Category Archives: Fiction

January 20, 2014 · 3:18 pm

Conspiracy of Paper: Cheque that

The trouble with me is that I’m an arrogant reader. Particularly when I’m reading a mystery. I think that because I’m paying attention I’ll sort out the mystery and so this post might otherwise be titled “chagrin.” Chagrin because I thought I’d solved the mystery in David Liss’s brilliantly enjoyable *A Conspiracy of Paper* : a mystery set in London in the 1710s as the stock market is developing and the first (ever!) stock market crash takes place. Around page 300 (of a rough 450) I’d decided that I had it all worked out and so I resolved to make it through to the end to have my conclusion validated by the book. ONLY TO BE WRONG. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, realizing I’d misread the signs. Though our protagonist Benjamin Weaver – a former boxer, turned private detective/thug – isn’t entirely sure by the end of the book that the murderer/conspirator/mastermind really is who he thinks he is. So! Maybe I’m right after all?

And this is the delight of the well wrought mystery. The unravelling of threads reveals not a single person behind the curtain, but rather a set of societal conditions that allowed such crimes to take place that anyone (perhaps) could have been the perpetrator given the right opportunity. That is to say, one person pulled the trigger, but a hundred could have. Moreover Liss’s novel is brilliant for showing how easy it might be for anyone of the characters to have slipped into pulling the trigger, that we are all but a hairs breath – or an opportunity – away from being thieves and killers. That with proper motivation and opportunity we’d all easily fill the role. That the line between virtue and crime is as easily crossed as it is misapprehended.

So the book gives you a host of suspicious characters – lovers, family, friends and supposed enemies – and has each of them vacillate between trustworthy and unreliability. Our protagonist himself, towards the end of the novel, falls under the reader’s suspicion in a masterful play of the unreliable narrator. The story is, after all a first person memoir recounted at many years distance, and this reader couldn’t help but wonder if the usual shades of self-aggrandizing truth that ought to be suspected in a first person narrative weren’t being underdrawn in suspicious ways.

The one way I wasn’t arrogant in this reading is that I am entirely ignorant of all things stock market, and moreover intimidated by economics, investments, stocks, etc.  In another brilliant move Liss anticipates this (potential) discomfort with the stock market among his readers and so positions his protagonist as similarly ignorant and so a suitable surrogate to ask the obvious and naive questions. Through Weaver we explore the history of the stock market without the burden of overly technical or alienating facts or details, instead we get repeated explanations of the significance of such and such an event or practice through his Uncle or best friend. This gentle introduction to the history makes it both enjoyable and accessible, to the extent that I think I have a decent grasp of not only the emergence of the stock market, but a confidence enough to translate the historical circumstances to the present to ask questions about the abstraction of currency: talk to me about Bitcoin! I have thoughts now. Maybe.

Oh and I should say, too, that the narrative is written – as you’d expect – in the (supposed) diction and phrasing of eighteenth century London. So I learned some new words and had to catch myself as I started inserting ‘countenance’ into everyday conversation: always a joy.

All this to say an entirely enjoyable read – captivating mystery, thoughtful pacing and introduction of historical details and compelling (enough) characters.

 

1 Comment

Filed under Historical Fiction, Mystery, Prize Winner

Tagged as , , , ,

January 10, 2014 · 2:53 pm

Pardon Our Monsters: Lonely Children

I started reading Alice Munro’s *Best Stories* last night. Actually I started reading Margaret Atwood’s forward to the collection. Whatever. Atwood told me that ‘short stories’ are better called ‘short fiction.’ I suppose there’s something dismissive in calling something a ‘story’? Not as meaty as ‘fiction’? Fair enough. Henceforward I will register my complaints with “short fiction” rather than the stories.

That said, I have few complaints with Andrew Hood’s *Pardon Our Monsters*. Here are the things I enjoyed: I was impressed with the endings of the stories as they did well to provide a punch that registered with the theme of the story and those of the collection. In a few cases the endings similar work to that of *The Family Fang* in that the plot and characters were full enough that I could readily imagine what might happen next (or should happen next). There were some brilliant similes/metaphors in this collection –  utterly surprising ways of describing a sunset – that were delightful and didn’t (quite) fall into the Tom Robbins trap of being so unexpected as to be jarring. I loved many of the characters who were at home in their corporeal bodies (there is a disproportionate number of fat children and redheads in this collection, perhaps a commentary on the additional ostracization these genetic ‘monsters’ encounter in daily life?) with all the grotesque attendants of being bodily: tumours, gasses, smells, lusts and urges, itches and sweats. The everyman quality of these characters meant this reader could easily identify with aspects (that all but one protagonist is a  young(ish) man – if I remember correctly – speaks to the identify-ability of the characters beyond their gendered or aged bodies). Did I mention some gorgeous writing? Yes, there’s that, too.

