New Century Reading

Women Talking

Women Talking is not going to be everyone's cup of tea, for a number of reasons, but it sure was mine. The reasons it won't appeal to everyone is partly because of its wildly triggering, true-life premise: that a number of women in a remote Mennonite colony wake up in the morning, bruised, bloody, and sore, that the male elders of the colony tell them they've been attacked by a demon, but eventually the women discover the demon is actually in the form of Mennonite men, drugging the women and then raping them in their sleep. That's enough to put some people off right there, and I'm not blaming anyone. It's horrifying to even consider.

The book takes up the story after the men have been identified and hauled off the jail. Other men in the colony have gone to town to try and pay their bail and get them back to the colony. While they're gone, several of the women gather in the hayloft of a barn to decide: Should they do as the men have told them they must and forgive the rapists, or should the women attempt to leave altogether?

This raises another area that some readers might have trouble with. The premise overall is so horrifying that you can't help but expect a book of violence. But the violence has already occurred. This book is, literally, women talking about what to do and trying to work through their religious beliefs against these violations. So it's a quieter book in some ways than some might expect.

Finally, and I have seen this already raised as a complaint, the book has an unusual point of view: August Epp, a gentle young man with his own checkered past who is deemed "effeminate" by the colony and is of no practical use other than teaching. Author Toews chooses him to tell the tale in first person, having been invited by the women to take notes for them. I've seen a lot of indignant commentary about this, how it should be a women's story, why is a man getting to tell it? But for me, it worked, on a number of levels. First, because it's made clear that the women have never been taught to read (yes, it's this level of patriarchal society). Second, because it's also made clear that he doesn't quite belong in the men's side of things either. And third, because yes, this is a hugely patriarchal society. Finally, giving him a sympathetic first person voice brings us closer to the women's stories than a more distant third person would have.

But yes, this is women talking. And it's anguished talking, trying to reconcile what they believe with what they know and what they've learned. And these women are far from saintly; they smoke illicitly, are passive-aggressive towards each other, have varying levels of denial. Which makes this portrait so complex and multifaceted. 

If you're not OK with a talky book, this one may not be for you. But if you're interested in the inside doings of such a closed-off community, filled with fallible human beings, then it might be right up your alley. It sure was mine.

All My Puny Sorrows

Recently the New Yorker published an interview with Canadian author Miriam Toews that was so interesting, and it reminded me that I had this book sitting on the shelf unread. Off the shelf it came, and I devoured it.

All My Puny Sorrows is the story of sisters Elfrieda and Yolandi, who had a somewhat unusual childhood growing up in a rural town heavily populated with a strict sect of Mennonites. Elfie is essentially a musical genius who, against the advice of the church elders, leaves the community to become a sought-after concert pianist. Yoli, who narrates, is a bit more lackadaisical and doesn't have the gift her sister has, and often ends up making some dubious choices regarding men and the resulting children. Nevertheless, Yoli and Elfie are very close, due in no small part to their father's tragic death by suicide.

But Elfie begins to struggle with mental health issues, and eventually there are suicide attempts. Yoli stays by her side as much as she can, along with their mother (a wonderful character), trying to find a way to make Elfie want to live. Slowly, a new question occurs to Yoli: What if it's not possible to bring Elfie back into some kind of a happy life? What if, in fact, the greater kindness is to let her go and cease the suffering that may not end otherwise? 

From reading the New Yorker article, I realized that while this is technically a novel, quite a lot of it happened to author Toews. (Also, the article does give spoilers if you haven't already read this book.) It sounds like a downer of a book--and in many ways it is. But Toews also has a dark sense of humor that pops out in various small details, or this description of her mother's career trajectory in the small Mennonite town:

"When Elf went away to Europe my mother decided to emancipate herself as well and enrolled in university classes in the city to become a social worker and then a therapist. By this time the church elders had washed their hands of [us]. When she graduated she turned the spare bedroom into an office and a steady stream of sad and angry Mennonites came to our house, usually in secret because therapy was seen as lower even than bestiality because at least bestiality is somewhat understandable in isolated farming communities."

It's not a perfect book. I found the first third a bit slow in spots, although then the pace and tension kicked up. Also, Toews doesn't use quotation marks, which is a big pet peeve of mine in general. Specific to this book, not having the quotation marks occasionally made me stumble as to whether some lines had been spoken or were just thoughts. But those flaws are small against the overall impact of the book.

So. A hard book, though not without humor, dealing with hard topics straight on. I'm glad the New Yorker piece came out and helped nudge me to pull this off the shelf. Well worth the read.

