Category: trh books

#3 – The Emperor’s Children

“Do you hang on to clothes you haven’t worn for ten years? Or bags of pasta, cans of beans?”
Danielle did not need to answer.
“What is it about books? Perfectly rationale people get crazy about their books. Who has time for that?”
“I measure my life out in books.”
“You should be measuring your life by living. Correction: you shouldn’t be measuring your life. What’s the point?”

Claire Messud’s massively addictive, massively hefty novel ended up on more than one ‘best of’ list this year, not the least of which was its inclusion in the NY Times “The 10 Best Books of 2006.” The Times describes the novel as ‘superbly intelligent’ and a ‘keenly observed comedy of manners,’ and I would not disagree. But it’s long. And it’s wordy, which is in complete contrast to the 2nd book in my Around the World in 52 Books challenge, A True Story Based on Lies.

At first glance, too, Messud’s novel seems to retread over well-worn territory, especially for me, in a year where I also read The Good Life and Elements of Style, tackling yet another book about New Yorkers and the tragedy (and its aftermath) of 9/11 might be a bit much for my already broken heart to take.

But that’s where I was wrong, Messud’s book, while earnest in its intention to examine the subject matter, is not earnest in its narrative style or tone. And the elements of satire that appear as a result of her ability to take these characters so deep into themselves without necessarily letting them in on the joke, ensures that the novel feels a little like a Restoration play written in our very modern age.

The plot of the novel follows the lives three college friends, Marina, Julian and Danielle, ten years or so after their graduation, who are now firmly ensconced in their adult lives, which means essentially nothing considering they are as much adrift as they ever were, from a few months before 9/11 until just after the attacks. There is a firm cast of supporting characters, Julian’s boyfriend, Danielle’s mother, Marina’s socially awkward and strangely surreal cousin with the odd nickname of Bootie, along with the ‘Emperor’ himself, Marina’s father Murray Thwaite, an accomplished, and older, infamous journalist in the style of Hemingway, who smokes, drinks and, ahem, well, you know.

Marina, beautiful, lost and finishing her own manuscript, deliciously self-absorbed and ridiculously Paris-Hilton-with-brains (entitled) in her approach to her life looks to her best friends, Julian, a freelance writer in a totally destructive relationship, and Danielle, the one with the stable job, stable life, stable outlook, to guide her as she lands back home while attempting to finish her book about children’s clothes. Life happens. Love happens. Lots happens. But as the planes crash into the two towers, no one in the novel comes out unscathed.

Messud’s talent for long, breathy sentences with many, many commas, dashes and other forms of punctuation, means that we know so much about each character, from their brand of Scotch to the workings of their inner minds, that there’s always the fear the book will careen off the page. Yet, her skill as novelist means that all of the many threads of their lives are woven into an immaculate quilt, with not a single stitch out of place.

It’s fitting, somehow, that my book from the United States, is about New York City, the one place that’s been so ingrained in our psyches from books, from film, from television, that it seems so much more than the sum of its magnificent parts. Oddly, it’s an apt description of The Emperor’s Children as well, it’s a magnum opus of a book, an epic of a tale that carries you in and around its over 400 pages without leaving you lost in Alphabet City in the middle of a scorching hot summer season.

If I have one, teeny, tiny criticism, it’s that my heart remains firmly in tact, and as much as I admire Messud’s skill as a wordsmith, I wanted more in terms of emotional involvement, and even in the book’s penultimate moment, when my favourite character, Danielle, finally falls apart, I didn’t ever get that catch in my throat I felt while reading Consumption. But it’s not like every book can (or should) make you cry.

#2 – A True Story Based On Lies

The second book in my Around the World in 52 Books challenge is Jennifer Clement’s A True Story Based on Lies. I’m counting this as Mexico, although I’m not sure if the author herself is Mexican, but the novel is set in Mexico City.

The story folllows the lives of two women, one a rich young girl called Aura, whose chapters are all entitled ‘Every Leaf is a Mouth,’ and Leonora, a servant in her household (and her mother), whose headings are all called ‘Some Things Were Overheard and Some Said it Was All a Rumor.’ As you can probably guess, it’s not a simple story as Aura has no idea Leonora is her mother, and the book travels through the latter’s past to tell us the story of how the child came to be.

