Tag Archives: American literature

The Things We Never Say: Ooooof

It’s hard to choose among my favourite authors, and maybe a Favourite favourite isn’t necessary, but boy does Elizabeth Strout make a strong case for being my Favourite. I saved this one for a weekend when I knew I needed a book to keep me and it doesn’t fail in this promise.

Following Artie Strout in his years of teaching high school, in his discoveries about himself and his family, his desire to die and then to live, and the small moments throughout it all that make Strout unrivalled in being so spectacular. The book deals a devastating blow midway through (and in a parenthetical aside, no less) that let’s the form do what the theme is insisting: that the things, the people, the moments that shake and shatter your life are rarely those that you Expect in a Big Way, but are rather the things you didn’t see coming excpet sideways, or happened so quietly you didn’t realize they were going to resonate quite so much, or are when someone pulls you aside and bam hits you with information that tilts everything you thought you knew.

From a family of educators it was also a book about the impact and beauty of teaching. And as a student who still – often – thinks with such gratitude of the teachers that shaped me in ways they probably also thought of as parenthetical to the rest of their work, it is a book that reminds us all of the influence we wield, whether we recognize it as such or not.

And a book about believing – against all odds and evidence in this moment – that people can be more than their worst moments. That we might all, somehow, be able to come out of our current set of interlocking crisis if only we could do so together, and with something like care for one another, or if not ready care, then an optimism that we might be able to be better. Together.

All to say: I really, really liked it.

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Filed under Erin's Favourite Books, Prize Winner

Buckeye: Neighbours making neighbourhoods

Truly as I sat down to write this I got a text from a neighbour and friend who is looking after my garden while I’m away and took out my garbage bins and generally is great for helping give care. These are neighbours who also – thank god – send their children unaccompanied to the park with mine and cultivate the kind of interdependent independence that childhood thrives on – a kind of freedom that parents using GPS tracking watches and hyper-surveillance of children find suspect.

It’s a weird, and very small thread of Patrick Ryan’s Buckeye to attach to, but I was – am – so glad for the way the kids in this book grow up free to roam on bikes and until the streetlights come on and with many, many other children such that they create and cultivate micro communities of relationships. And glad that my kids have tiny opportunities for this, too.

Okay, that’s not really what this book is about and is more about when it is about – following the generation of youth who fight in and live after WWII the book explores how their childhood is shaped by their damaged or absent veteran fathers, then by their own experience fighting, and then watching their own children conscripted for Vietnam. Of course I knew this was a generation that moved through these global conflicts – but following it through the microcosm of two families – two deeply and surprisingly intertwined families – made the permeation of those conflicts into the character of individuals and their world more tangible.

It is also a book about how the mores of the time shaped sexuality and its expression, gender roles, race (ish – this is a rather lightly treated theme and pretty reduced to extremes and headlines) and (barely) class.

These pieces of ‘the times’ also inform how the characters make or don’t make their choices.

[Aside: I got distracted and called away from finishing this post and here it is a month later and I’m doing my best to recall what else I wanted to say about the book But]

One choice – or the same choice made over and over again – centers the book. How a choice for (or against) fidelity to a spouse cascades across a life; how a choice for (or against) the truth (and what exactly is the truth – is it not lying or is it proactive honesty?) explodes relationships and alters lives; how (beyond the individual) choices of global politics made (again and again) find new and familiar patterns.

I enjoyed the book, but if my, now several weeks later impression, holds, its not one that will shatter or shake you. Just a pleasant one for a cottage or a beach or – as the waning days of summer arrive – to read in half hour snippets before collapsing to sleep. Like a well told story of the realist variety where the writing is good but not distractingly good, where the characters are interesting and have an arc but are not people you spend any time outside the book thinking about, and where the plot is one you could describe over the table at a trivia night and everyone would agree that sounds interesting but is not, in the end, that interesting. It is a fine book.

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Filed under American literature, Book I'll Forget I Read, Fiction, Prize Winner

Dream State: Strong start and then

I made a mistake in telling a few friends to read Eric Puchner’s Dream State when I was only a third of the way in. It’s such a strong start – evocative writing, a pulling theme (how does one major decision or one major event shape the rest of your life?), interesting characters. Set amid the present and near future of climate catastrophe to make the aging of the characters over the course of the novel vivid against what can feel in our incremental experience of time unnoticed in the sharp changes for the reader between decades for a glacier or a lake or an endangered species.

And it’s not like the writing changed – the scene on the mountain with Elias is haunting and beautiful – it’s more I lost conviction that I knew why any of the characters were making any of their decisions. I suspect it’s a form thing – with the big jumps in time (with the exception of one incredible passage where the two children age together over summers over the course of the passage and the reader feels the slipperiness of time in the verb tenses and the dialogue) happen between chapters the reader is given snapshot moments to make sense of Big character decisions, and honestly, so much happens ‘off stage’ that it’s hard to believe the impact of those decisions on the characters and how they behave next. We have to take it on the faith of third person narration that yes, indeed, Garret and Cece still love on another because that’s what a long marriage means? I guess?

So sorry to M. and K. for forcefully recommending this one before reaching the end. If you haven’t yet started it, I’d say it would be a fine beach read, but not something I’d interrupt a year of comic book reading to go out and get.

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Filed under American literature, Book I'll Forget I Read, Fiction

Let Us Descend

I can’t place what I didn’t love about Jesmyn Ward’s Let Us Descend but it was something about an uncertainty of what would be/was the trajectory of Annis’s story. Which makes sense, I know, in a book of slavery and the experience of uncertainty and alienation for those enslaved. And maybe love of a book focused on the slave experience is the wrong aspiration – something closer to appreciation and awe for the brilliant writing, the evocative and rich descriptions, the pacing and poetry.

The novel focuses on Annis and her journey of enslavement from a time with her mother to a slave market to a sugar plantation and beyond. The physical journey is marked by spirits and hauntings that make manifest (or as manifest as a ghost can be) the intergenerational trauma of slavery and violence – and the ways resilience come from the stories we have been told and tell ourselves. I suppose my uncertainty about what the novel was going to be about (like it felt like I kept waiting for the plot to begin? or the core conflict to be made clear?) misunderstands that the story is one of survival – and that the meaningful trajectory of experiencing endless uncertainty of place, people and threatened and real violence – and when and how we can claim autonomy and community amid the most abject dehumanized moments – is itself the life of Annis and the plot we are meant to follow.

So in this instance I think the problem was me as a reader – expecting or wanting something different from the story – while the book itself is an expertly crafted, compact gem.

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Filed under American literature, Fiction, National Book Award, Prize Winner