Meet the Smiths

I've got a family of Smiths on my bookshelf. Probably you do too. Mine are diverse but an excellently harmonious bunch. There's Ali, of course, of The Accidental and Girl Meets Boy. And then Alison, of the poetry collection Six Mats and One Year. Next is Betty, who wrote A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Beside her is Ray, then Russell, and Zadie, who have brought to the library Century, Muriella Pent and White Teeth/On Beauty, respectively.

This is the largest clan in my library, save for the Mitfords who don't actually count because they're really sisters. And I'm not sure if this bunch is alike or unhappy in their own way, but I like how their jackets rub together anyway.

Raise high the roofbeam carpenters

Phoebe Caulfield was Holden's nine-year old sister, plucky as a red-headed orphan, just lacking appropriate pigmentation and tragedy. Even Holden would affirm that, "if you don't think she's smart, you're mad."

Pheobe was a writer, composing the stories of "Hazel Weatherfield" in her multiple notebooks. As an actor, she was ecstatic to have the largest part in her class play, even if it involved playing Benedict Arnold. "Elephants knock[ed] her out." Phoebe Caulfield was a force to be reckoned with, pouring ink down the windbreaker of anyone who dare cross her path and she could recite Robbie Burns on command.

She was also a realist. While her brother Holden tried to deny his bleak reality, Phoebe made a point of thrusting the thing in his face. Not allowing him the luxury of his skewed perspective, sick of tirades about phoniness, she says bluntly, "You don't like anything." In contrast, Pheobe herself was able to make the best of her difficulties. Holden's drunken shattering of record he'd bought for her failed to hinder her enthusiasm for the gift: "'Gimme the pieces,' she said. 'I'm saving them.'"

A beacon in her brother's lonely existence, Phoebe's love makes clear Holden's real emotional capacity and the depth of his troubles. Upon learning that he'd been expelled from yet another school, hers is the first display of genuine, grounded concern anyone shows him. Her maturity outmatches Holden's, and his tender feelings towards her highlight his own vulnerability.

In Phoebe, Holden also sees the innocence he has lost, but elsewhere in Salinger's oeuvre is evidence that Phoebe Caulfield was wise rather than naive, and that her wisdom beyond her years ("Old Phoebe") might never have disappeared. I like to think that if Salinger had continued the saga of the Caulfield family, Phoebe would have grown up to be someone much like Boo Boo Glass.

Of course, the details of Salinger's salacious personal life widely reported him as something of a letch, and his stories contain their share of one-dimensional female characters. But he knew something about women, or perhaps something about sisters is more what I mean.

Boo-Boo appears in the background of Salinger's Franny and Zooey and Raise High the Roofbeam Carpenters. She also makes an appearance in "Down at the Dinghy" from Nine Stories, in which "[h]er general unprettiness aside," writes Salinger, "she was a stunning and final girl." Ever capable, Boo-Boo flew with the Woman's Air Force in World War Two, bravely tackled anti-Semitism in her marriage to a Jewish man, and mothered her young son with the same insightful sensitivity Phoebe provides to her brother Holden.

In a tortured world of Seymour and perfect days for bananafish, Boo-Boo stands on the side of justice, for all things bright and good, however much in vain. And I am insistent upon optimism, so for me, it is her spirit that pervades Salinger's best writing and makes me love it so. Her presence in Raise High the Roofbeam Carpenters consists solely of a note left on the bathroom mirror of her brothers' New York apartment. "'Raise high the roofbeam carpenters... Please be happy happy happy. This is an order. I outrank everyone on the block."

(an earlier version of this piece appeared in the independent weekly on September 6 2001.)

Celebrating literacy in general, and those who promote it

For obvious reasons, this is my favourite page in The Baby's Catalogue. Oh, children's books. They're as good as any book, but they've got pictures. And it has been a delight to celebrate them this week, to celebrate Family Literacy, and to find out that such a celebration is so contagious. That children's books are made to be shared.

Of course, we're preaching to the choir here. Anyone who'd be reading this blog in the first place (except for whatever curious person arrived searching for "sex with pickles") is probably well aware of the importance of family literacy. I bet we were all read to as children, that we read to any children we have, and that we even read to children we don't have.

And all of this, of course, is a luxury. Family Literacy Day is sponsored by ABC Canada, which promotes adult literacy through a wide variety of programs. We are fortunate that in Canada, illiteracy is rare, but less rare (and harder to acknowledge) are low literacy skills, which are experienced by 4 out of 10 Canadians. The implications of this are enormous, in particular at the family level, and at the workplace level, and through their programs, ABC Canada aims to provide adults access to the learning skills they require.

Another organization doing wonderful work for literacy is the Children's Book Bank in Toronto, which provides children in the Regent Park neighbourhood with free books and a terrific atmosphere in which to enjoy them. The space is absolutely beautiful, like the best children's bookstore you can imagine, and the books (albeit secondhand) are in good shape, excellently organized. It's a place that respects itself, and the kids sense that, and feel better about themselves for just being there, and their pleasure at choosing books of their own is absolutely palpable. They also often come accompanied by their parents, many of whom end of learning English literacy skills from the books their kids bring home from the Book Bank. The Children's Book Bank is a fantastic innovation, and I'd recommend it for anyone who is looking to get rid of good quality used children's books, or as a good recipient for a book drive.

A final organization in Toronto that I'm just starting to learn about is Literature for Life, which promotes reading to groups of pregnant or parenting teenage mothers, and publishes a magazine by these women and for them. It's an amazing idea, whereby not only do these women learn how reading enriches their lives, but they gain the skills to pass a love of reading on to their children.

***

Finally, I want to share my favourite Family Literacy Resources. Australian writer Mem Fox has an excellent website, including her instructions for reading aloud and her Ten read-aloud commandments (1. Spend at least ten wildly happy minutes every single day reading aloud.)

And more recently, I've fallen in love with Canadian author Sheree Fitch's website. Sheree Fitch is an inventor of words, and she's made up one called "thrival", which is as important as "survival", and is what literacy is necessary for. Read her excellent essay here. Her own list of literacy resources is here.

Family Literacy Recommendations from a Literary Mom: Carrie Snyder

In between mothering her four children, writing fiction, a blog and a parenting column, and all the other things that people do, Carrie Snyder found a few spare moments to write this beautiful piece about reading with her children. Carrie Snyder is the author of Hair Hat (which is currently competing in Canada Reads: Independently). Her most recent publication was three stories in The New Quarterly 112).

My favourite picture book of all time is A Day with Nellie, by Marthe Jocelyn (the original version, not the board book, which cuts some of my favourite sections.) This book has been with our family since my eldest was a toddler. He and I read it so often that we had it memorized. Both of my daughters loved it, too, and my youngest is now 22 months and "Nellie!" is far and away the first book he goes looking for on our shelves.

The charm of this book is in its simplicity. A preschool-aged child goes about her day: from waking to getting dressed, greeting her friends (mostly stuffed animals), eating breakfast, and so on. She plays indoors in daddy's shoes. She plays teacher in the backyard--her students include the neighbours' cat. She makes mud, slips and falls, gets dirty, takes a bath. Each page subtly illustrates a new concept: textures on the breakfast page, emotions on the naptime page, numbers on the picnic lunch page, et cetera.

But what elevates this book to greatness is Jocelyn's original fabric artwork. It looks touchable. Each page is beautiful and colourful, and we could look at it for hours (and we have, and we do!). The pictures are full of narrative all on their own, which makes them perfect for the pre-reader. There is so much to point to and talk about in each picture. Nellie pouring water on her head. Nellie watching the big kids come home from school. (Particularly poignant for me, now, as I remember reading it with my eldest and watching out the window as the big kids walked home from school--and now he is one of those big kids walking home from school). I've never yet gotten bored of the book. And that's high praise indeed.

