"The Balcony," by Jane Delury

The inside cover teaser prose about “The Balcony” (Little, Brown, 2018), a book of connected short stories by Jane Delury in her debut book, promises revelations set in “a French village,” which attracted my attention. Like so many of us, I easily fall for the fantasy of a lovely, blissful life in a gorgeous house in a beautiful setting in the countryside of France (but near a charming village with nice cafes, outdoor markets, and wineries). The author immediately, in the first story, breaks that bubble and tells us that the village of Benneville is – despite what readers, and the character visiting from the United States, might think – NOT the vision we have of a “village of church bells and cobblestone streets.” Instead, it is “an industrial wash of smokestacks and faceless apartment buildings that ringed a center of ratty stucco storefronts.” However, the stories are actually set in a “manor” and accompanying “cottage” a five-minute drive from the village, nestled in a sort of forest. The stories range throughout the years that the estate has been there, from the late 1800s to the present. Although each story is a stand-alone, there are mentions of characters and scenes from other stories in each as well, although not at all in chronological order, and readers can start to discern the history of the place over the years. Although the place is in some ways idyllic, many of the stories deal with pain, discomfort, self-questioning, alienation, wartime suffering, and other difficult situations and emotions. Children feel lonely, couples are unhappy together, people have affairs, people suffer from political and economic events in the larger world, some experience mental illness, others realize the sting of prejudices. Some love the estate as it is, and some are constantly changing or “improving” it. Delury is particularly good at drawing child characters, as well as at portraying the varieties of women’s dissatisfactions. There are some characters from the United States, and some experience the conflicted feelings of those who belong partly in two or more places and partly nowhere at all. But there is also love, loyalty, decency on the part of many characters. Human nature in all its variety is on display. Delury’s stories are well written, and each one has a “bite” or “charge” of some sort.

"The Italian Teacher," by Tom Rachman

I wrote a glowing review (12/12/10) here of Tom Rachman’s 2010 first novel “The Imperfectionists.” When his next novel, “The Rise and Fall of Great Powers,” came out in 2014, I started it but couldn’t get caught up in it, so I didn’t finish it. Now I have read his new novel, “The Italian Teacher” (Viking, 2018), and like it very much. Its themes of art, creativity and family, especially the father-son relationship, are powerfully and originally presented. The main characters are the larger-than-life artist, Bear Bavinsky, and his son, nicknamed Pinch, always in the shadow of his father. Because Bear does not stay long with Pinch’s mother (or with any woman – he is married several times and has innumerable affairs), the son only sees his father occasionally, but is always longing for more time with him, and always eager for his approval. He hopes to be a painter himself, and also to write a biography of his father. Bear is enthusiastic when he he is with Pinch, but never seems to give him his full attention. Pinch becomes the Italian teacher of the title. The job is far from glamorous, but he gets some pleasure from it, while still yearning for something more, something artistic, something that connects him with his father. Toward the end of the novel (but with foreshadowings), a secret is revealed, and there is a resulting major plot development, neither of which, of course, I will divulge here; I will only say that although in one way these are surprising, in another way they are perfectly consonant with the rest of the story, and with Pinch’s complicated relationship with his father. An added pleasure of the novel is the various very specifically described settings in the United States, England, and France.

