Katrina Onstad's How Happy to Be: A mini-review

There was an online review - and I apologize, I'm not much in the mood to seek it out (lazy city!) - that compared Katrina Onstad to Nick Hornby. How apt, then, that I read Hornby's Juliet, Naked just prior to reading Onstad's How Happy to Be. And it's true, there are comparisons to be made between the two. Both write in an easy, breezy and accessible (in a very good way) style. Both also write sharp, snappy dialogue, and there's an overall attentiveness and care to the craft of writing. In short, both are wonderful and natural writers. They are very easy to like.

Like most Hornby books I've read - with the exception of High Fidelity, which still remains a touchstone for me (although that might also be because I love the movie so much, although the circumstances of reading the book - on a long-haul Paris-to-Toronto flight - are also memorable) - Juliet, Naked was fun and entertaining, but largely forgettable. It had the requisite (stock?) Hornby characters, who function largely as caricatures. Moreover, I'm not sure he really "gets" women - his female characters seem to be one dimensional - but my more-astute female friends are more than welcome to disagree with me. It was good to spend 300 pages with Hornby, but I was also ready to move on when done.

I hadn't intended to dip into the Onstad this past week, but was instead prepared to read Wild Geese as my next Canada Reads Independently book. But it was a whim pick up last Friday, when I realized I had a long-ish commute ahead of me and no book in my bag for the trip. I read the first 20 to 30 pages on said commute, and thought, "Geez, there's no way I'm going to finish this." It didn't seem very serious or astute: did I really want to read a novel that centred around a boring national newspaper with a self-absorbed and unappealing narrator that covered the deadly dull topic of popular culture? It immediately reminded me of my attempt last year to read Russell Smith's How Insensitive - and a poor attempt it was, as I only made it through 40 pages. My head space just isn't into novels centred around un-selfaware, immature and shallow twentysomethings. I lived that life a decade ago, and it's not something I really wish to revisit.

Ah yes, but the narrator Maxime isn't in her 20s, but is in her early 30s - quelle difference! In truth, I decided to persevere because it was a Sunday morning where I was not in my own apartment and near my bookshelf, and thus had nothing else to read. I was trapped. And then, miraculously, about 60 or so pages in, I got hooked. The novel moved away from the world of pop culture - it started to mock it as well, which always helps - and the navel-gazing realm of the Toronto newspaper media (which I was once part of, albeit mostly peripherally) and began to develop more depth and complexity. If it wasn't for the gold medal hockey game that afternoon, I would have finished this book in one sitting (save for that original Friday commute).

As other reviewers have remarked, this is a coming-of-age story - and it's true, one can experience epiphanies in their 30s (I certainly did; I still experience them, in fact). This is a novel that perfectly captures the early (pre-twitter, pre-iPhone, pre-9/11) 21st century: the dot.com boom is about to go bust, and most of us (I include myself here) are avoiding commitment of any sort. Maxime is drifting through life: she hates her job, she's lost her long-term boyfriend, and she hasn't yet confronted her childhood "demons" (I put that in quotes because they aren't really demons, but issues). The novel becomes a story about self discovery and, ultimately, redemption.

This is not a perfect book by any stretch. (What book is?!) The narrative, particularly as it hits the halfway point, becomes overly conventional, and the ending is pat and predictable. There are scenes toward the end which shout "Here's the catharsis!" Still, I kept reading - and, really, I hate to nitpick on matters of plot and structure since I'm an amateur and hardly one to judge - and wanted to know how it would all unfold. I "got" Maxime, maybe because I could understand her dilemmas, her struggles. Ultimately, however, what makes it shine is Onstad's prose: she's a natural, seemingly effortless, writer. It's easy to forgive and forget certain plot contrivances when the writing is skillful and fun.

I'm not sure when I'm going to read Wild Geese. I read the first few pages and wondered if it's up my alley. I may read a couple of books in the interim. In the end, getting through four of the five Canada Reads Independently books feels somewhat like an accomplishment. I'll pat myself on the back.

