Kindling

I already decided that I don’t want a Kindle (you know that electronic book-reading thing that you get from Amazon); however, I thought I would try it out while on vacation with a kindle-owner.  I read part of a New Yorker, but found that it wasn’t quite the organic experience that I’m used to – the cover wasn’t in color and was essentially meaningless, the cartoons were separate from the articles, plus the little sidebars didn’t show up, although they’re probably in there somewhere.  I like to read the magazine back-to-front sometime, or skip an article and go back to it, which wasn’t as easy as with the actual magazine.  Of course, I probably wasn’t utilizing all of the tools that are available, like search and bookmark.  One cool feature is the built in dictionary.  I also read part of a book, which was enjoyable (The Guernsey Potato Peel Pie and Literary Society –this has to be the worst title ever).  It’s weird not to know what page you’re on, but you always know what % of the book you’ve read.  I am always searching back through a book to find a memorable phrase or passage and Kindle lets you bookmark, which would save a lot of time.  Of course, the big plus is taking it on vacation – I lugged 2 hardcovers and 3 magazines in my backpack, whilst they had a world of books at their fingertips.  (Of course, you don’t want to take it to the beach!) The power is intoxicating, just one click and you can be reading a new book instantly (your credit card information is saved for ease of ordering).  For me, that power is also a negative.  I feel like my reading budget would instantly become a problem, especially since I tend to rely on the library for my reading and listening.  From a totally self-serving point of view, it is too bad that the Kindle reader can no longer lend one a book; if you borrow someone’s Kindle, they usually must be otherwise occupied, and it also creates a gift-buying problem for your friends or family members with Kindle; I could always fall back on a book as a gift, but now I guess a gift certificate to Amazon will have to suffice.  Thusfar, I only know two Kindle-owners and haven’t see anyone else sporting one in public places, but with the competition increasing, perhaps the price will come down and Kindles and other devices will become more prevalent.  This leads me to a final, admittedly minor, quibble:  if everyone on the plane or train is reading a Kindle, you really have no way of discreetly peeking at what they’re reading, which for me is one of the joys of travel.

The Help

I finally read The Help, by Kathryn Stockett.  It was a compelling read, with much suspense and a real sense of the danger that Aibileen, Minny and the other maids were courting through their covert writing project.  The beating and blinding of one maid’s son for using a white bathroom provides a serious counterpoint to the ridiculous notion of the Junior League President that all households should have separate bathrooms for the help, ‘for sanitary reasons.’ One felt that even Skeeter, the young white woman who persuades the maids to tell their storis, might be in serious trouble, but there is also a sense of change trickling down, even to the provincial backwater that Jackson seemed to be. One of the strengths of the book is an undercurrent of national and even local events – of social upheaval on many fronts – hearing a Bob Dylan song, learning of Martin Luther King’s march on Washington. This premonition of the future is most poignantly expressed when Aibileen says goodbye to ‘her last white baby’, Mae Mobley, and has a visionof the modern world that Mae will inhabit. (In the fictional book, “Help”, that is being written by Skeeter and the maids, the editor declares that the best section is by Sarah, Aibileen’s pseudonym, and her voice is the one that I remember most from the book.)  The ending was a bit patched together, with Skeeter heading off to New York, her Mother apparently not dying, and the maids piecing their lives back together somehow.  While not entirely believable, the interwoven stories from different viewpoints works pretty well; however, it is disconcerting to have one chapter, the Junior League benefit where so many of the plotlines come together, suddenly in the third person, with an omniscient narrator telling us what different people were doing and thinking.  I also wonder if it would have been a better book with just two viewpoints -  Aibileen’s and Skeeter’s; it would have been harder to write but I think it would have been a stronger. All in all, though, the writing was good, with many insights into actions and motivations and a lot of humor. Elizabeth not recognizing herself in the book was perfect!  So, between, the topic, the times – early sixties in the South–and the characters, it adds up to a good, even an important book, well worth reading.

