"The Artist of Disappearance," by Anita Desai

Anita Desai’s first novel was published in 1963, and I have been reading her books for about four decades. Desai, whose mother was German and whose father was Indian, grew up in India (much of the time in Mussoorie, in the Himalayan mountains, which is, parenthetically, home to Woodstock School, the friendly rival of the school I attended in India, Kodaikanal School). Her novels are beautifully written, carefully observed, insightful, a little bit “triste,” and a pleasure to read. I have just read her latest fiction, “Artist of Disappearance” (Houghton Mifflin, 2011), a collection of three novellas, all set in India. It did not disappoint. The first novella, “The Museum of Final Journeys,” tells of a surprising art collection found in the deteriorating estate of a formerly wealthy family in a small Indian town. The tone is elegiac, evoking the time of the Raj and its remnants. The second novella is titled “Translator, Translated,” and tells of a scholar and frustrated writer languishing in a minor woman’s college where she teaches Victorian British literature. But reading a collection of short stories by an Oriya woman writer inspires her, and she translates and publishes the novel in English. Oriya was the language of the translator’s mother, and she finds herself inspired and coming alive as she reads and translates this fiction. Unfortunately, this triumph is the high point of her life, as she overreaches and infuses too much of herself into translating the author’s next book. (As a side note: Oriya is the language of one of the places we lived in India, and my parents spoke it quite well at one point; we children spoke a little as well; it is one of four languages that we learned at least a little bit of.) The final novella, “The Artist of Disappearance,” is the sad story of a man whose parents neglected him as a child, and whose only consolation was the beauty of nature in Mussoorie, where they lived. After a few years at college and with extended family in Bombay, and after his parents die, he returns to Mussoorie and lives in the family home as a kind of recluse; he continues there even after most of the house burns down. His happiness is interrupted by the intrusion of a heedless group of young documentary makers, but in the end -- thanks to a faithful servant, and despite a big loss -- he is able to continue his life in private and in communion with nature. These three novellas are all stories of disappointment, of loss, of mourning, and yes, of disappearance. Yet there is tribute to, and honoring of, what was present and vital in the lives of the characters at least for a while: history, art, intellectual and artistic achievement, nature, and solitude. One wonders if Desai feels that India itself has lost some of these -- at least in their past forms -- forever…

"The Stranger's Child," by Alan Hollinghurst

I very much liked Alan Hollinghurst's 2005 Man Booker Prize-winning book, "The Line of Beauty," his breakthrough novel (he had written several earlier novels, most notably his first, "The Swimming-Pool Library"). So I looked forward to reading his new novel, "The Stranger's Child" (Knopf, 2011). It did not pull me in immediately, as "The Line of Beauty" did, and at times I put it aside for a few days at a time. I believe this is because it takes place over a century and several generations of families, friends, and biographers, making the forward movement of the novel less easy and accessible. At times I had to remind myself of the complicated interlocking relationships of the various characters over various time periods. But in the end, I definitely liked the book, and found it impressive and worth reading. The central character, although we only know him for a very short time, is Cecil Valance, the Rupert Brooke-like poet who lived large and then died in World War I. He was a vivid, charming character who was gay, or possibly bisexual, and more or less closeted, although everyone knew that many members of the Oxbridge literary set were gay. Before he went to war, he wrote a poem in his lover's young sister's autograph book, a poem and event that sent reverberations through the decades after. This young woman, Daphne, considered herself Cecil's fiance, and the poem became an iconic one, one that most English people learned in school and could quote, although critics deemed it second-rate. After his death, Daphne is defined for the rest of her life, despite three marriages, the first to Cecil's brother Dudley, who was also gay or bisexual, by her short but famous connection to Cecil. There are too many characters and too many events in the novel to list here, but much of the second half of the novel is seen through the eyes of Paul Bryant, a working-class aspiring literary man, also gay, who becomes entangled with Cecil's descendants and eventually writes a biography of the poet that causes some controversy. "The Stranger's Child" is suffused with literary history, gay history, English history, British (mostly) upper-class life, intriguing characters, a few secrets, and many closely observed conversations and scenes. Readers also are reminded of how each generation is inexorably influenced by its predecessors, and of how hard it is to escape one's past, whether one wants to or not. I finished the novel feeling I had had a privileged and rewarding inside look at a certain sort of life in several overlapping worlds.