Ray Smith's Century: A mini-review

The great thing about this Canada Reads Independently challenge (is that the right word?) is that it exposes me to books that I normally would never been have aware of. This is certainly true of Ray Smith's Century, originally published way back in 1986 by Stoddart, but republished by Biblioasis last year as part of its Renditions Reprint Series. (My apologies to Biblioasis as I ended up reading the Stoddart version, borrowed from the library. I couldn't find the reprint at my local bookstore.) Not only was I not aware of this book, I've never heard of the author Smith. (After reading Century, and trying to find out a bit more about the author - there isn't even a wikipedia entry on him - I have this picture in my head of Smith as this ultra-reclusive writer, a little bit of Salinger in him. Sorry, Ray, if I've got you pegged all wrong.) But I suppose that's the great thing about being an inveterate reader: there's always going to be a writer yet to be discovered.

Reading this on the heels of Bellow's Augie March, it was, at first, a mite jarring. Unlike Bellow, who delights in wonderfully long, lyrical and often ribald sentences, Smith's style is by comparison much more spare, direct. But upon completion of the opening story, "In the Night, Heinrich Himmler...," I was seriously hooked. For one, I've always been attracted to works where the unseen writer introduces himself - in Smith's case, subtly - and toys with the reader and the notion of artifice. He admits that the character of Jane Seymour might be nothing more than a figment of his imagination: "I have not managed to give Jane flesh, though I think the nape of her neck was not too badly done."

I won't bother to recount the entire "narrative" of this book - and narrative is purposely in quotes since this is not a conventional novel. In fact, is it even a novel? The first part of the book, Family, consists of four linked stories dealing with the Seymour family: the children Jane and Ian, the parents Bill and Gwen. (Is Seymour a nod to Salinger and his own linked stories of the Glass family?) Death permeates the stories: one suicide, one tragic, and the other by cancer. There's a wonderful complexity to these characters, particularly the parents in the last two stories: for one, despite a long shared life together, we discover that Bill really doesn't know his wife at all. This struck me as particularly perceptive: even though we often share our lives within various relationships, many of us often retain a "secret," hidden life that we don't share even with our closest loved ones. We're all mysterious cats.

The last story in this section, "Serenissima," revolving around the wife Gwen, was absolutely devastating for me. It was wonderfully measured, exquisitely executed and contained a shocking scene of humiliation. It's perhaps one of the best single stories I've read in a long time. (I finished the book a few days ago and waited to write this mini review, to see if that particular story would still resonate. It does.) The book is worth reading for this one story alone.

The second section of the book, The Continental, was more puzzling. Despite sharing certain themes, there doesn't seem to be any relation to the first part. Unless, of course, I totally missed something (which is always a possibility). It tells the story of American Kenniston Thorson, first in late 19th century Paris, then 30 years later on a train rumbling through Europe. Thorson is an odd character: his name is lost to history, yet he also seems to float among noteworthy events and be involved with many important historical figures. It's a perplexing story, but fascinating nonetheless. 

In the end, however, I didn't quite understand its inclusion as I couldn't intellectually - and emotionally - link this latter section with the first. (I plan on reading some reviews of the book to give me some additional perspective. Perhaps it's simply an unsophisticated reading on my part.) Still, because I found the first half of this book so strong and compelling, I didn't feel cheated that I was confused with this section. Morever, taken on its own, the Thorson tale is enjoyable.

Ultimately, the real strength of this work is Smith's assertive and limpid (a word he actually uses at least three times!) prose. There's a confidence in his style, a writer who's totally in command of the language. Quite a contrast from my reaction to the Ray Moody book - while Moody can certainly spin a good yarn, Smith's sentences shimmer. While I didn't plan on rating the Canada Reads books, I will admit that it's going to be tough to top my experience of reading this stunning book.

Family day fun

Happy Family Day! (As somebody at work said to me the other day, "Brought to you by sex." I think she read it on a greeting card.) Unfortunately, it seems most of my family is travelling - namely, the lovely A., who is in Cuba for the week - so I'm spending the day without family. I couldn't have swung the trip because of my lack of vacation time, although the excursion was never really on offer to me: it was a long-planned trip with a friend of hers. Besides, as she said to me, "I don't see you as an all-inclusive resort-type guy." She's probably right, although I'm sure I could be tempted by the sunshine, warmth and mojitos. So my Family Day will be spent mostly on the couch, surrounded by a book, long-put-off magazine articles, and perhaps a film or two on DVD. Accompanied, of course, by the only family member of mine seemingly not out of the country: my cat. I'll toast the day when the sun sets with a glass of Irish whiskey.

