As you do

Behold, the weirdest thing I've read all day: "Carey tells of [William Golding's] drunken assault on a Bob Dylan puppet belonging to the writer Andrew Sinclair and kept in his house, in a bedroom used by the Goldings. Waking in the night, Golding mistook the puppet for Satan, attacked it and buried it in the garden."-- from "Theopany", Frank Kermode's review of William Golding: The Man Who Wrote Lord of the Flies

The very best decision

The very best decision I made all year was to choose Laurie Colwin's A Big Storm Knocked It Over as the first book to read after Harriet was born. Harriet herself and her birth having been that big storm that knocked it (me) over, and did it ever. Like everybody else, I had no clue how hard those days (and endless nights) would be, but somehow I knew that Colwin's lightness and humour would be a kind of balm. That this would be the kind of novel I'd actually get through at a time like that. And what a comfort it would be to read what Colwin wrote about motherhood, and its early days, attesting to the awfulness of it, validating my experience, but with a touch that assured me that things would get better. Underlining the joy that was there, and please, may I quote the passage again that said it all?

"Motherhood is a storm, a seizure: It is like weather. Nights of high wind followed by calm mornings of dense fog or brilliant sunshine that gives way to tropical rain, or blinding snow. Jane Louise and Edie found themselves swept away, cast ashore, washed overboard. It was hard to keep anything straight. The days seemed to congeal like rubber cement, although moments stood out in clearest, starkest brilliance. You might string those together on the charm bracelet of your memory if you could keep your eyes open long enough to remember anything."

Truly, truly, books can save our lives, and make our lives. All the very best for a joyous 2010.

Preview of Canada Reads 2010: Independently

Please excuse the fact that one of these books is not actually one of these books, and instead get very excited about this being a sneak preview of the Canada Reads: Independently lineup! You'll find out more about these books and their champions in an official post this weekend, but I was too excited about this stack not to tell you about it right now.

The Glass Room by Simon Mawer

I love a novel with a house at its centre, as its core. To the Lighthouse, most books by L.M. Montgomery, Rebecca, Virginia Lee Burton's The Little House, and I mean all that. I love a novel in which the house is the main character, and the rest is just rearrangement of the furniture, and how the house is the constant through history and time, changing and unchanging. The present, the future, and the past.

The house in Simon Mawer's The Glass Room (shortlisted for the 2009 Man-Booker Prize) is Landauer House, built on the eve of the 1930s for wealthy newlyweds Viktor and Liesel Landauer. Set on a hillside overlooking the fictional Czech city of Mesto, Landauer House (which has a real-life precedent; see here) is a stark, modern building without adornment. Designed by an architect who doesn't call himself one: "'I am a poet of space and form. Of light... Architects are people who build walls and floors and roofs. I capture and enclose the space within.'"

To the Landauer's, and to everyone, their house represents modernity, which seems to be synonymous with "the future". In the newly formed Czechoslovakia, with the old order overthrown, to believe that now is the future is not entirely naive. Now is a time of idealism realized, when people live in glass houses, entirely trusting of peace, and live their lives in the open, with nothing to hide. In such an era of freedom and inhibition, the Landauers' marriage bonds begin to unravel early on. Viktor begins an affair with a common seamstress he meets on the streets of Vienna, Liesel's passionate relationship with her best friend Hana grows deeper. In the Glass Room of their house, overlooking the city, these two live a new kind of ordinary life that is without precedent.

History is the culmination of such quotidian details, however, and history eventually arrives to show how precarious their peace has all along been. Viktor Landauer, who is Jewish, pays close attention to political events unfolding in Germany and Austria, and though Liesel has protested that these events have nothing to do with them, Viktor is proven right when the Germans invade Czechoslovakia in 1939. However he's been squirreling money away to Swiss bank accounts and he and his family escape just in time, but they leave Landauer House behind, of course. And so the house continues through history without them to the present day and a satisfying (perhaps too much so?) epilogue.

The story loses some momentum once the Landauers and their associates have parted from it, but the house as an achor is compelling enough. The house is abandoned, used as a labratory by Nazi scientists, and then as a physiotherapy clinic during the 1960s and the Velvet Revolution (and here it begins to read like a Milan Kundera novel, but maybe I'd think that about any narrative containing a Tomas).

The prose is devourable, with smart dialogue, and interesting in that English is used to stand for a hodgepodge of languages and dialects spoken in that part of Europe at that time. Mawer is able to bend English to differentiate between these different ways of speaking, and apart from some conspicuous Britishisms, this is effective. (Or maybe it was only conspicuous because I don't speak British-English myself, but a few "bloodys" and "jolly-well"ish lines read a bit oddly for people who were supposed to be speaking Czech or German.)

I had reservations as I read this book-- initially, its characters seem all too conscious of their places in history. Of course, the personal is political, but never once did the Landauers or their friends have a dinner party conversation that didn't have massive implications. I sincerely doubt that anyone has ever uttered a line like, "Viktor, you are losing your nerve. It was you who wanted a house for the future and now you seem to hanker after the solid ideas of the past." There is no subtlety as to these characters' places in time (and let us just say that James Wood would hate this book). There is also a scene that eroticizes breastfeeding, which I've never seen before, and I just couldn't buy it. But maybe that's just me...

