Monday morning, you sure look wet

Just a quick note before I head off to work on this rainy Monday morning. It was a good weekend - a nice blend of activity (dinner out on Friday night, a matinee of Avatar on Saturday, which I'll write about in a future post) and low-key relaxation, which included finishing my second Canada Reads Independently book, Ray Robertson's Moody Food. I'm going to write more about this book in a post later this week - I want a day or two to properly digest it. The quickie review: good but not great. Perhaps my expectations for this book were too high, and it didn't deliver. Still a fun read though, and worthy of my time. I'm not sure what to read next. I'm going to take a break from the Canada Reads Independently books - mainly because I don't have any of them here in the apartment! - and instead tackle something unrelated. Once this post is done, I'm off to the reading queue in my bookshelf to pick something out. Maybe some Saul Bellow. Or perhaps Atwood's Year of the Flood.

I'd also like to point readers toward an interesting article about the memoir in last week's New Yorker. I want to write more about this - for one, Elizabeth Gilbert's follow-up to the immensely popular Eat, Pray and Love, Committed, is awaiting pick up at the Spadina TPL (closed on Mondays, unfortunately), and Gilbert is an author (and narcissist) I want to touch upon more on the topic of memoirs (since I'm also probably one of the few men that has actually read Eat, Pray and Love!) - as well as touch on my favourite type of fiction, what I call "confessional fiction."

All these promised blog posts - can I possibly deliver? Stay tuned.

R.I.P.

Wow, it's been a tough week in the CanLit community. First the death of the legendary P.K. Page, who lived a long and prosperous life. And today, the passing of Paul Quarrington. While I discovered P.K. Page much later in my own life - although I quickly recognized her incredible talent - Quarrington has long been a favourite writer. As I said to a colleague today, humour writing is often undervalued, yet Quarrington was a master of the form. My friend H. bought me King Leary way back in the early 1990s, and it's a safe bet that there will never be a better novel about hockey ever written. And I read Whale Music shortly thereafter, and devoured it. I never got the chance to meet the man, but I'll still miss him.

Not much else to report. Was out with one of my dearest friends this evening, someone I've known since high school. There aren't many of those still kicking around! But it was great fun. She admitted that she's not in a good place right now, but we still laughed like mad. "It's because I like you so much," she said about her cheerful disposition, which made me feel all a-flutter. Long-time friends truly are irreplaceable.

Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat: A quickie review

So I've been a good Canada Reads Independently boy: not only did I buy Ray Robertson's Moody Food from my local bookstore this weekend, I also sat and read (in almost one sitting - I was about 20 pages from the end when the lovely A. wanted to watch a movie: the surprisingly delightful Julie & Julia, but of course I'm a sucker for anything starring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams) Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat. As mentioned in a previous post, I cheated and ended up picking this book up from the library - going against my original plan of buying all the Canada Reads Independendly books - but I will poke around for it at my local secondhand shop. (I want to keep them in business too.)

What a wonderful work this is: whimsical, sad, profound, and it captures the not-so-ordinariness of many seemingly ordinary lives. The extraordinariness of ordinariness, in other words. It brings to mind (but just a mite) of Carol Shields: the characters themselves live, on the surface, these somewhat mundane lives, but there's such a richness behind the facade. Just one example: the character of Aunt Lucy, who we're introduced to in the first story, "Yellow Cherries." As narrated by young Francie, Lucy is largely faceless: she's efficient - taking care of Francie at night, making breakfast in the morning, pitting cherries - but she's also seemingly lacking personality. Yet, in "Comfort," which I think is the strongest story in the collection, when the same scenes play out from Lucy's narration/point of view, she reveals depth and sadness and regret. (The classic cliche, I suppose: still waters run deep.) Most of these characters are lonely, which probably explains why it spoke to me: my life is wonderful and full, but sometimes I tend to experience a profound sense of loneliness. It's always a nice confirmation knowing I'm not alone.

