Anne Tyler's Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant is one of those books that has been on one of those self-created "I should read" list since it was first published in 1982. I'm not sure why it took over 2 decades to finally make it's way into my hands, but once I opened the book last week, I couldn't put it down. It even provided a brief respite during the middle of a busy day, where I closed my office door and read for 15 minutes -- something that I never do.
Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant was a choice for my book group this month, selected from a list of book options in the local library's "book group in a bag" program. This is a program of a nearby town's library system that allows one person to select a title and checkout 8 copies and a reader's guide for 6 weeks -- a great program for book groups. They even can provide copies in large print, which two of the people in my group need. This is the kind of 'your tax dollars at work' thing that just makes me smile.
One person in my group had read the novel previously and spoke highly of it. She told me the other day that she could not wait to discuss it because she had an entirely different perspective reading it 20 years later. Two other members of my discussion group have commented that they didn't care for the book. I look forward to a lively discussion this evening, although I suspect that I might have to refrain from shouting: How could you NOT like this book?
Dinner is the story of Pearl Tull, a hard-working, determined, emotionally distant and bitter woman left to raise three children on her own. The book covers four decades in the lives of Pearl and her three children, Cody, Ezra, and Jenny. Cody is smart and handsome, but spiteful and plotting, and so envious of his brother Ezra that it consumes him. Ezra, soft, doughy, and somewhat clumsy as a boy, is a peace-maker, the kind of person who wants to make everybody happy, even at the risk of his own happiness. He offers care for others in their woundedness and is loved for it, except by his siblings, who scoff at his efforts. Jenny, though determined like her mother, struggles to not be a stiff-lipped control-freak like Pearl, and she finally settles into a chaotic family life that seems to bring her some sort of purpose and acceptance of life, if not peace, in its total disorganization.
Each chapter of the book focuses on a different character, sometimes presenting the events totally from the perspective of that character. One chapter, in the middle of the book and in the middle of the chronology of the plot, is even written in the present tense, which I found a little disconcerting. When I read a book where the narrative perspective changes, I find myself wondering who the book is really about. The first several chapters of Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant appear to be about Pearl. But, then the book changes, and seems to be about Ezra and Cody, stuck in a life-long struggle, like Esau and Jacob. Sometimes the book feels like it is about Ezra, but then the reader's perspective is swayed, and you feel like it is really about Cody who can never quite leave his family behind, no matter how desperately he tries to distance himself. In the end, the book isn't about any one of them, but about a family; a dysfunctional one for sure, but a family nonetheless. Reflecting the name of Ezra's restaurant, The Homesick, an underlying theme in the book is that although one may hate one's family, one is often wistful that we can gather into families where all are happy and without regret, homesick for the family we want, not the one we may have. Like Tolstoy's famous opening line of Anna Karenina, we are reminded that such idealized notions don't exist. 'All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.'
Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant is not a happy book. It's characters all have flaws -- like any human being. This unhappiness is why I suspect that people in my book group may not like it. But, I think it is what makes the book so good. Tyler's novel is beautifully crafted, and, despite the sadness and gloom of the lives of the Tull's, is a great book to read.
Showing posts with label Book Discussion Group. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Book Discussion Group. Show all posts
02 July 2009
02 June 2007
Away From Her/The Bear Came Over the Mountain
A few months ago, one of my reading groups selected Alice Munro's collection of short stories, Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage for its monthly selection. I had the book on my shelves for a few years, but had never finished reading it. About a year ago, one issue of The Virginia Quarterly Review had featured Munro and I found the articles interesting. I was looking forward to discussing Munro's work with the group.
I was surprised that nobody in the group liked Munro. How could they not? I thought. I passionately made my case for Munro: the clearly defined characters, succinct, accurate description that vividly creates an image, a sparseness of setting that perfectly echos not only the physical but also the emotional landscape, stories about women that are true to the core. They all agreed, but still, they found Munro's work to be depressing in its achingly raw truthfulness. My fellow readers found the women characters to be real, but they didn't want to live their lives. Reading one story after the other was too much.
I can understand that sentiment. I like reading one or two stories at a time, not an entire collection. Maybe that's why it takes me a few years to work my way through a collection of short stories. Munro's stories certainly demand such reading. Her stories are best read individually, and perhaps, with significant time in between each reading least the reader burn out from reading so much heartache, loneliness and real life.
By the time my book group met, I had not finished all of the stories in Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage, including the last one in the volume, "The Bear Came Over the Mountain". Soon after that meeting, I heard that this story was being made into a film. Away From Her opened recently and, based on its 95 rating on Rotten Tomatoes and the strength of Munro's work, I went to see it today. I think this is an excellent movie. Although the story is gut-wrenching at times, the film doesn't stoop to melodramatic sentiment. While the subject is similar, this isn't The Notebook.
Grant (Gordon Pinsent) and Fiona (Julie Christie) have been married for 45 years and Fiona is losing her mind to Alzheimer's Disease. Fiona enters a nursing home and is separated from Grant for the first time in their marriage. He is unable to visit for the first month. Rather than be confused as to why her husband hasn't visited, Fiona forgets her husband and falls in love with another patient. The movie, though, isn't just about Alzheimer's. It is about the curve balls that life throws at you and how you deal with it over time. It is about loss, and about love refined by the trials of a long marriage.
Directory Sarah Polley said this about the type of love portrayed in the movie:
Julie Christie's performance in the film is remarkable, as are the performances of Gorden Pinsent and Olympia Dukakas. Like the characters in Munro's story, the characters in the film realistically struggle with their lives. Dialog is used in the movie to convey ideas presented in the short story as dreams or past events, but the screenplay nicely handles these without being too preachy. The scenery in the film plays a part too; shots of the cold, snowy Canadian countryside seem to echo Christie's character's confusion and loneliness.
After I returned from the movie this afternoon, I retrieved Munro's book from the bookshelves and read "The Bear Came Over the Mountain". Although a few insignificant changes were made-- necessitated most likely by the medium --
the film is true to the story. Like Munro's story, the film is stark, yet compelling in the manner in which Munro accurately depicts the plight of Alzheimer's patients. The screenplay is also true in sticking to the same narrative as Munro's story, with one small exception that I found jarring. Towards the end of the film, the nurse who has been helpful to Grant throughout his wife's stay at the nursing home, condemns his past affairs. While Grant is remorseful about it, he had put it in the past until his wife's deteriorating memory begins to focus things in the past. Kristy, the nurse, pointedly tells him that his behavior is typically male, that maybe his life only seemed okay to him, but not to his wife. This seemed out of character for the nurse to say, given her nurturing to both her patients and to Grant. At first I thought these words were exactly what one would expect a Munro character to speak. But, this scene is not in the story. On reflecting on it after reading the story, I think that this scene states explicitly what Munro's stories typically only imply. In that regard, it seemed out of place, but not entirely out of context with the story.
I would recommend seeing this movie and reading Munro's story.
I was surprised that nobody in the group liked Munro. How could they not? I thought. I passionately made my case for Munro: the clearly defined characters, succinct, accurate description that vividly creates an image, a sparseness of setting that perfectly echos not only the physical but also the emotional landscape, stories about women that are true to the core. They all agreed, but still, they found Munro's work to be depressing in its achingly raw truthfulness. My fellow readers found the women characters to be real, but they didn't want to live their lives. Reading one story after the other was too much.
I can understand that sentiment. I like reading one or two stories at a time, not an entire collection. Maybe that's why it takes me a few years to work my way through a collection of short stories. Munro's stories certainly demand such reading. Her stories are best read individually, and perhaps, with significant time in between each reading least the reader burn out from reading so much heartache, loneliness and real life.
By the time my book group met, I had not finished all of the stories in Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage, including the last one in the volume, "The Bear Came Over the Mountain". Soon after that meeting, I heard that this story was being made into a film. Away From Her opened recently and, based on its 95 rating on Rotten Tomatoes and the strength of Munro's work, I went to see it today. I think this is an excellent movie. Although the story is gut-wrenching at times, the film doesn't stoop to melodramatic sentiment. While the subject is similar, this isn't The Notebook.
Grant (Gordon Pinsent) and Fiona (Julie Christie) have been married for 45 years and Fiona is losing her mind to Alzheimer's Disease. Fiona enters a nursing home and is separated from Grant for the first time in their marriage. He is unable to visit for the first month. Rather than be confused as to why her husband hasn't visited, Fiona forgets her husband and falls in love with another patient. The movie, though, isn't just about Alzheimer's. It is about the curve balls that life throws at you and how you deal with it over time. It is about loss, and about love refined by the trials of a long marriage.
Directory Sarah Polley said this about the type of love portrayed in the movie:
It was the opposite kind of love than we usually celebrate in films, which is new love without knowledge and without hardship. It's the whole idea of love after life has had its way with you, and after you have kind of failed each other and things have gone off the rails. Yet love still somehow exists between them." - 2007 AP interview on "Away From Her", as quoted on www.imdb.comI think Polley achieves this in this film. The love between Grant and Fiona is immense; after Fiona forgets Grant, his love for her continues unabated.
Julie Christie's performance in the film is remarkable, as are the performances of Gorden Pinsent and Olympia Dukakas. Like the characters in Munro's story, the characters in the film realistically struggle with their lives. Dialog is used in the movie to convey ideas presented in the short story as dreams or past events, but the screenplay nicely handles these without being too preachy. The scenery in the film plays a part too; shots of the cold, snowy Canadian countryside seem to echo Christie's character's confusion and loneliness.
