August 23rd, 2014
Ha’penny is set in the same world as Farthing (an alternate 1940s England in which WWII ended with a peace treaty and Hitler is still in power in Germany) and takes place shortly after that book ends. The structure is similar, with chapters of first-person narrative alternating with chapters of third-person narrative. Some of the characters are the same—the third-person narrative, as in Farthing, centers around Inspector Carmichael and his colleagues in the police force, and some other figures from politics/society reappear as well. And the first-person narrator shares some characteristics with the narrator of Farthing: they’re both upper-class women, and each has done something to earn the disapproval of her family. (Viola, the narrator of this book, is an actress; her family is modeled on the Mitfords. She grew up with her five sisters, and one point she says: “From one angle, I could see how ghastly they were, and that was the angle on which I had changed my name and made my life in the theater. There was another angle though, a very deep one, and from that angle everyone else came and went but my sisters were the only ones who were real” (202-203).)
I liked this book more than I liked Farthing, maybe because that book played with the conventions of the English country house mystery, whereas this one had the excitement of a thriller: the structure felt like it worked particularly well in this one, which starts with Viola’s narrative, and immediately makes it clear that she’s in a psychiatric hospital, after some involvement in something criminal. That something turns out to be a plot to assassinate Hitler and the Prime Minister (Mark Normanby, whose government has been encroaching on people’s freedoms in the name of security and safety from terrorism). It’s clear from the start that the plot is discovered, but what isn’t clear is the timing of that discovery: is the plot stopped before the bomb goes off? Or if not, what happens?
The setting of this book also felt a lot more fun than the setting of Farthing: Viola is playing Hamlet in a cross-cast production of the play, and I liked the vibrancy the theater world a lot, and also the vibrancy of the relationship Viola ends up in, and of London itself, which Viola describes like this:
It’s strange how many Londons there are and how they overlap in some places but not at all in others. There’s the debutante London, which is mostly Mayfair and Knightsbridge, in which the embassies and Pall Mall are included. Then there’s theater London, which overlaps at the West End, but only there, and which includes bedsits and fix-ups in Muswell Hill and Clapham that I once hadn’t known existed. There’s financial London, around St. Paul’s and the City. There’s the London of the swarming poor, still almost Dickensian. All of these pass each other in some streets, rub shoulders in others, and leave certain areas untouched. (228)
August 18th, 2014
The engravings by John Lawrence that illustrate this book may have been my favorite part: I was charmed from the tiny first-page illustration of a descending balloon on. Look at the one below: the snowy sky, those smoking chimneys, the windows and their shutters, the lantern on the corner: I love it all:
Not that the story is bad, but I didn’t love it. It probably would have helped if I’d read Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy more recently: this book is set in that world, and gives the backstory of the friendship between aeronaut Lee Scoresby and armored bear Iorek Byrnison. But more than my distance from the world/characters of the story, my problem with this book was in the pacing and emphasis. The introduction of the characters and the book’s dilemmas works for me—we see Lee with his balloon, we hear about a mayoral election in the town of Novy Odense and one candidate who’s running on an anti-bear platform (but is also clearly in bed with a big mining company), and we meet Captain van Breda, who’s being prevented from taking his cargo from a warehouse to his ship, supposedly because of a fee or duty he hasn’t paid, but actually because the mining company want to get their hands on it. We meet Iorek, who tells Lee that the Captain’s enemies are his enemies as well. Lee makes a plan to get the Captain his cargo, with Iorek’s help. And then comes a long and involved gunfight scene. The Wild-West-meets-Frozen-North aesthetic is probably not my cup of tea to begin with, but my main problem with the gunfight scene was how much detail there was about the logistics of it: the warehouse looks like this, with this many columns, and piles of stuff here and here, and the other gunman must be hiding in this spot, so if Lee can make it behind this column, etc. etc. etc.
