Category: american authors

#2 – Eating Animals

In preparation for our Vegan Smackdown 2010 (here’s our very first video podcast), I read Jonathan Safran Foer’s Eating Animals this past weekend. I’ve been a “selective omnivore” and a “passive vegetarian” for the majority of my life. Despite turning vegetarian when I was about twelve (in a shocking moment of tween tempestuous in response to my mother serving me a piece of almost-rare roast beef), I’ve always eaten fish (albeit with no regularity), and started eating chicken (from Rowe Farms or the Healthy Butcher) about a year ago.

At first, it was about the animals — we grew up listening to “Meat is Murder” and were very into Morrisey. Then, when I was diagnosed with the disease and learned that too much protein was terribly hard on your kidneys, that sort of clenched it for me. The environmental concerns came last — for, like Safran Foer, I still had idyllic images of farmers in mind when I thought of chickens, cows and pigs. Fast Food Nation opened my eyes a little. The Omnivore’s Dilemma was also good. But Safran Foer’s book has had me thinking and mulling over my eating choices for days.

Sure, he’s making a point. Sure, he wants people to become vegetarians, that much is obvious. But even though I realize I’m being pursuaded by an incredibly convincing narrative, there are truths about this book that are unavoidable. We, as a society, do not think, properly debate with ourselves, about where things come from. We consume. We package. We shop. We eat. We sleep. We get up and do it all over again. And as so much of our lives has been managed for us by giant companies whose only responsibility seems to be to their shareholders, it seems impossible to try to step outside and make a difference.

Factory farming, as its described in the book, is abhorrent. The socio-economic, environmental and philosophical implications of being so separate from that which sustains us can’t but have an irrevocable impact on human society. That’s not to mention the impossible suffering that the animals who give their lives to ensure we get up, walk around, go to work, entertain ourselves and keep us healthy endure. Yes, I like to think I buy responsible meat (from a local butcher who sources from local farms when at the cottage; from The Heathy Butcher or Rowe’s in the city), I still can’t get my head around the fact that industry is ruining the sheer sustainability of our lives, of my nephew’s life.

The fact that we are destroying the ocean at record-breaking pace to keep shrimp on the table and frozen in aisles of the grocery store makes me furious. The fact that hundreds of thousands of species are decimated by fishing techniques makes me want to row entire populations out to the middle of the ocean so they can see what soon won’t be there. Imagine not seeing the whales in Tofino? Imagine sea horses being a thing of encyclopedias? I can’t. I don’t want to. Words matter. Calling senseless killing “by-product” doesn’t erase the fact that for every piece of fish on the table, hundreds needlessly litter the oceans because of impatient and irresponsible companies looking to make a profit. Is there sustainable fish to eat? I think I’m going to turn to Taras Grescoe’s Bottomfeeder for the answer. But, until then, I will not eat another piece of fish.

After our two-week Vegan Smackdown comes to a close, I’ll probably still continue to selectively eat what little chicken I do eat — but I’ll never buy it in a grocery store. I’ll never not take the time to make a separate trip to Rowe’s or the Healthy Butcher. And, it’s not like I do this anyway, but I certainly won’t be eating any chicken I absolutely don’t know the providence of.

I thought I was doing well by gardening. After all, growing my own food has given me a solid understanding of how much hard work goes in to keeping a garden that will actually feed me and my husband for most of the summer. It’s not easy. It’s worth celebrating every time a pull fresh green beans and steam them up for dinner. But knowing that the butter my RRHB smothers them with was made using factory farmed milk would turn their taste sour in my mouth. How can I avoid butter for the rest of my life? Is buying organic butter enough? Is it enough to do that small thing?

I don’t have any answers to the numerous questions the book brought to the forefront. It a persuasive, thoughtful, artful (if repetative in places) work that had me hunkered down when I should have been cleaning the house in preparation for my brother’s birthday. Here’s the thing — I’m an easy one to convince. I was already headed in the right direction. Here’s hoping that Jonathan Safran Foer finds an audience for his book outside of people like me, and his book can make a difference.

READING CHALLENGES: I’m continuing all of my 2009 challenges because I didn’t finish a single one. Here’s a book for The Better You Read, The Better You Get theme I set up last year.