Leonora is a young, impressionable, impoverished girl sent to the convent by her broom-making mother. They live on the outskirts of Mexico City and have been broom-makers for generations. As the book opens, Leonora’s own mother explains that generations of twig-collecting girls have been born with mothers wearing no wedding rings:

“‘All the fingers in our family are buried without wedding rings. Under the ground there are bouquets of fingers without wedding rings.’ Leonora imagines the pale, white bones of her grandmothers’ fingers buried beneath the earth.”

In an effort to improve her life for good, Leonora is sent away to the convent, where Mrs. O’Connor finds her and brings her to be a nanny and a servant in her household. Once there, Mr. O’Connor takes a liking to her, and eventually gets Leonora pregnant. The child is taken away, and registered as Mrs. O’Connor’s, which means a complex relationship begins where Leonora tends to the child, but Aura has no idea she is her mother.

Clement, from what I understand, is a poet first, and the sparse, short paragraphs of this book are filled with lots of sweet bits of metaphorical language, folklore, catechism, magic as well as the actual story. It’s a short book, just over 150 pages, but with each paragraph just being a sentence, and much of the book repeating thoughts, images and motifs, it’s a short read.

What I liked: the way Clement tells a very complex story about class, race, infidelity and motherhood, in an almost prose poem kind of way. The ending of the novel is utterly heartbreaking, and after reading Consumption, I feel more than ever that every book I’m going to read on this challenge will break my heart. Clement excels at characterization though, as sparse as it is through the book, simple details, like Aura being unable to control her hands (one moves one way; the other another), form complete pictures in my mind.

I also thoroughly enjoyed the fact that this was a story primarily about women. And even though the actions of the men (Mr. O’Connor and his two sons) greatly impact their lives, much of the book feels feminine and reflects these women’s particular strengths. Alongside Leonora are Sofia, the oldest servant in the household, and Josefa, the cleaner, who only speaks in one word sentences.

What I didn’t like: sometimes I find that poets who write novels can’t quite escape their tendency to break traditional form and structure. While for the most part it works, there’s a section near the end, all in italics, where a pivotal moment is happening, that essentially repeats all of the folklore-esque bits from throughout Leonora’s section for over 10 pages. Here, I thought, it would have been more powerful to actually explain what happened in a more straightforward way, but it’s a small nitpicky kind of criticism.

I’m not sure if I would highly recommend this book, like I would Kevin Patterson‘s novel, but it certainly gave me a flavour and a taste of gender and race relations during the middle of the last century in Mexico, and that’s not something I read about everyday. And super props to my friend RC who loaned me this novel and happily gave me my Mexico!

#1 – Consumption

It’s oddly fitting that this book straddled my 2006-2007 reading; it’s possibly the best book I’ve read in ages. And it made me cry, full, flooding tears dripping onto the pages. Kevin Patterson’s brilliant novel, and I use that word without a hint of exaggeration, centres around a young Inuit girl named Victoria who leaves the north when she’s diagnosed with TB to return a virtual stranger becomes an epic tale of how change impacts a culture, which in turn, affects every single character in Consumption.

The title that refers at once to both the disease and to our own consumptive culture, becomes a metaphor for what happens to every single character in the book. Victoria is consumed by the disease and then obsessed with it for the rest of her life. Robertson, a Hudson Bay man and Victoria’s husband, becomes consumed with both his love for her and his own material success, striving to find a balance between the place he’s fallen for, the Arctic, and the world defined by his own skin colour. Their children, Pauloosie, Justine and Marie, each struggle with growing up in a world, even in the north, more and more defined by material culture. And each child reacts in his or her own way: Pauloosie, who rebels against his father by turning to his grandfather and the land; Justine, who leaves Rankin Inlet the first chance she can get; and Marie, who becomes lost in so many different, heartbreaking ways.