Elevation

I've got some mixed feelings about this recent Stephen King novella. It's a quieter book than King's usual fare, and not really a horror book. Which is fine--he's strayed out of the horror area before. The premise here is that Scott Carey, long-time resident of the fictional small town of Castle Rock, Maine, has something interesting happening to him: He's losing weight. Without losing weight. In other words, every day he steps on the scale, and the scale shows him down first a few ounces, then pounds. But his appearance never changes. Oddly, he can eat an enormous meal, put on winter boots and parka, and fill his pockets with pounds of coins--and the scale doesn't change. 

Obviously this is a trend that could have consequences. This part of the book I enjoyed, as Scott recognizes and comes to terms with what's happening, and the final resolution.

The part that gave me trouble, I will acknowledge, was certainly done with good intentions. Stephen King has been publicly outspoken about his dislike of the current White House resident, and he takes on some politically charged ideas. Scott has a house near him owned by two lesbians who opened a vegetarian fine-dining restaurant in town. The women are married, and that isn't going over well in Castle Rock, which apparently voted heavily for Trump. The restaurant is on the verge of failure. Scott doesn't much care one way or the other. He just wishes the women would stop letting their dogs poop in his yard and not clean up after them. When he tries to talk to Deirdre about it, she's an absolute ice queen who accuses him of being bigoted against them because they're gay. No, he tries to explain, he just really wants them to pick up after their dogs.

But then Scott becomes increasingly aware of how the town is rejecting these women and their restaurant, so he tries to help them. It's not received well at first. But--slight spoiler alert--eventually he helps the town come around, and the women become his friends and help him as his weight continues to decline.

Look. I appreciate that King wants to promote the idea that we shouldn't judge people based on their sexual orientation. I appreciate that he's trying to show that that kind of rejection could lead someone (Deirdre) to become prickly and difficult. But: That's a bit of a cliche. And do we really need a middle-aged white man acting as savior for these women? 

And yet, even though it's so very heavy-handed, I mostly enjoyed the book. I just wish King had found a way for the women to be their own savior. 

The Lake on Fire

In The Lake on Fire, the Shaderowsky family flees Ukraine for America in the late 19th century, eventually landing in rural Wisconsin. Life there is beyond difficult. Finally daughter Chaya-Libbe cannot take it anymore, and she makes plans to escape. When she does, she's both frustrated but happy that her younger brother Asher, who has a preternatural intellect, has figured out her plans and joins her. Together, these two naive but hopeful young people arrive in Chicago, just in time for the construction of the World's Fair.

Chicago was (and likely still is) a tough place to arrive without money or connections, barely speaking English. But Chaya and Asher stumble upon a gentleman who guides them to the Jewish part of the city, where they're able to find a room to rent from a newly bereaved widow. Chaya is sure she can get work somewhere respectable, like one of the city's fine retail establishments, but she quickly is humiliated into understanding that they have no interest in her Yiddish-speaking, drably dressed self. Eventually she has no choice but to take work in a cigar factory, with a second shift at a private cigar manufacturer. Even working two jobs, she can barely provide for herself and Asher. She also can't keep track of Asher, who quickly takes on an Oliver Twist lifestyle. But he also begins developing a budding progressive view of the world, particularly how the world of business treats workers (and remember, this is the 1890s, so factory conditions were far from ideal--not that they necessarily are now, but still).

As the novel unspools, Chaya finds herself being courted by a member of the upper class who has socialist leanings, and that creates ambivalence in her--and worse in Asher. But Gregory (suitor) introduces her to Jane Addams and the world of Hull-House. She doesn't quite belong there either--her relationship with Gregory makes her more well-to-do than the audience Addams is trying to serve, and yet her recent life as an overworked, underpaid and underfed factory worker (not to mention being Jewish) puts her at odds with Gregory's family.

While she's struggling with all these events, Asher is getting deeper and deeper into the world of trodden-upon workers, a world that his formidable intellect is still somewhat too immature to manage. It also leads him to associations and actions that Chaya, if she knew about them, would have difficulty understanding and condoning.

Brown is a formidable writer, with surprising turns of phrase and wonderful imagery. She also quietly makes this book very relevant to today, with our times' controversies over immigrants, workers' rights, etc. The opening chapter describes the family's flight from Ukraine on a horrible ocean crossing, not sure they'll actually be taken where they paid to go. When they realize they're approaching America, one of their group takes out a flag embroidered with the phrase Am Olam, which means People of the Earth. When a ship's crewman demands to know what the flag means, he misunderstands the broken English of the passengers and thinks the flag says they want to take over the land. Outraged, he rips the flag away from them and throws it overboard. We don't have to think far back in current history to stumble on the "Jews will not replace us!" chants used by the anti-Semites in Charlottesville and realize how entrenched these ideas can become--and how hard to eradicate.