After I returned from the movie this afternoon, I retrieved Munro's book from the bookshelves and read "The Bear Came Over the Mountain". Although a few insignificant changes were made-- necessitated most likely by the medium --
the film is true to the story. Like Munro's story, the film is stark, yet compelling in the manner in which Munro accurately depicts the plight of Alzheimer's patients. The screenplay is also true in sticking to the same narrative as Munro's story, with one small exception that I found jarring. Towards the end of the film, the nurse who has been helpful to Grant throughout his wife's stay at the nursing home, condemns his past affairs. While Grant is remorseful about it, he had put it in the past until his wife's deteriorating memory begins to focus things in the past. Kristy, the nurse, pointedly tells him that his behavior is typically male, that maybe his life only seemed okay to him, but not to his wife. This seemed out of character for the nurse to say, given her nurturing to both her patients and to Grant. At first I thought these words were exactly what one would expect a Munro character to speak. But, this scene is not in the story. On reflecting on it after reading the story, I think that this scene states explicitly what Munro's stories typically only imply. In that regard, it seemed out of place, but not entirely out of context with the story.
I would recommend seeing this movie and reading Munro's story.
12 January 2007
Right and Wrong Readings of Hemingway's Hills Like White Elephants
cross-posted at A Curious Singularity
When I saw a few months ago that Kate had selected Hemingway's Hills Like White Elephants for the January discussion at A Curious Singularity, I was excited. This was a story I was familiar with and one that I would have something to write about. And then I read the story a few days ago and I realized that there is still more to understand about this story.
I knew before I read Hills Like White Elephants for the first time that it dealt with abortion. I first read it in a Women's Studies class in the late '70s, not in a literature class. I recall being a little confused -- how did they know it was about abortion? -- but I understood why it was a valuable text for discussion in the context of that class. It was not the type of discussion that was likely to have happened in any of the American lit classes in the the male-dominated, Western Canon-oriented English Department at Conservative Midwestern State College.
The next time I read Hills Like White Elephants was in the early '90s, again as part of the assigned reading for a class. This time, it was a literary theory class (this time at small urban public univ with non-traditional students), and Hills was assigned for the portion of the class where Reader Response theory was to be discussed. And what a discussion it was! The class was small -- 3 strong feminists, 1 ardent anti-abortion proponent, and 1 woman desperately trying to become pregnant. In retrospect, I realize what a great selection this story was for discussion of Reader Response theory; Hemingway's sparse text does not give up it's secrets easily to a careless reading. But, I'm sure the professor never imagined the impassioned discussion that this story provoked. The discussion did not focus on the abortion issue as you might guess. Rather, the discussion was intense because the infertile woman believed that the 'operation' the girl and the American discuss in the story referred to a procedure to unblock the fallopian tubes, one that would 'just ... let the air in' as the text states.
The class argued for 2 hours whether this was a valid reading; if the text means what the reader experiences is there such a thing as a 'wrong' reading? I firmly believed that it was wrong. Unequivocally. Obnoxiously, I planted my flag and stood my ground. That was not what the text supported. Or did I mean it was not what Hemingway meant? I could never believe that one could correctly read this story in this way. And what kind of parents would the girl and the American make anyway? They are sarcastic, bitter, manipulative people whose lives consist of looking at things and trying new drinks.
Fast forward to this week when I last read Hills Like White Elephants. This time reading the story, I couldn't help but read it without thinking of that woman's reading from 15 years ago. The language in the story is vague. Jig and the American talk as a couple might in public if they were avoiding the topic, or if they didn't want an eavesdropping outsider to know why they would be taking the train heading towards Madrid. But, the fertility angle still seems to me like an inaccurate reading. I then read some of the posts and comments on the Curious Singularity's site. Some had commented that they didn't understand what was going on and welcomed the information presented in the posts. As much as I don't like the 'here's the key to unlock the secret of the text' approach, I do understand how some readers might be confused and how having the context explained would allow them to re-read the story and consider it in a different light.
I re-read the story one more time, this time considering it strictly in terms of the dialogue. How would this play out if two people were speaking the lines as if it were a play? When reading the story in this manner, one can understand the passage of time. The action comprised in less than 2000 words didn't take place in 5 minutes. There are long periods of silence when Jig and the American drink their beers and later order the Anis del Toro, where they look at the landscape and try to say clever things about it, when they wonder about the train's arrival time, or if they will board the train when it pulls into the station. If one hears the stretches of silence, Jig's utterances can be seen as attempts at making conversation and at placating the man. It doesn't work and his attempts at persuading her regarding the abortion seem manipulative. He is domineering; she submissive, eager to please him, though she jabs and pokes him with her sarcastic verbal sparing.
Stark. Pared down. Long silences instead of narrative description. These things aid in creating the atmosphere of the story, present a backdrop, and develop a tension between the characters that not only fills in the blanks regarding the 'action', but also suggests the inevitable unhappiness between Jig and the American no matter what they decide regarding the abortion. No matter which direction the train they board is going, they have a ticket heading in the direction of more unhappiness.
11 December 2006
Christmas in Harmony
Philip Gulley's Christmas in Harmony isn't the type of book that I usually read. I was convinced that I would hate it, but steeled myself to slog through this short book for a bookclub read. So, I was surprised that I found myself laughing aloud throughout the 80+ pages of this book.
This was my first venture in reading of the fictional town of Harmony and its lovable but flaky inhabitants that are gently ministered to by Pastor Sam Gardner. It's almost Christmas when the story opens and the members of the Harmony Friends Meeting want to do something different for Christmas Eve services. Irascible and unpredictable, Dale Hinshaw is determined to have a progressive Nativity pageant -- sort of like a progressive dinner, but without the cocktails, horsd'oerves, entree and dessert. In addition to the chaos of the crass rendition of a Nativity scene, Pastor Sam Gardner deals with children skeptical about Santa Claus, finding the perfect tree, arguing with his wife over the sending of greeting cards, an exploding truck, the loneliness and fears of his congregation, and with attempting to build an inclusive congregation in a church where the parishioners are wary of strangers. What ensues is funny, heartwarming, and charmingly descriptive of how people deal with changing traditions without losing the 'true' meaning of the Season.
The fictional town of Harmony is a nostalgic place, a sort of mid-western American Brigadoon. It is a nostalgia for a time and place that has never existed, but that we all at some time wished had. Harmony is a town that is befitting of its placename; despite the flaws and quarrels of its inhabitants, is a harmonious place of grace and forgiveness, where the reader ends up loving the characters in spite of their foibles.
This is a quick read that is perfect for someone looking for a short holiday-related book. It is a delightfully sentimental book that will put a smile on your face and make you want to hang some mistletoe and colored lights, although you might re-think the plastic creche set on the front lawn!
This is my first post for Carl's holiday fun challenge.
This was my first venture in reading of the fictional town of Harmony and its lovable but flaky inhabitants that are gently ministered to by Pastor Sam Gardner. It's almost Christmas when the story opens and the members of the Harmony Friends Meeting want to do something different for Christmas Eve services. Irascible and unpredictable, Dale Hinshaw is determined to have a progressive Nativity pageant -- sort of like a progressive dinner, but without the cocktails, horsd'oerves, entree and dessert. In addition to the chaos of the crass rendition of a Nativity scene, Pastor Sam Gardner deals with children skeptical about Santa Claus, finding the perfect tree, arguing with his wife over the sending of greeting cards, an exploding truck, the loneliness and fears of his congregation, and with attempting to build an inclusive congregation in a church where the parishioners are wary of strangers. What ensues is funny, heartwarming, and charmingly descriptive of how people deal with changing traditions without losing the 'true' meaning of the Season.
The fictional town of Harmony is a nostalgic place, a sort of mid-western American Brigadoon. It is a nostalgia for a time and place that has never existed, but that we all at some time wished had. Harmony is a town that is befitting of its placename; despite the flaws and quarrels of its inhabitants, is a harmonious place of grace and forgiveness, where the reader ends up loving the characters in spite of their foibles.
This is a quick read that is perfect for someone looking for a short holiday-related book. It is a delightfully sentimental book that will put a smile on your face and make you want to hang some mistletoe and colored lights, although you might re-think the plastic creche set on the front lawn!
This is my first post for Carl's holiday fun challenge.
09 December 2006
When I look at the stars, or mountains, or a wildflower, or the sea
Litlove wrote a few days ago about Religion and Spirituality and whether the two can be separated. Can one be spiritual, while being an atheist? was the question raised by a work she was reading. There are some interesting comments to that post; you should check them out. I started to post this as a comment on her blog, but I quickly realized I had more to say than a blog comment would allow. As I read her post, I started thinking about a book I read a few months ago, Simple Christian by N.T. Wright, that I have yet to write about here. One of the things I've been gnawing on since I read this book was Wright's outlining of different categorizations or concepts about God and I think it is relevant to the discussion at Litlove's. This post is not meant to be a commentary on Wright's apologetics as expressed in this book, but I do think that the classification is useful for my discussion of the question Litlove posed.
Here's my distillation of classifications Wright cites in his book:
- The pantheist looks at God as being everywhere, and everywhere, therefore, is God. This is a belief that everything contains at least a spark of divinity.
- The panentheistic view is one that everything may not be divine as such, but exists within God.
- The belief that God (or gods) and humankind occupy two distinct and firmly separated spaces.
- The belief, found Wright says in classic Judaism and early Christianity, that Heaven and Earth are NOT coterminous and that God makes his presence known on earth.
Wright actually considers pantheism and panentheism to be variations on the same theme, but I see them as decidedly distinct. I think many adherents of Christianity, while not labeling themselves as panentheists, often misconstrue that all things are within God, rather than being created by God. I think that this is produced by the faulty logic that says "God is good, therefore all things created by God are good". As Wright points out, this falls apart when you consider evil. I cannot believe that evil doesn't exit, but I've yet to get my head around how to explain its existence, even in terms of my belief in the existence of God. Maybe the existence of evil is part of the mystery of God, but I cannot see it as a part of that which is divine.