As I read the book, however, I gave up the reservations. Yes, its characters stood for too much, but that's why they're characters and not people, and this is a story after all. A story that sweeps, and it did it to me, and so I was enthralled by all its twists and turns and coincidences as I followed the Landauers through the years, through History:

"The coincidence might seem some kind of predestination but he knows that it is not so-- it is pure caprice. You can call it malicious if you like but in fact it is neutral. Things just happen. One country occupies another; people flee, scatter across the countryside, some here, some there, like thrown dice... What was one chance in a million suddenly becomes a certainty. Because it has happened."

Bookish Christmas

Not only did I have a wonderful Christmas, but I received some wonderful gifts for Christmas. Not least of which were the bookish ones, including a gift certificate that will buy me several Barbara Pyms (exciting). In books unvirtual, I had several wishes granted: Penelope Lively's latest Family Album (which was one of the New York Times' notable books of the year), Bugs and the Victorians (which was my heart's desire), and Karen Connelly's Burmese Lessons, which I just finished reading and was everything I wanted it to be.

I am also going to become card-carrying member of the Barbara Pym Society. This is very, very exciting.

Adolescent Poetry

"I don't know why Jung made such a big deal about dreams. The important ones are obvious. They are the adolescent poetry of the subconscious." --Karen Connelly, Burmese Lessons

Book of the Decade: White Teeth by Zadie Smith

Mostly due to the fact that this decade has had no name, it never occurred to me to try to experience it definitively. And really, how could one define a decade that begins with one (not) drunk (enough), falling down, pissing in a doorway, and ends with that same one married to the love of her life, with a seven month-old baby, and plans for a quiet-night-in with old friends? A decade that contained three continents called home, two degrees, new friends made and old friends kept, writing and reading that has inspired me and made me proud, a variety of jobs in interesting places. The decade during which I most definitely grew up (so far); it contained multitudes. And I could not possibly sum it up in a list of ten things or more.

But if I had to choose just one book, for reasons personal and even wider, I'd pick Zadie Smith's first novel White Teeth. I first read this during the summer of 2001, and it was the first contemporary novel that I really got excited about. It was the first time that I really realized that amazing literature was being written right now, and by young people too. This novel was big, packed, funny, and gorgeous. Some people love to hate it, but most of them have never read it, and I maintain that it's a magnificent construction.

White Teeth is also important for the way it anticipated the decade-to-come. When I reread it during the summer of 2006, it was hard to believe that it had been written before September 11, 2001. The whole clash of civilizations thing as enacted by British-born youths was quite prescient, and the racial tension in general. That the book had come true and didn't read any less true was really something. That White Teeth was relevant even before it was relevant. And that it would even be a marvelous read, regardless.

Merry Christmas. Love, Me.

Lately

I've been making stuff lately. I've also been spending money at the Toronto Women's Bookstore which is in dire financial straits and accepting donations. And there's just three more shopping days until Christmas!

A great big teapot all sizzling and piping hot

"And now"-- here he suddenly looked less grave-- "here is something for the moment for you all!" and he brought out (I suppose from the big bag at his back, but nobody saw him do it) a large tray containing five cups and saucers, a bowl of lump sugar, a jug of cream, and a great big teapot all sizzling and piping hot. Then he cried out, "A Merry Christmas! Long live the true King!" and cracked his whip and he and the reindeer and the sledge and all were out of sight before anyone realised that they started."-- from C.S. Lewis' The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

On The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

Though I suspect my aversion to all things science-fiction/ fantasy might be genetic, I can also trace it to having to watch a cartoon version of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe during one rainy indoor recess back in grade one. That witch, the way one character spoke about "strangers in these woods", what a strangely terrifying thing is whatever is "turkish delight", and then when they cut the lion's mane off! I remember it all vividly, and with such a frisson of horror (and don't even get me started on the indoor recess where we watched The Neverending Story and the horse drowning in the quicksand).

I've had a copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe sitting on my shelf for a while now, and this weekend I finally got around to reading it. Because it's a children's classic, and you can't judge a book based upon a cartoon adaptation you watched when you were six (as the adage goes). And I can see why I was creeped out all those years ago, but I did enjoy it and will pass it along to Harriet to read when she is bigger. Christian allegory or not, it was an absorbing story, I loved the role of the Professor who confirms that Narnia is not just the children's fantasy, the obtrusive narrator, the complicating nature of Edmund's treachery, connections to Lewis Carroll and Wonderland, and idea of a world where it is always winter and never Christmas (which sounds a little like February).

It was an absorbing story indeed. If I were ever to give advice on how to start a novel, I'd advise a writer to have a character discover a secret world ("ok, I'm intrigued), explore it, and very quickly return back and then discover the world's portal has shut ("ok, I'm reading this book to the end now just to figure out what this is all about"). It's a double-bait, and it's excellent.

I'm also now thinking much about book titles that are itemized lists of what the book contains. There are plenty with one item, many with two, but how many others with three items? (Off the top of my head, I can only think of an old YA book called Maudie, Me and the Dirty Book.) Such a title would hardly be inspired, would it? Though alliteration certainly works in its favour here.

