Okay. I am ready to declare myself a Marilynne Robinson fanatic. After the awesomeness that was Gilead, I was more than prepared to be disappointed by her follow-up, Home. Instead, I found Home to be as beautiful and insightful as its predecessor. Marilynne Robinson is truly a master of fiction. Home takes place at the exact same time as Gilead. This time around, we're catching up with the Boughton family, the patriarch of which is Gilead protagonist John Ames's best friend. This is the other side of the story, the story of the family that Ames tries to understand but often fails to see clearly.
It is my belief that there are occasions in our lives where what we read affects us solely based on the time that we read it. I think Home is a book that reads wonderfully at anytime, but my love of this first reading probably had more to do with how much I understood it at a certain moment in my own life. It's a book for anyone who's ever been a sibling, and even more so a book for anyone who's ever had a sibling to worry over, a sibling who you want so badly to understand but never quite can. It's a book about being able to simultaneously succeed and fail at reaching out to another. It's also a book for anyone who has been surprised by life, disappointed at how it's turned out or pleasantly amused by its small moments of grace. It's a book about coming home, about family, about faith. Home is a masterpiece of quiet observation, just as all of Robinson's novels are.
I am not a particularly religious sort. I don't always know how I feel about the idea of God's existence or His absence. But I understand belief, the certitude of some form of spirituality, and I have a deep appreciation for those moments our beliefs (whatever they may be) don't seem to be enough, or sometimes, when they seem to be too much. No matter how you feel about religion or spirituality, it's not okay to disclaim those that want the grace of it so badly. You can dislike religious hypocrites or those who use their beliefs to allow hatred, but you have to appreciate the quiet believer, the one who lets it guide him or her without intrusion towards others. These are the characters of Robinson's books: people who either feel or misunderstand or struggle with the idea of grace and love. She doesn't treat them with disdain, but she doesn't portray them as saints either. Robinson's characters are always good and bad, deeply faulted but trying so hard to do good. Just the way most of the people we meet are, religious or not. Robinson understands people and families and small towns in a way few writers can. I love her for it.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Favorite Passages: Love Medicine, by Louise Erdrich
A few weeks ago, I read Love Medicine, Louise Erdrich's first novel, and fell in love. Her writing is very straightforward and simple, with moments of beauty and elegance. The book is complicated, telling the stories of two modern Native American families whose lives intersect in a myriad of important ways. Erdrich continues to use characters from these families through the rest of her books, so I will be picking up the rest of her work in the coming year. (Luckily, Erdrich is one of the few contemporary writers of literary fiction my library carries.)
There were so many characters and scenes to love in the novel that I had a bit of a hard time picking a scene. I chose this one because of its subtle heartache. One of the characters given the smallest "screen time," Lyman Lamartine, was particularly interesing to me, so I chose to do a scene with him. Here, Lyman's beloved brother, Henry, has just returned from Vietnam. The boisterous Henry that Lyman remembers has been replaced by a silent, violent figure who sits in front of the television all day. In this scene, Lyman tries to get Henry into action again through the use of a car the brothers bought together before the war. Obviously, things get tragic for these two characters as the novel continues (most of the storylines drip with tragedy, although the book is surprisingly funny and Erdrich never lets it get too heavy). But here, we see the way Erdrich just allows things to happen in her understated style. Enjoy! Oh, and for reference, this is in Lyman's voice.
From Love Medicine, by Louise Erdrich:
Henry had not even looked at the car since he'd gotten home, though like I said, it was in tip-top condition and ready to drive. I thought the car might bring the old Henry back somehow. So I bided my time and waited for my chance to interest him in the vehicle.
One night Henry was off somewhere. I took myself a hammer. I went out to that car and did a number on its underside. Whacked it up. Bent the tail pipe double. Ripped the muffler lose. By the time I was done with the car it looked worse than any typical Indian car that has been driven all its life on the reservation roads, which they always say are like government promises - full of holes. It just about hurt me, I'll tell you that! I threw dirt in the carburetor and I ripped all the electrical tape off the seats. I made it look just as beat up as I could. Then I sat back and waited for Henry to find it.
Still, it took him over a month. That was all right, because it was just getting warm enough, not melting, but warm enough to work outside.
"Lyman," he says, walking in one day, "that red car looks like shit."
"Well, it's old," I says. "You got to expect that."