I also read chapter books out loud before bedtime. The older ones are able to read to themselves, now, but they still love cuddling in on the couch and being read to. I would recommend heading into Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House on the Prairie series. The first book, with its terrifying panther stories, is not necessarily the best place to begin (Little House in the Big Woods); that book also opens with very detailed descriptions of a pioneer family preparing and storing their food for winter, including how to build a smokehouse. (In fact, there's a great deal of lost knowledge contained in these books, from how to make a door with no nails, to how to rig up a lamp from a button and some axle grease. I'm keeping them for further reference, because you never know).

The second book in the series is the best known and perhaps also the best place to start: Little House on the Prairie. The television series based on the books bears little relationship to them: there is no superficiality. This is the real thing. The writing is quite astonishing. It is straightforward, classic, and true. It amazes me every time I read it (I was about seven when my mother first read the series to us, and I've re-read it many times since). There is little to no analysis in her writing, no self-consciousness, just pure storytelling. That leaves room for questions, for interpretation, and it means that the experience of reading the books as an adult changes them: my perspective as a parent added new flavours and nuances to the story. Best of all, all of my children were drawn into her writing, even my eldest who is a boy. And it lead to many imaginary games of Laura and Mary and baby Carrie.

Reading to my children: I looked forward to it before becoming a parent, and it's one of my favourite activities as a parent. I rarely get down and play on the floor with the kids, but they're pretty much guaranteed to get my attention with a book (I'm picky, though, and they know it: Mama doesn't read Dora ... actually, there's a pretty long list of books Mama won't read; that's what Daddy is for; and literacy).

There are so many wonderful books out there, with whole worlds waiting to be discovered. When I read to my children, I get to travel into those imaginary worlds, too. We get to go there together.

Family Literacy Field Trip: To Mabel's Fables

So it turns out there is a Mabel, and she is a ginger cat. And the place she lives is pure magic, with a bright pink door, and two floors of BOOKS! Upstairs there is a gigantic teddy bear and a princess chair, and downstairs are the books for little kids and babies, upstairs for the bigger ones, and there are even books for adults on the landing.

But perhaps the very best thing about Mabel's Fables, the wonderful children's bookstore in Toronto, is that Rebecca Rosenblum lives around the corner. So that we got to go to her house for lunch first, and she accompanied us on our first Mabel's Fables visit. (I've never been before because the store is not on the subway, and I have this impression that anywhere not on the subway is really far away. Turns out that it isn't.)

Harriet was pleased to be liberated from the snowsuit and seemed impressed by her surroundings. I was pleased to see so many of our favourite books and others I'd been coveting, and stuff I'd never heard of by the same authors, and a space that was such a celebration of childhood and children's books. We ended up getting our friend Geneviève Côté's new book Me and You, which is a gorgeous celebration of friendship, individuality and art. We also got The Baby's Catalogue board book by the Ahlbergs, because we love Peepo and Each Peach Pear Plum, and even though this isn't a story book, it's full of cool stuff for us to look at together and talk about, and there's a breastfeeding baby inside (and you really can't go wrong with breastfeeding in picture book art, oh no!).

Our final purchase was Sandra Boynton's Bath Time!, because Harriet loves bath books and we like Barnyard Bath very much already. All in all, it was a very successful shop, and you can see here that Harriet very much enjoyed herself. These photos were taken during a span of about thirty seconds, as I tried to get her to smile for the camera but she proceeded to just pluck books off the shelf and chew on them. I wrenched them away from her eventually-- I'm assuming Mabel's Fables operates on a "you chew it, you buy it" policy, understandably. "Come on," I said, pulling her away from the nummy bookish delights. "You've got plenty of books to chew on at home. " But I must admit to admiring her appetite!

Family Literacy Recommendations from a Literary Dad: George Murray

George Murray’s new book Glimpse: Selected Aphorisms will be published this fall by ECW Press. His other books of poetry include The Rush to Here (Nightwood, 2007), and The Hunter (McClelland & Stewart, 2003). He lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland is the editor of Bookninja.com.

He shared his best bets for books to read together as a family:

My boys are five years apart, so it's hard to find books they'll enjoy together. The older one (seven) loves fantasy stories (like those by Kate DiCamillo) and is a precocious reader, while the younger (almost two) loves rhythmic rhyming books and bright pictures of animals (Hands, Hands, Fingers, Thumb, etc). So in between those two, I'd recommend Scaredy Squirrel books by Melanie Watt. The baby likes the pictures and pace and the boy likes the jokes and nuttiness (pun intended). Watt's a fabulous writer and a delightful illustrator and I often find myself chuckling as well... At least the first 100 times or so...

Our Family Literacy Day Baby Literary Salon

It's Family Literacy Day! To celebrate, we invited our favourite Mom and Baby friends to share some stories, and to sing some songs (as the theme of this year's Family Literacy Day is "Sing For Literacy"). The event was a resounding success, and not just because of the snacks provided. No, it was a success because the guests brought even more snacks, including delicious fudge, green tea shortbread and jello treats for the little ones. (Forgive me for fixating on edibles, but for breastfeeding women, this is very very important).

Margaret and her mom Carolyn brought family favourite Tumble Bumble, as well as Margaret's beloved book of the moment Boo Boo. Finn in particular enjoyed Tumble Bumble. His mom Sara came with a copy of one of her childhood favourites, the absolutely magical The Bed Book by Sylvia Plath. Who knew Sylvia Plath wrote a children's book? No, not I. But I liked the elephant bed the very best.

Leo's mom Alex brought along a copy of hardcore alphabet book Awake to Nap by Nikki McClure. The illustrations were beautiful, and "I is for inside" was the best one. Later, Alex read Margaret Atwood's first kids' book Up in a Tree, which was pretty delightful and might even impress the most avid Atwood-hater. Also remarkable was the character that looked like a baby Margaret Atwood, and was absolutely adorable.

I read Ten Little Fingers Ten Little Toes, as well as Harriet's fave All About Me: A Baby's Guide to Babies. And then, because of the singsong theme, we also read/sang Old MacDonald, Five Little Ducks and The Wheels on the Bus. The babies played quite happily together, and took turns playing with the best toy out of all the toys we own: a tin pie plate. Harriet fell down from sitting and now has her first bruise. Leo and Finn bonded over a set of plastic rings. Margaret showed us her mobility prowess. We listened to Elizabeth Mitchell, and drank tea, and ate delicious things, and in celebrating family literacy, we spent a splendid afternoon.

Guh-gung

I have this terrible habit of finding certain things terribly funny in theory, but not considering the long-term consequences of following through on my actions. For example, when I was #143 on the holds list for Patrick Swayze's posthumous autobiography Time of My Life, it was a funny story. But that hold was going to come in sometime, and that sometime is today, and now, with all the books in my life to be read, I've got to add Time of My Life to the teetering stack. A book with such lines as, "It felt like an electric charge suddenly coursed through my body. I looked into Lisa's eyes, and it was as if I was seeing her for the first time. We moved together as one, and I felt a stirring deep in my soul." And then a few pages on, he woos her to the sounds of Bread's "Baby I'm-a Want You." When they finally have sex on page 46, "it was like a dam had broken and the flood came rushing in."

This is either going to be the best book ever, or the worst.