I don't imagine I'll be reading further chronicles of Narnia, because not being a small child, I've come to these books much too late. But I'm glad I finally read this one, particularly in order to discover that (SPOILER ALERT) Aslan doesn't die!! Or he is reincarnated, or... something. I don't know how I missed that during Indoor Recess. Perhaps I was so traumatized by him being shorn of his mane that I missed the rest of the film? Nevertheless, I was much relieved by this happy ending.

Books in Motion #1

I've long maintained that contrary to all signs of doom, people are reading all the time and everywhere. And now, in the tradition of the late, great Seen Reading, I want to drive that point home with a record of good books I see being read out and about. These are signs of hope, you see, these books in use. And today was the middle aged woman in the subway, white with brown hair, wearing a bulky winter coat (and weren't we all?) reading a battered copy of Who Do You Think You Are? So there. Now doesn't that make you feel better?

Why a bias towards fiction is essential

Douglas Hunter's recent article on readers' bias toward fiction made me consider that literary non-fiction benefits from a reading public hungry for Wayne Rooney's autobiographical volumes, Sarah Palin's memoir, Eat Pray Love, The Secret, that book about the world's worst dog, Skinny Bitch Bun in the Oven, and Mitch Albom no more than literary fiction does. In fact, literary non-fiction (which, according to Hunter, is usually about ice and written by men called Ken) probably ends up worse off, because "literary non-fiction" is not a term so flung around anyway, and most of us fictionish folks do imagine the Kens basking out there in the glow of bestsellerdom, along with Mitch Albom. Non-fiction sells; everybody knows that, and we've just never cared to break it down any further.

Hunter's point that literary non-fiction gets short shrift is a valid one then, but I felt Canada Reads as his target was strangely misdirected. The point of Canada Reads is the novel, so it's unsurprising that a word of non-fiction has never been included. Perhaps that a similar campaign does not exist for non-fiction makes more sense to consider, and Hunter does go on to show the underwhelming amount of attention paid to the Governor General Literary Award's non-fiction nominees as opposed to the fiction, or to the Charles Taylor Prize compared to the Gillers.

But it is here that I want to stand up and state the importance of Canada Reads being about fiction, and the importance of fiction in general. Because there are certain instances in which a book is not just a book, and I think that a remarkable novel is one of them. There is an exercise in imagination necessary for fiction that non-fiction does not require, which is not to say that the latter is inferior, but rather that the effect of a group of people reading the former is a far more powerful thing. Reading not necessarily to learn, not to be transported to a place that has ever existed, sans political or cultural agenda (most ideally), to conjure a world that has been created out of air... and words. A book that exists for the sake of itself.

I think it's important that if as a nation we're to read just one book that that book be a novel. Perhaps my bias toward the authenticity of fiction is showing, but it has more potential to take us places together. One nation, one book, and that one novel will be a different book for everyone doesn't matter any less, for that's the very point of it.

Our Menagerie

This morning at the library, I was excited to find a book called Animals in My House. "Finally," I thought, "a book that Harriet will be able to relate to." How disappointed was I then, when I discovered the book was about domestic animals, exclusively pets? And does anybody know a book we can use to help explain to our daughter the mice under the floors, the squirrel in the wall, spiders on the bathroom ceiling and that family of raccoons outside the door? Or is this just a board book begging to be written?

The Post

If I had to pick just one thing about the English novel, I don't think I could, but if pressed to pick five things, one of them would have to be the post. Much in the same way that cell phones are pivotal to contemporary plotting, the British postal system is essential to the 20th century Englist novel. As are teacups, spinsters, knitting, seaside B&Bs, and the vicar, or maybe I've just been reading too much Barbara Pym, but the mail is always coming and going-- have you noticed that? Someone is always going out to post a letter, or writing a letter that never gets posted, or a posted letter goes unreceived, or remains unopened on the hall table.

My day is divided into two: Before Post and After Post. BP is the morning full of expectation, anticipation, and (dare I?) even hope. AP is either a satisfying pile on the kitchen table, or acute disappointment with fingers crossed for better luck tomorrow. In my old house I was in love with the mailman, but that love remained unrequited because I was in grad school then and he only ever saw me wearing track pants. When we lived in Japan, I once received a parcel addressed to me with only my name and the name of the city where we lived (and humiliated myself and was given a sponge, but that's another story.) When we lived in England, the post arrived two times a day and even Saturday, but the only bad thing was that when I missed a package, I had to take a bus out to a depot in another town.

All of which is to say that I love mail as an institution, as much as I love sending or receiving it. I once met a woman who told me that her husband was a mailman (though she called him a "letter-carrier", I'm not sure if there's most dignity in that), and I think she was taken aback when I almost jumped into her arms.

So when I read this piece in the LRB by a Royal Mail employee regarding the recent British mail strike, I had mixed feelings. I was troubled by the bureaucratic nightmare that is the Royal Mail of late, the compromise that comes from profit as the bottom line, the explanation of how Royal Mail is part-privatized already, their focus on the corporate customer. "Granny Smith doesn't matter anymore," this piece ends with, and they're not talking about apples, but instead their Regular Joseph(ine) customers. Those of us whose ears perk up at the sound of mail through the letterbox, at the very sound of the postman's footfall on the steps.

