Book "Haves" and "Have-Nots"

There was an article by Chip Johnson in the San Francisco Chronicle Friday (1/28/11) about the opening of a beautiful new public library branch in a "beleaguered" part of Oakland. This library will serve, among others, two nearby elementary schools. As Johnson tells it, students "couldn't contain their joy when librarian Derrick DeMay opened up a box and showed them the new [books] inside." The article points out that many of the students do not have books in their homes. This is a feel-good story in that these kids will now have more access to books. But it also underlines the sad truth that the U.S. is increasingly a country of "haves" and "have-nots" in more ways than one. There is not only a huge and increasing economic gap, but there is a gap even in something as seemingly basic as access to books. Kids in middle-class families have casual, easy access to hundreds of books, at home and from bookstores and libraries; children from poor families, often immigrant families where the parents speak little English, may have very few such opportunities to hold, read, borrow, or own books. I am thrilled to hear of children's enthusiasm for books, but it breaks my heart that it is such a rare event for them to hold books in their hands. It is also shameful that a country that has billions to spend on wars, and that enacts increasingly generous tax breaks for the rich, cannot ensure that all children have ample access to books, which are the portal to knowledge, expansion of horizons, and a better future, and which should be a birthright for every child.

Reading Group Discussion Questions - Helpful or Not?

The publishers of many current novels hope to be chosen by the thousands of reading groups across the United States and elsewhere. They promote the novels to groups with "Readers' Guides" (usually in the back of the book) that include interviews with, or special messages from, authors, as well as with discussion questions. If I pick up one of these novels, I enjoy reading the material from or about the author, but I often find the discussion questions simplistic, even inane. To be fair, the questions are occasionally helpful, thoughtful and provocative...but not usually, in my experience. I don't know if the questions are written by the authors or by someone in the publishers' offices. I can't decide if the publishers (and/or authors) are condescending to their readers, or if my opinion about the discussion questions is the minority one. As I wrote about on 1/26/10, I have been in a wonderful reading group myself for 35 years, and I don't remember our ever using such published discussion questions in our meetings. (In the spirit of full disclosure: my recent academic book also includes discussion questions, but the reason in that case is that the publisher and I hoped that the book would be assigned as a textbook in university classes. However, I acknowledge that it is quite possible that some readers might find those discussion questions -- written by me! -- simplistic or inane as well!)

"Rescue" Rescues and Absorbs an Exhausted Me

I wrote on 2/8/10 about "middlebrow" novels that are somewhere between serious literary fiction, on the one hand, and genre fiction/beach reads on the other. Anita Shreve is one of the masters of this type of novel; I have just read her most recent one, "Rescue" (Little, Brown, 2010), in one big gulp (perhaps 3-4 hours of almost nonstop reading). It was the perfect book for me after finishing an exhausting first week of classes, advising, and other beginning-of-the-semester duties: it grabbed and kept my attention, it "went down easy," and it distracted and refreshed me without making any demands whatsoever. It has all the qualities of most middlebrow fiction: a straightforward, easy-to-follow and somewhat dramatic (sometimes melodramatic) plot, with a couple of big crises; a likable main character; somewhat formulaic language; predictable plot turns; heart-tugging scenes; and a satisfying conclusion. I do not mean to imply that creating such fiction is easy; I know it is not. And, as I said in my 2/8/10 post, I am grateful for authors such as Shreve who have provided me reliable reading pleasure over the years. Oh, and as to what actually happens in the novel? Boy meets girl in unusual circumstances, they are very happy for a while, they have a beautiful baby girl, their serious problems separate them, boy steps up and raises the daughter into her teenage years...and then...well, I don't want to give away too much, but let's say there are some tough times but it all works out....

"The Empty Family: Stories"

Colm Toibin is becoming one of the greatest contemporary writers of fiction. I loved his novel based on Henry James' life, "The Master." I also loved, and wrote about here, coincidentally exactly a year ago on 1/28/11, his novel "Brooklyn." Now I have just finished reading his new short story collection, "The Empty Family" (Scribner, 2011). These beautiful, raw, touching, unique stories take place in Ireland, Spain, England, and the United States. I found something to admire and savor in every one of the stories. Many of them are about immigrants and temporary wayfarers in other countries than their own, and about the conflict between a person's being drawn to his roots in his home country, on the one hand, and on the other hand, his wanting or needing to live in other countries, either for work or out of a kind of desperate need to get away from home and explore new places. Toibin himself is Irish and now lives in both Dublin and New York. He is also one of the first and few leading mainstream literary writers to write about gay relationships and gay sex. He wrote in somewhat veiled terms in "The Master" about the possibility of Henry James' being gay but celibate; in this collection he writes much more explicitly about gay sex in a few of the stories. The longest story (68 pages), "The Street," is about two Pakistani men working in Barcelona, Malik and Abdul, who gradually become close and then lovers. The story is told with much sensitivity to the delicate position these men are in: they have to hide their relationship because their fellow countrymen would not understand and might ostracize them and even take away their livelihoods if they discover the affair. Malik and Abdul and their co-workers feel homesick for their country, and hardly ever go out of their Pakistani area of the city; they are under the thumb of the man who brought them over from Pakistan and who controls their jobs, housing, and freedom. So their love is a kind of beautiful if secret miracle that helps them endure everything else. This book is full of exact descriptions and piercing insights, as well as of tender understanding of the vulnerability of the characters.

