On reading challenges

Over at the Descant blog, I've written a post about the fascinating world of reading challenges.

Difficulty is artistically desirable

"Gaming is a much more resistant, frustrating medium than its cultural competitors. Older media have largely abandoned the idea that difficulty is a virtue; if I had to name one high-cultural notion that had died in my adult lifetime, it would be the idea that difficulty is artistically desirable. It’s a bit of an irony that difficulty thrives in the newest medium of all – and it’s not by accident, either. One of the most common complaints regular gamers make in reviewing new offerings is that they are too easy. (It would be nice if a little bit of that leaked over into the book world.)" --John Lanchester, "Is it Art?"

Hardly Knew Her by Laura Lippman

Though I am not sure if Laura Lippman is so literary, it must mean something that from her writing I learned the word "postprandial." Her novel What the Dead Know was absorbing, well written and a treat to read, so deserving of its many accolades. Unusual for a genre writer, Lippman has won significant mainstream critical acclaim, and the position of her books on various bestseller lists is a demonstration of her popular appeal. And perhaps my indecisiveness in regards to Lippman's literary-ness is more to do with the vague boundaries of that genre than the genre Lippman herself is writing from.

The latter genre is crime fiction, detective fiction. Lippman is perhaps best known for her series of novels featuring Tess Monaghan, Baltimore P.I., though she's written other strand-alone books too. Her novels are plot-driven, fast-paced, page-turners thick with popular appeal, and so (pardon my bias) I was surprised to find such substance there too when I read her What the Dead Know.

In his essay "Trickster in a Suit of Lights", Michael Chabon discussed "the modern short story." Pointing out the form's roots in genre, in that, "As late as about the 1950s, if you referred to "short fiction", you might have been talking about... the ghost story; the horror story; the detective story; the story of suspense, terror, fantasy, science fiction, or the macabre; the sea, adventure, spy, war or historical story; the romance story." This as opposed to the kind of story dominating the form today, which he terms "the contemporary, quotidian, plotless, moment-of-truth revelatory story." (Whether or not his assessment is fair is an argument for another day.)

Chabon posits that many great contemporary novelists have "plied their trade in the spaces between genres, in no man's land." That some of the more interesting short story writers at work today are toiling away in similar locations. He writes, "Trickster haunts the boundary lines, the margins, the secret shelves between the sections in the bookstore. And that is where, if it wants to renew itself in the way the way that the novel has done so often in its long history, the short story must, inevitably, go." (And if I remember some of the best of the Salon de Refuses correctly, the short story is often there-going already).

And so I was pleased, upon finishing Chabon's essay, to remember that I had a book of Laura Lippman's short fiction just waiting to be read. Though Lippman's own straddling seems mainly just on the border between "genre" and "actually good," this collection would be different from any other collection of short stories I've read lately. And I was interested to see how a collection with such decidedly popular appeal might serve to inform my thoughts on short stories in general.

Lippman's Hardly Knew Her contains a novella, numerous crime stories, two Tess Monaghan stories, as well a fake news profile on Monaghan whose byline is Lippman's, and is headlined "The Accidental Detective" in homage to Anne Tyler (who, like Lippman, lovingly renders Baltimore in fiction). The crime stories in particular are riveting, employing sleights of hand near-impossible to see coming. Most remarkable are Lippman's ordinary narrators whose homicidal tendencies are as surprising to the reader as they must have been for the victims. The ruthlessness of these characters, complicated by the fact that we're not always called on to sympathize with them, or we simply can't, or (even worse) we find that we do! Suggesting the many ways in which ordinary people do terrible things in their lives, and that ordinary is just a veneer after all.

The thing about a book like this is that it takes the form right back to its roots, and could make any ordinary reader fall in love with the short story. The ordinary reader who thinks he doesn't like short stories, doesn't get them, hates being left hanging, how they're not quite his money's worth. (These people exist; we don't hang out with them much, but I've met them. They're the people not buying your latest story collection). But any reader seeking entertainment, amusement, distraction will find herself caught up in these stories, one after another, and perhaps realize the form is alive, vibrant, and altogether relevant to their reading experiences. Opening up the form, so perhaps the reader might seek some more of it, in admiration of the short story's so neat and so sprawling containment. Of how every short story is really such a trick all along.