I was worried after reading the first couple of stories that the recurring character of the man with the hair hat would be overly "gimmicky" - especially after reading the jacket blurb: "Different to each of them, he makes perfect sense to them all. By turns a figure of forgiveness, of threat, even of love..."; ugh - it eventually played itself out and worked. (I wonder if the story "Chosen," in fact, should have been the final one in the book?)

What really stands out, however, is Snyder's prose. It's luminous and limpid. No trickery, no showing off, but clean, crystalline. Which has got me asking: Carrie, when are you going to publish your novel, as promised in the author blurb?! Well, it only said you were working on it. I guess with four kids, maybe finishing a novel isn't your top priority.

I doubt I'm going to "rank" the Canada Reads Independently books, but if I did, this would be an early favourite. (Note: I'm about 100 pages into Ray Robertson's Moody Food - so far it's good, but not great. The novel is, surprisingly, a mite sloppily written. But the story itself is engaging, so onward we go.)

In other news, I note the death of Robert B. Parker, he of Spenserfame. I was introduced to Parker's writing by my friend H., who during our last year of undergrad went through a detective and mystery writing phase. Many felt Parker was an heir to the writings of the acknowledged masters of the genre, Hammett and Chandler. The early Spenser books are wonderful: expert narrative, tautly written, and also fun as hell. While the later books are still good, something of the magic is missing. But it's a small quibble. Interestingly, Parker also wrote one of my favourite romantic novels of all time: Love and Glory. It's tough to find (outside of Amazon, of course), but well worth it grabbing if you see it secondhand. In his honour, I'm going to read this coming weekend a Spenser book that I bought at the Vic College sale in the fall: Ceremony. It's supposed to be one of the best.

the adaptation

So after my rave of the Denis Johnson book Jesus' Son (I haven't returned the book yet to the library, but instead continue to steal away a few moments here and there to re-read various passages; I don't want it to leave the apartment just yet), I naturally wanted to see the film. While obviously it isn't as near the genius of the book, it's pretty damn good! The director, Alison Maclean (a Canadian!) has created something not only faithful to the source material - not always an easy feat (cue up the pretty dreadful Witches of Eastwick as Exhibit A) - particularly with respect to the book's episodic nature, it even managed to bring something fresh: she truly captured F.H.'s inherent innocence and goofiness. Of course I was disappointed that my favourite story, The Other Man, didn't make the cinematic cut, and the film drifts a mite about halfway through, but these seem like minor quibbles. Oh, and an additional treat: to have Denis Johnson himself in the film! And not just some throwaway cameo, but playing Terrance Weber, the guy with the knife in his eye! Sweet.

In other news, it's felt like a long week, largely because I had a deadline for a freelance piece due today. Naturally I should have written the damn thing during the holidays - especially with the main interview fresh in my head (I don't tape record my interviews, but rely on my notes and memory) - but, as usual, I left it to the 11th hour. I'd like to understand why I still procrastinate on the majority of my journalism work. Or on most of my writing assignments (even my journal, and this blog). Maybe I like the deadline pressures. I probably should have gone into writing for radio, with its daily deadlines.

I'm also planning on participating in Canada Reads 2010: Independently. (I will most likely be a silent observer...) My reasoning is twofold. I figure it's a good opportunity to read some CanLit that I missed (and that are not necessarily on the "grid') but it also gives me a chance to buy these books at my local book retailer(s) (to support them and the publishers/authors of the books). Of course I've already cheated: I saw Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat at the Spadina branch of the TPL, so I grabbed it. (Sorry Carrie!) So, that'll be the first one up for me.

Short and precise

Reading Rose-coloured's recent thoughts on the film Up in the Air, where she eventually brings Denis Johnson's collection of stories from the book Jesus' Son into the conversation, brought to mind the mid-1990s. Why? Simple: Jesus' Son was once a proud tenant of my bookshelf. It was the original paperback, with the wonderful black cover. Yet, despite its occupancy, I never read the book. More scarily, I can't exactly remember why I didn't read it, and how it came to disappear from my shelf. To the best of my recollection, I think I lent it to a work colleague, who never ended up returning it. I can't say that I blame him: now that I've finally read the book, I too probably would have made off with it.

