Daddy-Long-Legs, by Jean Webster
What is is about young, aspiring authoresses in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries? They all decide to write high-flying, romantic stories and novels, which are inevitably rejected by a bevy of publishers until the main male in their lives tells them to "write what they know," and then suddenly they're wildly successful? You would think that after a while they could figure that out for themselves. Interestingly enough, the three or four such examples (Jo March, Anne Shirley, Betsy Ray, Judy Abbott) I'm thinking of were themselves created by female writers, so perhaps there is something biographical at work in the revelation.
Jerusha "Judy" Abbott is the heroine of Jean Webster's Daddy-Long-Legs. She's an orphan (perhaps the single most utilized trope in YA fiction) who is "adopted" by one of the faceless trustees of the asylum in which she has grown up. This trustee, who wishes to remain anonymous, decides to send Judy to college so that she may become a writer. He is to pay for her room and board and provide her with an allowance, besides. In return, all she has to do is send him letters about her studies and progress. The catch is that she doesn't know who he is. He remains anonymous, known only as "Mr. John Smith," and he never returns any of her letters.
The novel, then, is epistolary, but entirely one-sided; comprised of Judy's letters to Mr. Smith (or Daddy-Long-Legs, as she decides to call him. All she knows about him is that he's very tall.) They follow her through four years of school as she learns to acclimate to the "real world," makes friends and gains a few admirers, struggles with her studies, does indeed manage to publish and gain notoriety as a writer and basically grows up. Her experiences as an orphan shape her view of the world, and as she matures, we begin to see a very independent and socially-conscious young lady emerge.
I'm not going to give away any more than that ... the denouement of the novel is, in my opinion, completely obvious to everyone but Judy throughout, so it's not worth spoiling. That could just be me, though. Jean Webster went to Vassar (on which Judy's school is clearly based), and I used to work there in Special Collections and Archives. They've got Webster's papers, and researchers were always coming to use them, so I knew a lot about this little story before I finally got around to reading it. But anyway.
I don't want to make Daddy-Long-Legs sound derivative at all. It's a really charming little story. It does seem to me to have various qualities of other novels like A Little Princess and the Anne of Green Gables stuff (although DDL predates Miss Shirley, just barely), but despite the similarities, Judy's voice is entirely her own. Because she is sent to a "nice" ladies' college, she rubs shoulders with more affluent peers, and so her thoughts about society are quite interesting. She notes that her friends take their happiness for granted because they've always had it, and she talks quite a lot about reform and running her own asylum someday, where instead of "duty" as the chief attribute to be molded in young people, she will stress the importance of "imagination". As her college career comes to an end, she begins to argue with her mysterious benefactor on points of funding - she receives scholarships and job offers which he doesn't want her to take advantage of, but she argues that she wishes to pay him back for his kindness and no to become used to having things handed to her. A very independent young lady, indeed!
I really like YA novels that were written during the turn of the century. The depictions of life during that period of time are always interesting, and one can sort of trace the changing role of women in society. In DDL, Judy often talks about "when women have the vote." Much like Louisa May Alcott, Webster was pushing her own social agenda with her fiction. Nowadays I think we take things like higher education and civic ability for granted, and it's good to be reminded that that wasn't always the case. I have a brand-new daughter, too, so I look forward to sharing these accounts of history with her as well.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
CBR Book 7: The Weird Sisters
The Weird Sisters, by Eleanor Brown
There are, among the many, two subsets of fiction; one involves the lives of those immersed in academia, the other concerns itself with those who have left home to find themselves, only to discover that they must go back to move forward. If you combine these two subsets and throw in a fairly large smattering of Shakespearean quotes, you have the very excellent The Weird Sisters.
The weird sisters of literary fame are, as I'm sure you're aware, the three witches who appear in Shakespeare's Hamlet. Eleanor Brown's "weird sisters" are the Andreas girls: Rosalind (Rose), Bianca (Bean), and Cordelia (Cordy). Their father is a renowned Shakespearean scholar and professor, and so they have grown up with the Bard's works, and accordingly, whenever anyone in the family has something important to say, they borrow Shakespeare's words. Thus, the announcement that their mother has breast cancer comes from their father in the form of "Come, let us go; and pray to all the gods/For our beloved mother in her pains."
The three sisters are reunited, ostensibly to help care for their mother, but really to escape and/or muddle through their own problems. Rose, a mathematics professor, has never left the safe confines of her hometown (a lovely, idyllic little hippie-fied bubble of academia), and is struggling with the fact that her fiance (a chemistry professor) has been offered a three-year stint at Oxford, and wants her to join him there. Rose's bigger problem is that she's that kind of person who runs everyone else's lives for them, and is convinced that her family will crumble to pieces without her there. Bean, who ran away to New York City, returns when it has been discovered that she's been embezzling funds from the law firm at which she worked. She stole the money to fund her apparently glamorous lifestyle of booze, couture, and men. Cordy is a free-wheeling gypsy who realizes she must give up her rambling ways when she finds herself accidentally pregnant. While they're all under one roof again, they naturally learn about themselves, re-connect with each other, care for their mother (and father), and more or less solve all their problems. Hey, I didn't claim the novel was ground-breaking in any way.