Expert Recommendations for Family Literacy Week: Author/Illustrator Geneviève Côté

Geneviève Côté has illustrated books for children of all ages, working with a variety of talented authors, like Janet Wong, Gilles Tibo or Susin Nielsen-Fernlund. Her own picture books include Me and You (Kids Can Press 2009), What Elephant? (Kids Can Press 2006) and With you always, Little Monday (Harcourt 2007). Her editorial art has appeared in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, l’Actualite and other publications.
 She has won several honours, including the Elisabeth Mrazik-Cleaver Award in 2005 and the General Governor’s Award for Illustration in 2007. She lives in Montreal, Quebec.

And she was kind enough to share recommendations for the following books:

1) The True Story of The Three Little Pigs! as told to Jon Scieszka and illustrated by Lane Smith: Outrageous, funny to read aloud and to play-act

2) Penny Lee and her TV by Glenn Mc Coy: Funny enough to wean small kids from TV (at least for a while)

3) The Wishing of Biddy Malone by Joy Cowley, illustrated by Christopher Denise: A tale, rather classic in form, about learning the power of working for what you wish for (thanks to something akin to placebo magic), and therefore being actually happy when you do get what you wish for.

4) The Tree of Life by Peter Sis: A picture book biography of Darwin -who would have thought he would still be a controversial figure 125 years after his death?

5) Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans: Out of nostalgia, mostly, but hey, it worked for me, for my sisters, my niece, and her daughter!

6) Bonjour Madame la Mort by Pascal Teulade, illustrated by Jean-Charles Sarrazin: This one in French. Hotly recommended most of all for any kid mourning a grandparent, but probably many other kids as well. Death here wears a flannelette nightdress, plays cards with the old lady she's come to claim, and takes silly photographs. Cartoon-like illustrations fit the text - a perfect mixture of tender, sensitive and surprisingly funny. I'd be real interested to know what you think about this one, Kerry! I heard it caused a bit of a stir when it was published, but personally I find it very appropriate.

Author Interviews @ Pickle Me This: Patricia Storms (for Family Literacy Week!)

I first encountered Patricia Storms through her blog Booklust, and I think I've only ever met her two or three times in person, but I feel as though I know her much better than two or three times would allow. She is a generous spirit who radiates such warmth and energy, she has a delightful sense of humour, and she's a talented illustrator (of books including The 13 Ghosts of Halloween, Edward and the Eureka Lucky Wish Company, and Good Granny Bad Granny) and now author/ illustrator (of her latest book The Pirate and the Penguin). I love her books, I think she's fabulous, and I'm so pleased that she's answered some of my questions about writing and illustrating picture books, and also about family literacy.

I: Funny, we call them “picture books”, but then the pictures themselves are so often regarded as secondary (that an illustrator might not receive the same credit as an author of the text, for example). What role do you think illustrations play in children’s books? And why do the illustrations get less respect?

PS: In my Utopian world, the writer and the artist would get equal-billing, since they are both so dependent on each other. Ideally, the artist (I would hope) would be more than just a hired hand doing grunt work and translating literal images onto the page from the words provided. In a good picture book, I see the illustrator as someone who takes the story to another level of delight, imagination and entertainment. The illustrator should be just as much of a story-teller as the author. But they should not be competing with each other. It makes me think of a couple in love, walking in the forest holding hands, each pointing to the different things they both see on their travels. Each person has a unique perspective, but they are still connected, and are grounded in the same environment (the story).

Perhaps 'get less respect' is a tad dramatic. (I know, I know ­ I'm the one who used this phrase in a previous email conversation. Heaven knows, I can be a tad dramatic at times). That being said, I have on occasion encountered a certain lack of appreciation for what illustrators (and might I add, especially cartoonists) do for picture books. It can be small annoying things like every time I illustrate a book I have to send a special request to Amazon so that they will add my name at the top of the book entry, following the author. Or really shocking situations like when Madonna 'wrote' all those kid's books, and the illustrators didn't have their names on the cover of the book at all (of course that is a unique and hopefully never-to-be-repeated situation by any other author). Usually it just seems to me that in terms of promotion, the writer's name gets more coverage than that of the illustrator. And yet it is called a 'picture' book. But I have to be fair, here. It's the writer who comes up with the idea for the story, and yes, the words are usually crafted long before any pictures appear. As much as I would like equal billing, I must concede that the writer is steering the ship (am I using too much cheesy imagery here? This is the wannabe hack writer coming out in me). So perhaps it is assumed that since the writer is the one who has thought of the original idea and the story, then the illustrator will never be as 'creative' as the author, and is simply following the author's lead. I would rather not see the relationship of author and illustrator in this manner. And I am starting to ramble. Next question.

I: Over the course of your career, what have you learned about the art of illustrating children’s books that would have surprised you in the beginning?

PS: I had always assumed that when an illustrator was hired to draw the pictures for a picture book manuscript, that the story was completely polished and finished at this point. But this is not always the case, and the artist may go off in some interesting directions, while editors are still actually doing last-minute edits on the story. Sometimes art can change at the last minute because of this.

I was also very surprised to find out how much control the Marketing Department (in some publishing houses) has in terms of which artist is chosen for specific projects. But I do have to remind myself that as much as I may just want to create silly, adorable pictures for kids, it is, in the end, a commercial product, and well, publishers do appreciate making money (as do I).

One aspect of this industry which really surprised me was when I was told that some big box bookstores even have editorial control over potential manuscripts and art. They are consulted by publishers and can say yea nor nay on a project, if they think it will or will not sell. They can also recommend creative changes on book covers. Frightening.

I: You’ve recently made the leap from illustrator to author too, of your most recent book The Pirate and the Penguin. Would this be a natural extension for any illustrator? Was it a natural extension for you, and why?

PS: I don't think making the leap from illustrator to author is for every artist. Not every illustrator has a gift of the written word. Some just have no interest in doing it at all (and really, why would one willingly enter into another career that has the potential to do more serious damage to one's already delicate ego?)

Becoming a picture book author was a natural extension for me, though. I have always loved words just as much as art, and I think this has a lot to do with my enduring love of cartoons and comics. In fact, that's how I learned to read ­ through cartoons, comic strips and comic books, in conjunction with picture books, of course. As a kid I wrote and drew countless comic strips, and as I got older, I enjoyed writing stories and poems and my own one-panel gag cartoons. Any chance I could get to not write a standard dull essay in high school English, and instead do something creative, I took it. (For example, in my grade 13 Canadian English course, I opted to write a musical based on Richler's The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz).

As much as I enjoy illustrating the words of others, I do have my own ideas that I would love to see come alive in a book. I sometimes have to pinch myself when I look at The Pirate and the Penguin, ­ I can't believe I've managed to get this far with my dreams. I hope I may be allowed to write and illustrate more stories in the future. But I gotta be truthful ­ for me, it's very hard, writing picture book stories. The writing is much harder to do than the art. So really, just ignore everything I was kvetching about in question one. What the hell do I know?

I: What were your favourite books as a child? What contemporary children’s books would you recommend now? And what about graphic novels?

PS: Favourite picture books as a child...hmmmmm....Dr. Suess, of course, and Harry The Dirty Dog, Curious George, Madeleine, and I adored the Nutshell Library books by Maurice Sendak. Oh, and everything by Ezra Jack Keats. I was also a big fan of Harriet The Spy, and devoured all the Freddy The Pig books. And there's a big place in my heart for Charlotte's Web, one of the most beautiful children's books ever written, I would say. I always associate the Paddington The Bear books with warmth, comfort and security. Roald Dahl, of course. And I read all the work of L.M. Montgomery many, many times when I was young. As much as I adore the Anne books, A Tangled Web and The Blue Castle are my favourites.