tolls like a bell for miles

"...because I read for entertainment, and I write to entertain. Period. Oh, I could decoct a brew of other, more impressive motivations and explanations. I could uncork more stuff about reader response theory, or the Lacanian parole. I could go on about the storytelling impulse and the need to make sense of experience through story. A spritz of Jung might scent the air. I could adduce Kafka's formula: "A book must be an ice-axe to break the seas frozen inside our soul." I could go down to the cafe at the local mega-bookstore and take some wise words of Abelard or Koestler about the power of literature off a mug. But in the end-- here's my point-- it would still all boil down to entertainment, and its suave henchman, pleasure. Because when the axe bites the ice, you feel an answering throb of delight all the way from your hands to your shoulders, and the blade tolls like a bell for miles." --Michael Chabon, "Trickster in a Suit of Lights" from Maps and Legends

Amazingly above-average

Today's postal haul wasn't huge, but was mostly amazingly above-average (or at least way not just bills and flyers). The Good: two letters, one from the Governor General and the other from The South Pole. The Bad: another issue of magazine whose subscription I'm definitely not renewing because, once again, upon perusing table of contents, I see the editors have forgotten that women can write.

Pickle Me This pivots

I'm thrilled by the fine company I'll be joining once I've read at Pivot at the Press Club this Wednesday. I'll be reading a short story called "Squash Season", and sharing the mic with Stuart Ross and James Sandham. Come early to get a good perch; the show starts at 8:00. The Press Club is located at 850 Dundas Street West here in Toronto.

Living in the memory of a love that never was

I loved Orlando, unsurprisingly. It was so terrible funny and fresh, and relevant, exuberant. I could read it again and again, and each time discover the book anew. And so now I'm reading Maps and Legends by Michael Chabon (the gorgeous McSweeneys hardback, though it's coming out in paperback in Feb.), and Laura Lippman's collection of stories Hardly Knew Her (which I look forward to finishing in the bath this evening).

Online and periodically, I've been up to my nose in Oliver Jeffers interviewed in The Guardian; on Obama as storyteller and one of the many Midwesterners who've explored their identity through story; Rebecca Rosenblum's Once finds another ideal reader; my doppelganger Gwyneth recommends "amazing, transportive novel[s]" (via Jezebel); LRB underlines why I'll be renewing my subscription with Hilary Mantel's memoir on life in Jeddah, and John Lanchester's "Is It Art?" on video games. Lisa Gabriele is profiled in The Star (and have you seen her touting her book on Dragon's Den?).

This weekend I grew out of my pants, knit some, helped entertain friends, sang "Long Long Time" whilst strumming my guitar, read a lot, wrote some, slept in, visited family member daily in hospital (who is going to be okay!!), baked a cake, ate a lot of spinach, drove a really large cargo van, danced around the kitchen, and inherited a bumbo seat and a jolly jumper.

The taste for books was an early one

"The taste for books was an early one. As a child he was sometimes found at midnight by a page still reading. They took his taper away, and he bred glow-worms to serve his purpose. They took the glow-worms away, and he almost burnt the house down with a tinder. To put it in a nutshell, leaving the novelist to smooth out the crumpled silk and all its implications, he was a nobleman afflicted with a love of literature." --from Virginia Woolf's Orlando

On the new Globe & Mail Books

Last August I was one of many hysterical book lovers contacting The Globe & Mail about its books section's two week "summer vacation" from the Saturday paper. My email received a rapid reply assuring, "This is only a two-week pause before the fall season. There is no plan or intention whatsoever to discontinue the Books section." Which was totally a lie! Kind of nervy, but at least then I wasn't surprised in December to learn that the paper's freestanding Books section would be no more in 2009. The section emerged reborn two weeks ago combined with the Focus section, partnered with expanded online coverage.

Now that I've finally figured out how to view the RSS feeds, I find that I'm enjoying the new Globe & Mail Books online section more than I thought I would. Though the now-shrunken print edition disappoints-- I really love getting newsprint ink all over my fingers on Saturday mornings, and no amount of online coverage could replace curling up on the couch with the paper and a cup of tea. I also don't love the thematic reviews-- books on film the first week, Obama-esque books last week in honour of the inauguration. The theme is to hook, I realize, but I really do prefer books in general. Fabulous, however, that last week's section included a poem, and I also adored the new feature on underrated books we should know about.

