Category: books 2015

M Train by Patti Smith

mtrainpattismithPart memoir, part elegy, part reverie. M Train, by Patti Smith, is a captivating look at a working artist’s inspiration, fodder, obsessions, and processes.

I’d known of Patti Smith for a long time (if only mostly because she wrote Because the Night, a staple song I’ve seen Springsteen perform often over the years).  A seed of interest bloomed in my brain after listening to her fascinating interview with Terry Gross on Fresh Air.

What struck me was the way Smith spoke: she’s an original thinker, unburdened by clichés, erudite without pretension, and wholly generous in spirit. This too, encapsulates M Train.

Cafés are Patti’s “portal” to writing — a place where she communes with her art, her obsessions, and those she’s lost over brown toast, olive oil, and copious cups of coffee. Patti almost opened her own café once: she went so far as to put down a security deposit and renovate only to abandon her dream to follow a boy (Fred “Sonic” Smith) to Michigan.

Given to quests and ritual, Patti plucks stones from a notorious penal colony in northwest French Guiana to present to poet Jean Genet who “aspired” to be incarcerated there only to “fail” when the prison closed. She visits the graves of Japanese authors; she photographs Sylvia Plath’s grave several times. She buys a dilapidated bungalow sight unseen in Rockaway Beach months before Hurricane Sandy annihilated the coast. (Her tiny bungalow survives, requiring major repairs.)

This book is fascinating and layered. It’s more melancholy stream-of-consciousness than memoir, a fever dream chronicling an artistic funk at age 66.

Some passages are dense with oblique references to writers I’ve never heard of, much less read. Almost ethereally ruminative,  I found some of the imagery difficult to penetrate, but with Patti, I sense that doesn’t matter: you absorb what you can, obsess on it for a bit, and move on to a new fascination. After all, as she says, “All doors are open to the believer.”

— December, 2015

A Jest of God by Margaret Laurence

ajestofgodRachel Cameron is a spinster. She’s only 34-years old, but the school teacher from the fictional town of Manawaka, Manitoba, is almost as childlike as her grade twos.

She’s virginal and anxiety-laden. Her inner monologue is a cacophony of second guesses.  She agonizes over what others might think of her; she analyzes exchanges with her overbearing, manipulative mother. Her first instinct is to apologize to anyone for anything — to her mother, school principal Siddley, her friend Calla, and summer fling Nick — but she’s not without some self-awareness:

Something must be the matter with my way of viewing things. I have no middle view. Either I fix on a detail and see it as though it were magnified — a leaf with all its veins perceived, the fine hairs on the back of a man’s hands — or else the world recedes and becomes blurred, artificial, indefinite, an abstract painting of a word.

Along comes Nick Kazlik, a grade 11 teacher home for the summer holidays to spend time with his aging parents on their dairy farm. Nick is Rachel’s key to a delayed, condensed, and frenzied adolescence on her way to adulthood.

A slang-slinging smooth talker, Nick’s only interested in one thing. Rachel — despite the potential for a pregnancy that would induce apoplectic levels of shame for her and her mother in their backward little prairie town — can’t resist his Slavic charms.

Laurence does a great job depicting sexual politics in early 1960s rural Canada, a place where women were in charge of acquiring birth control because (according to men) “it’s better like that” and “fixing themselves” after sex despite zero access to contraceptives.

Rachel can’t win. Everyone in town knows she’s unmarried. Asking her long-time family doctor for birth control would annihilate her reputation; it’s out of the question. Having the baby would induce immutable shame for Rachel, her mother, and especially the child, who as a bastard would be marked in Manawaka, doomed by whispered innuendo its entire life.

Manawaka is a place where an unwanted pregnancy means considering ways to flee the problem (leaving town, abortion, suicide).  It’s a place where men say things like:

Sh, sh, darling. It’s all right. I won’t go off in you.

Only to be quickly followed by:

“Oh hell, darling,” he says, “I meant to get out before that happened, but I –“

You can’t help but root for Rachel who finally  wrests control of her life from her mother — a cloying, pill-dependent, weak-hearted guilt machine — by leaving Manawaka behind for an adult life on the coast infused with possibility, a place where:

Anything may happen, where I’m going.

Such a beautiful and stark novel, much like the prairie on which it’s set.

— December, 2015

The Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence

thestoneangelA fitting alternate title for The Stone Angel might have been Pride and Prejudice, but of course, by the time Margaret Laurence’s magnificent novel came out in 1964, that title was already long taken.

I’d read and loved this book as required reading in high school. Over two decades later, I’d long forgotten the beautiful prose and central plot. With several (excellent) fantasy novels in my recent reading, I longed for something closer to home. The Stone Angel, grounded in simple dirt and sweat, heavy with imagery and metaphors only a harsh prairie climate can offer, delivers — over 50 years post-publication.

