"Agewise," by Margaret Morganroth Gullette

I don’t usually pick up a book intending only to read certain selections, but I did so with “Agewise: Fighting the New Ageism in America” (University of Chicago Press, 2011), by Margaret Morganroth Gullette. The topic of ageism is important (and of increasing relevance to my Boomer generation); the author is a scholar but writes in a way accessible to the general reader. I am sure the rest of the book is interesting, but what caught my attention and what I read were two chapters with literary connections. The first is “The Mystery of Carolyn Heilbrun’s Suicide: Fear of Aging, Ageism, and the ‘Duty to Die.’” Readers of this blog may remember that Carolyn Heilbrun is a feminist literary scholar whom I greatly admire (see my post of 7/14/10), and whose feminist detective novels, written under the pen name of Amanda Cross, are also wonderful; I was very saddened to learn of her suicide in 2003. Gullette feels, as the title indicates, that Heilbrun, despite being only 77 and being in good health, with many admirable achievements, greatly admired, with a loving family and many friends, felt that it was time for her to die; she had retired from Columbia University under difficult circumstances, had lost her interest to some extent in reading and writing, was subject to depression, and -- most notably, to Gullette -- felt that she was becoming somewhat invisible. The author theorizes that once women of Heilbrun’s generation had, with difficulty, been able to join the workforce and use their minds and talents, they became invested in doing so, and were/are at a loss when retiring, even more so than men (although Gullette doesn’t explain the difference very convincingly). This is an interesting although sad exploration of the topic. The second chapter of interest to me in this book is “The Daughter’s Club: Does Emma Woodhouse’s Father Suffer from ‘Dementia’?” Emma is, of course, Jane Austen’s “Emma.” Gullette points out that scholars have focused on Emma’s pride, immaturity, flightiness, misguided meddling, and love story, but have paid little attention to her dilemma (which is, with great good fortune, resolved at the end): her father suffers from great mental and emotional limitations, which Emma and Austen herself seek to minimize by treating them as endearing eccentricities, and by emphasizing what a kind, generous man he is. But Gullette argues that Mr. Woodhouse's limitations are actually signs of dementia, which will only get worse. Emma is well aware that her daughterly duty is to care for him as he declines, until he dies. She loves him dearly, does not shirk from the task, and is unfailingly kind to and patient with him, but it is a heavy burden for a very young woman; in addition, she realizes that this duty may preclude her marrying and having her own family. Only the great goodness of Knightley in agreeing to take the very unusual step of leaving his own estate and moving into the Woodhouse home solves the issue of how Emma can care for her father and still have a marriage and family herself. But still, all is not unalloyed happiness; Gullette points out that Austen shows us almost nothing of what happens after the wedding, as she -- Austen -- is well aware that Emma and Knightley will have a difficult time caring for Mr. Woodhouse as his dementia increases. This intriguing and original interpretation of the story puts Emma in a much better and more mature light than usual, and I found it sad but very compelling.

"Maine," by J. Courtney Sullivan

I have written before about books that are something between “beach novels”/”chick lit” and literary fiction. “Maine” (Knopf, 2011), by J. Courtney Sullivan, seems to fit this in-between category, as did Sullivan’s earlier novel, “Commencement,” which I enjoyed. “Maine” is about a Boston-based Irish Catholic family with a summer home in Maine. Come to think of it, within the past couple of weeks I have written about one book on a Boston-based Irish Catholic family and another book with a family summer house in Maine…interesting coincidences. (And a book I am reading now has a blurb on the back from Sullivan…but that is a post for another day….) I am always drawn to novels about New England vacation retreats. However, “Maine” left me a bit dissatisfied. I am not sure exactly why, but here are some possible reasons:
1. Too small a proportion of this nearly-400-page novel is actually set at the Maine cottage. Like a bored child in the backseat of a car, I kept wanting to ask the author, “Are we there yet? Are we there NOW?”
2. The back story takes too long; the novel seemed to have a lot of prologue and too little current action. It is not just that there is a back story, or history, which is common in novels and can be done well, but that it always seems to be interrupting, stuttering its way into the current story, and not necessarily smoothly.
3. Fictional dysfunctional families can be interesting; this novel, however, seems to be trying to describe a dysfunctional family, but ends up portraying a family more pathetic and annoying and sometimes nasty than truly dysfunctional. You wouldn’t want to spend much time with these characters.
4. And speaking of nasty: Alice, the matriarch of the family, is miserable, rigid, mean, judgmental, and racist. Yes, there is a back story about a tragedy that happened early in her life, but this doesn’t justify her mean-spiritedness and her cruelty to her own family members. Guilt, yes; cruelty, no. Perhaps this is a realistic “type,” but she is hard to tolerate. The family tiptoes around her, but we don't have to. And yes, I know, you don’t have to LIKE the characters in novels, if there is a reason that they are the way they are, but this one is gratuitously, pointlessly petty and mean.
If “Maine” were better written, maybe my objections would be less salient. As it is, the novel is fine, not a bad read, but not very good either.

