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Archive for the ‘families’ Category

In a hotel in London, three stories play out over the years. The first is the story of a successful but jealous woman who covets her sister’s life, so much so that she sleeps with her fiance and must live with the repercussions of that act. The second is the story of the fiance’s mother who worked as a chamber maid in the hotel years before and who becomes the muse to an ill-fated rockstar. The third is the story of Lucy, a young girl who inadvertently becomes involved in a love triangle, and is damaged by what she sees.

I’ve been reading Alice Hoffman for many years now. I think what first attracted me to her writing was her use of magic realism – little bits of the surreal floating through everyday lives. I remember a character who was so desperately in love that, when she leaned her elbows on the counter of the local greasy spoon, the heat from her ardor melted the counter top. In later books she seems to have moved away from this somewhat, but her female characters are still compelling. I began The Third Angel with high hopes. The first few chapters just weren’t hitting the mark for me. Though there were some elements of myth and fairy tale interspersed with the story, I just didn’t fall in love with the people walking through this book. It isn’t until later on when Hoffman introduces the intriguing Lucy. Lucy is a 12-year-old who’s a bit too precocious for her own good – that is, she knows just enough to get involved in the affairs of the often screwed up adults around her, but not enough to extricate herself. When she witness a tragic accident, she’s left with the philosophical battle of finding meaning in life. What’s endearing is Hoffman’s ability to create a character who is naive and idealistic and not then condescend. Through Lucy she brings all of the bits of the story back together so we can view them in a different light. It’s one of those books that makes you want to go back and reread in the light of later revelations.

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June thinks of herself as lucky. She’s married to an attractive man, a chef at one of the more upscale restaurants in her small town. Every day she goes to work at the cafeteria at the elementary school, where she enjoys and understands the kids. She comes home to eat a meal her loving husband has prepared for her. Her internal dialogue is engaging – she seems like just the person you’d like to have as a friend. Pondering her place in the world she thinks “June had people who loved her too. She had Bill. She had people who depended on her. She meant something to the kids at school anyway….insurance companies had a way to rate someone’s monetary value so when there was an accident they knew how much money to pay out. June wondered if you could devise a rating system for someone’s true value and if so, what things you would measure.” June’s sense of herself, her sense of what is right and good is challenged when a man with whom she has a brief encounter goes on to rape and murder a woman who looks very much like her. She can’t shake her sense that she was incredibly fortunate and that she owes someone something for her survival. So she begins a relationship with the daughter and brother of the dead woman, telling them that Vernay, the victim, was a good friend. They accept her into their lives without reserve and Cindy, the young girl, immediately makes June her confidante and surrogate mother figure. Though June feels involvement with the family is right and necessary, she doesn’t tell her husband Bill the whole story. She can’t square her sense of herself as a righteous person with her more and more complicated deceptions. Then she stumbles on a piece of information that changes everything.

It’s uncomfortable for a reader to share an affinity with a character and then to be shown that character’s inconsistencies and frailties. Clement does a beautiful job of writing June and of having her move towards self-realization, all without alienating the reader. She also writes convincingly of working class people without condescending. This would make a compelling book group book.

Alison Clement is an Oregon author and a school librarian, which explains why she has such fine insight into children’s minds! She also has a blog at http://leftedgesuzy.blogspot.com/

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To me, childhood is this vast shadowy land that only begins to make sense the further you move from it. And by then, if you have a memory like mine, you probably only remember bits and and pieces. It’s a problem if you believe that “the unexamined life is not worth living”. Maybe that explains my predilection for coming of age books. I’ll let someone else do the hard work and see if it speaks to me.

But it isn’t quite fair to describe Out Stealing Horses as a bildungsroman. That seems too constrictive a label. It’s more like a three dimensional sculpture of different times and places, all fitting neatly onto each other. Sorry, that’s a bit labored. If I think of a better metaphor, I’ll let you know.

Petterson tells the story of 15 year-old Trond, who spends the blissful summer of 1948 with his father at a rustic cabin in the Norwegian woods. To Trond it’s an escape from Oslo. To his father it’s more – the villagers know him from his resistance work there during the war. Alongside this is the story of 67-year-old Trond, who has retreated from past sorrows and has returned to the woods, to try to regain a sense of himself as he was during that revelatory summer. It’s a complicated story to describe, and yet so sparsely and beautifully written I felt that I was not so much reading it as floating through it.