"No way!" says Henry. "That car's a classic! But you went and ran the piss right out of it, Lyman, and you know it don't deserve that. I kept that car in A-one shape. You don't remember. You're too young. But when I left, that car was running like a watch. Now I don't even know if I can get it to start again, let alone get it anywhere near its old condition."
"Well you try," I said, like I was getting mad, "but I say it's a piece of junk."
Then I walked out before he could realize I knew he'd strung together more than six words at once.
Note: Another favorite thing of mine involving brothers and a classic car, the dumb but wonderful TV show Supernatural, premieres its new season tonight. It's techincally not a book, but its mythology and the personal histories it builds for its characters make it almost feel like an epic novel. Lots of exciting things going on this month!
There were so many characters and scenes to love in the novel that I had a bit of a hard time picking a scene. I chose this one because of its subtle heartache. One of the characters given the smallest "screen time," Lyman Lamartine, was particularly interesing to me, so I chose to do a scene with him. Here, Lyman's beloved brother, Henry, has just returned from Vietnam. The boisterous Henry that Lyman remembers has been replaced by a silent, violent figure who sits in front of the television all day. In this scene, Lyman tries to get Henry into action again through the use of a car the brothers bought together before the war. Obviously, things get tragic for these two characters as the novel continues (most of the storylines drip with tragedy, although the book is surprisingly funny and Erdrich never lets it get too heavy). But here, we see the way Erdrich just allows things to happen in her understated style. Enjoy! Oh, and for reference, this is in Lyman's voice.
From Love Medicine, by Louise Erdrich:
Henry had not even looked at the car since he'd gotten home, though like I said, it was in tip-top condition and ready to drive. I thought the car might bring the old Henry back somehow. So I bided my time and waited for my chance to interest him in the vehicle.
One night Henry was off somewhere. I took myself a hammer. I went out to that car and did a number on its underside. Whacked it up. Bent the tail pipe double. Ripped the muffler lose. By the time I was done with the car it looked worse than any typical Indian car that has been driven all its life on the reservation roads, which they always say are like government promises - full of holes. It just about hurt me, I'll tell you that! I threw dirt in the carburetor and I ripped all the electrical tape off the seats. I made it look just as beat up as I could. Then I sat back and waited for Henry to find it.
Still, it took him over a month. That was all right, because it was just getting warm enough, not melting, but warm enough to work outside.
"Lyman," he says, walking in one day, "that red car looks like shit."
"Well, it's old," I says. "You got to expect that."
"No way!" says Henry. "That car's a classic! But you went and ran the piss right out of it, Lyman, and you know it don't deserve that. I kept that car in A-one shape. You don't remember. You're too young. But when I left, that car was running like a watch. Now I don't even know if I can get it to start again, let alone get it anywhere near its old condition."
"Well you try," I said, like I was getting mad, "but I say it's a piece of junk."
Then I walked out before he could realize I knew he'd strung together more than six words at once.
Note: Another favorite thing of mine involving brothers and a classic car, the dumb but wonderful TV show Supernatural, premieres its new season tonight. It's techincally not a book, but its mythology and the personal histories it builds for its characters make it almost feel like an epic novel. Lots of exciting things going on this month!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Tolstoy's Birthday!
Happy Birthday, Leo Tolstoy!I know I promised you all a list by today, but I was so worn out from my Alabama trip, that I had hard time coming up with one. So instead of a list, today we will celebrate a man I consider the greatest novelist of all time. He may not be my favorite writer (see my Anna Karenina post from several months ago), but I can not deny that he did things with the novel that changed fiction forever. I still consider War and Peace one of the most important literary accomplishments of all time, and it is one of my favorite books to boot.
So today, let us raise a toast to Tolstoy. Let's forget his faults (his preachiness, his conservative social views on family and marriage, his occasional misogyny) and remember only good. He created some of my all-time favorite characters (Prince Andrei Bolkonski, who gets most of the best parts of War and Peace, in my opinion) and his ability to be constantly aware of every tiny detail in his created worlds always blows me away. Tolstoy is truly a master. So Happy 181st Birthday, big guy!
