"The New York Stories of Edith Wharton"

A reader or two may remember that I mentioned in early April that I was joyfully reading a collection of stories by Edith Wharton -- one of my favorite writers, about whom I have written here several times, including on 4/18/10, 2/22/12, and 4/18/12 -- on the plane in late March on my way home from two conferences on the East Coast, and that I said I would write about it when I finished. Somehow the book migrated to the bottom of my books-to-read-or-finish pile, but I finally got back to it and read the last few stories with great pleasure. This collection, “The New York Stories of Edith Wharton” (New York Review Books, 2007), selected by Roxana Robinson, is overflowing with wonderful stories, all describing the city where she lived for much of her life, and written over the course of her career. The first story in the collection, “Mrs. Manstey’s View,” happens to be the very first story that Wharton published. The final story, “Roman Fever,” is one of her most famous ones. The New York settings are so evocative, so precisely rendered. But best of all are the characters; they are always well drawn, always compelling. Every single one of them draws the reader in, and makes the reader wonder what will happen. Somehow Wharton manages to make us care without ever being sentimental or soft. The situations the characters find themselves in are both inevitable, because of the rigidity of society’s norms and expectations, and startlingly original. And the writing is amazing; Wharton makes it look easy, but it is so clear and yet so complex. There is, too, the old-fashioned pleasure of being caught up in the story, wanting to know what will happen next, and trusting the author absolutely to take us somewhere new, somewhere revelatory, even when in the midst of somewhere very familiar. In fact, there is something deliciously subversive about Wharton's writing. One theme that appears in several stories in this collection is that of writers writing under others’ names, or pretending to be other than whom they are; one wonders why this theme is important to Wharton. Perhaps she is exploring the question of what originality in writing means, and the blurring of borders. There is much about social class, about gender, about ethics, about sheer humanity. But it is never just “about” something. I am tempted to tell you about each and every one of these twenty stories, but do not have the space to do so. If you loved “The Age of Innocence” and “The House of Mirth,” you will love this collection as well. If you haven’t read much or any Wharton before, this volume would be an excellent place to start.

"Unless," by Carol Shields

Readers may remember that one of my most-admired contemporary writers is the late Carol Shields, the Canadian author who, sadly, died in 2003, at the age of 68. I recently listened to her last novel, “Unless” (2002), on CD. I had read the book twice already, but not recently. As I listened, I marveled once again at Shields’ gorgeous prose and wonderfully wise writing. In this novel, she writes about family (especially the mother-daughter relationship), about writing (especially the situation of women writers), and about the nature of “goodness,” among other themes. The narrator and main character Reta Winters’ oldest daughter Norah, a college student, has suddenly had some kind of crisis and started panhandling in downtown Toronto, mostly silently, with a cardboard sign saying “Goodness” around her neck. Most of the novel is about how the family reacts to this sad and mysterious happening, as well as about the narrator’s writing her second novel to distract herself as much as possible. One strong strand throughout the novel is the narrator’s anger at the way women writers over the years have been condescended to, underestimated, and left out of consideration or even notice in reviews, literature programs and classes, and elsewhere. She gives example after example, and writes (but does not send) cutting letters to magazine editors and others about this issue. This focus on the issue of women writers' being marginalized sounds didactic, but Shields is such a good writer that it does not come off that way. “Unless,” like Shields’ other books, especially “The Stone Diaries” and “Larry’s Party,” is exquisitely well written, full of wisdom, thought-provoking, intricately textured, and deeply satisfying. Shields is an incredible writer, and although she has a high reputation (for example, “The Stone Diaries” won the Pulitzer Prize), I fear that she herself is not adequately read and appreciated. I hope I am wrong. Now I want to add a personal note: Some years ago, I recommended Carol Shields’ novels to my friend C., whom I have mentioned here several times. C. read her work and went to hear Shields speak at a bookstore in her East Coast city, and was very impressed (and C. was not easily impressed). We both mourned Shields’ death of cancer in 2003. A few years later, in 2008, C. was diagnosed with cancer herself and, as I wrote about here (on 4/29/11), died in 2011, a terrible loss to her family and many friends and colleagues, and to the world. When earlier this week I heard an interview with Shields at the end of the CD of “Unless,” apparently in a bookstore type setting, the interview reminded me of C., of her description of having heard Carol Shields read and speak, and of how we both appreciated and loved Shields’ impressive and perceptive writing. This memory was symbolic of the many book-and-reading-related bonds C. and I shared for almost 40 years.