Online, I am enjoying the daily reviews (though I'm never very interested unless it's fiction and there isn't enough fiction!). As well as pieces such as Lisa Gabriele's (whose The Almost Archer Sisters I'm a fan of) on writing fiction autobiographically, and Julie Wilson on well-worn books. In Other Words is interesting, frequently updated, and various-- I liked Ben McNally's response to Jane Urquhart's underrated text and the fact that his bookshop sold both copies of The Blue Flower the following Monday. And Martin Levin's Shelf Life is delightful.

So I'm happy, even though I hate change. I just hope the Globe Books follows on with its momentum. And that I never open my paper on a Saturday morning to find a print books section that's just a page or two long.

Pickle Me This reads Canada Reads: The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill

It was monumental to finish reading Lawrence Hill's The Book of Negroes on the same day the United States' received its 44th President. Though I understand how President Obama's own ancestral history varies greatly from Aminata Diallo's, to have read this book is to understand the significance of what he represents. To trace the path of Aminata's life is to understand the early history of blacks in America-- how this history is fraught with complexity, its terrible legacies, how this history refuses to sit down in the history books where it belongs, and all the reasons why it never should.

Lawrence Hill has created a story in the "sweeping epic" genre, crossing over years, languages, continents, and oceans. The story of Aminata Diallo, who is telling this story herself close to the end of her life, in England where she is campaigning for the abolishment of the slave trade. She begins at the beginning, her childhood spent in the village of Bayo with the security of two loving parents. Their family life is idyllic, but danger lurks beyond its bounds. One day whilst out assisting her midwife mother, twelve year-old Aminata is kidnapped, her village is burned, her parents are killed. She spends the next three months walking with other prisoners towards the Atlantic Ocean, deprived of food and comfort. Her precocious nature, however, in addition to the midwifery skills she has garnered from her mother, serve to make her useful to her captors. This becomes even more pronounced on the journey she takes from Africa to America by slave ship, where she survives by her formidable wits.

Aminata continues to distinguish herself as a slave on an indigo plantation, then as a "servant" in Charleston (where she is taught to read and write). She escapes from her owner on a trip to New York City, realizing the freedom she'd never stopped yearning for. Her reputation grows, and she is asked to help the British compile The Book of Negroes-- a record of Black British loyalists promised freedom and passage to British North America. The reality of life in Nova Scotia once she arrives, however, proves much different than the promise, and soon Aminata has nothing to lose by an arduous voyage back to Africa as part of a Black settlement in Sierra Lione.

"Honey," says Aminata Dialla, "my life is a ghost story." A ghost story she prefaces with the following "caveat": "Do not trust large bodies of water, and do not cross them. If you, dear reader, have an African hue and find yourself led towards water with vanishing shores, seize your freedom by any means necessary."

The scope of this novel is stunning, its details so pointed and perfect that readers will have trouble distinguishing from non-fiction, which is the impact Hill is trying to achieve. To re-imagine what really happened, to let Aminata's life stand for the experience stand for the experience of all of those who had no such voice. To fill in gaps in our own sense of history-- on the (brutal) details of the slave trade, the (brutal) history of Blacks in Canada, all of which is widely known in a vague context, but without specificity and almost taken for granted. Slavery evokes countless symbols and ideas, but the humanity gets lost, and the concrete fact of it forgotten. There is so much learning to be had within these pages, and a fascinating life story that moves with a furious momentum.

The story is the point of this book, its facts and details, and realities. What gets lost, however, is the life itself. Though secondary characters are drawn with some complexity, they never entirely function as real people. And this is particularly the case with Aminata herself, though I know many would disagree with me. But to me, she read as a vehicle for the story she had to tell, rather than an actualized character. That she never changes through the years demonstrated that for me-- she makes references to aging, to her looks changing, but her behaviour and convictions never seem to alter over sixty years. Though of course we're hearing the story through the prism of her own perspective, but it was telling to me that I never got a sense of what she looked like (though we're told many times details of her appearance).

The story is the point of this book, told in Aminata's steady voice, but such steadiness comes at the expense of exquisite prose. There are moments, of course-- the chapter titles highlight these-- but in general, the prose was quite unremarkable. The story was riveting, but as a novel, the book failed to take flight. Scope is part of the problem, when years pass in the space between paragraphs. There is nothing artful about a line beginning with, "The days came and went...", for example.

