"Vanishing, and Other Stories"

As a former Canadian who still feels quite connected to Canada, I am always glad to find and read fiction by Canadian writers. In the case of "Vanishing, and Other Stories" (Harper Perennial, 2009), there is the added interest factor that the stories are set on Vancouver Island, where I have relatives, and which I visited a couple of years ago for the first time in a long time. We enjoyed our visits with relatives, and were struck again by the beauty of the island. The author, Deborah Willis, works in a bookstore in Victoria, as she writes about in an interesting interview at the end of the book. She also cites fellow Canadian Alice Munro as her biggest influence, and that influence is definitely discernible in these stories. As readers of this blog know, Munro is one of my most-treasured writers. The stories in "Vanishing" are intriguing, very readable, and revealing about the complexities of (mostly young) people's lives and relationships. Willis is particularly insightful about family relationships, and about the things we know and don't know about our family members. Of course Willis doesn't fill Munro's very big shoes -- who does? -- and her stories lack Munro's stories' absolute groundedness and solidity. But they are strong, rewarding, and enjoyable stories. I am very glad that I have read them, and will look out for her future fiction.

"Clara Mondschein's Melancholia"

“Clara Mondschein’s Melancholia” (MacAdam/Cage, 2002), by Anne Raeff, is a beautifully written book, dense with reading pleasures. This may sound like an odd thing to say about a novel about Holocaust survivors and their descendants. But the emphasis in this novel is on the living, and on the pure force of life. The title character, Clara, was miraculously born in, and survived, a German concentration camp in World War II, and has ever after experienced bouts of melancholy, or as doctors would call it now, depression, by which she is often immobilized. Although she is the title character, Clara is not the main character. The two main characters are Clara’s mother, Ruth, and daughter, Deborah. Their two voices alternate as they tell the stories of the three generations of women. Clara, in the middle generation, tends to be indistinct and somewhat mysterious, although we understand that she suffers from the well-known syndrome of lifelong psychological effects of being a Holocaust survivor, or the child of survivors. It seems that Clara’s indistinctness is intentional on the part of the author, because the true stories here are those vividly told in the distinct, original, and -- in different ways -- very appealing voices of Ruth and Deborah, characters who practically jump off the page. These two also love, feel comfortable with, and learn from each other. Each of the two has a deep inner strength and resilience that allows her to overcome hardship and to dive into life and savor it. I want to repeat that the writing is beautiful. The author shows complete control of her material; readers immediately know they are in good hands, and continue to feel that sensation throughout the novel. Highly recommended.

"The Sun Also Rises" Revisited

A. Reasons that I resisted re-reading “The Sun Also Rises” (Scribner, 1926):
1. It is macho.
2. It is anti-semitic.
3. I don’t like to read about fishing (too boring).
4. I don’t like to read about bullfighting (too cruel and gory AND, somehow, simultaneously, too boring).
B. Reasons that I just re-read it anyway, for the first time since college:
1. I have been revisiting many books from those days.
2. I wanted to see how I felt about Hemingway’s style, and his short, declarative sentences, these many years later.
3. I still have a romanticized appreciation for depictions of the “Lost Generation” of Americans and their bohemian, literary life in Europe in the 1920s.
C. Reasons that I liked it again, despite myself:
1. The style is rather effective, after all.
2. I love the descriptions of the streets and cafes of Paris and of the landscapes and towns in Spain.
3. The character of Jake is intriguing, pathetic, honorable, and even endearing.
4. The doomed romance between Jake and Brett is moving.
5. Brett, despite her extreme carelessness with her various lovers’ feelings, is a woman who acts on her own desires at a time when not many women were able to do so. However, unfortunately, she never seems happy, and ends as a sad, forlorn character. (Although, come to think of it, most of the male characters end as sad, forlorn characters as well. Equal-opportunity anomie?)
D. Reservations I still have:
1. The expatriate literary generation seemed to spend a lot less time writing or working than I remembered the novel's portraying, and a lot more time drinking – drinking a LOT! Yes, they hung out in (practically lived in) the famous cafes and bars of Paris and Pamplona, but they weren’t having conversations about literature or other intellectual topics; they mainly drank (and drank and drank and drank) and spoke in short, declarative sentences that didn’t give away much.
2. The novel is still macho and anti-semitic, and I still don’t like to read about bullfighting.