#61 – The Human Stain

I’m not keeping any secrets here when I admit that I had a really, really hard time reading American Pastoral. In fact, I would say I was very anti-Philip Roth after finishing that novel. Never wanted to read another of his books again. Openly gave my copy of The Human Stain the stink-eye for littering my TBR shelf. Yet, I’m also addicted to lists (for reasons I’m still trying to work out, seriously, in therapy), and decided to give it a shot — after all, I didn’t hate the film, and I really liked the beginning of the book when it landed on my desk about four years ago.

Fast forward a few years. As I’m trying to clear off my shelves before bringing any more new books into the fold, I took The Human Stain OFF the giant TBR shelf and moving it to the bedside table. And am I ever glad that I did (how many of my book reviews start out this way? With my preconceived and often wrong perspectives of the various books on my shelves?).

In short, I loved this book.

Honestly.

I did.

The Human Stain tells the story of Coleman “Silky” Silk, a semi-retired Classics professor is forced into full retirement over the disgrace after using the word “spooks” (meant as ghosts; read as racist). The novel’s narrator, a writer who hides up in the hills of this small Massachusetts town, slowly reveals the deep, and shaded, history of this broken man. An odd friendship between the two develops as Coleman’s disgrace becomes at once both unbearably personal and utterly absurd at the same time. No one, least of all the woman who was married to him for years, and who subsequently died during the whole fiasco, knows the truth about the man — (and if you’ve seen the movie this isn’t a spoiler, if you haven’t then SPOILER) that he’s actually black and has been passing as a white, Jewish man for over 40 years.

At 71, Coleman has found a renewed interest in life post-incident in the relationship he’s been having with 34-year-old Faunia, a janitor at the university who lives at a dairy farm, milking the cows to pay for her rent. Damaged by a disastrous relationship with her ex-husband, who has severe PTSD after returning home from Vietnam, Faunia is also coping with the tragic losses of her two children who died in a fire.

No one escapes untouched in Roth’s world, characters are flawed, ashamed, damaged, destroyed, suffer physically, mentally, anguish over all kinds of things, and yet, in this novel it all works. At first, I thought he really didn’t like women, when I read that Faunia was molested, illiterate and beaten, I did roll my eyes a little — but then as you go deeper in the novel, she’s actually one of the stronger characters. Sure she makes up lies to get through the day, but who doesn’t. And sure she hasn’t had a very nice life, but she also doesn’t make excuses for herself. Regardless, their relationship seems almost redemptive in a way, for both of them. Which means, of course, SPOILER, that drastic, awful things must happen.

The narrative structure of the novel is simple — a writer tells the story of Coleman’s life, so close sometimes that we forget he’s even there — and that leaves way for Roth’s complex and rich sentences to pull you deeply into the lives of these characters. It’s an effective, literary novel, one that rewards the reader by the quality of the writing and not just simply by the essence of the story, if that makes sense. All in all, the 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die list didn’t let me down this time. But Roth’s still one-for-one: I’m still not convinced he’s entirely an author for me.

READING CHALLENGES: 1001 Books.

#60 – Long Past Stopping

When the US presented this book at conference a world and a half ago, I was totally taken with the cover. The idea that the son of Jack Canfield, the author of those (ridiculous?) Chicken Soup for the Soul books, became a heroin addict and lived to tell the tale was intriguing. I did two things I never do: 1) judged a book by its cover and 2) picked up the book solely based on the fact that its blurb intrigued me. And trust me when I say I’ve got some issues with a book blurb. So much so that I rarely read them and almost never pick up the book because of them.

Annnywaaay. Oran Canfield’s roughly my age but we’ve had two very different lives. First of all, he grew up with a fiercely intelligent mother (that’s not so different from me) who pretty much kept him outside of your typical societal norms. He was raised by libertarians, went to an anarchist boarding school, joined the circus for a while (and competed as a juggler), and was often left with individuals who had questionable parenting skills yet nonetheless took part in forming him as he grew older. Secondly, his father left the family when he was very young and before his brother, Kyle, was born. Lastly, there’s that whole heroin addict situation. Oh, and then there’s the whole his dad became a multi-millionaire thingy too.