"Death Comes to Pemberley," by P. D. James

Although I have had periods in my life of reading a lot of mysteries, I haven't been much interested in them for a few years now. (Which doesn't mean I won't be interested in them again in the future.) However, when I saw the new mystery novel "Death Comes to Pemberley" (Knopf, 2011), by the inestimable British writer P.D. James, a novel based on characters from Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice," I knew I couldn't resist it. I even bought it in hardcover and gave it to myself as a Christmas gift. What a great combination: P. D. James and Austen! And sure enough, it was, as my friend B. put it, "delicious"! Pemberley, you will probably remember, was Darcy's grand estate and home, where Elizabeth Bennett moved after marrying Darcy. This James novel takes place six years after the couple's marriage; all is going well, until the night before their planned traditional annual ball, when Elizabeth's flibbertigibbet youngest sister Lydia (who, you may remember, had married the charming but very irresponsible Wickham) unexpectedly arrives at Pemberley in a careening carriage, screaming hysterically that there has been a murder in the Pemberley woods. And so the mystery begins, with James' classic twists and turns. What is fascinating is not just "whodunit," but the way James portrays the various characters and their interactions. At times she makes us start to doubt the most upright and likable characters, while softening us to the less admirable ones, all in service of keeping us off balance in trying to solve the mystery. An enjoyable touch is that James briefly includes, offstage so to speak, some characters from Austen's novels "Persuasion" and "Emma," more "old friends" to those of us who have read and re-read Austen's novels many times. I often dislike "sequels" to Austen's novels, but this one, by the grand dame of British mysteries, and clearly a sort of tribute and love letter to Austen, is on another level than most of those sequels, and is most enjoyable and satisfying to read. In short, a real treat!

"Stir-Fry," by Emma Donoghue

I very much liked, and wrote about here (on 7/20/10 and 7/31/10), Emma Donoghue's 2006 short story collection "Touchy Subjects," her 2007 novel "Landing," and her 2008 novel, "The Sealed Letter"; reading her work felt like a major discovery. Earlier this year, I started to read her 2010 breakthrough bestseller novel, "Room," but found the topic too claustrophobic and disturbing to continue. However, this last issue is just my own, and I am quite willing to believe that the critics are entirely correct in their praise of that novel. Just recently, I picked up at a library sale Donoghue's first novel, "Stir-Fry" (Alyson Books, 1994). Understandably, it isn't as accomplished as the other books listed here, but it clearly shows the promise that is later fulfilled in those books. It is the story of 17-year-old Maria during her first year at university in Dublin. She moves into a flat with two slightly older women students, not realizing until a month later that they are a lesbian couple. Being from a small suburb and inexperienced, she is surprised and confused, but likes the two women very much, and they all get along well. Gradually a surprising situation develops. Maria is a likable character, and the novel is a coming-of-age story. As such, there are some well-worn elements, but there is also much in the novel that is original and keeps the reader intrigued with the story and characters.

Happy Holidays, Dear Readers!

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate Christmas, and Happy Holidays and Happy New Year to all, dear readers. I appreciate so much being able to communicate with you through this blog about books and reading. I am glad we share a love of books, and I wish you all much good reading in the coming year!

