I am not a Jonathan Franzen fan. Unlike most readers, I didn't care for his first Great American Novel, The Corrections (or the way he accepted Oprah's endorsement long enough to sell a lot of books and then began to feel suddenly squeamish about it). I disliked his first collection of essays, How to Be Alone, and haven't yet read his second Great American Novel, Freedom, despite a ringing endorsement from my son the literary scholar (I feel use that designation so often it should be in quotes or capitals). So I can't explain why I picked Farther Away off the shelf at the library or why, when I struggled to get through it (every essay involving Franzen's beloved birds stopped me for at least a week), I renewed it twice.
However, I've finally made it through the collection and, while I don't recommend reading it cover to cover, I do like Franzen a little better having read it. The first essay, actually the 2011 commencement address that Franzen gave at Kenyon College (interestingly, also the site where Franzen's friend David Foster Wallace gave a renowned address several years earlier), began to shift my view, as Franzen argues for getting out into the world and connecting with people or animals and perhaps even loving them: "engagement with something you love compels you to face up to who you really are."
In most of the other essays, Franzen deals with what he loves--birds, the works of particular writers, David Foster Wallace (whose death Franzen continues to grieve), his parents, his brother. My favorite piece, "I Just Called to Say I Love You," begins as a rant against people talking on cellphones, particularly people saying "I Love You" on cellphones, but morphs into a reflection on 9/11 and on his parents' differing ways of loving. The piece that gave me the most to chew on was a lecture Franzen gave "On Autobiographical Fiction." The question of to what extent fiction is autobiographical comes up often in our book group discussions, and Franzen gives a nuanced response that all fiction readers should consider. Part of his response is the challenging idea that, with each subsequent book an author writes, "you have to become a different person to write the next book. The person you are already wrote the best book you could. There's no way to move forward without changing yourself." If that is indeed how Franzen approaches his work, then I have to proffer my respect.
So, my recommendation is to dip in and out of the collection, choosing the pieces that speak to you (who, knows? Perhaps you'll enjoy "Interview with New York State" and understand "Our Relations: A Brief History") and don't try to slog through the rest.
Favorite passages:
Between me and the place where my dad is now--i.e., dead--nothing but silence can be transmitted. Nobody has more privacy than the dead.
People who like to be in control of things can have a hard time with intimacy. Intimacy is anarchic and mutual and definitionally incompatible with control.
Trying to love all of humanity may be a worthy endeavor, but, in a funny way, it keeps the focus on the self, on the self's own moral or spiritual well-being. Whereas, to love a specific person, and to identify with their struggles and joys as if they were your own, you have to surrender some of your self.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera
The Unbearable Lightness of Being signals in the first chapter that it is a philosophical novel--it begins with the narrator ruminating on the "myth of eternal return" and the contrasting concepts of lightness and weight. The narrator periodically reinserts himself throughout the novel, making clear that the characters are fictional creations being moved through the "plot" to make a point about the effects of communism or the difficulty of identifying which side of such pairs as lightness and weight, happiness and sorrow is the positive side. He also riffs on such matters as kitsch and what the act of defecation shows about God.
The primary characters in the story are Tomas and Tereza, a married Czech couple living through the Prague Spring, the Soviet invasion of 1968, and the aftermath of these events. Tomas is a skilled surgeon, who meets Tereza by accident (he is filling in for his ill boss at a conference and dines in the restaurant where she is working as a waitress). They marry, but this does not change the fact that Tomas is an unrepentant womanizer. After the Soviet takeover, Tomas is targeted because of an article he wrote in a paper run by intellectuals. Officials put pressure on him to repudiate the article, but he recognizes that his career is ruined whether he stands by his article or repudiates it. He gives up medicine and becomes first a window washer and then a worker on a commune. Tereza becomes a successful photographer, but she too loses her job and returns to waitressing. Terrible dreams haunt Tereza, and her husband's infidelity tortures her. Only her dog Karenin brings her any real joy. Shortly after the dog's death from cancer, Tereza and Tomas die in a truck accident.