On the periphery of Victoria’s life are Bernard and Keith, the community’s priest and doctor respectively, and each struggle with their own commitments to their professions and to the barren world they have come to both know and love. The teachers, Johanna and Penny, who go their separate ways, one toward love, the other toward the land, and come to very different ends, and Keith’s family back in the States, especially his niece Amanda, who finds her own struggles as a result of her parents’ split.

And there’s also the story of the third generation, as the Cubans say, of Victoria’s parents, Winnie and Emo, who themselves come in off the land when she’s taken south to be cured of her TB. Emo takes a job at the newly opened nickel mine and all of their lives are forever changed.

This book is as much about the struggle to remain true in an ever-changing world as it is about the inevitable problems that occur as a result of said change. The moments cannot be taken back, like a wheel set in motion, to use a tired old metaphor, the culture of Patterson’s novel explores the very essence of change in the Arctic, using the body, and its diseases, almost as a trope to describe what’s happening within.

But what I liked most of all about this book is the clinical eye of Patterson, himself a doctor, as he speaks through Keith Balthazar toward the end of the novel, in a section entitled, “The Diseases of Affluence.”

When the immune system is never called upon, it behaves the way underworked soldiers do and makes trouble. If it’s not finding infections, then it must not be looking hard enough. So it looks harder, and starts to detect infections that aren’t there: thus the terrible toll of autoimmune disease rises steadily in our era of antiseptic floors and single-child families.

An apt description of both my own perilous health situation and a metaphor perhaps for our entire world. We look so hard for what’s wrong with us, questing for happiness and material gain, that we haven’t noticed that we’ve infected our own surroundings in ways we can’t even fathom yet.

There are moments in this book, little unexpected bits of tragedy that come upon you so suddenly that reveal Patterson’s deft hand as a novelist. There are a few spots where the narrative voice breaks, cracks slightly under the pressure of this immense story, but nowhere does it pull you out so much that you lose your way. These characters, so rich and full of life in ways that it’s hard to describe without giving the story away, are broad and introspective all at the same time.

I left this book many times, the first time, in the summer when I started to read it and just couldn’t get into it; the second, just before we left for Cuba because I didn’t want to take a hardcover with me; and the last, between New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day because I thought it would be the perfect book to start off my reading for this year. But am I ever glad I finished it. In the end, it remains probably the best book I read in 2006, which is no small feat considering the fact that in that year I also tackled two Jane Austen novels and a Giller Prize winner. It’s the first book on my 52 Countries in 52 Books challenge, and even though it doesn’t get me any closer to the 1001 Books challenge, it does make me start my reading at home, here in Canada.

I would highly recommend this book to readers and writers; it’s one for the shelves for sure.

#68 – Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures

Vincent Lam’s Giller-prize winning book of linked short stories, Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures, weaves in and out of the lives of four medical students. In some stories, they are the focus, in others, they are secondary characters, found objects in the lives of the people they touch.

As I driving my reading home for 2006, I am glad that I managed to read this year’s Giller winner. I’d put this book in my top 10 both for Lam’s crisp, clean, and refreshing prose style, but also because it manages to do what all good fiction should, and that is bring you into a world that is not your own. Having lived on the periphery of the medical world for many, many years as a patient with a complex disease and an even more complicated medical history, I liked this book if only because it showed me around the lives of doctors and made them utterly, realistically and totally human.

Of all the stories, I’d have to say that “Contact Tracing,” Lam’s ingenious tale of the SARS epidemic, was my favourite of the 12, with “Winston” coming in a close second. All in all, cribbing from Wayson Choy’s quote on the front of the hardcover, I’d have to say that the book is the work of a very powerful young writer.

#67 – By The Time You Read This

Reading the odd mystery novel is always kind of a treat; it’s sort of like watching a solid episode of Law & Order, there’s a level of predictability, but you’re hooked until the end to see what happens. And here’s where my awful reading habits from childhood come up and bite me, as more often than not, I’ll skip to the last pages just so I know what’s happening. Seriously? It’s one habit I’m trying desperately to break. And I managed in this case, to read Giles Blunt’s latest mystery without skipping ahead to see ‘who dunnit’ before I actually got to the final pages of the book.

