New Century Reading

Two Old Women

I was reading a short story by Jeffrey Eugenides, and the two female main characters read and discussed a book called Two Old Women. I wondered if that was a real book, and lo and behold, it is. 

The book is based on an Athabascan Indian legend centered in the Yukon River Valley in Alaska. It's winter, and things are dire for the tribe. There's nowhere near enough food. Finally the chief makes a difficult decision: They are going to leave the two oldest women behind. This is not unheard of; the women aren't able to contribute anything, and even worse, they complain constantly about the hardships. The chief feels he has to preserve resources for those who might live longer and be able to actively help the others. So the two old women are left behind.

After a period of intense shock, the women began to talk about their fate--and decide to fight it. Better to die trying to live than just to passively die. And so they do.

This short book is a remarkable testimony to the human spirit, and part of what's so remarkable is that the two women aren't portrayed as tortured saints. They were whiny. And they're angry about this outcome. Part of their mode for going on is a kind of "We'll show them!" As they make it from day to day and revive their buried hunting and foraging skills, they also strengthen physically and emotionally. Yet their anger at being abandoned trails after them like a long shadow.

Such a good book. You can read it at a sitting or two. A great winter's tale.

Tornado Weather

Tornado Weather is a sprawling novel set mostly in Colliersville, IN, a smaller town where most people know each other, and many have opinions on the Mexicans brought in by a local dairy farm owner to try and increase his business. There are hostilities, and there's also a sense of confusion over Hector Gonzalez, a school teacher of Hispanic descent who suffered the tragedy of having his wife killed and his daughter, Daisy, end up in a wheelchair due to a horrendous accident. But as the book opens, things are about to get even worse for Hector: Daisy disappears one day after school.

Her disappearance, along with a massive tornado that does significant damage to Colliersville, affects many of the town's inhabitants, and this book is essentially a number of their stories. From Fikus, the school bus driver who let Daisy go unattended after she got off the bus, to Trevor, a medicated young man who can understand animals speaking to him and tries to warn people about the tornado that's coming, to the dairy farmer, his wife Birdy, and their son who identifies as female, to pole dancers at the local strip club, there are numerous points of view to consider. 

In fact, I'd say too numerous. It was hard at times to remember who was who, and some chapters felt unnecessary. I'd rather have focused on the core group affected by Daisy's disappearance.

That said, author Kennedy can write. This is her debut novel, and in spite of too much going on, the writing itself is very strong, and many of the characters are fully fleshed out, human and flawed, but still capable of gaining the reader's sympathy. She also makes the town into a character itself, as important as any of the characters. She's definitely a writer to watch.

Lolly Willowes

Lolly Willowes is a slow burn of a book, but worth every word. Set in Britain in the early 20th century, it tells the story of Laura Willowes, a young woman who never shows much interest in getting married--and isn't pushed into it by her parents. But when both parents are dead by the time she's 28, her prospects are not great. At that time, the only recourse she had was to move into with a sibling and his family, and end up, as often happened to spinsters then, acting as a long-term temporary worker, doing everything from arranging flowers to watching children to running errands.

Not the most delightful life occurrence.

Not surprisingly, Laura, who is soon called by the diminutive (in every meaning of the word) "Lolly" by everyone in the family, eventually reaches a point of dissatisfaction and longing for a life of her own, away from all these people. To the astonishment and dismay of her brothers and sisters-in-law, she takes the little income she has and escapes to a small, remote rural town where she rents rooms in a cottage and builds a life of her own choosing.

So much better, right? 

Until her once-beloved nephew decides it's a lifestyle that suits him too, and he comes to disrupt her hard-won solitude. 

That's when Lolly discovers she's made a deal with the devil. Literally.