The few complaints I do have: Some moments in the stories read like “this is the moment I’m going to tell you – by being oblique and Literary – what the theme or question of this story is.” It’s an odd complaint, and let me try to explain again. The stories *have* compelling questions (how do we connect with other people? can we get past our own insecurities? how can we support and care for those we love while being simultaneously selfish souls?). The stories *have* wonderful ways of revealing these questions through character thoughts and actions. The plot and let these questions surface. The stories resist telling you what they’re about, but then somehow they do: in one story there’s a moment where the reader reads something to the effect of ‘the moments/scenes you’re least expecting or the most unusual are the moments that tell you what it all means.’  The reveal happens a character’s thought process, or a paragraph break that says ‘this is important stuff.’ I suppose it’s a complaint that comes from a place of love for the stories: I love the story and I’m a good reader – trust me to figure out the question/importance on my own.

Given that it’s hardly a complaint to wish the stories gave me *less* – I’ll leave off by saying it’s a collection well worth seeking out. Oh! And it offers a terrific sense of place, too, so if you’re looking to get a sense of where I’m living these days…

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Canadian Literature, Fiction, Short Stories

Tagged as , , , , , ,

December 31, 2013 · 10:14 pm

The Circle: May it be Unbroken

Here is the good thing about Dave Egger’s *The Circle*: the premise. And what’s the premise? A tech company “The Circle” in the not-so-distant future *cough Google cough* has saturated the market to the point where it controls access to all information and uses this ‘power’ to control all spending, government, actions, individual thought. Protagonist Mae begins the novel indifferent to the power of the Circle, but becomes increasingly infatuated and then utterly committed to the ideology of the Circle – “all must be known” and “information is a human right” and “privacy is theft.” She is intended to serve as a reader-surrogate so that the reader might recognize the ways in which her current unconcern or apathy about the reach of global information conglomerates could readily bleed into a) total obligation to and investment in the conglomerate, b) an inability to think independently or to be alone and c) the totalitarian endgame of one entity (re: company) controlling all aspects of a citizenry. That is to say this is a book with a partisan message: start thinking seriously about the power of Google, start actively questioning reasonable limits of information access/sharing, start protesting the erosion of privacy and public space.

And that’s where the good in the novel ends. The premise is executed with a clumsiness and heavy-handedness that made me suspicious of Egger’s trust in the intelligence of his readers. And in the clumsy and heavy-handed I was left with a book that was still brilliant in its idea, rich in its setting, but entirely frustrating to read.

George Orwell’s 1946 essay “Why I Write” posits that one of the principle reasons for writing is to articulate and argue a political position. It isn’t, I don’t think, a terrifically trendy way to write or read fiction in 2013. And so perhaps it’s the decidedly aggressive political argument of *The Circle* that rubs me the wrong way – not the message itself, rather, the heavy-handed way the novel goes about making its argument. It lacks elegance, subtlety or complication. In its rush to make sure the reader gets the allegory and adopts the position of protecting privacy the novel risks negating the potential disruption of the allegory itself. I became less unsettled by the message (and at first it really was compelling) and more annoyed by how little Eggers trusted me to get the idea without Being Showed It In Capital Letters: ALLEGORY.

This heavy-handedness is most obvious (and annoying) in the character development of Mae. We’re supposed to – I imagine – see her casual decline into full acceptance of all things Circle. We’re supposed to see the semi-climactic scene where she’s in a room with one of the Wise Men (really. did I mention it’s heavy-handed?) getting a lesson on the selfishness of secrets and the rationality/generosity of open and unfettered access to individual actions, thoughts and beliefs as some kind of moment of revelation and change. Except all this reader could concentrate on was how *obvious* the whole thing was. The move from dependence on the company – excellent health care! fancy workplace! prestige! – to acceptance of its doctrines for pragmatic reasons – I’ll tweet and email because I’m told to! – to an adoption of the dogma because people are unthinking and pliable enough to assume any ideology if exposed to it long enough.