The stone angel — the massive, expensive, sightless marble statue in the Manawaka cemetery — is monument to “her who relinquished her feeble ghost as I gained my stubborn one,” says Hagar Shipley, reflecting on her life at age 90, referencing her mother in the opening lines of the book.

Pitted from snow and wind and eventually toppled by random vandals — the stone angel symbolizes Hagar: her inability to love, and her tenuous grip on a civilized and respectable life.

Satin and silver and true, everlasting happiness are forever out of Hagar’s grasp — not derailed by coarse, underachieving men — but by Hagar herself. A woman who realizes all too late in life — at the very last second in fact — that she is incapable of humility, she’s forever finding fault, hung up on superficial flaws of character,  behaviour, and appearance.

Hagar is blind to that which should bring her happiness — her children, her husband Bram Shipley — the handsome man who blows his nose with his fingers, his massive winter coat pockets bursting with “scraps of frayed binder twine, a bag of sticky peppermints bearded with bits of fluff. Never of course, a handkerchief.”

Always worried about appearances, Hagar cannot relax enough to love her husband, her children, or herself. There is always the fear that others may observe and find her wanting:

I would have wished it. This knowing comes upon me so forcefully, so shatteringly, and with such a bitterness as I have never felt before. I must have always have wanted that — simply to rejoice. How is it I never could? I know. I know. Or have I always known, in some far crevice of my heart, some care too deeply buried, too concealed? Every good joy I might have held, in my man or any child of mine or even the plain light of morning, of walking the earth, all were forced to a standstill by brake of proper appearances — oh proper to whom? When did I ever speak the heart’s truth?

Hagar, (Hebrew for “flight” or “stranger”) is drought in human form. Devoid of love, warmth, acceptance, humility, and forgiveness, those around her wither and die like tall grass under a relentless prairie sun:

Pride was my wilderness and the demon that led me there was fear. I was alone, never anything else, and never free, for I carried my chains with me, and they spread out from me and shackled all I touched.

This book is about expectations dashed, about self-imposed shame, and the realization that you can’t take it all back. When it comes to human feelings, there is no do-over.  “Nothing can take away those years” and the damage they’ve wrought.

The prose is exceptionally beautiful. Despite the heavy themes, this book holds hope as heady as the smell of fresh cut grass and blooming lilac bushes in a Manitoba June. The Stone Angel is worth your time.

— December, 2015

The Kingdom of Gods by N.K. Jemisin

kingdomofgodscover.jpg Can a brutal, elitist, entrenched ruling race change for the good? Read The Kingdom of Gods — the third instalment in N.K. Jemisin’s excellent Inheritance Trilogy and find out.

Book three follows Sieh, eldest godling of Nahadoth, Itempas, and Enefa. Sieh, the god of childhood — mischief-making eternal boy extraordinaire — is aging, and no one knows why. Does his shocking transformation signal the end, or a new beginning?

The Kingdom of Gods explores antithetical pairs: love and loneliness, loyalty and betrayal,  vengeance and mercy, and honesty and corruption. What I loved about this book is that it shows us that we don’t have to repeat the negative patterns and cycles entrenched in our so-called natures. Once you comprehend your true nature you can use that strength to evolve, to create a new, positive cycle. Yes, sometimes it takes surrender, self-sacrifice, and relinquishing control, but nothing worth having is ever easy.

The Kingdom of Gods shows us we can embrace differences like race and gender provided you transcend mere tolerance and acceptance to get to mutual respect.  After all, as Sieh says, “Life is never only one thing.”

All these weighty themes and a magical realm not unlike our own? Fascinating, complex, wonderfully flawed characters? A delightful, loyal sun-pet given to endearing tantrums worn about the neck of a godling?  Yes, please. This is a meaty and satisfying read that deserves your time.

I read this book back to back, twice.

— November and December, 2015

The Broken Kingdoms by N.K. Jemisin

BrokenKingdomsThe Broken Kingdoms is book two in N.K. Jemisin’s fantastic Inheritance Trilogy. Book one follows Yeine Darr’s secret second soul and her ascension to god. Book two introduces us to Oree Shoth, a blind artist who can create and see magic.

Oree discovers Bright Itempas (she calls  him “Shiny”) in a muck bin and takes him in. Itempas is living as a mortal. Cast out of the gods’ realm, Itempas must learn how to truly love to atone for enslaving Nahadoth and Sieh to the Arameri.

At first I was surprised to see a new storyline introduced — I wanted to learn more of Yeine as the Gray Lady, though my initial  surprise quickly evaporated as I got deeper into the story.