Despite the straightforwardness of the story arcs, this is still a really enjoyable read, particularly if one is a) a reader, and b) a fan of Shakespeare. The various references and the explanation of the sisters' characters based on their namesakes are interesting and amusing. The characters are all reasonably realistic, and I think that most of us would find a bit of ourselves in each sister. The narrative voice, though, is what makes the novel really interesting: it's in first person plural - in essence as though the three sisters are narrating together. It's a bit confusing at first, but it really strengthens the idea that, although they are very different and they don't always like each other, they share a common bond and history that goes beyond their individual stories. I also really love stories that take place in academic settings. There's this notion that these people are all so terribly educated or smart or clever, but of course their lives are actually a mess, and they are often forced to find a way to perform life functions of the most practical and mundane kind. It's just always entertaining to me; I guess because I sort of wish I lived in that world, but I don't have the drive for a PhD.
Anyway, if you're looking for a good novel with interesting and mostly sympathetic characters, I'd recommend this one. I think I found it in the NYT Book Review ... it's new, and apparently Ms. Brown's first novel? It's probably safe to assume we will be seeing more of her. A very fun way to pass the time!
There are, among the many, two subsets of fiction; one involves the lives of those immersed in academia, the other concerns itself with those who have left home to find themselves, only to discover that they must go back to move forward. If you combine these two subsets and throw in a fairly large smattering of Shakespearean quotes, you have the very excellent The Weird Sisters.
The weird sisters of literary fame are, as I'm sure you're aware, the three witches who appear in Shakespeare's Hamlet. Eleanor Brown's "weird sisters" are the Andreas girls: Rosalind (Rose), Bianca (Bean), and Cordelia (Cordy). Their father is a renowned Shakespearean scholar and professor, and so they have grown up with the Bard's works, and accordingly, whenever anyone in the family has something important to say, they borrow Shakespeare's words. Thus, the announcement that their mother has breast cancer comes from their father in the form of "Come, let us go; and pray to all the gods/For our beloved mother in her pains."
The three sisters are reunited, ostensibly to help care for their mother, but really to escape and/or muddle through their own problems. Rose, a mathematics professor, has never left the safe confines of her hometown (a lovely, idyllic little hippie-fied bubble of academia), and is struggling with the fact that her fiance (a chemistry professor) has been offered a three-year stint at Oxford, and wants her to join him there. Rose's bigger problem is that she's that kind of person who runs everyone else's lives for them, and is convinced that her family will crumble to pieces without her there. Bean, who ran away to New York City, returns when it has been discovered that she's been embezzling funds from the law firm at which she worked. She stole the money to fund her apparently glamorous lifestyle of booze, couture, and men. Cordy is a free-wheeling gypsy who realizes she must give up her rambling ways when she finds herself accidentally pregnant. While they're all under one roof again, they naturally learn about themselves, re-connect with each other, care for their mother (and father), and more or less solve all their problems. Hey, I didn't claim the novel was ground-breaking in any way.
Despite the straightforwardness of the story arcs, this is still a really enjoyable read, particularly if one is a) a reader, and b) a fan of Shakespeare. The various references and the explanation of the sisters' characters based on their namesakes are interesting and amusing. The characters are all reasonably realistic, and I think that most of us would find a bit of ourselves in each sister. The narrative voice, though, is what makes the novel really interesting: it's in first person plural - in essence as though the three sisters are narrating together. It's a bit confusing at first, but it really strengthens the idea that, although they are very different and they don't always like each other, they share a common bond and history that goes beyond their individual stories. I also really love stories that take place in academic settings. There's this notion that these people are all so terribly educated or smart or clever, but of course their lives are actually a mess, and they are often forced to find a way to perform life functions of the most practical and mundane kind. It's just always entertaining to me; I guess because I sort of wish I lived in that world, but I don't have the drive for a PhD.
Anyway, if you're looking for a good novel with interesting and mostly sympathetic characters, I'd recommend this one. I think I found it in the NYT Book Review ... it's new, and apparently Ms. Brown's first novel? It's probably safe to assume we will be seeing more of her. A very fun way to pass the time!
Sunday, January 23, 2011
CBR Book 6: The Wolves of Andover
The Wolves of Andover, by Kathleen Kent
About halfway through The Wolves of Andover, my husband asked me what I thought of it, and I told him that it read sort of like a historical romance novel, just without all the sex. Upon finishing the book, I regret dismissing it in that fashion. It's a strong read, fascinating in its nods to actual history, and written in such a way so as to evoke the matter-of-factness of its world and the characters that inhabit it.
The novel takes place in colonial Massachusetts, and in Restoration-era London. It follows a strong-willed young woman sent to live and work for her cousin's family, and the machinations of a group of London criminals sent to the New World to track down and capture or kill a regicide: specifically, the man who actually beheaded Charles I under orders from Cromwell, who they believe to be "hiding in plain sight," like many of his compatriots, somewhere in New England.
The characters in the story, in addition to the larger, historical happenings, contend with all the usual problems of the day: the spread of disease, rough passage from England to America, Indian raids, weather, and so on. The writing style accordingly reflects the straightforward, slightly rough-hewn colonial lifestyle; it's not overly descriptive or florid, and what description there is definitely works to evoke the metaphor and simile that would be understood by the subjects themselves. The novel suffers only mildly in that this same rudimentary sketching is applied to the characters themselves. One might hope for a little more depth to the people one meets, but overall, somehow the style works for them, too. They are simpler people belonging to a simpler time, and despite its brutish and short nature, it's almost possible to envy them the simplicity of their lives. You know, when they're not all trying to kill each other.