The Book of Negroes is an important book, an essential book even, but not wholly satisfactory as a novel. Still, it is a triumph in all number of ways, as I hope I've illustrated, and I am glad that I finally read it.

Canada Reads Rankings (so far):
1) The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill

A terrifying prospect

Tonight, after I do five thousand other things, I will begin to read Virginia Woolf's Orlando, and I must admit to finding said prospect a little bit terrifying. Woolf is pretty intimidating at the best of times, and the premise of this book makes me particularly uneasy in its oddness. I've been assured by many, however, that Orlando is readable, accessible, and upon reading the Woolf's preface, I've detected an ounce of humour. We shall see how this proceeds, but I'm crossing my digits that all goes well.

"Because We Want To" by Alison Smith

The few words that I learn
make reality. No, reality exists.
Words push me
into the moving water.

In the morning
I learn words for Lu Ling
while she brushes her teeth.
She's said that she laughs
because she is pregnant
and wants to be happy.
Me too, I've realised, I do
want to be happy.

Today, I say, are you busy?
She says my Japanese
is good, is good!
I say tonight? dinner? together?
She says pizza?
and I say hai.
This is our common language:
eat dinner tonight yes.
And because we've wanted to
we've learned how to say next--
these have become feast days
and we will not stop
until we are satisfied.

--from Alison Smith's gorgeous collection Six Mats and One Year, published by Gaspereau Press, which TSR has informed us recently entered the blogosphere.

Alice Munro's Best

I thought I knew Alice Munro. It's a critical error, I think, so common amongst those of us who've been to school. Because we've read Lives of Girls and Women, and we've read The Stone Angel, and The Handmaid's Tale, so this CanLit thing is old hat, right? But I had no idea. I'd read The Progress of Love ages ago, though I don't even remember it, but it still lives on my shelf. I read Lives of Girls... at least twice in my literary schooling, and evaluated numerous undergraduate papers on Who Do You Think You Are? (which, in spite of that, remained a book I love).

I thought I knew Alice Munro, but that was like thinking I knew somebody I hadn't called up in twenty years. And then I picked up Alice Munro's Best: Selected Short Stories.

It wasn't clear from the start that I was wrong, for the first two stories "Royal Beatings" and "The Beggar Maid" were from Who Do You Think Are?, and so this was quite familiar ground. The next few stories followed similar patterns, the retrospective voice recalling a rural childhood and noting complicating factors the child's perspective had missed. There are hints of sexual transgression, domestic dissatisfaction, marriages go wrong, and whole ways of life now obliterated. All very much what I had expected.

The first real hint of something came with "Miles City Montana", which wasn't so much a departure from what had come before, but whose plot twist was so harrowing I had to skip right to the end before reading through. Keeping in mind, the is a short story. And the stories from then on in contained these singular horrifying moments where I could hardly bear to read. When one friend takes another's lover, a lonely librarian duped by the promise of love, characters that do terrible things to one another for reasons that are never straightforward or explainable. That taxidermist, and what he did behind Bea's back. The woman who's heading west, tricked into thinking she's promised love. The woman alone in her house in the country and the knock on her door in the middle of the night, or the woman driving with her grandchildren in the backseat when a filthy girl strung out on drugs forces her way into the car.

From "Friend of My Youth", the stories branch out into history, or least further back into history than Munro has been considering all along. Here, no more first person narration, but rather we get pieces from all manner of perspectives. The author herself revoking her own authority-- from the end of "Menesetung: "I thought there wasn't anybody alive in the world but me who would know this, who would make the connection. And I would be the last person to do so. But perhaps this isn't so. People are curious..../ And they may get it wrong, after all. I may have got it wrong. I don't know if she ever took laudanum. Many ladies did. I don't know if she ever made grape jelly."

These stories take on a strange, uncertain and fascinating shape. I was most struck by "Carried Away", which told the story of a small town librarian who receives unexpected letters from a soldier at war. Rather than a flowing narrative, the story is made up of blocks like a quilt, or more like sides of a cube because the result is most three-dimensional. I kept noticing points in these stories where the edges of these blocks would nearly connect, but not exactly-- slightly altered phrasing, or memory from a different angle. How lives are made, these stories are, with shady corners and lots of questions.