Jesus' Son has long been a book that has been in my consciousness - it just hasn't been in my actual brain. I had, naturally, heard the great things said about it - phrases like "a modern masterpiece" tend to get thrown away in discussion of the book - but I usually look toward my well-read friends as guides. My friend H. claimed that it was one of the five best books he had ever read. Another friend also said it was unforgettable, to the extent he read it twice in two days to help him not forget it. It's one of those titles that, over the past couple of years, I look for when I'm browsing secondhand book stores. I never could find it, however, which perhaps also attests to its legacy: once in a reader's possession, it remains a treasured companion. I ended up taking my copy out of the TPL, and, after spending Friday and Saturday reading it (I could have probably read it in one sitting, but I wanted to spread it out over a couple of days, to better fully take in the stories), I'm even more determined to find my own copy. Yes, this book is pretty much perfect.

"Spare" tends to be the word ascribed to Johnson's prose, but I think I prefer the word economical. His phrasing is precise and often lyrical, but there's also a wonderful rawness, a hardness, about it. For example, I love this sentence from the story "The Other Man":

"I'm sure we were all feeling blessed on this ferryboat among the humps of very green - in the sunlight almost coolly burning, like phosphorus - islands, and the water of inlets winking in the sincere light of day, under a sky as blue and brainless as the love of God, despite the smell, the slight, dreamy suffocation, of some kind of petroleum-based compound used to seal the deck's seams."

Powerhouse! He's also fair and generous with his characters: yes, many of them live on the fringes, but there's a genuine caring and honesty about them all. These are stories that will inhabit me for a while.

I should probably break up these male authors I've been reading of late with some female writers. (I've also started reading the Tim Winton book The Turning, but I'm not planning on reading it through straight; the stories are overlapping, but I don't get a sense there's a narrative arc that requires me to read it like a novel.) There's a few in my reading queue: Atwood's Year of the Flood, Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook, Jane Austen's Emma. I'll make my decision this evening.

What's not to like about the library?

A quick shout out to Martha Baillie and her wonderful book, The Incident Report, which I finished this evening. (I should also probably apologize to her: I should have read this book in one sitting, considering its diminutive size, but it took me three days to read because of other commitments. It hasn't been a great stretch of personal reading since I went back to work this week. But I'm slowly getting back up to speed.) Perhaps the best praise I can provide this work is that I want to meet Miriam Gordon, the seemingly whimsical employee of the Toronto Public Library who "narrates" the book. I use quotation marks since there's no real narrative, but a wonderful series of vignettes - some running several pages (but rarely more than two), others a few sentences, most a few paragraphs - that eventually cohere into a story. The technique is ideal - it captures the often disparate nature, sometimes chaotic and confusing world, of the public service librarian. Yet, there's enough there to give shape to the characters: the various patrons (including the "regulars"), her co-worker Nila, her lover Janko. It's also made me think about making a trip to to Allan Gardens - but not until the spring when I can cycle there (although it's probably quite lovely in the winter).

And hey, what's not to like about a book that makes heroes out of librarians and library workers? (This copy of the book belongs to the TPL's Malvern branch. Might as well give a shout out to it.)

Let's face facts: I like whimsey.

Roth and his prose

No real reason to post this except that I copied it down the other day. But I find it quite apt to my own life and experiences. It's from Philip Roth's Sabbath Theater:

"The goofiness you must get yourself into to get where you have to go, the extent of the mistakes you are required to make! If they told you beforehand about all the mistakes, you'd say no, I can't do it, you'll have to get somebody else, I'm too smart to make all those mistakes. And they would tell you, we have faith, don't worry, and you would say no, no way, you need a much bigger schmuck than me, but they repeat they have faith that you are the one, that you will evolve into a colossal schmuck more conscientiously than you can possibly begin to imagine, you will mistakes on a scale you can't even dream of now - because there is no other way to reach the end."