It’s so refreshing to read a fantasy novel with a strong black protagonist. Jemisin’s characters are extraordinary; they’re deep and complex and conflicted. Godlings all have a nature they must be true to and discovering each godling’s proclivity makes for terrific reading. (There’s even a godling at the junkyard; Lord Dump is the godling of castoffs. If something gets thrown away — unwanted by anyone — it belongs to him.)

There’s little of Nahadoth, Yeine, and Sieh in book two — this is Oree and Itempas’ story and a fabulous, imaginative, satisfying one at that. I read this book twice back to back. It’s worth your time.

September — November, 2015

The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms by N.K. Jemisin

100000Kingdoms The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms is the fabulous first instalment in N.K. Jemisin’s fantasy series, The Inheritance Trilogy. There is so much to love about this book, it couldn’t possibly fit into a single blog post, but I’ll try.

First, Yeine Darr is the scrappy brown! protagonist from a small Northern outpost known for powerful women warriors and men who look after the children. She arrives in Sky at her maternal grandfather’s behest to become heir of the Arameri.

As ennu of her tribe and as half Arameri, she could command the gods of Sky (Bright Itempas (the Skyfather), Nahadoth (the Nightlord), Kurue (Goddess of Wisdom), Zhakkarn (Goddess of War), and Sieh, the Trickster) but instead she chooses to earn their respect. She wants to unravel the mystery of and avenge her mother’s death. You don’t just like Yeine, you love her. She’s strong, principled, yet wonderfully impulsive.

The backstory around the creation of the earth from out of the Maelstrom and how the Three — Enefa, goddess of light, dawn, and balance, Nahadoth, and Bright Itempas — formed the universe and everything in it is satisfying and compelling. You want to know more about how this world was made.

The push and pull between bad and good is fascinating. Delightfully, it’s not exactly what you might expect. It’s Bright Itempas, the god of light and order, vs. Nahadoth, the lord of chaos. In retrospect I found myself rooting for the Nightlord over the Skyfather. Typically, you’d like the god of light and order for good and the lord of chaos for bad, but read it and see where your sympathies lie. N.K. Jemisin’s Nightlord is a brilliant character. Imprisoned and full of pain, positively filthy with the potential for evil, he retains a clear humanity. He’s complex and sympathetic and you can’t help cheering him on.

Class figures heavily in the Amameri full blood, half blood, and x-portion-blood hierarchy. You can’t help but dislike the full bloods. They’re an unsympathetic bunch of power brokers who manipulate the gods forced to execute their every command.

There’s plenty of conflict in the book between class, race, gender, good, and evil, but it’s a lovely and refreshing take on these elements. As a reader, it’s a wonderful reminder that there are no absolutes and that flawed people, objects, and ideas are often the most interesting. Flaws don’t reduce; they elevate.

The succession ceremony — the dramatic pinnacle of this first novel — is full of surprises for Yeine and for sympathetic distant relative / underdog T’vril — both of whose fortunes alter forever. Typically, I have no issue with spoilers when writing about books, though I have to keep Jemisin’s secrets here so that you can enjoy the book as much as I did.

I have Mike Adams to thank for bringing N.K. Jemisin’s work into my world. I loved this book so much on first read, I turned right back to page one as soon as I finished it. Read it twice back to back. On to book two, The Broken Kingdoms. Squee!

August — September, 2015

Winter’s Heart by Robert Jordan

winters-heartWinter’s Heart is book nine in Robert Jordan’s plodding Wheel of Time series. Mat Cauthon finally reappears from beneath the rubble pile that toppled him back at the end of book seven — only to fall into another sort of trap — he becomes sex toy to the Queen of Altara.

Mat spends most of book nine plotting and finally executing his escape — but not before he manages to (finally!) meet the Daughter of the Nine Moons — the woman Mat has envisioned he’s supposed to marry ( although as one of those nasty Seanchan, she doesn’t seem much the marrying kind).  This is just a sample of the frustrations of this series, where hundreds of pages go by and plot threads disappear or randomly reappear, sometimes books later. Case in point: Faile is currently held prisoner by the Shaido Aiel. Perrin has been (theoretically) searching for her for the entire book, but we have no proof, considering their storyline dropped off in Chapter 6 never to resurface in book nine.

What this series really needed was a strong editor. Long, meandering clothing and landscape descriptions could have been scrapped to speed pacing and flow. An editor could have helped weave a storyline that doesn’t drop character threads for so long you think they’ve crawled off the page and died of boredom, waiting for their chance to escape the wings and get on stage.

Loial the Ogier remains MIA — missing now since book six, Lord of Chaos, though research reveals he returns in book ten, Crossroads of Twilight — just enough to keep me plodding along, too.

