Tag Archives: book club

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.

 

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

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.

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Filed under Canadian Literature, Fiction

The Family Fang

Oh I loved Kevin Wilson’s *The Family Fang*! Funny, whimsical, smart. The premise: two performance/conceptual artists have two children A and B who they raise as part of their art. The children and parents perform their disruptive, chaotic art as the children grow-up. Once grown, the children abandon their parents/the art to pursue their respective lives as an actor and writer. A split timeline allows the reader to follow the present of the two children (Annie and Buster) as they grapple with failures in their lives and the disappearance of their parents as well as the past lives of their art pieces/growing up.

The interwoven scenes and the unfolding plot let the reader explore – through humour, the absurd and a reworking of the classic take on the modern American family – what it means to make art, what constitutes commitment and trust, what we owe our parents/children and the limits of familial love.

A terrific read.

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We Need New Names: Lingering

                     you should*

I’m two books behind on blogging in part because I wasn’t sure how to review Noviolet Bulawayo’s *We Need New Names.” Not that I wasn’t sure whether it was a great book – it is  – but because I wasn’t sure how to capture its complexity and subtlety. I haven’t come any closer to figuring it out, but I ought to do my best before my classic E. memory loses the details. Though it’s been over a week and the narrative lingers, so perhaps that’s a telling enough quality. 

The book follows Darling as she immigrates from an unnamed African country to America. (Though we might suppose from the details of its political history that the country is Zimbabwe, except in some senses trying to ‘figure out’ the country takes away from the message in the book that African countries are imagined by Western audiences as uniform and interchangeable.

The book opens with rich scenes of her childhood at home: the bonds among her friends, the tensions among her community, the NGOs that service it and the white inhabitants of the town. These scenes are then contrasted with Darling’s arrival in America where the refuge she seeks and the prosperity she imagines is complicated by the American problems of minimum wage, eating disorders, porn and alcoholism. She arrives in her oft imagined DestroyedMichigan, or Detroit – one of the most masterful elements of this book is the way Bulawayo plays with and comments on language. Through the manipulation of words on the page she demonstrates the thematic question she explores through her characters about the power of English, the limitations of language to express real affect, trauma and dislocation and the ways in which mastering/mimicking English is imagined as a parallel to gaining mastery over one’s self and world.

Unfolding in her journey are questions for the reader about inequality, resource management, international relations and concomitant questions about exploitation (of the poor, the environment, other countries). But for me the most disturbing questions were around relativism of suffering. Darling’s life in America certainly reveals the many ways in which the “Paradise” of the West is fraught with its own traumas and suffering – not the least of which is the irreconcilable sense of an identity that is neither American nor of Zimbabwe. But these traumas are diminished by Darling for not being *as* terrible as those experienced at home. Her hometown in Zimbabwe is named Paradise – a perhaps too-obvious irony and invitation to question where the “true” Paradise might be located: no where. And if the book argues that the so-called traumas of American life are insignificant in comparison to those suffered abroad, what does that do to the reader who must – on some level – identify with and experience the “injustices” of Western life? How can the individual reconcile their specific experience of suffering with the recognition that elsewhere the causes/sources/experience of suffering is exponentially worse? 

I suppose I (perhaps unfairly) wanted the book to offer some explanation or solution to the question of the relativism of suffering, some way to mitigate guilt or self-recrimination? maybe. or perhaps a way to think about inequality in a way beyond the level of recognition. A way, too, for Darling to make sense of her stuck-between identity. That any emotion she has she must always reimagine in light of what she has been spared. She doesn’t allow herself to feel lonely because it could be so much worse. Where does this refusal of suffering leave Darling? or the reader?

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