His memoir, Long Past Stopping, not unlike Dry by Augusten Burroughs, presents addiction in a harrowing yet utterly matter-of-fact way which makes it impossible not to get pulled into his story. There’s irony in how addictive these kinds of memoirs are — how easy it is to just keep reading as the hero (or heroine) moves from fix to fix. Gets themselves deeper and deeper into the black hole when they’d much rather be with that great girl that’s finally showing them the time of day. Also, it might just be me, but it’s so much easier to read addiction stories than it is to watch them (like say Intervention). There’s a level of separateness once you know the author’s gone through it and come out the other side. Also, Canfield’s a survivor. He doesn’t set out to get hooked on heroin. In fact, his introduction to the drug seems innocent rather than ominous, and the practical nature of how he starts shooting (he’s simply wasting too much of the drug by smoking it) seems almost blase when you read it.

The tone of this book is consistently infused with his infectious, intelligent sense of humour. And while the writing might not be Nobel-prize worthy (I have to admit I felt the dialogue was particularly weak), it’s impossible not to be interested in this book from start to finish. I’m willing to forgive things that I don’t normally (like weak dialogue) when it comes to this book (because, let’s face it, I’m a snob) primarily because the story itself, his life, is just so damn fascinating. And I’m willing to bet anyone else who picks up this book will end up with a Totally Inappropriate Crush on its author too. Just try it and see if you can put it down after browsing a few chapters. The structure of the book is smart too — it vacillates between his childhood and his adulthood in a way that breaks up the more dramatic, traumatic moments, and it’s certainly a relief when he finally finds his way off the junk.

Never say I don’t use my power for good. Here’s a quirky and fun road trip guest blog post he wrote for us over on The Savvy Reader. And to get a sense of his sense of humour, watch this video.

#58 – Labour Day

I’ve been waiting to review Labor Day until my interview with Joyce Maynard was posted over on our company blog, The Savvy Reader. Then, all of a sudden weeks go by and I haven’t managed to type a single word let alone post any book reviews. Thankfully, I’m only behind by about three reads so it’s not that bad.

The novel takes place in a small New Hampshire town during a moment when all of the main characters are on the cusp of major changes in their lives. As the hot, uncomfortable last weekend of summer begins, Henry, who’s thirteen, and his mother, Adele, head out to get school clothes. For most, it’s an everyday kind of errand, for Henry and Adele, it represents a rare moment when she actually leaves the house.

While they’re at the store, Henry comes upon a bleeding, baseball cap-wearing stranger who asks for a ride home. Turns out Frank’s an escaped prisoner who takes refuge (and hostages if we’re being entirely correct) at Adele’s. There’s an element of suspended disbelief here, it’s Maynard writing the novel, and not McEwan, and while Frank might have committed a crime to get in jail, it’s never apparent he actually belongs there. There’s an element of Shawshank to his backstory, which gets unraveled over the course of the time he spends purposefully sequestered with Henry and Adele at their house.

The tumultuous relationship between Henry and his parents (who are divorced; his father’s remarried with a stepson and a new daughter) is necessarily exacerbated by Frank’s illegal presence. But not in the ways that you would expect. They’re not in danger. And the fear comes from the impending change more so than anything else. Maynard told me that she wanted to write a novel that looked at how this thirteen-year-old dealt with the sex lives of his parents — while he’s on the cusp of his own. This journey, or realization might be a better word, starts Henry off on the dangerous path that forces the unlikely situation to its necessary conclusion.

There’s an urgency to Maynard’s novel that echoes its tight timeframe. The major action of the book all takes place over those few days and the constraints of time drive the story. In turn, this makes the novel utterly readable — the perfect title to sit down for a couple of hours in an afternoon to finish, a book utterly meant for a “book-a-day” challenge. In some ways, the book reminded me, in setting only, to John Irving and Elizabeth Stout; story-wise, there’s a little of Ann Patchett’s Run in this book. Overall, the achingly and lovely last passages of the novel brought tears to my eyes.

#56 – #57 Crush It & The Tipping Point

There’s nothing new that I can possibly blog about Malcolm Gladwell‘s The Tipping Point. It’s a book that’s back in the Amazon.ca top 100 today, I’m guessing because of all the Nook news, and it’s simply one of those titles that you imagine everyone to have already reviewed, if not read. So when I was browsing around the Vancouver Public Library sale last Thursday trying to ward off the persistent stomach butterflies (there because of the whole public speaking element to happen the next day; bleech), I was pleased to find a battered copy of The Tipping Point from the Kitsilano Branch for a whopping $0.55.

