I went in to this novel with reservations but I've come out with gratitude. The description says it's about two 30-something men "who are resolutely kI went in to this novel with reservations but I've come out with gratitude. The description says it's about two 30-something men "who are resolutely kind" and that it "asks a surprisingly enthralling question: Can kind people change the world?".
Well, yes and no. Yes, it centres around two 30-something men, and yes, they are kind. They are lots of other things too, most especially, social misfits – if I can use that term gently and purely descriptively. They are also quite different from each other in their misfittery. They are, quite simply, more complex than the label ‘resolutely kind’ would have us believe.
And so is this novel.
The publisher’s blurb, with its reference to that "surprisingly enthralling question,” takes special care to defend against the perception that a book like this – about kindness, about kind people – will be a bland, feel-good tale, possibly cloyingly sentimental. Possibly or probably boring.
But this book is none of these things. And I think this misconception stems from the publisher’s description: Leonard and Hungry Paul are not, I don’t think, trying to change the world. They are resolutely kind social misfits just trying to live in it. (And aren’t we all?)
By trying to convince me that the novel is asking the (surprisingly enthralling) question about whether kind people can change the world, the blurb fails to home in on the real dramatic tension and the depth in this novel: how do kind people live in a world that sees kindness as uninteresting, even weird? How do kind, gentle, quiet people live in a world that is so regularly unkind, ruthless, and loud?
Another thing about how, I believe, the blurb undersells this novel: it misses entirely the darkness that stands side-by-side with its light. This is not, as one might expect, a novel that buys into the toxic positivity myth. It knows that you’ve got to kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight. And we, the reader, feel it from the first sentence:
Leonard was raised by his mother alone with cheerfully concealed difficulty, his father having died tragically during childbirth.
The novel is regularly like this: fully-acknowledged difficulty (if cheerfully concealed, or stoically endured, or calmly managed through) and quirky, slightly dark humour.
There is also lots of love via realistically-portrayed friendships, families, and marriages with all their miscommunications, emotional labour, and the need for constant negotiating. And there are a couple of soliloquies, towards the end, one from Leonard (view spoiler)[(about grief and loneliness) (hide spoiler)] and one from Hungry Paul (view spoiler)[( (in response to his sister’s fears for him and his future) (hide spoiler)] that are well worth the price of admission.
There is some powerful writing here, grounding the novel not only in the characters of Leonard and Hungry Paul, but in their careful thinking and their profound and well-contemplated philosophies of living. They tell us that yes, it’s possible to be kind and find kindness in an often unkind world (and in fact, that the world has huge pockets of kindness in it); that there is a round hole to fit your square peg; that stillness and quiet is a superpower in a world that more often seems to reward action, extroversion and self-promotion.
Finally, even if this novel were (only or just) about kind people changing the world, I’d say: hallelujah and thank you. I really needed a contrast to the climactic dystopias and pandemic sagas and tales of trauma that occupy so much space on my reading lists. Not a placebo, but an antidote: one that’s smart with a bit of bite and one that doesn’t mask the bitterness with saccharine.
This little novel is ADORABLE. I'm so glad to have stumbled upon it, having loved Suzette Mayr's Dr. Edith Vane and the Hares of Crawley Hall. This This little novel is ADORABLE. I'm so glad to have stumbled upon it, having loved Suzette Mayr's Dr. Edith Vane and the Hares of Crawley Hall. This one is earlier, slightly more focused, and laugh-out-loud funny -- the audiobook, released in 2020 (the original publication is 1998), is enhanced by a fantastic performance by Maureen Jones. Loved the takes on aging, sexuality (and aging sexuality!), and sisterhood. Genuine, warm, whimsical and wonderful....more
Exquisite, layered, deep, funny-bordering-on-farce with a tragic heart. Something a bit retro about it - a bit Pymish; a bit Sparkish with that under-Exquisite, layered, deep, funny-bordering-on-farce with a tragic heart. Something a bit retro about it - a bit Pymish; a bit Sparkish with that under-the-surface seething British comedy of manners that invariably both masks and reveals the brutality and consequence of the constraints imposed by class and gender. Gorgeously written, with a dream-like quality that perfectly echoes its themes; beautifully paced....more
I loved this - it's very taut writing, carefully building a plot that is unusual - even weird - but somehow works. It's surprisingly riveting for beinI loved this - it's very taut writing, carefully building a plot that is unusual - even weird - but somehow works. It's surprisingly riveting for being such a strange and largely introspective story. There's also Rowland's use of equally strange but apt imagery and motifs that recur throughout: the lions, which appear on the cover, and the idea of hunting and being hunted; but also blindness/deafness, and the idea of using one's senses to be a filter for others' thoughts and words, being a kind of animate machine absorbing and then regurgitating pain. And then there is the idea of identity itself. Objectivity and subjectivity. Who are you, who do you become, if you are (reduced to? used as?) a pain machine? There is a clever description of a homeless woman's giving up her name, and then choosing a new one; Lena, our protagonist, is called Carol for the longest time by a reporter; even the lion motif plays into this identity/naming theme with a story from Lena's childhood about a mountain lion, puma, cougar, panther (take your pick) coming up again and again and being important in any number of ways that link to strands of the story. There is memory and remembrance and legacy, and most importantly, there is the exploration of what it is to exist, what it is to be, with its companion, what it is not to be (trigger warning: there is a lot of death and suicide in this novel), and what, in the end - despite all our puny sorrows - gives a life meaning.
