "slowpoke," "good-o" instead of "goody," and "what d'you fancy." There's also the "Will we [do this or that]?" usage where Americans say "Do you want to" or "Let's." I'm surprised that not one of her three editors caught this.

Second, Donoghue has done an amazing job of fully imagining life in Room, but I'd love to know how menstruation was handled and how her captor got hold of so many birth-control pills without a prescription.

A few short novels

2011-03-18T11:03:00.000-07:00

Watchman by Ian Rankin (first published 1988; reissued 2003). This book didn't make much splash when first published, and probably wouldn't have been reissued without Rankin's best-selling Rebus novels. Watchman represents Rankin's foray into the spy novel, a route he didn't pursue after his success writing mysteries. Watchman is a bit of a time capsule, a spy world minus cell phones, GPS,or easy access even to word processors. Miles Flint is a spy in the Watcher service who must throw off his passivity when his superiors want to make him the fall guy. I thought it was a good fun read, and the tech limitations actually make it a much more understandable world.

Nell Gwynne's Scarlet Spy, a novella followed by short story "The Bohemian Astrobleme," by Kage Baker (2010). As far as I know, this is the last work from Baker's hand we'll ever have, since she died in January 2010.

The Gentlemen's Speculative Society, an early incarnation of the Company (familiar to Baker readers), has a sister organization: Nell Gwynne's, an exclusive brothel where the whores have secret identities as spies. Lady Beatrice undergoes tragedy with no course left but to become a prostitute, and is glad to be recruited from the streets into such a fine, and fascinating, establishment.

Lady Beatrice's spy adventures are highly entertaining, and involve what I guess could be called steampunk, such as an early Victorian contraption called the Ascending Room--an elevator. As usual, Kage is funny, empathic, and compulsively readable.

The short story is a further adventure connected with the doings of the Society and the brothel, taking place in far Bohemia, and as with the longer story, the reader only wishes there were more of it.

I'm still so sad about Baker's death. She was only 57. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Two Jon Hassler novels

2011-02-14T10:19:00.000-08:00

I recently finished two Jon Hassler novels, Dear James (1996) and Rookery Blues (1997).

The first is one of Hassler's Staggerford novels, featuring the sharp-tongued and redoubtable Catholic-school teacher Agatha McGee, who lives in the small Minnesota town of Staggerford. Forced into retirement by her school's closing, she doesn't know what to do with herself, and is deeply lonely from having ceased correspondence with an Irish friend, James, who turns out to be a priest. They rekindle their friendship in Italy--but at the same time, Agatha's neighbor reads James's letters, full of often unflattering references to people in Staggerford. She spreads the news around town, and when Agatha returns, she's persona non grata to nearly everyone.

This novel is full of love for small towns, even the gossip, and by the end Agatha is happy again, reconciled with her neighbors and deepening her friendship with James.

Rookery Blues is an academic novel set in 1969 a small Northern Minnesota branch campus--obscure, cold, and low-paying. When some of the professors decide to strike, trouble ensues.

After having read both novels, it's hard to find much to say about them. They're pleasant; the characters, whether sympathetic or irritating, can be very engaging indeed; even big changes in people or events don't seem to leave much of a mark. Agatha soon regains the town's respect, and soon enough the campus gets back to normal.

When you consider what some college campuses were like in 1969, Rookery's pitiful little strike in the freezing cold is absurdly insignificant. When you consider the challenges that have faced the Catholic church, the problem of some priests leaving to marry women seems bracingly normal. And because Hassler is writing in the mid-late 90s, he should know this (sex abuse scandals began to be reported in the mid-80s; Dear James is set in about 1984).

Still, these are excellent books to read while, say, recovering from an illness, or whiling away vacation days, or if you just want to spend some time with interesting but undemanding characters.

The Children’s Book by A.S. Byatt (2009)

2011-02-13T11:23:00.000-08:00

The Children's Book is not without flaws, but I loved it. I was pulled deeply into the world Byatt describes, which takes place over the historical period that most fascinates me, the transition from Victorian to the Edwardian age.

Especially interesting to me was Byatt’s exploration of this era’s rich ferment of cultural interest in fairy tales and folklore. One of the characters wants to study folklore, and you can see the upsurge of academic interest that led to great works of scholarship like The Golden Bough, first published when this novel begins, in 1890, and later the famous Stith Thompson Motif-Index of Folk-Literature, the first volume being published in the early 30s.