Anastasia Again! starts with twelve-year-old Anastasia’s reaction to her parents’ announcement that they’re moving to the suburbs: to say she’s not pleased would be an understatement. Anastasia has lived in Cambridge (where her dad teaches at Harvard) her whole life, and she’s sure that suburbia will be an aesthetic and intellectual wasteland, which results in hilarious passages like this, about her dad:
He was reading an article called “Morality and Mythology.” Anastasia didn’t have any idea what that meant; but she liked it that her father knew what it meant and that he liked reading about it, and she was absolutely certain that there wasn’t a single person in the entire suburbs of the United States who would ever in his entire life read an article called “Morality and Mythology.” (2).
Anastasia’s also sure that suburbia means split-level houses, matching furniture sets, a lack of bookcases, big TVs, plastic fruit, and bad art. So, yeah, not excited to move there. But then her family finds a house that’s got what each of them wants most, including a tower bedroom for Anastasia, and she finds herself liking suburbia despite herself. Which doesn’t make moving easy, exactly: it still means leaving the only place she’s lived, and being farther from her best friend, and having to make new friends. And packing: “It was hard, packing. Not hard on the muscles—Anastasia had pretty good muscles—but hard on the head. And hard on the heart” (45).
In suburbia, the Krupniks’ next-door neighbor turns out to be an old woman named Gertrude Stein (which leads to a hilarious conversation between Anastasia and her English-professor father), who takes an immediate liking to Anastasia’s brother Sam, and gets to be friendly with Anastasia as well. The friendship between the Krupnik kids and Gertrude (who they call Gertrustein, because that’s how Sam says it, like Frankenstein) is totally sweet: one of the highlights of the book is when Anastasia visits the Senior Citizens Drop-In Center and invites everyone to a party at her house so Mrs. Stein can make some friends her own age. (Another highlight is Mrs. Stein’s totally hilarious story of her idiot husband who left her decades ago, and good riddance to him.)
Also, how great is this list of titles of mysteries Anastasia thinks about but doesn’t write (and one she does)?
- “The Mystery of Why I Am Not Allowed to Go to X-rated Movies Even Though I Have Known All the Facts of Life Since I Was Six.”
- “The Mystery of Why Some People Make Decisions without Consulting Their Twelve-Year-Old Children.”
- “The Mystery of the Girl Who Lived in a Tower.”
- “The Mystery of Why Other People Always Think Your Very Serious Problems Are Hysterically Funny.”
- “The Mystery of Why You Sometimes Hate the Idea of Something, but Then You Like the Thing Itself” (“Subtitle: Or Why You Sometimes Like the Idea of Something, But Hate the Thing Itself.”).
- “The Mystery of Saying Good-by.”
August 11th, 2014
One of the things I like most about The Magicians and The Magician’s Land is the way they play with the tropes of myth and fantasy and quest narratives, the way that the quests in those books are never entirely straightforward, the way that a world in which magic exists is not necessarily a world centered around an Epic Clash between Good and Evil. The Magician’s Land is more of that, and is a really satisfying conclusion to this trilogy.
The story is basically two parallel narratives that end up intersecting: Quentin Coldwater, now 29, gets and loses a teaching job at Brakebills, his magical alma mater, and then signs on for a contract job stealing a very important suitcase with presumably magical contents. (Plum, a young woman he knows from Brakebills, is on the job too.) So there’s a heist/caper story, but it’s not straightforward, in the same way the quests in these books are a little aslant. Meanwhile, in Fillory, Janet and Eliot and Poppy and Josh hear that Fillory is ending, and try to figure out what, if anything, they can do to save it, which involves Janet and Eliot going on a quest to try to find the answers.
There’s lots of humor in this book, but also lots of other things: beautiful descriptive passages, and introspection, and tenderness, and Quentin having finally grown up.