Throughout the book, occasional sections are devoted to the artist Sabina, one of Tomas's many mistresses, and a lover she takes after emigrating to Geneva, Franz. When she breaks up with Franz, he quickly finds a new woman (one of his university students), but he holds Sabina in almost religiously high regard--he judges his actions by how she might evaluate them. When he joins a protest in Southeast Asia, he is accidentally killed, ending an essentially meaningless life in a meaningless way. After moving to the United States, Sabina dies, too, but I don't even remember how.
Of course, all characters in novels are fictive, but when the author acknowledges that they are merely stick figures designed to make his point or provide a backdrop for his musings, my interest in them diminishes. Yes, Kundera is making points about communism, about love, about reality--whatever. I'd rather read an essay explicating those points than this novel (acknowledging that perhaps I am just hopelessly shallow).
Favorite passage--None really
The primary characters in the story are Tomas and Tereza, a married Czech couple living through the Prague Spring, the Soviet invasion of 1968, and the aftermath of these events. Tomas is a skilled surgeon, who meets Tereza by accident (he is filling in for his ill boss at a conference and dines in the restaurant where she is working as a waitress). They marry, but this does not change the fact that Tomas is an unrepentant womanizer. After the Soviet takeover, Tomas is targeted because of an article he wrote in a paper run by intellectuals. Officials put pressure on him to repudiate the article, but he recognizes that his career is ruined whether he stands by his article or repudiates it. He gives up medicine and becomes first a window washer and then a worker on a commune. Tereza becomes a successful photographer, but she too loses her job and returns to waitressing. Terrible dreams haunt Tereza, and her husband's infidelity tortures her. Only her dog Karenin brings her any real joy. Shortly after the dog's death from cancer, Tereza and Tomas die in a truck accident.
Throughout the book, occasional sections are devoted to the artist Sabina, one of Tomas's many mistresses, and a lover she takes after emigrating to Geneva, Franz. When she breaks up with Franz, he quickly finds a new woman (one of his university students), but he holds Sabina in almost religiously high regard--he judges his actions by how she might evaluate them. When he joins a protest in Southeast Asia, he is accidentally killed, ending an essentially meaningless life in a meaningless way. After moving to the United States, Sabina dies, too, but I don't even remember how.
Of course, all characters in novels are fictive, but when the author acknowledges that they are merely stick figures designed to make his point or provide a backdrop for his musings, my interest in them diminishes. Yes, Kundera is making points about communism, about love, about reality--whatever. I'd rather read an essay explicating those points than this novel (acknowledging that perhaps I am just hopelessly shallow).
Favorite passage--None really
Monday, November 5, 2012
Accelerated, by Bronwen Hruska
As Accelerated opens, Sean Benning is suffering through a parent social for the exclusive Manhattan private school his eight-year-old son Toby attends (Toby's tuition is paid by his in-laws). Sean's wife left him four months ago and has barely been heard from since; as a newly single parent, he is picking up numerous tasks related to The Bradley School that his wife previously fulfilled. And he's not enjoying it . . . despite the blow-job he receives in the bathroom at the social. The depiction of the school milieu makes the reader believe Accelerated is a satire of life among the New York elite.
But soon, author Hruska makes a sharp turn toward the serious. The school is pressuring Sean to put Toby on ADD medication--and Sean eventually capitulates. Then Toby collapses in gym class and Sean sets out on a mission--aided by Toby's attractive new teacher with whom Sean conveniently starts a romance--to prove that the school is endangering students by using a variety of nefarious tactics to force their parents to medicate their children. A meeting with a concerned psychiatrist provides the vehicle for a long explanation of the history of ADD/ADHD drugs and their dangers. Powerful alums of Bradley make life difficult for Sean, but he and his new love eventually triumph.
Hruska is well-intentioned, but the book didn't work for me once it turned serious--everything about the Bradley plot is rather obvious, and Sean's sexual exploits and mad runs around Manhattan (he seems to take off running whenever he gets upset or worried) are tedious. Readers who are vitally interested in the subject of ADD/ADHD drugs may appreciate Accelerated, but I did not.