On Avoiding "Difficult" Books

Sometimes I feel guilty that I often (not always, but often) avoid “difficult” books these days. I mean difficult in two senses: first, books that are very experimental in their prose styles, and second, books that are about very painful topics. When I was younger, I would take on books in both categories, because I wanted to read everything and to know everything that literary people knew. I devoured it all. I would never re-read now some of the books I inhaled back then. Although I still read very widely, in various types of literature and by various authors of various backgrounds, I tend to focus on novels about human relationships in somewhat familiar settings. But I occasionally think about how I am likely missing out on important books that I really “should” read, and would benefit from, and maybe even like better than I think ahead of time that I would. Let me give just one concrete example from the many that I could give. In the current (5/14/12) New Yorker (p. 121), there is a brief review of “The Hunger Angel” by Herta Muller. Although I am attracted by the phrase “moving novel,” as soon as I read that the book is “set in a Russian Gulag at the end of the Second World War,” and that “[s]urviving on bread and cabbage soup, the internees are maddened by starvation” and “steal food from one another and clothes from still warm corpses,” I immediately mentally retreat from the prospect of reading the book. I see the word “bleak” and am too much of a reading coward to face this book. I fully admit that this is a failing on my part, and I am somewhat reluctant and even embarrassed to write about it here. I don’t know, though, if I feel guilty enough to actually change my reading habits. I do resolve to push myself at least a little more in this regard.

"Restaurant Man," by Joe Bastianich

Remember Anthony Bourdain’s book, “Kitchen Confidential”? Remember how raw and rowdy and profane it was? But at the same time entertaining and informational? Joe Bastianich’s book, “Restaurant Man” (Viking, 2012) reminds me of that book. In both of these books, I imagine that the brash style probably does reflect the authors' personalities, but I also suspect that that style is somewhat hyped-up for effect. In any case, I enjoyed both, but with a sort of ongoing footnote of reservation (no pun intended…well, maybe a little bit!). Bastianich, like Bourdain, tells the story of his own life in the restaurant business, how it evolved over time, how his lifestyle changed over time, and how it all both reflected and affected his relationships with others. Bastianich is, along with his partners, the famed Mario Batali and Lidia Bastianich (who happens to be his mother), the owner/operator of several well-respected and enormously successful restaurants in New York (Babbo, Del Posto, Lupa, Esca, Otto) and elsewhere. His life’s work is to show America what real Italian food and wine are (hint: not just spaghetti and meatballs in red-checked tablecloth restaurants). His story is very interesting, and he tells it well, albeit in the brash and f-word-filled prose mentioned above. Modesty seems to be a foreign word for him now, but he briefly lets us see a glimpse of his earlier insecurities, and he is also good at acknowledging the contributions of others, so as a reader I am inclined to forgive his somewhat excessive macho-ish self-regard. I admire the author’s successes, and I appreciate his service-oriented attitude; he truly wants his customers to feel well taken care of and happy. I have dined at Babbo and enjoyed it very much; we received the kind of service the author describes as his goal there. Next time I am in New York, perhaps I will try to get a reservation at Del Posto, one of the very few restaurants to earn four stars from the New York Times. “Restaurant Man” is a good read for those who love restaurants, especially New York restaurants, and I learned a lot about that world from this book.