Books I would recommend now? I really enjoy picture books by Oliver Jeffers and Mo Willems, and Sara O'Leary's When You Were Small and Where You Came From are so lovely (and illustrated by award-winning artist Julie Morstad!). If you haven't read Carin Berger's The Little Yellow Leaf, then you must! The art and the story are so astoundingly beautiful, I nearly wept with envy when I read it. And I've been reading Rabbit & Squirrel: A Tale of War & Peas over and over again lately (written by Kara LaReau, art by Scott Magoon); I laugh every time. I'm not a fan of fantasy fiction (I've yet to crack open any Harry Potter); I tend to be drawn to more 'whimsical' books, things like The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall, The Willoughbys by Lois Lowry, and The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart. Kate DiCamillo's The Tale of Despereaux and The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane are definite must-reads.

I'd love to one day create a graphic novel, but I must confess, I need to read more of them ­ I don't feel I know enough about them. I'm a big fan of the work of Posy Simmonds, but her graphic novels aren't really for kids. Heh.

I: What do you think are the best things that families can do to promote a love of reading?

PS: The best thing a family could do to promote a love of reading? Blow up the damn TV. Seriously, (and I know I'm going to sound like a pompous grumpy old lady) if you want to encourage your kids to read, then you've got to set a good example, and read in front of them, not just to them. Have plenty of books in the house. That's the kind of environment I grew up in. Books were everywhere. I always saw my mother reading at home (it helps of course, that she's a librarian). If parents do not place great value on books and reading, why should the kids? A child should have a library card at a very early age, and going to the library should be a family ritual, as should reading stories at home, and discussing books and authors. Video games, television and computer time should be limited. I know that's an old-fashioned attitude, but too bad. It takes discipline, care and effort, end of story.

I: And on a somewhat unrelated note, but because I always want to know, what are you reading right now?

PS: Right now I am struggling with A.S.Byatt's The Children's Book, of all things. It's a long novel, and there are so many characters, and the writing is at times a tad dull and plodding, as if I am learning a history lesson. But there are lovely and rich moments, too, and I am still very intrigued and curious, and I have been assured that it will get better, so I shall soldier on. I just finished Francine Prose's Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them, and I can't stop thinking about it. I found her discussions on writing and reading so clear and concise, and so very helpful. I highly recommend it. I also recently read Marisha Pessl's Special Topics in Calamity Physics, and I can't stop thinking about that book either, but not in a good way. I'm so mad that I wasted time on such overrated pretentious pap, but part of me is also thankful for reading this mess, if for no other reason than to remind myself of what never, ever, ever to do when writing anything. And in the past few months, I have fallen in love with Philip Roth (his work, of course, not the man). I've also been enjoying a collection of old Punch cartoons, and I've always got a New Yorker issue on the go-- ­ it's a must in my house!

Our Favourite Family Reads

We're starting simple in our celebration of Family Literacy Day/Week. To kick it off, I bring you a list of our favourite books to read to our eight month-old daughter.

Though first, I'll have you know that she now has two favourite books of her own and they are Rainbow Fun and All About Me: A Baby's Guide to Babies. Sometimes she will only not cry if she is holding/eating/being read Rainbow Fun, and no other book will do. She laughs hysterically throughout A Baby's Guide to Babies. This absolutely kills me. Text is not foremost in either of these books though, so the books we like best to read to her are a little different. And they are as follows:

1) Peepo by Janet & Allan Ahlberg: I love the rhythm, I love the rhymes. I love bedroom mirror with its rainbow rim, and a mother with a baby just like him. And you could find something new hidden in the illustrations with every reread.

2) Where is the Green Sheep by Mem Fox: We've started banging on a drum during story time, and this book has the best beat poet vibe. I have given this book to every child I know. My favourite is the moon sheep and the star sheep, and Stuart loves the near and far sheep. It never gets old, or at least it hasn't yet.

3) I Kissed the Baby by Mary Murphy: It's short with strong drawings in black and white, which made it ideal for when Harriet was smaller. It's question/answer structure makes it fun to read in dialogue. I love to say, "Of course, I kissed the baby. My own amazing baby." Indeed.

4) Everywhere Babies by Susan Meyers: Harriet always laughs at the "Every day, everywhere, babies make noise" page. We kind of like the book because it has same-sex families, and we get to feel liberal and superior to those who gave it one-star ratings on amazon for that same reason. It also has a wonderful sing-song rhythm to it, adorable pictures, and an ending that makes me cry, crediting baby-people for "for trying so hard, for travelling so far, for being so wonderful, just as they are."

5) Ten Little Fingers Ten Little Toes by Mem Fox: Though I fear that this book might alienate readers with six toes on one foot, or with three thumbs, anyone with twenty digits will find this Mem Fox/Helen Oxenbury collaboration completely adorable. Page breaks in all the right places allow for optimum emphasis, narrative underlines that babies are delicious the world over, and babies learn about fingers, toes, and then receive three little kisses on their noses.

5) The Paperbag Princess by Robert Munsch: We have an abridged, indestructable board book version that is perfect for story time. Hoping our daughter takes home the message of one enterprising princess, and how she "didn't get married after all."

6) Night Cars by Teddy Jam: We love this story of an urban baby who wouldn't go to sleep, and is the reason I can often be found warning garbagemen to "be careful near that dream." Stuart particularly likes that Dad is the primary parent in this one, and that it ends with Baby asleep in his arms, albeit in the morning.

7) Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown: This is the mommy version of Night Cars at our house. I love reading it, making the "shhh" sounds (though I am often frightened by the eerie lights on in the dollhouse). And the cow jumping over the moon picture, because that was Harriet's first nursery rhyme.

8) The Lady with the Alligator Purse by Nadine Bernard Westcott: A hilarious story of three-tiered healthcare, with pizza as the best medicine. It's weird and joyful, and we read it like a song.

9) Kisses Kisses Baby-O by Sheree Fitch: I love the "Shhh, hush time. Snuggle huggle..." page the best, which features a beautiful picture of a baby breastfeeding (though unlike my baby, that one doesn't appear to be biting). Fitch manipulates language in her signature style, and the result is sheer delight. Part lullaby, part poem, and all love song.

10) On the Day You Were Born by Debra Frasier: Because of the illustrations with strong contrast and bright colours, because everything in it is true, and because it puts Baby at the centre of the universe. My favourite is the promise from gravity "that you would never float away."

So those are mine. What are yours, for babies or kids that are bigger?

Canada Reads 2010: Independently UPDATE 3

So here at Pickle Me This, Hair Hat just nudges Century out of the lead, mainly because Century isn't a book that cares about racing.

Julie Forrest reviews Katrina Onstad's How Happy To Be, and finds that "while biting and satirical, it's also tender and sweet, and reads like a coming of age story (34 is the new 24, I suppose)."

Writer Guy reads Hair Hat: "What a wonderful work this is: whimsical, sad, profound, and it captures the not-so-ordinariness of many seemingly ordinary lives."

Charlotte Ashley is reading Canada Reads AND Canada Reads independently, and pairs Nikolski against Wild Geese. Her assessment of the latter: "Contemporary participants in “Canadian realism” should read Ostenso carefully. If you’re going to make your reader hurt, you ought to give them some kind of release, otherwise what you’ve created is nothing more than beautifully written suffering porn... Ostenso does not punish us in this manner, but instead offers us a very well-considered and beautifully executed climax and conclusion. I can’t recommend this one enough."