The setting feels both timeless and anachronistic (is that possible? it is here!). Everything seems slightly surreal but also very real, in that we are clearly in NYC, landmarks are named (Gramercy Park, Times Square, The Algonquin Hotel, the New York Public Library with its - natch - stone lions). It feels as though things can't be, even tho' they are, contemporary - e.g., there is reference to 9/11 (this is very much a post-9/11 NY novel) - although there is much that is a throwback to an earlier time and clearly on its way out: not only Lena's job as the last transcriptionist for a major NYC newspaper ("The Record", a stand in for The New York Times; journalism itself on its last legs), but also the fact that she lives in a single room in a boarding house for women; she meets a strange old man who works behind a blue door on an otherwise unoccupied floor in The Record's building, who is busy preserving and archiving decades of the paper's obituaries damaged by pigeons who were roosting in the dilapidated and crumbling room. Over and over, we have motifs and images circling around each other, shape-shifting - obituaries being another example. Pigeons, too.
Lena is the kind of character that always appeals to me. Single, bookish, solitary, smart and sensitive, she seems overlooked and underestimated. But her voice - when she finds it - and her actions are strong and definitive and, in the end, brave and compassionate. Also, perhaps because the reader (the extraordinary Xe Sands who can talk in my ear 'til the cows come home; I won't mind) is the same, and I just finished the third in Lydia Millet's How The Dead Dream trilogy, I found The Transcriptionist to bear a remarkable resemblance to Millet's writing: its surreality, its tone, its themes and the way it explores them, its unsentimental but powerful use of animals, and its overall elegiacal feeling.
If you like Millet, you'll probably like this. I hope Amy Rowland writes many more novels. And I hope they are all read by Xe Sands....more
This novel in two sentences: British post-war boardinghouse saga, revolving around a fat widow and editor (Mrs. Hawkins) who insults (pretty mildly, aThis novel in two sentences: British post-war boardinghouse saga, revolving around a fat widow and editor (Mrs. Hawkins) who insults (pretty mildly, all things considered) a wannabe writer and - given every chance and no small pressure (view spoiler)[given that she's repeatedly fired for it (hide spoiler)] - to withdraw said epithet, refuses to do so. Shenanigans, some of them pretty damn dark ('coz Muriel Spark), ensue.
Despite aforesaid darkness, I'm going to put this on my palate-cleanser shelf. It's a fine, fine read. There are many laugh-out-loud lines, and the voice of Mrs. Hawkins is SO fabulous!...more
The first book to be read off my "pick it up and dust it off" shelf: books that have been sitting around for dozens of years, forgotten and neglected.The first book to be read off my "pick it up and dust it off" shelf: books that have been sitting around for dozens of years, forgotten and neglected. Hard covers - some of 'em first editions - that I've picked up at flea markets, second-hand bookstores or that have been handed down to me.
There are some insane treasures on my shelves -- unloved, unread -- and this is one of them.
It almost made my heart stop, it is so good.
Marian Engel - infamous for parlaying a detailed account of the sexual gymnastics involved in a brown bear and a librarian's love affair in the great north woods into a Governor General's award - writes like a raft of Canadian women authors (Atwood, Laurence, Munro even) used to write. Deeply introspective, crafted and poetic, genre and gender role-defying, imagery and insight combining in this ... this ... extraordinary way. Honest, mind- and heart-blowing accounts of women's experience that - to me at least - reads as personal, female, and very Canadian.
I say "used to" for two reasons: 1) because Engel died in 1985 leaving behind a small, diverse, largely overlooked body of work which is now a little hard to get your hands on. And you should, despite 2) it's dated, rooted in a time and place - and concerns - that don't really exist anymore or at least are not expressed in the same way as they were when she was writing.
Her contemporaries evolved, bringing their artistry and insights into new forms and expressions. Especially, of course, Atwood.
This is what you need to know: The Glassy Sea and The Handmaid's Tale share a common ancestor.
TGS is the account of a woman - born Rita to humble, bigoted, Protestant Ontario stock - who becomes Sister Mary Pelagia (the RCs and high Anglicans among you will have more background to understand that name) in a nine-member Anglican Order, the Eglantines. As they begin to die off, she leaves that world for 'the' world: one of (view spoiler)[marriage, a child, divorce, a slide into alcholism and promiscuous sex, i.e., (hide spoiler)]sexual, spiritual, and emotional crises.
