Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts

Monday, June 5, 2023

We Interrupt Our Programming on Dark Academia to Bring You . . . Two Families

Wordplay has published a number of book reviews recently, but it turns out that a week sometimes isn’t long enough for me to finish a book. This could lead you to believe that Wordplay is just a lazy bum who doesn’t care about disappointing its readers. This isn’t true, and that includes all six of you! To make it up to you, this week I have two books to share, both of which, as it turns out, deal with the subject of grief and loss in a family context. I didn’t know that’s what I was getting when I started reading them; it was probably NoveList that put both of these books on my reading list when I decided to take a break from Dark Academia for a little while.

Sue Miller’s Monogamy (2020) is a story of a happy marriage that ends in grief with the death of the husband. Graham and Annie have been married for decades when Graham’s unexpected death leaves Annie devastated. She slowly recovers from her loss with the support of a large circle of family and friends; it’s months before she suddenly realizes that Graham had been having an affair with a woman of their acquaintance just before he died, a realization that turns sorrow into rage. What had been a deep but fairly uncomplicated grief is transformed into a second loss as Annie struggles with feelings of betrayal.

The background to all of this is that both Graham and Annie had been shaped by the sexual revolution of the ’60s and ’70s and had each enjoyed casual sex. Graham’s first marriage was an open one in which he thrived but his wife did not. Graham had had another brief affair early in his marriage to Annie, and Annie had had a brief adventure of her own with another man while already married to Graham. Thus the use of the word “monogamy” is a bit relative as applied to their marriage: it was mostly monogamous. 

Annie and Graham move in sophisticated Cambridge circles; dinner parties, art shows, and author readings are part and parcel of their world. Theirs is the East Coast intellectual version of what I think of as the “Santa Barbara” lifestyle, ruled by Aphrodite, the goddess of gourmet sensibilities, wine, good food, and sexual love. Graham is a bit of a Dionysus character, with a large frame as well as large appetites—always the life of the party, generous, gregarious, and loving—which is exactly what draws Annie to him in the first place. Her only reservation is a fear of being “swallowed up” by his larger-than-lifeness. Her character is cooler than his, as she tends to observe and record life. Both of them are “nice” people, but they are in some ways opposites. I suppose the main question the novel raised for me is, can you live in a world of Epicurean appetite and not be tempted to indulge those appetites in more than one direction? Another question would be, is monogamy possible for a Dionysian personality whose very lust for life is what’s so attractive about him to begin with?

Probably, I am reading this novel wrong. I found the story compelling, but perhaps there is some working-class snobbery in me that made me a little less sympathetic than I was supposed to be to Annie’s predicament. Annie and Graham had an idyllic life together, an existence of relative ease and comfort, fueled by doses of hedonism. They are interesting people, but perhaps a bit self-absorbed, taking all of the wonderful things in their lives as simply their due. It didn’t seem surprising to me that monogamy wasn’t quite possible for them.

On the other hand, I was unexpectedly blown away by Alison Espach’s Notes on Your Sudden Disappearance, a 2022 novel about a family trying to hold themselves together after the death of one of their daughters in a tragic accident. The story is told from the point of view of the younger daughter, “ugly duckling” Sally, who idolizes her older sister Kathy even as she suffers in her shadow. Both girls are fascinated by the athletic and charismatic Billy Barnes, who becomes Kathy’s boyfriend while Sally lives out her crush vicariously. The Holts are a typical American family with a comfortable but not luxurious Connecticut life that’s turned upside down by Kathy’s death. What saves them is quite simply the fact that they stay together and tough it out.

One of the things I liked about this novel was the fact that it refused to sugarcoat the horror of the accident and its effects on the survivors but also maintained a sort of effervescent sense of humor on the part of the narrator. Events in the novel can be both terribly sad and funny at the same time, and they often are. There’s a messiness to the emotions in the novel and at the same time an honesty about them. Nothing is going to resolve what’s happened, and there’s no pretense that the family isn’t struggling, even years later. They’re almost destroyed by grief. 