The Pure Joy of Reading

Sometimes in the process of careful analysis, measured comment, and finding the right adjective to describe a novel or a character, I lose track of celebrating the pure JOY of reading. Of course analysis and comment are useful and important too. But what I want to celebrate today is the laugh-out-loud, smile-to-yourself, feeling-so-very-lucky aspect of reading. I feel so fortunate, so privileged, to have constant access to the best that literature has to offer: beautiful, sensitive, and creative use of language; compelling stories; characters that readers can relate to, care about, cheer on or boo, and learn something new from; profound insights into life and human nature; a connection with the past, present, and future of humankind; and that lovely sense of whole worlds opening up in front of one. What an abundance of joy!

Why Thomas Hardy?

For many years, starting in high school, I was very drawn to the harsh stories and stark landscapes found in the novels of Thomas Hardy. I read and re-read "Far From the Madding Crowd," "The Return of the Native," "Jude the Obscure," and, especially, "Tess of the D'Urbervilles." What was it about these gloomy novels that so appealed to me? Why would a reader like me with a basically sunny disposition be so attracted to these wonderfully plotted and written but -- let's face it -- depressing stories? Well, there is that Anglophile side of me. And the world of Wessex is a fascinating one. And Hardy's characters are unforgettable. There is also Hardy's deep understanding of the lives of country people, and his unusual (for the time) understanding of women's restricted lives. The attraction was also, probably most of all, a part of my adolescent need to be acquainted with the "dark side," the side I wrote about on 9/18/10 in my post "The Luxuriantly Dark and Moody Thoughts of Youth." Perhaps it feels safe to be drawn to that dark side when one is young and feels -- despite various adolescent troubles -- protected, and even -- with the imperviousness of youth -- invincible? (I realize that adolescence is not so protected for all youth, and know that I am fortunate to have had a secure, safe, and well-loved --albeit occasionally moody -- childhood and adolescence.) Of course accessing the "dark side" through classic literature is hardly walking on the wild side! But emotionally it fulfilled some need. I haven't read any Hardy for many years now, but there is a part of me that is still mysteriously connected to the worlds he created in his novels.

StephanieVandrickReads' One Year Anniversary

It has been one year today, January 24, 2011, since I started this blog, StephanieVandrickReads. I have very much appreciated and enjoyed having this place to write about what I have been reading, about favorite authors and books, and about reading-related topics. I also appreciate very much and thank everyone who has read the blog, and those who have responded, either by commenting on the blog site itself or by contacting me by email or otherwise.

To mark this one year anniversary, I am listing here my most treasured authors, the ones I go back to and re-read over and over, the ones who give me the most sustenance, pleasure, and food for thought. I do not claim that these are necessarily the "best" authors, although many of them would in fact be on most "all-time best" lists. And there are, of course, many, many more writers whose work I have liked very much. But those on this list form the core of my love for reading; these are the authors I personally feel most connected to, and most grateful for. My life would be far poorer without them.

In no particular order, here is the "short list" of my twenty most treasured authors:

-Jane Austen
-George Eliot
-Elizabeth Gaskell
-William Thackeray
-Charlotte Bronte
-Thomas Hardy
-Edith Wharton
-Willa Cather
-Virginia Woolf
-E. M. Forster
-Elizabeth Bowen
-Barbara Pym
-Alice Munro
-William Trevor
-Carolyn Heilbrun
-Penelope Lively
-Anne Tyler
-Carol Shields
-Mary Gordon
-Gail Godwin

I dedicate this one year anniversary post to my dear friend of almost forty years, C.

"A Room with a View"

I just finished listening to a CD version of E. M. Forster’s "A Room with a View" (originally published 1908; Books on Tape, 1993). Forster is one of my all-time favorite authors, so I have read and/or listened to all of his novels several times, especially “A Passage to India,” “Howard’s End,” and “A Room with a View.” As with any great fiction, I notice new aspects, new insights, every time I read this novel. This time I was more struck than ever by Forster’s portrayal of how claustrophobically constricting the social rules lingering on from the Victorian era were, at least for those of the upper middle and upper classes, especially for women. Lucy Honeychurch, the main character, was only allowed to go to Italy under the protection of her fussy, traditional, annoying older cousin Charlotte. There, a huge (in the eyes of Lucy and Charlotte, but especially Charlotte) crisis arose when a man Lucy met there suddenly kissed her on a hill full of violets near Florence. Charlotte and Lucy felt they had to leave Florence abruptly the next day and go to meet friends in Rome; then, and after they returned to England, they kept worrying that someone would find out about the kiss, and Lucy’s reputation would be ruined. The complicating factor was that although she soon after was engaged to another man, she couldn’t quite get the man who kissed her out of her mind. Lucy and other young women of the time had so little control over their own actions, movements, and fates, and although they were very privileged in other ways, the social rules could make them feel smothered and miserable. Of course Forster’s novels are not “about” just one thing; they are all, in some way, portrayals of people’s needs both for human connection and for something transcendent in their lives.