At one point Petterson pulls off the amazing feat of walking the reader through several places, from the perspective of several characters, all in the space of a couple of pages:

“Lars. Who says he did not think of his brother during the years Jon was at sea, but remembers the towns and the harbours he visited and what was printed on the envelopes he sent home and the names of the ships he signed on with and signed off from, and who followed with his finger in the atlas the routes the ships took. Already thin and slouching, Jon stands on deck close to the bows of M/S Tijuka grasping the rail tightly, peering defiantly with narrowed eyes at the coast they are nearing. They come from Marseilles, and Lars’ finger has followed the boat past Sicily and the tip of Italy’s boot, and diagonally, past the Greek islands and southeast of Crete something new is in the air, with a different consistency from only a day ago, but Jon does not realise yet that this new element in the air is Africa. And then Lars goes with him on the way in to Port Said in the innermost Mediterranean … all the time in the wake of the young poet Rimbaud, who sailed here nearly seventy years earlier to be another person from the one he was before and put everything behind him like a desert diver on his way to oblivion and later death, and I know this because I have read about it in a book. But Lars does not know, sitting with his atlas in front of him on the kitchen table in the house by the river, and Jon does not know, but in Port Said he see his first African palm under the low and violently blue sky.”

I read that passage and then reread it when I realized that I mind’s eye had smoothly clicked through these images: three men, one at a kitchen table, one sailing the world, and one by the fire reading a book about Rimbaud. What genius. And what an amazing job Anne Born must have done in translating the book from Norwegian.

The book has won international acclaim, and is the winner of the 2007 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. Authors for the award are nominated by libraries across the world. Though Out Stealing Horses was not one of Multnomah County Library‘s nominations, it is a fitting winner. The library owns 29 copies of this book and there are currently 65 people in the queue, but it’s well worth the wait.

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Based on the books I’ve read and liked, Librarything suggested that I might like The God of Animals. I’ve just finished and I have to say, I really loathed this book.

god.jpgIt is a well-written, compelling story of a girl growing up on a barely-making-it horse farm in a desert valley. She has no friends and spends all her time at home tied to the work of caring for horses. Her father has great ambitions to attract a better class of people to come to the ranch for show lessons; but when he can barely make ends meet he boards the horses of the well-to-do from the other side of the valley. Alice has unavoidably absorbed her father’s brutal view of the world. When mares are separated from their foals, when wealthy clients are taken advantage of, or beloved horses sold, it’s all “just business”. This grim view of the world, along with themes of abandonment — Alice’s lively sister Nona elopes with a rodeo rider, Alice’s mother leaves them all, even if she’s only retreated to her bedroom — leaves Alice with little choice but to create a more interesting world for herself. A classmate has been found dead in the local canal. In Alice’s fantasy, she and the girl were best friends, and she is now inconsolable, except when she receives attention from a teacher who seemed to have a special connection with the dead Polly. Alice and Mr. Delmar talk every night on the phone. He seems to be the only person in Alice’s world to recognize her as anything but a shallow middle-schooler, and her infatuation with him is the only thing she can cherish as her own.

I appreciated the fact that Kyle understands the depth of knowledge a young girl can have about the world around her. She refuses to play the “isn’t she so sweet” game that some authors indulge in when they portray adolescent girls, instead creating a complex character who is precocious and scheming, and sometimes unlikeable.

So why did I feel like throwing the book across the room if it was well-written and engaging? In Kyle’s created universe, people who appear good on the surface have dark secrets, brutality and self-interest override altruism, there is no such thing as innocence, men always cheat, we destroy what is beautiful and it’s all just human nature. People who finally seem to find some joy in life are punished and the one character who is an idealist, a wealthy girl who is taking lessons at the ranch, is portrayed as unbearably naive. In this world, the only redemption is in leaving; with the understanding that you can never leave behind the truth. And there is a lot of painful truth in this book, but it isn’t a version of the world I’m willing to embrace. I’m sure this book will find its die-hard fans, but I am not one of them.

