Recently and Currently . . .

• Currently Listening To: Shostakovich, Piano Concerto No. 2 in F major, Op. 102.

• Recently Read and Highly Recommending: The Winter Vault by Anne Michaels. So gorgeously written it hurts. More to come on this soon.
  

• Recently Read and NOT Recommending: Atlantic Canada's 100 Greatest Books. As I've mentioned before, I don't really write very many negative reviews, preferring instead to just ignore works that I feel aren't worth the time/money. In some cases, however, I just feel the need to say something! The idea of a book-length list of some of Atlantic Canada's great books is a good one. There are a number of great books out there to choose from, after all. And had the idea been better executed I'd be all for it (and I'm not going to even argue about the choices . . . each individual reader's list is going to be different. One of the biggest strikes against this book, though, is absolutely no poetry was included. Considering how many great Atlantic Canadian poets there are this was just a really odd decision on the part of the authors). And I've been thinking about what I consider to be some of Atlantic Canada's greatest contributions to the world of letters for some time (as have many of my friends and fellow bloggers who find this subject of interest) so I can't even say this book was useful for sparking interest in a topic. Alas.

• Recently Watched and Enjoyed: Who doesn't love a good Noel Coward play adapted to film? Well, probably a lot of people. The distinctive Coward approach to life doesn't suit some. And the tone can be somewhat dated. I tend to like his works, though, from time to time, and have enjoyed various film adaptations of same. My favourite is the rather frivolous, but extremely well-acted Relative Values (2000) starring Julie Andrews (and who doesn't love Julie Andrews?). And I'd have to say that the recently filmed Easy Virtue (2008) isn't too shabby either. The latter has the darker undercurrents of post-war malaise, but both have something interesting to say about human nature (and basic decency) when disparate cultures/characters collide. Noel Coward is also just so very good at pointing out how cruel some "nice" people can be.

• Currently Reading and Enjoying: Brent MacLaine's Athena Becomes a Swallow.

An Admirable Guenevere

So it's been several (ahem!) years since my thesis about Arthurian revisions, but I still love a good Matter-of-Britain-inspired tale -- knights and maidens remade (if not always improved) -- and it's so freeing not to have to make a roomful of notes and glean an argument from the detritus of my impressions. Well, really, that way of reading became something of a habit I had to/have to break . . . slowly. I still make notes, leave little coloured bits of post-its (or scraps of paper) within the pages next to a passage I want to remember later, dog ear, scribble long passages of reactions in my reading journal (the one that isn't this blog).

All this is just an intro to say that, after all these years, I've finally come across a novel I WISH had been written when I was penning that thesis. I would have enjoyed comparing Mercedes Lackey's Gwenhwyfar: The White Spirit to, say, the less well-realized revision of Guenevere provided by Rosalind Miles.

A really solid story all on its own, with a strong character in Gwen, Lackey takes as her departure point the idea that there were three separate and distinct Gueneveres. Her Guenevere is the third, and last.(aside: the three Gueneveres comes from one of the many disparate -- in this case, Welsh -- legends that are less well known than what has become the pop culture version of the Arthurian legend. There are a variety of stories connected to Arthur that have been collected and recollected over hundreds of years, and in different countries. Some of the legends are less, shall we say, male-centred than Malory's famous Works and Tennyson's Idylls of the King, but many of the most popular interpretations of the Arthurian legend have been derived/diluted/distilled from Malory and Tennyson. Feminist revisions of the tales tend to look outside of the aforementioned for inspiration or, at least, write against them).

This tale of Gwen begins when she is a child, daughter of a respected king and a queen well-steeped in goddess Power. From early on it is obvious that Gwen is marked by the goddess for greatness. But which goddess? And what greatness? Shall she join the Ladies with her mother, or follow a warrior's course and spend her life with men and horses? She chooses Epona (goddess of horses) and she grows into a life of hard work, scouting, and battles. From a pre-teen who does her best to avoid an obnoxious, self-focused little sister (also named Gwen) to an intelligent, courageous scout who seeks (and gains) the respect of Arthur's visiting Companion, Lancelin (Lancelot), the characterization never falters. Gwen is strong, believably human, and engaging. Her talent with horses, her ability to go virtually unseen when she wishes, and her slight frame and white-gold hair lends itself to the legend of the White Spirit or Ghost who haunts and harries the enemy Saxon camps. She is a successful warrior, respected by men in a man's game (even in this, more feminist, retelling, the world is still run by and for men, it seems).