"Books as Bombs"

In the current (1/24/11) issue of The New Yorker, there is an article by Louis Menand about highly influential, even life-changing, nonfiction books published in the 1960s and 1970s; he particularly focuses on Betty Friedan's 1963 book, "The Feminine Mystique." Although the word "bomb" is a fraught one, Menand's use of the word in his title, "Books as Bombs," dramatically represents the way books in those days could make a huge difference, in a way that perhaps they no longer do in today's era of diffused media. Some of the other books discussed in this article are Rachel Carson's "Silent Spring" (1962), an enormous factor in the beginning of the environmental movement, and Ralph Nader's "Unsafe at Any Speed" (1965), which kickstarted the consumer protection movement. I treasure the idea that books can have a powerful impact, changing people's lives, even saving lives. I am sorry if Menand is correct that they no longer do so in the same way today.

The Late, Lamented Laurie Colwin

Although Laurie Colwin died unexpectedly of a heart attack in 1992, at the far too young age of 48, her books are still popular. She published five novels (one posthumously), three story collections, and two memoir/cookbooks. Her books focus on cooking, food, love, and family. Although Colwin was complicated, as were her characters, she had a gift for happiness, and it is fitting that two of her novels have the word "happy" or "happiness" in them ("Family Happiness" and "Happy All the Time"). She wrote about couples, families, and relationships, and frequently used food, cooking, and shared meals as signifiers of nourishment, connection and joy. I recently ran across one of her novels at my local library sale, and was reminded of how much pleasure her books have given me. I read all of her fiction in the 1980s and 1990s, but not her memoirs; I think I will look for those now.

Am I Playing It Too Safe in my Reading Choices?

When I was in my teens and twenties, and especially during college and grad school and in the years after, I read thirstily and widely, delving into many different types of literature, classic and new, from various parts of the world, in various styles. Over the years, I have developed a a pretty clear sense of my own taste, and have refined (narrowed?) my preferences in reading materials. This is perhaps why I like most of what I read (and blog about here): I have developed a knowledge in advance of which books I will like and which I will not. These judgments are based on years of extensive reading, as well as on reading many reviews. The positive side of this is that I am not too often disappointed in what I read. The negative side is that I am less willing to read books that I don't know if I will like, I take fewer chances than I used to, and thus perhaps miss out on some great literature. The dilemma is this: At this point in my reading life, I know what I like, and I don't want to waste much time on what I probably won't like; on the other hand, do I want to be the kind of reader who no longer stretches herself, who no longer takes a chance?

"Being Polite to Hitler"

I still remember being bowled over by Robb Forman Dew's first novel, "Dale Loves Sophie to Death" (1981). I have read more of her books as well, but that is the one that sticks in my mind. I just finished reading her "Being Polite to Hitler" (Little, Brown, 2011 -- the first 2011 title I've read, I think!), and had that bowled-over feeling again. What a wise novel! First, I should discuss the title. The setting of the novel is Washburn, a small town in Ohio, from the early 50s into the early 70s; people are loath to rock the boat, and feel it is polite not to discuss bad behavior or difficult topics. One day, one character accuses her family and friends of being so devoted to preserving peaceful and conventional discourse that they wouldn't even speak up against Hitler and his deeds. It is true that much goes on under the surface in this town: alcoholism, affairs, feuds, deteriorating marriages, misunderstandings among friends and family members. But there are also a lot of decent people, doing their best, helping each other, preserving traditions. The main character is Agnes, a wise, down to earth, and very likable woman at the center of a large, well-known family in the area. Another main character is the man she marries years after she has been widowed: Sam is the best male character I have read about in a long time. And by best I don't mean most literary or dramatic or best-written; I mean he is a thoroughly good, kind, thoughtful person, a good husband, a good friend, a good citizen, and a person who truly appreciates and enjoys life. I think I am a little in love with Sam! The plot, although a bit meandering, is interesting enough, and we are also given a sense of the events happening in the world around the characters: the nuclear threat, the Cuban crisis, the assassinations of JFK and others, and more. Even a peaceful, prosperous town like Washburn is affected by these events, and by the unease they cause. But the best features of the novel are the wonderful, well-developed characters and the sometimes offhand spot-on observations the characters or the author make. This is a rich, lovely novel, thick with the events of life, large and small, and deeply understanding of the human condition.