The central thesis of Gladwell’s book, that little “things” can lead to sweeping change, seemed particularly relevant reading for the days leading up to and passing by Book Camp. The iconic work looks at all of the social conditions that surround a product, event or action “tipping” into an epidemic. From smoking to book sales, the book comes to some pretty cool conclusions about the power of word of mouth. Words that we toss around all the time, like connectors and mavens, this theory of something “tipping” has become part of the everyday business lexicon. And it’s easy to see why.

Gary Vaynerchuk’s Crush It! isn’t as intellectual nor as everlasting as The Tipping Point, but it’s a really good example of putting Malcolm Gladwell’s theories into action. Vaynerchuk grew his business exponentially by investing in his own personal brand, used the “free” tools of the internet to grow it, and then tipped over into the uber-successful range by simply working hard and “crushing it.” It’s a veritable how-to manual for his kind of success and a good handbook for anyone somewhat curious about social media.

I like how both books focus on finding/offering solutions instead of lamenting the demise of the “old” ways of doing business. Vaynerchuk’s work isn’t necessarily innovative; it’s stuff people have been doing on the internet for as long as the web’s been around. But what he managed to achieve goes above and beyond how everyday people use the tools, which is impressive. Also, he’s driven to succeed in ways that, yes I’m going to say it, regular people may not be — he’s a born Salesman, a picture perfect Connector, and proof positive that word of mouth absolutely works to drive community, which in turn drives sales, which in turn allowed his endeavours to tip into an epidemic.

The stickiness of Gladwell’s book versus Vaynerchuk’s can’t really be compared. I dogeared piles of pages of the former and returned my copy to work the morning after I read the latter. One’s a book that would benefit from repeated reads and the other I’d recommend as a handbook to anyone looking to build their brand through social media. All the way through The Tipping Point, I tried to define myself in terms of the different personalities Gladwell presented. All the way through Crush It!, I wondered how much coffee Vaynerchuk must drink in a day to get himself out there to the extent that he does — two very different intellectual exercises on my part.

Regardless, there were lessons from both books that I’d apply to my everyday and my work life.

1. That you need to pull the best, most relevant ideas from everything you read, fiction to non, and everything in between, and apply this learning to your life. Maybe it’s just in the sense that you enjoyed something and want to pass it on, but that your passion, about anything, can be contagious. And that’s not a bad thing.

2. Pay close attention to what goes on around you. You might not think you have anything in common with how “cool” becomes relevant, but within that, you’ll discover what’s authentic and what’s rubbish — especially in areas of your own expertise.

3. Don’t be afraid of people. Or situations. Or of doing things that might make you uncomfortable (read: running a seminar in front a large group of people). Ahem. YES, I realize how ironic this is coming from shy, scaredy-cat me.

4. Read more nonfiction.

5. Getting people excited about reading isn’t just about selling books. For me, it’s about the survival of our culture, whether it’s pop or otherwise, it’s a record of who we are as a people at the time. It’s necessary. It’s important. It’s valuable and it’s a part of our survival. Art matters. Fighting about it won’t get us to our goals any quicker.

#55 – Serena

After being on vacation for almost five days, one would have thought I’d have gotten further through the stack of books I brought with me, bought at the sale at the Vancouver Public Library, and purchased on Granville Island. Not so. I managed to finish Ron Rash’s Serena, and am about halfway through The Tipping Point (and I have read Gary Vaynerchuk’s Crush It!, which is technically #56, but I’m going to talk about it and the Gladwell in the same post).

Annnywaay. This is the first book that I’ve read from American writer Rash, and not to be cliched but it certainly won’t be the last. Set in the Appalachians during the Depression, Serena tells the story of an ambitious lumber baron who marries an enigmatic, determined young woman who changes his life irrevocably. When Pemberton arrives back to the logging settlement with his new wife, Serena, in tow, he’s met at the station by Rachel Harmon and her father. The former there at the behest of her father, out to protect her dignity, as Pemberton has gotten the young girl pregnant.