So it seems I'm struggling to post as often I'd like on this blog. And writing more in general. Without getting into too much detail - I promised this blog would not be a confessional about my personal life - it's been an emotional couple of weeks. It's sapped much of the energy I'd use for personal pursuits, like writing. Even reading has been difficult: my one-book-a-week pace was broken. But things have calmed, the sails are no longer flapping in the wind. I've found some emotional ballast. 

Much of this emotional turbulence can actually be summed up in a line from Saul Bellow's The Adventures of Augie March, which I just finished this morning. "An independent fate, and love too - what confusion!" 

My reading history with the great Bellow is spotty. I read my first Bellow, More Die of Heartbreak, when I was around 18 or 19. I can't remember what compelled me to pick that book up: my guess is that John Updike, who I was reading quite a bit of at the time, probably made a reference to Bellow in an interview, and figured I should read his work. I don't remember much about Heartbreak, except that I read it during my breaks on my summer job at a golf course and genuinely enjoyed it (although I probably didn't "get" it all). I then read Seize the Day, which was short, powerful and wonderful. After which, I remember telling a friend, "Bellow is my favourite writer!" Hyperbole, to be sure, considering I'd only read two of his books, and had yet to tackle the real masterworks. I ended up buying three more of his books - and don't ask my why this particular detail is remembered - at Village Book Store, the fantastic (but now long-departed) secondhand book store on Queen St. run by Marty Ahvenus: Henderson the Rain King, To Jerusalem and Back, and The Adventures of Augie March. 

At this point, I imagine I knew Augie March was one of the classics, so that was going to be the Bellow book I would next tackle. To that end, I brought it with me on a train ride to Montreal. (Again, not sure why I remember these details, but they are emblazoned.) Unfortunately, even though it has one of the great opening sentences in 20th-century literature ("I am an American, Chicago born - Chicago, that somber city - and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent"), I don't think I got much farther than 20 pages. The writing was too dense and impenetrable for my still-developing 19 year-old brain. I figured I would eventually try again, and carried that particular paperback copy with me as I moved apartments over the years, but I never did pick it up. I eventually ditched it during one of my periodic book purges, along with the other Bellow books in my collection. 

Fast forward 20 years, and now suddenly I "get" Bellow, especially now that I've read the three acknowledged classics in the last six months: Herzog, Humboldt's Gift and, finally, The Adventures of Augie March. In some ways, these three books blend together for me, largely because their narrators share many similarities: namely, a propensity for wild, wonderful and dazzling semantic pyrotechnics. I think it's safe to say that nobody writes sentences like Bellow: they often have flash to spare, yet they're also rooted in a sometimes-coarse street vernacular. He can also be hilariously funny and rowdy. It takes some time and patience - at least it did for me - to dial in to Bellow's style and sensibility, but once locked in you're hooked. 

Ultimately, however, what hooks me more than the language is the general tone and melancholy that seems to surround the characters in his books. Yes, many of the characters are painted broad and wide, even larger than life, but the narrators themselves seem to be weighed down by endless self reflection and, often, disappointment. They tend to one catharsis to another, and rarely learn from their mistakes. In fact, at least in Augie March's case, they will repeat these same mistakes. They're flawed, probably much like Bellow himself (the man did marry five times, after all), but admirable nonetheless. There's also a genuine optimism that abounds in his works, that despite all the struggles and conflicts, there's still a hopeful jauntiness. 

Without making too big a deal, and for fear of overstating matters, I see a lot of myself in these books. That I live, for the most part, a happy and content life, full of good humour and surrounded by interesting people. Yet, I can't help escape from a seemingly chronic state of melancholy, that there's something more out there, something that's missing. It doesn't weigh me down nor do I suffer from depression (I tend to refer to it as a harmless case of the "blues"), but it's a constant presence. It's there, although perhaps it's also something I welcome from time to time. It helps to ground me.

Ok, enough about me. I'll be back on the Canada Reads Independently wagon this week, hopefully reading two of them back to back (I took them from the library): Ray Smith's Century and Martha Ostenso's Wild Geese. Reviews to follow.