(Okay, I’ll admit I did flip through the pages quickly for clues but I didn’t actually read ahead)

Annnywaay. I finished up By the Time You Read This by Canadian Giles Blunt this weekend. It’s the fourth novel in his Detective John Cardinal series that takes place in the fictional Algonquin Bay, a small city in Northern Ontario. The title refers back to a suicide note left by Cardinal’s wife, Catherine, found on the roof where she fell to her death, apparently killing herself as a result of severe depression. But was it actually a suicide or was she murdered? In addition to this gripping, and it truly is gripping, storyline, Lise Delorme, a coworker of Cardinal’s, is caught up in a child pornography case, which rounds out the two central plots in the novel.

As the two cases weave back and forth, Blunt’s skill as a magician of sorts when it comes to pacing and character development, and even though one big clue is revealed half-way through the book (it’s tantamount to a conclusion), but the story remains utterly satisfying to the end. To an extent, this book is as much about how Cardinal gets to the answers as it is about the mystery itself. And as the second case unravels under Delorme’s cautious investigative skills, both plots merge and divide, which also keeps you into the book until the end.

Anyway, I can see why Margaret Cannon called it the #1 mystery for this year, besides Fred Vargas’s The Three Evangelists, which I loved, I didn’t read another mystery I enjoyed as much all year.

#65 & #66 – The Secret Mitzvah Of Lucio Burke & Before I Wake

The other day I finished not one but two books I had sort of been reading simultaneously. The first, The Secret Mitzvah of Lucio Burke, was for my online book club, and I’ll be honest, were it not for that, I probably would never have read this lovely and charming first novel. And speaking of first novels, it’s very impressive that Robert J. Wiersema comes right out the gate with his own exceptional book, Before I Wake. Another novel that had I not heard the author read a few weeks ago, I also may have never read.

It’s interesting, when you read two books side by side, to see the contrasts and the differences. Both books deal with issues of faith and fate, with family, love and friendship as secondary themes, and both authors have a gift in terms of crafting very readable stories that tug at your heartstrings. But they are also very different, the first being an historical novel of sorts, the second more of a fantastical commercial fiction-type outing. However, they are now books that I would absolutely recommend to people, if only because it’s a mitzvah in and of itself to support first novels, to herald from the rafters new and exciting talent on the Canadian literary landscape.

Annnywaaay. The Secret Mitzvah of Lucio Burke, set in Toronto in the 1930s, is kind of a buldingsroman, in the sense that the main character, said Lucio Burke, comes of age in the novel alongside the young city of Toronto, which is also growing up, so to speak. There’s a huge cast of characters that surround Lucio, his love interest, Ruthie, his next door neighbour and best friend, Dubie, and both of their families. The book opens with Bloomberg, a minor character who disappears after one fateful day, trying to give away his baseball, making all of the kids hit the ball to see who would end up with it. In the end, no one hits the ball, and this fantastic journey begins where all three characters, Lucio, Dubie and Ruthie, change in many different ways.

As the love story unfolds, a number of almost fantastical things happen, each geared to balance out the idea that many of the events in your life are the products of both fate and faith. And Steven Hayward writes such a convincing yarn that’s so Richler-inspired that it’s easy to be captivated by his charming, witty and truly engaging prose. If I have one slight criticism of this book, it’s that there’s a very long and rather important flashback toward the end, about Lucio’s grandmother, that I thought would have made more sense had it been introduced earlier, especially considering the book’s ending, which takes place during the riots in Christie Pits is just around the corner, it sort of pulled me out. But Hayward, who is himself the narrator “telling” his grandmother’s story, both fiction and non, is adept enough that you just go with it, and my overall feeling is that this is a really, really good first novel.

Now, on to Before I Wake. I am going to honestly say that this book totally and utterly surprised me. It’s not normally the kind of book I would read, that has no bearing on whether or not the book is of quality, but like The Secret Mitzvah of Lucio Burke, it’s not a book I would have picked up on my own, without a little prodding. I know Scarbie read it a while back and really loved it, and the author himself answered some questions on her blog, and she’s been telling me to read it for months. But like I said, until I heard him at the reading a few weeks back, it wasn’t a book that cried out for me to read. I was so wrong.

