Queenly

I had $5 leftover on my book voucher, so after dinner last night with my Mom and Sis, Stu and I ducked into Bad Blue Bookstore and I purchased The Sea House by Esther Freud out of the bargain bin. So that was exciting. Also, now reading The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood. The classics (Classics?) don't normally interest me, which I will admit is one of my greatest flaws, but I thought the contemporary language might have the story appeal to me. And so far it's working. In fact The Penelopiad has a great deal in common with Drabble's The Red Queen, both written in modern voices by long dead women, famous for their husbands. I look forward to reading how the similarities diverge or continue.

A brilliant article here on Angela Carter, Japan, a Toronto Authors' festival, and the expatriate writer, the writer as an outsider. Which of course is right up my alley.

Moral Disorder by Margaret Atwood

1) In 2006, the prolific Margaret Atwood has released three books: The Penelopiad which reworks the Ulysses myth from Penelope's point of view; The Tent, a collection of fable-like stories and poems; and Moral Disorder, a collection of connected short stories. I've read them all. They were all excellent. Most people are lucky to publish three good books in a lifetime.

2) Last night, as we were lying in bed, I read my husband the story "Moral Disorder" from the book of the same name. My husband and I don't usually read to one another; we're just not that way inclined. Originally, I just wanted to read him a passage from the story but I couldn't stop and he didn't want me to, and by the end of the story we were laughing so hard, we were crying. The best bit was the haunted peacock. This is Margaret Atwood. Remember Margaret Atwood- the dark, bleak, feminist man-hater (as you no doubt learned when you read Handmaid's Tale at school?) Margaret Atwood is a first class comedian.

3) At the end of her story "The Entities", Margaret Atwood writes, "But what else could I do with all that? thinks Nell, wending her way back to her own house. All that anxiety and anger, those dubious good intentions, those tangled lives, that blood. I can tell about it or I can bury it. In the end, we'll all become stories. Or else we'll become entities. Maybe it's the same." I cite this passage, as Moral Disorder has been remarked on profusely for being quite autobiographical in its content, and herein lies the clue. I don't see this book as autobiographical, but it is clear thoughout Atwood's oeuvre that she mines her own life for stuff. Not her own experiences particularly, although they do appear, but more objects and settings. Having just read Cat's Eye, Moral Disorder, and now rereading Lady Oracle, this is quite apparent. And I think it's really fascinating to understand the different ways authors use their own lives in their work, and rather than supplying us with the story of Atwood, Moral Disorder provides insight into this process.

4) In addition, I don't think a story such as "Moral Disorder" could have been written unless it came from some experience, or combination of experience. That sort of story is too absurd to be imagined, and could only be captured by someone who has lived through it. I'm just guessing.

5) I think Moral Disorder is essentially a novel. The stories all could stand alone (and they do-- I'd read two in previous Toronto Life Fiction Issues) but the links are essential, a chronology is present. This book is a novel in the way that Lives of Girls and Women is a novel, though I think as a novel Atwood's book actually works better.

6) I have written this entry as a list, to reflect my confusion about short story collections and how they should be reviewed. I could treat this book like the novel I believe it is, and sum up the narrative trajectory, but somehow that feels cheap. And my automatic response to this work was indeed rent and chaptered, as you can see. So it's not completely a novel, but I stress its novel-like tendencies so those of you who dislike short story collections will not be put off this most excellent reading experience.

7) I could say this. Some short stories are not meant for collection, and might be happier wandering free. The stories in Moral Disorder, on the other hand, belong together. They centre around a character called Nell, and begin with the story "Bad News" in a present day, which takes a page from The Tent in form and content, I thought. From the second story, we return to Nell's childhood and the stories continue in first-person until about half-way through when I becomes Nell (and her house is possessed by a lovesick peacock). She grows up, falls in love, struggles with the realities of modern love ala David Bowie (well, no David Bowie but you know, it's the seventies). The last two stories of the collection beautifully deal with the decline of Nell's parents and her relationships with them, and contribute to the circular structure of this collection. A fascinating dynamic is apparent, as Nell is caring for the ailing parents and their roles are reversed, and yet she is more a child than she ever was, because this is how they know and remember her.

8) This was a deeply satisfying book.

From here and there

The Penelopiad is being remade for the stage. And though it happened awhile back, John Steffler is Canada's new poet laureate (and I liked his novel.)

In terms of non-fiction, I'm reading uTOpia at the moment, which is interesting in parts, but terribly obnoxious in others (one person wrote an essay about how he was connected to each of the forces of Toronto's cultural renaissance [ie someone was his second cousin, though they'd only become acquainted recently, and he used to go to parties at so and so's house, etc etc] which I think was supposed to have a point beyond that but I missed it).

The big news is that Bronwyn's back in town, and showers galore are the theme of the holidays. As matron of honour, I have organized a fete for Saturday afternoon, but then I can't say anything more because it's a surprise. Just that it's bookish. We're keeping holiday gatherings to a minimum, as I've got a lot of work to do these days. Tomorrow night, however, I am learning how to make risotto, which is exciting. We're getting to the end of the Christmas baking, like the gluttons we are. I realized I made it a week earlier this year, which probably wasn't the best idea.

The Door by Margaret Atwood

I do not possess the authority necessary to fairly review any book of poems, let alone Margaret Atwood's The Door. First, I picked up the collection and read the poems straight through, the way you aren't supposed to. I need to read them again, I need to read the book backwards, or upside-down, or something. However that one such as I, not possessing poetic authority, can pick up this collection and enjoy it-- "accessible" has become such a bad word, but what about "appreciatable" with its various connotations?