Favorite passage: None
But soon, author Hruska makes a sharp turn toward the serious. The school is pressuring Sean to put Toby on ADD medication--and Sean eventually capitulates. Then Toby collapses in gym class and Sean sets out on a mission--aided by Toby's attractive new teacher with whom Sean conveniently starts a romance--to prove that the school is endangering students by using a variety of nefarious tactics to force their parents to medicate their children. A meeting with a concerned psychiatrist provides the vehicle for a long explanation of the history of ADD/ADHD drugs and their dangers. Powerful alums of Bradley make life difficult for Sean, but he and his new love eventually triumph.
Hruska is well-intentioned, but the book didn't work for me once it turned serious--everything about the Bradley plot is rather obvious, and Sean's sexual exploits and mad runs around Manhattan (he seems to take off running whenever he gets upset or worried) are tedious. Readers who are vitally interested in the subject of ADD/ADHD drugs may appreciate Accelerated, but I did not.
Favorite passage: None
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Broken Harbor, by Tana French
In her fourth mystery, Tara French once again picks up a secondary character from her previous book and makes him the protagonist. In this case, it is Scorcher Kennedy, the homicide detective who tormented Frank Mackey in Faithful Place. Kennedy is the lead detective on a horrific case--father Patrick Spain and children Emma and Jack have been killed, mother Jenny severely injured--that just happens to have taken place in a new development (abandoned when half-built) constructed at the beach where his family spent their vacations when he was growing up. And, oh, yes, where his mom committed suicide when he was 15. Kennedy and the rookie partner he is mentoring disagree about the most likely suspect, and their disagreement ends up producing some major screw-ups in their handling of the case. Also weaving her way in and out of the narrative is Kennedy's mentally ill sister Dina.
Obviously, Kennedy has the required number of family secrets for a French character--not to mention the necessary dark side and difficulty sustaining relationships. Perhaps equally obviously, I've about had it with Tana French. I found the Spain family crisis that provides the backdrop for the crime ridiculous (almost as ridiculous as the premise of The Likeness) and am growing weary of the tortured cop characters. While I have admired French's way with words (particularly in In the Woods), I got through Broken Harbor with no pages marked--and there are a lot of pages, 450 to be exact. Frankly, nothing about the mystery nor the psychological aspects of the story merits that many pages.
Not recommended.
Favorite passage (I made myself find something near the end):
. . . cause and effect isn't a luxury. Take it away and we're left paralyzed, clinging to some tiny raft lurching wild and random on endless black sea. If my mother could go into the water just because, then so could theirs, any night, any minute; so could they. When we can't see a pattern, we fit pieces together until one takes shape, because we have to.
Obviously, Kennedy has the required number of family secrets for a French character--not to mention the necessary dark side and difficulty sustaining relationships. Perhaps equally obviously, I've about had it with Tana French. I found the Spain family crisis that provides the backdrop for the crime ridiculous (almost as ridiculous as the premise of The Likeness) and am growing weary of the tortured cop characters. While I have admired French's way with words (particularly in In the Woods), I got through Broken Harbor with no pages marked--and there are a lot of pages, 450 to be exact. Frankly, nothing about the mystery nor the psychological aspects of the story merits that many pages.
Not recommended.
Favorite passage (I made myself find something near the end):
. . . cause and effect isn't a luxury. Take it away and we're left paralyzed, clinging to some tiny raft lurching wild and random on endless black sea. If my mother could go into the water just because, then so could theirs, any night, any minute; so could they. When we can't see a pattern, we fit pieces together until one takes shape, because we have to.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton
Not long after we first meet House of Mirth's protagonist, the beautiful 29-year-old Lily Bart, we recognize that Lily has a penchant for making the wrong decision. While Lily has stellar connections in New York society, she has few financial resources--she needs to marry for money (the book is set in the early years of the 20th century). Several times, she has been close to achieving an engagement that will allow her to live in the manner to which she is accustomed (and although she expresses some qualms about the lifestyle, she disdains unmarried women who have had to make lives for themselves, working and living in small apartments or rooming houses). However, every time she is about to grab the monied husband, she cannot make herself do it; instead, she does something to sabotage the arrangement.