A fight ensues, and Harmon ends up overpowered by the tall, powerful Pemberton. Estranged from her former lover and about to give birth, Rachel heads back to their cabin to make her way on her own while Pemberton and his new bride are similarly disposed to making their mark on the landscape that surrounds the community of Waynesville. Serena’s driven by money and success. She sees natural resources as simply a means to gain more and more power and status. She’s cold, calculating and focussed. Yet, it’s this focus and intensity that attracted Pemberton to her in the first place. As the relationship grows more complex, their attachment suffers from the stress of her ambition, and the lengths to which she’ll go to achieve her goals. The results are deadly, not just for the trees, but for anyone who might stand in her way — and that includes young Rachel and her little baby boy.

The idea that human beings are inescapably tied to their environment runs throughout the narrative. As Serena destroys the forests, their workers suffer more and more accidents. As they drive further and further to clearcut the entire area of its trees, there’s a movement to create a national park and save the environment. Of course, Serena and Pemberton stand on the side of progress, remark upon the size and structure of the forest in terms of a profit and loss statement. There’s a particularly poignant scene where Pemberton and his wife pose for a photograph in front of a raw, clearcut field proud of their accomplishment. However, what they’ve left behind is a crew of maimed, injured and, in many cases, deceased men who gave their lives for their profit.

The novel truly picks up about two-thirds of the way in. The further Serena will go to get what she wants, the more intriguing and active the story becomes. In some ways, the beginning of the novel is a bit muddled — and there are sections that switch point of view to some of the loggers themselves that I think would have been more effective if they hadn’t the Rosencrantz and Gildenstern-type, Waiting for Godot-esque dialogue that felt a little affected. That said, there’s nothing I like more than a truly intriguing female lead character who refuses to be defined in any true way, and Serena more than fits this bill. Not unlike Catherine Land in Robert Goolrick’s equally excellent A Reliable Wife, Serena’s lack of a moral compass more than makes up for any of the novel’s shortcomings. In parts, especially the more shocking scenes, there were moments that I actually physically gasped over her actions. You can’t ask more from a novel than to that, can you?

There’s a reading group guide, Browse Inside, and a really interesting article Rash wrote for the P.S. section about the interesting places his research took him.

#54 – Mathilda Savitch

I wasn’t expecting to read or even review Mathilda Savitch. But I was lucky enough to interview the author, Victor Lodato, for Experience Toronto, which meant that I obviously had to read the book. So the night before I was furiously (in between a rock show and a houseguest, indeed!) reading as much of the novel as I could while trying to come up with half-way intelligent questions.

“I want to be awful.” Mathilda Savitch declares as the novel opens. She’s ballsy, self-deprecating, intelligent and more than a little odd. In many ways, she’s a semi-typical teenager, but in many ways she’s also not — she’s sharper and has been through something traumatic enough to effect her for the rest of her life. In fact, the tragic death of her sister has marked her entire family: her mother refuses to get dressed, drinks, and acts a little like Mathilda’s not even there; her father’s barely holding the family together. And to make sense of the tragedy, Mathilda acts out in many different ways. It’s a complex thing, finding yourself in the world, being okay with yourself. This act of individuality that’s so much a rite of passage when you’re an almost teenager becomes even more complicated when you add impossible situations to the mix.

Her prepossessed nature questions everything naturally, and this comes through clearly in the story. She’s been damaged by the loss of her sister and needs to work through it — even if the process is destructive to herself, to her family, to her friends. The author, in his interview with me, mentioned that the voice of Mathilda was so strong that he just gave in and let her take him where she wanted to go. As a playwright, Lodato seems comfortable with listening to the voices that invade his head, and it’s truly Mathilda that drives this novel. You can’t seem to get her out of your head, kind of like Owen Meany, she’s that strong of a character. One part Goldengrove and more than one part The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Mathilda Savitch also stands on its own simply for this incredible sense of voice.

What a nice surprise.

#53 – Drop City

When I bought my second-hand copy of Drop City by TC Boyle, I knew nothing about the book except for the fact that it’s on the 1001 Books list. My copy cost $3.99 and I bought from a now-defunct bookstore in Stratford, Ontario one snowy winter day my RRHB and I were out exploring my Irish roots in Millbank, Ontario. It was a great day. Then, like so many of my books, it sat on the shelf, and sat on the shelf, and sat on the shelf.