Jumbling thoughts

Much on my mind tonight, and no way do I have the mental stamina to make proper sense of it all to make me sound even semi-coherent. So just a few random, disjointed thoughts:

- Even I'm impressed with my preparedness for tomorrow. I'm determined to get into a weekday routine that involves a morning run on the track, so that involves some strategic planning. Namely, ensuring my lunch is packed and ready to go, but tomorrow it means bringing provisions for the week: seven-grain bread and almond butter to make myself a quickie breakfast at work in the kitchen (I found out today the toaster is broken, sadly), orange juice (in a water bottle), and some toothpaste and a toothbrush (which I can leave at the gym as I rented a locker for the four-month duration of my membership; I'm also bringing some shirts and shorts to store in my locker). If all goes well, I should be out the door by 7:00 a.m. and on the track by around 7:20.

- Though no longer much of a hockey fan, I have the World Junior Hockey Championship on the tube, but really only keeping one eye on it. I'm mostly catching up on some magazine and Sunday NYTimes reading, including this interesting piece on sex and major male American authors. I'm going to write more on this topic at a future date, particularly since Philip Roth, one of the main "protagonists" of this piece, has been much on my mind of late - including his sex scenes. (Hockey update: it's in sudden-death overtime. Fun game. Ah, game over: the Americans have beaten the mighty Canadians. So on goes the music - Schubert, I think, on this cold winter night.)

- While reading the obituaries in today's Globe and Mail, I came up with the germ of an idea for a narrative that has me excited. Stay tuned! I need to remind myself: 300 to 400 words a day...

- Microsoft strikes again! I was quite excited to give the Toronto Public Library's Online Downloads a try. After all, if I'm going to be keeping to a strict running schedule, I'll need plenty to listen to on my iPod Nano. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about listening to a book online, but I figure it's worth a shot. Unfortunately, after downloading the necessary software and "borrowing" a couple of books (Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Shore and Richard Russo's A Bridge of Sighs) and getting frustrated about why it wasn't working, I discovered that the format (WMA) is not Mac compatible. So now I'm in search of audiobooks in mp3 format that I can actually listen to on my ipod. Very frustrating. (There's certainly a lot of Arthur Conan Doyle available. Can anybody offer up a recommendation? I've never read any Sherlock Holmes, yet it sounds like it could be ideal running accompaniment.)

"You should read this author. You'll like him"

About a year and a half ago, my friend R. brought over a book as an apartment-warming gift: Tim Winton's The Turning. He had told me about this book a few years back and how much he loved it. Naturally, he figured I'd adore it too. I had heard a lot about Winton but had never read him, and appreciated R.'s gesture in buying me one of his favourite books. I had a couple of other books on the go at the time, so I didn't end up picking it up for about a month.

Now I had half-a-feeling that the Winton book would be tough for me. For one, according to the back-cover blurb, the stories were "set in small-town Western Australia." That was an immediate red flag: while I do try my best to read things outside of my comfort zone, I'll admit that I've always struggled with stories based solely in rural settings. It's a bias, for sure, but a bias nonetheless that is difficult for me to overcome. (I guess that's the inherent nature of a bias...) Moreover, it's a book of short stories, albeit "overlapping," which is also not my default reading pleasure. I much prefer the full-length novel - something I can truly sink my teeth into. Still, this was a gift, and my friend R. is a learned and curious reader, so I was willing to unshackle my natural inclinations to ignore this type of work and give it a shot. More important, interesting and well-wrought characters and stories should be interesting and well-wrought regardless of the setting, yes?

Well, I only made it to page 19 (the book mark is still there), so not even two complete stories. I figured my mood at the time wasn't right for this book, so I put it down, determined to give it another go later in the year. However a whole slew of other books got in the way, so the Winton was left to gather dust on my "to read" shelf. R. asked me a couple of months after giving me the book whether I had read it and enjoyed it, and felt the need to come clean and said that I tried it but just "couldn't get a handle on it." I then admitted my struggles with books set outside urban areas (I think I might have used the phrase "in the bush"), but that I would eventually read it.

