Tag Archives: Bestseller

Punishment: Retribution and Reconciliation

This past week the Canadian press – and Canadian communities – have been asking a lot of questions about crime and punishment. With the very public revelation of Jian Ghomeshi’s criminal behaviour, the public conversation includes calls for criminal prosecution all the while enacting a sort of collective trial, sentencing and punishment in the press and social media. While listening and reading stories of his violent and repugnant behaviour, I was reading Linden MacIntyre’s new book, Punishment.

Punishment is not about sexual and physical violence. Nor is it about the CBC or the media (though MacIntyre long worked for the CBC). Instead it’s a book about a former prison officer, Tony Breau, who gets involved – is made to be involved – in a small town murder investigation. It’s also about the consequences of telling the truth: the violence, threats and shame that attach to those who speak out (you can see, then, why it might be a book that resonated with what I was reading and hearing in the cultural conversation around violence against women). So it’s a novel that takes on the ‘big’ crime of murder, but it’s also a novel that explores the slippery boundary between what is considered criminal, and the ‘crimes’ outside the criminal code: betrayal in friendship, adultery and the wilful withholding of truth from others.

Punishment offers readers as nuanced and complicated exploration of guilt, punishment, retribution and reconciliation. Early on in the novel it explodes the idea that all those in prison are criminals and that all those on the ‘outside’ are innocent; the novel does not belabour this point, it simply makes the observation that many crimes go unrecognized and unpunished and that many criminals are in prison for complicated reasons. Much of the novel is concerned with how and if Tony can reconcile his past with his present, his moral position with an unjust society, his care for others with the certainty that the truth can be painful. (In a quintessentially Canadian literature way) this struggle is worked out in the small and isolated community, where the big bad criminals come from the United States and the city, where outsiders are suspect and when guilt is both the prelude an apology and an unavoidable state of being.

What the novel does incredibly well (and with a sort of bravery, I think) is to ask readers to consider – just consider – separating the crime from the criminal; the behaviour from the person. It can be hard to empathize. It can be hard to consider empathy. When we are betrayed by lovers or friends, when a singular crime is perpetrated against us or when we are wronged by systemic and entrenched systems, the impulse is not to empathy. The push is to retribution, to punishment. As if in the punishment itself we might understand the crime or feel differently about the criminal. I am not making a novel argument in suggesting that there might be a difference between retributive and restorative justice.  Rather, I’m making an argument that this novel shows – with great care and nuance – how these forms of justice differ and what is at stake for us as individuals and as communities in taking one approach or the other.

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Filed under Book Club, Canadian Literature, Fiction

The Bone Clocks: Extraordinary

I know I rave about books all the time. I’ve been called out more than once by N. for overselling a book that’s only really good. Not the case with David Mitchell’s The Bone Clocks. This novel is genius. Extraordinary in so many ways: in its approach to genre, to plot, to character.In its hyper-imaginative renderings of the near future world and of the past.  It’s a book that asks about mortality, familial-responsibility, ecological-responsibility, identity and grief. It’s a book that gives the finger to genre tick-boxes and plots made-for-movies. It revels in the brilliant beauty of its own writing without being showy. It’s exuberant in the possibilities for the novel as a form and for readers as enthusiastic consumers of imagined worlds and people. Continue reading

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Filed under Book Club, Erin's Favourite Books, Fiction, Prize Winner

Birdman: Gross

                                                       I watch crime procedurals to be soothed by the familiarity of the introduction, the red herring, the twist, the conclusion. I read mystery novels knowing that (the good ones) are intentionally playing with the genre, the expectations, the mode and pattern of discovery and twist. So on the recommendation of A. I started reading Mo Hayder’s *Birdman* with the expectation of formal/genre play. On that count the book delivered – much to my chagrin (and secret pleasure) I didn’t see the plot twists coming. 

So what’s my problem? I suppose I wasn’t expecting the graphic violence, the victimization of women (both literally and metaphorically), the pleasure the narrative derives in long passages of brutality. My patience for this sort of normalized violence against women is wearing thin. Throughout this book I felt escalating frustration with the heroic rescue of women in distress, the small and large indignities visited on women’s bodies and identities and the supposed pleasure the reader is meant to take from encountering such descriptions. I did finish the book, but I’ll be taking a long break from Mo Hayder. And suggesting you only read this if you’re looking for examples of the ways in which representations of violence against women are made simultaneously normal and glamorous.  Examples that you can then declare gross and reprehensible. And never read again.

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Filed under Mystery, Worst Books

Quiet – The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking: Am I an Introvert?

My physiotherapist – an introvert – recommended this book to me. I see her twice a week (mostly) and I love her, so I took on reading non-fiction (gross) so that I could tell her about what I thought in one of our many sessions attempting to fix my [unfixable?] feet. This desire to talk-books is, most often, why I read books recommended: I want to read the thing that is important to the people I care about so that I can share it with them, talk to them about it, compare notes. (The exceptions, of course, are when N. or my mum recommend books. I trust their judgement implicitly. Though I’m stumbling my way through Gravity’s Rainbow right now in ways that make me think N. might be wrong for the first time ever. I suspend judgement.).

Right. Enough on books recommended (though  I do extend the offer again to tell me what I should read and why) and more on Susan Cain’s Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking. I was telling my friend M. that I was reading Cain’s book and that on reading it I’d come to think that I might be an introvert. She laughed at me and told me that anyone who reads as much as I do has to be an introvert. Having finished the book I’m not more certain of “what” I am, though more sure of the circumstances that make me more and less likely to behave as if I am an introvert. Certainly more ideas about how I might approach the idea of introverts in my classrooms (more on that in a minute).

What I liked about Cain’s book is the way she allows that people cannot be reduced to a personality trait. That in particular situations we can behave and act in whatever way the context requires. We might just have a preference or an inclination one way or another. The idea of how introverts and extroverts gain energy – time alone and time with others, respectively – also resonated. Her message that our cultural preference for extroverts has reduced introverted behaviours to shameful or apologetic activities also appealed to me on an instinctual level “you’re right! I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for wanting to stay home and read in the tub on a Friday night!” Though I’m suspicious of the science – or at least her presentation of the science – which was as more anecdotal than it was peer reviewed.

But here’s the thing with such books – people read them (and boy are they reading this one) because it explains something people feel. There’s a difference among people – the people person, the shy one, the whatever – and that such an argument presents a comforting explanation for when things don’t go the way we wanted or anticipated “well of course she didn’t hire me, I’m an introvert.” These sort of pat assurances reduce our sense of ourselves to a predetermined or unimpeachable excuse. Cain does make useful distinctions among introvert, shy and sensitive that were refreshing and nuanced. She, too, takes care to argue that being an introvert provides great benefit. But I’m wary of the explanatory power of such books. That students – or others – will explain away their behaviour – of their lack of acting – because “I’m an introvert.” Like learning styles (no actual evidence for learning styles, btw) the idea of introvert-extrovert can be taken to an extreme where it forgets that there are circumstances wherein reflection is required – and everyone should learn how to do it – just as there are circumstances where being engaged with other people (ew) is required – and everyone should learn how to do it.

All this to say the book was helpful in making sense of some of my partner, S. (an clear Cain introvert)’s behaviours. Just as it was helpful in thinking about incorporating more taught-reflection and taught-introspection into my classes. I’m just wary of grand declarations of who we are that explain away behaviour that really does deserve – an introverted! – consideration.

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Filed under Bestseller, Non-fiction