The prologue and epilogue frame the main story of her life retold in a letter to her Bishop, written shortly after she's made the decision to (view spoiler)[return to and revive (and become sister superior of) the Order. (hide spoiler)] I forgive the ending - which wraps the story up in a way that felt too practical, too prosaic and too 'preachy' - for all that went before it, because of all that went before it.
It is a unique life's journey that speaks to me at the deepest levels. It is simply everything I read for, packed into 167 pages.
This is a treasure of a book - almost no one on my friends' list here at goodreads has read it. And I know, I know ... I throw four and five stars aroThis is a treasure of a book - almost no one on my friends' list here at goodreads has read it. And I know, I know ... I throw four and five stars around like candy on Hallowe'en. BUT: this 2009 Giller nominee is stunning. It almost ripped my heart out. A Montrealer - 16 y.o. Anne Greves - falls in love with a Cambodian refugee, Serey. This is her love letter to him, spanning more than 30 years.
Our disappeared were everywhere, irresistible, in waking, in sleeping, a reason for violence, a reason for forgiveness, destroying the peace we tried to possess, creeping between us as we dreamed, leaving us haunted by the knowledge that history is not redeemed by either peace or war but only fingered to shreds and left to our children.
Loss, loss, loss - personal: of parents, of children, of lovers ... and then, set in the midst of loss at a global level (Cambodia during the genocide).
When he read to me he sometimes looked at the black and white picture of my mother on my bedside table. The focus is soft on the young woman holding a baby, me, and our eyes are locked together. Papa's voice would drift away and I learned to wait quietly until his attention flickered from the photograph back to the page. I think I began to read this way, studying the words in an open book, waiting for absence to be filled.
Beautifully and poetically written with an intentional and very effective use of spare, contraction-free,'clean' language that packs a HUGE punch. (I will come back when I have more time and share some nuggets with you)*. And then: the subject matter: love and loneliness and the most massive loss and grief.
At dawn I dreamed of a lover whose body knows things she does not. I had lost my voice and we were in a restaurant called the Courthouse and I was calling for you but you could not hear. My father's presence was somewhere on the edges of the dream. You woke me and smoothed my hair and said, You are calling my name. Do not worry, oan samlanh, I will always be here.
The ocean has one taste and it is salt. I believed your body but I knew the words were untrue.
The description of erotic and passionate love through the voice and character of Anne Greves is astonishing; the clarity (cf. language, above) and punch of her descriptions of how all-consuming her love for Serey is - I don't generally go for these kinds of stories, but this one is truly a cut above.
I never felt any forbiddenness of race of language or law. Everything was animal sensation and music. You were my crucifixion, my torture and rebirth. I loved your eyes, the tender querying of your voice in song. ...People do not like to think of love as a crucifixion but I know now, thirty years later, that if a person is tough enough for love nothing less than rebirth will be required.
I cannot recommend this book highly enough. It is at the top of all my five-star books this year.
________________________
* ETA: as promised. I've picked some passages out from the very early part of the book, so they are hopefully not too spoiler-y (and one I hid - because it does reveal a plot point so be forewarned). I literally just flipped through to random pages in the first 25 to find them and I notice now how not only beautiful the language is but how intentional the imagery. When language is this spare, then every word matters - of course - but here, it seems even more true; it seems that this spare, poetic language is doing even more work than I thought on first read.
Amazing book that manages to combine myth, magic, shape- and time-shifting with a gritty reality, a down-to-earth humour and an essential sadness. TakAmazing book that manages to combine myth, magic, shape- and time-shifting with a gritty reality, a down-to-earth humour and an essential sadness. Take the humour and whimsy of Thomas King or Sherman Alexie; the lyrical poeticism and depth of character of Louise Erdrich; the poignancy, raw pathos and passion of Richard Wagamese and Joseph Boyden. Anchor it in a playwright's sensibility for the visual and the dramatic, and you have Tomson Highway: an original and founding voice in Indigenous literature....more
This thing got me from the very first paragraph – it threw me in the back of its van in Winnipeg, and sped off down a dusty, prairie road with me, acrThis thing got me from the very first paragraph – it threw me in the back of its van in Winnipeg, and sped off down a dusty, prairie road with me, across borders temporal, geographical and emotional, and it didn’t let me go until it had wrung me out, surprised me, made me laugh, made me cry, made me FEEL oh so much, and then left me on the tarmac in San Diego heading back home, with a grain of hope that yeah, the kids (will be) alright.
First up: the voice. A kind of early Tom Robbins whimsy describing a similar cast of misfits, but simpler, less metaphor and simile-filled. Straightforward. Full of wacky details, raw and honest, but most of all – spare and direct and rich with poignant, perfect detail in describing the three central characters (aunt and sister, Hattie; her niece Thebes and nephew Logan), what they think feel and have been through, and through them, the one around whom they all revolve: mom, Min.
And second: the characters. A motley crew of wounded, gentle souls – united by blood, family ties braided thick with love and guilt and obligation and understanding and shared pasts and genes and brain chemistry and ways of being in the world that are both the stuff that saves them, and the stuff that destroys them. But they never destroy each other.