The Wolves of Andover is a true work of historical fiction: many of the characters were real people (in fact, the author is descended from the two protagonists), although their roles within the story may or may not have been as depicted. It seems to me to be well-researched in its representations of the time period, both in the colonies and in England, and it's a quick and enjoyable read. I picked it up because I do rather like history, although I prefer it to be slightly dramatized, and therefore less dry, than straight non-fiction reading. Again, perhaps a bit more character development, and a little more use of a thesaurus (the author is given to one particular phrase quite a lot; I won't spoil it for you, though), but overall, no regrets. Apparently, this novel is sort of a prequel to the author's The Heretic's Daughter, and I'm undecided as to whether or not I'll give that one a try (I have sworn off series - too much commitment) but it also sounds fairly interesting.
About halfway through The Wolves of Andover, my husband asked me what I thought of it, and I told him that it read sort of like a historical romance novel, just without all the sex. Upon finishing the book, I regret dismissing it in that fashion. It's a strong read, fascinating in its nods to actual history, and written in such a way so as to evoke the matter-of-factness of its world and the characters that inhabit it.
The novel takes place in colonial Massachusetts, and in Restoration-era London. It follows a strong-willed young woman sent to live and work for her cousin's family, and the machinations of a group of London criminals sent to the New World to track down and capture or kill a regicide: specifically, the man who actually beheaded Charles I under orders from Cromwell, who they believe to be "hiding in plain sight," like many of his compatriots, somewhere in New England.
The characters in the story, in addition to the larger, historical happenings, contend with all the usual problems of the day: the spread of disease, rough passage from England to America, Indian raids, weather, and so on. The writing style accordingly reflects the straightforward, slightly rough-hewn colonial lifestyle; it's not overly descriptive or florid, and what description there is definitely works to evoke the metaphor and simile that would be understood by the subjects themselves. The novel suffers only mildly in that this same rudimentary sketching is applied to the characters themselves. One might hope for a little more depth to the people one meets, but overall, somehow the style works for them, too. They are simpler people belonging to a simpler time, and despite its brutish and short nature, it's almost possible to envy them the simplicity of their lives. You know, when they're not all trying to kill each other.
The Wolves of Andover is a true work of historical fiction: many of the characters were real people (in fact, the author is descended from the two protagonists), although their roles within the story may or may not have been as depicted. It seems to me to be well-researched in its representations of the time period, both in the colonies and in England, and it's a quick and enjoyable read. I picked it up because I do rather like history, although I prefer it to be slightly dramatized, and therefore less dry, than straight non-fiction reading. Again, perhaps a bit more character development, and a little more use of a thesaurus (the author is given to one particular phrase quite a lot; I won't spoil it for you, though), but overall, no regrets. Apparently, this novel is sort of a prequel to the author's The Heretic's Daughter, and I'm undecided as to whether or not I'll give that one a try (I have sworn off series - too much commitment) but it also sounds fairly interesting.
Monday, January 17, 2011
CBR Book 5: For All the Tea in China: How England stole the world's favorite drink and changed history
For all the tea in China: how England stole the world's favorite drink and changed history, by Sarah Rose
I love tea. Don't get me wrong, though: I'm not a tea snob. I actually find loose-leaf to be rather a pain in the rear, and sometimes I really just love a cup of Lipton's finest. But I drink a cup of hot tea nearly every morning, and when the weather's cold, I'll probably have more than one cup throughout the day. My point is, I'm a tea-drinker as opposed to a coffee-drinker, so when I heard about a book about the history of tea (sort of), I was pretty interested, and sure enough, this book does not disappoint.
For All the Tea in China ... describes a period of about 4-5 years in the mid 1800s, during which a naturalist by the name of Robert Fortune was hired by the East India Company to essentially "steal" tea from China. You see, England and China traded extensively in those days. England provided China with opium, grown in India; China provided England with tea. The East India Company, though, felt that if they only had the raw materials and the know-how, they could produce tea out of India instead. The problem was that the best tea all came from China, and the Chinese tea growers were the only ones who truly knew how to make it good. Thus, Robert Fortune, disguised as a mandarin, went deep into the Chinese interior, to the best green tea- and black tea-growing areas of the country, and stole tea plants, seeds, and any information regarding the production of tea that he could glean. Once he had the materials, he had to get them back to the coast, onto ships, and safely sent to India. He was also responsible for finding tea-makers and convincing them to go to India in order to grow tea for the East India Company. He was, ultimately, successful.
Sarah Rose's history mainly tells the story of Fortune's travels through China; stories that can be read in his own published memoirs. Also of interest, though, are the descriptions of the economic goings-on, the botanical innovations of the time, and the history that evolved out of these activities. The fact that England provided China with opium, for instance, was a fascinating realization to me. They actually fought wars over the stuff! And Mr. Fortune, in addition to bringing tea to India, was also responsible for bringing countless other types of still-popular flora to the Western world. He successfully proved that green tea and black tea come from the same plant (European botanists were convinced that they were merely cousins), and provided evidence that the Chinese green tea producers actually were poisoning their tea by adding Prussian blue and gypsum, which gave the tea a richer green color. He also revolutionized the way that plant life was transported by making important changes to Wardian cases (sealed glasses compartments, kind of like terrariums).
History is often dry stuff, even when a topic of interest is being discussed. By focusing primarily on Robert Fortune, Ms. Rose is able to provide a readable narrative of one man's "adventures," while providing the historic and economic context alongside it. Overall, an interesting read; I would have thought that corporate or industrial espionage was a fairly new concept, but it doesn't really come as a surprise to learn that the East India Company (the world's first global corporation) was engaging in it during the Victorian era. Also, even though I'm not much of a plant person, learning a bit about the economic importance and high aesthetic value of flora was equally interesting.
The verdict? Worth a read, and not just for tea-lovers. If you're looking for something easy and non-fiction, give it a try!