More Wonderful Portraits of Writers

On 1/6/11, I wrote about the wonderful portraits (mostly paintings and sculptures) of writers that I saw at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, DC during my recent visit there. Yesterday I went to the impressive and moving “Henri Cartier-Bresson: The Modern Century” exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art; this photographer/artist documented much of the century, especially from the 1920s to the 1970s, and there were amazing photographs from all over the world in this exhibit. Again, I especially looked for pictures of writers, and although there were only a few, I found them fascinating. Simone de Beauvoir’s photo reminded me of how her breakthrough feminist book, “The Second Sex,” affected many women, including me, so strongly, and meant so much to us. Colette’s photo reminded me of how in her fiction she showed us in a different, less academic way what freedom for women could mean. Albert Camus’ portrait made me remember reading his work in college and being stunned, impressed, and depressed by his stark vision. Jean-Paul Sartre was important in my education as well; I remember studying existentialism in both philosophy and literature classes; one of my best college term papers was a comparison of aspects of existentialism and Buddhism. Ezra Pound’s battered face showed both the brilliance and the sorrows of his controversial, sad life. Truman Capote looked so young, smooth-faced, carefree, and yet knowing in Cartier-Bresson’s photograph; I thought of “In Cold Blood” and what an impression it made on so many of us, showing the ambiguity and “grey” that there is in almost everyone’s stories, whether they be victims or criminals. Andre Malraux, that prime example of a particularly French combination of government leader and literary writer, who was as well a dashing traveler and adventurer, and whose “Man’s Fate” and other novels I read, mostly also in college, showed dramatically in his photo. And William Faulkner, whose work I read, studied, and treasured for so many years, until somehow I couldn’t read him any more...what a face! Something about seeing Cartier-Bresson’s brilliantly portrayed faces of these authors whose work I had read quite extensively, often when I was far younger than I am now, was compelling and dramatic. It made me appreciate these authors even more than ever, and also evoked a kind of sad remembrance of how long it had been since they were alive and writing and well-known.

"Mennonite in a Little Black Dress"

I had been seeing Rhoda Janzen’s “Mennonite in a Little Black Dress: A Memoir of Going Home” (Henry Holt, 2009) on bookstore display racks for a few months, but I resisted reading it because both the title and cover appeared gimmicky and “cutesy.” But an independent bookstore employee convinced me to read it, and I am glad I did. Janzen is 42 and has left her Mennonite background behind years ago, except for a few visits to her family. She is a PhD, a professor, and a poet. But after her husband leaves her for Bob, a man he met on Gay.com, and after she has a bad car accident a mere few days later, she goes home to stay with her parents for a while to recuperate, physically and emotionally. This act of going home is the premise for her story, but mainly it is a framework for describing her Mennonite childhood and how she has been influenced by it even though she has left the religion behind. Although she has much that is positive to say about it, and much that is funny, there are also undercurrents of criticism, especially of the way girls and women are raised to accept an obedient, compliant role (although fortunately her own mother doesn’t seem particularly compliant, and there seems to be a degree of equality in her parents’ marriage). Clearly her parents are wonderful, accepting, loving people, and though Janzen was embarrassed as a child by her Mennonite clothing, lunches, and restrictions on dancing and other things that young people like to do, she had a loving, good childhood. Her closeness with her calm, pragmatic, and funny sister Hannah has also been a great support to Janzen all her life. All of this is described with humor and affection. The other strand of the story, however, is flashbacks to the author’s bad marriage. Her husband Nick is brilliant, funny, handsome, charming, and intellectually compatible; he is also bipolar, violent, abusive, spendthrift, irresponsible, and bisexual. The marriage was sometimes thrilling, often miserable, and even frightening. Janzen says one reason she stayed with Nick, besides the intermittent good times and Nick’s penitence after the bad times, was her Mennonite upbringing that taught her to passively accept what life dealt her rather than taking action and leaving, as she should have done years before. The uneasy melding of these two strands of the story -- her peaceful Mennonite childhood and family on the one hand, and her destructive marriage on the other -- makes for a rather jarring mismatch. Janzen seems unsure about what tone to take about the marriage and about Nick, and unsure about how to integrate the story of her marriage into this memoir, so she includes a few brief but frightening passages about his violence -- e.g., his destroying dishes, furniture and whole rooms of their homes -- and his abuse -- the demeaning, destructive things he says to her -- but then goes back to telling entertaining, reassuring stories about her family. I also wish she had told us a bit more about her professional life and her poetry; she doesn’t give herself enough credit for her accomplishments. However, what she does convey very well is what a great gift it is to have loving parents and a stable, happy childhood; these form the foundation that allows her to survive the harsh difficulties life has brought her. This is a brave, funny memoir, and very readable.

"If I Loved You, I Would Tell You This"

Yesterday I wrote about the difficulty of finding new or at least not terribly overused words for book reviews. I was impressed with Tony Taccone’s saying that good writing has a certain “molecular excitement.” I just finished a book for which I am going to borrow Taccone’s phrase: Robin Black’s collection of short stories, “If I Loved You, I Would Tell You This” (Random House, 2010), has that molecular excitement. These stories pretty much knocked me over with their brilliance. Each story creates its own startling, compelling small world, one that is simultaneously mysteriously “other” and yet very familiar. The characters are generally well meaning, yet cannot help blundering in their relationships with the closest people in their lives. Over and over again, good people fail each other. There are secrets, mistakes, and tragic accidents that have to be absorbed and survived, somehow. The characters struggle, yet -- because they have no choice, really -- manage to muddle through and even transcend the difficult events. The stories have particularly painful yet loving things to say about family. One father tries to cope with his daughter’s blindness; another tries to reconcile with his long semi-estranged daughter. A pair of twins in their sixties are still trying to figure out their relationship with each other; then an accident changes everything. A woman has lost her brother when she was young, and now these many years later tries to comfort her teenaged son whose best friend has died in an accident. A woman with a much older husband tries to protect him from knowledge of her own illness, and at the same time to deal with her grown daughter’s infidelity. These stories are truly gripping. Highly recommended.