It’s a sweet story, perfect for holiday reading, about a family that goes through an unspeakable tragedy (their three-year-old daughter is hit by a truck crossing the street and is in a coma) only to find that their daughter is miraculous, not in the way she’s able to recover, but in the fact that she can now heal other people. Coupled with the more fantastical elements of the novel, are the more day-to-day problems regular people deal with as they experience a tragedy.

In some ways, and I know this is a far-out there kind of comparison, but the book almost kind of reminded me of Dogma, which, to this day, is still my favourite Kevin Smith movie. As a girl who struggles a lot with ideas of faith and religion herself, especially the choice to believe or not to believe, I think I liked this book so much because the main characters, Simon and Karen, struggle throughout the book to not only be true to themselves, but to do the right thing in general, even if they don’t necessarily believe in God and/or the miracle of Sherry’s abilities. There’s a mysterious aspect to the book as well, with Henry Denton, the driver of the truck that hit the little girl, fighting his own battles in terms of what happened, where he is now, and what he’s sent back to do.

I can see why the Globe picked it to as a Best Book this year, because it’s a really hard thing to achieve, a totally readable, utterly good piece of commercial fiction that feels to have been written by a thoughtful, compassionate and good first-time novelist.

On the whole, these were two surprises in terms of my reading this year, books that I had made up my mind about before actually giving them a chance, with both proving that, well, you can’t judge a book by your own preconceived notions.

#64 – Everything Is Illuminated

Finally, after almost seven weeks, a pathetic showing on my part, I limped to the finish line and finished Everything Is Illuminated last night before going to bed. The good, the bad, and the ugly about the book is as follows:

1. The Good
Jonathan Safran Foer is a brilliant bloody writer. He has a wonderful gift for humour, for the absurd, and for a meta-self-referential-po-mo stylist, an ease with prose that seems so natural that it’s as refreshing to read as a swim in the lake on a hot July day.

2. The Bad
The disjointed narrative style, while cute, was very distracting. It took away from the fact that no aspect of the story actually get resolved. The novel bites around the story like a sandwich with the crusts cut off, and never really lets you in to the meat until the very end, and even then, it’s hard to figure out exactly what happened. But maybe that’s because it took me weeks to finish the novel and picking it up over a longer period of time makes it harder for me to put all the connections together.

3. The Ugly
I know it’s wrong of me, but I couldn’t help feeling like Sacha was Borat, or at least a version of that stereotypical character that comes across more caricature than anything else. And while I enjoyed his malapropisms, I felt the author used him more for comic relief and to show off than actually contributing to the story in any way.

Overall, I can see what all the spilled ink was about, but I wasn’t as blown away by this novel as the rest of the ladies in my bookclub, but I’m sure as hell happy with being able to add a new book to my 1001 Books score. And with Persuasion, that brings my total to 122. Whee!

#62 – One Good Turn

A few months ago, Publisher’s Lunch noted that of all the fall books coming out this year, Kate Atkinson’s new novel One Good Turn was among the most highly anticipated. And for once, the hype has substance behind it (ahem, The Historian I’m looking at you, I couldn’t even finish that abysmally written thing). In fact, Atkinson, like Ishiguro (although not as literary), is such a deft novelist that by the end of the book you’re marveling at her skill with a story as much as you are her ability to write in the stream of consciousness form in such a controlled and subtle way.

One Good Turn weaves and bobs through the life of Jackson Brodie, the hardhitting cop from Case Histories. Now in Edinburgh for his lover Julia’s play during the Festival (she’s also from Case Histories), he finds himself embroiled in a case and now stands on the other side of the law, more a criminal than a cop. With the same keen eye for detail and remarkable skill at creating realistic yet completely distinct characters, Atkinson’s novel is much more than your typical bash-’em-on-the-head and solve the crime kind of mystery.

Don’t be disappointed, there are dead bodies, lots of intrigue, plenty of coincendences and a pile of action to keep you interested. In fact, I’m not going to say any more except treat yourself and read this novel: you won’t regret it.