Gwen is succeeding, making her way in this male-dominated world of the warrior. Succeeding, that is, until Arthur needs another queen. Using up Gwenhwyfars like a man with a cold uses kleenex, Arthur's advisors (Christian and non) turn to the daughter of King Lleudd to solve the queenship puzzle and, theoretically, provide an heir. It's a marriage of convenience that becomes complicated by the previous attachment between Gwen and Lancelin. And complicated by Medraut (Mordred) and his thirst for power (aided and abetted by Gwen's little sister).

What I really liked about this novel? As aforementioned, the characterization is quite wonderful. All of the characters (with the possible exception of Arthur) are fully realized (even the bit players). I liked Gwen particularly. An interesting portrait of a strong, capable, intelligent Gwen (unlike the weak Guenevere of Zimmer Bradley or the raunchy Guenevere of Miles), from resilient child to admirable woman. I liked the connection, based on respect, between her and Lancelin. This is neither a tawdry affair based on lust nor is it strictly a set-up on the part of Mordred (or, in this novel, Medraut). It is a mature, realistic love that has its own tragic elements.

What didn't I like? Merlin and Arthur take a little bit of a beating in terms of going towards the 'dark side.' Neither character is particularly heroic although Arthur is described as a brilliant, if heavily Romanized, organizer and warrior who commands the love and loyalties of his Companions. And he is described as being charismatic, but also cloaked with possibly Merlin-generated glamorie (casting doubt on the origin of all that charisma and loyalty). Merlin is just plain creepy and . . . well . . . rather nasty. This is not inconsistent with a reading of some of the tales, mind you. It's just not my preferred version of Merlin and Arthur. Medraut, on the other hand, was brilliantly drawn. Creepy and evil in just the right proportions.

Finally, I was a bit disappointed that even in a land that prizes and respects its females in a variety of roles (King Lleudd's land, not the Romanized world of Arthur) there is still that tension between being woman and warrior that Gwen is forced to face. She learns she cannot really be both. I would have thought in a land where following Epona is a legitimate choice for a girl the tension would have been less. Alas.

Overall, this was a highly readable tale for its own sake with strong and fascinating characters. There are twists and turns aplenty (the various versions of the legend afford great depth of creative movement in retellings and Lackey takes full advantage) and I found myself reading on the edge of my seat during the last third of the book. And as a feminist addition to a male-dominated legend, it stands well with some of the best (I'm still not sure anyone has been able to beat Mary Stewart's Merlin trilogy though . . . personal preference).

Reading some absolutely beautiful prose today while the sky makes its mind up, snow or rain, and the leaves settle themselves in for either . . .

From Anne Michaels' The Winter Vault:

-- Jean, what I said about sadness . . . what I mean is that a building and the space it possesses should help us be alive, it should allow for the heeding of things; I don't know even how to talk about it, what words to use; just that some places make certain things possible or even likely -- not to go so far as to say a place can create behaviour, but it is complicit somehow. Is there a difference between making events possible and creating them? Does a certain kind of bridge create its suicides? I know that when I am in a great building I feel a mortal sadness, and it is so specific that when I leave the building -- the church, the hall, the house -- and walk back out into the street, I see everything around me with a clarity that only the experience of the building could bestow in me.

And what I said about building the room where I wished I'd been born, continued Avery, what I mean to say is that it would be a place to be reborn . . .

In the midst of arts grant paperwork and ms wrap-up, I managed to work in a little fun reading time.