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Poem of the Week: "Advice for a Stegosaurus," by Jessica Goodheart
Welcome back for another Poem of the Week. In Alabama this weekend, I visited the Cathedral Caverns, a really awesome place. I had never been on a cave tour before, and this one made a great first impression. It was absolutely gorgeous, and I couldn't even begin to find the words to do it justice. While wandering the winding paths edged in foot lights through damp air, water so clear it looked like more cave beneath your feet, and many beautiful stalactite and stalagmite formations, I thought of two things: 1) dinosaurs! and 2) The Lord of the Rings. Because I don't know many Lord of the Rings-related poetry outside of some Led Zeppelin songs (Did you know Robert Plant is an enormous Tolkien nerd?), I went with my first thought. I ran across this poem in an anthology a few years ago and fell in love with it. Probably because it's about my favorite dinosaur of all time, the most wonderful and ferocious stegosaurus. Enjoy!
Advice for a Stegosaurus, by Jessica Goodheart
Never mind the asteroid,
the hot throat of the volcano,
a sun that daily drips into the void.
Comb the drying riverbed for drink.
Strut your bird-hipped body.
Practice a lizard grin. Don't think.
Stretch out your tail. Walk, as you must,
in a slow deliberate gait.
Don't look back, Dinosaur. Dust is dust.
You'll leave your bones, your fossil feet
and armored eye-lids.
Put your chin to the wind. Eat what you eat.
Happy Reading, everyone!
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Reading Week in Review: Two Awesome Stories
I have to admit that I did very little reading this week. I was busy applying for jobs, and I was in a weird, in-between-books mood of discontent. But I did re-discover a couple of kick-ass short stories that I haven't read in a long time. The first was "Lull," by Kelly Link, from her book, Magic for Beginners. The second came from Yann Martel's story collection, The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios, and is titled "The Time I Heard the Private Donald J. Rankin String Concerto with One Discordant Violin, by the American Composer John Morton."
Let's start with "Lull." This isn't a story I'd easily recommend. It's complicated, twisty, and VERY strange. But for some reason, I absolutely adore it. Set up as a story-within-a-story-within-a-story, "Lull" begins as a story about sad-sack middle aged men who play cards together and evolves into a mess about the nature of narrative, the devil, aliens, and clones. It's weird and beautiful at once. The opening paragraphs are some of my all-time favorites. I really enjoyed going back to Link's story and becoming completely absorbed in it again.
Martel's "The Time I Heard..." was an even more rewarding reading experience. The first time I read this story was as a college freshmen. Back then, I had little to no interest in classical music. But as I made friends with musicians and became more introspective, I began to fall in love with classical music. This story was a million times better this time around because of that new musical understanding. The story itself is threadbare, the narrator a little too undercooked, and it might get just a tad melodramatic at the end, all evidence that Martel wrote these stories when he was quite young and before he had any kind of literary fame. But in the middle of the story are some absolutely breathtaking passages describing music. Here is one such passage:
What a strange, wonderous thing, music. At last the chattering mind is silenced. No past to regret, no future to worry about, no more frantic knitting of words and thoughts. Only a beautiful, soaring nonsense. Sound - made pleasing and intelligible through melody, rhythm, harmony, and counterpoint - becomes our thinking. The grunting of language and the drudgery of semiotics are left behind. Music is a bird's answer to the noise and heaviness of words. It puts the mind in a state of exhilarated speechlessness.
So even though I didn't read anything of significant heft this week, I enjoyed my short stories greatly.
Note:My regular schedule for next week will be upset a little, as I am heading to Alabama tomorrow morning and won't be back until Monday night. I will post my Poem of the Week on Tuesday, as well as creating a new list for you all. Best of all, I just bought two new books for the trip: Home, Marilynne Robinsons' semi-sequel to Gilead, and a Dickensian novel by Hannah Tinti entitled The Good Thief that just came out in paperback. You can expect to hear all about them next week!
Let's start with "Lull." This isn't a story I'd easily recommend. It's complicated, twisty, and VERY strange. But for some reason, I absolutely adore it. Set up as a story-within-a-story-within-a-story, "Lull" begins as a story about sad-sack middle aged men who play cards together and evolves into a mess about the nature of narrative, the devil, aliens, and clones. It's weird and beautiful at once. The opening paragraphs are some of my all-time favorites. I really enjoyed going back to Link's story and becoming completely absorbed in it again.
