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.