Girl Detective

Lots of people cite Sarah Dessen’s This Lullaby as a classic of young-adult romance. Alas, it didn’t draw me in.

Eighteen-year-old Remy has just graduated from high school, and is about to dump her current boyfriend when she meets a weird guy named Dexter. Remy is a control freak with a many-times-married writer mother, and Dexter does not fit into her plans.

But I never felt really involved with the book. The characters never felt real to me. Remy felt like a checklist of characteristics rather than a person. I saw a couple plot twists coming from a ways away. I know Dessen is popular and her books are well reviewed, so perhaps her style is just not for me. I liked Keeping the Moon more than this, though, so I may check out another title.

Now, HERE is a good entry into the excellent and involving comic-book series The Unwritten. In The Unwritten: Tommy Taylor and the Ship That Sank Twice, we get origin stories for both Tom Taylors, the real one and the fictional one. In alternating segments, illustrated in alternating styles, we learn how writer Wilson Taylor simultaneously created both his real son Tom and his fictional character Tommy.

In what has been told piecemeal throughout the series so far, we get the backstory of Tom’s mother, her pregnancy, and Wilson’s machinations to create a living embodiment/mirror of a fictional creation.

This alternates with the text of the first Tommy Taylor book that Wilson was writing, the Ship That Sank Twice about a boy named Tommy, his friends Sue and Peter, and their magical adventure.

Like all of Unwritten, this is a twisty-turny tale that has literary references upon references, yet is good no matter how many you get or don’t, e.g., the Dumbledore-ish character is called Tulkinghorn, a name from Dicken’s Bleak House. I really enjoyed how it joined together and filled in so much of what readers knew and didn’t know.

While I liked the idea of the alternating styles, crisp pencils for the “real” world and softer watercolors for the fictional one, many of the segments had a different style. The credits page indicate that Peter Gross did all the layouts but several different artists did the finishing, This range of art styles made it feel uneven, rather than balanced, to me. This was a lovely, involving book. I would have preferred to have waited for one that Gross would have illustrated all himself, or at least half and half with another artist like Jon Muth, whose style I was reminded of in the fictional sections. But, I quibble. It’s a lovely book, well illustrated, and well told. It’s both a good entry in the series and a good possible entry point for new readers.

I lead a local community book group. This month’s selection was Kindred by Octavia Butler, which I wrote about here.

As I researched the book and author in preparation for the discussion, one thing began to stand out. Again and again, the book is referred to in terms I think might put people off from reading it. The author herself called it “grim fantasy” and that’s what Charles Stross referred to it as in his recent post “Time Tourism” on why women don’t time travel in fiction much. Adjectives from the back of the book include shattering and terrifying, And while these may be true, this book is so much, much more. It’s a gripping page turner, with a strong memorable main character, and a supporting cast that deconstructs racial stereotypes like these detailed at the blog Nicole Be Thinking:

Common stereotypes of black women include the Mammy, who is “everyone’s favorite aunt or grandmother;” Jezebel, the “sexually promiscuous, libidinous black woman;” and Sapphire, who is “usually shown with her hands on her hips […] as she lets everyone know she is in charge” (Yarbrough; Hudson 243). In my reading, I have come across another stereotype, the tragic figure of Cassandra (Yarbrough).

Do not be afraid of this book. Read it. Everyone should. It’s changed, and continues to change, my way of thinking and seeing the world.

The links I found were many, and fascinating, and I can’t do them justice, but in case you’re also wanting to know more about the book and its author:

Kindred is representative of a body of counter-narratives seeking to challenge dominant, utopian portraits of American democracy and the veneration of post-racialism as the state of U.S. race relations since the end of the civil rights movement.

Butler on time travel:

People who think about time travel stories sometimes think that going back in time would be fun because you would have all the information you needed to be much more astute than the people there, when the truth is of course you wouldn’t.

A short bio.

Reinventing the slave narrative.

Why it should be a movie, here and here.

It will be a graphic novel.

Themes of power, community and motherhood

About publishing Kindred:

“Kindred” was repeatedly rejected by publishers, many of whom could not understand how a science fiction novel could be set on a plantation in the antebellum South. Butler stuck to her social justice vision - “I think people really need to think what it’s like to have all of society arrayed against you” - and finally found a publisher who paid her a $5,000 advance for “Kindred.”

“I was living on my writing,” Butler said, “and you could live on $5,000 back then. You could live, but not well. I got along by buying food I didn’t really like but was nourishing: beans, potatoes. A 10-pound sack of potatoes lasts a long time.”

When I was in college, “Bizarre Love Triangle” by New Order was one of two songs I would consent to dance to. The other was the Communards “Don’t Leave Me This Way.” One night, out at a new bar, my roommate told me I’d like the DJ. I went to request the New Order and introduce myself. He didn’t play the New Order but Yaz instead, and asked me to dance. My roommate was right; I did like the DJ, so I agreed to dance with him even though it wasn’t one of my songs. But that should have tipped me off that he was not to be trusted.

