What a wonderful novel! But what can I say about Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress by Dai Sijie? I'm still mulling it over, really. A novel in which the central characters' lives are changed through reading! But there are consequences, dangers in literature. Revolutions of thought are just that, revolutions.

Irony, humour, gorgeous writing. And I can't wait to read more Dai Sijie. Alas, I shall have to (at least for a bit).

If you're not already familiar with the story, the novel is set in China during Mao's Cultural Revolution. Two youths, both sons of doctors, are sent to the country for 're-education' via hard labour. Almost immediately, story-telling takes centre stage as the two young men re-enact films for the villagers. But story soon becomes an obsession as the two young men stumble across Chinese translations of European novels. The results are interesting.

Ultimately, I just loved Sijie's writing. The story, with all its layers, is told so beautifully!

I may have been all of ten or eleven when my mother suggested I read Little Women. It had been a much-loved novel read in her own childhood and it quickly became a part of my identity as well. The cover of my cheap paperback copy was atrocious (some stock photo, glossy, and irrelevant) and I was daunted by the number of pages, but the story grabbed and held on. Jo March stood out, joining a short list of the admired (I was demanding of my heroines). Then my mum suggested Alcott's Eight Cousins, Little Men, Rose In Bloom. After a few more reading years, I came to Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. Has there ever been a more fascinating heroine than Hester Prynne? Hawthorne joined my pantheon of literary greats then and there.

Also, the thinking behind those novels seemed familiar. New England thinking, perhaps, of a certain kind. My parents, so East Coast in their philosophy and approach to life (not Puritan, mind you, but, as I've come to discover as an adult, Thoreau and Emerson influenced). Some of these ideas seemed a backdrop to reality when I was growing up, and informs my life even now. Even Mr. Inkslinger carries a copy of Walden with him wherever he travels. Perhaps that's why he seemed so familiar the first time we met those many years ago.

The Concord thinkers had pervaded my intellectual universe from the very start.

So I came at Susan Cheever's verbosely titled American Bloomsbury. Louisa May Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Margaret Fuller, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Henry David Thoreau: Their Lives, Their Loves, Their Work with much enthusiasm. I can't say it lived up to my expectations, but I wasn't bitterly disappointed either. I liked her informal, personal approach. It's popular history, I told myself, one can't expect even an attempt at objectivity. The attention to natural detail seemed fitting. The insertion of the authorial 'I' was not off-putting. And the enthusiasm for her subject was contagious. I was annoyed from time to time by the haphazard approach to chronology. Dates and times confused rather than clarified as she went from one figure to another, overlapping incidents and approaching the notion of cause and effect with abandon. And I have heard some mention of her inaccuracies (including details related to the Civil War in America which, one would think, are readily available for editorial fact-checking). Do I know enough about the details of these lives to be able to ferret out all the inaccuracies? Not really. I did notice she made quite a few assumptions without backing them up with factual detail when it came to motivation and emotion on the part of people long dead.

That all having been said, I can't say I did anything other than enjoy this journey to writerly Concord in the 1800s. And it has encouraged me to return to these writers. And perhaps revisit Concord, Massachusetts.

I love the phrase 'still pool.' Ponds, pools, and small lakes that evoke quiet reflection, moments taken for just 'being.' Bits of water have character, which influences the experience. I remember, when our family lived in Virginia, a lively, talkative stream that made its way past some willows and under a bridge near our house. And a bubbly spring at the home of a family friend that seemed to forever chortle under ferns and filtered sunlight. But still, quiet, non-stagnant pools? Those are hard to come by.

The day after our wedding in his hometown (or village, really), Mr. Inkslinger took me to the small lake he used to swim in as a boy. A still pool lying languid in the late autumn sunlight. It was afternoon too, so the rays reflected golden on the trees and water. Seeking to connect his new spouse with his old, childhood self, I suspect, he told me tales of loud, noisy children filling the stillness with laughter and much splashing.

This past weekend, we returned to the little lake (not an hour away is Mr. Inkslinger's past) so I could snap some shots of what had become in my memory an idyllic spot. Alas, it was on the wrong side of spring. The lake was still sleeping under ice. Still pool indeed.


Nonetheless, the cool air and icy shore did nothing to dampen our memories.

Which is all to say . . . it feels like a good day for a poem.

This one, by New Brunswick poet Elizabeth Brewster:

Where I Come From*

People are made of places. They carry with them
hints of jungles or mountains, a tropic grace
or the cool eyes of sea gazers. Atmosphere of cities
how different drops from them, like the smell of smog
or the almost-not-smell of tulips in the spring,
nature tidily plotted with a guidebook;
or the smell of work, glue factories maybe,
chromium-plated offices; smell of subways
crowded at rush hours.