August 3rd, 2014
Farthing is a satisfying English-country-house murder-mystery set in an alternate 1949 in which England made peace with Hitler in 1941, and now exists across the Channel from the Third Reich. The book alternates, chapter by chapter, between the first-person narrative of Lucy Kahn, at whose parents’ house the murder takes place, and a third-person narrative centered on the lead investigator from Scotland Yard, Peter Anthony Carmichael. Lucy’s parents are at the center of “the Farthing Set,” “a group of loosely connected movers and shakers, politicians, soldiers, socialites, financiers: the people who had brought peace to England” (22). The deceased, James Thirkie, is also part of the group, and when he’s found dead with a Star of David pinned to his chest, Lucy’s husband David, who is Jewish, is suspected by some: maybe the murder was an act of political terrorism. But as Carmichael puts it, “Murders aren’t political, or anarchist, not one time in a thousand. Murders are sordid affairs done between people who know each other, nine times out of ten for personal gain, and the tenth time because someone lost their temper at the wrong moment, the crime passionel as the French call it” (31). I like Lucy’s narrative a whole lot, and Carmichael is great, and the ending is depressing but apt, and I’m looking forward to reading the next two books in this trilogy.
I think I read this book as a kid—I certainly owned a copy of one of the later books in the series, and pieces of this one felt familiar—but it wasn’t one of my favorites, and I’m not sure why. Anastasia Krupnik is ten, and hilarious. She’s an only child, living with her English-professor/poet dad and her mom, who’s a painter, but that’s about to change: she’s not at all pleased to learn that she’s going to have a baby brother. She has a notebook in which she keeps many lists, including a list of important things that happen throughout the year (e.g. “I began to have a mercurial temperament” (88)) and a list of things she loves and things she hates, which is charmingly reproduced between chapters—it’s great to see the way the list changes, with things crossed off from one side and added to the other, sometimes multiple times, in a way that captures how strongly kids can feel about things. (And the list is often quite funny: one of the things Anastasia loves is the wart on her thumb, which she finds “very pleasing,” and which “appeared quite by surprise, shortly after her tenth birthday, on a morning when nothing else interesting was happening” (2).)
There are so many funny moments, like when Anastasia gets super-excited that her fourth-grade class will be writing poetry, but then doesn’t pay attention to the assignment and gets an F because her poem is all in lowercase and doesn’t rhyme (it’s wonderfully e.e. cummings-esque). (When she brings the poem home and shows it to her dad, he changes the F to Fabulous.) Or when Anastasia decides she wants to convert to Catholicism because Catholics get to choose an extra name for themselves, but changes her mind once she hears about having to go to confession. (I love that her dad’s reaction to her wanting to become a Catholic is to say “That is both interesting and preposterous,” and then to carry on eating dinner. (32))
But the book isn’t all humor: there’s a tender and sad subplot about Anastasia’s grandmother, who’s 92 and seems to have Alzheimer’s, which totally made me tear up on the subway and then, later, cry outright at my kitchen table.
July 16th, 2014
One thing about City of Djinns, which is about a year that William Dalrymple spent in Delhi with his wife in his twenties, is that it suffers for me a bit by comparison to Tamara Shopsin’s wonderful Mumbai New York Scranton, which I read in February and loved. It’s not a fair comparison, really: both books include travel in India, and both feature art by the author’s spouse, but Shopsin’s book is more personal, while Dalrymple’s book has more history in it. I found Dalyrmple’s mix of travel/memoir and history sometimes appealing, and sometimes not: I sometimes wanted to be reading just a memoir, or just a history book.
Dalrymple tells the story of Delhi, or rather, of many Delhis, in two strands: he writes about his time there chronologically, but writes about the city’s history in reverse chronological order, from Partition back through the mythic past of the Mahabharata. He writes about Delhi as “a city disjointed in time, a city whose different ages lay suspended side by side as in aspic” (9). And the Delhi of the present (this book was published in the early 1990s) is multiple, complex: “it was a labyrinth, a city of palaces, an open gutter, filtered light through a filigree lattice, a landscape of domes, an anarchy, a press of people, a choke of fumes, a whiff of spices” (7-8).
I liked the humor of Dalrymple’s Delhi experiences: his landlady who turns off the water because of too many toilet flushes, the customs officer who won’t let him leave the country on a five-day trip without bringing the electric kettle, printer, computer, and boom box he brought to India to the airport, the cab driver who always points out pretty women.