(a little flashback after Jacquie Fuller played BLT on Teenage Kicks yesterday.)

King Richard II: Arden Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Lots of the talky-talk. Some great stuff about the complexities of leadership, and how one’s strengths and weaknesses can be used against one. A focus on the question of divine right of kings. Lots of lines devoted to men pointing fingers at one another and yelling “Liar!” Far too much rhyming for it to feel as real as I’d like it. Richard II undergoes fascinating ups and downs. But the play wasn’t as felicitous to read as later ones, and some scenes (Liar!) had me rolling my eyes. Good, sometimes not, but occasionally great. Also, in this edition of the Arden, I found Peter Ure’s notes all but useless to me. Rarely did he explicate or contextualize the lines. He was far more interested in obsessing nerdishly over comparative texts.

***

I re-read Richard II in preparation for the PBS showing of The Hollow Crown: Richard II last night. I didn’t love the production. I didn’t like the implication that being effete and loving men is at least weakness if not villainy. His love of men was shown both in gesture, and in the repeated motif of St. Sebastian, often called the patron saint of homosexuals. In the DVD Shakespeare Uncovered, in the Richard II segment the director revealed he was going for someone who simply had no awareness of others, and had the idea of Michael Jackson, which is where the idea for the monkey came from. I did think the monkey was a nice touch at showing Richard’s love of ridiculous things. Also, Derek Jacobi reveals he thinks Shakespeare didn’t write the plays, the earl of Oxford did. !!! I was surprised that such an eminent Shakespearean actor doesn’t believe in Shakespeare.

To counter my concerns about his earlier effete-ness, Richard does have a pleasingly badass scene at the end:

Villain, they own hand yields thy death’s instrument.
Go thou and fill another room in hell (V, vii, 6-7)

But the scene where his name was written in the sand and erased by the surf? A little too on the nose for me.

I did enjoy Rory Kinnear as Bolingbroke, silent and bewildered at Richard’s behavior and in a later scene when he had to make the hard decisions of a king. Patrick Stewart as John of Gaunt was terrific.

This was not my favorite play, to read or see, but it does contain this, and so I’m reminded that even lesser Shakespeare can make me feel like bowing down:

For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings (III, ii, 155-6)

Attention Shakespeare geeks, or even better, people who are afraid of Shakespeare:

PBS is running a series of film adaptations called The Hollow Crown of four of Shakespeare’s most famous history plays: Richard II, Henry IV part 1 and 2, and Henry V.

Playing the part of Prince Hal/Henry V? Tom Hiddleston, aka Loki from the Marvel movies. Squee of geek joy.

Ahem, also, he is a very fine dramatic actor, as evidenced by his work in such films as The Deep Blue Sea and Midnight in Paris.

Showing tonight, Friday 9/20/13 and the next three Fridays.

I mostly hate books about parenting. They’re full of reasonable sounding things that I promptly forget once I close the book, and reading them takes time away from reading for pleasure, which is my recovery FROM parenting, And yet, every so often, I’m so perplexed I break down and read a parenting book. On our recent big-a$$ summer driving trip, my 7yo would not answer people’s questions of him,make funny noises instead, and then run away from being hugged. This is not endearing behavior when our little family had driven umpteen bazillion miles to see many and various members of our extended family, who unsurprisingly were hoping for a little interaction.

In other words, I had of late lost all my patience over his behavior, and wondered why he was being such a pain in the butt, so I read this book.

Four years ago, when the boy was 3.5, I was introduced to the series by someone, I forget who. They recommended Your Three-Year-Old: Friend or Enemy? Which I HAD to read because it is such a hilarious AND perfect title. As far as I’m concerned, 3.5 is when children are possessed by demons. I don’t remember at all what the book said (see first line) but I do recall it had to state explicitly at some point that 3yos were NOT the enemy. i found that helpful at the time. So I borrowed Your Seven Year Old: Life in a Minor Key, hoping for some insight.

The premise of this series is that kids tend to go through stages at around the same ages. The authors posit that year-ish periods of equilibrium are balanced by disequilibrium. Unsurprisingly, to me, both 3 and 7 are disequilibrium years.

There’s tons of information in here, much of it super dated especially re: gender roles and spanking. There’s also a lot about some stuff that I haven’t encountered in either of my boys, such as the persecution complex and fear of failure. But it did affirm that an inward focus, a lessening of talk and wanting to be touched and an increase in clownish behavior were all right on track for 7.