Martel's "The Time I Heard..." was an even more rewarding reading experience. The first time I read this story was as a college freshmen. Back then, I had little to no interest in classical music. But as I made friends with musicians and became more introspective, I began to fall in love with classical music. This story was a million times better this time around because of that new musical understanding. The story itself is threadbare, the narrator a little too undercooked, and it might get just a tad melodramatic at the end, all evidence that Martel wrote these stories when he was quite young and before he had any kind of literary fame. But in the middle of the story are some absolutely breathtaking passages describing music. Here is one such passage:
What a strange, wonderous thing, music. At last the chattering mind is silenced. No past to regret, no future to worry about, no more frantic knitting of words and thoughts. Only a beautiful, soaring nonsense. Sound - made pleasing and intelligible through melody, rhythm, harmony, and counterpoint - becomes our thinking. The grunting of language and the drudgery of semiotics are left behind. Music is a bird's answer to the noise and heaviness of words. It puts the mind in a state of exhilarated speechlessness.
So even though I didn't read anything of significant heft this week, I enjoyed my short stories greatly.
Note:My regular schedule for next week will be upset a little, as I am heading to Alabama tomorrow morning and won't be back until Monday night. I will post my Poem of the Week on Tuesday, as well as creating a new list for you all. Best of all, I just bought two new books for the trip: Home, Marilynne Robinsons' semi-sequel to Gilead, and a Dickensian novel by Hannah Tinti entitled The Good Thief that just came out in paperback. You can expect to hear all about them next week!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Favorite Passages: Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson
For those of you who followed this blog over the summer, and for anyone who had contact with me in the month of July, you know all about my obsession with Marilynne Robinson's perfect novel, Gilead. I love this book with a fierceness I cannot fully explain. Beautifully written, carefully constructed, I honestly believe it to be one of the best books I have ever encountered. So, sorry for all of those who are sick of hearing about this book, but here it is again making an appearance.
This weekend while visiting some friends, I saw the book sitting in my former roommate's living room. She was reading it at my recommendation, and as usually happens when I see a book I love lying somewhere, I picked it up and began flipping through it. This was the first passage I came across. It automatically reminded me why I hold this novel so dear. In this little paragraph, the minister John Ames (who narrates the book as a deathbed letter to his small son) reflects on water and baptism. I hope you enjoy the passage, and pay close attention to the awesome in-voice transition that starts the last sentence.
From Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson:
You and Tobias are hopping around in the sprinkler. The sprinkler is a magnificent invention because it exposes raindrops to sunshine. That does occur in nature, but it is rare. When I was in seminary I used to go sometimes to watch the Baptists down at the river. It was something to see the pastor lifting the one who was being baptized up out of the water and the water pouring off the garments and the hair. It did look like a birth or resurrection. For us the water just heightens the touch of the pastor's hand on the sweet bones of the head, sort of like making an electrical connection. I've always loved to baptize people, though I have sometimes wished there were more shimmer and splash involved in the way we go about it. Well, but you two are dancing around in your iridescent little downpour, whooping and stomping as sane people ought to do when they encounter a thing so miraculous as water.
Happy Reading to all!
This weekend while visiting some friends, I saw the book sitting in my former roommate's living room. She was reading it at my recommendation, and as usually happens when I see a book I love lying somewhere, I picked it up and began flipping through it. This was the first passage I came across. It automatically reminded me why I hold this novel so dear. In this little paragraph, the minister John Ames (who narrates the book as a deathbed letter to his small son) reflects on water and baptism. I hope you enjoy the passage, and pay close attention to the awesome in-voice transition that starts the last sentence.
From Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson:
You and Tobias are hopping around in the sprinkler. The sprinkler is a magnificent invention because it exposes raindrops to sunshine. That does occur in nature, but it is rare. When I was in seminary I used to go sometimes to watch the Baptists down at the river. It was something to see the pastor lifting the one who was being baptized up out of the water and the water pouring off the garments and the hair. It did look like a birth or resurrection. For us the water just heightens the touch of the pastor's hand on the sweet bones of the head, sort of like making an electrical connection. I've always loved to baptize people, though I have sometimes wished there were more shimmer and splash involved in the way we go about it. Well, but you two are dancing around in your iridescent little downpour, whooping and stomping as sane people ought to do when they encounter a thing so miraculous as water.
Happy Reading to all!
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Reader Confessions: My Addiction to Fanfiction
That's right. I read fanfiction. For you readers who are close friends or family members, you've heard me defend my actions repeatedly. But quite frankly, there is no excuse for the satisfaction I derive from a really good piece of fanfiction.