Where I come from, people
carry woods in their minds, acres of pine woods;
blueberry patches in the burned-out bush;
wooden farmhouses, old, in need of paint,
with yards where hens and chickens circle about,
clucking aimlessly; battered schoolhouses
behind which violets grow. Spring and winter
are the mind's chief seasons: ice and the breaking of ice.

A door in the mind blows open, and there blows
a frosty wind from fields of snow.

*Found in the quite fascinating anthology, Coastlines: The Poetry of Atlantic Canada.

Currently and Recently . . .

Listening To: Scarlatti played by Glenn Gould. Sonata in D Major.

Ignoring: The snow that has unaccountably appeared overnight. After a week or two of spring-like behaviour on the part of the weather, I feel betrayed. It is lovely, though.

Read: A small pile of delicious tomes has accumulated on my 'read and need to blog about' pile. Among them is Cheever's American Bloomsbury, Dai Sijie's Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, and George Fetherling's new collection of poems, The Sylvia Hotel Poems. More to come on all.

Reading: Romola by George Eliot (still!! I find this novel harder to 'get into' for some reason. But I shall stick with it). And I've just begun Zadie Smith's much-acclaimed White Teeth.

Watched: To Have and Have Not. Can there be enough enthusiastic things said about the performances of Bogart and Bacall in this film? Probably. But I'll admit no gainsaying. All that provocative delivery (including the off-quoted whistle dialogue). And the little dance Bacall does at the end. Too fun. Which reminds me . . . I need to hunt down a copy of her autobiography.

Indulged In: More chocolate than is possibly good for me. Having recently tried Godiva's milk chocolate, and rediscovered my teenage affection for Laura Secord's frosted mint, it's been a delightfully chocolatey week.

It feels like a Fetherling Fest around here. I've just finished another George (or, in this case, Douglas) Fetherling book and am in the midst of reading two more.*

What I like about Fetherling's writing is that it often feels like we're in the midst of a fascinating conversation. Erudite, articulate, interesting, his books never fail to inform. And the range of genres covered by his writings: travel writing, memoir, poetry, novel.

The one I've just finished, Travels By Night, is his memoir of the sixties when he was a young writer in Toronto, rubbing elbows and minds with the likes of Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, and Gwendolyn MacEwen. Without being a tell-all, it manages to convey the era quite nicely indeed. Highly acclaimed, and deservedly so.

From his childhood in West Virginia (the lack of emotion in the delivery does nothing to assuage the horror of some of the events related) to his writerly pursuits in newspapers and adventures in the lit publishing industry of a vibrant young Canada, Fetherling's urbane approach, peppered with wry asides, and anecdotal observations entertain and illuminate. There are a host of cultural and personal insights. Like when he's talking about the trend towards educational reform: "Personally, I found it hard to be more than just generally sympathetic with their views. I had concluded that education, which I wanted badly, was one of those things that if one wished done right one had better do oneself." Good point, judging by the messes in which we frequently find ourselves with regards to the education system, with or without reform.

But aside from personal asides, an interesting and important resource for gleaning info on the CanLit scene in the sixties: "book good, me like".

*Note that George and Douglas Fetherling are the same writer.

Having completed another novel set during the war years (WWII, to be precise), I can safely say I need a break from thinking about falling bombs and the accumulation of tragedy. That having been said, I did enjoy both novels. This most recent one, The Postmistress* by Sarah Blake, contains as much gut-wrenching tragedy as Atonement, and also raises some questions about what story can do and become (both destructive and creative). The three women the narrative follows seem initially unconnected -- other than nationality and gender -- and then, as the story wends its way to a conclusion, the impact each has on the other becomes profound. Withholding information, ordering lives, changing the story, the narrative poses some tough questions about control and meaning while confronting loss, the frustration of the passionate when up against colossal indifference, and the questions raised in each mind about what her response to the war -- or, indeed, life itself -- should be.

Iris, the postmaster (she insists it's 'postmaster') who finds love later in life, is determined that there should be an order that reflects a universal truth: that someone keeps it all going just as it should, that someone is always there to catch the errors. Emma, the newly married orphan who suffers from isolation, finds herself having to connect in ways she hadn't imagined (though, of the three, she remains shadowy). Frankie, the driven reporter covering the Blitz in London, discovers there are limits to what she can know about and do with a story.

What does story mean, what can it do, are the central questions of this novel. I'm not sure any conclusions are reached (not that there have to be conclusions), and I'm not sure Frankie's questions about the role or existence of God are necessary (as they felt truncated within the context of the narrative itself), but it is an interesting reveal for a reporter (questioning story) and important for every reader/writer/story-teller and hearer to consider.

The novel, for me, felt as if it unravelled a bit at the end. Although, given Frankie's confusion over her role as reporter at that point in the novel, perhaps that was intentional. The characters certainly engaged my interest, especially Iris.