They are doing all they can to lean on and help each other just keep it together. Just get through and be okay. Hattie, 28-yrs-old – returning after breaking free from orbiting “Min’s dark planet,” confused, trying to do the best she can, not knowing what that is, operating almost solely by instinct and love tinged with guilt. Feeling responsible for her sister’s decline into mental illness. Feeling the tremendous burden of being the only adult around, feeling barely like an adult herself, feeling as cracked and torn and vulnerable as the rest of them, but doing the right thing.
WARNING: The rest of this review may contain minor spoilers - some I've caught; some I haven't. So read at your own risk.
And it’s the voice of the absolutely wonderful 11-yr-old Thebes, her niece. Full of gangsta-rapping, dictionary-reporting, pearly nuggets of wisdom. Thebes is an old soul sparkling with remnants of glitter and blazing with purple hair, in a ragged, increasingly-dirty blue terry cloth outfit, writing songs and poems and creating enormous publisher’s clearing house-style cheques from the back of the van, to bestow upon the ones she loves what fortunes she can, caring for everyone, holding everything together with her charm, her wit, her love, her crazy-ass chatter, her artsy-crafty creative force, her manic energy and anxiety that propels this book from start to finish. Thebes is the most colourful character – quite literally – that I’ve come across in literature in a long time. She (view spoiler)[eventually gets herself into a white suit for presentation to her father (the point of the road trip) - but immediately dirties it. Thebes (hide spoiler)] can’t be contained by stark, white, convention. She can’t be cleaned up. She shouldn’t be. Thebes’s kind of crazy is the kind upon which the core of resilience and survival rests.
And finally, it’s Logan – quiet, he sneaks up on you. He’s 15 yrs old, a basketball-playing, sweetly-sensitive poet. He’s acting out, and going deep within – expressing his pain (they all do it slightly differently) by carving non-sequitur couplets into the dashboard with his switchblade and creating paper maché heads (view spoiler)[of a "dying boy" – representing the “two divergent influences” at work in everyone: “one material, violent and destructive, and the other loving, peaceful and uplifting” (p. 279) (hide spoiler)] – to be propped up at the front of the van like a figurehead on a ship, a guardian to protect them on their journey.
Did I say this book lacked metaphor?
Huh, maybe not.
So much more … so much. The tenderness, the sweetness between Logan and Thebes and where that goes. The finding of (view spoiler)[Thebes’s half-sister (hide spoiler)] - how freaking beautiful – unexpected, unlikely - was that? (I’ve been raging about coincidences in novels that are too big to be believed; this one wasn’t). (view spoiler)[Reuniting with dad in the desert and where that goes for Logan, especially. (hide spoiler)]
The pit bull – The Beef-renamed Lucille-renamed Rajbeer – who needed more love than her mechanic finder-owner could give her. So he gave her to three people in a broken-down van whose journey was fuelled by it. (view spoiler)[And they gave Rajbeer and the van to … hmmm. (hide spoiler)]
ETA, 12/22/12: Back one year later, thinking about the Attawapiskat First Nation. Its Chief, Theresa Spence, is heading into her 12th day of a hunger ETA, 12/22/12: Back one year later, thinking about the Attawapiskat First Nation. Its Chief, Theresa Spence, is heading into her 12th day of a hunger strike, an act of leadership and heroism that has coincided with the explosion of the #IdleNoMore movement. I'm urging all Canadians reading this to join in solidarity with our Aboriginal brothers and sisters in a call for dialogue, collaboration and action. Demand that PM Harper meet with Chief Theresa Spence to make meaningful, immediate progress on the issues of poverty, climate degradation, social injustice and political disenfranchisement that continue to plague Canada's First Nations - and all Canadian people - and erode Canada's democracy.
ETA, 11/22/11: The Attawapiskat First Nation, located just north along the shore of James Bay from the setting of Through Black Spruce and mentioned in several different places in the novel,is in crisis. A state of emergency has been declared as a result of "'Third-World' living conditions" in which the 2,000 residents, many of whom are children and elders, have no running water, poor or no sanitation facilities, and sub-standard housing. And, it's winter.
This story has barely made the headlines in the mainstream press, and in the three weeks since the emergency was declared, there has been absolutely NO ACTION on the part of federal or provincial governments to respond.
Happy to have made this the final book in my 2011 GR reading challenge. Great characters, unique setting, remarkable dialogue and voice. Highly authentic evocation of the Canadian Aboriginal perspective and experience from a bunch of different angles - deeply moving, atmospheric, a spiritual journey embedded in a real one (two, actually) across the rural northern landscape and the southern cities of Toronto, Montreal, NYC. The structure - two voices, uncle and niece - telling each other their stories in alternating chapters was beautifully handled, never gimmicky. The dialogue soundedwas so authentic -- I have northern Ontario ears (slightly out of practice), and I could hear these voices clear as ice in my head.
Ever good, eh?