Wright discusses the belief that the godly and the human are separated by a wide gulf in both the ancient Greeks as well as the 18th century Deists. This belief, Wright writes, is quite cozy and comfortable for the well-off, but not so much if, like most of the world's population throughout history, one lives in despicable, deplorable conditions. This view, Wright points out, is prevalent both among those who call themselves Christian and those who identify as being agnostics. It is, he suggests, a view of a God who just "shrugs his shoulders" at the plight of the world. This view, I think, can leave one wondering, when one marvels at the beauty in the world, what the point is. Although often throughout my life I've believed in the distant god-figure, it does seem to be a position that is bound to leave one bewildered at one extreme, angst-ridden at the other, if one follows through to the logical end of the philosophical argument that a god would create a beautiful world and then pretty much just ignore it.
It is the last categorization around which Wright frames Simply Christian, detailing this concept in terms of the ancient Israelites, who saw this overlapping of the Godly and the Earthly manifested in the Temple. This idea of God's presence in the world provides a framework that I hadn't considered previously, not that I haven't recognized before what I would call God's presence. I can best describe it as a Venn diagram, where Heaven is the space where the sphere of God or the Godhead overlaps with humankind's sphere of existence. Obviously, in terms of Christian theology, one can talk about how the "Temple" of the ancient Israelites has been replaced with the temple of Christ. But, I've most often heard Christians talk of Jesus Christ as the temple as being the bridge between heaven and earth, not as the intersection. I like this idea of intersecting, overlapping spheres. It makes more sense to me in many ways and brings a different perspective to the idea of communion and relationship with God and others, to the metaphor of God's kingdom on earth, and to the concept of eternity, with God being outside of time. It is this intersection where ethics makes sense in the Christian tradition; by doing what is right (following the rule to love God and love your neighbor has yourself) we are brought into relationship with each other and with the Divine.
So, how does this relate to Litlove's question? (Go read it now, if you haven't yet & want the rest of this to make sense.) I would say that spirituality within atheism cannot exist. What is it that one would be trying to attain through the atheistic meditation on nature of which Litlove's French philosopher wrote? I understand the mystical feeling that many get when they commune with nature. When I behold beauty in the natural world, I experience a spiritual connection with nature -- and with God. But it is just one way. It is not the only place I find that Godly/Earthly intersection. It is more difficult -- after all, when was the last time you were betrayed by a flower, had an argument with a tree -- but we should be able to find that same kind of communion with people as well. When we just look for the mystical in nature, we don't find God in all of the Divine's dimensions, and we overlook how we have gaps, divisions, wide gulfs that seem impossible to bridge, with our fellow humans.
Spirituality is different than religion; one is the continuing path to understanding the godly, the other the organized corporate practice of worship and the codification of beliefs, including how one individually should seek and follow a righteous, ethical and spiritual path. Meditation, for some, may be a part of that journey, but I can't conceive of it as being separate from spirituality. When one meditates upon beauty as found in the natural world and finds it a spiritual experience, one need to consider whether they are communing with the Divine as nature, with the Divine within nature, or nature as a manifestation of the Divine.
Litlove wrote: "So what I think this French author is doing is taming and domesticating the mystical experience, trying to make it into something pocket-sized and practical....[B]ut if there is a God, then I can‚’t help but feel he‚’s bound up in what we might refer to as Glory, as a form of beauty and awe that exceeds the quotidian imaginings of humanity, and that nourishes our sense of excess and the extraordinary." I couldn't agree more. But I don't think that the point of such a mystical experience, as the French atheist posited, is to understand our place in the whole of the cosmos and to accept life as is. As BikeProf commented on Litlove's post, such a position simply finds different words to express the same experience.
As another commenter on Litlove's blog, Mark, wrote: ....some merit to spirituality in a purely aesthetic sense, but I’m not sure if it‚’s not missing an essential quality of religion - duty". In the context of ethics, I think this is also true. Apart perhaps from ethical questions regarding the right use of natural resources, I don't think that meditation on the aesthetics of nature will inspire ethical thinking. Is the sense of awe and of being part of a universe bigger than one's ego something that will evoke the mystical in the midst of nature when nature is destructive -- wild animals seeking and killing prey, the tornado or hurricane or blinding snowstorm relentlessly unleashing its unyielding destructive and random power? How many of us in Western society, living far from Indian Ocean fishing villages and not having considered the potential reality of a tsunami, were not bewildered by the death and destruction of the 2004 Asian Tsunami? I can't believe that awe at nature's power at any level spurred the humanitarian outpouring following that event. Although such destruction can make one question the presence of a benevolent and loving deity, one would not find the answer to why such things happen -- or the right thing to do -- in nature. One doesn't need to appreciate the aesthetics of the natural world to know that the ethical thing is to help one's fellow human. While humanitarian help does not necessarily need to be an act brought about by religion or spiritual awareness (and often it is not), I am doubtful that aid to someone in need is done because of an ethic found by meditating on the beauty of nature.
Putting aside all of the arguments about how evil has been perpetrated in the guise of religion throughout the centuries -- the examples are not limited to just one religion -- I think that there is something fundamentally wrong with looking at religion as something that humans have outgrown because we have laws to support a common ethical standard. If that were the case, wouldn't we have moved beyond the horrors that are constant throughout history: poverty, war, tyranny? How many humans are really in communion with others? Such an arguments suggests that we are not only more knowledgeable about ourselves and the physical world than our ancestors, but also that we are wiser. To believe so is not wisdom, but foolishness.
09 October 2006
Current reading....
Although I haven't been doing much blogging for the last week or so, I have been reading. I'm making steady progress through Willa Cather's My Antonia. It was my reading group's pick this month. Although we already met to discuss it, I still intend on finishing it.
At the same time, I'm reading Marilynne Robinson's Gilead for another book discussion group. I have about 80 pages left before tomorrow's discussion, so I hope I get it finished.
Although it is coincidental that I'm reading these two books at the same time, I'm enjoying that the locale for both is the Great Plains. It's interesting to see how each writer describes the land.
Gilead captured my attention in the first few sentences. Here is an excerpt from the first paragraph, as the aging and dying narrator begins drafting a letter to his young son to be read when he reaches adulthood:
What gorgeous writing! I'm sure I'll have a lot to say about this after I've finished reading. Now, a little more than 1/2 through the book I'm perplexed as to why Robinson set it in 1956. Other than the easy ability for the narrator to write about his grandfather and the Civil War, setting the book in the mid-50's doesn't seem necessary. However, maybe there is something in the plot yet to be revealed that would only work in the 1950's. Another thing that I like about the book is that while the letter is often prosaic, there is a quality that indicates that it was written by an old person, especially when the narrator seemingly repeats things.
At the same time, I'm reading Marilynne Robinson's Gilead for another book discussion group. I have about 80 pages left before tomorrow's discussion, so I hope I get it finished.
Although it is coincidental that I'm reading these two books at the same time, I'm enjoying that the locale for both is the Great Plains. It's interesting to see how each writer describes the land.
Gilead captured my attention in the first few sentences. Here is an excerpt from the first paragraph, as the aging and dying narrator begins drafting a letter to his young son to be read when he reaches adulthood:
You reached up and put your fingers on my lips and gave me that look I never in my life saw on any other face besides your mother's. It's a kind of furious pride, very passionate and stern. I'm always a little surprised to find my eyebrows unsinged after I've suffered one of those looks. I will miss them.
What gorgeous writing! I'm sure I'll have a lot to say about this after I've finished reading. Now, a little more than 1/2 through the book I'm perplexed as to why Robinson set it in 1956. Other than the easy ability for the narrator to write about his grandfather and the Civil War, setting the book in the mid-50's doesn't seem necessary. However, maybe there is something in the plot yet to be revealed that would only work in the 1950's. Another thing that I like about the book is that while the letter is often prosaic, there is a quality that indicates that it was written by an old person, especially when the narrator seemingly repeats things.
13 September 2006
The Moment: Joyce's The Dead
Cross posted at A Curious Singularity
There is a peculiar feeling that I experience from time to time that I like to think of as 'The Moment'. It isn't one moment that stands apart from all others; it isn't necessarily something profound, maybe not even memorable over time. Yet, it is a discernible present, a second or two that seems to last a little longer than a fleeting tick of the clock. Time seems to hang suspended for just long enough to perceive a difference. And, then, nothing is the same again.
It may happen when I'm reading a book. Or maybe when walking down a street in an unfamilar city. It may be a point during a conversation with an acquaintance. It is a melding of time and space in which I realize something that I did not know before. A moment of complete transformation where there isn't any going back: the point where a new town suddenly is made familiar; a new concept is learned; or a deeper understanding is gained of what makes your friend laugh or worry or cry so much that you now know them better than just a few minutes before.
Call it an epiphany, eureka, a paradigm shift, or a sudden flash of insight; it is what I call 'the moment'. It is palpable, perhaps measurable in some strange mathematical system. One's senses reel as one's brain steps quickly to rearrange all of the pieces into a new understandable pattern. It is this kind of a moment that is the culmination of James Joyce's The Dead.
There is so much that you could say about this story. Volumes of criticism have been written about Joyce. A simple Google query for "Joyce The Dead Criticism" returns a mere 1.1 million hits. Just looking at a few of them makes my head spin. I don't really care about knowing all of the obscure references to people and places in Joyce's life that are reflected in this story. For me, to think that one can segregate one's experiences from one's writing is almost incomprehensible. So, while it may be interesting to know that Aunt Julia and Aunt Kate are based on real people that Joyce knew, or that Mr. Browne, the Protestant guest at that party, was named after a Protestant Irish minister, I don't think that it is a very useful means to look at a piece of fiction. I think Joyce wanted the reader to get something more out of this story than allusions to things in his life.