And what fun it was! The Fairy Tales of Archibald Lampman were delightfully Grimms-like, with a definite lean towards writerly subjects. Sort of moral tales for writers, really. And lovely, lovely prose it was, with a smattering of verse just for good measure. The two tales, "Hans Fingerhut's Frog-lesson" and "The Fairy Fountain," both focussed on the pleasant moral of being happy with who/what one is/has and letting the intangibles (like songs/story and love) provide the worth and happiness. Those kinds of lessons are never out of date (though the name Hans Fingerhut takes a little getting used to).

But I'm still in the midst of reviews and ms wrap-up . . . and that paperwork! Off I go . . .

"I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life he has imagined, then he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours . . ." -- Henry David Thoreau

Travel, Goddesses, and Writing

Not having read (or watched the film of) the popular The Secret Life of Bees, I didn't know what to expect when I opened Traveling with Pomegranates by Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor. Judging from what I've heard 'around' (the net, tv, etc), I suppose I expected to find something woman-centred. Something about goddesses and faith and finding oneself. And that's all in there. And it's interesting, too. But what I didn't expect was such a thoughtful, everywoman experience (albeit not all women can afford to ponder their own place in the world while travelling around Greece and Paris) seen through the eyes of a mother and daughter. Well-organized, with alternating mother and daughter entries, the overlapping and differing perspectives on various stops along the way (physical and emotional) are expressed rather beautifully, meaningfully, even movingly at times. Often it made me miss my own mother again.

The authors are a little on the privileged side it seems, yes, but the feelings are, I think, pretty universal. Sue Monk Kidd turns fifty as the memoir begins, while her college-graduate daughter slumps into a post-grad-rejection-letter depression and subsequent confusion about what she is going to do with her life now. Each is seeking to find themselves. Kidd is searching for the Old Woman in herself, turning to the image of the Black Madonna to do so (much of this search is concurrent with her writing The Secret Life of Bees). Taylor searches for a return of her turning-point moment during her first trip to Greece, the moment that spurred her on to grad school in the first place. She seeks to make sense of that moment, and the rest of her life in the process. Both access the Demeter-Persephone myth to illuminate their way.

There are moments that feel a little self-indulgent. But that can be forgiven by the apparent sincerity and wisdom that springs from the pages. Everyone needs some time to self-reflect. It shouldn't be a privilege to do so . . . it is a necessity.

A Taylor excerpt (I found myself marking more Taylor excerpts than Kidd excerpts . . . the situation was more familiar):

There's relief in moments like those, but when they're gone I always return to my New Normal -- a state of semiterror at the thought of failing, looking stupid, getting hurt, or being rejected. For me, normality has become the act of retreat, of being afraid the world will find me and slip like smoke beneath the door. All of which fills me with sadness that I'm missing out on my own life. I know girls from my graduating class who are starting new jobs, MBA programs, law school; girls with five-year plans; girls who want to take on the world. Post-rejection letter, I've preferred hiding in plain view, like one of those insects camouflaged as a stick.

A Kidd excerpt:

What had happened, of course, was that Mary's annunciation became a metaphor for my own creative potential. It became a means to confess the truth to myself, to understand and interpret this quiescent potential in a way that would begin to bring it to life.

Alive with metaphor, symbol, myth, and the love (and identity crises) between mothers and daughters, this travel narrative/writing memoir is certainly captivating. I enjoyed it immensely and will now proceed to add Sue Monk Kidd's other books to my must-read list.

"running out of breath; summer / vanishes into the blue fog,"
(from Serge Patrice Thibodeau's marvellous One, translated by Jo-Anne Elder)*

Thanksgiving has come and gone and now it really feels like autumn in my veins (though, weather-wise it's felt like autumn for some time). But I can't say I've been out and about walking under the changing colours of sky and tree (not to mention walking over the delightfully crisp-sounding fallen leaves) this week. It's been raining (and snowing . . . a little), but the real reason is I'm holed up in the office with a pile of delicious books to review. Glorious! If one can't get out in the October air, sitting with a good book, a pad of paper and a favourite pencil is just about as restorative.

Recent reads:

Lesley Crewe's humourous Hit & Mrs. (not my usual fare, the word 'romp' comes to mind, but fun and light and definitely good for a quick read over the holidays)

Traveling with Pomegranates by Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor. Very thoughtful, fascinating travel memoir that shares the outer and inner journeys taken by the mother-daughter writing duo. But more to come on this . . .