I find myself intrigued by the idea of fanfiction existing at all. It's a strange social structure in itself - a messy, complex system of readers, writers, and reviewers who feel a need to interact with their favorite pieces of art. I've read a few essays on the subject, and I am always interested in the ways scholars look at the phenomena of fanfiction through the eyes of sociology and psychology. I spend as much time trying to figure out why I read fanfiction as I spend reading it. I've been known to spend hours daydreaming about what happens next when I've finished a good book or movie or TV episode. But I've never put it down on paper, and I would certainly never want to share it with another human being. So why am I often so interested in these weird fantasy worlds others create?
Fanfiction is probably the lowest form of literature out there. It's the moody, strange ramblings of angsty teenagers and lonely middle-aged cat owners. I'd say about 99.7% of it is horrid, unreadable. But occasionally, something really good emerges out of all the piles of shear crap in the fanfiction world. I've been lucky enough to find a few splendid pieces of fanfiction that make even a serious reader like myself quite happy and hungry for more.
One is a Harry Potter series that picks up with the gang a decade after Book Seven. The series, We Belong, concentrates on George Weasley dealing with his brother's death and the way new friendships form after Voldemort is defeated. It's an extremely satisfying epilogue to the series, and both a good friend and I consider it the missing eighth book.
Then, there's a series I feel even guiltier about but love even more. The Brotherhood series explores the world of my favorite guilty-pleasure TV show, Supernatural. The Brotherhood series (which is primarily the work of two writers but also has a very long reach in the world of Supernatural fanfiction) adds extra characters to the series. And strangely enough, I often find this series to be more satisfactory and thematically deeper than the television show. I never confuse the distinct worlds of the show and the fanfiction, but I love exploring each separately. The Brotherhood's best author (whose oeuvre is the one I linked to above) is actually quite good. Her writing is strong and very subtle, her dialogue is practically perfect, and her plotting is complex and careful. I pretty much put everything on hold when I see an update for a Brotherhood story.
So there you go. Two examples of fantastic fanfiction that I read despite my heavy sense of guilt. I may not have figured out why I read fanfiction, but on a lonely or rainy afternoon in front of my computer, I'm often glad I do.
I find myself intrigued by the idea of fanfiction existing at all. It's a strange social structure in itself - a messy, complex system of readers, writers, and reviewers who feel a need to interact with their favorite pieces of art. I've read a few essays on the subject, and I am always interested in the ways scholars look at the phenomena of fanfiction through the eyes of sociology and psychology. I spend as much time trying to figure out why I read fanfiction as I spend reading it. I've been known to spend hours daydreaming about what happens next when I've finished a good book or movie or TV episode. But I've never put it down on paper, and I would certainly never want to share it with another human being. So why am I often so interested in these weird fantasy worlds others create?
Fanfiction is probably the lowest form of literature out there. It's the moody, strange ramblings of angsty teenagers and lonely middle-aged cat owners. I'd say about 99.7% of it is horrid, unreadable. But occasionally, something really good emerges out of all the piles of shear crap in the fanfiction world. I've been lucky enough to find a few splendid pieces of fanfiction that make even a serious reader like myself quite happy and hungry for more.
One is a Harry Potter series that picks up with the gang a decade after Book Seven. The series, We Belong, concentrates on George Weasley dealing with his brother's death and the way new friendships form after Voldemort is defeated. It's an extremely satisfying epilogue to the series, and both a good friend and I consider it the missing eighth book.
Then, there's a series I feel even guiltier about but love even more. The Brotherhood series explores the world of my favorite guilty-pleasure TV show, Supernatural. The Brotherhood series (which is primarily the work of two writers but also has a very long reach in the world of Supernatural fanfiction) adds extra characters to the series. And strangely enough, I often find this series to be more satisfactory and thematically deeper than the television show. I never confuse the distinct worlds of the show and the fanfiction, but I love exploring each separately. The Brotherhood's best author (whose oeuvre is the one I linked to above) is actually quite good. Her writing is strong and very subtle, her dialogue is practically perfect, and her plotting is complex and careful. I pretty much put everything on hold when I see an update for a Brotherhood story.
So there you go. Two examples of fantastic fanfiction that I read despite my heavy sense of guilt. I may not have figured out why I read fanfiction, but on a lonely or rainy afternoon in front of my computer, I'm often glad I do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)