A Widow's Story --- Joyce Carol Oates

It is no secret that I am totally enamored with JCO and for more than just her marvelous psychological and philosophical novels. I think there is a silent attraction to her photographic image as well. I feel the same way about Michele Anna Jordan, another three-named evocative author. The iconic photographs of these women bring to mind an image for me of torch-singers of yore, with their musical story-telling, carrying the ennui of a full life, well-lived.
To my knowledge, this is the first memoir published under the JCO brand name. The author is very careful to be clear and truthful about many things in this book. One of these things is the careful nurturing of the JCO authorship brand. She, the person, is Joyce Smith, wife of Ray Smith, a married couple who jointly publish the Ontario Review of North American Literature.
Since I retired in 2001, I’ve attended a dozen classes and read half a dozen books on memoirs. JCO sets the bar at a higher rung with this work. As I read through the book, I kept stopping and exclaiming to myself, “WOW. This is so intimate and truthful! And we have been taught to hold back a bit on the intimacy, to shade the truth to protect one’s friends and loved ones.” I did just that on my recent posting of Memories of Paris.
JCO is such a good writer that she gets away with it. She gibes at friends and doctors; not with salacious gossip, just with her true thoughts. There’s a lot of stream of consciousness in this book; she includes e-mails and cards and letters, quotes from sundry authors. Because of her pain and grief, it is endearing. The reader gives her full rein to vent, rant, quibble, kvetch, but most often run away from facing her widowhood.
The Widow’s Handbook is a sort of subtitle for this book. That’s her most frequent audience through all the rambling, delusions and fears. She talks of suicide incessantly throughout, more so at the end; Sylvia Plath is explored often. She tries, unsuccessfully, to separate the Widow from JCO. Are writers predisposed to suicide? She makes comments like, “For writers, being a writer always seems to be of dubious value.” Another is, “Being a writer is in defiance of Darwin’s observation that the more highly specialized a species, the more likelihood of extinction.”
It is gardening at the end, which helps her attain the one-year goal. Hands in the earth, she embraces the annual regeneration of seed and solar cycle.

The Elegance of the Hedgehog -- Muriel Barbery

This year has started off with pleasurable reading; well, two out of three anyway: “Thirteenth Tale” and “Elegant Hedgehog.” “Silver Linings” was a bust.
Easy to see why this Hedgehog book was so popular in Europe. Intelligence is admired and an academic doctorate is revered. The gift of a sharp mind is accommodated in the educational system by testing and placements at the 7th grade and then 10th grade levels. England has Oxford and Cambridge. Education of the masses is not considered to be of any particular value other than keeping the kids busy and out of trouble until they’re 21. Of course many of the places at Oxbridge are family heritage positions, like it was for George Bush at Yale. So, therein lays the basis for the plotline of this book. Class distinction (land, power, money) creates dichotomies that roll over into the educational system and one’s place in society. America used to think itself as egalitarian with equal opportunity for all (all having been expanded slowly to include women and people of colour.) Alas, the pendulum has swung the other way since the eighties. The masses are being deliberately dumbed-down and access to the “power” universities is limited to families with power and/or money.
Whew. OK, there were plenty of socio-politico touchstones in this book, not the least of which was gender politics and ageism.
The book is inspiring, of course – moderately well-educated people throughout the world should aspire to half the intellectual curiosity and patiently rewarding acquisition of knowledge that Renée Michel has achieved. One would hope that this book is a beacon of hope for those with intellectual curiosity to work at trying to reap the rewards of constant learning.
The author’s choice of concierge and her mirrored younger self (unconceived daughter) were well-chosen. Who amongst us, at least in this country, has not found themselves dumbing down to maintain social equilibrium? Even if, nay especially if, one is gifted with intellectual curiosity, and fills the resultant void with knowledge, without the authenticating calling card of power and money, there has to be a hesitancy to admit, a lingering questioning of one’s confidence, before voicing an intellectual opinion. Now we don’t have concierges here in the States – the Brits have a “porter” at colleges which might stretch across to posh residences.
All the other characters were well cast, but fit because of the choice of Renée Michel. She was so accepting, broad-minded, and naively shy. Who could not want to adopt her, want her to find love at fifty, and to find acknowledgement by the world as a serious person. As universal as the story is, the treatment by Ms Barbery is uniquely compelling. It is timeless in its lack of modern gadgetry, even though often referred to. The attraction of this story is its characters, who are universal: this could be a Roman tale.
There is the warning at the end, enjoy the fruits of the garden, but don’t try to cross the line by eating the apple, or you’ll be hit by a laundry truck and die.

