Three Comics: Scheherazade, Dolltopia and Re-Gifters

(I read these books a few weeks ago and haven't been able to tell you about them yet. So before even more time passes and I forget the details, here's a catching up post.)

Scheherazade: Comics About Love, Treachery, Mothers and Monsters is an anthology of comics by women edited by Megan Kelso (of Squirrel Mother fame). She explains in the introduction that this anthology "doesn't have a theme but a role model. Queen Scheherazade, the heroine of One Thousand and One Nights, was smart and inventive and a teller of well-made tales. She outwitted the King, cheated death and for 1001 nights, kicked ass with her storytelling chops. This Scheherazade is a celebration of narrative".

Even though I'm quoting from it, I actually disagree with most of the points she makes in the introduction. She says that she doesn't think women have to struggle to be taken seriously in comics anymore - I'm not knowledgeable enough to have an opinion on this, though as a fan I do notice that they seem to be unrepresented. Then she adds that the anthology is meant to prove that the way women tell stories is fundamentally different from the way men do, just like everything else men and women do is done differently - and as celebratory as the intention is, this is a notion I absolutely reject. Hello, James Tiptree, Jr.

But the fact that I disagree with the introduction didn't detract from my enjoyment of the stories. As in any anthology, some were better than others, but overall I very much enjoyed this book. A few highlights: "The Fisherman and the Genie" by Andrice Arp, which is a retelling of a story from The One Thousand and One Nights; "Fanya Needs to Know" by Leela Corman, in which a young girl, after an incident with a neighbour, keeps asking questions until she's given answers about birth, life and death; and "Shit" by Ariel Schrag, about a girl who's invited to go on a boating trip by a friend, and is mortified to be told that she needs to go to a different bathroom for "number two", meaning that everyone will know when she needs to go. This one was a bit more, er, scatological than the kind of story I normally enjoy, but it was also hilarious and mortifying, and it captured the awkwardness and the embarrassment kids can feel incredibly well.

Like the best anthologies, Scheherazade introduced me to several authors whose books I now must seek out. Also, this would be a perfect choice for the Women Unbound challenge! Some pretty pictures:



Dolltopia by Abby Denson is a book I might have avoided simply because the cover is Too Bright, and that would have been an incredibly silly thing to do. The reason why I didn't deprive myself was because Martin Millar said it was good, and I enjoy his books and his blog so much that I'll read anything he tells me to.

Dolltopia is a fantasy about a group of sentient dolls who get tired of the roles humans force them into and decide to form their own society. This might sound silly, but this is actually a lovely story about having the courage to be who you are and not who other people expect you to be. Plus it's a lot of fun. The style and the sensibility behind this book are unlike anything I've ever read before, and I'll be sure to seek out more books by Abby Denson. A few panels:




Finally, Re-Gifters by Mike Carey, Sonny Liew and Marc Hempel is about Jen Diek Seong, known as Dixie, a girl with such a big crush on her hapkido partner Adam that she uses the money that was supposed to pay for her entrance fee in an important tournament to buy him a fabulous birthday gift. Which gets re-gifted. Repeatedly.

I worry that telling you about this book along with Scheherazade and Dolltopia will make it seem to pale in comparison, simply because the concept isn't as unique as those of the other books. But the truth is is that this was actually my favourite of the three. I loved the characterization; I loved that it tackled issues like racism, cultural assimilation, and the extent to which a tradition like hapkido (a Korean martial art) can help people built a sense of identity; I loved the humour, the artwork, and the fact that the plot surprised me. And I loved seeing Dixie stand up for herself. I had a wonderful time with this book.

Re-Gifters is part of the DC Comics Minx line, which is aimed at teenagers and has brought you (I say "you" and not "us" because sadly I have yet to read it) books like The Plain Janes. I was looking through their site earlier and ended up adding pretty much everything they have to my wishlist.