Lily fancies herself in love with Lawrence Selden, a young man in a similar situation to Lily's own: he needs to marry a wealthy woman. At some point in the story, each believes their relationship just might work--but they never hold that belief concurrently. Instead, Lawrence watches as Lily's situation worsens, in part due to her own bad decisions, in part because she earns the wrath of some influential women in her set. As the end of the book approaches, her downward spiral accelerates--slanderous rumors circulated by her "frenemies" cause her aunt to disinherit her; in an effort to pay back money she accepted from a friend's husband (she convinced herself he was investing for her rather than giving her money he saw as paying for her favor), she takes several jobs, none of which work out well. Living in a boarding house far beneath her notion of her rightful place in society, Lily is unable to eat or sleep. She dies from an accidental overdose of a sleeping medication.
Somehow--despite having ended up with 21 English hours as an undergraduate--I missed reading many of the classics in my formative years. Often, when I decide to improve myself by reading from the canon, I am disappointed (sometimes in the book, sometimes in my own shallowness). House of Mirth does not, however, disappoint. Wharton's depiction of wealthy New Yorkers at the turn of the previous century is keenly observed (she was a wealthy New Yorker herself), as are the effects of living in that milieu on people of various ranks and personalities. Lily is a prisoner of her upbringing--unable to break out of it, but equally unable to force herself to do what is necessary to remain part of it. She is as judgmental and shallow as the friends who betray her; was her fate not so tragic, we might feel little more sympathy for her than we do for the despicable Bertha Dorset, Lily's chief tormentor. Yet we can imagine a different life for Lily--a life she herself cannot truly imagine. Biases of the time are revealed in Wharton's portrayal of Simon Rosedale, a Jewish businessman who is trying to break into high society. While some reviewers believe this bias detracts from Wharton's work, I found it lent it even greater authenticity.
I listened to the audio version of the book, beautifully read by Wanda McCaddon (she also read The Secret Scripture but used such different accents, I didn't even recognize her voice). In fact, I think listening to the book may have helped me to appreciate Wharton's writing in a way I might not have had I read the book.
Definitely recommended!
Favorite passages:
Mrs. Penniston always sat on a chair, not in it.
He was like a traveler so grateful for rescue from a dangerous accident that at first he was hardly conscious of his bruises.
Lily fancies herself in love with Lawrence Selden, a young man in a similar situation to Lily's own: he needs to marry a wealthy woman. At some point in the story, each believes their relationship just might work--but they never hold that belief concurrently. Instead, Lawrence watches as Lily's situation worsens, in part due to her own bad decisions, in part because she earns the wrath of some influential women in her set. As the end of the book approaches, her downward spiral accelerates--slanderous rumors circulated by her "frenemies" cause her aunt to disinherit her; in an effort to pay back money she accepted from a friend's husband (she convinced herself he was investing for her rather than giving her money he saw as paying for her favor), she takes several jobs, none of which work out well. Living in a boarding house far beneath her notion of her rightful place in society, Lily is unable to eat or sleep. She dies from an accidental overdose of a sleeping medication.
Somehow--despite having ended up with 21 English hours as an undergraduate--I missed reading many of the classics in my formative years. Often, when I decide to improve myself by reading from the canon, I am disappointed (sometimes in the book, sometimes in my own shallowness). House of Mirth does not, however, disappoint. Wharton's depiction of wealthy New Yorkers at the turn of the previous century is keenly observed (she was a wealthy New Yorker herself), as are the effects of living in that milieu on people of various ranks and personalities. Lily is a prisoner of her upbringing--unable to break out of it, but equally unable to force herself to do what is necessary to remain part of it. She is as judgmental and shallow as the friends who betray her; was her fate not so tragic, we might feel little more sympathy for her than we do for the despicable Bertha Dorset, Lily's chief tormentor. Yet we can imagine a different life for Lily--a life she herself cannot truly imagine. Biases of the time are revealed in Wharton's portrayal of Simon Rosedale, a Jewish businessman who is trying to break into high society. While some reviewers believe this bias detracts from Wharton's work, I found it lent it even greater authenticity.