But once I started this book I resented anything taking time away from the reading of it. Drop City provides a refuge for anyone who wants to drop of out of society. A commune on an idyllic plot of land in California where hippies of all sorts call home, Drop City’s inhabitants don’t go for the Man’s version of how they should live their lives. But when he comes calling in the form of an injunction (coupled with some back taxes and compounded by more than one run in with the law), their fearless leader decides that the only free place left on earth is Alaska, and “Let’s go!”

Interspersed within the story of the caravan of hippies abandoning their commune (complete with a few goats strapped to the top of a merry-making old bus), is the other side of “dropping out.” The very real people who already make a life in Alaska by truly living off the land. There are benefits to both ways of life, but to say that the hippies are prepared for the harsh Alaska winter would be an understatement.

Ronnie (aka “Pan”) and Star had travelled across the USA to get to Drop City. They abandoned their education and their livelihoods (she was a teacher) for a chance to live a real life among truly free people. And they do find free love and a free life, if only for a fleeting moment before the reality of life, and their disparate personalities gets in the way of their idealism. Star’s soon left Ronnie behind for Marco, a violent drop out who is on the run from the law and from his entire identity (it seems), who represents a different kind of life and love for her by the time the novel reaches its conclusions.

Interspersed with the idealistic, even indiotic (at times), hippies, are the real societal “drop outs.” The people who live on the cold, permafrost borders of Alaska hunting, trapping and camping in cold wooden houses not meant for much more than a temporary stop along the way. The dramatic difference, not necessarily in idealism, but in common sense, between the Drop City band of ragtag, Ken Kesey-like bus people and the actual Alaskan settlers causes the necessary friction the book needs.

I can’t stress enough how engrossing this novel is from beginning to end. It’s one of those books whose narrative drives along at such a breakneck speed that you barely even register the fact that you’ve already read 150 pages, the sun’s gone down and you’re fingers are freezing from holding the book so tight. T.C. Boyle has a way of slowly building steam that will eventually boil, both within characters and situations, that overshadows the entire work with a sense of forboding. This isn’t a bad thing — it’s more that the novel knows its outcome already and you, as the reader, need to catch up as quickly as possible. Parts of this novel just made me cringe too — the idea of free love equalling the utter objectification of some of the women, that the mother among the bunch openly gives her children acid to prove they’re “turned on,” and the asumption that you can simply head to Alaska with little more than the goats on top of your broken down bus and expect to survive, all of which add to the dramatic tension of the most basic themes found in literature: humanity versus their environment.

I know I say this a lot but the 1001 Books list hasn’t let me down with Drop City. I’d highly recommend it. I’d loan you my copy, but I’m sending it to a friend as we speak.

#51 – Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

It seems I’m starting every book review off with a confession of sorts. Well, today is no exception. The only reason I read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (P+P+Z) was for work — we’ve been running a fun Undeath Match with my friend Dan at Raincoast, which pits our HarperCollins book The Strain against their Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Dan’s taking the side of zombies and I’m defending vampires. So trust that the review I write about P+P+Z here will be a little more balanced than the one I’ll probably post over there.

Let me just say that I enjoyed Seth Grahame-Smith’s literary mash-up more than I thought I would. When the book exploded over the summer, like many other literary snobs, I sort of poo-pooed the whole idea. Who would want to read a ruined version of Austen’s timeless classic? Thousands upon thousands of readers, it turns out, myself included. The novel doesn’t take itself too seriously, it basically follows the plot of the original, and tosses in more than a few awesome (and funny) scenes of Elizabeth battling the “unmentionables” (the zombies) throughout.

For all its clever humour, there is an underlying respect, I hope, for the original text because there’s more of a film adaptation feeling to the book than anything else. Entire sections of dialogue read almost verbatim to the Keira Knightley version (yes, I’ve seen it enough times to know), which sort of made the whole enterprise a little more palatable for me. Grahame-Smith got quite a few things wrong too — the shrill nature of his Mrs. Bennett doesn’t have any of the savvy humour from the original, and Elizabeth seems to share a lot of her inner thoughts in ways that would have made the original Lizzie cringe.