What I really enjoyed about The Postmistress was the author's keen sense of metaphor. An example:

That was it, wasn't it? The nothing between. That scant air between the couple kissing this evening: their bodies leaning against each other before going underground was the same air between the gunners and the bombs, and it was the same air that carried her voice across the sea, on sound waves, to people listening in their chairs at home. A newspaper story had to be cast in lead, the words had to be bound and trussed, printed onto paper, folded, and delivered to boys who'd stand on corners saying Extra Extra, the story held in a hand, the story bound. In radio, the story flew into the air, from lips to ear -- like a secret finding its immediate spot in the dark lodges of the brain -- the dome of the sky collapsing space, and the world becoming a great whispering gallery for us all.

But oh, the ramifications . . .

Yes, very interesting novel indeed.

*Oh, and thanks to Penguin (Canada) for the review copy!!

Perhaps a facetiously serious W.H.Auden poem today? Mr. Inkslinger loves this one.

(And I'm rather addicted to these poetry readings on youtube):

I've been thinking about Atonement. Having finished it, I can't say I really believed the ending. It's still great writing overall, and a fascinating approach to story-telling (Briony is like the act of writing personified), but I just didn't believe the ending. It didn't feel authentic somehow. And not because of the tragic 'truth' about Robbie and Cecilia either. No, that wasn't it. Perhaps something felt artificial about Briony's 'voice'? Hers is an obviously unreliable perspective, after all. But I think it disappointed me because such a carefully constructed world had been created and then the ending felt tacked on, even destructive. Perhaps that was the point . . . still thinking.

I'm staying in the same time period, though, with my next read. Sarah Blake's The Postmistress is set in the 40s and travels back and forth from London to Cape Cod. Three women dominate the story: the postmistress who likes order and rules, the doctor's wife who consistently finds herself alone, and the American reporter in London who is trying to make the war matter to Americans. So far, it is more than engaging. How they connect, how it all "adds up" is very interesting indeed.

Bookless and Wandering

It felt so much like spring this weekend that Mr. Inkslinger and I ventured out for some non-bookish activities. Walking, snapping pics, enjoying the sun, watching the light play across the buildings (shifting from a thin silver to a warm gold).

Here are a few snaps of the Stone Church (built in 1824):


Isn't Gothic Revival architecture delightfully atmospheric?



And it has such interesting, intricate stone work.



So much beauty to be had (despite the drab post-winter detritus).

I'm completely immersed in Ian McEwan's Atonement. Barely coming up for air . . . or work (in its varying manifestations). I'm nearing the last fifty pages and I have to say that while the first section felt the strongest in terms of writing (and captivating my interest), I'm loving this read (tragic love affair, brilliant writing and thought-provoking comments on the act of writing, characters who surprise and feel authentic? What's not to love?).

I took my time getting around to this book on purpose. I've sometimes found that a book that has received a good deal of hype and/or has been nominated for prestigious awards -- especially one with a plot/setting that appeals to me (not to mention spawning a film with high-profile actors in it) -- can disappoint (I'm not sure what this says about my expectations . . . or about hype and awards and films). And I really wanted to like this novel. So I held off, delaying the pleasure or disappointment, until this week. And now I keep going back to Briony and Robbie and Cecilia, wondering what wonderfully-paced sentences McEwan is going to use to resolve it all . . .

There is so much going on in this novel . . . so much to think about. I love it when a novel can fully engage one's brain!

So off I go to work . . . and to wait til I can read more.

Outside the sun beckons buds (and people) to just give up on winter and spring up . . . while inside there are contented purrings of bookish felines lazing about in the sunstreams (or are they only bookish when the book is on someone's lap?).

Either way, it feels like a good day for an Emily Dickinson poem:

#510

Of Brussels - it was not -
Of Kidderminster? Nay -
The Winds did buy it of the Woods -
They - sold it unto me

It was a gentle price -
The poorest - could afford -
It was within the frugal purse
Of Beggar - or of Bird -

Of small and spicy Yards -
In hue - a mellow Dun -
Of Sunshine - and of Sere - Composed -
But, principally - of Sun -

The Wind - unrolled it fast -
And spread it on the Ground -
Upholsterer of the Pines - is He -
Upholsterer - of the Pond -

Copying out a Dickinson poem creates a sense of overwhelming pauses and dashes. Which I love.

Currently and Recently . . .

Currently listening to: Dame Kiri Te Kanawa singing Handel's Let the Bright Seraphim (had to look it up after experiencing this wonderful post -- and reading the comments -- over at My Porch).