While the story does give one insight into Irish hospitality, or a glimpse into the politics of Irish nationalism, or a view of how men and women interacted in Dublin at the early part of the 20th century, I think Joyce's chief purpose in The Dead is to depict how one man's view of the world, of everything he knows to be true and real, can change in a heartbeat, a change so profound that he looks anew on his family, friends and life as if he had never seen them before.
The Dead is told from Gabriel's viewpoint, except for a brief beginning. Gabriel is a man consumed by self-doubt, by his social and familial obligations, and by an unrelenting sense of superiority. He regrets his conversation with Lily; he frets over the correct words for his speech, and he frequently muses over the lack of culture of his aunts and their social circle. These feelings seem disproportionate to the responses of the other party quests. Lily may think the available men in her social class are cads, but she doesn't seem offended by Gabriel's inquiry as much as he thinks she might be. Miss Ivors seems initially to be jovial in her talk with Gabriel, but he elevates it to a conflict that is noticed by others. He worries about his toast to his aunts and how others will perceive it, but the guests do not seem critical of his remarks. The Aunts and their friends seem to be versed in arts and in the politics of the day -- at least to the point that it interests them -- but Gabriel views them as naive, backward, uneducated. He believes that his views are considered, informed, and correct. Despite his self-recrimination regarding what he says and how he may be viewed, he is confident in his assessment of others.
Until the end of the story and the moment of his realization that maybe he doesn't understand things in his world at all. With Gretta's revelation that she once loved a young man who was willing to die for her, Gabriel realizes that he has never had --and never will have -- such a profound emotional connection with his wife. He realizes that the talk about dead people at the party was more than just chatter about someone from the past. It was a reminiscence of those people who had a profound impact on people's lives. The Dead are shadows, Gabriel realizes. The memory of the dead continues to influence the lives of the living. Realizing this his understanding of his wife, his aunts and others at the party is transformed.
It is his epiphanic moment that changes his life forever. The known city is now foreign; the once invisible dead are now seen in his world; his lack of love for Gretta exposed. In a moment, Gabriel Conroy realizes for the first time something that was present previously. In a brief fleeting moment he realizes the truth about his life. And nothing will be the same again.
There is a peculiar feeling that I experience from time to time that I like to think of as 'The Moment'. It isn't one moment that stands apart from all others; it isn't necessarily something profound, maybe not even memorable over time. Yet, it is a discernible present, a second or two that seems to last a little longer than a fleeting tick of the clock. Time seems to hang suspended for just long enough to perceive a difference. And, then, nothing is the same again.
It may happen when I'm reading a book. Or maybe when walking down a street in an unfamilar city. It may be a point during a conversation with an acquaintance. It is a melding of time and space in which I realize something that I did not know before. A moment of complete transformation where there isn't any going back: the point where a new town suddenly is made familiar; a new concept is learned; or a deeper understanding is gained of what makes your friend laugh or worry or cry so much that you now know them better than just a few minutes before.
Call it an epiphany, eureka, a paradigm shift, or a sudden flash of insight; it is what I call 'the moment'. It is palpable, perhaps measurable in some strange mathematical system. One's senses reel as one's brain steps quickly to rearrange all of the pieces into a new understandable pattern. It is this kind of a moment that is the culmination of James Joyce's The Dead.
There is so much that you could say about this story. Volumes of criticism have been written about Joyce. A simple Google query for "Joyce The Dead Criticism" returns a mere 1.1 million hits. Just looking at a few of them makes my head spin. I don't really care about knowing all of the obscure references to people and places in Joyce's life that are reflected in this story. For me, to think that one can segregate one's experiences from one's writing is almost incomprehensible. So, while it may be interesting to know that Aunt Julia and Aunt Kate are based on real people that Joyce knew, or that Mr. Browne, the Protestant guest at that party, was named after a Protestant Irish minister, I don't think that it is a very useful means to look at a piece of fiction. I think Joyce wanted the reader to get something more out of this story than allusions to things in his life.
While the story does give one insight into Irish hospitality, or a glimpse into the politics of Irish nationalism, or a view of how men and women interacted in Dublin at the early part of the 20th century, I think Joyce's chief purpose in The Dead is to depict how one man's view of the world, of everything he knows to be true and real, can change in a heartbeat, a change so profound that he looks anew on his family, friends and life as if he had never seen them before.
The Dead is told from Gabriel's viewpoint, except for a brief beginning. Gabriel is a man consumed by self-doubt, by his social and familial obligations, and by an unrelenting sense of superiority. He regrets his conversation with Lily; he frets over the correct words for his speech, and he frequently muses over the lack of culture of his aunts and their social circle. These feelings seem disproportionate to the responses of the other party quests. Lily may think the available men in her social class are cads, but she doesn't seem offended by Gabriel's inquiry as much as he thinks she might be. Miss Ivors seems initially to be jovial in her talk with Gabriel, but he elevates it to a conflict that is noticed by others. He worries about his toast to his aunts and how others will perceive it, but the guests do not seem critical of his remarks. The Aunts and their friends seem to be versed in arts and in the politics of the day -- at least to the point that it interests them -- but Gabriel views them as naive, backward, uneducated. He believes that his views are considered, informed, and correct. Despite his self-recrimination regarding what he says and how he may be viewed, he is confident in his assessment of others.
Until the end of the story and the moment of his realization that maybe he doesn't understand things in his world at all. With Gretta's revelation that she once loved a young man who was willing to die for her, Gabriel realizes that he has never had --and never will have -- such a profound emotional connection with his wife. He realizes that the talk about dead people at the party was more than just chatter about someone from the past. It was a reminiscence of those people who had a profound impact on people's lives. The Dead are shadows, Gabriel realizes. The memory of the dead continues to influence the lives of the living. Realizing this his understanding of his wife, his aunts and others at the party is transformed.
It is his epiphanic moment that changes his life forever. The known city is now foreign; the once invisible dead are now seen in his world; his lack of love for Gretta exposed. In a moment, Gabriel Conroy realizes for the first time something that was present previously. In a brief fleeting moment he realizes the truth about his life. And nothing will be the same again.
05 September 2006
Dry and Dusty
Oh my! I just started to read Ivanhoe this evening, this month's selection for my book club.
At the beginning is the Dedicatory Epistle (as if that isn't enough to frighten away a trepidacious reader), addressed to Rev. Dr. Dryasdust. Dryasdust? Dry.As.Dust?
I fear that the name is not meant to be funny. Oh my! What lies ahead?
In the Epistle, the fictitious Laurence Templeton writes:
Cautiously, I approach Chapter 1 and am surprised to read the author addressing me, the reader, providing a bit of backstory:
After choking down that bit of brevity, I read this beautiful description and almost overlook that there are nearly 100 words between the Initial Cap of hundreds and the terminal endmark following solitude.
This continues on, subsequent sentences competing for the highest adjectival word count and then, the reader gets to the action a few pages later after the scene has been set.
Elizabethan dialog?
Hark, let us home this book into the dustbin with Mr. Dryasthesame and Sir Whatishisname. I do not posses such a slender degree of patience, nor such a vast well of time, to enjoy the humor and pathos of this. No earthly way this reader will finish this tome by Thursday night hence.
At the beginning is the Dedicatory Epistle (as if that isn't enough to frighten away a trepidacious reader), addressed to Rev. Dr. Dryasdust. Dryasdust? Dry.As.Dust?
I fear that the name is not meant to be funny. Oh my! What lies ahead?
In the Epistle, the fictitious Laurence Templeton writes:
He who first opens Chaucer, or any other ancient poet, is so much struck with the obsolete spelling, multiplied consonants, and antiquated appearance of the language, that he is apt to lay the work down in despair, as encrusted too deep with the rust of antiquity to permit his judging of its merits or tasting its beauties. But if some intelligent and accomplished friend point out to him that the difficulties by which he is startled are more in appearance than reality, if, by reading aloud to him, or by reducing the ordinary works to the modern orthography, he satisfies his proselyte that only about one-tenth part of the words employed are in fact obsolete, the novice may be easily persuaded to approach the "well of English undefiled," with the certainty that a slender degree of patience will enable him to enjoy both the humour and the pathos with which old Geoffrey delighted the age of Cressy and of Poictiers.
Cautiously, I approach Chapter 1 and am surprised to read the author addressing me, the reader, providing a bit of backstory:
This state of things I have thought it necessary to premise for the information of the general reader, who might be apt to forget that, although no great historical events, such as war or insurrection, mark the existence of the Anglo-Saxons as a separate people subsequent to the reign of William the Second, yet the great national distinctions betwixt them and their conquerors, the recollection of what they had formerly been, and to what they were now reduced, continued, down to the reign of Edward the Third, to keep open the wounds which with the Conquest had inflicted, and to maintain a line of separation betwixt the descendants of the victor Normans and the vanquished Saxons.
After choking down that bit of brevity, I read this beautiful description and almost overlook that there are nearly 100 words between the Initial Cap of hundreds and the terminal endmark following solitude.
Hundreds of broad-headed, short-stemmed, wide-branched oaks, which had witnessed perhaps the stately march of the Roman soldiery, flung their gnarled arms over a thick carpet of the most delicious green sward; in some places they were intermingled with beeches, hollies, and copse-wood of various descriptions, so closely as totally to intercept the level beams of the sinking sun; in others they receded from each other, forming those long sweeping vistas in the intricacy of which the eye delights to lose itself, while imagination considers them as the paths to yet wilder scenes of silvan solitude.