And Wild Geese's champion Melanie Owen chats with Julie Wilson about her own Canada Reads challenge, dropping a mention of our humble imitation:"Sometimes, I feel really nervous when people ask for book recommendations. I mean, how do I know the one thing that makes me love a book isn't going to be the exact reason someone else hates it: like my love for classic, the more depressing the better, Canadian literature? When Kerry Clare asked me to recommend a book for Canada Reads Independently, it took me forever to think of something that I felt I could defend because the book you recommend says a lot about you. And, of course, I want to be liked just as much as the book I am recommending."

Well, Wild Geese is up next for me, so we shall see, Ms. Melanie Owen! I actully suspect that I really am going to love all five of these books, which is not terrible of course, but brings with it certain complications. I think that Century and How Happy to Be are going to end up treated most harshly in the judging, due to their placements at the extreme ends of the accessibility scale. Hair Hat is indeed in the running for my favourite, but then it's not all up to me, is it?

Can-Reads-Indies #2: Hair Hat by Carrie Snyder

Well-executed books of linked short stories such as Century or Hair Hat have the rare power of making the novel look mere. Mere as in only linear, one-dimensional, and narrowly focussed, which is nothing like life or like the world. Whereas the shape of a book of linked stories is like the world, or rather, like the world if it had edges-- polyhedronal. Multitudinous sides, perspectives, but only glimpses of these. And so perhaps the novel has the advantage of providing the reader with more satisfaction in its illusion of wholeness, but for the reader who is seeking something a little more true, linked short stories are as close as it gets in fiction.

The stories in Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat are linked by a man whose hair is cut into the shape of a hat. A creepy cut to ponder, and even someone standing immediately before Hair Hat Man declares the style only "plausible". Of course, I had to google it, and this guy seems to be the most famous Hair Hat Man on the internet. Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat Man, however, looks a little different. In fact, he looks a little different to everyone who encounters him, older or younger, shabby or less so, weary or sinister, friend or foe.

"Yellow Cherries" is told from the perspective of a young girl staying with her Aunt, Uncle and cousins while her mother is having a baby. A later story, "Comfort", is the Aunt's perspective of the same events, but the events subtly different, calling into question notions of memory, narrative authority and underlines the gulf between what adults and children understand about one another. "Tumbleweed" and "Third Dog" are both stories of motherhood, the first about a mother taking her children on a disasterous beach outing on the day her husband has (perhaps?) left them, and the second a grandmother taking her grandson for a walk one summer day, pondering her daughter's unhappiness as she relieves her of her maternal duties for a small time. A most vivid moment is the daughter upon their return home, (the narrative is in second person, spoken from granddaughter to grandson): "Give me the baby!" said your mother, running to the back door to greet us. "

It doesn't take much: the urgent nature of her exclaimation, that she is running, that it's the backdoor. Snyder uses her materials with such deftness that she almost makes prose look easy, and indeed Hair Hat is a breezy read. But each word, every sentence is weighted, to be considered. Such a wide range of characters, but Snyder is deliberate in showing the different ways that each one speaks.

The narrator of "Harrassment", for example, who speaks like he's spouting off, and then we realize he's erupting. He's one of several characters who are loners, for whom the Hair Hat Man is a point of connection. Queenie, the obese doughnut shop employee in "Queenie, My Heart" who has just lost her father is another, and on her second encounter with the man, on the subway, the beginnings of a romance are sparked. In subsequent stories, we view this odd pairing from afar, but there is something heartening about their relationship. We've only been watching Hair Hat Man from the periphery, observing him as an oddity, but we're beginning to connect with him too, and he's somebody we care about.

As the book progresses, we move back and forth in time to get closer to the Hair Hat Man's story. When we finally encounter him directly, he is so familiar that the hair is plausible, and perhaps the least remarkable thing about him. But still, this is only an extended glimpse. This story "Missing" is from the perspective of his long-lost daughter's own daughter now grown, given up for adoption and now returned to find him, Hair Hat Man, her grandfather. "I should have brought along a camera. I should have asked a passerby to take a photograph of the three of us. Next time, I thought. But next time is so rare. It's a hummingbird in the rose bushes: blink and its possibility is gone."

Not so much for a book, however, for like Century, Hair Hat is a book that begs for rereading. Unlike Century, it is also a book that I would have found my way to, even if not for Patricia Storms' recommendation. Carrie Snyder's book with its distinctive cover had been turning up before me increasinly often of late-- at the library, at the Eden Mills Festival in September at The New Quarterly booth where I entered a draw to win it but didn't win. Carrie Snyder had stories published in the most recent TNQ as well, and I was excited to read more of her work once I'd finished reading them.

All right, this ranking thing is terrible when all of the books in question are wonderful. Like choosing between your children, it is, when none of them have colic and they sleep for twelve hours every night. I am going to have to rank Hair Hat over Century, however, because for being less ambitious in its vision, Hair Hat realizes that vision with more success. Or perhaps that I'll have to read Century thirty-five more times before I get my head around it finally, or that no matter how many times I read it, I never will. For all my derision of readers "seeking the illusion of wholeness", perhaps I want a bit of it myself, and Hair Hat offers. But this doesn't mean, I promise, that I love Century any less.

Canada Reads Independently Rankings:
1) Hair Hat by Carrie Snyder
2) Century by Ray Smith

Kettle from a headlight

Today I loved Cut/Paste: Creative Reuse in Canadian Design, an exhibit on at the Royal Ontario Museum until the end of the month. Featuring a gorgeous quilt made out of ugly one size-fits-all t-shirts, a toaster fashioned illicitly in penitentiaries out of a cigarette tin, guitar string and a shingle, a lamp made out of a chair, jewelry made out of skateboard decks, and a coffee table made from a toboggon. But my favourite was the K-42 Electric (tea!) Kettle manufactured by GE in the 1940s. Materials were scarce due to wartime, so the kettle was made from a recycled car headlight, but it would set a standard for kettle design throughout the 1950s, and become iconic in kettlish realms. (Image taken from The Canadian Design Resource).

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley

In Alan Bradley's novel The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, our heroine, eleven year-old Flavia de Luce opines that, "Heaven must be a place where the library is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week." So that it occurs to me that heaven must also be a narrator like Flavia de Luce, who is perfectly precocious in all the right places and suitably limited in others. The latter point being particularly important, because Flavia is the first fictional detective I've ever encountered who solved the crimes slower than I did. Not that she's stupid, oh no, not Our Lady of the Periodic Table of Elements, but hers is a refreshing perspective when her youth shows through.

And yes, in this, she's much like Harriet the Spy. Or rather, Flavia is a tribute to Harriet, though I wonder how consciously? At first glance, the connections could be coincidental. Flavia is sleuthy, and keeps a notebook, and that she's charged with the spirit of her late Mother, who was called Harriet. This last point I doubt Alan Bradley means for us to interpret as Flavia being of Harriet (M. Welch) born, mostly because I don't think male readers identify with Harriet that strongly. (And this, by the way, I'd love to be wrong about).

But I encounter the following paragraph: "I was me. I was Flavia. And I loved myself, even if no one else did." And I can't help but think that Bradley was channeling his inner-Fitzhugh after all.

Flavia lives Buckshaw, a grand home outside the English village of Bishop's Lacey. Her eccentric father scarcely pays her attention, her older sisters torture her mercilessly, the entire household lives under a shroud of sadness from her mother's death, but Flavia contents herself mixing poisonous concoctions in her chemistry lab at the top of the house. When a dead bird lands on the doorstep, however, with a postage stamp stuck through its beak, and then then a body turns up in the cucumber bed in the garden, Flavia is aware that life is about to get interesting for the very first time. And when her father is arrested with murder, she becomes all the more determined to solve the crime herself and clear his name.

