A Window into Canadian Literature

My cousin A., who like me is originally from Canada but who moved to the United States much more recently than I, was kind enough to pick up a copy of the Autumn 2011 issue of “BC Bookworld” for me the last time she was in Canada. (Our extended family is from the Vancouver area in British Columbia.) With the exception of books by established authors such as Margaret Atwood and Alice Munro, much of Canadian literature is not published or reviewed in the U.S. I treasure, and still feel connected to, Canadian literature, especially fiction (see, for example, my 3/19/10 post about Canadian writers, my 2/20/10 post on Carol Shields, and my 7/22/10 post on Alice Munro), and try to find and read it when I can, but it is not easy to do so. So it is a delight for me to have this small, very up-to-date window into Canadian literature. There are articles on writers I know about, such as Jane Rule, but many more on writers I have not heard of, let alone read. To name just a few of these mentioned in this issue: novelists Esi Edugyan and Bertrand Sinclair, poets Susan Musgrave and Clea Roberts, short story writer Jack Hodgins, and memoirist Willow Yamauchi (her “Adult Child of Hippies” sounds intriguing!). I hope to find and read work by at least some of these. Thank you, A.!

"The Man Within My Head," by Pico Iyer

In “The Man Within My Head” (Knopf, 2012), the writer Pico Iyer tells of his long obsession with, or perhaps haunting by, the writer Graham Greene. He looks at Greene’s life and work with a clear-eyed judgment; he by no means sees him as perfect. But there is something about Greene’s restlessness, his need to travel to faraway lands, and his shifting relationship with God, with religion, and with his fellow humans, that speaks to Iyer. The book describes Iyer’s own travels (to Bolivia, Vietnam, Ethiopia, Easter Island, among other destinations), many to places where Greene spent time; this book describes a sort of nonlinear pilgrimage. In a much smaller way, Iyer has been in turn, from time to time, a man within my own head. I have occasionally read his articles in various publications over the years, and my antennae have always gone up when I have seen his byline. This man of Indian origin who grew up in California and went to boarding school in England, who has traveled far and wide, and who now is based in a small town in Japan with his Japanese wife Hiroko, is just the sort of citizen of the world that I am fascinated by. I am drawn to writers with this sort of background, and I have myself written about “third culture kids” who have lived and studied in several countries. My own upbringing and life surely come into this: I was born in Canada, grew up in India, and have lived my adult life in the United States; my husband is from a different country, two of my three sisters-in-law are from still other countries, I have traveled fairly widely, and I teach mostly international students, here in one of the most international, multicultural cities in the world, San Francisco. But my fascination with Iyer’s writing, and with his restless quest for identification with Greene, goes beyond my own autobiographical facts. Despite my own current rootedness in one city, there is something mysteriously attractive to me in the unmoored life, the restless movement and wider perspective provided by travel, that both Greene and Iyer have sought out. The particular confluence in Iyer’s life of India, England, and California -- some of the places that have been important in my actual life and my intellectual/emotional life -- provides another connection, another factor in my being drawn to Iyer’s work. And -- I realize I have not yet said, but should -- Iyer is a wonderful writer, evocative, descriptive, and meditative.

Literature Asks Us to Pay Attention

My friend M.C.C. passed along the following quotation from the writer Frederick Buechner, and I was quite taken with his perspective on literature:

“From the simplest lyric to the most complex novel, literature is asking us to pay attention. Pay attention to the frog. Pay attention to the west wind. Pay attention to the boy on the raft, the lady on the tower, the old man on the train. In sum, pay attention to the world and all that dwells therein and thereby learn at last to pay attention to yourself and all that dwells therein.”

"W;t," by Margaret Edson

The following post is (even) more personal than usual, but my experiences with the play “W;t” remind me of how intensely personal reading literature can be, especially when it intersects closely with one’s own life experiences.

In March, 1999, my dear longtime friend from graduate school, C., whom I have written about here before (most specifically on 4/29/11) and I went to see a new play titled “W;t.” C. had lived in New York for many years before she moved to another East Coast city, and when I was going to go there during my spring break, she met me there for a few days of museums, plays, restaurants, and good talk. She chose “W;t,” among other plays we attended during those few days, and although it was sad and hard to watch, it was also riveting and wonderful. It tells the story of Dr. Vivian Bearing (vividly portrayed by Kathleen Chalfant), a professor of English specializing in Donne, as she lies in a hospital bed enduring treatments for late-stage ovarian cancer, knowing that death is approaching. She has been a rigorous, acerbic teacher and scholar who has dedicated her life to her scholarship and teaching. Now she alternates between the painful present and memories of the past. She still turns to Donne for meaning and for a kind of austere comfort.