So while I’ll recommend *The Circle* because I think the (albeit grossly heavy-handed) message is worth considering, I do so with the caveat that if you’re already suspicious of the influence of Google then go ahead and skip this one. However, if you were – like me (and I’ll admit it) – apathetic about questions of surveillance, privacy, access-to-information, public space then do read it. Or at least, do read the first 75 pages. It makes a compelling – if also tenacious and indefatigable – argument well worth considering and acting upon.

 

5 Comments

Filed under American literature, Book Club, Fiction, Prize Winner

Tagged as , , , , , , , , ,

December 26, 2013 · 4:38 am

Road Ends: Charming

For some reason I forgot about Mary Lawson. I read *Crow Lake* and *The Other Side of the Bridge* and liked them both, but then forgot who she was. And so this summer when I moved to Guelph, ON and saw ads at the (charming) local bookstore that Mary Lawson was coming to read I sort of shrugged. The ads billed her as “local” and I somehow didn’t connect that “local” in this instance could have been replaced with “international bestseller.” So imagine my delight in hearing her read and putting the two together: ah! Mary Lawson + Crow Lake! And then my enthusiasm to pick up Roads End – expecting (and receiving!) a Christmas read of the same kind of great character and plot of her earlier work.

What makes a great character? I’ve argued elsewhere for a character that makes believable – if difficult – decisions, characters who develop, change, regress, over the course of the narrative. In this instance its the development *after* the narrated plot that I’d highlight as an indicator of a successful character. This novel takes the narrative point of view of three characters — Megan (third person), Tom (third) and Edward (first) — and lets the reader alternately inhabit their perspective on past/present events. Overlapping chronologies require the reader to piece together plot through the disparate narration in a manner that rewards attentiveness and lends a certain (perhaps unnecessary?) suspense. In effect the decision to narrate in this way allows the reader to get “close” to all three and imagine their conflicts and aspirations continue after the book ends. For me – and perhaps an indication of my proximity to the character more than anything else – I was most interested in Megan’s journey and her ultimate decision. Since finishing the book a few days ago I’ve been lamenting that I don’t know – for sure – what happens to her next. And hoping that in Lawson’s next book (as in this one!) characters from past novels will reappear to provide a soothing “it works out fine for her” kind of answer.*

The plot itself doesn’t demand grandeur, instead it takes quotidian drama, adds the tragedy unique to small towns — the suicide/affair/birth/illness/injury/crime that everyone both knows about and is affected by — and allows characters the space and time to fully respond to the events. The book is worth reading if only for the way it lets the reader argue against the character’s decisions, seeing in all the ways their lives could be easier, more satisfying, more… something.

And it’s there – in the wanting what’s best for the characters – that I come to my minor complaint with an otherwise terrific read. It’s that it read to me like Lawson couldn’t quite leave her characters as hurt and as bewildered as they deserved to be. Which is not to say the changes they experience are unjustified or rushed – they’re not – but rather that the “roads end” for the characters, while not quite headed to the sunset, is decidedly smoother than I found believable or fair. Am I sadist? Maybe (count me in with Munro there), but I expect that for all the effort spent making the characters utterly believable, fallible, frustrating and *human* they might have done better to end with a little more bleak – and not the hope of the (literal) spring on which the novel concludes.

*My caveat: So I loved *Gone With the Wind* as a teenager. I loved the sex and the brutality of the ending. (I tried to re-read it in my early 20s and discovered I couldn’t make it through the racism). So, of course, I devoured the sequel (authored by Alexandra Ripley) *Scarlett* as I wanted – desperately – for the characters to live on and to find love, reconciliation, etc, blah blah, love. But, of course, the novel was terrible. It had to be terrible. Readers didn’t deserve and shouldn’t get “answers” or “solutions” to what-happens-to-characters-after-the-last-page. That should be the work of the novel itself. If readers can’t predict, or at least imagine, what the next decisions will be then perhaps the novel and its characters weren’t very good in the first place. Which is not to say I don’t want to see Lawson’s characters reappear, just that I know my desire to see them again is a selfish one borne of liking them, and not a literary one.

Leave a comment

Filed under Canadian Literature, Fiction

Tagged as , , , ,