I took some heart, however, from the article's point that it is a falsehood that "figures are down". "Figures are down" appears to be corporate shorthand to justify laying off workers, increasing workloads, eliminating full time contracts, pensions etc. Apparently the Royal Mail brass has no experience on the floor, they're career-managers (and they've probably got consultants) who come up with ingenious ways to show that "figures are down". Mail volume, for example, used to be measured by weight, but now it's done by averages. And during the past year, Royal Mail has "arbitrarily, and without consultation" been reducing the number of letters in the average figures. According to the writer, "This arbitrary reduction more than accounts for the 10 per cent reduction that the Royal Mail claims is happening nationwide."

So yes, none of this good news about the state of labour or capitalism, but what I like is this part: "People don’t send so many letters any more, it’s true. But, then again, the average person never did send all that many letters. They sent Christmas cards and birthday cards and postcards. They still do. And bills and bank statements and official letters from the council or the Inland Revenue still arrive by post; plus there’s all the new traffic generated by the internet: books and CDs from Amazon, packages from eBay, DVDs and games from LoveFilm, clothes and gifts and other items purchased at any one of the countless online stores which clutter the internet, bought at any time of the day or night, on a whim, with a credit card."

This is hope! I do love letters, namely reading collections of them in books (and particularly if they're written by Mitfords), but I'll admit to not writing many of them. My love of post is not so much about epistles, but about the postal system itself. A crazy little system to get the most incidental objects from here to there. I like that I can lick an envelope, and it can land on a Japanese doorstep within the week. I like receiving magazines, and thank you notes, and party invitations, and books I've ordered, and Christmas presents, and postcards. I like that in the summer, Harriet received a piece of mail nearly every single day.

And I really love Christmas cards. Leah McLaren doesn't though, because she gets them from her carpet cleaner and then feels bad because she doesn't send any herself. I manage to free myself from such compunction by sending them out every single year, and in volumes that could break a tiny man's back. Spending enough on stamps to bring on bankruptcy, but I look upon this as I look upon book-buying-- doing my part to keep an industry I love thriving (or less dying). Yesterday, I posted sixty (60!) Christmas cards, though I regret I can no longer say to every continent except Africa. Because my friend Kate no longer lives in Chile, but my friend Laura is still working at the very bottom of the world so we've still got Antarctica, which is remarkable at any rate.

I love Christmas cards. I send them because I've got aunts and uncles and extended family that I never see, but I want them to know that they mean something to me anyway. And it does mean something, however small that gesture. These connections matter, these people thinking of us all over the world. Having lived abroad for a few years, I've also got friends in far-flung places, and without small moments of contact like this, it would be difficult to keep them. It's impossible to maintain regular contact with everybody we know and love, but these little missives get sent out into the world, like a nudge to say, "I'm here if you need me."

I also send them because I've got these people in my life that I'm crazy about, and I want to let them know as much. Particularly in a year like this when friends and family have so rallied 'round-- let it be written that it all meant the world to me, then stuck in an envelope and sealed with a stamp.

But mostly (and here I confess), I write Christmas cards because people send them back to me. I've never once received as many as I send, but the incomings are pretty respectable nonetheless. I love that most December days BP, I've got a good chance of red envelopes arriving stacked thick as a doorstop. And if not today, there will be at least one card tomorrow. I love receiving photos of my friends' babies, and updates on friends and family we don't hear from otherwise, and the good news and the hopeful news, and just to know that so many people were thinking of us. We display them over our fireplace hanging on a string. It is a bit like Valentines in elementary school, a bit like a popularity contest, but if you were as unpopular as I was in elementary school, you'd understand why strings and strings of cards are really quite appealing.

I love it all. That there are people in places all over the world, and they're sticking stuff in mailboxes pillared or squared, and that stuff will get to us. That at least one system in the universe sort of almost works, and that I've even got friends. And then-- this is most important-- what would the modern English novel be without it?

Bits and pieces

I've got some good stuff in the works here, but I need a day or two for polishing before it's posted, so please bear with a little list of links instead of actual content. Oh, and also know that Canada Reads: Independently will be unveiled in the coming days. And further, that I just finished reading The Killings at Badger's Drift by Caroline Graham, which was the first Midsomer Murders book. I only read it to uncover Barnaby lore, but I enjoyed it. Realize I'm lazy at mysteries though, refraining from trying to put the pieces together myself. You know that chapter where the detective knows who did it, lays all the cards out on the table and his subordinate (and the reader) are expected to draw their own conclusions? I don't even bother. Puzzles make my brain hurt. I read these books for the plotting, so I'm hardly going to stop and think when I can flip over to the next page. I also read An Education by Lynn Barber, which I highly recommend. Less sensational than I'd been led to believe, but a wonderful record of a somewhat unconventional career in journalism.

Today at the Advent Books Blog, I recommend Cynthia Flood's The English Stories. I loved this list of Books my toddler loves for no good reason that I can work out. Canada Reads' official blogger defends the books selected for this year. The TNQ Cover story. And in case you missed it, Rebecca Rosenblum announces her second book.

Carol Shields: Evocation and Echo

I once wrote a story in response to Carol Shields' story "Scenes" (from Various Miracles). The story was rather niftily structured as a "prose glosa" around four lines of Shields' story, and I fell completely in love with it. I submitted it only once for publication, however, receiving a rejection remarking upon how Shields' prose next to my prose only made clear that I was no Carol Shields. And that was sort of devastating, of course, though it was nothing I didn't know already.