Finding the Right Words for Book Reviews

Have you noticed that certain words, especially certain adjectives, are used over and over again in book reviews, and in back-cover blurbs? Powerful, rich, wise, intelligent, honest, illuminating, electrifying, heartbreaking, magnificent, profound, original, enlightening, artful, gorgeous, important, thrilling, passionate, funny, hilarious, poignant, provocative, epic, fascinating, enthralling, unsettling, insightful, striking, creative, breakthrough, elegant, beautiful, masterful: these are just a few of the most commonly seen adjectives. I sympathize with reviewers’ trying to find new descriptive words, because I too have difficulty breaking away from relying on such adjectives when writing blog posts or other book reviews. In fact, I probably shouldn’t post this list, as I may now feel self-conscious every time I use one of these adjectives in the future! However, today I heard some new descriptive words that impressed me and struck me as very apt and true. On KQED Forum, a San Francisco NPR radio show, Dave Iverson interviewed Tony Taccone, artistic director of the wonderful Berkeley Repertory Theatre; at one point, Taccone described the work of certain playwrights as “fresh” and as having a certain “level of muscle, of imagination, and of molecular excitement.” Molecular excitement. I like that very much.

"Moon Tiger"

Because she is one of my very favorite contemporary writers, whose writing is so quietly outstanding that it gives me goosebumps, I wrote in praise of author Penelope Lively in one of my very first posts on this blog, on 1/25/10. I recently re-read her most famous novel, “Moon Tiger” (Grove, 1987), and was again struck by her masterful writing and her grasp of human nature. The main character, Claudia, is an old woman looking back at her event-filled life. She has been a journalist who traveled widely and a successful writer of books about history. She has had several lovers, and one daughter, but the person she considers her true love, and always remembers, is Tom, the man she met when she was covering the war in Egypt, and who soon after died in battle. His death was the biggest blow she has suffered in her life. Claudia has always lived life on her own terms, and some find her caustic and difficult; others find her admirable for her independence and fearlessness. She and her now grown daughter have a loving but complicated relationship; they are so different that they don’t know or understand each other well at all. The one person Claudia has always been extremely close to is her brother Gordon. As you can see, this story focuses on strong, original characters and their relationships; almost no one does this better than Lively.

A note about the power of books: When Tom is in the middle of horrific war locations, the one thing that gives him respite, besides thinking of Claudia, is reading. At one point he has a few hours to himself, reads a battered copy of Dickens’ “Dombey and Son,” and marvels at the power of books to blot out everything around him and allow him, just for a little while, to forget about his terrible surroundings and the awful war.

"I Remember Nothing"

Nora Ephron has been informing and entertaining us for almost 50 years, as a journalist, essayist, novelist, playwright, screenwriter, producer, and director. Readers may remember her novel “Heartburn” or the very successful movies for which she wrote the screenplays, such as “When Harry Met Sally…”, “Sleepless in Seattle,” and “You’ve Got Mail.” Her forte is a uniquely stylish brand of humor and satire. Her most recent book, “I Remember Nothing and other reflections” (Knopf, 2010), is a collection of short essays, many of which were first published elsewhere (mostly in The Huffington Post and The New York Times). The tone is light, often very light. Sometimes the topics are serious, such as careers, aging, and divorce; Ephron has the gift of addressing even serious topics in a humorous way, but getting her point across. One of the best essays chronicles the waxing and waning of her friendship with Lillian Hellman; this is a mini-masterpiece of a revealing biographical glimpse into the personality and character of the controversial playwright. The essay on Hellman is a good example of Ephron’s occasional display of slightly -- but only slightly, and fairly subtly -- cutting wit, a wit that entertains with a soupcon of cattiness, but never appears truly mean-spirited. These essays are on the whole entertaining and enjoyable, with only a few exceptions that are so very light and trivial that they float away with no impact whatsoever. One of the reasons that most of the essays are so engaging, and that Ephron has a way of connecting with her readers, is her down-to-earth voice. Although she doesn’t hide the fact that she has moved in rarified circles and met (and in one case, was married to) some of the most famous people of the past few decades, she never comes across as a name dropper, and she always sounds like a person one could sit down and have a chat and a good laugh with. Of course this delicate balance of topic, humor, voice, and persona is nowhere near as easy to create as Ephron makes it look. “I Remember Nothing” is a quick read and a highly enjoyable one.

P.S. This is my 300th blog post!