"Friend of My Youth," by Amit Chaudhuri

I am often drawn to novels about India, partly because they remind me of my childhood there. Amit Chaudhuri’s “Friend of My Youth” (New York Review Books, 2017) is a novel set in Bombay (now Mumbai, but Chaudhuri mostly continues to call it Bombay, as he remembers it from his youth there). In an apparently quite autobiographical novel, the author tells of his main character’s two visits to Bombay in his fifties. The character (and narrator) grew up in Bombay but escaped it as soon as he could, studying in England and eventually moving to Calcutta. His former infrequent visits to Bombay were to see family and a close friend, Ramu. The first visit is scheduled as part of a book tour. Ramu, the friend of his youth of the title, has always lived in Bombay, and has had lifelong struggles with substance abuse, cycling in and out of treatment facilities; fortunately for him, his family money allows this. On the narrator’s first visit, he is not able to see Ramu, because he is in a rehab facility, but on a later visit, the narrator and Ramu see each other and spend time together. They are always immediately comfortable with each other, and share a preoccupation with the city of Bombay. The narrator, both alone and with Ramu, is nostalgic about the city, and each time he returns, he, sometimes with Ramu and sometimes alone, wanders Bombay, remembering areas, buildings, and experiences. He notes which areas are now gentrified, which buildings survive and which have changed. Much of this slim novel consists of the main character's musings on the city and on what stays the same and what changes. One of the major focuses of the visits and the novel is “the Taj,” the iconic hotel that has always been there, and that has recovered from the disastrous attack on it some years before. (Side note: on my own visit to India many years ago, about ten years after I had returned from living in South India as a child, but long before the attack, my trip included a visit to Bombay, where I treated myself to a stay at this landmark, unforgettable hotel.) In a visit toward the end of the novel (the visit during which the main character sees Ramu), the narrator and his family splurge and stay in the hotel, marveling at its complex structure, its history, and its survival of the attack. A reader could easily feel that not a lot “happens” in this novel, but the theme of connections to, and sometimes alienation from, the places of our pasts is a compelling one, one that many of us can relate to. The narrator’s walks through the city, meandering as they are, are full of fascinating observations. Chaudhuri’s writing is evocative. This novel is perhaps not for everyone, because of its slow pace; however, for anyone interested in the passing of time, the changes we experience in our own lives and in the places we care about, this is a meditation that might very well appeal, as it did to me.

"All the Lives We Ever Lived: Seeking Solace in Virginia Woolf," by Katharine Smyth

There is a newish mini-trend toward memoirs intertwining an author’s personal stories and her stories of her connections with a certain well-loved classic novel, exemplified by Rebecca Mead’s wonderful 2014 book, “My Life in Middlemarch” (about which I posted here on 3/4/14). I have just finished reading another book in this genre, “All the Lives We Ever Lived: Seeking Solace in Virginia Woolf” (Crown, 2019), by Katharine Smyth. Smyth finds Woolf’s novel “To the Lighthouse” full of wisdom and comfort, especially as she struggles with her beloved father’s too-early illness and death. Woolf represents her own traumatizing and life-changing experience with the death of her mother through the character of Mrs. Ramsey in this novel. The more that Smyth reads, re-reads, studies, and researches the novel and its author, the more she finds connections with her own experiences and feelings. She does an admirable job during the course of this book of balancing her own experiences with those portrayed in the novel, and with providing context for that novel through her extensive research. Smyth’s book is moving, and as someone who also greatly admires Woolf and "To the Lighthouse,' I could relate to much of what Smyth writes about. In addition, I strongly believe in the possibilities for great fiction to make readers feel connected to something larger, deeper, even transcendent, and I can see that that magic happened with Smyth and “To the Lighthouse.” This book is a living testimony to the power – and I do not use that word lightly – of literature in our lives. My only small quibble with Smyth’s memoir is that at times it seems a little repetitive, as well as a bit overwritten. But I am glad I read it, and now I want to re-read (for perhaps the fourth or fifth time) “To the Lighthouse.”

RIP Nina Baym

Nina Baym was one of the important pioneer scholars who researched and publicized forgotten American women writers. She was, in a sense, part of the women’s movement of the 1970s and beyond, and in particular, one of the women scholars who re-examined the American canon, saw how biased it was, and determined to resurrect books by women writers. Baym died on June 15, 2018 at the age of 82, and this is a belated but heartfelt tribute to her. I was one of the longtime readers and English majors who was also starting to realize how male-dominated the world of literary fiction was, and who welcomed the women scholars who were trying to change this bias. I remember reading Baym’s work with excitement. She was a professor at the University of Illinois who started off by researching Nathaniel Hawthorne’s work, but in the 1970s became curious about the many lost women’s novels, and began to do research to rediscover women writers of the 19th Century. She explored the question of how it is decided which writing is significant, and realized that male critics heavily favored male writers and “male” topics. I am so deeply thankful to Nina Baym and the other women scholars of the 1970s and onward who made sure that women writers’ works were not lost to history, and who reminded us that the biases of critics in power can affect which writers are considered “good” writers who deserve to be read, studied, and remembered. The work of these women scholars was more of a revolution than is perhaps now acknowledged; is it a good thing, or not, that their conclusions are now taken for granted? In any case, it is important to remember that although Baym’s work and that of others changed the literary world forever, there are still biases that need to be fought in the world of literature.