Why I am not Drawn to Magic Realism

Although I have read, enjoyed, and learned from my share of novels often categorized by the term "Magic Realism," including some by Franz Kafka, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Salman Rushdie, Toni Morrison, and Mario Vargas Llosa, I am generally not drawn to fiction of this type. For example, I read and very much liked Isabel Allende's first novel, "The House of the Spirits," and later one or two other novels by her, but the magic realism aspect kept me from reading more. (Parenthetically, as I have posted here, I admire Allende herself, have heard her speak twice, and was very impressed.) Whenever I think about why I tend to avoid novels labeled "magic realism," I realize that what keeps me reading and loving novels is pretty old-fashioned: I want good plots, I want wonderfully observant and thoughtful writing, and most of all, I want to read about interesting and realistic characters. This is not to say that magic realism excludes good plots and characters, but I guess I just want the realism without the magic. I am not sure what this says about me. Do I lack imagination? Am I too narrow in my reading interests? (I have previously written about my lack of interest in, for example, science fiction/fantasy.) Whatever the reason, and despite my willingness to deviate from my main reading preferences occasionally, I know this about myself: magic realism does not speak to me in the same way that "real" realism does.

"When the Emperor Was Divine," by Julie Otsuka

I just finished a small but very powerful novel about the interning of Japanese Americans during World War II. "When the Emperor Was Divine" (Anchor, 2002) is a still, compressed, distilled telling of the story of one Berkeley family whose lives were turned upside down by the war and its accompanying terribly unjust treatment of those of Japanese ancestry in the U.S. The story is told from the points of view of each of the family members: the mother, the daughter, the son, and the father. The father is taken away from the family home in his bathrobe and slippers (the indelible image remembered by his children as so unfair to their dignified father); soon after, the mother and children are evacuated, first to the horse stables of Tanforan, near San Francisco, and then to an internment camp in the flat and dusty Utah desert. The author never raises her voice, but just lets readers hear her characters in their quiet detailing of what their new lives are like, and how they feel. The very quietness and compression of the telling is what gives this book such power, such descriptive and emotional force. Although we have all learned about and read about this terrible time in American history, this book makes it more real and thus even more intolerable than any other publication I have seen. Highly recommended.

"Range of Motion," by Elizabeth Berg

I have been reading Elizabeth Berg's novels on and off for years. Some may consider them second-rate, and/or "women's novels." And perhaps they are not at the highest literary level. But they are solid, they are craftswomanlike, they are readable, they are inspiring, they are moving, and they describe everyday women's lives, something that is still too rare. They have also won multiple awards. Recently, at my wonderful local library's monthly book sale (which I have posted about before), I picked up a copy of "Range of Motion" (Random House, 1995), one of Berg's earliest novels, which I thought I had read before but couldn't remember for sure. It is a short novel, a quick read, but very satisfying and moving. It tells the story of Lainey, whose beloved husband Jay is in a coma, and the way she visits him regularly and tries to remind him of their life together through talking to him, bringing their children to see him, playing music, bringing different scents for him to smell, and more. There are a couple of side stories, such as that of Lainey's neighbor and friend Alice who is so supportive of and helpful to her despite her own marital troubles, and that of Evie, the ghost of the former resident of Lainey's house, who visits to encourage Lainey. (Lainey knows she isn't "real" but still draws sustenance from her visits.) At times, Berg's writing is quite lovely in its particularity and honesty, and in its engagement with life as it is lived by many women.

"The Grief of Others," by Leah Hager Cohen

"The Grief of Others" (Riverhead, 2011), a novel by Leah Hager Cohen, is a vividly etched portrait of a family in trouble. John and Ricky Ryrie, their 13-year-old son Paul, and their 10-year-old daughter Biscuit are all mourning the loss of baby Simon, who was born with a fatal defect and died after just 57 hours of life. The central problem of the novel is not just this tragic loss, but the fact that none of the four family members can communicate their feelings with each other. Ricky is devastated but won't talk about it; John doesn't know how to reach her; Paul is suffering the baby's loss at the vulnerable time of early adolescence, and is being bullied at school; Biscuit lives in her own world, misses school, creates mourning rituals, and keeps having accidents. Into this scene comes pregnant 23-year-old Jess, John's seldom-seen daughter by a prior relationship, complicating matters further. Secrets abound. Semi-buried resentments regarding John's and Ricky's past disloyalties and compromises also rise to the surface, making communication and mutual support still more difficult. To me, the best limned and most appealing characters are Paul and Biscuit; they are each clear and believable unique individuals yet display universally understandable emotions; their pain is even more heartbreaking than that of their parents. Perhaps the greatest strength of the novel is the author's portrayal of the complexities often found within families and in their interactions, and the ways that even members of loving families can be sadly mystified by other family members. There is much pain in this novel, yet there is sweetness, connection, and even redemption as well.