But then these really aren't stories at all, in a way, but rather novels. There is no narrow scope here, anything left out suggests reams of detail we can fill in for ourselves, and these are the stories of whole lives, entire places, which is not usually within the short story's grasp. They are not novels only because they're too short to be novels, which is not be undermine Alice Munro's status as the short story master, because I've never been so mesmerized by 500 pages of stories in my life. She is a master, I think, because in observing these stories written over the course of her career, it is evident that she's pushed the very limits of the form, changed the shape into something altogether different from what she started with, enabling the story to be stuffed to its capacity, and even further. An Alice Munro story: I didn't know the half of it. I'm still blown away.

This collection is enhanced by its introductory essay by Margaret Atwood, placing these stories within their literary and geographical context. I would have appreciated dates attached to each story, however, and their places of publication, to give an indication of the book's overall range. Also some kind of afterward by Munro herself, a retrospective? But then I fear I may be asking too much. With this superb collection, she has already given generously.

Reading never goes out of style

I just ordered Rachel Power's book The Divided Heart: Art and Motherhood, and I'm looking forward to receiving it whenever seamail sees fit to deliver. Last night we heard Jessica Westhead read two short stories, and now we're dying to read an entire collection of them. Maud Newton informs me that a new novel by Kate Christensen is out in June. "Drink, Cry, Hate": Jezebel.com engages gag reflex re. Eat Pray Love interview. Rona Maynard on appreciating our lifelong women's friendships, which were hardly possible just two generations ago. Tricia Dower on why she's grateful to have never had an aversion to "speculative fiction". And Julie Wilson celebrates reading in her wonderful and most inspiring article: "While there are seasons in publishing, reading itself never goes out of style."

A Daring Experiment

Tonight, in a daring experiment subtitled "Kerry ventures out on a week/weak night", I'll be attending Pivot Readings at the Press Club. Looking very forward to seeing Jessica Westhead, as well discovering the work of Kyle Buckley and Rocco de Giacomo. Also hoping the temperature goes up above -30 Celsius. And I wish I were exaggerating.

When my head was not to be trusted

"A writer, if he is any good, does not describe. He invents or makes out of knowledge personal and impersonal and sometimes he seems to have unexplained knowledge which could come from racial or family experience. Who teaches the homing pigeon to fly as he does; where does a fighting bull get his bravery, or a hunting dog his nose? This is an elaboration or a condensation on that stuff we were talking about in Madrid that time when my head was not to be trusted." --Ernest Hemingway, The Paris Review Interviews, I

On those unsympathethic females

Last week I read Christine Pountney's novel The Best Way You Know How, which-- apart from some ghastly clanking similes-- was a pretty good read. Though on a personal level, I'd probably relate to any book about a Canadian girl who runs away to England to find a husband (and thank goodness I had better luck with my pick than Pountney's poor old Hannah Crowe). But I was surprised to have enjoyed the book as much as I did, considering the mixed reviews. For as engaging and witty as Pountney's writing is, I found Hannah Crowe to be as obnoxious as promised, but it occurred to me to wonder: do we have to like a heroine to like a book?

I wouldn't have even though of Alice Munro, except by chance I picked up her selected short stories following Pountney's book, and as I read the first two pieces (from Who Do You Think You Are?), I realized how much Munro's Rose is like Hannah. Self-destructive, all her evil cards on the table, manipulative, immature, lacking self-confidence and self-esteem, and fascinated by the power she holds over her boyfriend/husband. Desiring to be dominated, but insisting on remaining indomitable.

I suppose it is Munro's retrospective approach that casts Rose in a more sympathetic light, though if I remember from my most recent read, even in the later stories in the book, she never becomes wholly agreeable. Whereas the immediacy of Pountney's narrative makes Hannah quite unbearable, and the third person narrative makes us witnesses to her blunders without the benefit of her perspective to cast the incident differently. Though the point is that Hannah doesn't have this perspective, lacking as she is in self-awareness.

This all made me remember Kate Christensen's comments about her novel In the Drink, which became marketed as "chick lit," Christensen supposing all the while that she'd been, "consciously co-opting a predominantly male genre”. She explains, “I trace Claudia’s lineage through an august tradition of hard-drinking, self-destructive, hilarious anti-heroes beginning with Dostoevsky’s Underground Man and continuing through Joyce Cary’s The Horse’s Mouth, Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim, and David Gates’s Jernigan...”