Concrete strategies for the trenches? Not many. The value of this series I think is in the same kind of empathy it advocates using with kids, what with mirroring troubles and trying to loosely guide to solutions. It’s a short fast read though, with helpful reminders that kids aren’t evil plotting geniuses, they’re just small people who are growing in fits and spurts in body and mind. They’re individuals, yet they’re also just like everybody else. Isn’t it true for us all?

My family recently finished listening to all Harry Potter books on CD, the English editions narrated by the wonderful Stephen Fry. Over the summer, we started doing jigsaw puzzles while we listened, and I fell in love with these activities together. Alas, the Potter books come to an end. So when I searched for more things narrated by Fry, I found a full-cast dramatization on CD at the library of the stories from Winnie the Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner, with Stephen Fry as Pooh, Judi Dench as the narrator and Kanga, and Jane Horrocks (Ginger’s voice in Chicken Run) as Piglet.

Please, pause just a minute and imagine having Stephen Fry and Judi Dench reading to you? Something about having these two great actors reading me one of the most beloved books of childhood had me amazed with wonder at our modern world, where I could get this for free from my library.

Alas, my two boys, 7 and 10, were not as enthralled and repeatedly said they were not interested, after starting it a few times. But I persevered. (Because I can be stubborn like that.) I renewed it at the library, and kept playing it when they were round, and finally, FINALLY, I got the younger one to listen with me while I did the mending last week. Granted, he didn’t laugh as much as I did, but he was paying attention, and we got to share jokes, like the Tiddley Poms, and I got to listen to how to play Pooh Sticks with him. The older one was watching football with his dad. And so it goes. But I did finally listen to this, and can highly recommend it, and perhaps advise you that someone older than 6 mild feel they’re too old for it, but at some point before 45 year I became no longer too old for it.

As for our next audio book that I’m hoping to lure them back to the jigsaw with? A Dr. Who dramatization read by David Tennant. I think that’ll be more exciting than Pooh. To them, at least.

You know those books or authors that are on your radar for years and then you finally get around to them?

(I suppose this is just a variant of the books/authors on our radar whose books we bought and then just let sit on the shelf for years. Oh, wait, I’m the only one who does that, right?)

Anyway, Octavia Butler is one of those authors for me, and so I chose Kindred for one of my book groups. I was kind of afraid of it. To me, the description sounded like a time-travel version of Beloved, one of the most powerful novels I’ve read, but also one of the most harrowing. But I chose the book, and read the book, and am here on the other side to say: damn glad I did. This is great stuff.

Dana is a black woman in 1976 who is suddenly pulled back in time to early-1800’s Maryland. She has a strange connection to a red-haired boy that unspools in a time-traveling back-and-forth between the centuries. Most of the book is set in the 1800’s, one of the reasons this nearly 30-year-old “science fiction” book doesn’t feel dated, except when it’s deliberately TRYING to be dated, which Butler does a fabulous job writing, because she clearly did a boat-load of research. But even most of the mundane details of Dana’s life in the 70’s don’t jar, which makes the shift to the past that much more jarring. One exception: when Dana wants to find an example of what a pass letter for a slave might look like, none of the books in her house have that. I found one in a few seconds.

This book is typically shelved in science fiction/fantasy and because it’s historical time travel, is more often referred to as science fiction. This doesn’t quite fit: there’s no science to Dana’s time travel. Butler leaves that deliberately vague. Really, it belongs in literature because it’s a beautifully crafted, suspenseful novel.

Dana cannot predict when she’ll be drawn back in time. Time passes differently in the past than in her present. Like all time travellers, she has to carefully weigh her actions in the past for their potential consequences in the future. Dana is a strong, smart, heroine. While I began the book with trepidation, it soon had me so in its grip that I raced through it. And, like the best books, it has me thinking about it after I’m done, mulling over the questions that Butler poses so tantalizingly, and in such complex ways.

A note on the covers. The image at the top is of the most recent US edition. Part of my trepidation about the book stemmed from the more haunting image on an earlier edition:

Yet after reading the book, I see the newest edition as the romanticized nonsense that it is. The older cover is a much better fit for the story, even as I can recognize that the newer one is more reader friendly. Given that this book has lasted, I’ll grudgingly allow that anything that draws a reader into it to evaluated it on her own terms is a good thing. But, having read the book, the older cover has more integrity.

Another characteristic of a great book, for me, is its ability to provoke me to follow up on ideas in it, such as a recent piece in the Guardian, “Why Can’t Women Time Travel?” and sci-fi author Charles Stross’ response on his blog, “Time Tourism” in which he refers to Kindred by link via the phrase in bold:

Time travel tourist yarns that describe the depths of our historical depravity have to deal with the essential problem that their settings can be no less sexist than our past. And there are time travel novels about women that tackle this problem head-on, but they tend to make for grim reading.