Twelve years later, in March, 2011, C. died of ovarian cancer after a three-year battle during which she lived with incredible grace. C. had also been (before she started another career) an educator, with degrees in English literature, and with a lifelong passionate love of literature.

Recently a copy of the book version of “W;t” (Faber and Faber, 1999), by Margaret Edson, came into my possession through a friend. I put off reading it for weeks, knowing it would be painful, and then read it very slowly, despite its brevity. The memories of C. elicited by the play were powerful, and as I approached the end of the book, I was overwhelmed with sadness. And yet in a way, reading “W;t” was cathartic for me, as literature can sometimes be.

This post is dedicated to the memory of C.

"Girls of Riyadh"

The novel "Girls of Riyadh" (Penguin, 2007), by Rajaa Alsanea, was banned in Saudi Arabia when it was published in Arabic in 2005, but apparently still managed to be read by many there. It was then translated (by the author and Marilyn Booth) into English, providing the English-speaking world with a window into the lives of young women in Saudi Arabia. It tells the story of four young women in Riyadh, their close friendship with each other, their educations and careers and families, their travels abroad, and -- most of all -- their love lives. Although these young women, along with most young women in S.A., are very limited in how much they are permitted to see and speak with young men, they find ways to do so, both in person and -- especially -- by telephone; long romances are sometimes conducted almost entirely by telephone. Of course this is fiction, but its author is a young Saudi woman herself, living in the United States at the time of publication, and I assume it is at least somewhat accurate in describing at least a certain subgroup of women and their lives. It reminds us of how young women in much of the world, even young women from the most affluent families, have far less freedom and far fewer opportunities than young men do. It also reminds us of all the ways young people find to connect and to love, despite society's restrictions. One thing I was glad to see was that at least some of these young women had access to higher education -- both in S.A. and abroad -- and good careers. I have taught Saudi women at my university, and have been very impressed with their motivation, hard work, maturity, and ambition. "The Girls of Riyadh" is not terribly well written, and perhaps sensationalizes young women's lives somewhat, but it was interesting for me to read, as it seemed to open the curtain a bit on the behind-the-scenes lives of at least some young women whose lives we in the West generally don't learn much about.

"The Rejection Collection"

If you want something hilarious to read, I recommend "The Best of the Rejection Collection: 293 Cartoons That Were Too Dumb, Too Dark, or Too Naughty for The New Yorker" (Workman, 2011), "rescued by" Matthew Diffee. The title says it all... Like many of you, I always enjoy the cartoons in The New Yorker. Those in this collection have the added appeal of the offbeat, the surprising, and the sometimes just slightly risque. The rejected cartoons are organized by cartoonist, and at the beginning of each section is an also very funny and unconventional interview with that artist. When I was shopping for Christmas gifts in one of my favorite bookstores, this book caught my eye and I had to buy it for myself; sure enough, I enjoyed it thoroughly, and now it sits on our coffee table, and I still occasionally leaf through it for a laugh. (P.S. I thought about trying to explain a couple of my favorite cartoons from this collection, but the impossibility of capturing a drawing in words defeated me. You just have to see them for yourself!)

"Lady Susan," by Jane Austen

Readers of this blog know how much I love and admire Jane Austen's fiction. The Austen canon consists, as all Austen followers know, of six glorious complete novels. There are also two unfinished novels, "Sanditon" and the "Watsons," as well as some juvenalia. Less known and lauded is a very early epistolary novel that was not published until long after Austen's death, "Lady Susan." I had read this short book before, but not for a long time; I just finished listening to it on CD. Although it does not stand up to The Six, it is enjoyable to read (or hear) and demonstrates a good portion of the wit and perceptiveness of Austen's more developed work. The novel features a widow who is not afraid to have both flirtations and affairs; somehow, despite her shaky reputation, she manages to be accepted (reluctantly) by her relatives and friends. She is very manipulative, a liar, a two-timer, a distinctly unmaternal mother to her teenaged daughter (whom she tries to force to marry a unappealing man), smart, funny, selfish, and a little bit evil. She is the villain we are meant to root against, yes, but Austen slyly makes us pull for her a bit as well, despite ourselves. I decry her willingness to use whoever can be useful to her, and to step on anyone who gets in her way, yet there is something appealing about a woman at that time in history (late 18th century) who -- unlike most women of the era -- knew what she wanted and went for it, and who was so in control of her own life and relationships.