A Novel, A Page, A Review

"You never really say what you want to say." Alden Nowlan.

When it was first published posthumously in the 80s, Alden Nowlan's novel, The Wanton Troopers, was inadvertently presented to the public missing its final page. And it's a pretty great book without the last page (if you've read it you know what I mean), but the full power of the narrative culminates in that last image, that last image of the seeking prophet-king.

And this is a powerful novel. Nowlan makes full use of his talent for poetry, but not overly so, the prose is never self-indulgent, not a pretentious bone in this novel's body. This is a tale with tragedy, pain, and raw, gut wrenching themes. Sexual repression, religious confusion, societal cruelty, abuse and neglect, the serious pains of growing up poor in a poor place. Nowlan doesn't make it precious or pathetic (two directions authors are too apt to go in when it comes to the subject of growing up in circumstantial misery). But, then again, Nowlan was, well, Nowlan. (aside: have I mentioned how much I love Nowlan? Yes? Well, allow me to reiterate; I love Alden Nowlan's ability to perfectly capture a negative emotion/event/circumstance and render it art without ever losing sight of its individual tragedy).

The Wanton Troopers centres on the life of small Kevin O'Brien, son of a hard-drinking mill worker and his young, somewhat immature, wife. Told largely from Kevin's perspective, the narrative follows his varied (and often devastating) experiences during the pre-pubescent years of moral and physical confusion. His is an engaging, and authentically rendered, character. His half-ashamed love of his mother, his fear and admiration, perhaps even sympathy, for his father who is nothing if not abusive, and his tortuous relationship with his school-fellows (bullying and teasing seems like understatement) all makes for a riveting read, but it's in Kevin's musings that the novel really takes flight. His interest in Biblical heroes, his desire to be something more (vampire, king, prophet), his fear of sin, Kevin is filled with contradictions and miseries.

But there are moments of light-hearted beauty as well. This is a character-driven novel and if you can't bring yourself to care about Kevin then the full impact of the novel will pass you by. But I don't know how Kevin could fail to draw a reader in. A blend of complicity and innocence (so human, is Kevin, as are all Nowlan's characters in this novel).

Just a deeply disturbing, but ultimately satisfying novel. Nowlan was a marvel with words, and he had an unerring sense of what makes a human such an animal at times.

This second edition of the novel published by Goose Lane Editions has an added advantage in that there's a great afterword by David Adams Richards, some biographical material (linking novel to Nowlan bio), and much of a fascinting interview Nowlan gave in '82, making it a great starting point for immersing oneself into the world of Nowlan.

And I love this advice from the Nowlan interview:

"I think probably one of the most important things for a young poet is to find the people he can learn from. The ones whose work, whose characters, and whose outlook on the world is similar enough to his own that he'll be able to usefully learn from them." Yes indeed.

* thanks to Goose Lane for the review copy.

Ordinarily the months from September to December are my favourites. This year, however, has seen some overwrought days and these my favourite months have been flitting by without much chance for stopping and smelling the . . . decomposing leaves . . . and pine cones. In an effort to cure this outbreak of stress and busy, I'm taking a day to enjoy the smell of pancakes sizzling, hot chocolate wafting through the air, the sounds of bare branches moving in sharply cold air (that particular creaking noise when tight against another branch). The anticipation of fat snowflakes (they have to happen sometime), thoughts of glittering, sparkly lights from streets decked out for the holidays.


I'm scheduling in some 'enjoy it' time.

To that end, this is going to be a poem post. I'm thinking maybe a little Elizabeth Barrett Browning . . . something from Aurora Leigh:

And truly, I reiterate, . . nothing's small!
No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee,
But finds some coupling with the spinning stars;
No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere;
No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim:
And, --- glancing at my own thin, veined wrist, ---
In such a little tremour of the blood
The whole strong clamour of a vehement soul
Doth utter itself distinct. Earth's crammed with heaven
And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who see, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries,
And daub their natural faces unaware
More and more, from the first similitude.