This continues on, subsequent sentences competing for the highest adjectival word count and then, the reader gets to the action a few pages later after the scene has been set.
"Betray thee! Answered the Jester; "no, that were the trick of a wise man; a fool cannot half so well help himself. But soft, whom have we here?"
....
"A murrain take thee!" rejoined the swineherd; "wilt thou talk of such things, while a terrible storm of thunder and lightening is raging with a few miles of us? Hark, how the thunder rumbles! and for summer rain, I never saw such broad downright flat drops fall out of the clouds; the oaks, too, notwithstanding the calm weather, sob and creak with their great boughs as if announcing a tempest. Thou canst play the rational if thou wilt; credit me for once, and let us home ere the storm begins to rage, for the night will be fearful."
Elizabethan dialog?
Hark, let us home this book into the dustbin with Mr. Dryasthesame and Sir Whatishisname. I do not posses such a slender degree of patience, nor such a vast well of time, to enjoy the humor and pathos of this. No earthly way this reader will finish this tome by Thursday night hence.
01 July 2006
Muriel Spark: The Only Problem
To take on the book of Job is a monumental task. To refute the book of Job -- or at least to challenge some of the conventional thinking regarding the work, even suggesting that it shouldn't be part of the Bible -- is an equally daunting task. Yet, Muriel Spark, in The Only Problem does just that.
The Only Problem is a short novel (about 130 pages) about Harvey, a wealthy, self-proclaimed student (as opposed to 'scholar') who is writing a treatise on Job. He has abandoned his wife, Effie, about a year before the narrative begins, and can't be persuaded by either his brother-in-law Edward or sister-in-law Ruth to provide a cash settlement in a divorce that both he & his wife want. Ruth travels to France with Effie's illegitimate child Clara to convince Harvey to do the moral thing, but, instead, separates from Edward and becomes Harvey's lover. Soon, all are caught up in events beyond their control when Effie joins a terrorist group that incites violence throughout the region where Harvey & Ruth are living. Harvey can't reconcile the idea of the wife he used to love with the terrorist she has become; nor can he admit that while he doesn't want to live with Effie, he loves her and while he doesn't love Ruth, he wants to live with her.
Ruth flees the police surveillance and media-frenzy and returns to live with Clara's father. Retreating from the scholarly, intellectual discussions common in her life with Harvey, Ruth adapts to the environment of her new lover, Ernie, even taking on his distinctive lower-class accent. Without Ruth or Effie, Harvey's thoughts about Job become more obsessive, his perception of being tortured more pronounced. In the end, Ruth, about to give birth to Harvey's child, moves back to France to raise Clara and the new child with Harvey. A year after the narrative begins, Edward comes to visit them, Harvey has finished his work on Job, a sense of harmony in the lives of all seemingly has been restored. With his writing on Job completed and his acceptance of Effie's political actions having resulted in her death, he states he will live a 140 years with his 3 daughters -- just like Job.
In the opening pages, Edward has a theory that "people have an effect on the natural greenery around them regardless of whether they lay hands on it or not; some people, he would remark, induce fertility in their environment, and some the desert, simply by psychic force" (p 323-24). Like the comforters in Job, Edward believes that one's actions affect one's fate. Harvey, on the other hand, struggles with the 'only' problem -- how can a loving omnipotent God also be the author of suffering? Why would such a Creator allow his faithful followers to suffer through no fault of their own? It is only Job's faith that redeems him, despite the beliefs of the comforters and Job's wife, that he should turn his back on the god who has abandoned him. This is the antithesis of Edward's view: individuals don't make their environment. As much as we seek to control it, it is out of our control.
Harvey does not 'suffer' in the same way that Job suffers, but he is a 'tortured soul'. Harvey is very wealthy, yet chooses to live with only basic comforts. While he sees injustice in the world, he doesn't take action to prevent it. He regrets losing his wife, yet he is the one who walked away -- literally, on the autobahn -- from his marriage. He doesn't want people to be around him, yet cannot live completely as a hermit. He seeks to control others -- telling Edward to cut his hair; telling a maid that it is her fault that he will not bring his guest to the lunch she has prepared; wanting to be alone, but unable to tell Nathan, an unexpected guest and unknown conspirator of Effie's, to leave. Yet, the more Harvey seeks to control, the more the situation with Effie -- a situation he has no power to control at all - gets out of hand. The fallout from Effie's terrorist activities take over his life with everything from property searches, suspicions of wiretapping, constant police surveillance, lengthy interrogations, and a treatment by the media that makes him look more villainous than his terrorist-wife.
And, yet, Harvey could have controlled some of it, or at least influenced it's effect, if he had taken different actions. If he had simply granted his wife a divorce, the media and police attention would have been different. If he wasn't as self-centered as he is, he might have seen the harm he caused Effie and Ruth. He would have cared less about trivial things like the length of Edward's hair, and would have cared more about inadvertently hurting Anne-Marie's feelings by destroying a bouquet that was meant to cheer him up. If he had talked about Effie and distanced himself from her in a press conference, he wouldn't have been portrayed as he was because he chose to talk about his scholarly work on the book of Job instead of terrorism. As a result, he not only harms himself, but Ruth and Clara as well.
It is difficult for the reader to see Harvey as suffering like Job. He does suffer, but not nearly as much as he thinks he does. But, maybe that is the point -- one's sufferings are one's own. They may not be mythic like Job's, but one's miseries are one's own to endure. And that is where faith comes in.
Spark, a convert to Catholicism, does not hit the reader over the head with her thoughts on Job and religion. Harvey struggles to engage most people he meets in discussion about Job. Mostly, this fails. As Spark often does in her work, she includes in the narrative a clever bit, so brief it almost could be missed, that the French do not understand who Job is. "It was difficult to get across to them what the Book of Job was. Harvey's French wasn't at fault, it was their knowledge of the bible of which, like most good Catholics, they had scant knowledge" (p 359). Elsewhere, there is a discussion regarding the correct translation of the Bible to understand whether Job's wife admonished him to 'bless' or to 'curse' God. What Spark subtly does by including this, is to set up the difference between faith and reason. Harvey tries to figure out the 'only' problem by reason. Others don't understand because of their faith, a belief in things not seen. One can choose to believe that one's actions predetermine or influence one's fate. Or, one can choose to believe that, despite a loving God and one's faith in him, bad things can happen. The solution to the 'only' problem may be to not use Job as a moral yardstick. Rather, be ignorant of Job (or, at least ignore him), of the 'only' problem. Instead,choose to do what is right and moral, and choose to be content with it. As Harvey states at the end, he will live 140 years, like Job. He stated earlier that Job probably continued to suffer. Harvey will too, despite the sense of harmony in the final chapter.
The Only Problem is a short novel (about 130 pages) about Harvey, a wealthy, self-proclaimed student (as opposed to 'scholar') who is writing a treatise on Job. He has abandoned his wife, Effie, about a year before the narrative begins, and can't be persuaded by either his brother-in-law Edward or sister-in-law Ruth to provide a cash settlement in a divorce that both he & his wife want. Ruth travels to France with Effie's illegitimate child Clara to convince Harvey to do the moral thing, but, instead, separates from Edward and becomes Harvey's lover. Soon, all are caught up in events beyond their control when Effie joins a terrorist group that incites violence throughout the region where Harvey & Ruth are living. Harvey can't reconcile the idea of the wife he used to love with the terrorist she has become; nor can he admit that while he doesn't want to live with Effie, he loves her and while he doesn't love Ruth, he wants to live with her.
Ruth flees the police surveillance and media-frenzy and returns to live with Clara's father. Retreating from the scholarly, intellectual discussions common in her life with Harvey, Ruth adapts to the environment of her new lover, Ernie, even taking on his distinctive lower-class accent. Without Ruth or Effie, Harvey's thoughts about Job become more obsessive, his perception of being tortured more pronounced. In the end, Ruth, about to give birth to Harvey's child, moves back to France to raise Clara and the new child with Harvey. A year after the narrative begins, Edward comes to visit them, Harvey has finished his work on Job, a sense of harmony in the lives of all seemingly has been restored. With his writing on Job completed and his acceptance of Effie's political actions having resulted in her death, he states he will live a 140 years with his 3 daughters -- just like Job.
In the opening pages, Edward has a theory that "people have an effect on the natural greenery around them regardless of whether they lay hands on it or not; some people, he would remark, induce fertility in their environment, and some the desert, simply by psychic force" (p 323-24). Like the comforters in Job, Edward believes that one's actions affect one's fate. Harvey, on the other hand, struggles with the 'only' problem -- how can a loving omnipotent God also be the author of suffering? Why would such a Creator allow his faithful followers to suffer through no fault of their own? It is only Job's faith that redeems him, despite the beliefs of the comforters and Job's wife, that he should turn his back on the god who has abandoned him. This is the antithesis of Edward's view: individuals don't make their environment. As much as we seek to control it, it is out of our control.
Harvey does not 'suffer' in the same way that Job suffers, but he is a 'tortured soul'. Harvey is very wealthy, yet chooses to live with only basic comforts. While he sees injustice in the world, he doesn't take action to prevent it. He regrets losing his wife, yet he is the one who walked away -- literally, on the autobahn -- from his marriage. He doesn't want people to be around him, yet cannot live completely as a hermit. He seeks to control others -- telling Edward to cut his hair; telling a maid that it is her fault that he will not bring his guest to the lunch she has prepared; wanting to be alone, but unable to tell Nathan, an unexpected guest and unknown conspirator of Effie's, to leave. Yet, the more Harvey seeks to control, the more the situation with Effie -- a situation he has no power to control at all - gets out of hand. The fallout from Effie's terrorist activities take over his life with everything from property searches, suspicions of wiretapping, constant police surveillance, lengthy interrogations, and a treatment by the media that makes him look more villainous than his terrorist-wife.