I love tea. Don't get me wrong, though: I'm not a tea snob. I actually find loose-leaf to be rather a pain in the rear, and sometimes I really just love a cup of Lipton's finest. But I drink a cup of hot tea nearly every morning, and when the weather's cold, I'll probably have more than one cup throughout the day. My point is, I'm a tea-drinker as opposed to a coffee-drinker, so when I heard about a book about the history of tea (sort of), I was pretty interested, and sure enough, this book does not disappoint.
For All the Tea in China ... describes a period of about 4-5 years in the mid 1800s, during which a naturalist by the name of Robert Fortune was hired by the East India Company to essentially "steal" tea from China. You see, England and China traded extensively in those days. England provided China with opium, grown in India; China provided England with tea. The East India Company, though, felt that if they only had the raw materials and the know-how, they could produce tea out of India instead. The problem was that the best tea all came from China, and the Chinese tea growers were the only ones who truly knew how to make it good. Thus, Robert Fortune, disguised as a mandarin, went deep into the Chinese interior, to the best green tea- and black tea-growing areas of the country, and stole tea plants, seeds, and any information regarding the production of tea that he could glean. Once he had the materials, he had to get them back to the coast, onto ships, and safely sent to India. He was also responsible for finding tea-makers and convincing them to go to India in order to grow tea for the East India Company. He was, ultimately, successful.
Sarah Rose's history mainly tells the story of Fortune's travels through China; stories that can be read in his own published memoirs. Also of interest, though, are the descriptions of the economic goings-on, the botanical innovations of the time, and the history that evolved out of these activities. The fact that England provided China with opium, for instance, was a fascinating realization to me. They actually fought wars over the stuff! And Mr. Fortune, in addition to bringing tea to India, was also responsible for bringing countless other types of still-popular flora to the Western world. He successfully proved that green tea and black tea come from the same plant (European botanists were convinced that they were merely cousins), and provided evidence that the Chinese green tea producers actually were poisoning their tea by adding Prussian blue and gypsum, which gave the tea a richer green color. He also revolutionized the way that plant life was transported by making important changes to Wardian cases (sealed glasses compartments, kind of like terrariums).
History is often dry stuff, even when a topic of interest is being discussed. By focusing primarily on Robert Fortune, Ms. Rose is able to provide a readable narrative of one man's "adventures," while providing the historic and economic context alongside it. Overall, an interesting read; I would have thought that corporate or industrial espionage was a fairly new concept, but it doesn't really come as a surprise to learn that the East India Company (the world's first global corporation) was engaging in it during the Victorian era. Also, even though I'm not much of a plant person, learning a bit about the economic importance and high aesthetic value of flora was equally interesting.
The verdict? Worth a read, and not just for tea-lovers. If you're looking for something easy and non-fiction, give it a try!
Saturday, January 08, 2011
CBR Book 4: Me: stories of my life
Me: Stories of my life, by Katharine Hepburn.
I love the old, classic movies. I have to admit that I am only a novice in terms of seeing a lot of them, but I'm working on it. You can snoop out my movie blog if you want to know more about that - I won't publicize it here. My absolute favorites are the musicals, and therefore Gene Kelly and Judy Garland. After that, though, I'm all about Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn. If you haven't seen Bringing up Baby or The Philadelphia Story, I highly recommend them. Comedy genius.
As such, I've been meaning to read Ms. Hepburn's memoirs for several years, and just haven't gotten around to it until now. Having read them, I can't make up my mind as to whether or not I am disappointed. I suppose I was expecting a straightforward "biography," you know, ghost-written by someone else, just with the details filled in by the famous person. This book is not such a work. It's really basically Ms. Hepburn remembering things about her life. What this means is a bunch of random snippets about Connecticut and showbusiness and plays and mostly people, many of whom were apparently a big deal in their time but are not well-remembered today (at least I don't know who they were), provided in sentence fragments with lots of (apparently well-remembered) descriptions of buildings and places and conversations, all through the lens of what you'd expect, I suppose, of Hepburn's personality: blunt, matter-of-fact, and actually a little bit ditzy at times.
I would have wished for more trivia about Hollywood and the movies that Hepburn made, but it was still interesting to read about George Cukor's house and what kind of person Louis B. Mayer was. Hepburn's ruminations on the system of show business as it was in her day is also pretty interesting; it was apparently a lot less of a series of hoops to jump through than I would have thought. People had scripts and things written for them, people were seen in one play and immediately cast in another, and it was apparently no big thing to be seen in something on the East Coast and then immediately whisked off to the West Coast for a screen test. I've read bios of Garland and Kelly that seem to corroborate this, although both of them had more difficulty in some things than Hepburn admits to having had.
There is also, of course, plenty of time given to Hepburn's personal relationships: S. Ogden Ludlow and Howard Hughes and Spencer Tracy. She actually saves Tracy for the last, teasing the reader with it, as though she knows that's what we really wanted to read about. She doesn't shed a whole lot of light on the relationship, either. What I actually came away with was that Hepburn really kind of bought into the faux-romance of Hollywood, despite having come from forward-thinking parents who seem to have had a solid, realistic relationship. Her position on the relationship is one that I would have agreed with, say, 5-10 years ago ... she describes it as very one-sided, her being there and giving her all to Tracy without really knowing if he liked having her around. For 27 years? I'd hope he did. I think probably she just didn't want to share that much, or she didn't feel that giving "his side" of things was her place.
I guess I don't have much more to say about this book ... how does one analyze an autobiography, particularly one not by a literary figure? If you're interested in Hepburn, you ought to read it, otherwise I don't know why you would. It was fun to read, even if the structure left a little to be desired. I now feel the need to add to my Hepburn/Tracy repertoire. Maybe I'll go watch Hepburn's Little Women, currently sitting on my coffee table.