Overall, I enjoyed this book. But at times, the pacing was sluggish; it felt like the author was so busy spinning beautiful phrases that the actual story got a bit left behind. And the relationship between Gregory and Chaya did not, to me, feel fully fleshed out or believable. Still, I was never tempted to stop reading, and overall, I can easily recommend it.

Lying Awake

Sister John has spent most of her adult life as a cloistered Carmelite nun, struggling to find God and Christ. She is quietly reverent about the sacrifices she and the other nuns make, uncomplainingly taking her turn at every chore while she searches for that holy relationship. And then she finds it, and begins writing religious poems that are published and help the order earn some much-needed money for repairs and upkeep. But at the same time, she's experiencing severe headaches and other symptoms, and finally she is sent to the doctor. Diagnosis: A condition in her brain which is likely fully operable--but may take away the connection to God she worked so hard to make, as well as her ability to write about it. What should she do?

This lovely little book doesn't necessarily have a lot of plot, but it does have a lot of heart, even for a non-Catholic, non-religious person like me. Not least of which because it takes the reader into the inner sanctum, the place where only the nuns go, and shows us life there. Author Salzman doesn't idealize any of the characters; they're as human as human can be while still striving for holy perfection. The journey through Sister John's diagnosis, interspersed with her childhood that explains in part why she became a nun, through to her final decision, are all peacefully, calmly told, which only adds to the book's effectiveness. Reading it was like a little retreat from the everyday world--and who wouldn't benefit from that, especially these days?

Circe

Oh, boy, this book. I almost didn't read it, because I wasn't wild about Miller's previous book. I was also unsure how much of my previous experience was marred by my lack of grounding in mythology. I wasn't sure if that would cause me a problem with Circe, but you know, there are just so many other books out there.....

But a friend intervened and said, "Read it." This friend knows me and my tastes well. And she was right.

Again, caveat: I don't know that much about mythology. But this story of Circe, the unloved daughter of Helios, teased by her siblings, ignored by her mother, who feels like she has no gifts or talents, but who one day falls in love and takes a chance. But if that sounds like a rom-com in the making, nope. Circe's story is never predictable, but it is believable (and this is in the world of mythology, which Miller fills in with lush sensory details that make it all come very alive). Circe does some things. Things she shouldn't. And her angry father banishes her to life alone on a faraway island.

It's on the island that Circe begins to understand who she is and what powers she might have and how to cultivate them. And though her island is remote, it's not impossible to reach. A series of visitors, accidental and otherwise, become part of Circe's life, for good and bad. 

Clearly I'm trying not to give spoilers. But I found this compulsively readable. I loved Circe, believed her, worried about her, and watched her grow. Along the way, her story involves many other women (and of course some men, but women are very central here) who are varied and flawed in their own ways. It's a rich cast of characters and a wonderfully paced story that built up to an ending that brought tears to my eyes (a rarity when I read), but was completely earned.

I suppose if I knew more about mythology, I would have gotten even more out of this. But no matter. It was a rich, fulfilling read even without all the background.

The Current

Audrey Sutter is a young woman attending college in the south when she learns that her beloved widower father is dying of cancer. She's desperate to get back home, but also short on cash. She asks her friend Caroline to loan her bus fare, but Caroline, having a rough time of her own, volunteers to drive Audrey instead. All goes well until they stop at a little convenience store and encounter two young men with some attitude problems. They try to escape but end up slipping on icy roads and landing precariously on the edge over a river, when a vehicle comes up behind them. In a flash, their car is in the river, Caroline is dead, and Audrey barely survives.

This all happens early on in The Current, so isn't a spoiler (or a surprise, really, it's on the jacket cover and in most reviews). But if you think the story is about the search for the person/people who threatened them at the convenience store and then pushed them into the river, you're only somewhat right. Caroline and Audrey are the tip-off to an older story from Audrey's small hometown in southern Minnesota: a night years earlier when another young woman ended up dead in a river, and the boy who was thought to have caused her death. The parents of both of these young people used to be close friends; you can imagine what this situation might have caused, especially in a small town where you can't easily get away from each other. To complicate matters, Audrey's dying father was the town's sheriff during that time, and he investigated the alleged crime and criminal and didn't find cause to charge, something held against him by various people in the community.