"A Song for Lost Angels," by Kevin Fisher-Paulson

One of my favorite columnists in the San Francisco Chronicle is Kevin Fisher-Paulson. He is a gay white Sheriff’s Deputy married to a gay white male dancer; the couple has adopted two African American boys with various special needs, who are now early teenagers. The column is humorous and touching. The columnist writes about his unconventional family’s life in the “outer, outer, outer, outer Excelsior,” an unfashionable but family-oriented area of San Francisco. The family stories are personal, unflinching, detailed, and full of unconditional love. After reading the column for some time, I realized that this couple had a sad back story about fostering premature triplets, born drug-addicted. Then I learned that Fisher-Paulson had written a book about that experience, and of course I had to find and read that book. It is titled “A Song for Lost Angels: How Daddy and Papa Fought to Save Their Family” (Two Penny Press; Second Edition 2015). The writing is clear-eyed, and although the author describes how hard it was to take care of these three babies, he demonstrates at every turn how much he and his husband loved the children and were willing to do anything for them. They were fortunate to have (then and now) a wonderful network of extremely supportive friends, but still, this was an enormous challenge, gladly taken on. Unfortunately – and this is not giving away anything that the column had not already mentioned, and that becomes clear early in the book – the birth mother comes back into their lives when they are about one year old and – in league with her mother – claims the babies and wants them back. The mother is incredibly careless and unloving with the babies on their short visits, and the grandmother seems more interested in how much money they would get from the government in support of the children than in the actual children. Sadly, as a result of some social workers who believe that the birth parents should always prevail, and who are also nastily homophobic, the triplets are given back to the birth mother and grandmother. The Fisher-Paulsons never see them again, and don’t even know where and how they are. It is an absolutely heartbreaking story. One would think that after such an experience, a couple would be afraid to ever try again, but within months, they adopt the two boys that I mentioned earlier, the ones that the couple has now raised to adolescence, and that the author writes about in his column. The author never claims credit for his and his husband’s amazing love and care of the triplets and then of the two boys, but the reader cannot help but be filled with admiration for their dedication to these children. This story is compelling and well told, with sincerity, humor, and a light touch. And yes, you will both laugh and cry while reading it. And you will come away from the book with awe at the unselfish dedication of these two men, “Daddy” and “Papa.”

"Maid," by Stephanie Land

Regular readers of this blog may remember that I am very interested in (and have published on, in the context of language education) issues of social class, and of how those issues affect so many lives so deeply. In the U.S., too many people are slipping from the middle class into financial struggles and even poverty. Stephanie Land’s new memoir, “Maid: Hard Work, Low Pay, and a Mother’s Will to Survive” (Hachette, 2019), describes such a situation. The author had a more-or-less middle class upbringing, but an unexpected pregnancy and then a breakup with the child’s father kept her from attending college as she had planned, and dropped her into poverty. Her parents (divorced and each with new partners) had also slipped financially, and were not able to help her. She became a housecleaner, working hard for very low wages, having to leave her child in less-than-ideal day care for long hours, living in small uncomfortable apartments (including one with black mold that made both her and her daughter sick all the time), constantly worried about money. Her situation was very difficult. We readers suffer with her through the painful jobs, the pinching of pennies, the embarrassment about taking government assistance. She always kept writing, though. And she writes insightfully and occasionally entertainingly and humorously about the different houses she cleaned and their owners. Some of the owners treat her as if she is inferior to them; others are more egalitarian and caring. She shares vivid details about the jobs, the houses, and the residents. Meanwhile, she dreams of visiting and living in Missoula, Montana, which has somehow become her magic ideal. Throughout, we see Land's determination to keep going and to improve her living situation for the sake of her daughter, Mia. I won’t let slip any spoilers, but a hint is that things do get better for the author eventually.