As the chick lit it wasn't, Christensen's novel didn't succeed, and reader responses reminded me of the criticisms of Pountney's book. Claudia, like Hannah, fails to win our sympathy, and to many readers, that was all she wrote. But now I'm wondering if "loser lit" is an exclusively male domain; is co-opting impossible? Is sympathy required of female characters in a way it isn't necessarily of males, or does it have to be won differently? Is sympathy a demand female readers make that male readers might not? Are these female characters unsympathetic in a different way than the males, rendering them fundamentally disagreeable as literary characters at all?

No answers of course, as it's late and I'm tired. But I'm going to be thinking about unsympathetic heroes and heroines this next while, and looking into the different ways they're constructed. Any of your comments would be most helpful, so do leave some.

Me in This

My article on fact, fiction, Jonathan Bennett's Entitlement and Curtis Sittenfeld's American Wife is in the January/February issue of This Magazine, which is on sale now.

Update: Online here.

"Someone almost always dies in the end"

I am excited about Roughing It In The Books, a reading project by Melanie Owen and Alexis Kienlen, who are each attempting to read the entire New Canadian Library. It's easy to take the NCL for granted now, but when the series started 50 years ago, it was unprecedented and it remains important. Certainly Owen and Kienlen will need to blow the dust off some of the texts, and it's not going to be easy, but they'll surely find some treasure and some books are guaranteed to be a joy. I'm looking forward to reading along (albeit vicariously), and no doubt they'll inspire me to pick up a book or two.

New (Canada Reads) Books!!

I really believe that Ben McNally couldn't have picked a better location for his bookshop than right next door to the building where my husband works. And I am very grateful for a husband kind enough to pick up the Canada Reads stack on his lunch break, just because I can't wait another day for them. Four new books (because I owned Mercy Among the Children already)!! A couple of which I'd never have picked up otherwise, due to a variety of literary prejudices that I'm pleased to be challenging in the coming weeks. And unlike my usual reviews (where I only write about the books I like enough to do so) I'll be reading with a critical eye, and ranking these five picks to find a winner. Then I'm looking forward to seeing how my opinion compares to the official panelists', and to opinion at large.

Bear With Me: Live!

At year ago I read actor/comedian Diane Flacks' book Bear With Me: What They Don't Tell Your About Pregnancy and New Motherhood, and knew I was ready to have a baby because I'd read the whole book and still wanted one. Flacks' book was hilarious, entertaining, well written and full of really practical advice that I've found useful already. My husband has since read (and enjoyed) the book, and I've recommended (and lent) it to friends. So how overjoyed was I to see that Bear With Me is now a play currently being performed (by Flacks) in Toronto? I'm looking forward to seeing it this month. Check out Flacks' piece on her show in The Toronto Star.

Before you were born

"It was around here that I once said, 'I used to work over there, before you were born.'
'When I was a baby.'
'No, before that. Before you were born.'
'When I was just a teeny-tiny baby?'
'No, before you were even here. Before you were in my tummy.'
'I was.... Where.'
'You were just a twinkle in your Daddy's eye.'
'I not a twinkle. I NOT a twinkle!!!' And she started to kick and squawk. I suppose I did sound a bit smug; a little complacent about the idea that she was once non-existent. Too tough, really, for any age, but especially tough for two." --Anne Enright, "Being Two" from Making Babies

Pickle Me This jumps on the Canada Reads bandwagon

I don't usually jump on reading bandwagons, mostly because my tastes are so conventional, I'm more or less riding along already. But for some reason I feel the urge to read all the Canada Reads books this year, and the urge has come with enough time for me to actually get to it. So I'll be buying the books this weekend, and am looking forward to new discoveries. Stay tuned for my reviews.

Links and birds

Now reading The Darren Effect by Libby Creelman, which is fabulous, and I'm right in the middle with no idea of what comes next. Maud Newton speculates about why copies of Lush Life (which I reviewed last month) are so hard to come by. Dovegreyreader encounters The Robber Bride. On the history of stenography (subscription required). Jon Evans wonders why he shouldn't write about Africa, which led me to "How to Write About Africa" by Binyavanga Wainaina. A short story by Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie. And more on used books.