Sad

Khaled Hosseini’s second book, A Thousand Splendid Suns, is better than the first in that it takes place entirely in Afghanistan.  His first, The Kite Runner had an initial riveting section set in Afghanistan, but the second part, set in the United States was not as compelling.  A Thousand Splendid Suns compels utterly with overlapping narratives of women’s lives that are inseparable from the recent history of this beleagured country. While reading of the sorrows and tribulations of wives who are abused; daughters denied schooling and given away as child brides; and mothers whose sons are lost in senseless wars, one has a horrible feeling that this story is still being told, that women will remain, in many cases, mere objects, abused, despised and wasted, valued only for breeding and kept subservient by physical abuse and unjust social structures.  There are many sympathetic male figures in the book, and some of the worst men show glimmers of humanity, even the bully, Rasheed, and the weak father, Jalil; however, for the most part society encourages the worst impulses so that these glimmers are eventually lost.  A poignant moment in the book is after the Soviet occupation of Kabul, when Laila’s father tells her that it is actually a good time to be a woman in Afghanistan, because she is allowed to go to school and to be independent.  This while his two sons are fighting in the Jihad against the Russians, the Jihad that is mostly a reaction to the freedom allowed women under Soviet rule.  The breakdown of rebel forces into factions that tear the country apart after the Soviets leave is an illustration of the senselessness of war.  More people killed, homes destroyed, children orphaned, and women’s rights even further-circumscribed – Hosseini ends on a hopeful note, but his book, dedicated in part to the women of Afghanistan, was written two years ago.  Since then, the Taliban have increased their presence and no doubt stories such as those of Laila and especially Mariam will continue to be played out in obscurity.  We have to at least thank Hosseini who shines a light on these lives and tells his tale with love and compassion.

What’s everybody reading?

Whilst traveling (has anyone else noticed an increase in the use of ‘whilst’?), I like to check out what my fellow passengers are reading.  A lady in the Charleston airport was in the early pages of The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga; she also had the latest book by Pat Conroy (South of Broad) in her bag, which happens to be about Charleston, but she said it was awful.  On the plane between Newark and Boston, I spotted a woman in a window seat who was near the end of The Help, by Kathryn Stockett.  I hear from reliable sources that this is a must-read, but haven’t gotten hold of it yet.  On a weekend trip to DC at the end of September, it seemed that every other person was reading Dan Brown’s just-released novel, The Lost Symbol.  I read his first book and I’m pretty much done with him, but I realize they have a certain amount of entertainment value and make pretty good airport books.  As for me, I devoured The Likeness, by Tana French, which had the same gripping psychological suspense as her first (In the Woods).  I think I liked the first one a little better, but this was still a good read with an irresistible premise and quite a few of the same characters.  I also read a little mystery called The Book of Murder by an Argentinian author, Guillermo Martinez, whom I recently discovered by listening to a book on tape called The Oxford Murders.  He has a cool, dispassionate style, with clever plotting, subtle insights into human behavior and a touch of magic realism.  One of our hosts was reading The Beautiful and the Damned, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, which I have to confess I have not read.  My traveling companion was reading Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts for possibly the third or fourth time.  I used to reread books too, back when I didn’t feel so obsessed with time and how it runs out…..

TC – Poetry

I’ve embarked on a new Teaching Company Course - How to read and Understand Poetry, taught by William Spiegelman  It is lovely to listen to and think about poems while commuting to work, facing another day of drudgery.  As Goethe said, “One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture,  and if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.” 

Professor Spiegelman has a good speaking manner, which a teacher ought to have if he or she can possibly manage it.  He is not quite so puckish and funny as McWhorter, but so far anyway he sticks to the topic and does not intrude upon it.  More to the point, I was immediately struck by his assertion that poems are not about ideas.  He tells a story of the painter, Degas, mentioning to his friend, the poet Mallarme, that he would like to write poems as he had so many ideas.  Mallarme replied, “My dear Degas, poems are not made of ideas, but words.”  A simple, even obvious, statement, but one that bears thinking about, for it is the choice and setting and arrangement of words that makes a poem what it is more than what the poet is trying to say, which according to Spiegelman, can be boiled down to half-a-dozen or so main ideas – love, death, living, etc.