And for those of you living to the south (i.e. the U.S.) . . . HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!

What I really liked about Adamson's The Outlander was . . . well . . . everything. What a great read! Suspenseful action, beautiful language, brilliant characterization (quirky, authentic-feeling characters) and the emotions illicited! Wonderful experience. Everything from pity to horror to joy.

Mary Boulton, having recently rendered herself a widow, has bolted in a mad flight away from the scene. She hears voices, sees things that aren't there, and is possessed by the past. And she's immediately sympathetic. Her wild combination of courage in the face of confusion and desperation somehow illicits both pity and a strange kind of admiration. She's resilient, intelligent, and my emotions where fully engaged as I followed her journey away from the disappointment of civilization, and as she encountered all sorts of misfits. Really, this is a novel that features outsiders, people who don't fit in (and who does, really? Those of us who appear to fit in are usually doing so at some cost). Among the odd dramatis personae: an elderly, 'bird-like" woman who befriends her, a thieving hermit called The Ridgerunner, a boxer of a reverend name Bonnycastle and a dwarf who owns and runs a store. (I have to say that I really enjoyed the almost archetypal epithets for some of these characters . . . Th Widow, The Ridgerunner, The Reverend).

Set in the north in the early 1900s, a time when it was a place of ruffians and fortune-hunters, miners and those scraping by, horse thieves and preachers -- and running women who have no home to return to -- this is a world I don't often find myself getting lost in, but I was completely immersed in this one.

And the way the interior of Mary's mind is revealed bit by bit, the story of what happened between her and her husband unravelling. The relationship between her father and her grandmother, the dissolution of that elusive illusion normality. The pacing is perfection. I can't say enough good things about this novel. The wilderness, the ever-present fear of annihilation Mary experiences (either from nature or by the hands of the eery twin brothers who chase her across the mountains) inhabit the imagination in a way that definitely haunts. But not in a bad way. Absolutely loved this book! It'll stick with me for a good long while, I suspect.

What I've Been Reading Lately

• What I really like about Laura Calder's French Taste: Elegant Everyday Eating is that it is as much fun to read as it is to try recipes from.Calder's writing style is conversational and engaging. And the recipes sound quite wonderful. From a classic French omelette to "How To Make A Glass Of Water," it's just filled with elegant simplicity and humour. So enjoyable. And lovely photos too. Yes, elegant is the word, that's for sure, but Calder maintains that elegant doesn't always need to be difficult. I want to go back and read her acclaimed French Food At Home. Reading this has even inspired me to get a jump on the holiday cooking for this year (the house is currently awash in the smells of molasses cake and drop doughnuts . . . sugar cookies to follow -- not very French, but one has to work up to it).
  

• Margaret Visser's The Way We Are is turning out to be different from what I expected. I expected something like The Gift of Thanks, but these are like mini-essay newspaper column-like snippets on various related topics. Entertaining and inevitably enlightening, but I admit I'm missing the depth of The Gift of Thanks. That's not to say I didn't enjoy this morning's read about turkeys in all their . . . splendour. I did. Definitely readable is Visser.
  

• The Sunne In Splendour . . . thoroughly enjoyable historical fiction, about Richard III. Lengthy though, oh so lengthy. I'm still making my way towards the middle of the book (I'm a slightly turtle-like reader at times, but in my own defense I was distracted by other book fare from time to time). Loving the detailed characterization Penman affords Richard, though. Great skill evidenced here.
  

• And now I've added The Outlander to my currently reading list, but this is one I can't put down and will probably finish it before the week (or day) is out. Brilliant opening, and it just keeps getting more engrossing as I read . . . I anticipate approval.
  

I really liked this book. As historical novels goes it was a great journey to the ninth century. And the controversial subject matter (female pope) is, without doubt, fascinating. Rife with juicy implications. Donna Woolfolk Cross's Pope Joan is a good read. But I felt like there was something missing, and it didn't reach the great read status.