I listened to the audio version of the book, beautifully read by Wanda McCaddon (she also read The Secret Scripture but used such different accents, I didn't even recognize her voice). In fact, I think listening to the book may have helped me to appreciate Wharton's writing in a way I might not have had I read the book.
Definitely recommended!
Favorite passages:
Mrs. Penniston always sat on a chair, not in it.
He was like a traveler so grateful for rescue from a dangerous accident that at first he was hardly conscious of his bruises.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Where'd You Go, Bernadette? by Maria Semple
Bee Branch is an eighth-grader, a successful student who is on track to go to boarding school (Choate) for high school. Bernadette Fox, her mother, was an architect who won a MacArthur genius grant after designing just two buildings in LA some 20 years ago; she has not worked for years, hates Seattle, has a mild case of agoraphobia, and goes on rants about a variety of irritants. Elgin Branch, Bee's laid-back father, is a Microsoft team leader who gave the fourth-most-watched TED talk of all time. The family lives in a crumbling house--actually an abandoned school for wayward girls--that is symbolic of the mess their family is in.
Bee decides to take her parents up on a "you can have anything you want for graduation if you have a perfect record in elementary school" promise and ask for a family trip to Antarctica. Bernadette and Elgin agree and schedule the trip--but Bernadette is actually in something of a panic at the thought of enforced socializing with others on the boat and the nausea-inducing Drake Passage. She hires a personal assistant in India to handle all of her errands, including massive ordering of supplies for the trip. Meanwhile, ongoing tiffs with her neighbor lead to a series of events that make Bernadette look like she is totally losing it. When Elgin schedules an intervention, Bernadette disappears.
The book is structured as Bee's attempt to find out what happened to her mother (and she does unravel the mystery in an ending I found rather contrived). It includes Bee's narration, as well as many documents--emails, newspaper articles, memos, Christmas letters, press releases, and more. I liked the structure and the humorous commentary on the way we live our lives in the 21st century was on point. The farcical aspects of the book grew wearying, however (I don't last long with movies that are farces either)--some good editing might have produced a tighter, funnier book. Still, the book was a fun read.
Favorite passage:
The sky in Seattle is so low, it felt like God had lowered a silk parachute over us. Every feeling I ever knew was up in that sky. Twinkling joyous sunlight; airy, giggling cloud wisps; blinding columns of sun. Orbs of gold, pink, flesh, utterly cheesy in their luminosity. Gigantic puffy clouds, welcoming, forgiving, repeating infinitely across the horizon as if between mirrors; and slices of rain, pounding wet misery in the distance now, but soon on us, and in another part of the sky, a black stain, rainless.
Of note:
Maria Semple is friendly with Carol Cassella, the author of this year's One Book, One Broomfield choice. She uses Cassella's doctor persona in the novel and in the acknowledgments thanks Cassella's daughters for providing models for the character of Bee.
Bee decides to take her parents up on a "you can have anything you want for graduation if you have a perfect record in elementary school" promise and ask for a family trip to Antarctica. Bernadette and Elgin agree and schedule the trip--but Bernadette is actually in something of a panic at the thought of enforced socializing with others on the boat and the nausea-inducing Drake Passage. She hires a personal assistant in India to handle all of her errands, including massive ordering of supplies for the trip. Meanwhile, ongoing tiffs with her neighbor lead to a series of events that make Bernadette look like she is totally losing it. When Elgin schedules an intervention, Bernadette disappears.
The book is structured as Bee's attempt to find out what happened to her mother (and she does unravel the mystery in an ending I found rather contrived). It includes Bee's narration, as well as many documents--emails, newspaper articles, memos, Christmas letters, press releases, and more. I liked the structure and the humorous commentary on the way we live our lives in the 21st century was on point. The farcical aspects of the book grew wearying, however (I don't last long with movies that are farces either)--some good editing might have produced a tighter, funnier book. Still, the book was a fun read.