Bradley writes Flavia tongue-in-cheek, his novel a send-up of detective fiction, but he manages to create a rather intriguing mystery all the same. Involving philately, libraries, English reticence, postmistresses-- a whole host of infinitely nerdy pleasures. A whimsical book, Bradley writes gorgeous turns of phrase to match-- my favourite was when Flavia steps into her dead mother's long-undisturbed bedroom and feels as though she were "an umbrella remembering what it feels like to pop open in the rain."

The Sweetness in the Bottom of the Pie is a book built on a the back of other books, on the back of a whole literary tradition, and its charm lies in its references to a world already much beloved. The connections it draws and its own twisty plot make for a deliciously readable delight.

An admission and some understanding

I have an admission to make, one that will win me no friends. And while usually I do not knock the books I hate here, this book is so well-loved, I think it can take it. I HATE The Number One Ladies Detective Agency. I got this book free out of a cereal box in 2003 (true story!), and have received it as a gift no less than three times since then. I read it once and found it so boring, I found it offensive, not credible as literature. And I know this will rankle many a reader now, because people love Precious Ramotswe and Alexander McCall Smith, but for the life of me, I could never undertand why.

Until now. I get it now! I still hate The Number One Ladies Detective Agency, but I think my love of Flavia de Luce and The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie is analogous to how other readers must feel about Precious and Number One... And not just because they're both books with colonial flavour, written by old white men in unlikely voices (whether they be those of Botswanan lady detectives, or eleven year-old English girls). I think neither book is meant to ring especially true, authenticity is not the object, that these books get by on their charm, and charming is most definitely in the eye of the beholder.

Stay tuned for a review of Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie from the perspective of this beholder. I loved that book indeed.

Escape the ego

I was surprised to be impressed by Elizabeth Gilbert in her recent Chatelaine interview. I am one of those irritating people who has never read Eat Pray Love but holds strong opinions about it anyway, so the interview was the first time I'd ever been exposed to Gilbert directly (as opposed to via one of her ardent devotees). She seemed terrifically level-headed about the impact of her book upon her fans, noting that readers who'd decided to follow in her eating, praying, loving footsteps were probably insane. She had smart things to say about women and their expectations for relationships, for happiness. But what I noted most of all was the following: “I don’t think women today read for escape; they read for clues."

I loved that. Because it's exactly the way I read, I think, to break it down and enable me to see the world in miniature, as manageable. Which, however conversely, is to be able to look at the big picture and regard it all at once, perhaps for the very first time. Fiction is a study in the hypothetical, a test-run for the actual. An experiment. What if the world was this? And we can watch the wheels turn and this bit of sample life run its course to discover. And I don't mean that literature is smaller than life, no. Literature is life, but it's just life you can hold in your hand, stick in your backpack, and I'm reassured by that, because the world is messy and sprawling, but if you take it down to the level of story, I am capable of some kind of grasp. Of beginning to understand what this world is, how to be in it. Certainly, I read for clues.

But then Elizabeth Gilbert went and ruined the whole thing, continuing, "The criticism of memoirs is that people read them to be voyeurs. But a lot of people read them for help and answers and perspective.” So she wasn't actually talking about fiction, which takes the wind of out of my sails, and now she's relegated reading in general to the self-help rack. Which is boring, troubling, limiting. So there ends my love affair with Elizabeth Gilbert, perhaps because I'm skeptical of memoirs and the kind of truth any reader might hope to find there.

And then I came across this video of Fran Lebowitz on Jane Austen (who Lebowitz says is popular for all the wrong reasons). Lebowitz says, “To lose yourself in a book is the desire of the bookworm, to be taken. And that’s my desire... [which] may come from childhood. The discovery of the world, which I discovered in a library-- I lived in a little town and the library was the world. This is the opposite way that people are taught to read now. People are consistently told, 'What can you learn about your own life from the novel?' 'What lessons will this teach you?' 'How can you use this?' This is a philistine idea, this is beyond vulgar, and I think this is it is an awful away to approach anything… A book is not supposed to be a mirror. It’s supposed to be a door.”

Which was something I could get behind. I was finished with Elizabeth Gilbert, and was about to jump on the Fran Lebowitz reading-wagon, when it occured to me, "To lose yourself in a book is the desire of the bookworm, to be taken." And is that not the very definition of "escape"? Escapism, which is all about stupid women reading pink shoe novels on the beach, with Fran Lebowitz alongside them? I couldn't see it.

But escapism is surely what she's advocating, however much "the world" is what she is escaping to. And it occurs to me that Elizabeth Gilbert's clue-seeking readers are escapists just as much, however in a far more literal sense. That they're plotting a way out of their humdrum lives, just as Lebowitz was doing back at that small town library. Searching for different kind of place for themselves.

Do I read for escape? I don't know. Does reading for fun count as escape? Does reading to relax? Interestingly, the books I'd read for fun or relaxation are those that would make me "lose myself" the least, which would make them the least escapist of all. I just finished The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, for example, which was fun and fluffy as you like, but Century is a book that's more taken me away of late. You wouldn't call it escapist though, because that's such a pejorative term, but now that I've thought about it, I'm not so sure it should be, and it's becoming increasingly clear to me that the divide is not so firm at all.

It's about time for a Diana Athill reference, I think. Though she's a memoirist like Elizabeth Gilbert, and one that people rave about with just as much enthusiasm, but for some reason I actually do plan to read Athill's memoir one of these days, and I trust the wisdom implicit in what she has to say. My impression is that by reading Athill, we learn about the world through her prism, where in reading Eat Pray Love, we get Elizabeth Gilbert over and over. (Forgive me as I speculate about two books I haven't read. And correct me if I'm wrong). Perhaps also it's important that Athill is old and has years of experience, while Gilbert just once took a really great vacation.

Athill is quoted as saying, “Anything absorbing makes you become not 'I' but 'eye'--you escape the ego.” And so is this the kind of escape we're talking about? What Lebowitz is after? That with the best kind of books we get the world, get out of ourselves for a while, forget our problems.

Perhaps reading is a bit like love. Just when we're not actively out looking for "help, answers and perspective", that's when we might actually stand a chance of finding it.

Apart from the soul

"The fortunate thing about lab glassware is that it boils water at the speed of light. I threw a spoonful of black leaves into a beaker. When it had gone a deep red I handed it to Dogger, who stared at it skeptically.
'It's all right,' I said. 'It's Tetley's.'
He sipped at the tea gingerly, blowing on the surface of the drink to cool it. As he drank, I remembered that there's a reason we English are ruled more by tea than by Buckingham Palace or His Majesty's Government: Apart from the soul, the brewing of tea is the only thing that sets us apart from the great apes-- or so the Vicar had remarked to Father, who had told Daffy, who had told me." --from The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley

Pre-Swiftian Love Story

Poet P.K. Page, who died last week, has been eulogized aplenty since then, and I don't really have much to add to the chorus, except that she was certainly an extraordinary person (as demonstrated by this brilliant obituary by Sandra Martin at the Globe & Mail) and I'm glad I got to meet her once. Though I spent only a little time in her presence, that presence was unforgettable and she was everything they said.

Less eulogized, however, has been Erich Segal, author of the novel Love Story, who died the other day at the age of 72. When I was twelve, I found a library copy of this novel in a desk at school (checked out under someone else's name) and I stole it. Proceeded then to worship it through my unlovable teen years in hope that a hockey-playing, MG-driving, heir to a great fortune might just fall in love with me before I died of leukemia, even though I was neither Ali McGraw nor a musical prodigy. Even though I didn't love Mozart or Bach, but I did love The Beatles, and I would have loved Oliver too, given the chance.