So much to love - but here's the nub of it, my favourite thing, the most horrible thing really but this novel nailed it so perfectly and with such subtle power: the subjugation of Aboriginal culture, spiritual identity, individual personality, the vitality and destruction of family relationships, the impossibility of assimilation leading to the obliteration of choice, cultural genocide -- these horrific, heartbreaking things ran like a river through this book at a visceral, yet submerged, only rarely surfacing, level. Never hammer-over-the-head political, but there - as theme, as imagery, as symbolism, as setting. So bleak, and yet also strangely optimistic (by the end), or perhaps the better description is resilient. Just a huge testament to resiliency, and therefore hopeful. Every now and then, I thought: this book is treading dangerously close to cliche. Symbolically (I mean, c'mon - the bears? the stoic, silent Indian?). Yet, every time I heard a slight warning bell in my head, the authenticity of the voice, the veracity of the detail, won me back over.
Timothy Findley is one of those authors who has always simmered away on the backburner for me. He seems overshadowed by his other contemporaries, i.e.Timothy Findley is one of those authors who has always simmered away on the backburner for me. He seems overshadowed by his other contemporaries, i.e. the Canadian pantheon: Atwood, Munroe, Richler, Davies, Laurence. Because he was much else - an actor, a critic, I think also a broadcaster? - his writing competes with his other selves. He deserves wider readership, which seems to be something I say every time I review one of his books. Partly, that's a "note to self" - Jen, fer god's sake, why haven't you read EVERYTHING this guy has written by now? And partly, it's because - other than Karen (who lists it as one of her favourites) - none of my GR friends seem to have read this novel.
Ok, well, it's probably not for everyone - you need to like sprawling, multi-generational family sagas. You need to like compelling characters, high drama, the exploration of inner and outer conflict anchored by a specific time and place.
So if you do, put this on your to-read list. Go ahead. Right now. I'll wait.
If you've not yet read any Findley, this is a good one to start with, as it seems 'core' Findley to me. An epic, sprawling story with a central figure - Lily - who struggles with her many demons and is the bright and central spark (heh) of life around which the entire novel revolves. Her son Charlie, the narrator, whose main quest is to know the identity of his father. A Toronto-centric story, focused on the Rosedale set and their particular quirks and cruelties (don't let this discourage you - it is not so place-specific to be inaccessible). Wartime setting mirroring the inner conflicts. Families and traditional roles - and people pushing those boundaries. Mothers and sons. OH - how we have mothers and sons! Secrets. Illness, mental and otherwise. Fire - as an event; as a motif. Music - an occupation, an avocation, a calling, a uniting theme, a scene-setter, a metaphor.
Lots and lots and lots of STORY in this story.
I just love family epics that start with a particular set of people, whom you get to know and love; and then take you through successive generations, whom you meet and grow to love too. This one, like many family sags, is roughly linear, but also cumulative (so you don't have the jarring grief inevitable when the story moves on to the next generation of characters).
If you want a story where you are completely *invested* in the characters, this is it. There is much empathy here: with few exceptions, every character is 'lost' in some way. You have, like Lily, a desire to save each one; to connect with them and protect them from their essential loneliness.
Here, we have Eliza and James - Ede and Tom - Lily and Lizzie and ? (the ? is the novel's central question, although in some ways also its denouement) - Charlie - Ada and Neddy. More, brothers, uncles, half-sisters, friends - each grouping fully conceptualized with a particular drama at the centre; each worthy of their own novel probably. They weave in and out of each other's lives like melody and harmony - break apart and come together again - with Lily being the chorus to whom we always return.
There is a suggestion of something bigger, something almost magical at play - as intimated on the back cover pull quote: "You were always there, Charlie--just the way I was always there myself and all of us, long before the visible parts of our lives began."
That too is Findley-ish: something subtly supernatural. Some spiritual, mystical connection - some oneness that cuts across time, place, social class. Lily's beloved ants and their greetings (I won't give more away than this) - is a sweet and touching expression of this theme.
There are so many reasons to love this book, but I see I've only been circling around the central one: Lily herself. I won't spoil it, because after all, you've all now got this on your to-read list, but Lily is remarkable. Damaged but strong; unique, lovely, heartbreaking. The cruelty she is subjected to - seeing it through 'her' eyes (actually, her son's eyes on her behalf) will last with you. So sad. A true tragic figure, from the beginning. You can't take your eyes off of her - and Charlie won't let you.
If there is a flaw to be found here (and I may still go back and up this to a five, but I have been altogether too generous with my rankings lately): Charlie as narrator intrudes a little too often explaining why he knows what he knows - how it was documented; what conversations he had and how he is able to tell the story of his mother's life in such intimate detail. Perhaps I am a naive reader, but this caused me to think about the novel's structure in a way that distanced me from the otherwise completely compelling story.
