More on Alice Munro

Regular readers of this blog know that I – like so many others, including the Nobel Prize committee – love and admire Alice Munro’s fiction, especially her short stories. I recently listened to a collection I had already read more than ten years ago, “Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage” (BBC Audiobooks America, 2002), and was just as entranced with and impressed by it this time as I was last time. What can I say that I haven’t already said about Munro’s insightfulness about human nature, carefully observed details, surprises around some corners, and fine, fine writing? Perhaps the strongest story is the last and longest, “The Bear Went Over the Mountain.” It is a love story, a story of the ways love and marriage change with time, especially in the various contexts of one’s surrounding society. And the love story becomes an even more complicated one when wife Fiona is affected by dementia and falls in love with another man, not her husband, at the institution where she has moved, and husband Grant finds himself facilitating that love because it makes Fiona happy. This Munro story was made into a terrific 2007 film, “Away From Her,” starring Julie Christie. To show that life, once again, is not so very different from fiction: Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor faced a similar situation at about the same time, when her husband, affected by Alzheimer’s, fell in love with another woman; O’Connor stood by him, and even felt happy that his newfound love pulled him out of the depression he had been suffering. Getting back to this story collection: I recommend it as one of Munro’s best, which is to say: the best of the best.

"Fallout," by Sadie Jones

The English author Sadie Jones’ new novel “Fallout” (Harper, 2014), like her earlier novel “The Uninvited Guests” (about which I posted on 6/26/12), has an air of strangeness, of slight removal from real life. In the case of the earlier novel, this was partly because of an obvious unreality, a sort of magical realism. But in the case of “Fallout,” there are no ghosts, no unbelievable events; there is simply a sense that the events happened far in the past, or in a different land. In fact, the novel is set in the 1960s and 1970s, mostly in London. The main characters – Luke, Paul, Leigh, and Nina – are young people starting off in the theater world: Luke is a writer; Paul is a producer; Nina is an actress; Leigh is both an actress and a theater administrator. The four of them are very close, and have romantic, sexual, friendship, and business connections in various combinations at various times. Some of these relationships are extremely intense, but they sometimes end suddenly, sometimes for explicable and sometimes for rather inexplicable reasons. There are also, beneath-the-surface fluctuations of relationships, subterranean connections, longings, tensions. These four characters are intensely compelling, especially Luke, the son of a vivid but mentally ill mother who has spent most of her life in an asylum. Luke is brilliant, charismatic, attractive, and a strange combination of focused and mercurial. The novel reminds me of an extended balletic sequence featuring four dancers in various scenes and in various combinations. The novel is powerful yet somehow keeps the reader at arms length; it is not clear to me if this is intentional on the part of the author or not. In any case, the novel stitches together what could be clichéd theater elements with original and compelling portrayals and plot turns. The reader is kept a little off-center throughout; this is not a novel to sink into with a sigh of comfort (and that’s okay). It is a novel that I believe will stay in my mind for some time, as has Jones’ earlier novel, “The Uninvited Guests.”

"The Arsonist," by Sue Miller

I have read most of Sue Miller’s novels over the years, and I can’t remember ever reading one that didn’t catch me up and keep me reading. “The Arsonist” (Knopf, 2014) is no exception. I gave over most of a recent Sunday to reading this engrossing novel; my long to-do list went by the wayside that day. I never start off – with Miller’s or any other novels – thinking I will read all day, but somehow “just one more chapter,” and “just a little longer” somehow becomes “how did several hours just slip away?” “The Arsonist” is about many topics – arson, fear, mystery, family, new love, Alzheimer’s, Africa, aid work, small towns, summer homes, the tensions between townspeople and summer people, and more – but a unifying theme is finding hope in the midst of loss. The main character, Frankie, has decided after 15 years of aid work in Africa to come home, perhaps for good. She is staying at her family’s summer home in New Hampshire, where she is trying to figure out her next steps; there she starts to tentatively become involved with a local man. The novel's title refers to the fact that over a dozen families in the area lose their homes to suspicious fires. Meanwhile, Frankie's father, Alfie, is losing his memory and appears to have Alzheimer’s. Her mother, Sylvia, is dealing with acknowledging that she stopped loving her husband years ago, long before the dementia began. The young man Tink has had a desolate childhood and lives alone in a mobile home on a beautiful but isolated plateau. Others have their own stories of loss. But there are also so many human connections, so much community, and so much kindness, and these at least sometimes ameliorate the losses.

