Remembrance of Letters Past

When I was at my mother’s house recently, going through old papers, as she is downsizing, she showed me files of letters that my brothers and I had written to my father and her when we were children in boarding school in India, many years ago. I read them with great interest; they not only brought back memories of events and feelings from that time period, but they vividly illustrated different stages of our childhoods. My youngest brother wrote sweet, simple notes in block printing. We all listed litanies of activities: “On Saturday our class took a hike. On Sunday L. and C. and I went to the bazaar. Yesterday Mr. F. told us we have to memorize a poem.” Etc. The letters also were clearly from four different kids: I immediately recognized the handwriting of each of my brothers, and noticed the stylistic differences in our writing. I also still have some of the letters that my parents wrote to me in boarding school, and later on too, for example when I was in college and when I moved to San Francisco. During the boarding school holidays, when we dispersed and went home, some of my friends and I would write each other long letters, which helped with the separation from each other and our school and social activities. During my college and early adult years, when any of us -- family or friends -- went on trips, we would write letters and cards. As an adult, I enjoy reading the published letters of some of my favorite authors, and find them both revealing and intriguing. I still write and receive some handwritten notes or letters, although much more rarely than in pre-email days. In particular, my mother doesn’t use email, so we still write each other letters; we each enjoy both writing and receiving letters. A couple of my friends still (one in particular -- thank you, B.!) write the occasional note by post, which I enjoy and appreciate. And I have one friend in Canada with whom I have been exchanging cards and letters since we were ten years old, although we have only seen each other a few times over the years, and that is a treasured correspondence. But with cell phones, texting, emailing, instant messaging/chatting, Facebook, and all the other ways to communicate, old-fashioned letters are not very common anymore. Isn’t it a bit sad that nowadays when one opens one’s mailbox, the chances of that little uptick of happiness on finding a personal letter are very small? I know that technology marches on, and that is mostly a good thing; I, for example, am a great fan of email. But I can’t help feeling that the drastic decrease in letter writing is a loss.

Can't Get Into "Chronic City"

I just couldn’t finish Jonathan Lethem’s novel “Chronic City” (Vintage Contemporaries, 2009). I tried, I persisted, I got about halfway through, and then skimmed the rest. I thought I would like it because it is about New York City, and because the critics claim it shows the city in a way that it has never been shown before; the blurb on the back cover calls the novel “a searing love letter to the city.” The novel is mostly about a very small coterie of friends, mostly male; although one works for the mayor, and there is some ado about some citywide strange events, the novel seems to me claustrophobic and – OK, I will say it – boring. The narrator, Chase Insteadman, a former child TV actor, connects with the character Perkus Tooth, who is supposed to be, I guess, emblematic of New York cool and hip – or something like that. Tooth is a former rock critic with an encyclopedic knowledge of music, who now mainly smokes pot and hangs out either at his own apartment or at a nearby café where he always eats and drinks the same thing: a cheeseburger and a Coke. He gets fixated on trying to buy a certain rare type of ceramic vase on eBay, which he thinks has a mystical healing power. The novels mostly consists of many long, tedious, stoned conversations between Tooth, Insteadman, and a few of their friends, and a few walks through the city, none seeming to lead anywhere much. There is a sort of plot, but not one that held my attention. There is a sort of theme, something about “the pursuit of truth” (according to a New York Times review), but again, the way this theme is explored didn’t hold my attention. This novel was a bestseller, and was well received critically, so perhaps I am missing something. But personally I don’t recommend it at all.

A Misogynistic Nobel Laureate

According to an NPR article, “Nobel Laureate V. S. Naipaul Says No Woman Is His Literary ‘Equal’” (Peralta, 6/2/11), Naipaul has stated that women are “quite different,” and that they cannot write as well as he does because of their “sentimentality, the narrow view of the world.” Naipaul, who has been revealed by biographies and other books to be violent, racist, and misogynistic, reminds us that being a good writer definitely does not translate to being a good person. Statements such as the above show him to have a “narrow view of the world” himself. I do admire some of his writing, and I believe that he has added to our understanding of the damage done by colonialism and by racism, so this kind of prejudice makes me both angry and sad, because he should know better. It is always sad to see how some people understand very well one kind of prejudice and discrimination, but are blind to other kinds. I also hold him, as a writer who has received such high level recognition, to a higher standard. Perhaps I should be able to separate my feelings about the author and about his work, and I generally try to do so, but knowing of Naipaul’s apparent contempt for and dismissal of female writers certainly makes me less likely to want to read more of his work in the future.