"Cinderella Ate My Daughter"

"Cinderella Ate My Daughter" (Harper, 2011). Catchy title, isn't it? The subtitle is "Dispatches from the Front Lines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture." Peggy Orenstein previously (1994) wrote "Schoolgirls: Young Women, Self-Esteem, and the Confidence Gap," in which she described her close observation of girls in two middle schools; it was excellent research about an important topic. In this new book, Orenstein, who now has a young daughter of her own, describes the increasingly narrow focus of marketing to very young girls, at least partially fueled by the Disney films and by all the associated items sold to/for young girls. First, every little girl is a princess, and dressed in pink, with costumes, tiaras, and sparkles. Then as she gets older and follows the example of Miley Cyrus and other early teen celebrities, she dresses in a "hot," sexy version of the sparkling pink clothes. Orenstein ponders the paradox that girls and women now have so many more educational and career options, yet the emphasis on girls' looking and behaving a certain way seems ever more restrictive. This author has a talent for close observation and the telling anecdote, backed up with research. Her worries about raising her own daughter in this atmosphere are palpable, and provide a unifying thread throughout the book. She has no definitive answers, but does stimulate thought; she advocates more awareness, more communication with daughters, and hopes that parental awareness will start a movement for change, just as more awareness about nutrition has made some difference in policy, practice and even corporations. This book is short and very readable; I recommend it to all parents and others who care about the future of our children.

On "Middlemarch"

There's a very thoughtful essay by Rebecca Mead on George Eliot and "Middlemarch" in the Feb. 14 & 21, 2011 issue of The New Yorker. Titled "Middlemarch and Me," it speaks of Mead's lifelong relationship with the novel. From studying and passionately admiring it at 17 to her current analysis in her mid-forties, her view of the book has evolved as she has gotten older and experienced more of life. She reminds us that Virginia Woolf famously called it "one of the few English novels written for grown-up people." Mead believes that "Middlemarch" "is also a book about how to BE a grownup person -- about how to bear one's share of sorrow, failure, and loss, as well as to enjoy moments of hard-won happiness." Continuing with this idea, she believes that Eliot's work shows "that individuals must make their best efforts towards a worthy end, but it is the effort toward a goal, rather than the achievement of it, that makes us who we are." It is a sober, and sobering, attitude, one that comes with maturity. Yet it is in a way also hopeful, giving validation for effort, and for both the trials and small triumphs of everyday life. I have always believed that "Middlemarch" contains much wisdom, the wisdom of Eliot's maturity and deep intelligence, and this essay by Mead explores that idea in a most engaging and thought-provoking way.

"Leaving Bayberry House"

"Leaving Bayberry House" (John Daniel, 2010) is a new novel by Ann L. McLaughlin, whose 2002 novel, "The House on Q Street," I wrote about on 2/5/11. This novel, like the earlier one, portrays the difficulties and psychological residue of World War II on families in the United States. In 1973, two sisters, Angie and Liz, are taking a week out of their lives to revisit and prepare their extended family's summer house in order to sell it. The book alternates between that week in 1973 and flashbacks to the wrenching events that happened to the family during the wartime years. There is a certain amount of suspense as we readers try to figure out what the main tragic event (although there are several family tragedies) for the family was, the one that has scarred Angie and Liz ever since. There is also discussion of current family problems that the sisters are struggling with regarding their own husbands and children. Matters come to a head at the end of the week when other family members unexpectedly visit and when the sisters are finally able to speak openly to each other about their memories of the family rifts and the sad events that changed their lives forever. The two sisters, and their ambivalent but ultimately loving relationship, are movingly portrayed. The other characters in the story -- including the parents of the two sisters -- tend to be less well developed. The most interesting aspect of this novel is the depiction of the long lasting psychological effects of the past on the present.

New York Magazine

New York is one of the magazines I read as soon as it arrives, and always enjoy. Although ostensibly a city magazine (and I enjoy articles, reviews, and listings about New York), it is actually a national magazine, in the way that The New Yorker is a national magazine. It publishes articles on politics, culture, art, literature, and people in the news. The "voice" of New York is quite different than that of The New Yorker: a bit more combative, "in-your-face," and sometimes snarky. I always learn something new about something different from every issue. And it is fun to read. Sometimes it borders on gossipy, and that's OK with me. I also honor the magazine for publishing the preview issue of Ms. Magazine as an insert to New York, in 1971.