"The Other Language," by Francesca Marciano

Is Francesca Marciano’s new collection of stories, “The Other Language” (Pantheon, 2014), “an astonishing collection,” as a Jhumpa Lahiri quote says on the front cover, and “sublimely crafted,” as Julia Glass claims on the back cover? In a word, yes. I chose to read this book because of its excellent, almost rapturous reviews, reinforced by these and other blurbs on the book itself. And in fact I found it to be a beautifully written and fascinating collection. The characters are diverse and very real;the settings all over the world (Italy, East Africa, India, New York, and more) add to the diversity and interest;the author explores very human situations, relationships, issues, problems, and feelings; the writing itself is masterful. I found the stories deeply engrossing, each creating a small, focused, intense world in which I became thoroughly caught up. Marciano, who is Italian but has obviously lived in and traveled to many other places, captures particularly well the tension between being connected to one place and feeling drawn by other places one has lived or has cultural connections with. Her characters tend to have lived in several places, and desire to put down roots, yet feel restless. In other words, they are like a huge portion of the world’s population in this regard, although, granted, her characters only represent the more prosperous segment of this unsettled population. In any case, I, like the reviewers and blurbers, highly recommend this book. But this book and its reviews also got me thinking about how much I (or any reader) am or am not influenced by reviews. Yes, reviews help me decide what to read in the first place. And once I have chosen and read the book and then begin to write about it here, I don’t go back to the reviews, as I don’t want to be unduly influenced by them; I want to give my own take on the book, and on connections I have or feel with the book. But here I am getting at the fact that once I have read very positive reviews, I can’t forget the basic positive feeling, and I probably have a predisposition to think the book is good; I wonder if I picked the same book up without having read anything about it ahead of time, I would have a different take on it. I hope I am not too influenced by these reviews, yet I admit I probably am at least somewhat influenced. My main counter-argument to this is remembering books that have been vastly praised that I have then not thought good at all. A recent example is Donna Tartt’s “The Goldfinch”; I wrote here (11/10/13 and 2/7/14)about my not understanding at all what all the fuss was/is about this, to me, seriously disappointing and flawed book. In any case, it is good for me to be aware that I/we rarely read books in a vacuum, and that on some level I/we may be influenced by what is in the ongoing public conversation about any given book. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as it gives us context, and something to agree with or push against, but it is important to be conscious of those influences.

Man Booker Prize Longlist Announced

Yesterday (7/23/14) the 2014 Man Booker prize longlist was announced. The shortlist will be announced on September 9, and the winner will be revealed on October 14. These announcements of one of the world’s preeminent literary prizes are always of interest, and are even more so this year because of a new policy: Up to this year, only British and Commonwealth novels were eligible, but as of this year, all novels originally written in English and printed in Britain may be considered for and may win the prize. Out of the 13 novels on the longlist just announced, five are by Americans, six by Britons, one by an Irish author, and one by an Australian writer. Some in Great Britain are a bit surprised and perhaps a bit dismayed by the strong showing by Americans. Others think a wider range of eligible novels can only increase the quality of the pool. I don't have strong feelings either way myself. One small note of interest: Apparently some were surprised that Donna Tartt’s “The Goldfinch” was not on the longlist, especially since it won the Pulitzer Prize. As regular readers of this blog know, I didn’t think that novel was anywhere near as good as it was hyped to be, so I am glad it isn’t on the list. In any case, I look forward with interest – as I do every year – to the upcoming announcements of the shortlist and of the winner.