Many elements of these motifs pop up in Tolkein, of course, but in lots of other writers as well, besides all the ones Byatt name-checks. It was interesting to see Hope Mirrlees pop up, whose Lud-in-the-Mist is very much in this tradition as well, but published after the novel ends.

Of course, these motifs are important not just because they’re culturally relevant; they are very much germane to the book itself. Some recurring images and themes with fairy-tale connections include:

Tunnels, mines, trenches, underground routes
Gold, silver, and other precious metals
Puppets, marionettes, people under enchantment, addicts
Clay, mud, earth
Performance, stages, costumes, acting, exhibition, display
Writing, making art, making fiction, transforming reality with art
Children abducted, enslaved, used
Natural history, fossils, lizards, dragonflies, fish
Identity true and false, illegitimate birth, changelings, changing one's class or status

To take just one example, the first listed: tunnels appear as the mines that Olive's family works in and are destroyed by. They appear in many of Olive's tales, especially in Tom Underground. There's Alice's Adventures Underground. The London Underground. The Paris Metro. The name Philip Warren. And so on.

I really enjoyed the inventive way that Byatt keeps ringing the changes on these themes. The horror of the mining tunnel becomes the horror of Tom Underground's endless searching that becomes the very real horror of the Great War trenches...which also links to clay, and the themes of enslavement. But mines also produce wealth, and clay can make exquisitely beautiful objects, and going underground can tap into deeply meaningful images. Or you can go too far underground, like the unfortunate analysand Gabriel Goldwasser, and go crazy.

The fairy-tale theme might suggest that children are important here, but the adults in this novel titled The Children’s Book tend to see their actual sons and daughters as material for art, ignoring their reality. Fludd's is the darkest version, for sure, but not the only one. Many times in the novel, we see Olive react to a situation by going to write. Given how she grew up, it's understandable—art is life-saving for her. But it also puts a scrim between her and reality, including the reality of what her children need. There's many kinds of make-believe in this novel.

This troubles Tom in particular. His parents, especially Olive, were too good at creating an idyllic fairytale childhood—and then sent him to school without a thought in the world for how rude the awakening would be. He can't stand to grow up and find out that the fairy tale doesn't exist. When he goes to see Peter Pan, with its obvious strings and wires and girls dressed as boys, being asked to clap and affirm his belief in fairies agonizes him. He passionately wants the real make-believe of his childhood, not this cardboard make-believe, but he can never have what he wants.

Tom’s parents, and the Fludds too (even more so) seem to live in a perpetual fancy-dress party, and that's one of the ways art can harm us, I think Byatt is saying: by creating seductive make-believe worlds that blind us to harsh reality. In a way, that's what happened to a whole society, who went from the golden Edwardian summer (with a long, long Victorian epoch of empire and greatness behind it) to the supreme horror of WWI.

Speaking of the perpetual fancy-dress party, I was uncomfortable reading all the many descriptions of pre-Raphaelite dress and William Morris design. Now, I love this style, and have a couple of Morris tapestry reproductions hanging on the wall, and would have carpets and so on if I could afford it. But my goodness, after awhile the faux medievalism all starts to seem so silly! And yet Byatt's descriptions make me fairly salivate with the yumminess:

Pomona . . . had brought a home-woven gown, embroidered with crocus, daffodils and bluebells.
Olive wore pleated olive silk over pleated white linen, with a gauze overcloak, veined like insect wings. Her hair was dressed with honeysuckle and roses.
Violet . . . wore a dress stitched with ivy-leaves on satin.
It was sea-green pleated silk over a grass-green underskirt, with a gilded girdle.
She wore white muslin decorated with violets, and a violet shawl. The muslin flowed from a high yoke: she was uncorseted, with a simple violet sash.
She was looking lovely, in a tea-gown of cream Liberty lawn, covered with field flowers, cornflowers, poppies and marguerites.

Slurp.

In general, Byatt's descriptions are delicious. I could quote any number of examples, but I like this list especially. It's not describing anything intrinsically that delicious--it's not a museum or an Arts and Crafts house or a beautiful gown, it's a list of trade goods that are the actual reality of that abstraction, money: "coconuts, carpets, sugar cane, glass beads, ingots, wheels with spokes, light bulbs, oranges, apples, wine and honey." Again, slurp.

But again, as with the fairy tales, despite all this deliciousness is the real, often ugly, adult world, and that’s the great irony of The Children’s Book.