There is something about Carol Shields, though. How her death seems to have left a conversation hanging, unfinished in the air. How impossible it seems to consider her work, and that we'll have no more of it. And this is the reason I've been so eager to get my mitts on anything that's been published about her since she died-- Eleanor Wachtel's book Random Illuminations, Blanche Howard's letters A Memoir of Friendship. To discover more about Shields is to gain deeper access to the work she left behind. This is also the reason why I so enjoyed using her work as a starting point for my own story. And all of this not just because we don't want her literary life to be finished, but rather because her literature is such that it never will be-- begging to be reread, picked apart and put back together, toyed with, read again, examined from a different angle, a few years down the line. With Carol Shields' signature generosity, she's created a legacy that refuses to be left alone.

Carol Shields: Evocation and Echo is a collection of reader responses to Shields and her work. Edited by Aritha van Herk and Conny Steenman-Marcusse and published throught the Association for Canadian Studies in the Netherlands, the responses range from critical takes on Shields' work and her feminism, to fiction and poetry using her work as a springboard. Susan Swann writes from the point of view of Mary Swann regarding Shields as her creator; one of my favourite pieces "Moving On" by Charlotte Sturgess has one of Shields' creations reporting to a rather inspired fictional bureaucracy called the Character Complaints Office; several writers created fictional amalgams of ideas presented in Shields' incredible collection Various Miracles, Alex Ramon advances the story of Larry Weller. Typical for a writer for whom the domestic and professional were so closely linked, two of Shields' daughter make appearences. Friends and associates have presented eulogies, some of which were first published in newspapers around the time of Shields' death.

As with my little prose glosa, a response to Carol Shields is a long way from Carol Shields, but these "evocations and echoes" are still very effective-- her spirit is evoked in these pieces, and her work opened wider by the echoes they've inspired. I particularly appreciated the European focus, writers and scholars who put a different spin on Shields than I'm used to, examining her outside of the Canadian Literature context. This curious scrapbook is a tribute to the engagingness of the work of Carol Shields, and a celebration of readers and reading.

A masterful essay by Rachel Cusk on women's writing

Rachel Cusk's "Shakespeare's Daughters" is a masterful essay on women, women writers and women's writing. I've just read it and feel blown away by the craft of it, how she has articulated a muddle of thoughts that have been clouding my head for years. I urge you to read it in its entirety, and I've also copied some excerpts below:

"The future, of course, never comes: it is merely a projection from the present of the present's frustrations. In the 80 years since Woolf published A Room of One's Own, aspects of female experience have been elaborated on with commendable candour, as often as not by male writers. A book about war is still judged more important than a book about "the feelings of women". Most significantly, when a woman writes a book about war she is lauded: she has eschewed the vast unlit chamber and the serpentine caves; there is the sense that she has made proper use of her room and her money, her new rights of property. The woman writer who confines herself to her female "reality" is by the same token often criticised. She appears to have squandered her room, her money. It is as though she has been swindled, or swindled herself; she is the victim of her own exploitation....

It may be, then, that the room of one's own does not have quite the straightforward relationship to female creativity that Woolf imagined. She, after all, had by dint of circumstance always had a room and money of her own, and perhaps being the eternal conditions of her own writing they seemed to her indispensable. Yet she admits that the two female writers she unequivocally admired – Jane Austen and Emily Brontë – wrote in shared domestic space. The room, or the lack of it, doesn't necessarily have anything to do with writing at all. It could be said that every woman should have a room of her own. But it may equally be the case that a room of her own enables the woman writer to shed her links with femininity and commit herself to the reiteration of "masculine values". The room itself may be the embodiment of those values, a conception of "property" that is at base unrelated to female nature....

Some of the most passionate writing in The Second Sex concerns the ways in which women seek to protect their privileges and property under patriarchy by condemning or ridiculing the honesty of other women. This remains true today: woman continues to act as an "instrument of mystification" precisely where she fears and denies her own dependence. For the woman writer this is a scarifying prospect. She can find herself disowned in the very act of invoking the deepest roots of shared experience. Having taken the trouble to write honestly, she can find herself being read dishonestly. And in my own experience as a writer, it is in the places where honesty is most required – because it is here that compromise and false consciousness and "mystification" continue to endanger the integrity of a woman's life – that it is most vehemently rejected. I am talking, of course, about the book of repetition, about fiction that concerns itself with what is eternal and unvarying, with domesticity and motherhood and family life. The sheer intolerance, in 2009, for these subjects is the unarguable proof that woman is on the verge of surrendering important aspects of her modern identity."

On book club questions

I enjoyed this Guardian blog entry about why "back matter" in novels (author q&a, book club questions, suggested reading lists etc.) is "a waste of space". I've actually found some of this content worthwhile in my reading, but usually just author interviews or a list of the author's favourite books. In general, however, I skip over the stuff, and in particular when it's questions for book clubs.

Here's what I don't understand about book club questions-- doesn't the fact that someone else had to come up with them undermine your reading of the book in the first place? Surely if you read in an engaged fashion, you should be able to come up with your own? And if you aren't engaged enough to do so, that's either a discussion in itself or your book club is reading the wrong books?