Anyway I was out at R.'s last night - we brought over a wonderful late harvest Riesling along with some cheese, pears and apples - and we got to talking about the Philip Roth book, Sabbath's Theater, I had just finished about 30 minutes before arriving at his place. I was waxing (probably not very eloquently though) on how wonderful the book was - Tier A Roth, which in my eyes is Tier A literature. To my surprise, R. admitted that he didn't much like Roth! "So now we're even!" I said, recounting my struggles with the Winton. When we thought about it some more, it made some sense that we didn't like each other's favourite authors: despite our friendship and apparent similarities, we don't have shared sensibilities when it comes to literature.

But we did end up striking a deal: that I would give a more earnest attempt at the Winton if he would give Roth a fighting chance. I'm picking one of the easy Roth books for him: The Ghost Writer. It's the one I tend to recommend for those who have never read Roth since it's fairly short, tightly written, and doesn't meander off into crazy flights of prose and narrative as other Roth novels are wont to do. (Of course that's one of the things I love about his work, but recognize it's not something others tend to enjoy.) It's a pure pleasure from beginning to end, at least for me. (My friend H. told me he reads this book every second year, and he's not the biggest Roth fan.)

So it's onwards to Tim Winton's The Turning! Once I start and finish Martha Baillie's The Incident Report first, of course. It's due next week at the library.

Hello 2010!

So a new year has begun. Farewell 2009! You were good to me, and I hope the good continues into 2010. The year ended nicely (and predictably): eating a well-prepared medium-rare steak (it was a nice night to BBQ), quaffing a $50 bottle of a California Zinfandel, enjoying a post-dinner glass of single malt scotch while watching Fellini's wonderful 8 1/2 (ok, maybe that last part wasn't as predictable). We missed the official ringing in of the new year, however, as the lovely A. was intent on watching the end of Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" on MuchMoreMusic's Retro Dance Party. No biggie: we still opened up a bottle of (faux) champers and toasted a new calendar for the wall.

We also created a list of resolutions, although I prefer the term "goals I hope to achieve." Basically, there were three, all revolving, unsurprisingly, around the theme of self improvement (which tends to be my theme every year; who knows if I'm actually getting closer to a personal nirvana!). I'm doing these from memory (since I left the sheet at A.'s house):

1. To make better use of my spare time. I tried to qualify this by adding items like using my free and available time to write more often (and look, a blog post so early in the new year, so I'm trying!), not rushing home straight from work but to take a few more seconds out of my day to sit at a cafe to read, or to browse the city streets, to see a film, etc. (That's actually another one of my unstated goals: to see more films this year, including catching up some long-neglected classics.) I hope this goal will lead to another one: making better use of this wonderful city I live in and its cultural amenities.

2. To play more guitar and learn how to use the program GarageBand. I've left my acoustic guitar on its stand unattended for far too long. One reason is that I desperately need to buy new strings! I'm going to buy some today and get cracking on this goal. I'm not a great player, by any stretch, but I do enjoy fooling around with chords, and conjuring melodies and lyrics.

3. To be more honest and open, both with myself and my friends. This is a tough one to properly explain, but it essentially means being more self-reflective, to really examine the things that make me tick, including what makes me happy (and sad). I might use this blog for some of that self reflection, so stay tuned! But I want to use it primarily to help fuel some of my creative writing. The second part, to be more honest and open with friends, will be put up to the test tomorrow when I go out with a friend who I've been resisting seeing - I want to explain why I haven't been making of an effort to stay in touch (it's a long story, but it involves her cutting out early the last time I saw her to see a guy who I think has been using her; I want to have the kind of friendship with her that allows me to be honest and direct with her).

Actually, that third resolution was also tested yesterday morning and early afternoon when the lovely A. and I had a chat about her difficult year and my lack of understanding of how tough it really was. It revealed some painful truths: in a nutshell (again, the story is way too long to recite here, not to mention I feel I need more time to process it and ruminate on it), that I have a tendency to be too selfish, that I'm not as giving as I should be. It was a tough, sad, but necessary eyeopener. Which basically adds one more goal to the mix: to discover selflessness, even to see if I have the means within me.

I'm looking forward to an emotional and exciting 2010!