Kindred is at times grim. Yet it’s also utterly involving and thought provoking. So to dismiss it as grim is to be afraid of it, as I was for many years, and thus to miss out on a great book. Be not afraid. If Dana can make the jump, so can you.

I am abashed to admit that Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle is the first novel of hers I’ve read. Like most people, I’m familiar with her short stories “The Lottery” and “Charles.” I’m not sure those can be forgotten after having been encountered. I now feel the same way about We Have Always Lived in the Castle, which opens:

My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood. I am eighteen years old, and I live with my sister Constance. I have often thought that with any luck at all I could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both my hands are the same length, but I have had to be content with what I had. I dislike washing myself, and dogs, and noise. I like my sister Constance, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amanita phalloides, the death-cup mushroom. Everyone else in my family is dead.

Mary Katherine, or Merricat, is our extremely unreliable narrator in this tale of alienation and class warfare in small-town America. The black-and-white art by Thomas Ott on the Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition perfectly suits the novel. The introduction by Jonathan Lethem should only be read after, as is true of nearly all introductions, because it contains SPOILERS. We Have Always Lived in the Castle is a mystery by turns funny, enchanting, and terribly sad. I was utterly engaged.

You know how some magazines sit around for a LONG time, since you want to read them, but you know that it would probably take as much time as a book, and who has time for that? A friend had lent me a copy of Harper’s magazine from early 2011, and I didn’t even remember which article or story was the reason, but I finally got around to reading it, and whether it was the intended article at the time, what I was most interested in was Zadie Smith’s review of John Gray’s book The Immortalization Commission: Science and the Strange Quest to Cheat Death. Alas, the link is only available to subscribers at Harpers.org.

Gray’s book is short but not a quick read. I felt out of practice with my academ-ese, but I muddled through, though I did feel at times rather dim. His topic is the muddy and contentious areas of science and occult in the post-Darwin years. Occultists in England were seeking scientific proof of the afterlife from a growing library of “automatic writings,” material channeled by mediums ostensibly from the dead or yet to be. Scientists in Russia pursued immortality and human perfection through any number of atrocities that pre-figured those of the Nazis during WWII.

There is no pristine science untouched by the vagaries of faith (5)

Speaking of Russia, WTF? Reading this book made my jaw drop. It seemed that all government people in Russia did was run around, plot, kill and poison each other, and then murder millions of citizens, either by mass starvation or guns. That is some scary stuff, people. Much more gruesome than the tidy, repressed Victorians who were trying to talk to ghosts.

Gray’s book was not an easily accessible book for me. It had lots of esoteric vocabulary, that even though I was familiar with, e.g., hermeneutics, the study of texts, which I find is a litmus test of discourse level. If the author uses “hermeneutics” it is high Academ-ese, as a professor of mine once called it. But it’s not fair, and kind of embarrassing to say that it was hard to read because the words were hard, but I’m just sayin’. But other things would have helped a great deal: labelling photos rather than having an illustration list at the front to be flipped back to, end notes that were noted by number, not just clumped at the end. These made the book tidy, so perhaps visually easier to read, but didn’t help illustrate some of his points as he made them. Further, a timeline at the beginning of people’s deaths, as well as clearer delineation within the book of the chronology of events would have helped. In the English Cross-Correspondences section, one man was apparently channeling another, whom it wasn’t clear had died.

Those things aside, this was fascinating stuff, especially in the wake of reading The Karamazov Brothers, since Dostoevsky was writing in this post-Darwinian period of doubt, faith, and possibility.

I picked up I Am Not Sidney Poitier by Percival Everett after reading a good review of it in an old copy of The Believer that I finally got around to reading on our Big Ass Family Trip Out East, aka the BAFTOE. But anyhoo, the book: it’s a satire on being black and not poor in the south, it reminded me of Confederacy of Dunces and Colson Whitehead’s John Henry Days. Our narrator is Not Sidney Poitier. Since his last name was Poitier, his mother thought she’d be making it clear who he wasn’t. Instead it just inspired the running joke of the book.

What’s your name?

Not Sidney.

Okay, then what is it?

I did recognize some references–getting arrested in a Southern town had a similar feel to In the Heat of the Night, while a trip to meet his girlfriend’s family was a send up of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. I got the sense there was a lot going on in other scenarios that might have been referencing other Sidney Poitier work I wasn’t familiar with. I was intrigued and amused by the presence of a professor named Percival Everett who people thought was brilliant, but was actually just messing with people. I’m not sure if this novel was brilliant, or just messing with people, but it was frequently funny in spite of its treatment of ongoing racism in the south, which is always depressing.

Silence fell on the table like a bad simile.

and

“How much money he got?” from the fat man.

“Ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills,” the deputy said.

Tractor Cap whistled. “That must be close to a thousand.”

“Pretty close,” I said.

Also hilarious: everything that came out of fictional Ted Turner’s mouth.