Sally slowly comes into her own as she grows to adulthood but realizes that her life, successful as it seems from the outside, lacks authenticity. Sally’s mother tries to console herself with wine and regular visits to a psychic (who may actually know more than Sally gives her credit for); Sally’s father simply refuses to give up on his family even in the face of overwhelming pain and unforgiving anger. The needs of the family members clash at times, and they often fail to support one another, but they hang on.

It’s difficult to write about this novel without giving too much away; there is an emotional drive to the story that carries it forward. I admired Sally’s authenticity and humor, which persist in spite of a difficult adolescence and young adulthood. Although the financial circumstances of the Holts are probably not that different from those of Annie’s and Graham’s family, they seem worlds apart. The Holts seem more of a functioning family; you see how the tragedy affects all of them separately and all of them together. The novel is really a portrait of the family’s dynamics. In Monogamy, Annie and Graham seem more like ambitious people who just happened to have children; everything that happens with this family seems to happen to each of them individually, as if they never quite coalesced. It is a portrait of individuals.

Aside from that, there is an anarchic bedrock of truth in Sally’s narration that I found irresistible. In such an ordinary life, you would perhaps not expect to come across such extraordinary emotional courage, but there it is, right in the midst of high school Latin club, visits to the dentist, and dead trees that need to be removed lest they fall on the house. I actually gasped once or twice while reading this novel, a little in awe of how persistently it aimed straight at the heart of things.

Monday, February 13, 2023

More About ‘Dark Academia’

I mentioned in last week’s post that “Dark Academia” is having a cultural moment; I decided a while back to plunge into the genre and see what it was all about. You may have noticed a lot of storylines about kids going to magical schools in books, television series, and movies, but in my opinion it takes more than that to qualify as Dark Academia. The Bureau of Magical Things, an Australian program on Netflix, features students at a select (and secret) school of magic hidden behind a bookshop, but the kids are wholesome, and the mood is generally upbeat and sunny. You might call it “Magical Academia,” and its audience is young children.

A truer example of Dark Academia is Legacies, (a CW Network series now on Netflix) about a K-12 school for kids who happen to be vampires, werewolves, and witches, with other magical beings occasionally thrown in (one kid is actually a phoenix, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him). They all attend the Salvatore School, a private institution in Mystic Falls, Virginia, which greatly resembles many a private or prep school that regular mortals may have attended. There are the plaid skirts, the school crest, the gated grounds, the polished wooden floors, and all the other accoutrements of a well-heeled and decorous institution. Some of the characters are so likable that you almost forget they’re dangerous, until the fangs and claws come out or someone casts an especially evil spell.

The school has been established to create a safe haven, protecting the students from the world and the world from them. Attempts are made to school them into controlling their proclivities, although it’s a little unclear how successful Salvatore is in doing this. Every effort is made to present the school to outsiders as simply a private academy; there is an annual football match with the local public high school that Salvatore students are encouraged to lose, the more to cement their reputation as a bunch of harmless preps. While this sounds dark enough, the real kicker is that the magical powers the kids have at the tips of their fingers attract all kinds of monsters, so that not only are they constantly contending with themselves, each other, and the world at large but also with a variety of evil beings that inevitably come calling. One week it might be a Golem; the next week, it’s an evil Cupid.

Another series that I quite enjoyed was The Magicians, a program originally shown on SYFY and based on Lev Grossman’s Magicians novels. At the beginning of this series, a young man who thinks he’s bound for the Ivy League finds that he’s been invited instead to interview at Brakebills, a college of magic in upstate New York that can be reached by various hidden portals, though no one outside the school seems to know it’s there. While Legacies is aimed at a younger audience, The Magicians has adult content; there’s the occasional wild party, some truly terrifying supernatural beings, regular trips to the Underworld (usually one-way), and unforeseen consequences of the use of magic. Unlike the Salvatore kids, who seem to wield their powers with total panache, as if they were in a music video, the students at Brakebills often seem to be spitting into the wind, achieving everything except what they set out to do and breaking things more than they end up fixing them.