A Test of Wills by Charles Todd

2011-01-25T10:11:00.000-08:00

A recent positive review of Charles Todd's* latest Ian Rutledge novel appeared recently in the NY Times. I was reminded that I had one of these books lying around, laid aside because it didn't appeal, so I picked it up again. It still doesn't.

I read the first in this series, A Test of Wills (1996). Rutledge, a Scotland Yard inspector, is recently returned from the Great War and still suffering shell shock. He's been called to a Warwickshire village to investigate a murder--a job foisted on Rutledge because it's politically sensitive, with one suspect having royal connections. Everyone's under suspicion, though, for one reason or another.

I expected the shell-shock theme to draw me in, since I'm fascinated by the western front and its horrors. And that was the strongest part of the book. But the investigation itself was boring, with Rutledge revisiting the same suspects and asking the same questions again, and again, and again. The mystery wouldn't be drawn out to book length if only certain characters would just answer his questions. Worse, the whodunit's resolution is as soap-opera ridiculous as it gets, the kind of thing where you just put the book down and groan.

In fact, soap operas seem to be a major influence on the book. No one can just answer a question. There must be an indrawn breath, a look of panic, a trembling, a choking back of tears. They twist their handkerchiefs, they turn in alarm, their shoulders are stiff and angry. Whatever happened to the famous sangfroid of the British upper classes? What about the drinks tray always present, to settle one's nerves?

Sheesh, the suspects are more shell-shocked than the inspector. And he at least has a good reason.

*The NY Times informs me that "Charles Todd" is the nom de plume of a mother-and-son writing team, Charles and Caroline Todd.

Belinda by Maria Edgeworth (1801)

2011-01-24T09:57:00.001-08:00

(Text is based on 1803 edition—Oxford World's Classics).

Belinda was a favorite novel of Jane Austen's; the theme of a heroine using reason and not sensibility to choose a lover is one she would take up herself. Not to the reader's surprise, Belinda's own judgment makes her reject any match to a man she can't esteem, even when love might be involved. Today's readers may find this an obvious choice, but the introduction explains this was not so among contemporary reviewers, who preferred heroines to be less logical and more feeling.

The story does follow Belinda and how she learns to use her own judgment in the marriage market. But just as important (and way more interesting) is the parallel story of dissipated, fashionable Lady Delacours, Belinda's guardian, who hides a dark secret beneath her sparkling celebrity.

Lady D.'s sparkling flow of witty talk is well portrayed (maybe because Edgeworth was known for the same wit), and her celebrity-like selfishness is too; at some points she seems like a classic case of borderline personality disorder. It's all very entertaining, like reading a tabloid. Nevertheless, she can't go on like that, in part because of the big secret. Belinda is considered a novel of female formation, but it's also a novel of transformation for Lady D.

Lady Delacour is unable to stop the paranoid self-concern at first, no matter how kind and reliable Belinda is, and I appreciated the realism of that. The chief flaw of this novel is that as soon as crisis is reached, that transformation is far too easy--almost as easy, and cheap, as "it was all a dream." Around this point (roughly halfway through) I began to get impatient with the very long-drawn-out account of Belinda's suitors and which is right for her and how he can prove it. As much fun as this was to read, eventually the novel felt fat and out of shape.

Abide With Me by Elizabeth Strout (2006)

2011-01-17T09:45:00.001-08:00

Wow. Elizabeth Strout has a powerful gift for opening up quiet lives, quiet moments, and showing them in 3-D. This, her second novel, is set in late 50s New England, two years after minister Tyler Caskey's wife has died. His young daughter won't talk, and his congregation is becoming increasingly dissatisfied with him. His life is slowly falling apart, but Caskey distracts himself with reading martyrs and saints. He must find a way to reconnect with his daughter, his congregation, and his God.

Strout is so spookily aware of what goes on inside people's heads that at times I felt exposed. Yes, I had those thoughts too, I did that, I saw things that way...but that was PRIVATE, so how did she know? This makes her hard for me to discuss, because pointing out examples makes me feel even more exposed.

I especially appreciate, as mentioned above, Strout's ability to show us people in the round--people that seem easy to dismiss or categorize, sometimes even by other folks in their lives. The overprotective weirdo with the bomb shelter, the annoying harpy with a crush on the minister: they got that way for a reason and they're not just that.

We gain her privileged point of view, of the novelist and perhaps of the good minister too, and almost reach that point where to know all is to forgive all. Perhaps it's one drawback in Strout's work that no one is truly evil or unredeemable, and I believe that some people just are.

This is a beautiful novel, as clear, stark, and lovely as a Maine winter day.