"The Possibilities," by Kaui Hart Hemmings

George Clooney! For better or worse, that’s who I think of when I think of Kaui Hart Hemmings’ first novel, “The Descendants.” This is because I didn’t read the book, but saw and admired the popular movie based on the book a couple of years ago. Now I have read Hemmings' new novel, “The Possibilities” (Simon & Schuster, 2014), and can focus on her actual writing rather than on George Clooney. This new novel is the story of a woman, Sarah St. John, whose 22-year-old son Cully has died a few months before in an avalanche in her beloved hometown of Breckenridge, Colorado. The story tells of her desperate grief, but also of her very slowly finding her way towards at least seeing the possibilities (see the title) of renewed connection to life, and even moments of happiness. She is fortunate to have a loving and helpful if somewhat eccentric father, Lyle; a good relationship with Cully’s father, Billy; and a close friend, Suzanne. Then into their lives comes a young woman, Kit, whom Cully had, unbeknownst to Sarah and the others, been seeing before he died. These five characters share tears, jokes, anger, and hope, especially as they drive a few hours away to what is supposed to be a memorial service for Cully but turns out to be something else. There are a handful of plot events in the few days on which the story focuses, but what is more important is how each character copes with her or his grief, and the somewhat strange situation of the main characters' incorporating Kit into their group. Also notable is the originality of each character. The story is of course wrenching…how could it not be? Yet the novel shows the way grief surges and recedes, and the way life intercedes and goes on, no matter what. The ending is a bit inconclusive, but that too reflects “real life.” I am aware that my description sounds as if the story is a sort of self-help, Hallmark-y lesson about coping with grief; this is not, in fact, how the novel comes across. There is wisdom, yes, but also bewilderment, deep pain, and affection. I give Hemmings much credit for her perceptive and closely observed portrayal of the complexity and fluctuations of great grief, and of the improbable but somehow realistic humor and flashes of joy the characters experience along the way.

"Unravished," by Hester Kaplan

Because I was both shaken by and drawn into the worlds of the two books by Hester Kaplan that I read earlier, I was happy to hear of and read her new book, “Unravished: Stories” (Ig, 2014). The two earlier books are “The Edge of Marriage: Stories,” about which I posted on 2/15/13, and “The Tell,” which I wrote about here on 6/29/13. I used the overused, but apt in this case, term “heartbreaking” about the first book, and that word could be applied to the second and now the third of her works of fiction that I have read (she also published an earlier novel, “Kinship Theory,” which I have not yet read). A basic question that Kaplan’s characters keep having to ask, consciously or unconsciously, is how they can possibly live with the seemingly impossible-to-accept situations in which they have somehow been placed. In the case of “Unravished”: What if your spouse is doing something you find morally unacceptable? How do you deal with mixed feelings of revulsion and excitement about the actions of a former lover? How do you face finding you have symptoms of a possibly fatal illness? How can you possibly make sense of slowly realizing that a young girl you are starting to know is being used and abused by a repugnant neighbor? And there are other instances of abuse, of trauma, of life-changing news, and of characters unable to negotiate the difficulties and obstacles of life. How can they possibly face and cope with these life events? Yet they do, they do, somehow they do, because they have no choice. Most devastating of all is the situation in the last story, “This is Your Last Swim,” in which two characters who don’t much like each other – the head and the dean of a boarding school, both women – find themselves alone on the school campus after some sort of destructive world-changing event that has left desolation and hopelessness behind. Facing the end of life as they know it, and perhaps soon of life itself, the two characters have to find a way to help each other in these last days. Usually I am not drawn to these kinds of apocalyptic themes, but in this case, the situation is less about science fiction/dystopia and more about human relationships. The situation in this last story seems to the reader to be the ultimate example of the theme throughout all the stories, that of facing the impossible. But, as in the other stories, the theme is not schematic or monolithic. I don’t want to leave the impression that these stories are all, or only, depressing. Kaplan makes us care about her characters. And her plots are original, so we want to keep reading to see what happens. Even more important, she makes us see that although life is full of seemingly impossible obstacles and sadness, there is always love, hope, and humanity as well. This is a wonderful, compelling, beautifully written collection of stories.