I loved this book. As I said, it's a slow burn, taking its time, but the nonchalant narrative voice that details, quite humorously, Lolly's upbringing and family history, as well as the less-amusing slide into "helpful spinsterhood," are always entertaining and intriguing. The book is a subversively feminist tale, especially for its time, but a surprisingly moral one at the same time. Not to mention damning conventions that are upheld past the point of usefulness:

"[T]he Willoweses were a conservative family and kept to old-fashioned ways. Preference, not prejudice, made them faithful to their past. They slept in beds and sat upon chairs whose comfort insensibly persuaded them into respect for the good sense of their forbears. Finding that well-chosen wood and well-chosen wine improved with keeping, they believed that same law applied to well-chosen ways. Moderation, civil speaking, leisure of the mind and a handsome simplicity were canons of behavior imposed upon them by the example of their ancestors."

I've not read Sylvia Townsend Warner before. This definitely won't be the only book of hers I'll read.

The Turn of the Key

I went to rate this book on Goodreads and struggled as to whether it deserved 3 or 4 stars (please, Goodreads, give us half stars!!). But then I thought about how I compulsively gobbled this down over 2 days, barely able to walk away from it, and whatever plot issues I had seemed tiny in comparison with the utter joy of wallowing in a wild romp of a mystery with supernatural undertones.

Rowan Caine takes a nannying position in a remote Scottish village, in a mansion owned by a pair of extremely wealthy architects. The pay and benefits are staggeringly wonderful, due in part to the fact that the family seems to have trouble keeping a nanny in place. But Rowan is excited for the opportunity to live in such a sumptuous home and earn such amazing pay, especially compared to her dreary job at a daycare in London. 

But right off the bat, things are weird. The parents leave almost immediately for work--without taking time to help Rowan settle in--and two of the three little girls seem to be more than a little standoffish. The house itself is a state-of-the-art smart home, which both confounds Rowan and makes her leery--is she being watched in her own bedroom? Can her employers follow her every movement throughout the house? Then there are the unnerving footsteps in the locked attic above her bedroom, night after night...

It's not a spoiler (it's right in the beginning) to tell you that, in the opening, we learn that Rowan is in prison and one of the girls is dead. The book is a series of desperate letters she writes to what is supposedly one of the best criminal lawyers in the country, begging him to take her case, telling her side of the story. In doing so, we see the holes the police have discovered in her story, but Rowan continues to explain why she's not guilty. Or is she? And if she's not, who did it?

I found a couple of plot points to strain credulity a little, but again, I tore through this one at light speed, so overall? If you like a good mystery that's well-paced and has a flawed narrator? Go for it.

The Western Wind

The Western Wind was an impulse purchase that turns out to have been a good impulse. It's a mystery set in a small village in Britain in 1491, when the village's wealthiest man disappears and is thought to be dead, likely drowning in the river. But what was the manner of death: Suicide, accident, or murder? A regional church dean is dispatched to do some investigating.

The story around this mystery is told by the town's priest, John Reve, and he's got an unusual way of telling it. The story takes place over four days, but it starts on day four and works backward to day one. The book is broken into four sections, each section containing multiple titled chapters. By the time the reader reaches day two, the titles are mirrored from days four and three, but going in reverse order. I know this sounds like a hot mess, but it works. Possibly because of this late passage:

"It would be better to start not with what might happen, but what did happen -- to begin with the end and journey backwards, like kicking against a current, away from the rock against which you've washed up and out to the open waters, the waves the intentions that carried you in. Not the sin, but the intention behind the sin -- this is God's interest. Not where you washed up, but the waves that washed you there."

As the four days spool out in reverse, we learn a great deal about the village, its inhabitants, their beliefs, and their way of life. At times I felt the pacing was a little slow, but I was never tempted to stop reading, and felt the ending justified the slower parts. 

In fact, while I often say I'd like to reread something someday in the vague future, I'd like to reread this one soon, like after another book or two, while the story's bigger points are still in my mind. It would be an interesting dive to see how author Harvey tied this all together and made it work.