Joan, who we follow through childhood to death, is an intelligent, strong female who comes from a part pagan, part Christian, largely misogynist household. One of three children -- and the only girl -- she quickly learns she is of no account to her abusive father and her jealous brother John. Her brother Matthew, however, encourages her scholarly activities (secretly) and tries to teach her after her tutor leaves. Of course, learning to read in those days involved Latin. In Joan's case, she is afforded the opportunity to learn Greek as well. The kindness of those who recognize her genius is the saving grace throughout her life. As is chance, or destiny . . . or is it Divine will?

When she gets (or takes) the opportunity to go to school, she is saddled with her brother John as well. He's not a great scholar and dreams of going off to fight in the wars. He gets his chance when the war comes to him. Vikings attack and demolish the village where they are attending school. John dies bravely and Joan, seizing the opportunity to escape from what has become an untenable situation, takes on his identity. She becomes a priest. A highly intelligent priest who knows her/his way around medicines. Meanwhile, she's met and fallen in love, but hopelessly, with the good-looking Gerold, a soldier who lost his wife and daughters to that Viking attack. But her devotion to church and serving Rome as a priest prohibit them from being together . . . until . . . well, I won't ruin it for you.

It's a great story, with a great deal of historical accuracy (though Gerold is entirely fiction), evidently (I don't know a great deal about the legends surrounding Pope Joan). Cross provides a thoughtful afterword that deals with the various liberties taken and deviations from, etc.

Ultimately, though, what was missing, for me, was that vicarious reality one experiences while involved in a really great book. I think the prose was a bit laboured here, perhaps. A little heavy at times. But the characterization is strong (if not quite as lively as one might like), and I would recommend this book if you like historical fiction and enjoy a good, able and intelligent female protagonist (which I do). That's not to say Gerold isn't good, too, but Joan is the heroine of the tale and she lives up to the title. Can't wait to see the film!

What is the most fascinating aspect of this novel is the legend itself. I love tales of women who break the rules and challenge the male-authored script. And this is just that kind of story. I like the idea that women have, for centuries, challenged their prescribed roles one individual at a time. That before the first wave of feminism there were ripples from women all over the world who weren't willing to have their lives written by someone else. Fun!

Another book meme!(via Victorian Geek)


Book Memories Meme

The book that’s been on your shelves the longest

I could be absolutely honest and say My Little Blue Story Book that I still have from my pre-school reading days, but I assume this category is for something that I still read. So . . . either Lewis's Chronicles, L.M. Montgomery's Anne books, or Eliot's Silas Marner.

A book that reminds you of something specific in your life (a person, a place, a time)

My mother was the kind of parent who liked to surprise me with little gifts and notes when I least expected them. I'd come home from school and there would be a crochet doll on my pillow with a little note, or she'd come back from work with a stuffed grey poodle, or I'd open my lunch box and there'd be a little homemade book with her own writing accompanied by little pictures she'd drawn herself. She was the kind of mother who paid attention to who I was as a person and chose gifts accordingly. And she valued words and the thoughts they clothed. Other than those little homemade books she'd give me from time to time, there were the 'real' books she'd buy for me. Sometimes on special occasions, sometimes on 'just because' days. For one birthday she bought me a very pretty edition of Browning's Sonnets From the Portuguese to encourage my interest in poetry. It made a big impact and I still love it. But I will always treasure her handmade 'books'.

A book you acquired in some interesting way

I like scrounging about in used bookstores, haunting used book sites, and generally looking for good, but inexpensive, copies of books either out of print or hard to get. Mr. Inkslinger shares this penchant for book hunting. When we were first together, he tracked down a signed copy of some Florence Ayscough translations of Tu Fu and we purchased it together. The pages hadn't even been cut.

The book that’s been with you to the most places

Since we moved around so much as I was growing up most of my books from my youth have been lugged to the most places, en masse. The Secret Garden, Little Women, The Little Princess, Anne of Green Gables series, the Fury books, Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, Cherry Ames, The Bobsey Twins, The Black Stallion, Misty of Chincoteague, the Miss Bianca books. As an adult? I've probably carried most of my favourite books of poetry to quite a few places: Selected Poems of Alden Nowlan, Compton's Processional, Tennyson, Dickinson. And a Byatt novel is never far away.