In her blog piece, Imogen Russell Williams makes a good case for how limiting back-of-the-book book club questions can be-- one discussion topic requires readers to argue a particular take on an ambiguous ending, undermining the fact that the ambiguity itself is pretty remarkable. It seems these discussion questions seek to nail a book down rather than open it up wide, and therefore I can understand how such discussions could certainly be less than scintillating.

I'd probably quit that book club.

Pathos and other things

If I look tired here, it's because I am! It's been a hard, hard, hard few weeks. I think I'm blaming it on teeth, as there are two teeth apparent but remarkably sloooow at coming in (it's been two weeks now, and they're just creeping past the gums). There's been a lot of screaming all the livelong day, and a lot of not sleeping all the deadlong night, and now I've just learned the joy of pushing a stroller along snowy sidewalks that people don't shovel. Today I was a lesson in pathos as I shoved my stroller up over snowy curbs, the rain cover ripped and flew up in my face, my boots were leaking, buttons dripping off my coat, and I got splashed by a taxi-cab. The whole thing was very sad. And I won't even get started on the middle of last night, when the baby would only stop crying when she was throwing up in my bed.

Motherhood is not always as romantic as I dreamed it would be.

There are good things: wonderful books to read, of course. I've been doing ongoing Christmas baking. I'm knitting Harriet a Christmas stocking. I finally completed a short story for the first time since Harriet's birth. My short story contest win. Friends to spend afternoons with. Yesterday's visit to the Osborne Collection of Early Children's Books. That Harriet's intensive lessons in waving hello and goodbye are starting to pay off. Advent calendar fun at every turn.

Speaking of, I'm loving The Advent Books Blog. I love reading the recommendations for books I have no intention of reading even, I love that different kinds of books that readers are so passionate about, and I like the linky places the recommenders' biographies are taking me.

I love this post about Christmas shopping at the library. DoveGreyReader on readers vs. critics. Maureen Corrigan on passionate books for the holidays. Rebecca (delightfully) on names and naming. And I found this old interview with Allan Ahlberg, which was interesting. (Peepo is a favourite around our house.)

Now must go eat... something. And begin reading An Education by Lynn Barber.

UPDATE: For those who care, the second tooth is finally in, and we've got a bit of peace around here. Hurrah! I've also found a cheap second-hand jogging stroller online that will make my pedestrian life a little less pathetic this winter.

On reading in 2009

It's been a funny old year for me, reading-wise and otherwise. I don't even know how many books I read in total, because my Books Read Since 2006 list was lost in the (Un)Great Hard Drive Kaputment in late June. I'd wager I've read about 100 books in total though, and I'm quite pleased with the fact that I've read 53 of them since my baby was born in May. Many of these books have frustrated me, however. Something has changed in the way I read-- either the books have gotten worse, or I've become more demanding/less patient. This has been ongoing since I first got pregnant, and all the books I read in the first trimester made me nauseous. Since then, I've had no time for a book that does poorly what it has set out to do.

I think there's a connection in that lately, most of my literary fiction (apart from big name authors) comes from small presses. Last year, I made an "indie list", that was sort of an off-the-beaten-track best ofs, but this year small press books make up half of the books I liked best. My impression is that the big publishing houses have been focusing less on literary fiction, in producing it and promoting it. And perhaps this been an opportunity for small presses to pick up their slack, or at least receive more focus on the wonderful books they've been publishing all along. It just seems remarkably clear to me for whom the bottom line is something other than profit.

I've also seen less incredibly polished popular fiction with a literary bent-- it's been derided, but last year I loved The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, or The Flying Troutmans and American Wife which managed to be delicious and literary at the very same time. The pop/lit. divide has seemed wider lately, much to the detriment of popular fiction in general.

Anyway, where have I discovered the books I liked best this year? I was been coaxed to read many after newspaper reviews-- Caroline Adderson on Lisa Moore, and Lisa Moore on Lorrie Moore in particular, neither of which disappointed. And then there are bloggers: I read The Spare Room after DoveGreyReader's review, and I read The Incident Report because of Melanie's review (which was before its Giller longlisting). I read The Children's Book after Steph wrote about it at Crooked House. The Lydia Peelle book after Lauren Groff recommended it on her blog. I only read The English Stories because I wanted to buy something from Biblioasis at Eden Mills, and that goes to show you never know, because it was one of my favourite books all year. Apart from that, my point is that bloggers sell books, oh, yes they do!

Surprising: so many short story collections here. I root for the short story, but I adore novels, but maybe short stories have better suited my focus lately. Unsurprising: all my favourite books were written by women. This doesn't mean the men are rubbish, but I think I've only read two novels by men in the last six months, so better broaden my focus in the new year.

This list doesn't mention The Girls Who Saw Everything by Sean Dixon (which is called The Last Days of the Lacuna Cabal in foreign lands like America). Read my post on it: the book was absolute magic and blew me away, but alas, as it was not published this year, it doesn't fit the bill. You should read it anyway, though.

My other favourite discovery was Barbara Pym. I can't imagine what my life would have been had I not picked up Excellent Women at the Vic Book Sale and discovered how incredible her novels are. They're so funny, smart and modern. I just finished read my second, No Fond Return of Love, and I liked it even better than Excellent Women. But I'll be writing more about that later.