Recently read (and enjoyed with only a few reservations): David Starkey's Six Wives: The Queens of Henry VIII. It was approachable, almost conversational writing -- like sitting down and chatting with an informed, articulate individual about Henry's wives -- but I felt it suffered from a bit of an imbalance when it came to the sections on each wife (the sections on Catharine and Anne took up over the half the book and the last four wives seemed hastily done away with). But definitely interesting, and a good read. Anne Boleyn remains elusive, though. I don't feel there is much mystery to the others, but Anne is a tough one to figure out.

Currently reading and enjoying: A Study In Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Romola by George Eliot.

Tracy Chevalier's new novel Remarkable Creatures* is an interesting story about two fascinating and unusual women, ardent fossil hunters Elizabeth Philpot and Mary Anning. Both women lived in Lyme Regis in the early 19th century. Elizabeth is a middle-class Londoner who moves to Lyme with her two unmarried sisters to make way for her brother's wife in London. Mary is a working-class girl, only surviving daughter of a Lyme carpenter and his wife. Chevalier focuses on their sometimes rocky, often unequal, friendship. Attendant issues, of course, are class and gender restrictions, as well as some questions of faith raised by the uncovering of the 'monsters' (the long-extinct creatures).

Elizabeth and Mary were fascinating women and this is a good introduction to their world. Elizabeth is defined by her disinterest in societal amusements and novels and her obsessive interest in fossils, her budding feminism, her half-heartedly bemoaned spinsterhood, while Mary Anning is harder to pin down. Where their interests intersect is, of course, the fossils. I liked Chevalier's Mary Anning more than her Elizabeth Philpot, but Mary remains elusive. She spends her life 'upon beach,' hunting 'curies,' is proud, hard-working, almost stereotypical in her obtuseness. And yet she's likeable, and I found myself wanting to learn more about her. And, really, this book does a great job at highlighting the role these women played (and the challenges each faced) in the early years of fossil hunting. Loyalty of sex and friendship, loyalty of mission, pride in accomplishing something that matters. These women are portrayed as very human, but undeniably heroic.

Since I have a deep and abiding interest in this time period (19th century, yay!) and a general interest in fossils (ammonites, in particular, have appeared in a poem or two) I was eager to like the novel. And I did. It's a diverting world to access for a couple of hundred pages, and these women are worth attention. There were weaknesses, though. The biggest being it was a tad cursory. I felt I was introduced to these fascinating characters, and introduced with a good amount of writerly skill, but I didn't feel as if I knew them. I feel the same way about the questions of faith and science. All in all, though, I enjoyed this novel. And what a lovely cover (love it when a cover is consistent with the tone of a novel).

Oh, and I came across this . . . the author talking about the novel:



*Much thanks to Penguin (Canada) for the review copy!

All the good things I'd been hearing about Wolf Hall were absolutely true! What a great novel. A rush of impressions, and I'm not sure where to start. The political and economic machinations of Henry VIII's reign via Thomas Cromwell's perspective doesn't really sound all that appealing, does it? But it is. Because Mantel knows how to spin a tale. A sure hand with characterization reveals a vulnerable king, a desperate queen-in-waiting, and a minister who marvels at his own good fortune even while he does all to ensure it continues.

The novel centres around Thomas Cromwell who, through use of intelligence, luck, and timing, manages to ride the fortunes of Wolsey even after they begin to fall. We are introduced to the Great Matter (Henry's appeal for divorce and the religious upheaval that followed its denial) just as Wolsey fails his king and Cromwell steps in to save the day. Through Cromwell, we get a total immersion in Henry's court, rubbing elbows with the Boleyns, the Mores, the erstwhile Queen Katharine and her tragic daughter. A fascinating world of Tudor doings revealed in the best possible prose.

And Thomas Cromwell is nothing if not believably complex. One imagines this is the sort of figure who still dominates board rooms and influences the tide of nations. There's definitely something powerful about Mantel's Cromwell. And he's likeable.

Many of Mantel's interpretations of historical figures are likeable in this novel, in one way or another. Even Henry VIII. I did find myself strongly disliking two figures I'm normally more sympathetic towards: Sir Thomas More and Anne Boleyn. That didn't keep me from enjoying the book, though. My opinion of More has changed dramatically over the years anyway, and Anne Boleyn remains elusive (as always). The real alchemy is in the fleshing out of Cromwell and Wolsey, who jumps off the page.

And while this narrative shows every indication of meticulous research, it is more than just a fictional take on a given time period. Undeniably relevant, and definitely involving, it transcends genre . . . as the best narratives must (and do). Loved it!

Just a taste (these are Cromwell's impressions of the poetry in accounting!):

It's easy to employ some child who will total the columns and push them under your nose, get them initialled and then lock them in a chest. But what's the point of that? The page of an accounts book is there for your use, like a love poem. It's not there for you to nod and then dismiss it; it's there to open your heart to possibility. It's like the scriptures: it's there for you to think about, and initiate action.