And, yet, Harvey could have controlled some of it, or at least influenced it's effect, if he had taken different actions. If he had simply granted his wife a divorce, the media and police attention would have been different. If he wasn't as self-centered as he is, he might have seen the harm he caused Effie and Ruth. He would have cared less about trivial things like the length of Edward's hair, and would have cared more about inadvertently hurting Anne-Marie's feelings by destroying a bouquet that was meant to cheer him up. If he had talked about Effie and distanced himself from her in a press conference, he wouldn't have been portrayed as he was because he chose to talk about his scholarly work on the book of Job instead of terrorism. As a result, he not only harms himself, but Ruth and Clara as well.
It is difficult for the reader to see Harvey as suffering like Job. He does suffer, but not nearly as much as he thinks he does. But, maybe that is the point -- one's sufferings are one's own. They may not be mythic like Job's, but one's miseries are one's own to endure. And that is where faith comes in.
Spark, a convert to Catholicism, does not hit the reader over the head with her thoughts on Job and religion. Harvey struggles to engage most people he meets in discussion about Job. Mostly, this fails. As Spark often does in her work, she includes in the narrative a clever bit, so brief it almost could be missed, that the French do not understand who Job is. "It was difficult to get across to them what the Book of Job was. Harvey's French wasn't at fault, it was their knowledge of the bible of which, like most good Catholics, they had scant knowledge" (p 359). Elsewhere, there is a discussion regarding the correct translation of the Bible to understand whether Job's wife admonished him to 'bless' or to 'curse' God. What Spark subtly does by including this, is to set up the difference between faith and reason. Harvey tries to figure out the 'only' problem by reason. Others don't understand because of their faith, a belief in things not seen. One can choose to believe that one's actions predetermine or influence one's fate. Or, one can choose to believe that, despite a loving God and one's faith in him, bad things can happen. The solution to the 'only' problem may be to not use Job as a moral yardstick. Rather, be ignorant of Job (or, at least ignore him), of the 'only' problem. Instead,choose to do what is right and moral, and choose to be content with it. As Harvey states at the end, he will live 140 years, like Job. He stated earlier that Job probably continued to suffer. Harvey will too, despite the sense of harmony in the final chapter.
19 June 2006
Some preliminary thoughts on The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
The Slaves of Golconda's next read is The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and discussion starts June 30th. See here and here for those participating and more info. (Yes, there. Scroll down past the World Cup posts for Slaves info, then scroll back up & read 'em!). I'll post more at the end of the month and after I finish reading 'The Only Problem' for extra credit. But here are some preliminary thoughts:
I love this description at the beginning of Chapter 3:
That this is the start of the third chapter must have been a deliberate decision by Spark. Not only does this give a wonderful description of Miss Brodie, it also puts into context the school and the other spinster school teachers. Although the preceding chapters also start with a descriptive narration, this is more detailed, longer. It sets the a different tone, in a way, and is a pivotal chapter in the book.
Interesting how the main qualities of each girl is repeatedly told in the first few chapters. Also what became of them. This isn't true with Sandy, the main character and Brodie's betrayer, although the reader does learn that she became a nun. By the time you know that Sandy is her betrayer, it isn't news. Interesting -- is this meant to be a mystery of sorts? I think more likely that the author is just being very judicious about revealing too much about Sandy before she is ready to reveal her as the betrayer.
The narrative makes many jumps in time. Although the main portion of the story takes place in about 7 years, it makes reference to events over a 30 year period. Spark does this skillfully, jumping back and forth from a few years earlier, to many years later.
Spark converted to Catholicism mid-life, but before this book was written. Sandy becomes a Catholic in the book and the conversion is portrayed as a larger betrayal, or repudiation, of Miss Brodie. Yet, the actual conversion is not covered in any detail. This reminded me of the conversion of Charles Ryder in Brideshead Revisited, which I also read recently. Not that the conversion is the same, but that it is matter-of-factly revealed to the reader. A less careful reading of the book would suggest that Sandy credits, in a positive way, Miss Brodie with her conversion and subsequent inspiration for her book on psychology and faith, but I think a careful reading is that Miss Brodie's lessons showed the way not to be. But how much like Jean Brodie is Sandy?
Was Sandy just like Jean Brodie? Did she become the antithesis of her? Or merely her in just another form. Regardless, she was influenced by her, and in a way very different from the other girls in the Brodie circle.
I will need to think more regarding these quotes and how Miss Brodie folded the story of her love for Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Lowther into her tale of her dead lover from WWI. And how this parallels Teddy Lloyd's paintings of the Brodie girls so that they all looked similar to Jean Brodie.
I saw the movie on television when I was in my early teens. I recall Maggie Smith's elegant portrayal of Jean Brodie. I also recall distinctly my mother telling me to turn off the tv, admonishing me to not watch 'such crap'. It's been over 30 years since I saw the movie, but I think the religious aspect is downplayed, if it is even there at all. I can't imagine what my mother's objection was. Perhaps that Miss Brodie liked the Fascists? I was too young I think to understand the movie; I remember thinking that Miss Brodie was admirable because she was an intellectual, interested in her 'girls' learning about love, art, and politics. I was too young to realize that she was a control freak and how misguided her views on politics and art were.
I love this description at the beginning of Chapter 3:
The days passed and the wind blew from the Forth.
It is not to be supposed that Miss Brodie was unique at this point of her prime; or that (since such things are relative) she was in any way off her head. She was alone, merely, in that she taught in a school like Marcia Blaine's. There were legions of her kind during the nineteen-thirties, women from the age of thirty and upward, who crowded their war-bereaved spinsterhood with voyages of discovery into new ideas and energetic practices in art of social welfare, education or religion. The progressive spinsters of Edinburgh did not teach in schools, especially in schools of traditional character like Marcia Blaine's School for Girls. It was in this that Miss Brodie was, as the rest of the staff spinsterhood put it, a trifle out of place. But she was not out of place amongst her own kind, the vigorous daughters of dead or enfeeble merchants, of misisters of religion, University professors, doctors, big warehouse owners of the past, or the owners of fisheries who had endowed these daughters with shrewd wits, high-coloured cheeks, constitutions like horses, logical educations, hearty spirits and private means. They could be seen leaning over the democratic counters of Edinburgh grocers' shops arguing with the Manager at three in the afternoon on every subject from the authenticity of the Scriptures to the question what the word 'guaranteed' on a jam-jar really meant. They went to lectures, tried living on honey and nuts, took lessons in German and then went walking in Germany; they bought caravans and went off with them into the hills among the lochs; they played the guitar, they supported all the new little, theatre companies; they took lodgings in the slums and, distributing pots of paint, taught their neighbours the arts of simple interior decoration; they preached the inventions of Marie Stopes; they attended the meetings of the Oxford Group and put Spiritualism to their hawk-eyed test. Some assisted in the Scottish Nationalist Movement; others, like Miss Brodie, called themselves Europeans and Edinburgh a European capital, the city of Hume and Boswell.
They were not, however, committee women. They were not school-teachers. The committee spinsters were less enterprising and not at all rebellious, they were sober church-goers and quiet workers. The school-mistresses were of a still more orderly type, earning their keep, living with aged parents and taking walks on the hills and holidays at North Berwick.
But those of Miss Brodie's kind were great talkers and feminists and, like most feminists, talked to men as man-to-man. (pages 40-41)
That this is the start of the third chapter must have been a deliberate decision by Spark. Not only does this give a wonderful description of Miss Brodie, it also puts into context the school and the other spinster school teachers. Although the preceding chapters also start with a descriptive narration, this is more detailed, longer. It sets the a different tone, in a way, and is a pivotal chapter in the book.
Interesting how the main qualities of each girl is repeatedly told in the first few chapters. Also what became of them. This isn't true with Sandy, the main character and Brodie's betrayer, although the reader does learn that she became a nun. By the time you know that Sandy is her betrayer, it isn't news. Interesting -- is this meant to be a mystery of sorts? I think more likely that the author is just being very judicious about revealing too much about Sandy before she is ready to reveal her as the betrayer.
The narrative makes many jumps in time. Although the main portion of the story takes place in about 7 years, it makes reference to events over a 30 year period. Spark does this skillfully, jumping back and forth from a few years earlier, to many years later.
Spark converted to Catholicism mid-life, but before this book was written. Sandy becomes a Catholic in the book and the conversion is portrayed as a larger betrayal, or repudiation, of Miss Brodie. Yet, the actual conversion is not covered in any detail. This reminded me of the conversion of Charles Ryder in Brideshead Revisited, which I also read recently. Not that the conversion is the same, but that it is matter-of-factly revealed to the reader. A less careful reading of the book would suggest that Sandy credits, in a positive way, Miss Brodie with her conversion and subsequent inspiration for her book on psychology and faith, but I think a careful reading is that Miss Brodie's lessons showed the way not to be. But how much like Jean Brodie is Sandy?
"Sandy felt warmly towards Miss Brodie at those times when she saw how she was mislead in her idea of Rose. It was then that Miss Brodie loked beautiful and fragile, just as dark heavy Edinburgh itself could suddenly be changed into a floating city when the light was a special pearly white and fell upon one of the gracefully fashioned streets. In the same way Miss Brodie's masterful features became clear and sweet to Sandy when viewed in the curious light of the woman's folly, and she never felt more affection for her in her later years than when she thought upon Miss Brodie as silly." (page 109)
"Give me a girl at an impressionable age and she is mine for life." (p 110).