What I liked about this series was its total unpredictability; you can never tell where the characters are going to go or what will happen next. The mix of quirky personalities is occasionally grating, but all the characters are memorable, often funny, and sometimes tragic: imagine a group of hip, smart young urbanites with a lot of competitive qualities and neuroses trying to learn how to be magicians while grappling with the usual problems of college life. A magical world called Fillory looms large in the plot, though I found it tedious, as it seems more a child’s fantasy world in which Brakebills students get stuck than the Utopia it first appears to be. That’s probably somehow the point. This fantasy world is more a trap, or perhaps an extended test, than it is an escape; growing into their abilities often means the characters have to figure out how to transcend Fillory. It turns out being a magician is much more than just being able to do cool things all the time.

Perhaps the best exemplar of Dark Academia that I’ve yet come across (this list is not exhaustive) is Leigh Bardugo’s novel Ninth House. When I first heard of Dark Academia, I was imagining something like this and wasn’t much interested in exploring the genre. After the first chapter or two I wasn’t sure I’d finish the book, but if you can get past a fairly stomach-turning beginning, the novel rewards you with a gruesome but fascinating fictional take on Yale’s secret societies. Ms. Bardugo, who was a member of a society at Yale, has said that she was attempting to “hyper-mystify” the societies rather than write a tell-all. I think she means by that that the fascination anything secret has for outsiders simply provided too golden an opportunity for fictional fodder to be passed up, and she’s right.

The Ninth House, in this novel, is the society with the job of keeping the others within bounds and making sure that their rituals and magic are used “responsibly.”  When it appears to the newest initiate of Lethe House that its protocols mainly lean toward covering up wrongdoing rather than policing it, she discovers that the job means more to her than just an escape from an extremely troubled past. As she learns more about the activities of the societies and Yale’s relationship to the town at large, she begins to see the disconnect between what she’s been led to expect and the way things actually are and decides to investigate further.

The book would have been too morbid for me if it were not for the characters, who only reveal themselves slowly; they, too, are keeping a lot of things under wraps. It’s almost as difficult to believe in the beginning that a street kid like Alex will manage to survive a single semester at Yale as it is to imagine her mentor, Darlington, turning out to be deeper than the stuffed shirt and Yale traditionalist he appears to be. I liked the characters better the more I got to know them, and that includes some of their supporting players, the diffident Dawes, always preoccupied with her dissertation, and the skeptical police detective, Turner. In this world of privilege and power, a strategy of keeping motives and means hidden is simply the way things are done.

While one hopes that the actual doings of Yales’s secret societies don’t include using the most marginalized townies as subjects in such activities as the reading of entrails to predict the stock market, you suspect there is some form of truth in the theme of “might makes right” that runs through the novel. Most of the truly bizarre activities Ms. Bardugo depicts are clearly fictional, but there’s a ring of uncomfortable truth in her portrait of a closed society of wealth and power exerting its will over the town and other institutions, and respectable appearances covering up even the foulest of deeds. This is another novel that includes trips to the Underworld and portals to hell dimensions, though these are even more chilling than those depicted in The Magicians. Sometimes, people in The Magicians break into light-hearted, spontaneous song; it’s difficult to imagine anyone in Bardugo’s oppressive Yale environment doing so, unless it were part of a drunken revel.

So which school would I choose to attend, if I had to make a choice? It would clearly be Brakebills for me. Salvatore School seems too dangerous a proposition for a mere human, as does Yale as Bardugo depicts it. Brakebills is kind of a port in the storm. I could imagine settling in there as a campus librarian and trying to stay out of the way of the more wayward spells and trips to the Neitherlands. Maybe I could even come up with a library circulation system that magically extracts wayward books from the desks of patrons who refuse to return them and gives them an invisible rap on the knuckles that leaves them unable to pinpoint the source. That would be fun.

Monday, February 6, 2023

The Scholomance: A Campus Visit

I know nobody else cares, but if anyone knows who’s causing that pinging sound I’m always hearing in my ears, if you could get them to stop, I’ll be so grateful I’d probably bake you a cake. Once I find the party that’s doing it, I’m going to give them a piece of my mind, I guarantee you. I was talking to a customer at the store today when it started up; I mentioned it to him, and we both decided, in lieu of a better idea, that it was coming from a debris field strung somewhere in the Atlantic. OK, that’s off my chest for now. Just remember, though, I warned you: I’m cranky about these sound effects.