I watched The Birds on the weekend, which is based on a short story by Daphne DuMaurier (whose Rebecca I so delighted in last year). I've not read the short story but checked out the plot synopsis and it seems as though the screenwriter really only used the premise-- and yet... Though this is a full length film, it seemed undeniable that it's source material was a short story. What we know of the characters and what happens to them is really not the point, rather the point is the moment (which is so incredibly terrifying, tacky special effects aside). So interesting to me how clearly the short storyness remained. I'll have to read the story and see if it came about itself similarly.

The Hieroglyphic Streets

Marvelous blog find of today is The Hieroglyphic Streets, for biblio and actual travellers alike. The site gets points for its gorgeous pictures, thoughtful book selections, and excellent organization. How about Montreal, Budapest, North London, or Japan. Indeed, take me away...

Thoughts about used books

(Via Bookninja): Should we be ashamed of buying used books online? The article discussing secondhand sellers who work through sites like amazon specifically, where you can get a book for a penny plus the shipping/handling costs. I have used amazon second-hand sellers to purchase books, though usually as a last resort because a) the book I wanted was available nowhere else including the library, and my local bookshops or b)I was a student and couldn't afford it otherwise (and also couldn't find it in my local bookshops. I always looked first, never missing out on a reason to visit a local bookshop of course, and also because once the shipping/handling was involved, a used book online or off was about the same price). I would suppose that buying new books this way (incl. review copies, which are often available before the book is even in stores) is more than a little tacky, however. But then it is only in the past two years that I've become so privileged to be able to spread my bookish dollars so lavishly-- not everybody can afford to drop $40.00 on a hardcover in order to feel (deliciously) smug about doing the right thing.

A bookninja commenter makes the very good point that using the library at the very least would provide authors (in Canada) with a small amount of money through Public Lending Rights-- nothing a writer could live off of, but it's the principle.

The problem is not with used books, however, but rather the emptiness of the online exchange. The NY Times article makes a comparison between such exchanges and Helene Hanff's 84 Charing Cross Road, Hanff's "classic account of a woman in postwar New York who bought her books from a London shop she never saw" noted as being "ahead of its time." But the whole book captures the rich exchange between Hanff and the booksellers at Marks & Co. Antiquarian Booksellers, who encouraged Hanff's book buying habits for years and years, supplementing her own requests with their recommendations-- in short, doing what local used bookshops are meant to do, which is fostering a literary community, albeit via epistle. Local is a decidedly a relative term, and Hanff's story is not the same at all.

I enjoyed a piece on the Guardian blog last week about Britain's charity bookshops. Suggesting it lessens the compunction of depriving authors of the royalties if you know a few quid is going to Oxfam instead. The article noting the impeccable organization of most of these shops, the skill of their clerks at spotting a special book's value. There is a charm to their shelves, which will always feature a copy of Hilary Mantel's Fludd. When I lived in England, I was an avid browser, and found many a treasure that brought me to the till. And I feel that authors did ultimately benefit from my purchases, or at least the ones who're still publishing did, because these shops gave me a route to their discovery and so many of them I'm devoted to now.

Are there any cousins more distant than new books and used ones? One eventually becomes the other, of course, through a certain evolution, but takes on a new kind of value with the change, will become a different kind of cherished. New books have their crispness, their cleanliness, and their smell-- their margins at least are a tabula rasa, and a reader can feel like an intrepid explorer venturing out to see the world. Whereas used books wear their history on their pages, with their stains, their own peculiar smells, and stray hairs stuck inside. The names written in and then crossed out on the inside cover suggesting the hands that may have flipped through these pages, the people who might have read them. Suggesting all the readers in the world.

Any reader with integrity will understand that used books have their place, that new books have quite another one, and the problem really isn't the system at all. Rather, the problem is these supposed "sheepish" bargain hunters who keep bargain hunting anyway, and whose articles should probably be headlined instead, "I'm cheap and a bit of a wanker."

Hear me read.

Today I'm the reader reading at Julie Wilson's marvelous Seen Reading, and I'm reading from Rebecca Rosenblum's Once, from the story "The Words" which I've loved for years-- this passage in particular. I am reading in a bathroom with a book launch crowd outside, and Julie Wilson had to teach me to say "ennui", but the rest I knew already.

Do have a listen...