Authors in Appreciation of Tea

I have written here (e.g., on 2/2/10) and elsewhere on the role of tea in literature. Today I would like to pass on some wonderful quotations on that topic from well-known authors. My source for these quotes? I have in my possession a small collection of coasters ("Quotesters," from Letterary Press) that I have reason to believe (in my family role as Santa's helper) will show up in my Christmas stocking next week. Of course to preserve all illusions, I should wait until after Christmas to pass on these quotes, but I am assuming my readers do not include anyone under six years old... Here are a few of those quotes, each of which I thoroughly relish:

-"There is a great deal of poetry and fine sentiment in a chest of tea." -- Ralph Waldo Emerson
-"Wouldn't it be dreadful to live in a country where they didn't have tea?" -- Noel Coward
-"I smile, of course, And go on drinking tea." -- T. S. Eliot
-"One sip of this will bathe the drooping spirits in delight, beyond the bliss of dreams." -- John Milton
-"There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea." -- Henry James
-"You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me." -- C. S. Lewis

I dedicate this post to two dear friends: my late friend C. and my friend B., with each of whom I have shared dozens, perhaps hundreds, of cups of tea over the years.

"A Moveable Feast," by Ernest Hemingway

I have read several books and articles by and about Ernest Hemingway this past year or so, including re-reading "The Sun Also Rises" (see my post of 2/27/11) and reading Paula McLain's novel about Hemingway's first wife Hadley, titled "The Paris Wife" (see my post of 7/1/11). Now I have just re-read -- or actually listened to a books-on-CD reading of -- "A Moveable Feast," Hemingway's memoir about his time in Paris between 1921 and 1926, when he was a young writer just getting started on his fiction, and enjoying the pleasures of Paris, despite his poverty. He writes of the cafes and the bars where he ate, drank, wrote, and met friends, often other writers. He describes his interactions with such writers as Fitzgerald, Stein, Joyce, Ford Madox Ford, and Pound. The first time I read this book, many years ago, I just enjoyed reading about Paris and famous writers; the book is evocative and enjoyable, and I must admit the literary gossip was fun to read. I experienced some of these feelings this time as well, but I couldn't help noticing that under his "modest" self-presentation, Hemingway was happy to condescend to certain others and even present them in an unflattering light, under the guise of just telling what happened. Often he presents himself as the kind, helpful, and loyal friend, while slightly disparaging the other writers. He starts by praising Stein but ends by subtly running her down. Ford Madox Ford is portrayed as unpleasant and deluded. Fitzgerald is presented as pitiful, ruined by his wife, insecure sexually, and a hypochondriac. The scene in which Fitzgerald supposedly comes to Hemingway for sexual advice seems both unfair to Fitzgerald and self-serving on Hemingway's part. I still definitely enjoyed this book, and there is much to like about the portraits of Paris, writers, and the writer's life. I was just a lot more aware, this time, of the way the book was constructed to put Hemingway himself in a good light and others less so.

"The Angel Esmeralda: Nine Stories," by Don DeLillo

I must start by saying that I have not read any of Don DeLillo's acclaimed novels. Somehow they didn't sound like "my kind of" novels, although I would likely admire them in an abstract way. I thought of them as being among the the rather arid, experimental fictions that I mostly avoid. But something about the reviews of "The Angel Esmeralda: Nine Stories" (Scribner, 2011) made me decide to read it. The stories are much more accessible than I expected. But what floored me was that they do what the best fiction does: they create a cracklingly electric world, one both startingly original and yet hair-raisingly recognizable. Not all the stories made me feel this way, but the best of them did. "Midnight in Dostoevsky" and "Hammer and Sickle" are both mesmerizing. But the most amazing experience was reading the title story, "The Angel Esmeralda." Bleak, searing, gripping, incantatory are all adjectives that come to mind. The story features two elderly nuns, Gracie and Edgar, who regularly visit the worst blasted-out landscapes and tenements of the Bronx, bringing food to the unfortunate, the alienated, the drug-addicted. We experience the events of the story through the consciousness of the older of the nuns, Edgar. The author's descriptions of the setting are other-worldly and intensely disturbing. Yet somehow in all of this there are notes of hope. The two nuns have caught glimpses of a young girl, Esmeralda, apparently living by her wits, perhaps in one of the stripped down carcasses of automobiles; they try to catch her to help her, but she is elusive. Something terrible happens, but out of the tragedy, an improbable sort of miracle happens as well. This story was one that gave me shivers. I think that I now need to go back and read some of DeLillo's novels....