I was going to try to do a bang-up job on this review, because Edward Carey is a completely unique and, I think, brilliant author and more people shouI was going to try to do a bang-up job on this review, because Edward Carey is a completely unique and, I think, brilliant author and more people should read him. I even got myself signed up as a gr librarian just so I could enter his author profile and then 'fan' him. But there's not very much to be found on him out there, and although his agent's website claims he's written a third novel (called Little), I'm not sure it's ever been published. It would seem this guy is out of print. So even if you were inspired to read him, you probably couldn't get a copy of this, his second book, anyway. My own copy was purchased second-hand and comes from the Osceola County Library System, Central Branch. Which is weirdly fitting in some random and surreal way.
According to my gr friend list, only three of you out there have read any Edward Carey - and that, Observatory Mansions - his first.
Of the three, one of you read it only because I foisted it into your hands and begged you to give it a try. The other two are karen and greg, and they both rated it a 5. So this review is for them, and them alone. The rest of you - move along, there's nothing to see here.
So, karen and greg: imho, Alva and Irva is even better than Observatory Mansions. It has all the same gothic fairy-tale/allegorical/symbolic/surreal stuff going on and even some of the same themes (loneliness and isolation; marginalized and socially-stunted characters; obsessions and compulsions galore), but it seems to hold together as a story better. The lead characters, twin sisters (one of whom - Alva - narrates), are the Romulus and Remus of a fictional, Germanic city called Entralla. They are sweetly rendered, and if you are like me, you will identify with both of them - although they are opposites - and find them sad and lovely at the same time.
The book is nested within a conceit that it - the novel - is a guidebook to Entralla for the reader who might visit one day. It comes complete with restaurant recommendations and sight-seeing suggestions, and helpful reminders to the reader/tourist to display prominently a copy of the novel to obtain a ten per cent discount from participating establishments. There are just enough of these fourth-wall-busting interludes to keep things interesting and a little off-centre; not too many to bog down the main narrative flow in gimmickry. And because Carey is toying with the construction of reality as an over-arching theme, it works really well.
On the surface of it, this is a novel about "place" - home, I suppose you could say - how it shapes character and how characters - here, literally (in plasticene), shape it. Place is also psychology: the approach/avoidance conflict with Entralla embodied in the twins is also a separation/individuation conflict. The story is as much a coming-of-age one as anything else - but a twisted, dark and symbolic one.
Alva, the extroverted twin with wanderlust and a strong desire for friendship and adventure, wants nothing more than to leave Entralla to experience the world; and Irva, the introverted, agoraphobic one, is content with her sister as her only company and her painstakingly-rendered miniaturized version of Entralla as her world.
These two might as well be conjoined, they are so enmeshed: physically indistinguishable until Alva's frustration and pent-up desire lead her to make a permanent distinction (it's a delicious and ironic twist, and I'll not spoil it - caution if you read any of the other reviews here); psychologically, to separate will mean the end of one or both of them.
So that's all - or at least some - of the high-falutin' intellectual plot and thematic stuff going on. But at the same time, there is this voice--this incredible Edward Carey voice that is whimsical, strange, idiosyncratic, creepy, quirky, dark but delicate, strangely "old fashioned" yet also contemporary, really indefinable in terms of time/place. The few reviews and jacket blurbs struggle to describe it as I am. Other reviews here on goodreads seem to have hit the mark a bit better. I especially liked "the love child of Edward Gorey and Franz Kafka."
Observatory Mansions has been referred to as: "Amelie meets We Have Always Lived In a Castle" and "Edward Scissorhands, but without the blame."
But really, the only way to 'get' Edward Carey is to read Edward Carey.
And that, as I started out by saying, is not an easy task.* Such a shame.
ETA: *my Osceola Public Library, Central Branch copy, just slightly more used than it arrived, is available to the next home that would welcome it. First come, first served -- PM me your address, please. ...more
ETA (12/28/12): this one stayed and stayed and stayed with me. Thus, I'm raising it to a five-star book, from my previous waffling and dithering "hoveETA (12/28/12): this one stayed and stayed and stayed with me. Thus, I'm raising it to a five-star book, from my previous waffling and dithering "hovering between three and four for this - so I will think about it for a while" - and this equivocating review.
The Good: unique first contact premise. Making the Krenkish human enough to spark empathy, but still alien enough to be ... alien, and yet believable. The history. The up-close-and-personal look at how the plague devastated communities (yuck. and sad.) The poke at history v. science as a means of truth and fact-finding. The compassion; the selflessness - Dietrich's for the Krenkish; the Krenkish for the Eifelheimers during the plague.
The Not-so-Good: the "coincidence" that joins the two timelines is completely unbelievable. And how much was "undeveloped" - the relationship between Judy and Tom, e.g., which was supposed to provide some kind/enough friction between Tom and what's-her-face, his partner - the physics prof - to keep that timeline interesting. It wasn't. Dietrich's back story (anti-climactic, as was (view spoiler)[the special "tea" the Krenkish were drinking (hide spoiler)] -- both of those should have prompted horror; instead, they were foreshadowed so much, and tossed off so casually when the time came for the big reveal, they fell flat. The "I" in the narration - who? why? I may have missed something here.
