Category Archives: Fiction

Artemis Fowl: Fowbulous?

             Gosh. Forgive me for the terrible play on ‘fabulous.’ I tried hard not to use it, but it’s been flitting around in my head since I finished Artemis Fowl and somehow when I sat down to type it just came out. Call it confidence in my compassionate readership?

Anyway. I really enjoyed the book. I didn’t fully expect to, as the first two or three chapters read as heavy handed and pushy, but then things turned about when the fairies and fairy technology arrived (as things are want to do). I’m not sure I’d go so far as to read the next bunch of books in the series (not sure whether that makes for a ringing endorsement, but I did like this one), mostly because I didn’t find myself drawn to either Artemis or his fairy foe (her name escapes me. typical.) I think to compel a reader to take on another book in a series you need to have some engaging characters or a cliff hanger ending (this book has neither).

That said the play between protagonist/antagonist in the novel is interesting. Artemis is meant to be our antagonist, but his YAF “orphan” status (think Harry Potter, Anne of Green Gables) and his focalized narration makes it difficult not to root for his winning of the fairy gold. All the while we’re meant to cheer for the fairies, but I couldn’t help being dissuaded by their motive for keeping the gold (none) and their general contempt for human kind (kind of like screaming Muggle in a crowded room).

I laughed a few times, in no small part because of the self-reflexive narration and its (often successful) attempts at humour. Also for the slap-stick, and fart jokes.

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Filed under 100 Books of 2011, Fiction, Young Adult Fiction

Obasan: Fifth time’s the… last?

Because Obasan is on the list of course texts I need to teach this term, it is one of the few books on the 10-10-12 list that I have read before (the others are also books I need to teach). It is certainly the only book I’ve read four times before. Why, you might be thinking, would I need to read it again if I’ve read it four times already? Combination of terrible, no good, very bad memory for plot and a (maybe?) unmemorable plot itself. (and because of the good teaching practice, that, too, I think.)

It might be because the novel over-emphasizes description and so some of the plot gets weighted down in my memory by long passages describing prairie grass or dreams (I *hate* dream sequences). Or maybe because there’s a limited range of symbols/images and questions that the whole book feels like a focused meditation on how one should best deal with trauma (speak about it or banish it to the past). Which is not to say there aren’t any complications – why doesn’t Namoi tell her mother about her sexual abuse? why sexual abuse at all? I don’t know, perhaps because I’d read it so many times before the questions the novel raised felt belaboured. Actually, that’s probably exactly the reason. Hmm.

I don’t like the ending. That has nothing to do with having read it too often and everything to do with there being an atomic bomb where there ought not to be one. Well, no, the bomb is in the right geographic location, but it doesn’t belong in this narrative, that much I’m sure of.

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Filed under 100 Books of 2011, Canadian Literature, Fiction, Historical Fiction, Prize Winner

Madame Bovary: Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery (or grow old)

                         I can sort of understand banning Madame Bovary. The shameless representation of an adulteress (the scandal!) and the melt down of upper class respectability that results, must indeed be disturbing to reading audiences. But the adulteress, regardless of how unsexy her relationships (no actual sex finds description, its all boring kisses and professions of love and adoration), dies PENNILESS and ruined. She is fully punished by the text, most by impending and inescapable poverty, but also – incidentally – by death. And so why ban this tale that reinforces the importance of wealth, dignity, respectability and “knowing ones station”? Well, it represents adultery and no reader could help but be corrupted by such a representation, whatever the consequences of the sin.

I wonder myself whether Emma isn’t punished more for growing old than she is for having affairs. I maintain that her punishments – poverty and shame – are not ill deserved (she does demonstrate a careless irresponsibility with respect to money, bills and interest, not to mention with open communication with her financial partner…), but I do wonder whether these punishments arise not because of her irresponsibility, but because of the failing persuasion of her good looks and charm.

I know my argument is undone by the eleventh hour proposition of the banker to solve her debt problems should she consent to a little back room rub down (yes, you heard it here, a rub down), and that her refusal to denigrate herself is supposed to show that while she may be penniless she is still respectable (even though she will not be for long once word gets out that she’s broke). I appreciate that in her death she still looks beautiful (with the exception of the bald patches effected by a poor barbering job of the corpse), but I can’t help that feel that all of Emma’s (limited) power comes to her by way of her beauty and that the diminishment of this power must in some way be a result of her growing old. I wish that I had the text to find a pertinent example by which to prove my case, but I listened to the book and so can only furnish my feeling, and I suppose Emma’s speech to Roldolf where she tells him off for abandoning her like some street hussy when he tired of her. And that’s the risk of the mistress isn’t it? That some inevitable day you will no longer be of use and will be/can be cast off like so much spoiled meat.

Other dissatisfactions? The frame narrative of Charles. If you let go of the idea that the book is meant to be about Emma and accept that the book is about the preservation of the upper classes against a growing middle/merchant class and the dangers of a decline in upper class values and respectability the frame devise of Charles young and old is appropriate. If, however, like me, you’d rather think of the book as about Emma and her vanity, stupidity, and irrepressible ennui you might find the ending unsatisfactory (or, as I did, entirely unnecessary. the book should have ended with Emma’s death).

The brilliance of the book comes in the descriptions of characters’ appearances and behaviours, the seemless shifts in points of view, and the reflection of societal concerns and doubts so wholly in the space of a narrow cast of characters. I did appreciate the attempt to understand Emma’s unhappiness and her yearning for something more from life, though I did hope that her misery might get further attention in the explaination of her “sins,” and her ultimate punishments.

Again, thanks to the HPL for books on tape. I listened to Emma all weekend and have a clean apartment and delicious date squares to show for it.

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Filed under 100 Books of 2011, British literature, Fiction, Prize Winner

The Name of the Rose: Two books made one

                         I’m very excited about the “spies and detectives” category of my list. I haven’t read much in the way of mysteries in my life-time of reading, and I enjoy the plot driven excitement. So consider my delight in finding out that Umberto Eco’s The Name of The Rose (featured in my ‘first novels’ section) is meant to be a mystery. Alas, the murder mystery aspect of the novel gets far less attention than the sometimes interminable feeling conversations and meditations on the nature, transmission and preservation of knowledge. Which is not to say I don’t appreciate a good debate about interpretation or the availability of meaning, I just don’t appreciate that debate masquerading as narrative.

Am I complaining that a novel should not engage with philosophical questions? No. Rather, this novel bothered me because the philosophical ideas and questions read like separate sections of another text stitched into the middle of a murder mystery. To my mind the mystery added little to the debate about knowledge (except the most obvious point that the ‘detectives’ search for knowledge, and that search offers no nuance or complication to the discourses about knowledge, rather it just reflects at the most basic formal level the thematic questions). Further the questions about knowledge were consistently raised in dialogue between characters, a frustrating and tiresome dialogue wherein this reader kept waiting for the conversation to end and the plot to resume. I’d enjoy reading this same plot and these same questions but with a single narrative, where the plot adds to the complexity of the philosophy and the philosophy does not read as a diatribe or didactic exercise, but as subtle and nuanced (if you’ve read ‘Sophie’s World,’ you could comfortable compare narrative structure).

And perhaps my complaints arise only because I had such great expectations for this novel. Several friends suggested I’d like it a lot, and the murder mystery presented such potential for thrill, not to mention the 14th century setting. I’d still recommend it if you’re interested at all in questions of meaning making, the responsibility of academics to maintain, disperse and preserve knowledge, or whether or not Christ laughed (seriously).

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Filed under 100 Books of 2011, Fiction, Historical Fiction, Mystery, Prize Winner