His first poems are a pair by Wordsworth, the much-loved “I wandered lonely as a Cloud” which he amplifies with some biographical details about Wordsworth and then “The Reaper”which I had never read.  It would be helpful to read each poem first (which he suggests), because unlike the first poem which I know well, my unfamiliarity with the second made it somewhat hard to follow.  The poems themselves are not included in the bibliography so it will take some effort to hunt them up.  He then did Yeats’ “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” which I know by heart and spoke beautifully of the restful, dreamy rhythms of the poem.  He mentions that Yeats had been reading Thoreau and was influenced by him in writing this poem but adds that his seeker after simplicity is far from being practical, his vision is idealized, not pragmatic.  He states the longing of the poet to get away from the modern world, but I think he misses something of central importance.  The twice-stated, ”I will arise and go now”, seems too forceful for the rest of the poem and you get the feeling that he is not actually going to fulfill this ambition, that he is lying on a couch, inert, and will not summon the will to do what Thoreau did, that he will after all stay “on the pavements” grey.  The next poem is by another favorite of mine, Edna St Vincent Millay.  As Spiegelman notes, she is not so well-regarded these days, but I have loved her since junior high, reading “we were very tired, we were very merry, we went back and forth all night on a ferry.”  I love many of her poems, but do not remember this one, “The Buck in the Snow.”  The language and imagery are stunning.  It’s a fine example of her genius and from a simple snowy scene with deer in flight reaches to the very “strangeness” of life and death.

Another by McEwan

I really like his writing (Ian McEwan that is), and this book, Enduring Love, while pretty disturbing was more than a study in a scary obsession – it had also excellent scenes, characters and plot development.  There is one really funny scene – when the main character is trying to buy a gun from some seedy ex-hippies.  The great thing about McEwan is his careful cataloging of our shared human nature – the moods, whims, defensive and protective strategies that fill our days.  I also liked his description of Joe’s attempt to distract himself with work: 

Within twenty minutes I had drifted into the desired state, the high-walled infinite prison of directed thought.

A good read

While discussing books with a friend, we discovered a shared love of mysteries.  He recommended an Irish author, Tana French, whose first book, In the Wood, he described as a psychological thriller.  I got hold of the book and couldn’t put it down.  The central crime is sad and disturbing, but it is well-handled and the range of characters, suspects and subplots are all superb.  Reading this book reminded me of my book-obsessed childhood, spending hours and hours absorbed in a story, emerging only for meals, no worries about tasks or responsibilities.  It’s a great feeling.  Of course, now I have to read  her second book, a teasing first chapter was included at the end of this one, with some of the same characters and an intriguing new mystery.  I’ll be looking for The Likeness as soon as I have a block of time to devote to it.

Roth on Aging and Death

I haven’t read much Philip Roth as I tend to be a bit prudish and he is known for his graphic writing; however, I did read and enjoy The Plot Against America (it is told from a young boy’s point of view so not too much in the way of sex going on). I was interested in Everyman because of the idea of an aging author taking on the subject of death. In Plato’s Republic, there is an account of Socrates visiting an older friend, Cephalus, who urges him to come often as he, Cephalus, cannot get around much anymore and enjoys the pleasures of conversation.  Socrates replies: 

There is nothing which for my part I like better, Cephalus, than conversing with aged men; for I regard them as travellers who have gone on a journey which I too may have to go, and of whom I ought to enquire, whether the way is smooth and easy, or rugged and difficult.

 In Everyman, Roth sets out to chronicle a man’s life, beginning at his funeral and seen mostly through his own flashbacks.  It is well done and sad and truthful, and it shows us that the way is rugged and difficult.  It is especially painful when he propositions a young woman whom he has been watching every day jogging on the boardwalk.  His humiliation and loss of his old confidence is truly poignant.  However, Cephalus quotes Sophocles on this subject, who, when asked how love suits him as an old man, answers in a way that might have been useful to Roth’s narrator:

 Peace, he replied; most gladly have I escaped the thing of which you speak; I feel as if I had escaped from a mad and furious master.