April — August, 2015

Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc

randomfamily Random Family is an incredible first-hand account following the lives of several families based out of The Bronx in New York City over a ten-year period. At the heart of this book is the familiar cycle of poverty: teen pregnancies, absentee/imprisoned fathers and harried young mothers who are ill-equipped emotionally and financially to raise kids — some of whom grow up to repeat the cycle.

There was no money, only a Starburst left. “Can I have that?” She asked her father, who then popped it in his mouth. He exaggerated it’s deliciousness. “Bite it,” he said, inviting her to sample the sticky gob on the tip of his tongue.

“Gim-me!” Mercedes cried. Cesar pulled out the gooey and offered it to her, but just as she reached for it, he pulled it back. He teased her with the offer again, and just as she reached for it, he swallowed it and smacked his lips.

In the subtle tyranny of that moment beat the pulse of Cesar’s neighbourhood–the bid for attention, the undercurrent of hostility for so many small needs ignored and unmet, the pleasure of holding power, camouflaged in teasing, the rush of love. Cesar’s three-year-old daughter walked back out into the world and left him behind.

Life is hard in prison and on the outside where the system is a series of speed bumps, hurdles, and roadblocks in the form of appointments and qualifications these women must meet — often with several children in tow — to get food and housing.

The ghetto is a patriarchal society of domineering, often shiftless or imprisoned men whose attention the women compete for.

A lifetime assault of contradictory messages–to be sexy, to respect, that all men were dogs but without them women were nothing–reinforced her sense of powerlessness and futility.

The beautiful thing about this book is the strength and resilience of the young mothers, who despite their hopelessly irresponsible and often violent men and a system practically set up to fail them, most of them “do right” and raise their kids, they best they can. As a reader, you want these women to succeed, you want to see their burdens eased, and you cheer them on.

Here’s an interview with the author, ten years after the publication of the book. This book is a striking, sobering portrait of one sprawling family, though the abject poverty and the system as oppressor are too familiar.

I discovered this book at the top of the Unlisted List at Vela.

August, 2015

Bettyville: A Memoir by George Hodgman

BettyvilleI am terrified of getting old.

I fear becoming vulnerable mentally and physically. I’m afraid of not being able to look after myself, of my mind and memory dissolving and unraveling, putting me out of control of my life. I’m afraid that at times I’ll be lucid enough to know I’m failing. I’m petrified of becoming dependant on — at the mercy of — others.

In Bettyville: A Memoir, author George Hodgman leaves New York and returns to his family home in Missouri to care for his 90-year-old mother, Betty. As mother and son, Betty and George are a lot alike. Throughout their lives they’re both just trying to “get it right.” Betty did her best to raise a son she knows is gay but whose lifestyle she can’t accept. Commitment-phobic George does his best to care for an emotionally remote mother who is wonderfully cantankerous, independent, and fiercely unsentimental.

The book is about aging with grace, about allowing yourself to be vulnerable, about preserving dignity despite memory loss and the body’s tragicomic fall. It’s about the distances between close family members, about the two people who supplied your DNA, yet fear acknowledging who you really are, and about how silences suppress the truth. It’s about allowing yourself to be cared for, to be taken care of. What’s beautiful about this book is the tenderness, respect, understanding, and forgiveness with which George treats his mother. We should all be so lucky to have someone like him at our side when our decline steepens.

Betty Baker Hodgman died just this past Sunday, July 26th, 2015. She was 93 years old.

I read this book twice back-to-back. It’s worth your time.

June and July, 2015

The White Queen by Phillippa Gregory

thewhitequeenI discovered this first book of six in The Cousins’ War series Googling what to read while waiting for George R. R. Martin to complete the next instalment in The Game of Thrones series. Recommended on this list by Vox, I feel like The White Queen is much more a historical novel than a fantasy novel. True, Elizabeth Woodville — descendant of water goddess Melusina — can cast spells to control weather and injure her foes, though this magical element is a tiny part of the book.

The White Queen tells Elizabeth’s Woodville’s story: an unlikely widow marries a king in secret and, after the secret wedding is revealed, various factions in England play tug-of-war with the throne for the following 300 pages. The allegiances dissolve and reform so fast that you need a pen and paper to keep tally. I learned early on in reading this book not to count on any loyalty from anyone and found this the most disappointing aspect of the book. There are few — if any — characters to root for.

To say the Plantagenets, the Yorks, and the Tudors lacked imagination in naming their children is an understatement. There are so many Edwards, Richards, Elizabeths, Henrys, and Georges that you need an org chart and an alive/dead/in exile scorecard to keep track of who is who and where they are.

There are five more books in this series, covering different real-life players in a true life 15th Century England game of thrones, though they’re not for me.

June — July, 2015