I love the old, classic movies. I have to admit that I am only a novice in terms of seeing a lot of them, but I'm working on it. You can snoop out my movie blog if you want to know more about that - I won't publicize it here. My absolute favorites are the musicals, and therefore Gene Kelly and Judy Garland. After that, though, I'm all about Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn. If you haven't seen Bringing up Baby or The Philadelphia Story, I highly recommend them. Comedy genius.
As such, I've been meaning to read Ms. Hepburn's memoirs for several years, and just haven't gotten around to it until now. Having read them, I can't make up my mind as to whether or not I am disappointed. I suppose I was expecting a straightforward "biography," you know, ghost-written by someone else, just with the details filled in by the famous person. This book is not such a work. It's really basically Ms. Hepburn remembering things about her life. What this means is a bunch of random snippets about Connecticut and showbusiness and plays and mostly people, many of whom were apparently a big deal in their time but are not well-remembered today (at least I don't know who they were), provided in sentence fragments with lots of (apparently well-remembered) descriptions of buildings and places and conversations, all through the lens of what you'd expect, I suppose, of Hepburn's personality: blunt, matter-of-fact, and actually a little bit ditzy at times.
I would have wished for more trivia about Hollywood and the movies that Hepburn made, but it was still interesting to read about George Cukor's house and what kind of person Louis B. Mayer was. Hepburn's ruminations on the system of show business as it was in her day is also pretty interesting; it was apparently a lot less of a series of hoops to jump through than I would have thought. People had scripts and things written for them, people were seen in one play and immediately cast in another, and it was apparently no big thing to be seen in something on the East Coast and then immediately whisked off to the West Coast for a screen test. I've read bios of Garland and Kelly that seem to corroborate this, although both of them had more difficulty in some things than Hepburn admits to having had.
There is also, of course, plenty of time given to Hepburn's personal relationships: S. Ogden Ludlow and Howard Hughes and Spencer Tracy. She actually saves Tracy for the last, teasing the reader with it, as though she knows that's what we really wanted to read about. She doesn't shed a whole lot of light on the relationship, either. What I actually came away with was that Hepburn really kind of bought into the faux-romance of Hollywood, despite having come from forward-thinking parents who seem to have had a solid, realistic relationship. Her position on the relationship is one that I would have agreed with, say, 5-10 years ago ... she describes it as very one-sided, her being there and giving her all to Tracy without really knowing if he liked having her around. For 27 years? I'd hope he did. I think probably she just didn't want to share that much, or she didn't feel that giving "his side" of things was her place.
I guess I don't have much more to say about this book ... how does one analyze an autobiography, particularly one not by a literary figure? If you're interested in Hepburn, you ought to read it, otherwise I don't know why you would. It was fun to read, even if the structure left a little to be desired. I now feel the need to add to my Hepburn/Tracy repertoire. Maybe I'll go watch Hepburn's Little Women, currently sitting on my coffee table.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
More CBR madness
Incidentally, if you are so inclined, there is a group blog where all (or rather, many) of the individuals participating in the Cannonball Read are posting their reviews, or links to reviews. Check it out!
CBR Book 3: Her Fearful Symmetry
Her Fearful Symmetry, by Audrey Niffenegger
HFS is what would happen if you slightly de-crazified Anne Rice and told her to write a ghost story. The twists and turns are very Rice-ian, but there's little to no sex (of any kind) and no overarching obsession to get caught up in. There are also no particularly sympathetic characters, no discernable point to the whole thing, and not enough development to prepare one for the climax of the novel. In one word, Meh.
Elspeth Noblin, a London-based rare book dealer, dies of leukemia and leaves her entire estate to the twin daughters of her estranged twin sister, Edie. Julia and Valentina (the twins) are stipulated to come and live in Elspeth's London flat for a year, together, before they can sell the place. So they do. There they meet Elspeth's neighbors, scholarly Robert (who was her lover) OCD Martin, and his fed-up wife, Marijke. Oh, they also live next door to Highgate Cemetery, the history of which Robert is writing a book about. The twins navigate London, make friends with Elspeth's old friends (Valentina becomes involved with Robert, and Julia appoints herself Martin's nursemaid after his wife leaves him), and attempt to uncover the secret of why Elspeth and Edie have not seen each other for nearly 20 years. They also get to know their Aunt Elspeth, as she is haunting the apartment. That's when the trouble begins.
I'm going to leave the synopsis at that in order to avoid spoilers. Although, as stated earlier, the climax and thrust of the novel really sort of seem to come from out of left field, and when they do, well, you don't really care a whole lot. Seriously, what a bunch of selfish and uninteresting characters. Julia and Valentina are 21 year olds who have done/are doing nothing with their lives. Valentina has aspirations of being a fashion designer, but she and her sister are so co-dependent that they are crippled in terms of actually having lives of their own. Elspeth was a rare book dealer, and OCD Martin is a crossword setter, while Robert gives tours of the cemetery (which is, in fact, quite famous and interesting) while studying the history of the place, and you would think that with these sort of random and quirky activities the characters (and the novel) might be more interesting. But it's not, really - the quirks provide no development and little movement in terms of the plot, so they mostly just feel like Niffenegger selected professions at random. It doesn't mean anything that Elspeth was a rare book dealer, beyond her agonizing about how the twins don't read any of the fabulous books she has in her flat, or how they've got a Hogarth Press first edition of To the Lighthouse in the bath. (The Hogarth Press was Leonard and Virginia Woolf's press, btw, so that's a pretty sweet book - we're talking close to $20k ... in the tub. Eep.)