And I like the nostalgic or lyrical bits, like this conversation with an author born in Delhi but living in Pakistan:
We talked for an hour about the Delhi of their childhood and youth. We talked of the eunuchs and the sufis and the pigeons and the poets; of the monsoon picnics in Mehrauli and the djinn who fell in love with Ahmed Ali’s aunt. We talked of the sweetmeat shops which stayed open until three in the morning, the sorcerers who could cast spells over a whole mohalla, the possessed woman who used to run vertically up the zenana walls, and the miraculous cures effected by Hakim Ajmal Khan. (64)
Or like this passage about Delhi after the winter rains:
That February, Delhi seemed like a paradise. Olivia and I filled the garden on our roof terraces with palms and lilies and hollyhocks and we wove bougainvillaea through the trellising. The plants which seemed to have died during the winter’s cold – the snapdragon, the hibiscus and the frangipani – miraculously sprang back to life and back into bloom. The smells began to change. The woodsmoke and the sweet smell of the dung fires gave way to the heady scent of Indian champa and the first bittersweet whiffs of China orange blossom. (200)
Olivia Fraser’s watercolors of people and buildings, which illustrate the book, are sometimes really satisfying: I especially love a pair of turbaned Sikhs reading (p 26) and a pair of boys on a roof with their pigeons (p 226).
This collection of linked stories set in the Chicago neighborhood of Pilsen in the ’70s and ’80s does a great job of capturing a sense of place. The narrator of the first story puts it like this: “I remember all this vividly, our summer nights, but really, all I can recall is what it felt like. I try to piece together image from that” (2). The Pilsen of this book is a place of gangbangers and guns and drugs, a place where there’s a shootout at a cotillion and where the guy who lives upstairs “would have loud parties that ended up in fistfights at 3 a.m., people falling down our three-flat’s stairs, creative insults being slung in the stairwell, bottles being thrown on the front sidewalk” (7). But it’s also a place of childhood wonder and ease, summer streetscapes with open hydrants, kids playing in the water, competitions between blocks to see whose hydrants could shoot the highest jets. These stories capture the sounds and smells of this place: “frying tacos, boiling pots of garlic-spiced frijoles, cool Lake Michigan breezes transported by miles of sewer pipe,” and “how the expressway sounded from underneath, the high whine of tires, the low drone of truck engines, the shudder of engine brakes” (21, 137). This is a neighborhood of hiding spots and secrets: there’s a great story in which the narrator climbs to a pierogi factory’s roof, where he and a new friend carve out a space for themselves for a time; there’s another great story in which the narrator and his friends eavesdrop on another friend’s mother having sex in the apartment upstairs. But the stories aren’t all realism: there’s one that features a vision of an underground city connected to the aboveground one, and one in which the narrator’s friend can bring back the dead. But I like the realistic descriptive passages best, passages like this:
Up and down Eighteenth Street, the morning delivery trucks worked their horns to announce their backing into docks. The early mist had not yet burned off the neighborhood. The smell of yesterday’s fried food, tacos, gorditas, chicharon, hung in the air. Soon the sun would burn the haze away and allow a fresh day’s worth of fried-food smell to settle over the neighborhood. (55)
June 30th, 2014
“One final time I told myself I wasn’t abducting my little brother”: this is the start of She Is Not Invisible, and it certainly made me want to keep reading. The narrator is Laureth Peak, who’s sixteen; her brother, Benjamin, is seven. They’re at the airport, about to check in for a flight from London to New York. Laureth’s dad, a writer, seems to be missing: she had thought he was in Switzerland, but he’s been out of contact for days, and when she checked his email (she normally helps him out by replying to common questions with form letters), she saw something that made her worried: someone in New York has his notebook, which contains his ideas and research, and which he’d never part with willingly. When Laureth tries to tell her mom how worried she is, her mom doesn’t really listen, and so Laureth decides she’d better go to New York, meet the person who has her dad’s notebook, and find her dad. But Laureth is blind, which is why she needs Benjamin: she can’t make her way around a new city alone.