Your current read, your last read and the book you’ll read next

I'm currently reading The Sunne In Splendour and Pope Joan. Both good reads, so far.

The last thing I read? The Blythes Are Quoted, which has been feeding my memories of youthful reading, as well as memories of my mother (she, my sister, and I shared a love for all things Anne. Though she was rather disappointed with The Road To Yesterday).

I'm not sure what I'll read next. Perhaps I'll give in and have a bookish return to Avonlea and indulge in rereading all the Anne novels. It's nearly holiday reading time . . . which is synonymous with indulging, isn't it?

If you are from the Atlantic provinces of Canada, as is my family, then reading Montgomery novels is interesting in at least two ways. They're interesting stories, written by an author who knows what to do with a sentence, and they're reminders of how one's grandparents lived and thought. Like inherited memories, they sit in the back of your consciousness, friendly and familiar. Rilla Blythe, for example, would have been about the same age as my grandfather. And the stories passed down in families were not all that dissimilar from Montgomery's plots. Even the fantastical foundling/complex familial ties/orphan themes (if you've ever tried to map out a family tree in the Maritimes, you'll know what I mean).

So why do I frequently find myself in a defensive position about the merits of L.M. Montgomery's novels? I find myself getting red around the ears trying to explain that her novels were/are not (NOT NOT NOT) "mere 'chick lit'." That they, like all good literature, trascend gender and historical context even while illuminating same. That her works, like Austen's, aren't just about the daily doings of overly romantic females and unrealistic males, cavorting about in unbelievably coincidence-laden plots, of interest only to women, seeing the plots as female-generated formulae of the wishful thinking/happy ending variety (all this defining of fiction by/for women . . . which I think is so limiting. Would one say that only men are interested in Mowat's writing? -- Mowat never having been referred to as anything close to 'chick lit' . . . as far as I know -- Since he's so Austen-like, did Forster write chick lit? Silly, limiting labels).

What I find satisfying about writers like Austen, Eliot, the Brontes, Montgomery, is that there is so much going on. Social satire, political religious commentary, philosophical enquiry . . . for starters. But it's strange that I don't often feel forced to defend the likes of Eliot (taken seriously, is Eliot) or even Austen as much as one feels forced to point out the literary merits of Montgomery to a cloud of deriders.

Part of the problem, I'd guess, is Montgomery became rather cliche and passe after being subsumed by the tourist industry. And part of the problem is she ended up writing a series of books on a (seemingly) similar theme and subject (I would point out, however, that this is a markedly simplistic way of describing the very complex Anne series, especially what she does with Rilla of Ingleside). And the romance-like book covers probably don't help either. But there really is so much going on in a Montgomery novel.

And The Blythes Are Quoted is a great example of what Montgomery was able to do with very simple ingredients. I'm really enjoying this book! Working it in around work means I haven't reached the last page yet (have a few to go), but what she manages to do with perspectives and voice and the prose/poetry combo is fascinating me. I'm not sure what to make of it yet . . . trying to figure out what effect it really has, how different it is from what she had been doing (not a lot, but enough . . . I like that she was experimenting with form as an older writer). And there's a sense of play about how often the Blythes are mentioned or quoted. With a little bit of a hard edge, now and again. Fun stuff.

Reading L.M. Montgomery's The Blythes Are Quoted, feeling again that fascination with the world of Anne Shirley that was so influential in my youth (thinking back, I think the fictional Anne had no small part in my desire to be a writer). A bit of Anne poetry from the aforementioned (aside: it's unaccountably strange, in my opinion, that Montgomery would include her own poetry in this volume but as the poetry of the fictional Anne . . . something that seems so alien to my own approach to fiction, myself, and my own poetry):

from the poem "Remembered" in The Blythes Are Quoted

People rush by me mad and fleet
But I am not on this haggard street,
I am out where the shadows and silences meet
Round an old grey house that is dear to me
Between the hills and the calling sea,
Where one in the twilight magic may
Find a lost and lovely yesterday.