Lost Worlds

On 4/8/10, I wrote about “book flashes,” the way in which odd bits and pieces of the many books I have read over many years sometimes suddenly and unpredictably flash through my head. In that post and in my 2/24/10 post on "books remembered and forgotten," I celebrated those strange but good occurrences. But there is another side to that experience: sometimes I feel sad about all the worlds I’ve inhabited for a few hours each, the worlds encompassed in the books I have read, worlds of which I can remember and/or revisit only a small part. Those worlds were so intensely felt for a few hours, and then they drifted into the vast inchoate mass of my fallible and inadequate memory. Of course I don’t believe they have all completely disappeared, and fortunately the best, the most impressive, the most powerful plots and characters and themes still usually stay with me, even if they are a little blurry around the edges. But what about all the others?

"Letters Never Sent," by Ruth E. Van Reken

Some of you may know that I was and am a “missionary kid” (MK), the child of missionary parents; I grew up in India. I say “am” because “once an MK, always an MK.” So I am always interested in the stories of other MKs. They usually tell of the adventures they had, and of the big moves their families made between their home countries and the countries where their parents worked. Most MKs write or speak positively about all this, but most also acknowledge that at times it was difficult and lonely. I recently re-read one such story by Ruth E. Van Reken. Written in the form of letters that express the author’s feelings about her experiences as she looks back on them, this book is titled “Letters Never Sent: One Woman’s Journey from Hurt to Wholeness” (“Letters,” 1988). This volume is certainly compelling, especially for those of us who have had similar experiences. But in major ways, it does not resonate with my experiences. The author’s main theme is that the long separations from her parents brought about by her education far away from them, first in boarding school and later living with relatives, left her with lifelong scars and feelings of deprivation and hurt. I understand that some MKs felt this, but my own stays at boarding school were a happy time in my life. I loved my parents and missed them, but did not feel sad and deprived. An important point in the book is that each child is different, and is affected differently by such experiences as separations from parents, and thus that parents and schools should be aware of these differences and act accordingly. Fortunately, Van Reken was eventually able to heal from her childhood experiences.

"Faith," by Jennifer Haigh

I am finding it very difficult to write about the novel “Faith” (Harper, 2011), by Jennifer Haigh (author of “Mrs. Kimble,” which I liked), because of the enormity and horror of its topic: child molestation by priests. To be more specific, Haigh writes about the accusation of the main character, Art, of child molestation; we don’t find out whether the accusation is justified until near the end of the novel. The novel’s narrator is Sheila, Art’s sister, and she writes about the difficult family history, the pain the accusation costs the family, the complex personalities involved, and the complicated web of people and relationships and events surrounding them. It seems it would be hard to write about all this without seeming to exploit this explosive topic, but Haigh writes sensitively and thoughtfully. Of course I can’t presume to know how reading this novel would feel to someone who had a personal connection to the topic. I feel I can’t write any more without revealing too much of the twists and turns and complications of the story -- and there are some surprises -- so I will stop here.

"Level Up," by Gene Luen Yang

I don’t usually read graphic novels, but there have been a few I really enjoyed, such as Posy Simmonds’ “Gemma Bovery” and “Tamara Drewe,” modern takeoffs on classic novels. Another that I enjoyed was Gene Luen Yang’s “American Born Chinese,” which aptly captured at least one character’s view of being part of this particular demographic. I have just read Yang’s new graphic novel, “Level Up” (First Second, 2011), with art by Thien Pham. The main character, Dennis Ouyang, feels constrained by his dead father’s dream for him to become a gastroenterologist (ironic in that Dennis gets sick to the stomach easily), when all he really wants to do is play video games. He fell in love with Pac-Man and Super Mario Brothers when he was a young kid, and ever after felt the tension between what he “should” be doing and what he loved doing. The story of this tension is the focus of the book. It is an evocative portrayal of the burden placed on young people -- Asian or not -- who feel it is their duty to fulfill their parents’ wishes even when those wishes are very contrary to the young people’s own dreams. To Yang's credit, he makes both sides -- father and son -- sympathetic. Using the form of the graphic novel to portray this tension is very effective, with the absorbing, somewhat wistful drawings reinforcing the spare-but-powerful writing. It is easy to read this book quickly, but I urge readers to slow down to appreciate the details of the drawings, and the way the language and the art reinforce each other.

Sometimes I Just Don't Want to Read It

Sometimes I read a review of a book and I feel “I SHOULD read that.” It is significant, and/or it is by a great writer, and/or everyone will be talking about it. But it just doesn’t sound like a book I would like. Maybe the subject matter doesn’t interest me, or the book is too “experimental” for my taste, or it sounds like it will be extremely painful to read. Usually I try to read more reviews of the book, to learn more about it, in case the first reviewer just emphasized an aspect I tend not to like, or framed the book in a way that didn’t appeal to me. Sometimes I will flip through the book at the library or at a bookstore, to get a better sense of it. Sometimes these actions make a difference and I DO decide to read the book. More often, I don’t. I may feel a slight sense of pressure (guilt is too strong a word) about not reading it, and/or I may feel that I am being lazy or narrow or picky by avoiding a well-reviewed and well-regarded book that happens not to immediately appeal to me. But the older I get, the easier it is to trust my sense of whether a book is one I will like or not. After all, I -- like all readers -- have only so much time to read, and so I have to choose what I read with some awareness of that limitation.