This made for a gripping premise overall. Author Johnston has a strong grasp of what life is like in these small Midwestern towns, and he's not afraid to go down some dark paths, or leave some things unfinished--just like happens in real life. There is a whodunit aspect to the story, and I didn't see the answer until fairly late in the book, although I found it entirely plausible. My only complaints are that I think the book is longer than necessary, and there are parts that are overwritten, especially in the beginning. There's also a secondary character with some developmental disabilities who is often talked about in the second person, which was distracting and annoying. Audrey herself at times seemed a bit too wise for her age. 

All that said, I flew through it, and thought the ending in particular was really strong. I look forward to Johnston's next book. 

 

The Wall

I've said before that I'm a bit of a hard sell on dystopia or post-apocalyptic books. This one falls into the category of books that worked for me in those categories.

The book was originally published in German in 1968, but it feels timeless. The unnamed narrator has gone to visit friends in an Alpine hunting lodge in spring. Her friends decide to go into the local village for a drink one night, and she stays behind. When she wakes the next morning, she's alone. Alarmed, she tries to walk into the village to find them, and walks into a wall. Literally. A clear wall that has arisen overnight, blocking her from the rest of the world, and the rest of the world from her.

It soon becomes apparent that having stayed in the hunting lodge saved her life. From behind the wall, she can see a nearby farm, and realizes the old farmer couple are dead (they're outdoors). Behind the wall, it's our narrator, a dog, and a cat. It's up to her to try and survive, even as she slowly realizes no one is coming for her. There are no planes, no radio connection, nothing. 

This is a book without much of a plot. Mostly it's the narrator trying to come to terms with what has happened and figuring out how to survive, even though that means doing things like killing deer for meat when she's extremely fond of animals and doesn't want to harm them. She has a few basic skills and acceptable physical strength to get her through the most primitive tasks, but she's not superhuman. But she is human, and her emotions and how she copes with them and overcomes them to focus on the arduous task of staying alive--even if she's not sure why she should stay alive--make up a large part of the book. 

Part of my problem with dystopia comes with books like Station Eleven, in which people hang out around the Great Lakes and yet never seem to worry about preparing for winter. The Wall doesn't have that problem. Surviving each season, finding food and figuring out some ways to preserve it when possible, caring for the dog and cat--there are all real and persistent problems. 

But the book is also about the human condition, as cliched as that sounds. It's one I'll return to.

My Sister, the Serial Killer

Hoo boy, this book. Korede has a sister, Ayoola, who has the unfortunate habit of doing away with boyfriends that annoy her or she tires of. Korede, a nurse who is all too aware that her sister got all the looks and charm in the family, is the one who keeps Ayoola from being discovered, a task both embittering and binding. But is blood--the blood of vanquished beaus--really stronger than water? 

This is a quick read, darkly funny, with some salient points about family and what we do to protect them. There were also unfortunately some plot twists that I saw coming a mile away. That brought my enjoyment down a tad, but not enough to keep me from finishing the book, or being happy that I did. But I wouldn't feel like rereading it to see what I missed in the story's layering, because I didn't miss anything. That said, the ending itself was a stunner, and in a good way. So: Quick, darkly funny, somewhat predictable, yet still a fun read. 

The Year We Left Home

This is a mixed bag of a book. It's a novel in stories, focusing on an Iowa family starting in 1973 and carrying them forward 30 years. It's about topics big and small: the farm crisis of the late 20th century, the fallout from the Vietnam War, the rapid changes technology brought to the world and to the economy for the former; a close look at family relationships, the mundane and the tragic that befall them for the latter. 

It's primarily about siblings Ryan, Blake, Anita, and Torrie, and their cousin Chip. Ryan is a bit of a drifter, a very passive person who lets life happen to him through things major and minor. Anita has the aspirations of many small-town Midwest girls of her time: Get married, have kids, keep the perfect home. Torrie is the youngest, a bit of a brat who unexpectedly finds a different direction. Blake gets the least attention as the son who stays in town (as opposed to Ryan, who drifts away) and becomes a builder and remodeler. Chip is a damaged Vietnam vet who keeps in touch with Ryan, and their paths cross in not always believable ways. Throughout the decades, they separate, come together, note each other's changes and choices, as the outside world has effects not entirely welcome.

In the end, the reason I found this a mixed bag is that while I found Anita's and (especially) Torrie's storylines compelling and interesting, Ryan and Chip, not so much. Ryan's passivity becomes dull after a while. Anita may be annoying at times, but at least she's trying to do something, not just let things happen to her. There's not enough of Blake to care, and Chip seems like a bit of a deus ex machina, dropping in to move things along for Ryan. 

It's a shame, really, because the parts I liked, I liked a lot. Thompson is a strong writer, and there were many sections I highlighted or marked with heartfelt exclamation points. But the book would just have been so much stronger if she'd focused on the women. Or found a way to make the men more compelling.