Was Sandy just like Jean Brodie? Did she become the antithesis of her? Or merely her in just another form. Regardless, she was influenced by her, and in a way very different from the other girls in the Brodie circle.
I will need to think more regarding these quotes and how Miss Brodie folded the story of her love for Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Lowther into her tale of her dead lover from WWI. And how this parallels Teddy Lloyd's paintings of the Brodie girls so that they all looked similar to Jean Brodie.
I saw the movie on television when I was in my early teens. I recall Maggie Smith's elegant portrayal of Jean Brodie. I also recall distinctly my mother telling me to turn off the tv, admonishing me to not watch 'such crap'. It's been over 30 years since I saw the movie, but I think the religious aspect is downplayed, if it is even there at all. I can't imagine what my mother's objection was. Perhaps that Miss Brodie liked the Fascists? I was too young I think to understand the movie; I remember thinking that Miss Brodie was admirable because she was an intellectual, interested in her 'girls' learning about love, art, and politics. I was too young to realize that she was a control freak and how misguided her views on politics and art were.
03 June 2006
On Reading 'The Complete Stories of Truman Capote'
The Complete Stories of Truman Capote was this month's selection of my reading group. I've been mildly interested in reading In Cold Blood since seeing Capote last winter, but never thought about reading his short stories, although I had read some in the past. So, I was looking forward to this book. I was disappointed.
It's not that any of the stories were bad; I just had little interest in any of them. Capote was skillful at crafting sentences, and some of the stories begin with such intriguing leads that you can't help but continue to read. Yet, I can't say that there was any particular story that stands out, only a few that I can remember two weeks later. And, that seems odd to me. Just because a story is short doesn't mean your memory of it should be.
Interestingly, we had a lively discussion regarding the book, although nobody thought there was a particular story which stood out among the collection. One of the topics of discussion was what a short story should be. One member of the group said the stories in this book were about 'nothing' because there was neither plot nor character development. I found this an interesting comment because I think that sometimes the short story form is most effective when it is only descriptive of a character. It is like looking through a peephole at a snippet of a life. When it works well, that snippet tells you all you need to know about the character, whether it is through dialogue or description, and leaves you thinking both 'What happens next?' and that you know how that character will respond.
In some ways, the brief focus that is given in a short story can be the ultimate manipulation of the reader: the author provides exactly what he wants the reader to know -- and the reader buys into it, thinking that they do know all there is. Given that, it's interesting to wonder about what is given and what is omitted in a particular story.
Another thing that we discussed in the group was whether Capote would have wanted a 'complete' collection of his works. Maybe he too would have felt that despite some cleverly crafted phrases, some of the stories just didn't hold up. Had he still been alive, would he have chosen to publish 'The Best of...' rather than 'The Complete Works'? Maybe he would have done both because of the publicity implications. He was, after all, one who could continue to work the talk-show circuit for years after he had published anything.
In the introduction to the book, Reynolds Price writes "America has never been a land of readers, not of what's called literary fiction in any case. And in the twentieth century, only two writers of distinguished fiction managed to become American household names -- Ernest Hemingway and Truman Capote." Price writes further that their notoriety was due more to their larger-than-life personalities than for their writing. Capote certainly was a celebrity in a time when celebrities were different than they are today, or at least there were fewer of them, and they remained in our collective consciousness for longer than a weekly newsmagazine stays on the coffee table. But, does Capote merit being placed beside Hemingway as a writer? I don't think so; at least I don't think that from reading his short stories. Maybe it's because I can remember how I first reacted to reading Hemingway's "Big Two-Hearted River", or "Indian Camp" or "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber" in high school, and how I reacted reading them again college. Or 10 years later. Or 20 years. I can remember how I didn't understand 'Hills Like White Elephants' at first; I would have said it was 'about nothing'. But, then I read it again, and while maybe nothing happens action-wise, I realized that story is about so much. I didn't get that kind of a feeling from reading any of Capote's stories. Not only do I doubt that I will remember how I felt when I first read them, I doubt that I will remember that I ever read them at all.
I haven't read enough of Capote to make comments regarding his entire body of work. But, there is little in his short stories to persuade me to read his other works. Perhaps Capote was only a celebrity, more famous for being a writer, than for his writing.
It's not that any of the stories were bad; I just had little interest in any of them. Capote was skillful at crafting sentences, and some of the stories begin with such intriguing leads that you can't help but continue to read. Yet, I can't say that there was any particular story that stands out, only a few that I can remember two weeks later. And, that seems odd to me. Just because a story is short doesn't mean your memory of it should be.
Interestingly, we had a lively discussion regarding the book, although nobody thought there was a particular story which stood out among the collection. One of the topics of discussion was what a short story should be. One member of the group said the stories in this book were about 'nothing' because there was neither plot nor character development. I found this an interesting comment because I think that sometimes the short story form is most effective when it is only descriptive of a character. It is like looking through a peephole at a snippet of a life. When it works well, that snippet tells you all you need to know about the character, whether it is through dialogue or description, and leaves you thinking both 'What happens next?' and that you know how that character will respond.
In some ways, the brief focus that is given in a short story can be the ultimate manipulation of the reader: the author provides exactly what he wants the reader to know -- and the reader buys into it, thinking that they do know all there is. Given that, it's interesting to wonder about what is given and what is omitted in a particular story.
Another thing that we discussed in the group was whether Capote would have wanted a 'complete' collection of his works. Maybe he too would have felt that despite some cleverly crafted phrases, some of the stories just didn't hold up. Had he still been alive, would he have chosen to publish 'The Best of...' rather than 'The Complete Works'? Maybe he would have done both because of the publicity implications. He was, after all, one who could continue to work the talk-show circuit for years after he had published anything.
In the introduction to the book, Reynolds Price writes "America has never been a land of readers, not of what's called literary fiction in any case. And in the twentieth century, only two writers of distinguished fiction managed to become American household names -- Ernest Hemingway and Truman Capote." Price writes further that their notoriety was due more to their larger-than-life personalities than for their writing. Capote certainly was a celebrity in a time when celebrities were different than they are today, or at least there were fewer of them, and they remained in our collective consciousness for longer than a weekly newsmagazine stays on the coffee table. But, does Capote merit being placed beside Hemingway as a writer? I don't think so; at least I don't think that from reading his short stories. Maybe it's because I can remember how I first reacted to reading Hemingway's "Big Two-Hearted River", or "Indian Camp" or "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber" in high school, and how I reacted reading them again college. Or 10 years later. Or 20 years. I can remember how I didn't understand 'Hills Like White Elephants' at first; I would have said it was 'about nothing'. But, then I read it again, and while maybe nothing happens action-wise, I realized that story is about so much. I didn't get that kind of a feeling from reading any of Capote's stories. Not only do I doubt that I will remember how I felt when I first read them, I doubt that I will remember that I ever read them at all.
I haven't read enough of Capote to make comments regarding his entire body of work. But, there is little in his short stories to persuade me to read his other works. Perhaps Capote was only a celebrity, more famous for being a writer, than for his writing.
05 March 2006
On Partial Reading of 'Good' Books, and Spending Time Reading 'Bad' Ones
I'm usually willing to ditch a book after reading about 1/3 if I don't find it intriguing. My method for reading novels: If I'm doubtful that I want to finish the book, I'll commit the scandalous act of reading the last pages. If I find that the ending is predictable, the book is tossed. If, however, I think 'what the ...? How'd that happen?', I'll read further. Sometimes this has rewarded me with the completion of a book I otherwise wouldn't have cared about losing. It took me years to get beyond the second chapter of The Cider House Rules, but I've appreciated Irving ever since. I heard Irving read the first chapter of Til I Find You, and I look forward to reading it, but it may wait in the TBR pile for some time before I pick it up.
With some books, I'm resentful for having wasted my time whether I've read the ending or not; reading Alice Hoffman's Here on Earth comes to mind: 30 pages to go, I feel asleep. The TV was on. I awoke at 2 am to Wuthering Heights only to realize: Oh, crap! This book is such a rip-off of Bronte -- and I didn't notice it. (I hadn't read Heights since I was 12; obviously, it never topped my 'Memorable Books' List.)
Sometimes I will start a book and put it down half way through. Other books enter my reading life, pushing the partial reads into the periphery -- to the bottom of the book pile, under the bed, the back seat of the car. Sometimes it's months before they creep back into sight. Sometimes they demand attention, but I continue to ignore them, choosing other works instead. Alan Hollinghurst's The Line of Beauty fits into this category. Started in November on a plane ride, I allowed it to linger in the carry-on until recently. I hadn't forgotten about this book, but I didn't feel like I had the energy to plunge through it to the end. It's a beautifully written book. I was a naive 20-something in the early 80's, even in London briefly, and while I floated in much different circles than the main character Nick, I knew that Hollinghurst's depiction of the socio-political milieu during the Thatcher/Reagan era was on target. However, within the first few chapters I made a mental note to reread Brideshead Revisited; a few chapters later, anything by Henry James. It's been 25+ years since I've read either and I want to confirm and support my reading of Hollinghurst's subtle references to each. Perhaps this is what keeps me from returning immediately to finish reading this book. Look for a discussion of this in a post at a still to be determined date. I will finish The Line of Beauty, but it may take a while before I return to it, longer still before I write about it.