Favorite passage:
The sky in Seattle is so low, it felt like God had lowered a silk parachute over us. Every feeling I ever knew was up in that sky. Twinkling joyous sunlight; airy, giggling cloud wisps; blinding columns of sun. Orbs of gold, pink, flesh, utterly cheesy in their luminosity. Gigantic puffy clouds, welcoming, forgiving, repeating infinitely across the horizon as if between mirrors; and slices of rain, pounding wet misery in the distance now, but soon on us, and in another part of the sky, a black stain, rainless.
Of note:
Maria Semple is friendly with Carol Cassella, the author of this year's One Book, One Broomfield choice. She uses Cassella's doctor persona in the novel and in the acknowledgments thanks Cassella's daughters for providing models for the character of Bee.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
This Bright River, by Patrick Somerville
Ben Hanson and Lauren Sheehan are thirty-somethings who have retreated to their small hometown in Wisconsin. Both have been betrayed--Ben by his girlfriend and business partner, Lauren by her husband. Ben was also an addict, who wasted a substantial trust fund and spent time in prison. His wealthy father talks him into returning to St. Helens to fix up his late uncle's house for sale (the parents moved to the Chicago burbs after Ben and his sister Haley were grown up). While cleaning up the basement of that home, he comes across some papers that belonged to his cousin Wayne, who died mysteriously at a cabin on Michigan's Upper Peninsula some 18 years ago. He begins to look into his cousin's death--and to become involved with Lauren.
Lauren was a medical resident who spent time in Chad working in a refugee camp. After seeing an mass killing at the camp, she and another doctor leave Chad for Switzerland. Despite some misgivings about him, Lauren marries him. A year later, she flees her husband, suffers a breakdown, and returns to St. Helens, where she works at a coffee shop and interns at a veterinarian's office. Ben is the first person to whom she feels any connection.
Enter her husband. First Ben and Lauren run into him--perhaps coincidentally--in Madison. Then he follows them to the cabin on the UP, where Ben is supposed to be disposing of his uncle's ashes. A violent confrontation occurs. Meanwhile, Ben also unravels the mystery of Wayne's death, which also results in the uncovering of several family secrets.
The review of This Bright River that appeared in The New York Times described the book as treading the "middle ground between the pot-boiling, page-turning mystery and the novel of Big Ideas." For me, the book tread that ground for awhile, but the ending pushed it over the pot-boiling ledge. In addition, the way in which Somerville handled his shifting narrators was confusing (and I generally like books with multiple narrators)--at one point he even inserts parenthetically "(This is Lauren,) What? Is this supposed to suggest to us that Lauren and Ben are co-authoring a book? There's no other clues to such a conceit, so I have to conclude this is just major awkwardness!
Favorite passage:
I suppose I had come to believe the opposite of what moving on implied: there is no actual flight from history, and trying to eliminate it does nothing but increase the speed at which it chases you.
Lauren was a medical resident who spent time in Chad working in a refugee camp. After seeing an mass killing at the camp, she and another doctor leave Chad for Switzerland. Despite some misgivings about him, Lauren marries him. A year later, she flees her husband, suffers a breakdown, and returns to St. Helens, where she works at a coffee shop and interns at a veterinarian's office. Ben is the first person to whom she feels any connection.
Enter her husband. First Ben and Lauren run into him--perhaps coincidentally--in Madison. Then he follows them to the cabin on the UP, where Ben is supposed to be disposing of his uncle's ashes. A violent confrontation occurs. Meanwhile, Ben also unravels the mystery of Wayne's death, which also results in the uncovering of several family secrets.
The review of This Bright River that appeared in The New York Times described the book as treading the "middle ground between the pot-boiling, page-turning mystery and the novel of Big Ideas." For me, the book tread that ground for awhile, but the ending pushed it over the pot-boiling ledge. In addition, the way in which Somerville handled his shifting narrators was confusing (and I generally like books with multiple narrators)--at one point he even inserts parenthetically "(This is Lauren,) What? Is this supposed to suggest to us that Lauren and Ben are co-authoring a book? There's no other clues to such a conceit, so I have to conclude this is just major awkwardness!
Favorite passage:
I suppose I had come to believe the opposite of what moving on implied: there is no actual flight from history, and trying to eliminate it does nothing but increase the speed at which it chases you.
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