The Atlantic on "The Art of Fielding"

There has been so much hullabaloo about Chad Harbach's 2011 novel, "The Art of Fielding," that I felt a certain pressure to read it, or at least to check it out. I read several enthusiastic reviews, but something kept me from reading it. Perhaps it was the baseball theme; I like baseball fine, but am not enough of a fan to want to read novels about it. OK, I was assured by some of the reviews that the baseball wasn't the point; it was just a means. It was pointed out (very presumptuously, in my opinion!) that "Moby Dick" wasn't really about whaling. I still hesitated. Then the May 2012 issue of The Atlantic arrived in my mailbox, with its B. R. Myers-authored takedown of the novel in a review titled "A Swing and a Miss," with the subtitle "Why the Latest Hyped-Up Work of Staggering Genius Fizzles" (note the Dave Eggers reference). Myers decries the way (he believes) many fiction readers "succumb to the loudest promotional campaign every year only because they recognize the recurring need for an 'it' novel, something everyone can agree to read at about the same time." Sure enough, after strong reviews and a "puff piece" (Myers' words) from Vanity Fair, the novel climbed the bestseller lists. Myers is acerbic about "one-novel-a-year" readers, and about those who state that "you may not dismiss a highly praised novel as unworthy of notice until you have finished it." Thank you, Mr. Myers. Although perhaps it sounds philistine, I agree with Myers that time is too short to read everything, and one CAN get a sense of whether a novel is good, and in particular about whether one might like it, without actually reading it. Since Myers is writing a review, he does read "The Art of Fielding," and has some mild praise for it, including "it's not terrible." The author is talented, some of the paragraphs are well-paced, and there is some "brilliant imagery." Myers' ultimate opinion: The novel is "as light and insubstantial as a 512-page [!] book can be. It's not so much what happens or doesn't as the elfin tone in which everything is narrated: baseball, aging, lust, death, even an actual corpse -- all get the same twinkly treatment." Thank you again, Mr. Myers; now I have some support for my decision not to read "The Art of Fielding."

"Hand Me Down," by Melanie Thorne

Melanie Thorne's novel "Hand Me Down" (Dutton, 2012) is heartrending. It tells the story of Liz, a young teenager who has lived a most unstable and disturbing life because of the unreliable and dangerous adults who have failed and are still failing her. Her father is alcoholic and out of control, her stepfather is a creepy sex offender, and her mother has chosen that stepfather over her daughters. Both her father and mother do seem to love her, and her mother used to do everything she could to protect her daughters, but now is in the thrall of her horrible husband. Liz's main concern in life is protecting her younger sister, Jaime. Liz is smart, resourceful, brave, and strong, but she is always on guard, always worrying, always figuring out what she has to do to survive and to protect Jaime; living like that is a terrible strain on her, something no young person should have to endure. The only notes of hope in this story are Liz's strength, her love for her sister, and the caring aunts who take her and Jaime in when their parents fail them. Both Liz and Jaime show an amazing resilience despite their terrible circumstances and the uncertainty and scariness of their lives. Normally I would find a novel like this one too sad to keep reading, but Liz's voice (as the narrator as well as main character) is so strong and real and compelling, and the author's control of her material so sure, that I kept reading and reading. In fact, last night I had intended to grade papers but, instead, sat on the couch with this book and, despite my admonitions to myself after each chapter that I must close the book and stop, kept on reading until I finished the novel.

"Mono Lake: Stories," by Martha Clark Cummings

I know Martha Clark Cummings through professional conferences; she also contributed a wonderful chapter to an academic book I co-edited a few years ago. Over the years, she has become a friend as well. Besides being a great teacher and scholar, she is a gifted creative writer, especially of short stories. I have seen a couple of her recent stories and liked them very much, but only last month did I order and read her earlier collection of short fiction, “Mono Lake: Stories” (Rowbarge Press, 1995). These engrossing stories depict characters, usually lesbian, in harsh situations. Most of them are set in remote, weatherbeaten, barely populated places such as Mono Lake. There is a beaten-down, even somewhat grim feeling to most of the stories. But there is also so much humanity in the midst of those difficult settings, and there are many hints of hope and possibility throughout. The situations and plots are compelling, as are the characters. There is much for us to learn from the stories, about – among other things – sexual identity and social class. There is a restrained lyricism in the style, a style that eschews prettiness for grit and heart. It is a pleasure for me to rediscover what I already knew: that Martha is a fine writer.