The success of P+P+Z has spawned a sequel, Sense and Sensibility and Sea Creatures, which I probably won’t read only because the original is still on my 1001 Books Challenge (shameful, I know), and I don’t want to ruin the utter perfection of reading a Jane Austen novel along the way. But if you’re looking for a bit of escapist, oddly engaging, and definitely funny words to pass a weekend, I’d recommend the book, even if it’s just for the last fight scene. I’m not going to spoil it, but it’s awesome.

#49 – The Best of Everything

We had some friends from Winnipeg come to stay with us a couple of days ago. It marked another milestone in our house. We finally have an actual spare bedroom with an actual spare bed — a place for guests to rest their weary, travelled heads on comfy pillows and cozy sheets. It’s not that I’m not an adult, but I haven’t felt like one in quite some time living in our cramped, half-used house. But the more rooms that become finished and look beautiful (the living room; the dining room; half of the kitchen), the happier I am that we can use the upstairs for its actual intent.

Okay /tangent.

We all went up to our cottage for an extended long weekend. Happily, I took a few days off because my body still wasn’t ready for a full week of work. I’m not convinced I am even now but again I’m writing in tangents instead of getting to the point. We spent a lovely day at the Petroglyphs Provincial Park, and even went hiking, which utterly killed me. So the following day, when everyone else was boating and cavorting, I sat down inside and out and read Rona Jaffe’s excellent The Best of Everything cover to cover.

The book was first published in 1958, and author Rona Jaffe based it somewhat on her own experiences as a young editor at Fawcett publications. The novel reads like Mad Men, only it’s from the perspective of four different women (somewhat complete with a less suave Don Draper-esque character in the senior editor, Mike Rice) who work at the publishing company. They all start off in the secretarial pool, and some remain there until they get married, then pregnant, and leave the story. While there are many women featured in the novel, there are four whose stories drive the majority of the action. Their stories intersect as their friendships do — sometimes accidentally, sometimes on purpose — but the skillful nature of Jaffe’s narrative never lets the threads drop that sew the entire story together.

Caroline, a young girl with an ivy league eductation, steps out of the subway from a long commute into Manhattan excited about her first job. She was to have been married to her college sweetheart who, after taking one last hurrah to Europe, found himself walking down the aisle with someone else. A career girl in the making, Caroline soon rises up the ranks to become a junior editor, but the road isn’t easy, and she simply can’t find the same kind of success in her personal life. Being beautiful, smart, and talented means that Caroline questions everything, and her story was the one that I found so heartbreaking by the end.

Then there’s April and Gregg, two aspiring actresses, the former whose wholesome, mid-Western roots don’t necessarily prepare her for the big city, and the latter who can’t help but make disasterous mistakes after she becomes involved with a powerful Broadway producer. The majority of their problems (read: all) come in the form of love affairs. April gets in over her head with a wealthy playboy and Gregg can’t seem to stop herself from troubling behaviour. The fourth and final woman Jaffe centres the novel around, Barbara, is a divorcee with a young child. She works hard to support her mother and her daughter, and struggles with the societal implications of divorce in the 1950s.

They are all flawed, fascinating and forgiving characters. They are women who search for meaning in a world where they’re just trying to find their footing. All four of them exist somewhat outside the “normal” women who sit beside them planning their weddings and having babies, even if that’s eventually what happens in their lives. The Best of Everything reminded me in tone and storytelling of Revolutionary Road, even of Jaffe’s not as exacting as Yates remains in his prose. It’s a product of its time, surely, so a realistic picture of the concerns of women from the time period, but the themes are so universal. Women dealing with sexual abuse, women defining themselves in the work place against men, women coping with the expectations of a relationship, love, and life. I can’t put into words what kind of an effect the novel had upon me — I just couldn’t put it down until I got to the very end, and even then, I didn’t want it to be over.

There’s a comparison to it being a kind of pre-Sex and the City. But I think that’s a glib comparison, more of a marketing pitch than a thoughtful critique. Sure there are similiarities that can’t be ignored in terms of their gender, and even their personalities, but these four women are compelling because they exist within these pages. They’re not driven by the weekly melodrama of a half-hour television series. They’re broken in ways that can’t be fixed. They’re complex in ways that can’t be quipped. And they have stayed in my mind, especially Caroline, since I finished reading.

Highly recommended. Thanks to Rachel again for telling me about this novel. Again, she’s a gem.