And so Laureth, Benjamin, and Benjamin’s stuffed raven, Stan, fly across the Atlantic, with a plan to meet the “Mr. Michael Walker” who has their dad’s notebook at a library in Queens, and very little idea of what they’ll do beyond that. Their dad has been working on what they call “that book,” which he’s been working on for a long time: it’s a book about coincidences, and his research for it has become all-encompassing. He can’t write anything else, but he can’t write it, either. Part of the problem, he thinks, is the nature of coincidences themselves: as he’s explained to Laureth and Benjamin, coincidences feel meaningful to the person experiencing them, but that feeling is extremely hard to convey: a coincidence recounted to someone else either feels unextraordinary or unbelievable; coincidences are either “so pathetic that they don’t excite anyone but you,” or “so incredible that they are literally just that” (40). There’s lots about coincidence in this book: the coincidence that Laureth’s dad experienced that made him want to write about them, snippets of his research on coincidences, and the coincidences that Laureth and Benjamin experience as they search for their dad. Do coincidences mean anything, or do we only notice them because we’re good at noticing patterns, and do they only feel like they mean something because we want them to? If Laureth’s dad feels like he sees the number 354 everywhere, to the extent that it becomes “his number,” does that mean it’s everywhere for him, or does that mean he’s looking out for it? Do coincidences say something about the nature of the universe, or about the nature of being human?
The parts of this book focused on people are maybe the most interesting: I love Laureth’s relationship with her brother, and the way she navigates the world and people’s reactions to her blindness. Between that, and the thinky/philosophical bits about coincidences (the book reproduces whole passages of Laureth’s dad’s notebook as a way of introducing/explaining various topics), and the suspense/adventure aspect of Laureth’s missing father, it sometimes felt like there was too much going on, or like this book didn’t know what kind of book it wanted to be. But the strength of Laureth’s narration helped hold it together, and I’m glad I read it.
In her preface to this reprint of her first novel, which was originally published in 1930, Kay Boyle writes that “the meaning of the book may perhaps be that there is always in life the necessity to choose,” which isn’t my favorite moral: I mean, yes, but sometimes the choice you get to make is to have both/and, rather than either/or, but many stories about choices only look at the either/or kind. So I started this book a little bit ready to dislike it, but ended up pretty pleased. Boyle’s prose feels very considered, poised: involved descriptions of the coastal landscape of Brittany (a river that meets the sea, the inrushing tide, gulls on the wing) serve as metaphor for the protagonist’s situation: the broad possibility of the ocean, the comparative narrowness of the river, the sense of freedom in the wind and waves, but the sameness of them, too.
Boyle’s heroine, Bridget, is an American in her early twenties who is married to Nicolas, who’s French. When the book opens, Bridget and Nicolas are resting after having just arrived at his parents’ house: the book starts thus: “She came gradually to be awake, lying soft and rested in the plumed bed, deep in the protective palm of his family” (7). But a protective palm can close into a fist, preventing escape, and escape ends up being a major theme and concern. Bridget and Nicolas don’t have money; his parents do; his father says he’ll give them fifty thousand francs if they have a child. But Nicolas has a bone disease that’s clearly genetic, and doesn’t want to pass it on to a son he might have. Meanwhile, Nicolas’s father is full of judgment: he judges what Bridget wears to swim, scolds her when she lies in the grass, polices what his 32-year-old daughter reads, withdraws his permission for another daughter to go on a church trip. Other family members dream of their own escapes: one of Nicolas’s sisters wants to go into a convent, another wants desperately to marry a friend of the family, Luc. But Luc’s intentions and affections are unclear, until they’re clarified by Bridget’s presence: he wants her.
And so, Bridget finds herself with a choice between two men, except not exactly: her choice is between the stasis of life with Nicolas’s family and the cost of escape, the cost of change. (In the preface, Boyle notes that the novel is largely autobiographical, except that there was no Luc figure in reality: he was added at the advice of a publisher who wanted a romantic subplot. And he’s a bit too much a figure of romance, too gallant and dashing and also inscrutable. I would perhaps have liked to read the version of this book without him.)
What I liked best in this book was the language, the pacing and tone, and description. There are some excellent set pieces: a fire in town, with Bridget and one of Nicolas’s sisters joining the bucket brigade; a summer afternoon that was meant to be a peaceful family picnic but is encroached upon by a group of English tourists; a visit from a fastidious uncle.