Oh sorry, rare book nerd tangent. Ahem.
The book is just sort of meandering, I guess, and when the big reveal(s) come, they don't seem to mean anything. Perhaps there is some larger message and meaning that I'm just missing. The writing is quite nice, but ultimately boring. I'm all about characters, and if I don't care about any of 'em, well, then I just don't care. I was interested in the book I guess because of the potential for rare book nerdery and the fact that the title is a Blake quote. And even that is only relevant in the most superficial sense. The main characters are two sets of identical twins. Valentina and Julia are mirror-image twins, which means that they're totally inverted ... apparently down to their internal organs, or something. Also, I think the larger context of the Blake poem ("The Tyger"), dealing with the duality and symmetry of nature, is supposed to say something about the duality of the character's personalities. But that seems pretty peripheral. That point could have been developed throughout the novel, but it's really not.
You know, in thinking about it, I guess I could sort of argue for the main point of the novel being the double-sided nature of most human beings in terms of being selfish vs. putting the needs of others first. There is a lot of exploration there, I suppose. The twins want their own lives, but often put the perceived needs of the other first. Robert struggles between doing what he wants and doing what Elspeth wants/wanted. Marijke leaves Martin because she wants a normal, OCD-free existence, but she still misses him and ends up helping to take care of him from afar. Martin himself struggles between sort of wallowing (no offense to OCD sufferers, but that is how it is presented to a certain degree) in his disability and making the effort to be better in order to reunite with his wife. Elspeth and Edie, well ... let's just say they follow the trend.
So there you have it. As a good former English major, I have found a theme to talk about. It's just not a very satisfying theme, somehow. Alas, not a recommend. I think it's trying to be so deep that it's not even good for just a fun, quick read. One keeps waiting for something that never arrives. Certainly that would be a viable theme for a novel, but it doesn't really make for an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon or two.
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
HFS is what would happen if you slightly de-crazified Anne Rice and told her to write a ghost story. The twists and turns are very Rice-ian, but there's little to no sex (of any kind) and no overarching obsession to get caught up in. There are also no particularly sympathetic characters, no discernable point to the whole thing, and not enough development to prepare one for the climax of the novel. In one word, Meh.
Elspeth Noblin, a London-based rare book dealer, dies of leukemia and leaves her entire estate to the twin daughters of her estranged twin sister, Edie. Julia and Valentina (the twins) are stipulated to come and live in Elspeth's London flat for a year, together, before they can sell the place. So they do. There they meet Elspeth's neighbors, scholarly Robert (who was her lover) OCD Martin, and his fed-up wife, Marijke. Oh, they also live next door to Highgate Cemetery, the history of which Robert is writing a book about. The twins navigate London, make friends with Elspeth's old friends (Valentina becomes involved with Robert, and Julia appoints herself Martin's nursemaid after his wife leaves him), and attempt to uncover the secret of why Elspeth and Edie have not seen each other for nearly 20 years. They also get to know their Aunt Elspeth, as she is haunting the apartment. That's when the trouble begins.
I'm going to leave the synopsis at that in order to avoid spoilers. Although, as stated earlier, the climax and thrust of the novel really sort of seem to come from out of left field, and when they do, well, you don't really care a whole lot. Seriously, what a bunch of selfish and uninteresting characters. Julia and Valentina are 21 year olds who have done/are doing nothing with their lives. Valentina has aspirations of being a fashion designer, but she and her sister are so co-dependent that they are crippled in terms of actually having lives of their own. Elspeth was a rare book dealer, and OCD Martin is a crossword setter, while Robert gives tours of the cemetery (which is, in fact, quite famous and interesting) while studying the history of the place, and you would think that with these sort of random and quirky activities the characters (and the novel) might be more interesting. But it's not, really - the quirks provide no development and little movement in terms of the plot, so they mostly just feel like Niffenegger selected professions at random. It doesn't mean anything that Elspeth was a rare book dealer, beyond her agonizing about how the twins don't read any of the fabulous books she has in her flat, or how they've got a Hogarth Press first edition of To the Lighthouse in the bath. (The Hogarth Press was Leonard and Virginia Woolf's press, btw, so that's a pretty sweet book - we're talking close to $20k ... in the tub. Eep.)
Oh sorry, rare book nerd tangent. Ahem.
The book is just sort of meandering, I guess, and when the big reveal(s) come, they don't seem to mean anything. Perhaps there is some larger message and meaning that I'm just missing. The writing is quite nice, but ultimately boring. I'm all about characters, and if I don't care about any of 'em, well, then I just don't care. I was interested in the book I guess because of the potential for rare book nerdery and the fact that the title is a Blake quote. And even that is only relevant in the most superficial sense. The main characters are two sets of identical twins. Valentina and Julia are mirror-image twins, which means that they're totally inverted ... apparently down to their internal organs, or something. Also, I think the larger context of the Blake poem ("The Tyger"), dealing with the duality and symmetry of nature, is supposed to say something about the duality of the character's personalities. But that seems pretty peripheral. That point could have been developed throughout the novel, but it's really not.
You know, in thinking about it, I guess I could sort of argue for the main point of the novel being the double-sided nature of most human beings in terms of being selfish vs. putting the needs of others first. There is a lot of exploration there, I suppose. The twins want their own lives, but often put the perceived needs of the other first. Robert struggles between doing what he wants and doing what Elspeth wants/wanted. Marijke leaves Martin because she wants a normal, OCD-free existence, but she still misses him and ends up helping to take care of him from afar. Martin himself struggles between sort of wallowing (no offense to OCD sufferers, but that is how it is presented to a certain degree) in his disability and making the effort to be better in order to reunite with his wife. Elspeth and Edie, well ... let's just say they follow the trend.