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Divisadero

divisadero.jpgI finished Michael Ondaatje’s Divisadero a little while ago; I guess the reason I’ve been slow in writing the review is that I’m ambivalent. When I first started it I was thinking I’d stumbled upon one of those rarities – a book I was going to remember for years to come. It begins with the story of Anna, a teen living with her father, adopted sister and a farm-hand named Coop, on a barren patch of ranch land in central California. The dynamics of the family are a curiosity. When Anna’s mother was in the hospital giving birth they came across the orphaned baby Claire, whom they adopted and brought home with their own baby. Coop came to them as another orphan, a boy rescued from a farm where he was an abused farm-hand. When we enter the story the taciturn Coop is just a few years older than the 16-year-old girls. He is not quite a member of the family but the girls dote on him, especially Anna. When Anna and Coop form a sexual relationship, they encounter the wrath of Anna’s usually emotionally distant father — he nearly beats Coop to death. This is the precipia event scatters the family in different directions.

So far so good. The characters are fascinating, and we want to know what becomes of them. We follow Coop as he becomes a first class ‘cardsharp’, (I always thought it was cardshark – literature saves me from my ignorance yet again), Claire adopts a lonely career in SF and Anna launches a scholarly investigation into a French writer by living in his home in France. It is the latter plotline that leads to my ambivalence. Anna begins researching the life of Lucien, and soon Lucien’s story has insidiously taken over the plot. Well, I shouldn’t use the word insidious, because this is an equally good story. But what of Coop? What of Clarie? What of the love between Anna and Coop? I felt bereft when I realized that the author would not be returning to the characters who originally drew me in.

I don’t think I’m overstating to say that it is a sin to pique someone’s curiosity and then leave them no recourse for satisfying it. And yet I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend this book. It’s a great story – er… stories.

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run.jpgI read a lot of books and, to tell you the truth, not many of them stick with me. Sometimes I can’t even remember the ones I enjoyed. But there are a few that I remember for years. I might not remember the story-line, but I can conjure up the place where I read the book and how I felt at the time. For instance, I remember reading Robert Hellenga’s The Sixteen Pleasures on a porch overlooking the Pacific; the sun was glittering off the ocean and the pages were reflecting the sun into my face. I was sitting in an adirondack chair, drinking a glass of wine. I remember thinking how much I loved the book, the language, the place where it was set. All I can tell you is that the story was about a young woman, a book conservator, who went to Florence after a great flood in the 1960s in order to save books. But I still remember the process of reading it.

Ann Patchett’s Run is another such book. It’s the story of a family suffering through the loss of a mother; and it is the story of connections with family and strangers and what gives those relationships meaning. Bernard Doyle is a politician, a former mayor of Boston, an intellectual, a musician, but first and foremost, a father. His life is defined by his sons: the troubled Sullivan, his first son with his beloved wife Bernadette; and Tip and Teddy, African American boys adopted after Bernadette discovered she could bear no more children. Apparently Bernadette was the heart of the family. She dies when Tip and Teddy are young, leaving Doyle to raise the family alone. Doyle has complicated feelings for his sons; he has given up on Sullivan who has had trouble with the law and drugs, and inadvertantly ended his father’s polictical career in a scandalous accident. Doyle’s hopes are now pinned on the younger boys. Hoping to ignite their desire to serve, he coerces them into going to a Jesse Jackson lecture. Tip is resentful. He wants to spend all his time pursuing his passion – icthyology – the study of fish. Teddy is compliant, though late. He has been visiting his revered uncle Sullivan, a priest. As all three file out of the lecture and into a Boston snowstorm, Tip turns to confront his father, to tell him that he will no longer give up his study time to indulge his father’s love of politics. Wrapped up in the moment, he fails to see the oncoming SUV. From nearby, a woman, a stranger, pushes Tip out of the way and is hit herself.

The woman is Tennesee; unbeknownst to the Doyle family, she has been stalking them. Tip and Teddy are her biological sons. She and her daughter, Kenya, have spent their lives on the periphery of the boys’ world. 11 year-old Kenya amuses herself by making up stories about her brothers’ lives. The two families live no more than 10 minutes walk from each other but they are separated by opportunity, money, education, class and race. When the Doyles take Kenya in after her mother’s accident, they must comtemplate the wide chasm created by wealth and privlege.

Ann Patchett’s writing is smooth. There are times when a reader struggles through the construct of sentences to get to an author’s meaning, and when the reader is very aware of the process of reading – I think I’ve given a good example of that here! Patchett’s writing is so clean that one is hardly aware of the words on the page – the story seems almost to seep into the brain through osmosis. The characters are vivid and engaging. As Tennesee and Kenya spy on the boys, you get the sense that, as a reader, you too are stalking these people, looking in on their intimate lives.

I think I’ll probably remember reading about snowy Boston while lying on my couch, trying to keep warm under a huddle of blankets, for years to come.

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