On Context: Dream Babies and Great Expectations

The kinds of stories in Great Expectations: Twenty-Four Stories about Childbirth (eds. Dede Crane and Lisa Moore) are the kinds that any woman could tell. About labour gone long, rings of fire, gruff obstetricians, and idyllic birthing pools left unattended as women are rushed to the hospital in a cab. Certainly, after reading Ina-May's Guide to Childbirth in a state of dumb bliss, I was in need of this sort of reality check: Stephanie Nolen's contribution begins, "For about forty perfect minutes, I had the birth I wanted..."

Anyone can write about childbirth, and the experience of becoming and being a parent, but what I remain most grateful for is that good writers actually do. I felt this profoundly after reading Rachel Cusk's A Life's Work and Anne Enright's Making Babies: that thank goodness novelists write about this sort of thing, for who else would be so capable of doing so? Of capturing the various sides of this most multi-sided and and ordinary event, and then casting them in a light that is entirely new. For anyone can write about this stuff, but not everyone will do it well.

So I had confidence in Great Expectations, which comprises contributions from Canadian novelists I love including Lynn Coady, Christy Ann Conlin, Karen Connelly, and Lisa Moore, as well as journalists (including Nolen), poets, editors, and other writers I should have already read. Caroline Adderson's essay made me scream on the book's first page, with its mother with the burst blood vessel in her eyes. "She paid at both ends, poor thing." Esta Spalding's essay on twinship followed, which broke my heart and made me fall in love: "Joy and sorrow. Twins."

And onwards. I read this book in a single day, twenty-four births (at least) and the moment never ceased to be a miracle. I appreciated the points of view of the few male contributers (including Curtis Gillespie's advice to those who follow him: "take off your wedding ring to avoid crushed fingers"). As a pregnant lady, I'll note that Great Expectations is not an easy book to read, and certainly doesn't serve to ease any fears (for I just learned new fears I didn't even know I could have), but it was the context I found most reassuring. That this sort of thing happens all the time, and very often things go wrong, but then they're okay, and in the end there's a baby. How at the the end of her piece, Sandra Martin says of her children, "without them my journey would have been soulless."

So 2008's reading finished with Great Expectations, and I began 2009 with Christine Hardyment's Dream Babies: Childcare Advice from John Locke to Gina Ford, in which context is the object, providing the most fascinating illuminations. That we have always had "childcare experts" among us, from Rousseau ("Emile [was] the most famous childrearing manual of the age") whose own history shows desertion by his father, and abandonment of his own children to foundling hospitals. "His dream children were born free, natural and innocent, but became instantly oppressed."

Hardyment's book is a 2007 update to her 1983 original, and surveys childcare advice and practice from the 17th century to the present day. She shows that advice and practice were not always the same thing, but that both were influenced by fashion, politics, and sociological changes-- how one thing has always lead to another. During the 20th century, with "behaviourists" between the wars creating model citizens, post-war Soviet backlash leading to Benjamin Spock's acknowledgment of babies as individuals, child-centred babies raising their own children, to how childcare manuals have become the "parent-centred" volumes we see today. And throughout all these changes, parents have been grappling (differently) with the same problems: how to deal with feeding (breast best or not, depending on the era), sleep patterns, intellectual development, and toilet training. The evils of mouth-breathing, however, thankfully have ceased to be considered.

In noting how successive editions of 20th century childcare bibles were constantly adapting with the times, Hardyment makes clear how our ideas of baby raising are always in flux. Which is often a good thing, some advice of yore completely ridiculous so it seems from where I stand-- hanging apartment dwelling babies out of windows in cages for daily airings was one, as were midwinter dunks in cold rivers, and mothers who were amateur apothecaries.

But on the whole, Hardyment marks no divide between a "silly then" and "sensible now"; there is no such thing as progress but parents are going in circles instead. This perspective making Dream Babies as useful as it is fascinating and amusing, the past available for the choosing of its best ideas and not just ridicule. Also making clear that the contradictory advice of those most ubiquitous baby user guides is just as chaotic as it seems to be, and so it has ever been. This most interesting corner of history (and history is all corners) providing a context so absolutely necessary, for otherwise, how would we know not to be told what to think? Hardyment writes, "Manuals need to be kept in their place: tools, not tyrants, a helpful indication of the varied options that face us, not holy writ."