The Kindle Dilemma

I have not been a friend or advocate of e-readers (Kindles, Nooks, and others), fearing that they signal the diminishment of, and perhaps eventually even the end of, my beloved "real" books, books with pages and covers. But I have been persuaded by many friends and family members that they are useful for travel, useful for getting books immediately on demand, etc. My daughter recently said, "Mom, I have to tell you something you won't like," causing me a flash of worry, until she mischievously continued, "I got a Kindle!" In her case, she uses it for commuting to her job downtown on public transportation, as well as for her frequent travel by air, and finds the Kindle easy to carry and use in those situations. I continue to resist getting one myself, but I am not protesting them as vehemently as I used to, as I foresee that eventually it will be one of those items that "everyone" has, and eventually I will probably succumb and get one. In matters of technology, I am usually a "late adopter," and will be so for this device as for others in the past. At that point I will have to "eat my words." So I am now, with sadness and apprehension, stopping (at least most of the time!) speaking out against them. Now I can only hope that the e-reader and the traditional book will continue to co-exist, each having its advantages and its uses at different times and in different situations. (But why do I feel somewhat sorrowful and defeated as I type this post...?)

A Backlog of "Nation" Magazines

I love the Nation magazine, as I wrote here on 2/7/11, but because the issues come every week, they tend to pile up. As I said in my post of 4/6/11 about my "magazine pile," New York and The New Yorker also come every week, but I usually read them more quickly. The Nation, although it is important to me, is a bit heavier, more demanding, more serious, more earnest, more political than the other two. I admire and value it very much, I learn much from it, and I get information and ideas from it that I don't get elsewhere. But in general it is not something I eagerly pick up for pure enjoyment the way I do the other two magazines, and several others I subscribe to that arrive (thankfully!) less frequently. Today I noticed that almost three months of back issues of The Nation had piled up, so despite my waiting piles of papers to grade, I set aside a couple of hours to plow through -- and I mean PLOW through -- these backlogged issues. I admit I skipped and skimmed a fair amount, especially as some of the articles were no longer timely. But I thoroughly enjoyed my immersion in the Nation, and felt I had achieved something by powering through the whole pile. Whew!

What They Were Reading in Muncie Over 100 Years Ago

There's a fascinating essay in the 11/27/11 New York Times Book Review about the recent discovery in Muncie, Indiana, of old handwritten Muncie Public Library records. A researcher "discovered crumbling ledgers and notebooks identifying every book checked out of the library, as well as the name of the patron who checked it out, from November 1891 to December 1902." What a treasure trove! The researchers cataloged and digitized the information, with the resulting database providing "one of the few authoritative records of American reading." Some of what they found: "Women read romances, kids read pulp and white-collar workers read mass-market titles. Horatio Alger was by far the most popular author....Louisa May Alcott is the only author who remains both popular and literary today....The remaining authors at the top of the list...have vanished from memory." Some read the "classics," but not many. This is all not so very different from today....

Buy Holiday Gifts at Independent Bookstores!

I would like to urge readers, as I did last year, to buy as many as possible of your holiday gifts in independent bookstores. Books make great gifts, and we need to support our wonderful independent bookstores.

On another note: I have been posting less the past couple of weeks, as it has been a very busy time at work; in addition, I was finishing two articles with deadlines. I will be back to more frequent posting soon. Thanks for checking and reading the blog!