"My Hollywood": Not the One You Expect

I read and very much liked Mona Simpson’s first novel “Anywhere But Here” when it was published in 1992; I also read the (sort of) “sequel,” “The Lost Father,” published in 1993. Simpson published another novel and a novella, then took ten years to write “My Hollywood” (Knopf, 2010). I was pleased to hear of the new novel, and started reading it a couple of months ago, but was initially put off by the way the Filipina main character’s accent and grammar in English were portrayed, feeling it might be demeaning; I stopped reading. However, as someone who has studied linguistics, I know that there is a reason and value to portray dialects as they are spoken. Linguists now believe that all dialects are equally legitimate, and that “standard” dialects should not be privileged over others; the varieties of English, for example, are now called “World Englishes.” So portraying dialects accurately is fine, as long as doing so is not used to “other” or demean the characters. I am glad I then went back to the novel and read it, as I soon saw that the Filipina middle-aged main character, Lola, is written (and not in a patronizing way) as a strong, wise, independent, compassionate woman. She has, like so many women around the world, left her own children back home in order to become a nanny in the United States and make money to send home to her family. Lola has used her wages to put her five children through college, including one daughter who graduates as a medical doctor. But although she misses her family, being a nanny is not just a job for Lola; she develops close and loving connections with her small charges. The other characters in this story are also nannies as well as their employers and children. The setting (except for a brief interlude in the Philippines) is Santa Monica, California, and the surrounding areas of Los Angeles. Any expectation raised by the title that the novel will be about the Hollywood of the movie business will be disappointed, as it has only a peripheral role in the narrative; the “My Hollywood” of the title is the quotidian reverse side of the glamorous image. Lola’s employers are, at various times, Claire and Paul, Helen and Jeff, and Judith. Two of the female employers struggle with balancing their careers and taking care of their children; even with nannies, they feel stretched thin, while also feeling guilty about nannies’ raising their children. Their marriages, too, are strained. Claire in particular is often angry, although usually quietly, about the fact that Paul seems to assume his career as a TV writer is more important than hers as a composer, is almost never home himself, and assumes she is always available for domestic work, as her work is not on a set schedule and doesn’t make much money. Claire and Lola become close, and Lola is devoted to Claire’s and Paul’s small son William. But at a certain point, money and other issues intervene and there is a break in the relationship; money is a continuing issue throughout the lives of the characters, both the employers and the employees. Sometimes the novel feels claustrophobic, because it is focused so closely on the world of homes and children, with its settings of houses, yards, pools, parks, playgrounds, and preschools. But this is, I am sure, purposeful on the author’s part, as she wants to illuminate a not often closely examined world, a whole universe operating under the radar. She reveals the never-ending work, the dailyness, the frequent tedium of childcare and housework, whether it is done by mothers or nannies (only rarely by fathers) or both, as well as the joys of seeing children grow and develop. Only occasionally is the routine punctuated by a dramatic event (e.g., a near-drowning of one child; the rescue of a Thai domestic being kept as a near-slave; two nannies’ weddings at different times; one nanny’s return to the Philippines; the firing -- “chopping,” as Lola puts it -- of more than one nanny; professional successes and failures of the employers). The novel is beautifully written, scrupulously observed, and well worth reading.

When to Write One's First Novel

In today’s “The Writer’s Almanac,” which is delivered to my email box daily, and which I recommended to readers in my 4/29/10 post, there is a brief synopsis of the life and work of the now obscure English writer, Storm Jameson. In her time (1891-1986), she wrote 45 very popular novels. One thing among many that I appreciate about “The Writer’s Almanac” (the daily poem, the short bios of writers and others, the nuggets of literary information) is the way it reminds us of writers we may have forgotten or perhaps never known about.

A point that particularly interested me in the entry about Jameson was her recommendation to young, hopeful writers that they wait until their early 30s before writing their first novels. She felt that writers shouldn't wait too long to start, "not so long that the terrible sharpness of young senses – like the sharpness of sensual excitement which makes a traveler’s first moments in a foreign country worth more to him in insight and emotion than a year’s stay – had lost their acuteness, but long enough to be able to see…with a margin of detachment.” This strikes me as wise advice, but also as advice that individual writers have always ignored, and will always ignore, as each writer's life and circumstances are different. We know of authors who started writing when they were in their teens and twenties, as well as of authors who wrote their first novels in their sixties or seventies. This information is of interest to readers, especially when writers are at the far ends of the spectrum (e.g., Francoise Sagan’s publishing her first novel, “Bonjour Tristesse,” at age 19, and Harriet Doerr’s publishing her first, "Stones for Ibarra," at age 74). But whether or not writers follow this advice, I think Jameson expresses it beautifully. I especially like the observation about “the traveler’s first moments in a foreign country.”

"Foreign Bodies"

I have considered reading, and even begun reading, novels by Cynthia Ozick before, and have never been able to get into them, let alone finish them (although I have read some of her short stories, and have taught her powerful short story, “The Shawl”). (This is not a criticism of Ozick, who is widely esteemed as a great writer; I simply did not connect with her style and/or subject matter.) But when I heard that her latest novel was a loose retelling of Henry James’ novel “The Ambassadors,” and read good reviews, I decided to read it, finished it, and am glad I did. Set in the early 1950s, “Foreign Bodies” (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2010) tells the story of middle-aged New York high school teacher Beatrice (Bea) Nightingale’s going to Paris and, at her obnoxious, ambitious, successful and semi-estranged Los Angeles-based brother Marvin’s request, checking on Marvin’s indecisive son Julian and trying to bring him back. She reluctantly complies, but is unsuccessful; Julian never wants to be controlled by his father again. However, Bea does become involved with, and even interferes in, the lives of Julian, his sister Iris, and his lover Lili (a Romanian “displaced person” who suffers nightmares from the terrible things that happened to her and her family members during the war), as well as with Marvin’s patrician but (probably) mentally ill wife, Margaret. The novel is also infused with Bea’s memories of her early brief marriage to Leo, then an impoverished musician and now a successful Hollywood composer who feels he has sold out; they reconnect in an intriguing, indirect way. Bea is an original, somewhat mysterious character. In some ways she is very ordinary, and has led a very ordinary life, but during the events of this story, she finds herself capable of manipulation and of making decisions that might greatly affect others’ lives. It is hard to tease out how much of this interference is well-meant and how much has a touch of malice toward her overbearing brother, and/or a slight intoxication with a newfound -- albeit unsought -- power to make a difference in others’ lives. As with most or perhaps all of Ozick’s work, a theme underlying much of the novel is the powerful influence of Judaism, and of anti-Semitism, on the characters’ lives.