"Cutting for Stone"

“Cutting for Stone” (Vintage, 2009), by Abraham Verghese, is a big (667-page) saga, a bestseller. I must admit it took me a while to get through it, and I read several other books while I was chipping away at this one. But I am glad I persisted. Verghese, a physican and author of the memoir “My Own Country” about working with AIDS patients in Appalachia, which I very much liked when I read it some years ago, has written a moving epic novel about characters from India and Africa who converge on Missing Hospital in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. The two main characters are twin brothers, Marion and Shiva Stone; other characters are their birth parents (they are born of an illicit but touching relationship), their adopted parents, and others who work at the hospital. The brothers are extremely close, considering themselves two halves of a whole, but a betrayal tears them apart, and Marion goes to the United States for further medical training. There he is successful but still haunted by his past, in both positive and negative ways. There is much in this book about family, about immigration, about love, and about death. The relationships are close and often moving. There is also much -- sometimes too much -- about medicine, although in some cases the medical crises and procedures are very dramatic. All of this takes place against the backdrop of Ethiopian history during and after the reign of Emperor Haile Selassie; the characters of the story see this history up close, and are directly -- sometimes tragically -- affected by it. I must admit that I personally was particularly drawn to a part of the book that was only a minor part of the story: the early part in South India, where I spent my childhood. The descriptions of that area, and the feelings of those who were torn between their pasts and their futures, their countries of birth and their need to go out into the world, are evocative and moving. It’s the beginning of the summer now, so if you are looking for a high-quality and enjoyable “good read,” one that takes you to other worlds, buy this book in paperback, take it with you on vacation, and get caught up in its gripping (and generally well-written) story.

"My New American Life"

The immigrant novel is a common genre in the United States, and adds new energy to American literature, just as immigrants themselves add new energy to the country. Francine Prose’s new novel, “My New American Life” (Harper, 2011) has elements of the classic immigrant novel, yet with a quirky, original energy of its own. The main character, the one through whose eyes we experience the story, is Lula, a young woman from Albania, now living in New Jersey with her employer, “Mister Stanley,” and his teenaged son, Zeke; since Zeke’s mentally ill mother, Ginger, left the family, Mister Stanley wants someone to oversee and take care of Zeke while Stanley works long hours on Wall Street. Lula meets some seemingly gangster types who are also from Albania, and falls in love –- well, thinks she may have fallen in love -- with one of them, Alvo. There is much mystery and intrigue regarding Alvo. Lula grows fond of Mister Stanley and Zeke, yet feels her life is going nowhere, staying with them in New Jersey. She is very creative, and tells and writes stories about Albania in which she exaggerates and distorts -- OK, lies, sometimes -- and watches bemusedly as those around her welcome and encourage her exotic if unlikely tales. Lula is an original character, funny and realistic and confused and positive, despite attempting to be cynical and negative. She is someone for whom we root, and who will always land on her feet. The novel is energetic, funny, enjoyable to read, and at the same time –- without belaboring the issues –- makes some important points about the lives of new immigrants in the United States.

Story Time at the Library

I have posted before about public libraries, school libraries, librarians, and browsing in libraries. I have also written about reading to children. Today I want to write about a combination of those topics: “Story Time” in libraries. Most public libraries, and some school libraries, have some variation of Story Time, sometimes daily, sometimes weekly. Librarians read to young children, lead them in song, have them repeat simple poems, and sometimes have them clap, move and dance. Sometimes puppets or small props are involved. Children respond with animation and pleasure; their laughter and bright eyes display their joy. They learn about the world of books, about language, about music and rhythm, about sharing the pleasure of books and stories, and more. Accompanying parents enjoy the experience as well; it provides special, memorable child-parent moments. When my daughter was small, I would take her to Story Time at our local branch of the public library, and was always impressed by the skill and enthusiasm of the children’s librarians, and by the joy the children expressed during these sessions. Twenty-five years later, I can still picture these happy occasions.

"Crampton Hodnet"

I recently ran across a copy of "Crampton Hodnet" (Moyer Bell, 1985), by the always delightful and insightful Barbara Pym. I have read it before, as I have read all of Pym's novels, some several times, but I couldn't resist reading it again. And who could resist a novel with such chapter titles as "Sunday Tea Party," "A Safe Place for a Clergyman," "Love in the British Museum," and "Edward and Mother Give a Tea Party"? The novel is set in North Oxford, among university dons and their families, undergraduates, nosy neighbors, and young curates. The central character, Miss Morrow, is a drab woman in her mid-thirties who makes her living as a paid companion to an annoying older woman, Miss Doggett. Miss Morrow's faded persona hides a very intelligent mind and a kind heart; she notices everything. There are flirtations, small crises, gossip, small trips, and other events...and always, always, people drinking tea together. On the surface, this novel is a light confection, and quite humorous. But there are, underlying it all, some serious questions about marriage, love, the single life, and what makes life worthwhile. There really is no author like Pym; I have always found her fiction enchanting and very funny, as well as thoughtful and thought-provoking. If you haven't read Pym's novels yet, you are in for a treat.