 Cephalus adds:  For certainly old age has a great sense of calm and freedom; when the passions relax their hold, then, as Sophocles says, we are freed from the grasp not of one mad master only, but of many. 

When he speaks of the complaints that his contemporaries have with aging, he says: 

that these regrets, and also the complaints about relations, are to be attributed to the same cause, which is not old age, but men’s characters and tempers; for he who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but to him who is of an opposite disposition youth and age are equally a burden.

 In Roth’s book, the sadness is in the relinquishing of all that one cares about and the reader participates in the sense of unfairness that overcomes the narrator whose body is breaking down with what seems, to  him, to be premature haste.  Roth’s chronicle is at times a searing account of this process, complete with surgical and anatomical details.  When he describes old age as ”a massacre”, one can feel his savage delight in the word, in telling this bitter truth to all.  One might wish for a more philosophical protagonist but cannot wish for a more courageous author, for he faces unflinchingly that which he (and we)are approaching, which is so hard to face or fathom– oblivion.

On aging and death

I  used to trick myself by adding a year or two to my age by way of becoming used to the idea of being 40 and then 50.  So, recently, I was pleasantly surprised to realize that I am actually turning 52, not 53.  The term over-the-hill is a bit of a joke bringing to mind silly Hallmark greeting cards; however, as with most cliches there is a kernel of truth in the saying, because there is a time when you do feel yourself cresting, that you’ve gained a certain high spot from which to look forward and back (I’ve been trying desperately to find the passage in Netherland (see previous post) that describes this feeling but I can’t seem to locate it).  You see the accumulated years behind you, but the road ahead is dim and shadowy.  You realize,for the first time, the finiteness of life, that yours is going to end.  Not to be morose, but it bears thinking of, for the illusion of immortality is surely what causes cruel and senseless behavior, is what is behind inertia and inevitably our disappointments in ourselves.  While rereading “How Proust Can Change your Life,”by Alain de Botton, he quotes Proust’s response to a newspaper editor’s question of how one should live if a calamitous event were foretold and a certain number of days only remained.  Proust answer was essentially that we all only have a certain number of days and that the calamity of death awaits all of us and should daily inform our actions and goals.  Coming to terms with death is tricky as what can be accepted intellectually may not really feel true to us on the quotidian level.

Netherland

After reading descriptions of Joseph O’Neill’s new novel Netherland which talked of it as a post 9/11 novel, I was not really interested in reading it and that is the reaction of most people when I attempt to describe the book in reference to that date.  However, after hearing the author interviewed by Terri Gross on Fresh Air, I decided to give it a try, and I’m glad I did.  It touches on the events of September 11, 2001, only in the most delicate way, so that the mind that fears pressure on a sore spot is put at ease.  The story is a somewhat dark, yet dreamy (and occasionally funny) meditation on adulthood, national identity, parenting, marriage and life, but again the touch is light.  The main character, Hans is struggling with the dissolution of his marriage and the death of his Mother, which among other things including Cricket, make up the book’s several threads. The comparison to The Great Gatsby seems apt, but is not overstated (the reference to Daisy brought a smile).  In the end, I found myself flipping back through the book for certain passages that resonated as when Hans describes his own tendency toward dreaminess and mystery resulting in him “stepping around in a murk of his own making” and his concern about his own son and how to “ensure that he does not grow like his father, which is to say, without warning.”  Speaking of his confused state of mind, he adds, “I still have no firm idea whether my own descent into disorder was referable to an Achilles heel or whether it’s a generally punishable folly to approach life trustingly — carelessly, some might say.” I’ve been thinking lately about the fate of dreamers and pondering how one might possibly fit into this life, the answer seems to be not very well or only by luck.