So there you have it. As a good former English major, I have found a theme to talk about. It's just not a very satisfying theme, somehow. Alas, not a recommend. I think it's trying to be so deep that it's not even good for just a fun, quick read. One keeps waiting for something that never arrives. Certainly that would be a viable theme for a novel, but it doesn't really make for an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon or two.
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Sunday, January 02, 2011
CBR Book 2: Identical
Identical, by Ellen Hopkins
My one-line summary of Identical is that it's pretty much When Rabbit Howls for the Twilight set. It's in a sort of a prose poem style, and it deals with pretty much any issue you can imagine a YA book dealing with: sexual abuse, incest, cutting, eating disorders, drugs, sexual promiscuity, love, rivalries, dysfunctional families ... you name it, these girls are dealing with it.
"These girls" are Raeanne and Kaeleigh (oy, those names) Gardella, twin daughters of a successful judge and a would-be Congresswoman, living "the good life" in mid-state California. Their family has its public side, and its private side, and guess what? The private side is pretty ugly. The girls have their means of coping - namely the aforementioned laundry list of issues. Clearly, the status is not quo, and as we follow the first person "poetic" narrative to the (somewhat predictable) denouement, we are treated to loads and loads of teenage angst, plus some fairly disturbing activity for 18 year olds to be engaged in. (Or at least it's disturbing from the viewpoint of someone with a 3 week old daughter.)
Honestly, I sort of wish Ms. Hopkins had just picked one or two issues and dealt with that. The book would be a lot less busy. But, she's apparently a fairly popular YA author, so what do I know? I'm not entirely sure how this one ended up on my "to-read" list ... I like looking at lists of books in newspapers and on NPR and so forth, and I will often just decide that some random list sounds fun and add a bunch of stuff to my own agenda, which I then promptly forget about.
I think that I must have been intrigued by the structure of the novel, which is admittedly somewhat interesting, if better manifested elsewhere (try Out of the Dust if you want novels in poem form). I am not, by any means, belittling the problems that teenagers face in this day and age, and I think it's great that a successful novel can address those issues, but I guess to me the inclusion of pretty much all of them just seemed kind of gimmicky. Still, I admit that I am not the target audience, and perhaps for a girl who's read Twilight and is looking for something with a little more substance, this would be the way to go.
This book is rated R for sexual content, drug use, and foul language. Some scenes may be disturbing for younger readers.
My one-line summary of Identical is that it's pretty much When Rabbit Howls for the Twilight set. It's in a sort of a prose poem style, and it deals with pretty much any issue you can imagine a YA book dealing with: sexual abuse, incest, cutting, eating disorders, drugs, sexual promiscuity, love, rivalries, dysfunctional families ... you name it, these girls are dealing with it.
"These girls" are Raeanne and Kaeleigh (oy, those names) Gardella, twin daughters of a successful judge and a would-be Congresswoman, living "the good life" in mid-state California. Their family has its public side, and its private side, and guess what? The private side is pretty ugly. The girls have their means of coping - namely the aforementioned laundry list of issues. Clearly, the status is not quo, and as we follow the first person "poetic" narrative to the (somewhat predictable) denouement, we are treated to loads and loads of teenage angst, plus some fairly disturbing activity for 18 year olds to be engaged in. (Or at least it's disturbing from the viewpoint of someone with a 3 week old daughter.)
Honestly, I sort of wish Ms. Hopkins had just picked one or two issues and dealt with that. The book would be a lot less busy. But, she's apparently a fairly popular YA author, so what do I know? I'm not entirely sure how this one ended up on my "to-read" list ... I like looking at lists of books in newspapers and on NPR and so forth, and I will often just decide that some random list sounds fun and add a bunch of stuff to my own agenda, which I then promptly forget about.
I think that I must have been intrigued by the structure of the novel, which is admittedly somewhat interesting, if better manifested elsewhere (try Out of the Dust if you want novels in poem form). I am not, by any means, belittling the problems that teenagers face in this day and age, and I think it's great that a successful novel can address those issues, but I guess to me the inclusion of pretty much all of them just seemed kind of gimmicky. Still, I admit that I am not the target audience, and perhaps for a girl who's read Twilight and is looking for something with a little more substance, this would be the way to go.
This book is rated R for sexual content, drug use, and foul language. Some scenes may be disturbing for younger readers.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
CBR Book 1: Ella Minnow Pea
Ella Minnow Pea: A progressively lipogrammatic epistolary fable, by Mark Dunn
Ella Minnow Pea (say it out loud if you don't get it) was recommended to me by a friend and co-worker, and I swear that when he was talking about it, it sounded fun and nerdy and mostly kind of silly. It is fun, and pretty darn nerdy, but it really isn't silly at all. In fact, it's a dystopian novel masquerading as word nerdery. Which, if you ask me, is seriously cool. I have a thing for dystopian novels, even though I find them extremely disturbing. And since this one deals in words and language, it's doubly excellent.