I haven't read this book for quite awhile, but I read it so often back in the day that my original copy fell apart and I had to replace it (which wasn't difficult. Love Story is always readily available used, usually displayed along with poetry collections by Rod McKuen). I am pretty sure that Love Story was not a great book, but I really loved it, and I must give credit to the man who wrote the book I've probably read more often than I'll reread any other book in my life.

Though the book was wrong, and love does mean having to say you're sorry, as unromantic as that sounds, but seeing as Jenny was only 25 when she died, perhaps she just didn't have long enough to figure that out.

Egg on the face

Book charm

On an ordinary day, Old Books, Rare Friends: Two Literary Sleuths and Their Shared Passion would have been the most interesting book of any stack I picked up from the library. (I found out about this book from the Louisa May Alcott bio. It has the best cover I have ever seen. And that I am excited about a book with such a cover really does catapult me into a new league of nurd. Fortunately, I'll keep it to myself and no one will ever know...).

But today was the day I also came home from the library with the gorgeous Bothered by My Green Conscience, the less gorgeous might be stupid but it was sitting on a table so I picked it up Sleep is For the Weak: The best of the mommybloggers, and Sheree Fitch's book of poetry for adult readers In this house are many women.

And just when you thought books couldn't be anymore charming, I've just joined the league of people who've discovered Flavia de Luce. Now reading the Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley, which I have a terrible suspicion might be a literary love letter only for me: literary Harriets, a nod to Harriet the Spy herself (perhaps not on purpose, but still...), references to tea, and to pie, and literary allusions, and libraries to get lost in, plus she has a bike called Gladys. When I used to have a bike called Gladys, pink with a basket when we lived in Japan. Anyway, the connections are uncanny, delightful, and maybe Alan Bradley and I are long-lost somethings. The book is wonderful. I'm zipping through it and will be posting a review in days to come.

Books in Motion #2

Today was a girl in her twenties, carrying a shoulder bag with a picture of a golden retriever puppy on it, racing across Bloor Street on foot and then heading south on Robert Street. Didn't even stop to talk, and all the while she had her nose stuck in a copy of The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne as if her life depended on it, and maybe it did.

Family Literacy ALL WEEK LONG

Next Wednesday (January 27th) is Family Literacy Day, but we're turning it into a week-long celebration here at Pickle Me This. Stay tuned for lots of children's literature love, including an interview, a party and a fieldtrip. Check out their website to find an event where you can take part, or register your own.

Plenty of novels to choose from

"As with most [Lorrie] Moore characters, her dialogue-- witty, allusive, never merely expository-- is less a reflection of how real people speak than how they should. (This is sometimes said as a criticism of Moore, but it shouldn't be. For readers who prefer their narrators to be drearily realistic mediocrities, there are plenty of novels to choose from)." --Deborah Friedell, "The Family That Slays Together" (review of The Gate at the Stairs) in the London Review of Books, 19 November 2009.

Canada Reads 2010: Independently UPDATE 2

I'm going to be reading Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat in just a book or two, which I'm looking forward to, particularly to seeing how another collection of linked stories compares to Century. Perhaps the most frustrating thing about this kind of exercise is having to compare books that are worlds apart, and yet it is looking for commonalities that opens up all kinds of avenues that might not otherwise be explored. It is definitely, I think, a worthwhile exercise.

Though it's going to be tough-- last year, when I read the Canada Reads books, at least I had the benefit of hating one book, and not being terribly impressed by two others, which made deciding my favourite not altogether difficult. Probably my feelings towards this year's picks are going to be a little more passionate, and rankings will be infinitely more brutal to decide.

My other updates are fairly close to home-- my husband is currently reading and loving Moody Food. This week, my mom has read How Happy to Be and Wild Geese, and was pretty crazy about the latter. Steven W. Beattie dares to offer a bit of support to Ray Smith's Century with a wonderful comment on my review. Century champion Dan Wells' responds to my Century reaction. And I know some other marvelous readers with the Canada Reads Independently stack just ready to be delved into; are you one of them?

If you're reading along, do email me your reactions to the books and I'll include them in the weekly updates, or leave a comment on the blog. And stay tuned for details of how to vote for your favourite Canada Reads Independently pick to decide who comes out on top.

Kiss the Joy as it Flies by Sheree Fitch

Two and half days of my last week were spent in the absolute bliss of reading Sheree Fitch's first novel Kiss the Joy as it Flies (shortlisted for the 2009 Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour). I'd previously only read Fitch's wonderful children's book Kisses Kisses Baby-O!, but love it so much that when I discovered Fitch had written a novel for adult readers, I had to read it. Though I began reading with a degree of uncertainty: the story of Mercy Beth Fanjoy, who receives a troubling medical prognosis and decides to stage a clear-out of her messy life in the time she has left. This sort of formula could go either way, and very quickly in, I was pleased to find Fitch had gone in the right one, with sprightly prose and a narrative packing a punch. The novel is wonderfully original, although if pressed, I'd have to call it as Fannie Flagg meets Miriam Toews.

In Kiss the Joy as it Flies, it's not so much plot that accelerates as the language itself operating on sheer gumption, and the spirit of Mercy Fanjoy picking up speed as she comes into her own. Though things happen-- people die, hopes are dashed, love is born, battles are fought, illusions are shattered, triumphs are won, and lessons learned. The stuff of life with a wacky cast of characters who are constructed as types-- religious zealot mother, loyal friend, hippie daughter, enigmatic dead father, sex god-- but each of them excellently crafted with the most remarkable ability to surprise you.

Mercy Fanjoy is wholly embodied by Fitch's prose. The fact of the disease that lurks inside her, and her buxomness, and her sexuality, and when she expresses milk from her engorged breasts into the bathtub during a flashback in which she remembers her teenaged, single-mothered, basement-apartmented self. Two decades on, Mercy has come a long way-- she's reconciled with her difficult mother, earned a university degree, she pens her own column in the Odell Observer, has raised her daughter, bought her own house, teaches a creative writing course, and has maintained a lifelong relationship with her best friend Lulu. She still holds a grudge against horrible Teeny Gaudet (who has since gone onto fame as bestselling author of the "Burt the Burping Bear" series of children's books), but you can't win them all.

Over the week she seeks to put her life in order, Mercy finds herself becoming unhinged, and emerging from a rut she's been stuck in too long. In the end, just about everybody in her life surprises her, but she manages to shock them right back, tenfold. And while it's raw, we'll get our hearts warmed, and Fitch also pulls of a satire so slick, we can't help laughing, and I suppose that this is what she means by "the sheer mad joy of all of it."

Clearest, starkest brilliance #1: When Randy Bachman held my heart

Harriet is pictured here in her very early days, back when a moment of daytime peace was worth a photo for posterity. But lately, actually, I've been thinking of a certain moment of nighttime peace, when Harriet was about five days old.

For the first few weeks of her life (how long exactly doesn't matter, suffice it to say, it was an eternity), we had to wake her every three hours for feeding, as she'd not yet returned to her birthweight. (This was when I was reading Tom's Midnight Garden and "Only the clock was left, but the clock was always there, time in, time out.") And once the alarm went off, we'd leave the radio playing while we fed her, and so we discovered that CBC at night subscribes to programs by other public broadcasters. The Australian Broadcasting Corporation at 1:00am, and 4:00am would be Swedish, and something uptight and BBC close to the morning.