Glorious Portraits of Writers

I just returned from a short trip to Washington, DC. While I was there, I went to the National Portrait Gallery for the first time. What an amazing museum! First, the building is gorgeous and impressive, including the huge central courtyard with its lovely, lacy high dome, and the soaring, ornate “Great Hall.” There were some great special exhibits, including the controversial, wonderful “Hide/Seek” (about LGBT writers and artists) that has been in the news lately. But best of all were the hundreds of portraits -- paintings, sculptures, and photographs -- of writers, politicians, scientists, musicians, artists, activists, and more. I of course especially focused on portraits of writers. Naturally I had seen pictures of many of the novelists, poets, playwrights, and essayists before, but not these great original works of art, up close. I have to resist listing all of the writers’ portraits I saw, but let me mention a few: Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allan Poe, Mark Twain, Upton Sinclair, Allen Ginsberg, e. e. cummings, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Robert Penn Warren, Eugene O’Neill, Frank O’Hara. But the portraits that drew me most were those of the women writers: Harriet Beecher Stowe, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Margaret Fuller, Joyce Carol Oates, Maxine Hong Kingston, Gwendolyn Brooks, Gertrude Stein, Djuna Barnes, Janet Flanner, Suzan-Lori Parks, and more. The strong, unique face of Louisa May Alcott is caught forever in a bronze bust. Edith Wharton is immortalized in a painting of her as a small girl. Marianne Moore is shown with her mother, with whom she lived and was close. There is something so striking and immediate about these faces. I couldn’t stop looking at them. Highly recommended.

I Know Someone Who Knows Someone

The theory of “six degrees of separation” postulates that each of us is connected with everyone else on earth; we are each only six steps, or six people, away from any other person. There has even been a play, later adapted into a movie, about this. I was recently thinking about how I am one degree – or maybe two, depending on how the theory is interpreted – away from several famous writers. Of course I know some quite well-known writers myself, mostly teaching at the same university I teach at (see my 11/28/10 post), and I believe that some of these are going to become even more well-known in the future. But here I am reflecting on some long-time, well-established writers that I read and admire, have never met, but feel a little connected to because they are relatives or friends of people I know. Four examples are as follows. Tobias Wolff is the close relative of someone who also teaches where I teach, and whom I have known for about three decades. Mona Simpson is a friend of someone else who works at my university. Bharati Mukherjee is a friend of one of my best friends from graduate school. And Maxine Hong Kingston is a friend of a member of my longtime reading group (which I wrote about here on 1/26/10). None of these friends tells indiscreet stories – or really any stories – about their famous friends. But, even though it isn’t at all logical, somehow these connections make me feel that I know the writers at least a little bit. Apparently I am as capable as the next person of being starstruck, and pleased at any tenuous connection with stars; it just happens that my idea of "stars" is famous writers!

"The Company They Kept"

In, of all places, the store Anthropologie, I stumbled across a lovely book called “The Company They Kept: Writers on Unforgettable Friendships” (New York Review Books, 2006), edited by Robert B. Silvers and Barbara Epstein. On the back book cover, a sort of extended subtitle calls the book’s contents “Twenty-seven memoirs of transforming personal and intellectual relationships among writers, poets, composers, and scientists from the pages of the New York Review of Books.” Just a few of these essays are “Stanley Kunitz on Theodore Roethke,” “Susan Sontag on Paul Goodman,” “Anna Akhmatova on Amedeo Modigliani,” “Saul Bellow on John Cheever,” “Maurice Grosser on Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas,” “Caroline Blackwood on Francis Bacon,” “Enrique Krauze on Octavio Paz,” “Larry McMurty on Ken Kesey,” and “Oliver Sacks on Francis Crick.” Three of the essay writers – Robert Lowell, Joseph Brodsky, and Mary McCarthy -- are also subjects of other writers’ essays; this “doubling” adds an intriguing perspective. The essays are short and personal, giving readers behind-the-scenes anecdotes and insights that in a few pages shed real light on these brilliant writers, artists, and scientists. They do not attempt to be comprehensive, but offer individual perspectives on their fellow intellectuals and artists. Also of great interest are the insights on the various friendships between the writers of these essays and their subjects; some of them knew each other for decades, and all had a special connection with each other. The essays are mostly warm and appreciative, but they don’t shy away from acknowledging weaknesses and difficulties as well. Reading these miniature memoirs feels like being privileged to be part of an intimate conversation among some of the greatest creative minds of the second half of the twentieth century.