The Plodding: the physics bits - well, maybe that's just me. Some of the 14th C politics -- not enough to add to the story in any real way, but enough that it bogged the plot down.
The Unexpectedly Great: the portrayal of the Middle-Agers in the midst of technological advancement - caught between two worlds, literally! - and their mode of inquiry into the world around them as sophisticated and nuanced. Nice myth-busting, there. The lovely contrast between Fr. Joachim and Fr. Dietrich and their priestly styles. And, not an elf to be found anywhere.
A quick and gut-reaction 5 stars. It took me at least half-way through to figure out what he was doing, and to shed the preconceptions of what I thougA quick and gut-reaction 5 stars. It took me at least half-way through to figure out what he was doing, and to shed the preconceptions of what I thought this book was going to be. The last 10050 pages are masterful.
_______________________
[later]
This turned out to be a different novel, a better novel, than the one I was expecting. I know Linden MacIntyre as a journalist, and knew this was about the sex abuse scandals in the Catholic Church. So I expected a journalistic exploration of that topic in novel form. Sorry, Mr. MacIntyre; I misunderestimated you.
This is a novel about damaged people, damaged communication, and the personally destructive power of secrets. It's about loneliness and isolation, and what that does to people. (And strangely enough, it's the third novel I've read, three of three in 2011, that touches directly or indirectly on orphan-dom. I don't really know what that means, but I am the granddaughter of an orphan, and my father was powerfully affected by that, so there's definitely something going on here).
This novel is also about coming from a place – metaphorical, physical – that is defined by poverty, trauma and addiction. A place where everyone is related to everyone (who’s yer fadder? or in this case, who's yer mudder?), but there is little intimacy and little meaningful communication or connection between people. There can't be, because there are such huge gaps in self-knowledge and so many secrets.
The poverty is not just because of a changing way of life that leads people "away" (and priests astray) and leaves those left behind with little to hope for. It is a poverty of spirit built from layers of emptiness that have been laid down over generations as each deals with its own secrets, and most die with them unexorcised.
And it's about all kinds of trauma, all kinds of addiction – personal bedevilment that extends far beyond the priesthood. And yes, it's about the sex scandals in the priesthood too. But these are put into a much broader and much more personal context.
It's also about what the priesthood is – why people enter it and how they struggle to define it for themselves. Beyond that, it's about how the scandals personally affect(ed) those of faith: the wrenching conflict between one's faith, one's trust in one man who represents that faith, and the truth.
What it's not is particularly atmospheric of Cape Breton; i.e., the external landscape of the place, although there are lots of descriptions of wind and rain/snow and cold and general bleakness, but these I feel are secondary and irrelevant. There’s a nod to the loss of Gaelic (and it’s important which character retains it, but I won’t spoil that here). I believe the loss of Gaelic is a metaphor for the loss of faith among these Cape Bretoners, whose island became a dumping ground for "bad" priests. The internal landscape of Cape Breton is well-told, although it's not a particularly flattering portrait.
Here's what I liked, loved even: this book didn't rest on pat explanations. It's too simple merely to say that the forced celibacy of the priesthood leads to aberrant sexual behaviour. Or, that damaged people are attracted to the priesthood, at which point they are damaged further. There is nothing particularly anti-Catholic here (at least, as a non-Catholic, I didn't think so; Catholics might disagree). On the contrary, it's a sensitive and searching portrayal of an issue, and the people involved in it, which respects not just the complexity of their faith but also their humanity.
MacIntyre does a great job of what is essentially a character portrait (more than one, in fact) of a flawed and complex human being who happens to be a priest. Father MacAskill starts as a brittle, weak, ineffective priest who knows little of himself or of dealing with the faithful, beyond performing a duty to the Mother Church that implicates him in the scandals. He degenerates from there. As he bottoms out and confronts his own demons, lo and behold – he becomes not only more human, but also a better priest. (And MacIntyre does a 1000 percent better job of that character arc than I just did, which is why he won the Giller, I'd say). :-p
Well. Anyway. MacIntyre’s thesis – if he can be said to have one – is that nothing is as simple as it seems, and that priests go awry, as all humans do, when they deny or repress – or never know – the truth about themselves.
This is also a portrayal of a crisis of faith not in terms of one man's attempt to understand his relationship to God, but to understand his relationship to himself, to his past and to his calling.
One other thing: most of the reviews I've read comment on the disjointed nature of the narrative structure, with its flashbacks and flash-forwards. You need to be patient with this, because while it's disorienting at first, it gets more cohesive as the plot unfolds (and in fact, I believe this is intentional. As Fr. MacAskill becomes whole, the threads of time are tied together, and the links between past, present and future start to make sense. It’s quite clever.)