I do actually have a topic for this post, and that’s the trilogy I just finished reading that I think some of you would enjoy, Naomi Novik’s “The Scholomance” series. I sometimes use EBSCO’s NoveList database (which you can probably access through your local public library) to find books similar to other books I’ve enjoyed, and I think that’s where I came across the trilogy’s first book, A Deadly Education. I was investigating books in the intriguingly named “Dark Academia” genre, and that led me to this title. Dark Academia is having a definite cultural moment. Some of this interest can be traced back to Harry Potter, but there are a lot of wildly different variations on the theme, as I have found.

In the Scholomance, students attend a school of magic in an alternate universe with the void as its backyard and spend four years of secondary education trying not to get killed. That’s it, in a nutshell. There are no adults around; course schedules appear out of thin air, the cafeteria is self-serve, and monsters (or “mals”) may found at any time in the food, in the shower heads, in the library, or around any random corner at all. Students spend their time learning and perfecting spells and tend to specialize according to their aptitudes. If they survive until the spring of their senior year, they must run a gauntlet of monsters through the gymnasium to escape the Scholomance and find their portals back to the real world.

The survival rate at the school has been pretty poor until Galadriel Higgins (“El” to her friends) and Orion Lake appear on the scene with some superior mal-fighting abilities and new ideas about how to manage monsters. Antagonists at first (as nearly everyone at the school is in this dog-eat-dog environment), they slowly begin to form alliances. One of the joys of the novels is to see how the fiercely independent El gradually comes to see who she can trust and whose talents align best with hers. Alliances in the Scholomance are truly life-and-death decisions, since trusting anyone in an environment in which people are played against one another for survival is a serious thing. While the purported reason for the existence of the Scholomance is to give the young people a fighting chance in the mal-infested world to which, if they’re lucky, they’ll be returning, it usually seems the school itself is rigged against them. When El’s class decides to follow her lead in working cooperatively to kill mals, things take a different turn, though not everyone is sold on the idea.

El, Orion, and their fellow students have the fight of their lives in The Last Graduate, and the build-up to and execution of their graduation exercise is unforgettably exciting and suspenseful. Scholomance students come from all over the world and bring with them the political struggles and rivalries of life as we know it, of New York and London, of Beijing and Dubai. In addition to being mal-fighting warriors, though, the students are also teenagers and experience the normal issues of adolescent angst sandwiched in between the flashy heroics.

Somehow the author maintains a buoyant tone that carries you through the horrors of the Scholomance, and in the final book, The Golden Enclaves, you get to see what a Scholomance education buys you, in case you were thinking of enrolling. I probably wouldn’t agree with my local library on a lot of things, but I do agree with their categorization of this trilogy as science fiction. It’s too much like the real world to come across as fantasy. Although it’s full of magic and spells, it maintains a businesslike approach to realpolitik while also making a daring case for idealism. An uneasy cross between a junior United Nations and a penal colony, the Scholomance may actually succeed in what it sets out to do but at a cost. We can surely say the same about some of our own devil's bargains.

This would make a smashing TV series, so I hope someone gifted ends up bringing this to the screen. (See, just a couple of years of Netflix and I’m already leaning into “Let’s get this streaming so I can watch it from the comfort of my couch. And bring me a bowl of popcorn while you’re at it.”) Yes, I’m all about the hygge these days.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

In Which I Revisit Maycomb and Have My Mind Blown

Here's an admission: I wasn't falling over myself to get my hands on Harper Lee's Go Set a Watchman when it first came out. I guess I loved To Kill a Mockingbird so much that I found it hard to get my head around the idea of a latter-day Atticus Finch as a white supremacist. (Having finished the book, I don't know what other term to use. Atticus asks Scout whether she cares to deny that Negroes are "backward." Even though he seems to believe this is a temporary and conditional state due to circumstances, the argument, falling from his lips, is chilling indeed.)