Two Completely Unrelated Reads

As a book for young readers Three Million Acres of Flame is quite interesting indeed. Valerie Sherrard, a New Brunswick author who has been shortlisted for a number of awards, has focussed on the devastating Miramichi fire of 1825 as the setting for her story about young Skye Haverill and her father, step-mother, and siblings. Surrounded by the seemingly random violence of nature, the tragedy of lost lives and livelihoods, Skye must come to terms with a new reality as she works out her unwarranted hostility towards her pregnant step-mother.

Told in a style that is in keeping with the time period in which it is set, Sherrard comes up with a really strong young heroine in Skye. And not only does the book highlight decency and integrity as essential survival skills, it does so while making the past come alive in the details.

The second read was The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford (I borrowed my sister's lovely Folio Society edition). A kind of comedy about the English gentry during WWII and the years preceding. Ostensibly about the loves (there's a dreadfully boring MP, a single-minded Communist, and a fascinating French duke) and losses of the beautiful Linda Radlett (sensitive animal-lover and hunt enthusiast), our narrator (her cousin Fanny, daughter of an infamous adultress nicknamed the Bolter) tells a rather tragic tale that, nonetheless, has its laugh-out-loud moments. There is affection in the narrator's tone, but it's also disapproving. I can't say I loved this book, but it certainly held my interest (the tone and relationship of the narrator to Linda was most interesting, really, and I think the genius of the novel lies in that . . . if there is genius in the novel :).

Right now, I'm enjoying a brand-spanking new copy (lovely edition it is too) of L.M. Montgomery's The Blythes Are Quoted. Mr. Inkslinger, without even being asked, brought it home for me last night, knowing I would be ever so grateful. I dived into it immediately and have had to be persuaded to put it down (work, etc)ever since. No doubt a longish post is forthcoming.

Not having been born in the 60s, I'm from the generation that only heard older people say, "where were you when Kennedy was shot," but I have to admit to a certain lasting interest in the tragedy (there's something incredibly engaging about a group of youngish, tough-minded intellectuals who actually believed they could and should change the world!). Especially since my sister, who initially intended a career as a history scholar, was fascinated by the Kennedy administration and the personalities related thereto. I've read a few things here and there, imbibed a plethora of documentaries (some better presented than others) and found myself thoroughly engrossed in films like Thirteen Days and Stone's JFK.

This is, by far, however, the best treatment of the subject I've come across: Brothers : The Hidden History of the Kennedy Years by Salon.com founder David Talbot.

Balanced (there isn't much, if any, glamourizing of the famed Kennedys here), detailed, well-organized, and just plain interestingly written, the book follows the brothers through the difficult years of JFK's presidency (Bay of Pigs, Cuban Missile Crisis, and the off and on again anti-Castro efforts) and then speculates and gathers evidence about the shadowy years following the assassination. Private lives aren't really an issue for this book (thank goodness!), it's all politics and tracking the truth. I'm not sure how much more I know about who did it, but what Talbot includes about RFK's suspicions, and the now seemingly concrete ties between the assassination and the CIA, is very interesting (not to mention how insubordinate the military really was to JFK). The various conspiracy theorists are talked about (including a balanced approach to Garrison and a plausible theory as to why RFK was so adamantly opposed to Garrison's investigation), and more recent evidence is discussed.

Very accessibly written (I had a hard time putting it down), well-argued, and fascinating. And ultimately inspiring, if truth be told. It's difficult to read a well-balanced assessment of the Kennedy brothers, especially RFK and JFK, without coming away from it inspired (inspired to expect more from one's politicians, if nothing else, but also inspired to believe that a little practical idealism can go a long way). I particularly liked that they referred to themselves and their intimates as a 'band of brothers,' a reference from Shakespeare's Henry V (my favourite passage):

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother;

Now off to watch more documentaries and re-watch favourite Kennedy films (something I do every November, actually).