Ray Robertson's Moody Food: A quickie review

Last week wasn't a banner week for me in terms of reading and writing. The writing part is obvious: I haven't posted in a week. The reading part is less obvious, but suffice to say I struggled to find a book I could sink my teeth into. Maybe I needed a week to simply veg. It was a busy one at work - yes, let's use that as my excuse (lame as it may be). (I did, however, read Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed, the much-anticipated sequel to her mega-hit Eat, Pray, Love. Yes, Virginia, I'm probably not the intended audience for this book. But I was a fan of Gilbert's writing before she struck it rich, largely because of this piece she wrote for the NYTimes, which has everything a humour article should have (ie., yuks). And I read Eat, Pray, Love while I was in the midst of my own break-up, so it had definite resonance. Anyway I will eventually write more about this book and Gilbert, hopefully in my long-promised post about memoirs. Particularly since I'm halfway through another sort-of memoir: Michael Greenberg's Beg, Borrow or Steal - what's with these three word titles?! - which is such a great, fun read, particularly if you've ever tried to make it as a freelance writer.)

I've never been accused of being a decent reviewer. I love my books and films, without a doubt, but that doesn't necessarily translate into being thoughtful in words when I'm done. This truth is particularly evident when I read insightful and incisive reviews by others. (For example, Kerry Clare's more thorough review of Hair Hat put mine to shame!) But I'm ok with this because the reviews that I conjure in my head are enough for me. Something seems to get lost along the way when I try to convey the jumble in my head to the tips of my typing fingers. Put another way: "What we have here is a failure to communicate."

All that preamble aside, I do want to write a few words about Ray Robertson's Moody Food, the second book I've read for Canada Reads Independently. I had high hopes for this book based on the backcover blurb: "... is a critically acclaimed sex, drugs, rock'n'roll-suffused modern tragedy." Sign me up! There aren't enough rock-and-roll novels, after all (although my friend P. is trying to get one he wrote published). Not to mention I'm fascinated by the novel's setting: Toronto's Yorkville in the mid-1960s, when hippies and folk music ruled the neighbourhood. (I can barely stand to walk through Yorkville these days, except when I visit the Pilot on a Saturday afternoon for jazz.)

There is certainly much to enjoy in this novel. It has a fairly strong narrative thrust. The book is narrated by Bill Hansen, a charming and idealistic hippie who works at what sounds like the coolest bookstore in the world (located on Harbord St. no less). He's somewhat adrift until he meets Thomas Graham, who introduces the impressionable Hansen to roots-based music. Eventually the two, along with Hansen's girlfriend Christine, form a band called The Duckhead Secret Society (Hansen is the drummer, even though he's never played drums before), first playing locally before they're "discovered," after which they set out on tour through the U.S. on their way to L.A. to record an album. Hansen and Graham, however, eventually get hooked on cocaine, and the two veer toward self-destruction, all the way Graham is working on music that he hopes will transcend the time.

This book is a proverbial page-turner, to be sure, propelled forward by the narrative. The journey, beginning with the Toronto scenes and proceeding through various towns and dives through the U.S., is fun and engaging. This is a dialogue-heavy book, which makes it accessible and easily digestible. But for me, there was just something ... missing. There's not time spent on introspection or reflection: more like "this happened, and then this happened, and then this happened." I love plot, of course, but I like something more than just plot. My real beef however is with the writing itself, which I found fairly sloppy and clumsy in spots. (Was this deliberate, I wonder? Maybe someone can enlighten me.) It's been a long time since I read so many run-on and jumbled sentences. This book could have used a strong editorial hand.

But hey, what the hell do I know? I'd recommend this book since I found it a frolic, but it doesn't have near the same depth as Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat. (It's also one that will not take a permanent place on my book shelf. It's up for grabs, basically, for anybody that wants to borrow it - on "long term loan.")

I'm still not sure what Canada Reads Independently book I will next take up. I couldn't find either Ray Smith's Century or the Katrina Onstad in my local bookshop - and I couldn't remember the title of the fifth book nominated - so I'm sort-of in a holding pattern. This has been a fun exercise, and one I will continue. Despite my less-than insightful reviewing.

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.

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.