Two years ago, I argued with myself over whether or not it was cowardly to forgo reading the book simply because I didn't like the premise. After all, it was quite a literary event to have anything at all from Ms. Lee, not to mention another novel featuring Scout, Atticus, and the other more or less immortal residents of Maycomb County. I felt I would be missing out on something, even though I was sure I'd be disappointed in the book. By the time it came out, I had pretty much decided to give it a pass, and I put it in the back of my mind until I saw a copy at a friend's house a few weeks ago. I picked it up, read the first two pages, and was hooked. The opening scene, which describes Scout's homecoming on a train from New York, was almost perfect, if slightly cooler and more aloof in tone than its predecessor. (Well, hang it all, how do you expect a narrator describing an adult Scout's point of view to sound? She's no longer a child, after all--but still.)

When I got back to civilization (i.e., a place where I have a functioning library card), I came across Go Set a Watchman on the shelf and checked it out. While the experience of revisiting the characters from To Kill a Mockingbird a couple of decades down the line (in their universe) was mind-blowing, I also think Go Set a Watchman is a less assured novel than the former. Where Mockingbird incised its characters on your brain with the sharpness of a chisel and few words to spare, Watchman reads more like a draft in places. In particular, the portrayal of Scout's Uncle Jack, especially in the climactic scenes in which he tries to explain her father to her, is weak. With his pedantry, he's almost too eccentric to be taken seriously, and that's saying something in the universe of Maycomb County.

Scout discovers that her father and her oldest friend (and sometime boyfriend) Henry both belong to a citizen's group that has arisen in opposition to the activities of the NAACP and opposes equal rights for blacks. That Scout herself is angry about the Supreme Court's ruling against segregated schools and its perceived interference in what she perceives as a state's rights issue is one thing; what she can't condone is Atticus's feet of clay on the issue of basic human equality. I agree with her on that point.

While all of us have inconsistencies and changes of heart, the turnaround displayed by Atticus, erstwhile epitome of fair-mindedness, is almost too extreme to be believed. If he sided with his fellow Alabamians on grounds more similar to Scout's, it wouldn't be so shocking, but to hear him ask Scout if she really wants Negro children to attend the local school along with whites somehow doesn't ring true. The Atticus of yore was too decent a man to put forth such a question; you would expect him to be the first to say that the fastest way to equality is through education. Scout is made to feel that she is being unfair to her father and would do better to think about moving back to Maycomb permanently (where presumably she would come to understand why folks are the way they are faster than she would in New York).

Scout makes a sort of peace with her father, though it's a fraught one. In the end, she comes to realize what has been implied since the beginning of the novel, that she is in the unenviable position of being neither here nor there. She's too much a Southerner to be a New Yorker, and too much a New Yorker to ever live in Maycomb. This novel could have been subtitled, No, You Really Can't Go Home Again. I felt sorry for Scout, who seems somewhat adrift at the end of the novel, though her position is not an unusual one.

Certainly many Southerners had these very arguments in the 1950s, but I can't help but feel that the Atticus in this novel is not the same as the one in the earlier book: he's a variant. It actually seems that Ms. Lee may have been trying out slightly alternate versions of her Maycomb universe, and that this accounts for the awkward gap between the two books; I think I remember reading something to that effect. It's not uncommon for stories from ancient mythology to have inconsistencies, but time and distance make this almost inevitable. It's much more jarring when it happens to characters that many of us grew up to consider near-contemporaries because they seem much closer to flesh-and-blood people.

It's strange to think of the Maycomb, Alabama, of Scout's, Jem's, and Dill's childhood as a kind of paradise to which there is no re-admittance after a certain point. It was full of so many examples of the ugliness of human nature that there is nothing remotely paradisiacal about it, except in the way that a childhood home, filled with security and love, comes to seem Edenic when one looks back. In fact, the most enjoyable parts of Watchman are the flashback scenes in which Scout revisits youthful adventures that were not a part of the original book but that seem to have been lifted seamlessly from its pages: an escapade in which she, Jem, and Dill are caught red-handed re-enacting a revival by Atticus, the visiting minister, and the minister's wife; and the story of Scout's attendance at the high school prom, accompanied by a major wardrobe malfunction. Both episodes have the humor characteristic of To Kill a Mockingbird and were some compensation for the darker tone of Go Set a Watchman.