And now off to write, write, write.

* Really, I can't recommend this book of poems enough. It's become one of my new favourites. So atmospheric! And just gorgeous phrasing and images.

I've been thinking about how to describe Kunal Basu's The Japanese Wife. Falling back on mere description would be to tell you that it is a collection of short stories that often feature a character at an emotional cross roads, point of transition, or when faced with a juxtaposition of cultural mores. And even the stories that aren't really about the collisions of cultures, the transitional or integral moment of emotional shift usually occurs in a cross-cultural and cross-class setting, a setting that requires the character to transgress or cross ethnic and class boundaries or assumptions about those boundaries. Subtle, interesting, they're just good stories.

But that doesn't really capture it. What it felt like to read these stories. All of them like a window opening on a different world. There are the two lovers in the first story, from which the collection gets its title, one Indian, the other Japanese. There are stories that feature a widower bent on self-destruction in the desert, or a maid from the Philippines who loves and loses under the watchful eyes of her employers, a Chinese puppeteer, an accountant obsessed with past lives and the Taj Mahal, and then one about an Eastern European priest who tries to protect his servant. And so much more. Really enjoyed this book, but it's a story-a-night kind of read. One needs time to absorb.

I must read more by Basu. Not to mention catching the film version of the title story once it comes out.

"'You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.'" Elizabeth Bennet to Mr. Darcy.

Archibald Lampman, 19th c Canadian poet and something of a tragic figure, has long been a favourite of mine. I read (voraciously) his love poems to Katherine Waddell as an undergrad in my early twenties. And his sonnets! Recently, though, I've begun reading The Fairy Tales of Archibald Lampman (two, to be precise, titled "Hans Fingerhut's Frog-lesson" and "The Fairy Fountain") and I have to say I'm intrigued. I come at Lampman prose with no expectations having only read (and loved) his poetry up til this point. Immediately, though, I notice that Hans Fingerhut is a poet . . . with large desires who has discovered "that the further he travelled the less the world had to give him."

In the introduction to the two Lampman tales, D.M.R. Bentley writes "A few references to "Hans Fingerhut's Frog-lesson" and "The Fairy Fountain" in Lampman's surviving correspondence indicate that the period in which the fairy tales were written -- the period of Lampman's adjustment to life as a poorly paid civil servant in The Post Office Department -- was a time of troubled and painful soul-searching for the fledgling poet."

Here's an excerpt from Lampman's letter (included in the aforementioned intro by Bentley):

I have been very dull and out of spirits -- oppressed with innumerable things -- debts; ill success in everything, incapacity to write and want of any hope of ever succeeding in it if I do.

I cannot do anything -- I believe I am the feeblest and most good-for-nothing mortal anywhere living. I am poor and in debt . . .. Where every blockhead's work is accepted and paid for, mine is hardly treated with civility . . . .

And yet despite all the disappointment he came up with some of the loveliest poetry.*

Like this:

An October Sunset by Archibald Lampman

One moment the slim cloudflakes seem to lean
With their sad sunward faces aureoled,
And longing lips set downward brightening
To take the last sweet hand kiss of the king,
Gone down beyond the closing west acold;

Paying no reverence to the slender queen,
That like a curv'd olive leaf of gold
Hangs low in heaven, rounded toward the sun,
Or the small stars that one by one unfold
Down the gray border of the night begun.

Mmm. October reading . . .

* I'm not one of those people who believe that artists are tortured souls who, by definition, must have lives of hardship, toil, and bitterness in order to fuel their art. Rather, I think life is pretty hard for, and on, all of us in one way or another. Art is made despite the pain, not because of it (in my humble opinion).

Doing some research for a review I'm writing, reading some Douglas Lochhead poetry.

From his High Marsh Road (1981), honed but often mighty:

"the poet waits. the heart opens"

&

"an instant is enough
for most things"

&

" . . . we
can never go very deep. yet the window
is everywhere"

That last one struck . . .