A Gift of Haiku

My friend C., about whom I wrote on 2/16/10 as a great reader, with whom I have had almost 40 years of wonderful book conversations, and who kindly contributed two guest posts to this blog on 10/17/10 and 10/18/10, is, as the 10/18/10 post said, a great appreciator of Japanese literature, and especially of haiku. A few days ago I received in the mail a beautiful Christmas gift from her: “Haiku: An Anthology of Japanese Poems” (Shambhala, 2009), edited and translated by Stephen Addiss, Fumiko Yamamoto, and Akira Yamamoto. This is a lovely collection that can be read cover to cover or, better, dipped into, savored, and returned to often. It contains haiku by some of the most well known poets, such as Basho and Busan, as well as by many others. The physicality of the book itself adds to the pleasure of reading, with its small, easy-to-hold size, sturdy hardback solidity, beautifully illustrated front cover, well-spaced poems, and lovely black and white drawings throughout the book. It is a well-made art object (thank you, Shambhala Publications), worthy of the poems it contains. The editors provide a short, useful introduction and, at the end of the book, information about each of the poets and artists. But the heart of the book is, of course, the haiku themselves. Each poem is a small masterpiece: vivid, visual, evocative, philosophical, meditative, and moving. I have been reading slowly, struck by the beauty of each poem, and trying to absorb both their words and their meanings. Knowing how much these haiku have meant to my friend C. adds to my own appreciation of them. Thank you, C., for this perfect gift.

Austen, Again!

I was recently browsing for a novel to listen to in my car, and upon seeing a CD version of Karen Joy Fowler’s “The Jane Austen Book Club” (Putnam’s, 2004; recording by Listen & Live Audio, 2007), I decided to re-experience the novel in audio. I first read it when it came out six years ago, and enjoyed it; I enjoyed it again these past couple of weeks listening while driving. Readers know that I am interested in anything by, about, or connected to Austen. There are some good “offshoot” novels, and of course much good scholarship and other information, along with many unfortunate adaptations, sequels, prequels, mysteries, etc. that basically exploit Austen fans’ insatiable desire for “more Austen,” even ersatz Austen. I have read many of these, both the good and sometimes the bad ones. In the case of “The Jane Austen Book Club,” Fowler uses Austen’s work imaginatively, both offering tribute to Austen and showing how Austen’s work still connects with and illuminates people’s lives. The premise of the book is that a group of six characters, living in the Davis/Sacramento area of California, agrees to form a book club to read and discuss Austen’s six completed novels. The six meetings over six months provide the structure of the book, but there is also much interspersed information about each character’s background, history, and current happenings and concerns, as well as about how the characters interact with each other. The book does not purport to be scholarly, and the club members are not scholars; in fact, for some of them, this is the first time they have read Austen, or at least read all of Austen. At the club meetings and elsewhere, some perceptive comments are made and insights shared; there are some rather humorous and sometimes off-track comments as well. What the book portrays best is the jumble of human life and how readers’ enjoyment of and appreciation of literature mixes in naturally and sometimes unpredictably with their lives. This novel is especially delightful for Austen fans, but a prior knowledge of Austen’s work is not necessary in order to enjoy “The Jane Austen Book Club.”

Another Immigrant Story: "Quiet as They Come"

I thank my friend Sarah for recommending (in a comment on my 12/17/10 blog entry) the book “Quiet as They Come” (Ig Publishing, 2010), by Angie Chau. This collection of interconnected stories about members of an extended Vietnamese-American immigrant family and their friends takes place here in San Francisco, which of course adds to its interest for me. But its main strength is its powerful portrayal of the histories and current lives of these immigrants, many of whom –- often with great difficulty and in great danger -- left Vietnam during or after the “American War” (what those of us living in the U.S. then called “The Vietnam War,” the difference in labeling signifying a huge difference in perspective), some as “boat people” who saw and experienced horrifying events. In the U.S., the characters struggle to survive, to adapt, to fit in, yet to keep their own culture. There are of course, as there are with so many immigrants from various countries, tensions and problems between the older and younger generations; the older ones want to keep the old ways, and to protect their children, and the youth want to go out into the world, explore, rebel against their parents and the old ways, and collect experiences – all the things that almost all young people want to do. Chau is particularly good at depicting this generational divide. She is also good at showing a whole spectrum of characters and experiences, not just those that portray the difficulties of immigrant life; although the latter are of course very important to show, writing only about those would be unidimensional and would leave out the complex humanity and experiences of these characters. Some of the characters in these stories are beaten down and defeated; some are optimistic; some are feisty. All are beautifully and revealingly drawn. Many of the stories are heartbreaking. Yet there is hope as well. One of my favorite characters is Viet, who had a PhD in philosophy and a law degree in Vietnam, where he was a professor; in the United States he struggles to get and keep jobs with much less status and that do not at all recognize or utilize his intellectual and academic background. Yet despite hardships and setbacks, he retains his dignity. Then there is the energetic and somewhat free-spirited teenaged Sophia, finding her own way with verve despite some stumbles. Reading this book so soon after reading (and writing about here on 12/28/10) Gish Jen’s novel “World and Town,” with its Cambodian family as main characters, has reminded me yet again of the increasingly diverse mixture of immigrants that has complicated and enriched the texture of all of our lives in the United States today. I am grateful to authors such as Chau and Jen who bring us their careful, thoughtful, well-written, and engaging portrayals of these new participants in American life.

On this New Year's Day, 2011, I wish readers of this blog all the very best -- including much good reading -- for the coming year!