The Testaments

Not surprisingly, there was a big stir when it was announced that Margaret Atwood was going to publish a sequel to The Handmaid's Tale, titled The Testaments. I admit to feeling a little skeptical when I heard the news; I'm an ardent fan of Atwood's work up until the Oryx and Crake trilogy, and was afraid this new book would be in that vein.

The good news is that it's not. But the bad news is that I didn't find Testaments to be nearly as good as Handmaid. This book is told from three points of view: Aunt Lydia, a young woman growing up in Gilead, and a young woman growing up in Canada. I figured out pretty early on how these stories would merge, so the big reveal wasn't breathtaking the way it was supposed to be. In fact, part of what made me unenthused about this book is that the plot felt so labored to me. It felt like Atwood had mapped it all out, then forced it to fit the map, rather than developing organically. Especially the ending--I really felt as if the book was forced into the ending Atwood wanted to give it.

That said, I found Aunt Lydia's backstory interesting, but ended up wishing the book had focused mostly on her. 

Ah well. Can't win them all. Sure didn't think this deserved a Booker Prize, though.

Olive, Again

I admit I was worried when I first heard that there was a new Olive Kitteridge book coming out. But I shouldn't have. Elizabeth Strout is an amazing writer, and she clearly had lots more to write about with Olive. 

This book pretty well picks up where the last one left off. Strout does provide some context here and there, so if you haven't read the original, or it's been a while, you should be OK reading this one on its own. But that said, I think it would be great to read them back to back.

Olive is aging, as is her social circle. She's still crabby as hell, still trying to understand her marriage to her first husband Henry, still struggling with her son and his wife. The people of Crosby, Maine are still of varied opinions about Mrs. Kitteridge. But within that framework, there are new stories, new explorations of aging in America today, new facets of interpersonal relationships. More than one story had me choked up at the end, while some others made me laugh out loud. 

It was such a pleasure to be back in this world--even though it's a world that's often hard, almost unbearable, emotionally. Strout is a master of not trying to dial back anyone's faults, but still maintaining sympathy and understanding for her characters. 

In short, all and far more than I could have hoped for.

On Division

Surie Eckstein is a member of a devout Chassidic community in New York. She's 57, has had 10 children, and is about to become a great-grandmother, when she discovers something horrifying: She's pregnant. Hard enough to imagine being pregnant just as you're about to become a great-grandmother, but even worse, it's likely something that would be frowned upon by her community. 

How Surie deals with all this is the central storyline of On Division by Goldie Goldbloom, herself a member of the Chassidic community. Her initial response, not surprisingly, is panic; how can she spend the rest of her life raising young children as she's growing into the elderly stage of her life? And what will the community do? Will it make it harder for her to find spouses for her unmarried children?

Goldbloom details the daily life of this woman in this community beautifully. For someone like me, who doesn't know any Chassidic people, it's eye-opening and also lovely at times, especially when she depicts the community holidays and celebrations and how close this family is. 

But. Slight spoiler--Surie isn't sure how she's going to tell her husband, Yidel (age 61). So she doesn't. And over and over again, we get a replay of a scene where Surie agonizes over the secret when she's sure Yidel would take it well--he's a kind man who loves children--but nothing changes. And we see this over and over and over again, to the point where as a reader, I really was getting frustrated. Could this happen in real life? I imagine so. But in fiction, to repeat the same conflict over and over with no change in outcomes--well, that's hard to take. 

The author does a good job of explaining why no one notices Surie is pregnant. She's already a large woman, much given to consuming chocolate cake. Her own daughter gives her a Weight Watchers brochure. By the time she finally starts telling people, it feels anti-climactic. Also? All that chocolate cake? In a 57-year-old, overweight pregnant woman? I'm thinking gestational diabetes. 

Then after this very slow simmering, we finally get to the point of no return, and unfortunately, the ending is melodramatic and clumsy. I'm sure I was supposed to be emotionally wrought by it, but I found myself distanced instead, not sure I really believed any of it. 