So, why then, with many 'good' works awaiting me, did I waste my precious reading time over the last few weeks reading not one, but two books which certainly rank among the poorest examples of published writing I've ever held in my hands? Perhaps my goal to read so many books this year has inspired some sort of bibliophile's OCD, twisting my psyche to believe that I must finish what I have started. Or, maybe it was a sort of voyeurism, like rubber-necking at a car crash, that propelled me forward: "It can't be any worse, can it? Oh wait, it can. Enter into evidence, chapter #12...."
Book Waste #1: The Good, The Bad, and the Mad: Some Weird People in American History, E. Randall Floyd. I'm not sure why I purchased this book. A book bought on impulse while standing in line at the bookstore, one that jumped out at me from the bargain book bin. At least I didn't spend a lot of dough! It vaguely reminded me of a book with a blue cover I treasured when I was about 8 or 10 years old. Part of a series, the book (title no longer remembered) consisted of several individual biographies of people of note. It was my introduction to biography, to reading non-fiction for pleasure, and the start of an enjoyable life-long collection of trivial facts that carry little value other than enabling me to be good at Jeopardy! (Are you listening Alex & Clues Crew??)
At slightly more than 100 pages, this book looked like fine fodder for filling in brief gaps of wasted time, like standing in line at the post office or while watching the Olympics. Profiling 30 characters -- some known like Jane Addams or Huey Long, others only known perhaps in esoteric circles like Robert Howard -- the book does give the reader some truly oddball characters to consider. But, the writing is dry and uninteresting and often repetitive. A summary of each chapter is presented in the opening paragraphs. This technique in itself is not bad, but the writer doesn't follow up with enough details to make his case. Instead, the reader is left reading the same 'facts' over again, or left dangling, hoping for more than just a comment on some unusual aspect of the individual's behavior. In still other chapters, I wondered just what was so odd about the person. I found myself thinking of the comment all Freshman Writing instructors apply too frequently on student papers: "Show; Don't tell".
Reading this book was spending a couple of hours that I'll never get back, reading that could have been so much more. A compilation of profiles, such as this, should at least be entertaining if it isn't going to spark the reader to learn more about someone beyond the People Magazine-length profile. There must be better reads while standing in line at the PO.
Book #2 House Calls and Hitching Posts, Dorcas Sharp Hoover. This was my reading group's selection of the month and the premise sounded promising: a biography of a doctor who treated the Amish people of Northern Ohio for 40 years. In my reading group, I often take some heat for not finishing books. This year, I decided that, time allowing, I would complete all of the books. It was difficult to not throw this book into the heap after the first two chapters, but because I was determined to finish it, I trod through 30 chapters, nearly 400 pages of plodding prose.
Yet, I felt some twinges of guilt for despising this book so much. The subject after all, is interesting. Dr. Elton Lehman is truly an inspiring human being -- dedicated, selfless, caring, tolerant, faithful to his personal beliefs -- and the book does give some insightful glimpses into the lives of the Amish. But, this book was in desperate need of professional editing. While it didn't suffer the scourge of many self-published books (I tried but couldn't find one typo or glaring grammatical error), the prose varied widely from purplish and overwrought to simplistic as an elementary school composition. In an effort to retell stories accurately or perhaps to convey a folksy, country setting, dialog is used throughout. But, the dialog is poorly written and seems contrived. While fabricating events in a memoir a la Frey is definitely out of bounds, a good writer knows when to trim, understanding that retelling every bit of minutia does not help to convey the full story.
Reading House Calls and Hitching Posts was like being trapped by someone's aging uncle at your second cousin's wedding reception: you want to be polite and listen to the stories, but after some time the stories run together and you'd rather make your escape by dancing the hokey-pokey or drinking more of the too-sweet punch. An experienced editor would have trimmed this book by 200 pages and the end result would have been both an interesting and a captivating read. Can't something be inspirational and well-written? While not a complete waste of my time like Book #1 above, it was a disappointment.
What about you? What are your criteria for continuing to read a book? What treasure have you discovered by continuing past painful introductory chapters? Do you have a recommendation for a work of 'inspirational literature' that is well-written? Can you think of a self-published work that did NOT give you reason to think "No wonder nobody else would publish this?" Please comment.
With some books, I'm resentful for having wasted my time whether I've read the ending or not; reading Alice Hoffman's Here on Earth comes to mind: 30 pages to go, I feel asleep. The TV was on. I awoke at 2 am to Wuthering Heights only to realize: Oh, crap! This book is such a rip-off of Bronte -- and I didn't notice it. (I hadn't read Heights since I was 12; obviously, it never topped my 'Memorable Books' List.)
Sometimes I will start a book and put it down half way through. Other books enter my reading life, pushing the partial reads into the periphery -- to the bottom of the book pile, under the bed, the back seat of the car. Sometimes it's months before they creep back into sight. Sometimes they demand attention, but I continue to ignore them, choosing other works instead. Alan Hollinghurst's The Line of Beauty fits into this category. Started in November on a plane ride, I allowed it to linger in the carry-on until recently. I hadn't forgotten about this book, but I didn't feel like I had the energy to plunge through it to the end. It's a beautifully written book. I was a naive 20-something in the early 80's, even in London briefly, and while I floated in much different circles than the main character Nick, I knew that Hollinghurst's depiction of the socio-political milieu during the Thatcher/Reagan era was on target. However, within the first few chapters I made a mental note to reread Brideshead Revisited; a few chapters later, anything by Henry James. It's been 25+ years since I've read either and I want to confirm and support my reading of Hollinghurst's subtle references to each. Perhaps this is what keeps me from returning immediately to finish reading this book. Look for a discussion of this in a post at a still to be determined date. I will finish The Line of Beauty, but it may take a while before I return to it, longer still before I write about it.
So, why then, with many 'good' works awaiting me, did I waste my precious reading time over the last few weeks reading not one, but two books which certainly rank among the poorest examples of published writing I've ever held in my hands? Perhaps my goal to read so many books this year has inspired some sort of bibliophile's OCD, twisting my psyche to believe that I must finish what I have started. Or, maybe it was a sort of voyeurism, like rubber-necking at a car crash, that propelled me forward: "It can't be any worse, can it? Oh wait, it can. Enter into evidence, chapter #12...."
Book Waste #1: The Good, The Bad, and the Mad: Some Weird People in American History, E. Randall Floyd. I'm not sure why I purchased this book. A book bought on impulse while standing in line at the bookstore, one that jumped out at me from the bargain book bin. At least I didn't spend a lot of dough! It vaguely reminded me of a book with a blue cover I treasured when I was about 8 or 10 years old. Part of a series, the book (title no longer remembered) consisted of several individual biographies of people of note. It was my introduction to biography, to reading non-fiction for pleasure, and the start of an enjoyable life-long collection of trivial facts that carry little value other than enabling me to be good at Jeopardy! (Are you listening Alex & Clues Crew??)
At slightly more than 100 pages, this book looked like fine fodder for filling in brief gaps of wasted time, like standing in line at the post office or while watching the Olympics. Profiling 30 characters -- some known like Jane Addams or Huey Long, others only known perhaps in esoteric circles like Robert Howard -- the book does give the reader some truly oddball characters to consider. But, the writing is dry and uninteresting and often repetitive. A summary of each chapter is presented in the opening paragraphs. This technique in itself is not bad, but the writer doesn't follow up with enough details to make his case. Instead, the reader is left reading the same 'facts' over again, or left dangling, hoping for more than just a comment on some unusual aspect of the individual's behavior. In still other chapters, I wondered just what was so odd about the person. I found myself thinking of the comment all Freshman Writing instructors apply too frequently on student papers: "Show; Don't tell".
Reading this book was spending a couple of hours that I'll never get back, reading that could have been so much more. A compilation of profiles, such as this, should at least be entertaining if it isn't going to spark the reader to learn more about someone beyond the People Magazine-length profile. There must be better reads while standing in line at the PO.
Book #2 House Calls and Hitching Posts, Dorcas Sharp Hoover. This was my reading group's selection of the month and the premise sounded promising: a biography of a doctor who treated the Amish people of Northern Ohio for 40 years. In my reading group, I often take some heat for not finishing books. This year, I decided that, time allowing, I would complete all of the books. It was difficult to not throw this book into the heap after the first two chapters, but because I was determined to finish it, I trod through 30 chapters, nearly 400 pages of plodding prose.
Yet, I felt some twinges of guilt for despising this book so much. The subject after all, is interesting. Dr. Elton Lehman is truly an inspiring human being -- dedicated, selfless, caring, tolerant, faithful to his personal beliefs -- and the book does give some insightful glimpses into the lives of the Amish. But, this book was in desperate need of professional editing. While it didn't suffer the scourge of many self-published books (I tried but couldn't find one typo or glaring grammatical error), the prose varied widely from purplish and overwrought to simplistic as an elementary school composition. In an effort to retell stories accurately or perhaps to convey a folksy, country setting, dialog is used throughout. But, the dialog is poorly written and seems contrived. While fabricating events in a memoir a la Frey is definitely out of bounds, a good writer knows when to trim, understanding that retelling every bit of minutia does not help to convey the full story.
Reading House Calls and Hitching Posts was like being trapped by someone's aging uncle at your second cousin's wedding reception: you want to be polite and listen to the stories, but after some time the stories run together and you'd rather make your escape by dancing the hokey-pokey or drinking more of the too-sweet punch. An experienced editor would have trimmed this book by 200 pages and the end result would have been both an interesting and a captivating read. Can't something be inspirational and well-written? While not a complete waste of my time like Book #1 above, it was a disappointment.
What about you? What are your criteria for continuing to read a book? What treasure have you discovered by continuing past painful introductory chapters? Do you have a recommendation for a work of 'inspirational literature' that is well-written? Can you think of a self-published work that did NOT give you reason to think "No wonder nobody else would publish this?" Please comment.
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