Childe Roland and the Dark Tower even make an appearance as a symbol for Scout's (sorry, I mean Jean Louise's) position in Maycomb, which pretty much lets you know you're in existential territory. Everybody has to grow up some time, I guess--but still.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Mayhem, Murder, and Magicians

Yesterday I finished Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, a novel about dueling English magicians in the Napoleonic era. It took me more than two weeks to read it, which tells you something about the length of it (782 pages). It's wonderful when an engrossing story is also a lengthy one so that you can stick with it for a while . . . if your budget doesn't allow for vacations, isn't a good book a great alternative? Wasn't it Emily Dickinson who said, "There is no Frigate like a Book, to take us Lands away"? (Yes, it was--I just looked it up.)

If you saw the movie The Prestige (which was also a book), you have a little of the flavor of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, though Clarke's book is comical, and The Prestige, in my memory of the film, is rather grim. Strange & Norrell is recommended by my local library for readers who enjoyed The Night Circus, which is how I came across it. Some reviewers have said it combines high fantasy with the drawing room humor of Jane Austen. Certainly the social contretemps endured by Clarke's characters seem more in keeping with the brightness of Austen's world than with the deadly earnestness of The Prestige, despite all the magic and references to Faerie.

Personally, though, I can't imagine any of Austen's people holding much truck with the spell-strewn, whimsical characters of Clarke's book, though I see what reviewers mean about the society humor. The book is funny as well as fantastical, and the humor is a nice balance to the dark twists the story takes. I don't think the book would be as effective without the sniping social climbers, jealous rivals, mystified government ministers, and long-suffering servants who inhabit its pages and counteract some of the eeriness. There are many good fantasy writers, but the ability to seamlessly combine wildly imaginative plotting, alternate worlds, wit, history, and satire is rare, I think.

I would compare the tone of the book to Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising, with its sense of menace and otherworldly mayhem, crossed with the quirkiness and dark humor of Sadie Jones's The Uninvited Guests, with some Neil Gaiman-style chaos, a la American Gods, thrown in. This description is not to detract at all from the author's originality and sheer imaginative brilliance, but it does give you an idea of the territory the novel occupies.

The genius of the story lies in the characterization of the magicians as just another species of "gentlemen scientists," men of standing who happen to have chosen the art of magic for their profession instead of law, the military, or the Church. They approach the most arcane and fantastical of tasks--walking through mirrors, bringing someone back from the dead, moving a city across the ocean to affect the course of a war--with the matter-of-factness of scholars; they study, hoard books, publish, curry favor, seek publicity, become arrogant, and jockey for position. Historical figures, including George III, the Duke of Wellington, and Lord Byron, mingle easily with the book's characters, exhibiting none of the artificiality of "cameo" appearances. They are just a few more well-drawn personages in a large, sprawling, and lively cast.

In one of my favorite scenes, Strange, the bolder and more adventurous of the contending magicians, has feuded with Lord Byron, whom he encounters while traveling in Switzerland. The two men share the same publisher, who receives letters from both of them, each complaining about the other, on the same day. The publisher, Mr. Murray, decides that although it's too bad his clients don't jibe, it really isn't surprising, "since both men were famous for quarrelling: Strange with Norrell, and Byron with practically everybody." In a footnote, Clarke has Byron use Strange as the inspiration for the magician in his poem Manfred.

I don't know if Ms. Clarke intends ever to revisit these characters; the story's conclusion seems to leave the possibility open, since the end, though satisfying, doesn't tie all the loose threads up neatly. While this may have been simply a nod to complexity and a refusal to go with a predictable ending, it makes for an easy segue into a sequel if it ever comes to that. I wouldn't count on it, but I wouldn't rule it out either. The trickster spirit of the novel, of taking characters and readers places they didn't expect to go, is evident even in the closing sentences. I turned pages anxiously to see how it would turn out but was obstinately sad when it was all over.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Clio Muses Over Current Events

With all the political wrangling in Washington over the budget crisis, it's easy to focus on how tough things are (and they have been better, no question). But people who read history usually take the long view and can often point to events that put the current situation (whatever it is) into perspective. Entirely by accident, I've recently read two novels dealing with 19th-century life on the American frontier, and both made me glad to be living in the 21st century.