Pickle Me This Top Books of 2009

• The Believers by Zoe Heller. From my review: "In The Believers, Heller illuminates the faith necessary to try to live a life without faith. The way in which politics and even family can become a surrogate religion, filling up the void. And also the faith required to sustain a marriage, to raise a child, to save the world, and the strange nature of the kind of belief in that such things are even possible"
• Delicate, Edible Birds by Lauren Groff. From my review: "I will say, however, that this is a book worth judging by its cover, for the reader will not be disappointed. The cover's bird motif appearing throughout the collection, joining these stories otherwise so disparate by style, narration, location, characterization. But the birds are there, and so is water, bodies of big and small, and swimmers, and poolside loungers, and drownings and rain. So that to ponder all these stories together after the fact is to draw surprising connections, new conclusions. Here are nine stories that belong together, but not in ways that one might suspect."
• The Spare Room by Helen Garner. From my review: "This is a perfect novel. It's also quite short, but... there is substance, layers and layers of. At its root about friendship, which Garner refers to here as a "long conversation". As well as family, and belonging, and imposition, understanding, and proprietorship of each other and ourselves. Garner's narrator fascinating to consider, her motivations, what her words and actions reveal. This novel is quiet in its force, and enormous for the space it gives to ponder."
• The Children's Book by A.S. Byatt. From my review: "The Children's Book is a big book in which time passes quickly, and the reading is gripping. Similarities to Byatt's best-known work Possession have been made for good reason, though this doesn't mean the author is simply replaying an old game. She has embarked upon something sprawling here-- a story about the invention of childhood, about artistry and artfulness, about motherhood, and the status of women, all with an enormous cast of characters, most of whom are made to be tremendously alive. The novel also stands up as historical fiction, though I don't like to use that term about books I like and I loved this one-- there is nothing dusty, sepia-toned about it. The Children's Book is decidedly vivid and surprising."
• February by Lisa Moore. From my review: "February is a novel about moving forward, about never letting go and doing the right thing. Its characters are vivid and wonderful, their thoughts positively "thought-like"-- twisting, interrupted, irrational-- as Moore's style continues on in the same surprising vein, her technical innovation perfectly realized. The story is as funny as it is sad, and that sadness has meaning beyond itself. It's a rare thing-- a perfect book. I would call it one of the best books published in Canada this year, but I'm taking my chances on it being one of the best books from anywhere"
• The Incident Report by Martha Baillie. From my review: "Miriam's strait-laced recounting of library incidents is very often amusing, but also poignant, this underlined by Baillie's exquisite prose. The every-day becomes captured for its singular moments, its eccentric characters, and the library as a marvelous backdrop. Baillie goes further, however, with excellent plotting, this potentially gimmicky book distinctly a novel, with romance, mystery, suspense, darkness, and tragedy (oh god, the gasp I uttered near the end, I could not believe it, I wanted to turn back the pages and have it happen a different way, but alas, there is only going forward)."
  
• The Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore. From my review: "Yesterday I went into the bookstore to check out Lorrie Moore's Birds of America. Another shopper saw me reading the back and said, "That book is amazing. Buy it." I said, "I'm going to. I'm reading her new book right now." She said, "That's just what I'm here to get," and I pointed her towards its spot on the new hardcovers table. "It's fantastic," I said, because flawed or not, it is. And that is the story of how I came to join the legions of those in love with Lorrie Moore."
• The English Stories by Cynthia Flood. From my review: "With mere words (though there is nothing mere about her words), Flood has recreated a time and a place and an atmosphere so steeped, I could trace my finger along the patterns in the wallpaper (and she doesn't even mention the wallpaper). These stories are challenging, tricky, ripe with allusionary gateways to the wider world of literature. And so rewarding, for the richness of character, the intricate detail, and careful plotting that holds just enough back, keeping us alert and anticipating what's around every next turn."
• What Boys Like by Amy Jones. From my review: "And how engaging is that, I ask? To read so far into a story, that it wraps itself around me, and then I get all wrapped up in it too, and the whole thing is an untenable knot? What Boys Like is a lot like its cover. Though its tone is not upbeat, the colours are so vivid that you'd never find these stories bleak. And yes, the girls are often steeley-eyed, dangerous, tough as nails..."
• Reasons for and Advantages of Breathing by Lydia Peelle. From my review: "Where Peelle is like O'Connor, however, is in these moments in which she digs in her knife and twists it, and then you realize that the story you've been reading is darker, its people more awful, what has happened is even more tragic than you've ever imagined. I mentioned the end of "Kidding Season" already, and can't get explicit or I'll ruin it, but Peelle manages to synchronize her readers' awareness of dawning horror with that of her protagonist in a way that is absolutely masterful. "Phantom Pain" has a similar impact. Everything is loaded."
  

"Georgia Coffee Star"

My story "Georgia Coffee Star" has won first place in UofT Magazine's alumni short story contest. You can read it online here.

Then the worm turned

"The seventh and eighth grades were for me, and for every single good and interesting person I've ever known, what the writers of the Bible meant when they used the words hell and the pit. Seventh and eighth grades were a place into which one descended. One descended from the relative safety and wildness and bigness one felt in sixth grade, eleven years old. Then the worm turned, and it was all over for any small feeling that one was essentially all right. One wasn't. One was no longer just some kid. One was suddenly a Diane Arbus character. It was springtime, for Hitler, and for Germany."-- Anne Lamott, Operating Instructions

Laying down among the tea cups

"At which point the much-tried Wimsey lay down among the tea cups and became hysterical."