Many people will read these poems for their poet, which might seem troublesome, but then I find nothing troublesome about people reading poems. Atwood has been prolific of late, with her story collections Moral Disorder and the more unconventional The Tent, her retelling of The Odyssey in The Penelopiad, and Writing With Intent, a collection of nonfiction, all published within the past two years. But Atwood was a poet first, so her poems should not be overlooked, and this collection seems very in keeping with the general sense of her other recent work. In "Another visit to The Oracle", she writes: "There's so much I could tell you/ if I felt like it. Which I do less and less./ I used to verbalize a mile a minute,/ but I've given it up. It's/ too hard to turn the calories into words,/ as you'll find find out too if you live/ long enough."

Indeed physically Atwood's once-sprawling texts have grown very slim. The poem goes on, "So I've had to edit. I've taken up/ aphorism. Cryptic, they say./ Soon I'll get everything down to one word./ All crammed in there, very/ condensed you understand, like an/ extremely small black star. Like a black/ hole." Lately Atwood seems to have banished superfluity, and in its place has appeared such a broad canvas of considerations that conciseness is only necessary. Her latest poems range from the personal ("My mother dwindles...") to the political ("A poor woman learns to write"). She writes of environmental disaster, war and destruction, of art, aging, life and literary celebrity. She writes, "The dog has died./ This has happened before./ You got another;/ not this time though."

Throughout this volume we receive glimpses of that titular door as it swings open and shut. "The door swings open,/ you look in./ It's dark in there..." Death, it seems, is what lies behind, and it seems also that her own glimpses are driving Atwood forward. No time for epics, with so much to say. And so perhaps a poem is the perfect package for a message, the whole world rendered tiny and wrapped up in words. To be unwrapped and unwrapped, again and again, in a thousand different ways.

Fun Without Prairie Fiction

We had a grand old time last night at the echolocation Halloween Party, and we were truly humbled by the amazing costumes assembled there. We didn't dress up. We are lame. I did, however, give my secret party trick the light of day (or night?) and composed two spontaneous folk songs- one about the Filthy Federlines and the other about robotic dogs (naturally). They were received warmly and I did so enjoy the night out. On the walk there, my mind was shouting to the beats of my feet, "Need drink. Need drink. etc." Drink was had. Delicious.

In my previous entry, when I mentioned that The Diviners was one of "those books", I meant that it is a book I intend to be revisiting as long as visiting hours are open. What I had neglected to realize, of course, is that it is also one of "those books" in the sense of the dreaded Prairie Fiction. Remember how Prairie Fiction nearly drove me to defenestration one month ago? Now, it is distinctly possible that my Prairie Fiction issues are linked to my menstrual cycle, but I think there is something further than that. I learned recently about certain types of fiction that cause post-traumatic stress disorder in readers, and I really think Prairie Fiction does that for me. I am not being completely dramatic. Books do tend to make their impressions upon me (ie when I read Fight Club and became psychotic?) I loved The Diviners, but it stirred something up in me that needs to be left alone in order me to be functional. I become overwrought. Sarah Harmer wrote "I'm a Mountain'; I'd love to hear "I'm a Prairie" and find out what it has to say, and then maybe I could get to the root of the problem.

I am now reading Laurie Colwin's Goodbye Without Leaving which should calm me down a bit.

Two fabulous acquisitions in our house: Atwood's The Penelopiad (which I read last winter and loved) and a pastry marble!

Rapture

One really wonderful thing about book writing is inventing characters who are different from you, and then getting to learn about all the things that fascinate them. A character in my new story is a civil engineer, and a specialist in tall buildings and so I am having to learn all about that. And because my main character is a bored wife during the 1970s, I am going to learn macrame so that my character can learn how to do it too. Last night I spent far too long searching old Globe and Mails for references to the CN Tower during the 1970s, which has proved interesting for two reasons. First, the 1970s were terrible! As I have said a million times, as one who came of age in the 1990s, the 2000s has been a come-down. But the 70s was all car-bombs, all the time, and they exploded everywhere. Or at least that is the sense I got. The other interesting thing was how unanimously excited Torontonians seemed to be about a 553 metre tower appearing right in the middle of their city. I was expecting dissent and controversy, but maybe the 70s were different. And everyone I've spoken to remembers when Olga the Helicopter finally put the top on. Did you know that the CN Tower was five inches taller than it was supposed to be? Another very exciting thing is that we're going to have to take a trip up the tower, expense or no expense. For research purposes you know.

Now reading a lot of poetry. How exciting. I got Rapture by Carol Ann Duffy out of the library yesterday. Also reading Minus Time by Catherine Bush. And soon I'll be starting "After the Victorians: The Decline of Britain in the World" by AN Wilson, which looks absolutely fascinating.

More thoughts about appropriation, upon finishing Margaret Atwood's "The Penelopiad". First, it was a wonderful work and made the Greek world alive to me like nothing ever has before. And second, it was so much like The Red Queen, it was eerie and I think studying the two works together would be fascinating. But I wonder, if Drabble lacked the authority to write Princess Hong, can Atwood really write Penelope? Is the difference that there are no longer any Ancient Greeks to do so, and therefore nobody left to steal from? Is the difference racial or temporal? What is the difference between 200 years and 2000 though, really?

Politically, the only thing that I'm really bothered about is the smug look on the faces of those people who think that it all went downhill with Trudeau.

Interesting stories, Google firewalling China, and even though sometimes the lack of spice in Canadian scandals bores me, why sex scandals are a bad thing. Less interestingly, Leah McLaren's book is ready and she's on the publicity trail.