Jane Smiley's The All-True Travels and Adventures of Lidie Newton tells the story of a young Illinois woman who follows her new husband to the Kansas Territory just as pro-slavery and abolitionist forces are clashing for control of it. Her husband Thomas, though mild-mannered and kind, enters K.T. with smuggled arms to aid fellow abolitionists who have already settled in and around Lawrence. Lidie, a tomboy self-described as "useless," has married the attractive but enigmatic Thomas largely to escape a circumscribed life. Like many others, she has fallen under the spell of advertising that encourages settlement by promoting Kansas as a new paradise.

What seems like a big adventure turns serious once Lidie and Thomas arrive in K.T. and see for themselves the open hostility that frequently results in violence. Aside from that, Kansas is no Eden, and life for homesteaders is difficult, even for the young and strong. Despite the harsh conditions, the Newtons make the best of their new life and friends until the escalating brutality results in tragedy, and Lidie is forced to decide on a course of action.

When I learned about the Missouri Compromise and the Kansas-Nebraska Act in history class, it was in broad terms. This novel really opened my eyes to what America must have been like in the 1850s and how much blood was shed over the issue of slavery even before the Civil War. It was a vicious time, marked by tragedy and ill will. The novel is remarkable, and Lidie is a wonderful protagonist, but the book describes an unforgettably dark episode in the push for westward expansion.

Tracy Chevalier's The Last Runaway, set in 1850, gives a view of similar events through the eyes of a young Quaker woman, Honor Bright, who comes to America for a new start after a broken engagement. Her adventure starts off badly when her sister dies soon after the pair's arrival from England, leaving Honor alone at the edge of the Ohio frontier.

Honor finds conditions in America daunting due to the loneliness, the coarseness of daily life, and the hardships imposed by both nature and an unsettled society. The area around Oberlin is part of the Underground Railroad, but the consequences of helping escaped slaves have become more severe since passage of the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850. Even within Honor's Quaker community, questions of right and wrong are balanced against questions of livelihood, pragmatism, and safety. Honor learns that adhering to principles can lead to ostracism, even among Quakers.

Miss Chevalier's book paints a vivid portrait of an America still half wild, where a wagon journey through the forest between one town and the next presents innumerable hazards, and social divisions simmer ominously, sometimes boiling over. An episode in which Honor accompanies a runaway slave during her own bid for freedom has a parallel in Miss Smiley's book, although the consequences are different. Both books reminded me of Toni Morrison's Beloved, which tells the story of an escaped slave in Ohio still entangled in the tragedy of her past. Beloved has been likened to Dante's Inferno; it certainly contains many scenes of both personal and societal hell, as do Miss Smiley's and Miss Chevalier's novels.

With so much contention in our history, it's not surprising that we still find ourselves at odds with each other. Maybe there is some good news in the current climate after all: at least now the divisions are over budgetary issues, health care, and the debt ceiling and not over slavery and territorial expansion. Current matters are serious, but at least we're not engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Perhaps we've learned enough from the past to proceed peacefully even when stakes are high and disagreements are sharp. Maybe our tumultuous past has at least given us that legacy.

Sunday, March 24, 2013

Cogito Ergo Sum, and Then Some

Does a novel about philosophy sound like fun? To me it does, and that's what made me first pick up a copy of Jostein Gaarder's Sophie's World years ago. It took me about a month to read it back then. I recently picked it up again and have been reading a little bit of it each day. I was curious to revisit the book in the light of my more recent studies in philosophy to see how it would strike me this time. It's as much fun as I remember, but I still find it's best taken in small doses. Long passages of the book consist of lectures on the great Western philosophers given by a professor to a 15-year-old girl. While entertaining, it's still a lot to digest.

The structure of the story is ingenious. A young woman begins getting mysterious notes from an unknown person asking her questions like "Who are you?" and "Where does the world come from?" The notes are followed by letters expounding on those questions and explaining what the great thinkers of each age have made of them. The notes and letters turn out to be the products of a professor named Alberto Knox, who has unaccountably taken an interest in Sophie's philosophical education.