This one night in particular was not so late, however, and I remember waking up to Randy Bachman's Vinyl Tap. So there we were, up with our baby daughter in this weird, wide world that was the size of our bedroom's four walls and we hadn't thought outside of it in five whole days, which might have been a lifetime (and they were). So that, in effect, Randy Bachman was coming at us from the farthest reaches of outer space.

Fittingly, his show that night had a stars and planets theme, and Canada felt very small as Randy's wife Denise introduced the next track, by Randy's son Tal. Surprisingly, it was not "She's So High", and Denise reported that she'd always felt so envious of Tal's talent. And then after that they played music that wasn't by anyone related to Randy Bachman, which I think was "Blue Moon"(and according to the program log, I'm remembering this in the wrong order, but that doesn't change the way it was). They played "Good Morning Starshine", and we marvelled at the lyric "Gliddy glub gloopy, Nibby nabby noopy, La la la lo lo." It was midnight, but it might as well have been the middle of the night, and the baby was sucking sustenance out of a tube stuck to my husband's finger, but anyway, we were happy.

But no more so than when they played "Little Star" by the Elegants. Our own peculiar lullaby, to which we found ourselves relaxing for the first time in days. Twinkle, twinkle to a doo-wop beat, and the moment was so beautiful, it shone. We were a family. And I wouldn't take back any of the awfulness of those early days, if I had to give that song back with it, and what it was like to be listening, and finally not anxious, and to be connected, in touch with a calm, blissful world.

Can-Reads-Indies #1: Century by Ray Smith

Its sombre cover coupled with my misunderstanding that Ray Smith had eschewed story for higher principles would have kept me from Century: A Novel, were it not for Dan Wells' recommendation. I thought this was a book that wasn't for me, not only in a "not my cup of tea" sense, but that it was meant for a more erudite kind of reader for whom the act of reading is not meant to be a pleasure cruise ("Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song... Wallala leialala").

So it is my surprise to find I love this book, that it contains everything I look for as a reader, including that most unfashionable self-contained universe. That Smith may have eschewed traditional narrative structure, but he has done so only to compress a 500+ page novel into his first 98 pages, to represent the disintegration and disorder present in the universe the book contains, to have Century be what it's meant to represent. And that his writing possesses a sympathy for and understanding of women that I found surprising, and striking, and even (dare I suppose in a book such as this?) somewhat heartening.

Heinrich Himmler didn't shock me. Perhaps I'm just being defiant in my reactions, but Jane Seymour, the young woman in 197o's Montreal who receives his ghostly visitations in her bed, the nightmares in which he touches her naked body (but oh, I was struck by the details-- "the buttons on the cuffs of his sleeve caught on the sheet when he reached under to touch...")-- there is context for her, precedent. Of course, her friends suppose that she has undergone a trauma, perhaps she has been raped, which has led to the visions, which leads to her suicide. And that may be so, but the whole thing is the extreme end, I think, of how ordinary girls become obsessed with Nazism, which manifests in more usual terms with an Anne Frank fascination and YA books about the Holocaust. As a kind of dangerous experiment in empathy, though of course the Holocaust is so sanitized in such literature, but there is a thin line there, and I just think that Jane Seymour has crossed it for one reason, or for many.

But now I'm off on a kind of tangent. Kenniston Thorson, protagonist of the latter half of Century (and perhaps Jane Seymour's grandfather) goes off on something similar, its conclusions more succinct than mine, but this result, he is told, "comes not from your mind wandering, but rather from your mind turning its subject round and round as a sculptor considers his piece". Which is a good way to describe a reading and/or consideration of Century for two reasons: one, because it has so many angles, perspectives that I don't think it could be taken in all at one time, as one thing; and two, because in reading Century, the reader does become sculptor, a book so fragmented requiring its reader to engage by putting the pieces together, thus coming to recreate it in their own way (so I am very sure that your Century will be altogether different from mine).

"The truth is to be found in the way many different things fit together in relation to one another. In a sense, because the relationship, not the parts, has the truth, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts." Though Century is doubly complicated in that its parts are so much apart, and yet this makes the relationships between them all the more remarkable. Between the first four stories in the book's first half "Family", which in various ways tell of Jane Seymour's family. The first story about the troubled Jane from the perspective of a male acquaintance who sees her problems as emblematic of women in general during these difficult times, the second story of Jane's brother and his reunion with his wife following a period of estrangement, the third of Jane's father after the death of his wife and at the end of a long career in African development and international diplomacy as he ponders what he has made of himself, and fourth about Jane's mother some years earlier and we learn that her husband truly didn't know her at all (and that though he suspects he didn't know her, he has no idea just how much).

The second half of the book "Continental" is in two parts, from the perspective of American Kenniston Thorson, in Paris 1892, and Germany in 1923. Written as a period piece meant to be Jamesian (and where all the women talk like women in TS Eliot poems, sometimes deliberately word-for-word), the pace is different here, story less the point. And though the concerns of Kenniston and other characters intriguingly overlap with those from "Family", I chose to see this part of the novel as a key to the first half. That is, in Kenniston Thorson's conversations and deliberations about art, music, history and even French Onion Soup, we achieve an understanding of what Smith is accomplishing in "Family", of how we might put its fragments together and regard them (or how we might choose not to and why).

But being a reader who seeks story, who traces plot, I did note the connection between Kenniston Thorson and Gwen Seymour, and I seized to that in order to steady myself. And though the plot was moving backward here, it didn't matter, for we look back at history in just this way. To see that Ray Smith has encapsulated a century (and not just "a" century, but "the" century) in a scant 165 pages, in the story of a family, of a marriage, of just one single woman.

And that woman doesn't even exist, "there never was a Jane Seymour." And as a reader who seeks story, who traces plot, this kind of trick didn't deter me one bit, because I am also a reader who tries with reading to make sense of the world, and such blurred metafictional lines are the best way to do so: "These encounters enable me to hold the phantasm and the reality in my mind at the same time; this is much more interesting than either one alone."

Century's is a pessimistic vision, "a world that bears too much truth". A world in which the weight of being a woman leads to suicide, where imaginary gardens are not enough to shore against one's ruins, where politics are an unchanging morass, and rapists are ordinary men, where "if man is only appetite: then all is barbarism..." And yet.

Always "and yet", because there is art at all made of it. Because at the beginning of the novel (which is close to the end in a sense, which is "now"), we find men and women finally not in opposition and that there is empathy; and because of the last line of the second story (which just might be the end, this is a novel in fragments after all and we can do with them what we may): "and they lived fairly happily for quite a while afterwards." Which is really the best we can hope for in this life.

And is Century a novel? I vote yes, because its truth indeed lies in how its pieces relate to one another. Because I read the Gwen story "Serenissima" on its own once upon a time, and it seemed to "just be another piece of improbable pornography", but it the context of the rest of the book, I knew everything about her and she broke my heart.

Anyway, it occurs to me that this response to Century has done it no favours. That its biggest problem is that no one is ever going to to say, "Hey, read this" with a snappy one-sentence reason why. That it raises questions without answers, and begins an engagement that is unceasing, and it's more like someone handing you pieces of a puzzle than recommending you a book. Except you get to rearrange the pieces over and over again, which is infinitely more interesting, but frustrating too.

It will be hard to compare this book to others, because its level of engagement is on its own kind of plane. I'm not sure whether this will be points for or against it when it comes time to rank it against the other books. Apples to oranges perhaps (though both are delicious). So I'm glad I read it first, and I'm glad I read it at all, and I do hope I'm passing something on of its spirit, and others are inspired to read it too.

Canada Reads Independently Rankings:
1) Century by Ray Smith