#61 – Paula Spencer

Roddy Doyle’s latest novel, Paula Spencer, continues the story he started in 1996 with his superb book, The Woman Who Walked Into Doors. Told in his now-classic stream of consciousness style, Paula Spencer finds the main character sober, a widow, and on the eve of her 48th birthday. Now that she’s sober, Paula faces up to all of her demons: her children and her inability to be their mother; what it means to be a recovering alcoholic; what life is like being poor but making it; and how to make it through a day with nothing to hide behind, every day is a ‘real’ day for her.

It’s no secret how much I adore Roddy Doyle’s work. A Star Called Henry might just be one of my all-time favourites, no, it is one of my all-time favourites, right up there with Jude the Obscure and On the Road. But sometimes, his dialogue is so hard to follow, which is what happened with the sequel to Henry, Oh, Play That Thing. I’ve tried to read that book numerous times and could never get through it. Thankfully, Paula Spencer doesn’t have that problem. Not that it’s a book you fly through; it’s heavy in terms of ‘issues’, but his writing style works so much better in terms of modern Dublin than it does in terms of the America of the jazz age. Henry never really fit in there, at least not to me.

I feel Paula in this novel. The ache that comes from growing up with an alcoholic parent, and how she speaks about her daughter, Nicola, as being her child instead of the other way around, well, that’s something I totally understand. But most of all, I like how this book highlights the patterns of life changing, and how hard work does truly get you somewhere in life. And when Paula takes that walk through Trinty College, makes it through another day of work, opens a bank account, you want to cheer, because even the mundane aspects of life are miraculous if you’ve never experienced them sober before. At least that’s what I think anyway. She’s a strength of character, that Paula, I’d read about her until the ends of the earth.

#57 – Lullabies For Little Criminals

A friend gave me this book while we were in Winnipeg because I left my copy of The Thirteenth Tale on the plane (yet another in a long line of problems plaguing our otherwise totally awesome trip). Now, I never leave home without more than one book, like, never. I hate being stuck reading something that I might not like and not having any options. Generally, this means I have books stashed all over the place: in suitcases, carry-ons, purses, RRHB’s backpack, you name it, I’ll put a book in there. Of course, this time, the only time I leave the house with one book, is the moment I choose to leave my book on the airplane from hell. Whatever. I was stranded with nothing to read. It’s like being left out from your favourite party, not having a book, and I really hate that.

Annnwwaaay. Instead of going to a bookstore, said friend loaned me Heather O’Neill’s first novel, Lullabies for Little Criminals. Set in Montreal, I’m thinking in either the late 1970s or early 1980s, the novel tells the story of Baby, a girl who turns 13 over the course of the story. But this is no average bildungsroman, as Baby’s journey takes her as far away from the normal kid on a bike, Hollywood troubled teen, as you can possibly imagine. Her father, Jules, who was only 15 when she was born, is a heroin addict; totally incapable of parenting, even after he gets out of rehab, Baby is forced to grow up on her own, painfully noting time and time again, about what not having a mother means to a girl that age. Her own mother, who we hear very little about in a concrete way until the end of the book, died when she was a baby.

The novel falls into the cracks and crevices of the seedy Montreal streets as Baby and Jules move from one rundown apartment to the next. Constantly in and out of social service situations (group home, neighbour’s house, juvie), Baby has no one to guide her, and making her own way truly isn’t making anything better, as she falls into a terribly destructive relationship with a pimp named Alphonse. And every time Baby makes a bad decision, your heart breaks just a little; she’s smart, she’s beautiful, but she has no chance or opportunity to take a different path.

O’Neill’s writing tumbles down into simile upon simile, which sometimes had my head spinning, but it’s so lovely and absolutely engaging that it didn’t matter to me that it might be a little bit too much. The story rushes along, sometimes breaking back into Baby’s memories, and almost crashes into the redemptive ending, like the end to a really good rock song. Of the 50-odd books I’ve read this year, this one got caught in my throat (all motherless daughter stories do, dammit!) and I related to it on many levels, not because I had anything in common with the protagonist, but because O’Neill does such a good job of creating her world that you immediately empathize with Baby, all you want is for her to succeed. I’m not going to spoil the ending, in fact, I’m not going to say much more at all, except for a first-time novel, it’s pretty damn outstanding.