I am adoring Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers, which I'm reading because I'm interested in literary Harriets (Harriet Vane, in this case) and because of Maureen Corrigan's recommendation. At first, I supposed Corrigan having given away the ending might have ruined the experience, but it hasn't actually-- the thing about detective fiction is that even if you know the final piece of the puzzle, it doesn't matter until the rest of it is put together.

I do find it remarkable how difficult the book is, however. I thought there would be something of a breeze about it, and maybe it's just that I'm incredibly tired, but there are entire passages I don't understand no matter how I try. Part of it is that the book is bursting with allusion, the characters make a game of literary quotation, but I don't pick up the allusion at all or know where it came from. Who knew that detective fiction could make one feel wholly ignorant? Also, the novel takes place at Oxford University, which seems to be a foreign country for all its customs, rituals and own peculiar language. None of this is detracting from my enjoyment of the book though, but I must admit there has been some skimmage.

And also remarkable is how Sayers treats the "work" of writing. Maureen Corrigan wrote considerably of her own search for "work" in The Novel (whose characters are usually writers who never write and banks who work off-page, etc.). But here we find it-- Harriet Vane is a crime writer, though various circumstances have led her to be sleuthing on the side. And throughout the book as she seeks to get to the bottom of goings-on at her old Oxford College, she is plotting her latest novel. We see her actually working-- as well as being distracted by all the parts of being a writer that keep one from actually writing. For Harriet Vane, plotting is an actual occupation, sort of akin to moving furniture around a room, and it's so rarely that we see this kind of intellectual activity enactioned. It has been fascinating to encounter.

Oh, and yes. Like all the English novels I'll ever love, there are obligatory tea references. Delight.

Canada Reads 2010: Independently

I continue to swear by the aphorism, "the best antidote to the disappointment of the literary life is to read", but the literary life must be something disappointing because this comes up a lot. Lately, it's the whole Canada Reads 2010, which I'm not going to knock because I love the spirit behind the whole thing, and I'm going to be following the campaign, but it just wasn't the reading list for me. What I wanted was what I found from (most of) the 2009 lineup-- book recommendations out of nowhere, books I'd never pick up otherwise, that challenge my sensibilities, and that I might just fall in love with.

And so in deciding to go seek those recommendations myself, I am thrilled to bring you Canada Reads 2010: Independently. In which I've enlisted my own awesome celebrity panel of five-- authors, illustrators, critics, publishers, editors among them (one of each and some of both) who'll each be selecting a book to champion. And I will be reading each of these five books, which I expect will be various, some out of my comfort zone, and examining them from my own critical perspective. Ranking them in order of my personal preference to pick my favourite of the lot. I am very excited.

I would love also if some others might follow along, as to find out how my tastes compare with other readers' only will enhance my own reading experience. I'll be posting reviews throughout the winter of the books I read, and I'd appreciate any comments.

I realize that my being excited and letting you know that in just two weeks my celebrity panelists and their picks will be revealed somewhat contradicts my earlier assertion that "anticipation will get you nowhere." Pickle Me This, however, makes a point of being inconsistent.

In this case, also, I really don't think I have much chance of disappointment. So stayed tuned. Cool things are indeed afoot. And thanks to my husband for the logo on demand.

Anticipation will get you nowhere

Today was a smaller day than projected. First, we got to the doctor and found out that our appointment wasn't actually scheduled (which wasn't my fault, for once). And then the Canada Reads 2010 lineup was revealed, and I'm not so excited now. Though it's not all bad-- Nikolski by Nicolas Dickner is on the list, and I'm pretty passionate about that novel, so I'm pleased it's going to get wider exposure-- it was one of my favourite books of 2008, and you can read my review here.

But I find the rest of the lineup distinctly blah: I read Generation X years ago and might like to revisit it, particularly as it's such a reference point, but I don't know how satisfying that reread would be. I read Good to a Fault last year, and though many many people loved this book, I didn't. Which was odd, because its domestic realm is a place where I spend a lot of my literary time, but the story needed a good edit and didn't come alive for me. I have never read Fall On Your Knees, though I've started it a thousand times but never got very far in (oddly, however, McDonald's The Way the Crow Flies is a book I absolutely adore). The only book of the bunch that was new to me is Wayson Choy's The Jade Peony, which I'm going to read now.

Participating in Canada Reads this year would involve me buying two books I used to own but gave away, and that's never a good sign. So I suspect I'll not be taking part, and I'm really disappointed about that. Last dear I so enjoyed reading all the books, looking at them critically, attending the Canada Reads Panel at the Toronto Reference Library, and listening to the broadcasts in March. Last year, however, I was inspired to get involved by a list of book I had a genuine interest in visiting (or revisiting, in one case). In particular, I liked the inclusion of a quirky book from a small press (Fruit), and that I got to discover an important Canadian writer I'd been neglecting (Tremblay). I am not so convinced that year's list would reap similar rewards.

I'm also not convinced that any of these are books I'd recommend for all Canadians to read, though does any book, I wonder, hold such general appeal?