At the same time, Sophie begins getting cards addressed to another 15-year-old girl named Hilde, whose father, stationed with a UN battalion in Lebanon, has for some strange reason decided to send his communications to his own daughter through Sophie. The philosophical quandaries addressed by everyone from Plato to Freud take on a life of their own as Sophie and Alberto slowly come to grips with the problems of their own existence and the nature of their own reality.

A talking dog, storybook characters met in the woods, a magic mirror, and questions about free will, God, parallel existences, and just whose story it is anyway are all mixed up in this adventure. It wouldn't work as well as it does if the author didn't have such a good sense of humor and the ability to carry off a lot of philosophizing with a light and easy touch.

One thing that's always amazed me about philosophy is the way any given philosophical stance can come across as absolutely convincing on its own terms -- until you read the next philosopher, who refutes the argument you just bought and makes just as convincing a case for his own point of view. Gaarder plays with this cumulative nature of philosophy, having Sophie fall in with the arguments of each new thinker Alberto introduces her to until the next one in line neatly overturns his predecessor. Sophie and Alberto's conversations are not unlike Socratic dialogues, although Sophie, a pretty sharp thinker herself, sometimes anticipates the weaknesses in arguments and is always willing to express her own spirited viewpoint.

One good thing about waiting so long to re-read a book like this is that you forget exactly how it ends. I remember the finale has a twist and a flourish, but I don't remember what form that takes, so I'm looking forward to the last chapter. Right now, I've got a little over a hundred pages (a sixth of the book) to go. I don't anticipate ever writing a novel about the history of philosophy, but if I did, I would hope it's as lively as this one.

Friday, February 22, 2013

What's in a Weekend?

O for a Muse of fire.

I started a new book this week -- this time, it's a novel. It's a story I've tried to write before, without success, but this time, having already written another book, I may be able to bring it in for a landing. I now know that doing something daunting one time can be enough to break up your mental reservations about what you are and aren't capable of for good. Actually, that's one of the themes of the book.

It's not exactly true to say this is my first novel, because I did finish one during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) about seven years ago. That was my first novel, and if it wasn't stellar (or even remotely publishable), it was a fun exercise in creativity. With only a month to work in, your fingers really have to blaze to meet the deadline, and the speed is freeing in and of itself. There's no time to edit, ponder, or second-guess. Whatever comes into your head is what ends up on paper. It's a great way to show yourself that you can produce a story with a beginning, middle, and an end, but it's very unforgiving as far as allowing you an "out" if you start down an unproductive plot line.

I'm intrigued by limitations. Haiku are my favorite kind of poems to write because I like having to get it just so in a few simple words. My new novel has a built-in limitation in that it tells the story of a single weekend. No tortured, extended Proustian remembrances here -- my challenge will be to try to relate how one weekend can change your life, even if it does so in a different way than you imagined it would. That's another of its themes, the disconcerting experience of looking for one thing but finding something else that may in the long run be more valuable.

Patience, ambiguity, the seizing of the moment, the fallibility of the heart, truth, illusion . . . all of these play a part in my story. Actually, it may be more of a fable, something you can read in less time than it takes the described events to unfold. I'll play with it and see where it goes. Unlike some other stories I've started in the past, I already know the ending of this one. I've sometimes thought that not knowing where a story is going can be one of the most exciting inducements to write it, so that you can find out what happens. I think there are times when that's true. This time, though, having the plot sketched out lets me concentrate on how to tell the story, which to me, in this case, is a much more interesting prospect.

Ian McEwan's novel Saturday, which tells the tale of a series of game-changing events occurring in the course of a single day, comes to mind as a literary example of how much life a single day can hold. As I recall, it revealed how a number of seemingly inconsequential events led to completely unforeseen and devastating consequences. A bit of an existential nightmare, that one, but very well told. Mine will be more light-hearted than that and deals with intentionality instead of chance. Rather than leave you shuddering, I hope to leave you smiling.

So far, I've enjoyed the writing. As always, the process of putting things into just the right words is exciting, frustrating, painstaking, difficult, and liberating. I may be at it for a while, but this time there's no rush.