The Golden Compass -- Philip Pullman

This book was recommended to me by someone in my monthly library book club. We recently started a mailing list between us; and one of the first suggestions was nominating our favorite three books. It was interesting that the first three recommended were all British authors: Lawrence Durrell by me, then Philip Pullman and Margaret Atwood. This was sort of a no-brainer for me; I’m a certified anglophile, National Health card and all. I’m also a sucker for kid’s books. Well, that’s too broad a category; young teens might be a better fit. That’s an age group that I seem to have communicated with: I’ve raised a few batches as step-father. More to the point, I’ve read and enjoyed, “good” writers in this genre: I love Isabel Allende, “City of Beasts”, J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series (I only dropped out after 4 or 5), and of course Joyce Carol Oates with “Small Avalanches … ..” amongst many others. Now does Anne Rice write for teens or adults?.?
Of course I also like simple pulp fiction – single plotline -- clear lines for good guys and bad guys – an unambiguous moral, introduced early in the story – redeeming value through either: gained knowledge, ethics, or social awareness. O.K., obviously I was not an English Lit major in college (I confess: it was physics, math, and computer science). I think it’s a reflection of the age we live in that “teen literature” should there really be such a thing, has healthy doses of physics and computer science; mathematics unfortunately has never really “caught on.” That’s a shame really because if physics is the sculpture (hard stuff) of the art world; then mathematics is the canvas-art of the scientist, and computer science is the constant pushing of the future upon us.
The book?.? The book is great of course – riveting action – characters you love and hate, scenes that are for the imagination only. I’ve ordered the second and third books in Pullman’s “His Dark Materials” trilogy from the library, “The Subtle Knife”, and “The Amber Spyglass”. One can only take so much of a “smart kid”, but I think I can handle two or three more books. Suspend your disbelief; allow the fantasy to take over your mind: believe in the story. These books work well as Books-On-Tape (in its many guises) because of its singular focus on simple plot and characterization. A good writer, and Pullman is good, keeps you primed for the next chapter, and it is thus one of those books that you can read in one sitting (flying to Paris) or on a cruise to Yokohama.

The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood

I dusted off this book, which has been on my shelves now for a decade. I knew it was an acclaimed book because I had purchased a hardback copy and I hadn’t given it to the book sales at the library in one of my periodic cleanouts. On the other hand, I couldn’t remember the story and the flyleaf was folded about 100 pages into the book, a sure sign that I had given up on it, but I couldn’t remember why.
It was being recommended by someone in our book reader’s group as their favorite of all time. Surely it was worth a second go. And there’s a hint at the reason I tried it in the first place. Having lived, married, and raised a family in England for a decade, I was now, upon return to the USA, a sucker for any literature by a British author. This includes Canadians. The expression, “a second go” is an English one; and having just read the book, these sorts of expressions creep back into my language use.
So, why did I give up on the book on the first go-around? Simply put, it appeared to be a “bodice-ripper,” aka Chick-Lit. This was a fun-filled fantasy for the author, and of interest to other women through the elaborately detailed descriptions of playfully romantic scenes with generic stylized men. 99% of all character development was of the women; leaving a paltry 1% to the men. The women think, plan, scheme, and emote; the men just act, and react.
Vive la différence! I don’t expect women to like sports or war stories. I enjoyed Laura Hillenbrand’s recent, “Unbroken,” which was strictly a male adventure; no love story, just family and camaraderie. From a craftsmanship point of view, Atwood gets full credits for plot-weaving and creativity. She is an excellent writer. She has done a good job of disguising the political nature of her writings; thus this book does not come off as a women’s lib treatise. The recommendation to take a look was accompanied by a disavowal of “The Handmaid’s Tale.” Along with my “bodice-ripper” categorization for “Assassin,” goes a suggestion of a rerun of “The Story of O” wherein “The Handmaid;” is driven away at the end by strange men in a limo for purposes of (?). Personally I prefer Anne Rice for this sort of erotica; probably because she gives equal time to male fantasies.

Of Love and Evil by Anne Rice

A new look (for me) at Anne Rice. I became a devotee of Anne Rice back in the eighties?, ninties? When she was the queen of porn. There has never such good writing since the “Story of O” in the sixties. I gave up on her when she switched to evil. Vampires aren’t my thig – I tried a few of her Lestat vampire novels, but no, not my thing.
I heard that she had “found God,” and was writing about angels. That was at least a decade ago. I tried one of her “new” works but found them struggling for clarity, in her own mind and her writing. It’s only recently that I picked up a piece of her current writing. It’s not easy to write about spirituality. Or better said, it’s very easy to write about spirituality, but very difficult to be understood.
She has achieved the clarity of a piano tuner’s fork; better yet, the clarity of a paino tuner’s ear, when it comes to capturing spiritual feelings. I picked up Rice’s book along with a Forsyth action thriller entitled, “The Cobra”. Forsyth’s “stuff” is created to keep you on the edge of your seat, and, as expected, before I put it down, I was three chapters into it. Rice’s book I read slowly, a chapter at a time. In was intriguing, and by the end of a three day weekend, I was six chapters into “Love & Evil”; and hadn’t returned to Forsyth. Anne Rice was presenting a compelling story with clarity and conviction.