Concurrent with that, the dialogue is also disorienting at first. Conversation seems to go nowhere, or seems to rely on some kind of implicit but unspoken understanding between characters to which the reader is not privy. People talk, but there are gaps in dialogue (lots unsaid, lots under the surface), and weird stops, starts and jumps to conclusions as jarring as the jumps back and forth in time. As Fr. MacAskill’s and others’ pasts are revealed, true understanding – connection, even intimacy – starts to emerge. And then, sensible dialogue begins. By the last 50 pages, as the timing and the dialogue become whole and rich, this novel starts to feel entirely worthy of the accolades and awards it won (which is to say that I think criticisms of inconsistency, a lack of sure-handedness or trickery with respect to managing the novel's narrative flow or dialogue miss the point).
In the last third of the book, one of its most interesting (at least to me) themes coalesces, as the dialogue – i.e., not what is said but what is not said – changes: secrets prevent communication which prevents intimacy. And that fundamental, very existential aloneness – beyond sexual to an all-encompassing kind of connection to oneself, one's past, one's roots and family, and one's vocation, not to mention to others – is at the root of dysfunction, dread and despair. (There are several interesting references to existentialism, and Fr. MacAskill himself reads Heidegger).
A powerful novel. Maybe not a complete 5, but let it stand for now. ...more
I have been racking my brain trying to remember the name of this book ever since joining goodreads, so that I could put it on my "read" list.
I've justI have been racking my brain trying to remember the name of this book ever since joining goodreads, so that I could put it on my "read" list.
I've just found it -- seconds ago!! -- in a pile under my living room coffee table. Which tells you how well (badly) I catalogue my books, not to mention remember them.
This book is extraordinary. I'd give it five stars, but I'd have to re-read it to be absolutely certain of my recollection. I don't even know if my 4-star rating is because I liked the book, so much as it is a comment on the absolute originality of it.
It is difficult to describe and do any justice, especially over the distance of a year or more since I've read it. As it is, it exists in a kind of wash of bizarre, eccentric, strangely charming and quirky details about the voice, the characters, the themes and plot.
Francis, central character, is wonderfully disturbed and described: a kleptomaniac, obsessive-compulsive, possibly autistic? 37-yr-old, who lives in a crumbling apartment building with his parents (kind of). A new person moves in, shaking Francis to his very core and upsetting the very delicate balance he requires to retain his sanity (is he sane? I don't know)--but also freeing him, forcing him to learn to live a different way and more 'in the world'.
I will re-read this, and perhaps come back with a more articulate review. Consider this a tease. If A Confederacy of Dunces married The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-time, while keeping Bartleby the Scrivener as its mistress, and Kafka and Edgar Allan Poe were both distant ancestors, Observatory Mansions would be the offspring.
This one took what seemed like forever to read (but since it spans the onset of the Enlightenment through to today, that's perhaps to be expected). I This one took what seemed like forever to read (but since it spans the onset of the Enlightenment through to today, that's perhaps to be expected). I dipped in here and there, reading a section--a chapter--an hourglass at a time (if you've read it, that will make sense). The black humour, the delightfully anachronistic voice, the historical characterizations...I found it all utterly charming and compelling and altogether unique.
It's tempting to draw comparisons to Vonnegut and Tom Robbins (Jitterbug Perfume springs to mind, in particular), not just in the whimsy of the prose and unlikelihood of the story's events, but also Morrow's ability to combine sardonic humour with a deep rational humanism. But mostly, Morrow's voice appears to be solely his own and the parallels exist primarily in an ability to condemn religious hypocrisy, ignorance, injustice, and brutality all the while painting scenes rich with humour, complex characters and quirky details.
Of course, I'd be remiss not to mention the device of the narrator--Newton's Principia Mathematica--cleverly deployed to timeshift the reader through historical events and keep the story galloping along. It's a book written by a book that pays the deepest respect to booklovers and the pursuit of knowledge. (The book war thing--silverfish? egyptian moths? a vacant lot in NYC?--seemed a bit unnecessary and odd, but that was just one off-note in nearly 600 pages of otherwise exhuberantly solid writing.)
The whole thing requires the suspension of disbelief on more than a few occasions, but it's truly remarkable how well the story holds together and makes sense, despite its more outlandish plot twists and turns. Mostly, I think this has to do with the grounding provided by Jennet Stearne's life's mission and her single-minded desire to avenge her Aunt's horrific death by proving, through scientific enquiry, logic and evidence, the fallacy of witchcraft, and the hypocrisy and unspeakable cruelty of the witchhunters. The courtroom scenes are simultaneously gripping and jaw-clenchingly angering, exactly as they should be. Despite Morrow's lilting prose and wide ranging topics (law, government, the founding of America, the laws of physics, the slave trade, Newton, Voltaire, Montesquieu, Ben Franklin ... you name it, it's in here), never does he stray too far from the tragic, real-life events that inspire the novel and its heroine.
And let me finally comment on the ending--a more satisfying one I've not encountered in a novel in some time. Not only is the plot tied up neatly and justice served, but it provides a satisfying denouement, and never seems too neat or contrived.
Jennifer (formerly Eccentric Muse)
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