The Gift of Rain by Tan Twan Eng

I’ve had to kiss 40 toads waiting for a book like this to be selected by our betters at headquarters.  It was worth the wait.  Now I can only pray that I am able to do justice to this magnificent book: capture the euphoria enveloping me as I read each line, each paragraph of this lyrical, sometimes haiku-like prose; conveying the enrapturing power of the author’s metaphorical ballet while he weaves his literary web to draw together millennia of eastern and western culture; all the while simultaneously and expertly constructing a well-detailed story with well-developed characters, prize-worthy simile, and convincingly fated plotline.  A 10 out of 10 book.  It still puts me in a yoga-like, deep-breathing state when I think about the book.

Well, why are books like this so popular and revered?  Many reasons come to mind.  The book, its 1940’s action-line, and its contemporary retelling gimmick both revere the elderly.  The world has lost a lot of “revered values” this past century.  We longingly grasp at this current reverence.  This 75-year-old war has been thought of for decades as a good versus evil war, as is the right of the victors, until they all die out.  These past few years, literary readers enjoy books about the periphery of WW-II: the U.S. interment camps, NAZI post-war friends, the horrors of the Soviet front.  This book clarifies that all sides, and there were dozens, were ignorant of their enemies, stupid about their own actions, and to the greatest extent, caught up in a maelstrom of God’s making which left all humanity with no option other than to survive, and start the cycle anew.  We are experiencing part of that renewal.  Good and evil exist in all cultures.  Skin color, religion, and lineage do not really separate us.  We are all the same. 

As Cher sang, “Love one another; sisters and brothers”.

 

The writing of this text is moving and I must take a few words to quote a paragraph [p.236: p.6] of it:

“It was quite chilly, the wind carrying a trace of the rain that now fell almost as unseen as the baby crabs, as though the clouds had been scraped through a fine grater.  A solitary figure stood staring out to sea as waves unrolled themselves around his feet like small bundles of silk.  I walked up to him, feeling the coldness of the water.”

 

No movie for this book.  The Japanese are sadistic war criminals: the Chinese are either looney Communist Reds or opium-smoking Imperial slaves: the British are colonial exploiters: the Malays are ignorant wretches. The only “good guys” in this book are so by a self-reappraising and revisionist history of the times.  They are those who survived.!!: the well-bred, well-educated, property and business owners, who stuck it through the “bad” years to come out the other end as the history writers, a silk purse from the war’s ear.

And yet it is a cautionary tale for immigrants to America this past half century: Koreans, Vietnamese, and Central Americans: establish yourselves; hang on through thick and thin; and you may eventually persevere to write your own fate.

Margaret Mclaren's Review of The Glassblower of Murano by Marina Fiorato

 

I feel a “ . . . sick reluctance in my chestspoon” to review this book that is “. . . tugging at my innards”. Although I enjoyed the visual renditions of “ . . . silver palaces roosting in the twilight along the canal”, I found myself growing so annoyed that by the end of it, my resentment had grown hotter than “ . . . a sleeping salamander”.

 

But every cloud, they say, has a silver lining! This book is more good news for aspiring novelists! You too can become an award-winning author. No need to worry about a depressingly predictable (and silly) plot line, bad grammar, or even downright weird word combinations. In fact, you can obviously get your novel published even though it was written by a Microsoft Word spell checker.

 

Isn’t it comforting to learn that you don’t need talent to win book awards? Perhaps once you’ve worked “with” Russell Crowe, Angelina Jolie, the Rolling Stones, and Aerosmith, anything is possible. All I can say is that Oxford University must be busy hiring a public relations firm to help them cope with the embarrassment of having this woman claim that she studied history there.

 

Sorry I don’t have time to comment further - I’m too busy rummaging around my office for that half-finished novel.

Mudwoman by Joyce Carol Oates

 

Joyce Carol Oates, JCO as she calls herself, has been wrapped up in reflective memoir-type books for the past few years now, ever since her husband and thoroughly-bonded life partner died suddenly.  Mudwoman is a great novel, in my opinion her best since The Falls, this time chronicling the life of a person who has cared too much, maybe because they haven’t cared enough.

This JCO novel is great because she has returned to using her brilliant writing talent to dig deeply into one person’s life.  She delves into their waking thoughts and late night dreams, and often halfway in between.  She stirs the seething broth of her protagonist’s crazy thoughts, bubbling in and out of sanity, finding it hard to keep a firm grasp on reality. 

JCO explores most deeply, the thoughts of her protagonist as she ages, losing parents.  The odd thing about Mudwoman is that her protagonist is cut awfully close to the bone of JCL herself.  M.R. is an academic – a professor of philosophy at a distinguished New York University.  Does JCO’s character overreach to obtain the Presidency of this august university?  As JCO unfolds MR’s life story, we learn of a great deal about M R’s psychopathic tendencies.

Adopted kids, like twins garner a lot of interest by authors and certainly a huge crowd of readers who share in their uniqueness.  M R is a defensive loner all her life – not just no sex life {but rich fantasies}, but no family or friends {except the King of Crows}.  JCO is a master at expressing fantasy from an otherwise normal character she has developed.  She contrasts the 99% outwardly acceptable stable character with a shockingly violent, sadistic inner 1% of this same character, which normally never actually surfaces.  Thus we readers are sometimes left with the questions:

a)   Was her character normal, just like us?

b)  Or was that character demonic, like we might be capable of becoming?

c)   Or is it JCO that is demonic, trying to channel Ann Rice?

 

It may not be real, but for me, JCO is reviewing her life in this novel.  She talks about morals and political imperatives; 9/11; choices along the long road of life: books, teaching, academics.  She dwells on children, marriage, relationships, friendship, and duty.  There is rarely romance in JCO’s writing.  To be frank, there is rarely much joy or happiness.