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Was this a classical 20th century American immigrant tale ?.? It was a multi-generational German memoir spanning father and son during the half-century in the middle of the 20th; 1925-1975.
When we enter the twenty-second century, will there be stories about American immigrant Mexicans, Croats, Viet-Nam-ese, Turks, Afghans, Iraqis, Tunisians, Koreans, and Serbs?.? I think not. The assimilation era has been replaced by multi-culturalism. If told, their stories will be in their native tongue. Britain and France have fought a losing battle on this issue for decades. This means no more dumb Pollack jokes (including Norwegians, Swedes, and Finns). Also there will be no more gangster Italians, penny-pinching Jews, lascivious Frenchmen, drunken Irishmen, and bland, sexless Englishmen. Comedy, and English Lit will never be the same.
The book is well written, the character development is outstanding; motivation, superb. The book provides an interesting and rare point of view on American 20th century history. It was especially poignant to me because I minored in German language in college, spent two years in Heidelberg, all expenses paid by Uncle Sam, and married, almost fifty years ago, a Schwartzwalder woman who is still one of my best friends.

The Silver Linings Playbook by Matthew Quick

The latest fad amongst writers seems to be experimenting with point(s) of view. For a pulp fiction reader like myself, this tosses a monkey wrench into what should be a calming evening with a whodoneit book. I just finished a Sue Grafton detective mystery {Z {finally}} where she used at least three and maybe four characters as the focus(es) of her first person writing. It used to be that the device was simply alternating chapters, but that was too easy, readers could skip every other chapter and finish the book in half the time. I just finished a good book, “A Call From Jersey,” by P.F. Kluge, where he switched points of view, mid-paragraph, between father and son.
My point is that things have gotten out of hand with POV and we’re entering the twilight zone of artsy Swedish films that pride themselves on keeping their viewers mystified as to what is really happening and why.
We had a Brown Bag book five or six years ago, Hadden’s “a curious incident … ..” (see reverse) that used an autistic’s (Christopher’s) POV. Good book – well done. If this month’s book was about autism, it was a poor reworking of well-trod ground. But that’s an “If.” Maybe it’s just about a “normal” guy that goes bezerk finding his wife with another man. But I don’t buy it. I’m a normal guy and I’ve even been cuckholded by a wife and neighbor; but I didn’t spend four years in a loony bin. It appears that he was a cool guy before the incident, so it’s hard to believe this was a latent (and severe) anger management problem. Depression can be serious, but these days they give you some pills and you’re sort of normal. This guy’s been seriously wacked out for four years; and just saying the guy was screwy doesn’t make it an interesting story.
So there is where I gave up – it’s not an interesting story. I don’t really understand why this guy is so wacky, and thus I have no sympathy for him or his new neighbor girlfriend who appears to have similar, but also undefined, problems. Maybe if the author had cut out, say, three of the football games, and used the space to develop the character before the incident, the reader might be able to root for him.
No sympathy for the protagonist was developed. I didn’t learn anything (that is sometimes a mitigating factor.) To cap it off, it wasn’t well written: simplistic and jumpy, bad transitions; not even any steamy sex with the babe next door.
BORING. !.!

Give Me Your Heart by Joyce Carol Oates

She’s done it again. She’s written ten short, stories. They are new and dark, black actually, all about young women, mother-daughter relationships, and sex.
My favorite was “Strip Poker,” a cautionary tale for young men reminiscent of Glen Close’s “Fatal Attraction.” Oates masterfully paints a picture of a 15 year old girl, fighting with her mother, and getting way in over her head with three 22-year old guys. They teach her the rules of poker and when she loses all her money, they take her bathing suit top. Then comes the reversal after she sulks in the bathroom for an hour. She wants to change the game to Truth or Dare, and she wants to start off by telling the guys a true story. Her father just got out of State prison (4 years for manslaughter;) cause, when she was 11, some pervert was attacking her in a women’s bathroom and Daddy came to save her and beat the man to death with his bare fists.
Two other stories, “Nowhere” and “”Bleeed” are variations on the above theme. It’s fascinating (and almost like a master class in writing) to read and comparare these three stories. The essences are the same. You can almost watch her mind working with these basic ingredients, creating different stories.
“Split Brain” is another of these writing exercises. The protagonist is the active, racing mind of a woman who has decided to return home, mid-day; and mentally develops different detailed scenarios as to how things will go.
Of course there are men in many of these stories: loutish men, dumb men, men in prison for sinful crimes: greed, lust, coveting, and other acts of stupidity. Oates is not too sympathetic with men.
Oates is a prolific, master craftsperson at writing. Her characterizations are superb, especially their states of mind.

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On another note
Writing a biography for a horse was more of a fictional, suspenseful story-telling, like a novel. Seabiscuit was a huge success. How could she top this? Well, she chose not to compete with her own success and didn’t cover a horse or any other animal. Instead, she wrote a lengthy biography, fully supported by the family, of Louis Zamperini.
Should this name have been famous? -- well-known for his potential in the 1936 Olympics? -- or as a survivor of Japanese Death camps in WW-II.?.? Hillenbrand creates another spell-binding tale with Zamperini’s life. She’s a good writer. Maybe she spun a bit of golden thread from straw, but it’s worth giving the book a look.
Why is it that WW-II continues to intrigue us so; parts of it were 75 years ago?.? This is akin to me, having grown up to stories of the Franco-Prussian war (1870-71). And why is it that so little is known about track and field (the Olympics) prior to Roger Bannister cracking the 4-minute mile?.? Did we just have to wait for all these old guys to die off?.?