 

The Memory Police

I had high hopes for The Memory Police, because I'm a big fan of Yoko Ogawa's short story collection, Revenge. The novel didn't live up to the short stories, but I'm not sorry I read the book, and do find her an interesting writer.

In The Memory Police, we have mostly unnamed characters, including a first-person narrator, in an unnamed island nation somewhere in a wintry climate, in an unspecified period of time. Strange things are happening; specifically, things disappear, like fruit and perfume, and shortly after the things disappear, the island's population forgets about them too. Except for a few people who retain their memories and are, apparently, deemed to be a risk to the state. Hence, the Memory Police, who come to collect those people and take them--who knows where? They never come back. 

One such person is the unnamed narrator's mother, who has left behind a few sculptures and a house. The narrator herself is a novelist, and part of the book is an unsettling novel that she's writing as she chronicles life amidst the disappearances. Her editor (the closest we have to a character name: R) is someone she enjoys working with, and when he confesses that he's someone who has not forgotten anything and asks for her help in hiding him, she takes on the momentous and dangerous task. She's helped by an old family friend, the Old Man, who seems to be someone she can trust and rely on.

That is the bulk of the book, up until the last 50 or so pages. Honestly, not a lot happens. But here's the thing with Ogawa: She creates such an icy feeling of underlying tension and dread, that even when nothing's happening, you can't help but worry that something is about to happen. 

The other striking and unsettling thing about the book was the parallels to Anne Frank and her family. Not just the details of someone being hidden away and living in fear of police who will take them away and likely do horrible things to them. Ogawa also includes throwaway details, like in the novel that's being written, the main character mentions working on an instruction manual for a company that manufactures jam. The Franks hid in a building that was headquarters for a pectin company, pectin being used to thicken jams. Later the narrator tries to find tasks to keep R busy in his dark hiding place, something the helpers did for the Franks. There are references to food shortages and days after days of eating the same bad vegetables--clearly found in Frank's diary. And, of course, the neverending fear of that knock on the door.

This could all be coincidence, but it read clearly to me.

Whether or not you should read this book depends on how much you want a solid plot more than atmosphere, or if you are OK with a story that's both close and intimate, and held at arm's length. In the scheme of things, I prefer her short stories and think her talents are better applied there, but this was an interesting read. 

The Dutch House

Oh, Ann Patchett. You made me angry with State of Wonder, which you opened with a highly inaccurate version of the suburb I live in. But you mostly redeemed yourself with your next novel, Commonwealth. And now, with The Dutch House? I am 110% back to total fandom. 

The Dutch House is about, literally, a house, but of course it's about the family that lives in the house. Cyril Conroy buys the opulent-home-fallen-on-hard-times at the end of WWII as a surprise for his wife. That sets in motion events that reverberate for generations, especially to Cyril's children Danny and Maeve. The children end up with a stepmother who cares more about the house than the children, and things get worse from there. Danny and Maeve end up tightly bonded by all that's happened to them, and to the Dutch House, which remains a touchstone to them all their lives.

I'm generally not a huge fan of generational sagas. But Patchett takes a wise, if risky, approach with this one, and is hugely successful. The story is told from the first-person POV of Danny, Cyril's youngest. Danny tells the story of what happened to the house, and to him and his sister, as an older adult looking back over many years. It's a point of view that runs the risk of wallowing in foreshadowing, but Patchett uses a very light hand and still makes it believable. Danny views his past with a loving, but firmly realistic view of the things that happened, and relates them with both pain and the softening that age can bring:

"There are a few times in life when you leap up and the past that you'd been standing on falls away behind you, and the future you mean to land on is not yet in place, and for a moment you're suspended, knowing nothing and no one, not even yourself."

I'm guessing some readers will have issues with the ending, but I didn't. I felt that Patchett earned it, and I closed the book with a huge sigh of: "What a great reading experience this was!" It may take me a day or two to pick up another book, so immersed in this one am I still. Oh--and that cover? Is perfect for the book. But you have to read it to know why.