The story takes place on the island nation of Nollop, just off the coast of South Carolina. The island's most "famous" native son is Nevin Nollop, author of the pangram "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog," which, if you're not familiar with it, utilizes each letter of the alphabet. The citizens of the island, accordingly, are word lovers of the first degree. Letters between cousins Ella and Tassie, along with various other people within their sphere, narrate the progressive deterioration of their society, due to the loss of lettered tiles on a memorial to Nollop. This loss (actually due to substandard glue) is interpreted by the powers-that-be as beyond the grave orders from Nollop, dictating the removal of the lost letters from use. What starts out innocently enough (Z is the first letter to go) becomes more and more alarming, due largely in part to the rather draconian punishments handed down for unauthorized use of the letters. Ultimately, in an attempt to save their home, the citizens of the island must attempt to outdo Mr. Nollop and create a new, shorter pangram in order to prove that the ability to do so is not divine.
Sounds kind of cute, right? What I didn't mention, though, is the punishments for using the taboo letters (public reprimand, then stocks or flogging, then banishment or death). Or the fact that the books disappear even along with the first letter. Or the way in which the High Council progressively starts abusing its power, first by reading the letters of the Nollopians in order to uphold their directives, then by seizing the property of banished citizens and those who eventually start to leave the island of their own accord. The progressive silencing of the citizens; those who choose to cease communicating for fear of punishment, and those for whom it becomes increasingly difficult. Those who go mad with the loss of communication. Those who die, all because of letters removed from use.
While I was reading this, I would often find myself in a panic. "Oh crap. Did I just use the letter D?" Seriously, it's really difficult to keep track of that sort of thing. At first the narrators of our story find it an interesting challenge, I think, given that they all have unreal vocabularies. But the fear and difficulty begins to affect the reader later on, as the letters become shorter and shorter, the vocabulary less and less exalted; ultimately, the missives become nearly impossible to read as the characters resort to using alternate spellings and letter combinations in order to communicate. The panic seeps in as the deadline for creating the new pangram looms. Perhaps one needs a somewhat cynical and overactive imagination to really consider what the world would be like if we lost our powers of communication. Perhaps it's a possible reality in today's world of text-speak and spellcheck. Either way, it's scary stuff, at least to me.
This novel is worth reading. It's an easy read that'll only take you a couple of hours, yet it packs a big punch. The epistolary nature of the book brings the subject to the reader in a very personal way, and it allows for a true understanding of what is lost when one removes letters from use. It'll also increase one's vocabulary - you might want to have a dictionary handy. I like to compare dystopian visions: Atwood to Huxley to Bradbury, and so on; Dunn's vision of a world without the alphabet fits right in, believe it or not. Give it a try! You'll gain a new appreciation for that pesky letter Q.
Ella Minnow Pea (say it out loud if you don't get it) was recommended to me by a friend and co-worker, and I swear that when he was talking about it, it sounded fun and nerdy and mostly kind of silly. It is fun, and pretty darn nerdy, but it really isn't silly at all. In fact, it's a dystopian novel masquerading as word nerdery. Which, if you ask me, is seriously cool. I have a thing for dystopian novels, even though I find them extremely disturbing. And since this one deals in words and language, it's doubly excellent.
The story takes place on the island nation of Nollop, just off the coast of South Carolina. The island's most "famous" native son is Nevin Nollop, author of the pangram "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog," which, if you're not familiar with it, utilizes each letter of the alphabet. The citizens of the island, accordingly, are word lovers of the first degree. Letters between cousins Ella and Tassie, along with various other people within their sphere, narrate the progressive deterioration of their society, due to the loss of lettered tiles on a memorial to Nollop. This loss (actually due to substandard glue) is interpreted by the powers-that-be as beyond the grave orders from Nollop, dictating the removal of the lost letters from use. What starts out innocently enough (Z is the first letter to go) becomes more and more alarming, due largely in part to the rather draconian punishments handed down for unauthorized use of the letters. Ultimately, in an attempt to save their home, the citizens of the island must attempt to outdo Mr. Nollop and create a new, shorter pangram in order to prove that the ability to do so is not divine.
Sounds kind of cute, right? What I didn't mention, though, is the punishments for using the taboo letters (public reprimand, then stocks or flogging, then banishment or death). Or the fact that the books disappear even along with the first letter. Or the way in which the High Council progressively starts abusing its power, first by reading the letters of the Nollopians in order to uphold their directives, then by seizing the property of banished citizens and those who eventually start to leave the island of their own accord. The progressive silencing of the citizens; those who choose to cease communicating for fear of punishment, and those for whom it becomes increasingly difficult. Those who go mad with the loss of communication. Those who die, all because of letters removed from use.
While I was reading this, I would often find myself in a panic. "Oh crap. Did I just use the letter D?" Seriously, it's really difficult to keep track of that sort of thing. At first the narrators of our story find it an interesting challenge, I think, given that they all have unreal vocabularies. But the fear and difficulty begins to affect the reader later on, as the letters become shorter and shorter, the vocabulary less and less exalted; ultimately, the missives become nearly impossible to read as the characters resort to using alternate spellings and letter combinations in order to communicate. The panic seeps in as the deadline for creating the new pangram looms. Perhaps one needs a somewhat cynical and overactive imagination to really consider what the world would be like if we lost our powers of communication. Perhaps it's a possible reality in today's world of text-speak and spellcheck. Either way, it's scary stuff, at least to me.
This novel is worth reading. It's an easy read that'll only take you a couple of hours, yet it packs a big punch. The epistolary nature of the book brings the subject to the reader in a very personal way, and it allows for a true understanding of what is lost when one removes letters from use. It'll also increase one's vocabulary - you might want to have a dictionary handy. I like to compare dystopian visions: Atwood to Huxley to Bradbury, and so on; Dunn's vision of a world without the alphabet fits right in, believe it or not. Give it a try! You'll gain a new appreciation for that pesky letter Q.
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