Art from Re-Gifters:




Other Opinions: Bart's Bookshelf (Re-Gifters)

(Have you posted about any of these books? Leave me your link and I'll be glad to add it here.)

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The Sunday Salon - Life, Work, Letters & Everything

Hello Sunday Saloners. Today I'm going to refrain from apologizing for not having been around more lately. First because you've heard it all before, and secondly because I know everyone has busy lives as well, and that nobody is paying as much attention to the amount of blogging and commenting I do as I am myself.

Still, I'm sad that I haven't been able to read very much at all lately. Part of the reason is the pre-holiday business: writing and posting greeting cards, doing a bit of crafting, ordering gifts, preparing packages for friends and family who live abroad, etc. But there's also the fact that I'm still adjusting to working full-time. It's funny - last year I was studying and working part-time, so in theory I should have had less free time than I do now. But the fact is that I managed to read a lot more. Maybe it was because my schedule was a lot more flexible, and also because I'd sometimes get unexpected bits of reading time. It would happen when, for example, I finished an essay earlier than I had anticipated, or one of my lectures was cancelled. I remember that this happened when I was reading Fingersmith, and suddenly I had two hours to read to my heart's content. I swear, it was just like Christmas.

But despite the difficult adjustment, I'm very much enjoying my new job. I've talked about it a bit on Twitter, but I haven't here, I don't think. I'm working at the archives of a museum, cataloguing the correspondence (about five decades' worth of it) of a writer who passed away some years ago. I have to create an xml entry for each letter, and this entry includes a summary of the content. So I do have to read them all. But I'm very glad that I do, because the work would be a lot more repetitive and less interesting otherwise. It's the human side, the patterns, the narratives, the voices that emerge that make it interesting.

I like the fact that I already have a few favourite correspondents, whose voices I love and whose letters I look forward to. I like guessing at what the relationship between the recipient and the sender was. I even like the fact that, because we don't have the letters the writer herself sent, I only get half of the conversation and have to imagine the rest. It almost makes me want to write an epistolary novel where I could imagine the answers to all the questions I'm left with.

Speaking of which, do you have a favourite epistolary novel you'd recommend? There's 84 Charing Cross Road (not actually a novel, but it counts), of course, and I know of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. But I bet there are plenty of excellent ones I haven't even heard of. If you have a favourite book of actual letters, than I'd love to hear about it as well.

The fact that my reading has slowed down so much means I won't have as many books to post about, and so I'll probably be an intermittent blogger at best between now and Christmas. But I'll still be around as much as possible. Have a great Sunday, everyone!

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43rd Bookworms Carnival - Looking for Submissions

I'll be forever grateful to Anastasia at Bird Brain(ed) Book Blog, who reminded me the other day that I'm scheduled to host the 43rd edition of the Bookworms Carnival. The Bookworms Carnival was one of Dewey's many contributions to the book blogging community, so it means a lot to me that it's still around.

I'll be accepting submissions until the 11th of December, and hope to have the Carnival itself up on Sunday the 13th. And what's the theme, you ask? It's mythology, and here are a few examples of what I'm looking for:



Art by Arthur Rackham
Retellings:

• Any book from the Canongate Myth Series (Girl Meets Boy by Ali Smith, Dream Angus by Alexander McCall Smith, The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood, etc.)

• Any reworking of Arthurian Myth (The Mists of Avalon by Marian Zimmer Bradley, The Once and Future King by T.H. White, Here Lies Arthur by Philip Reeves, etc.)

• Any retelling of Classic, Egyptian, Nordic, Native American, Japanese, Korean, you name it myths (A few more examples: The Firebrand by Marion Zimmer Bradley, Lavinia by Ursula Le Guin, Green Grass, Running Water by Thomas King, etc.)
  

Books based on mythology:
Books that, while not retellings of any particular story, incorporate mythological elements. For example, The Sandman series, American Gods or Odd and the Frost Giants by Neil Gaiman, the Percy Jackson series by Rick Riordan, Monkey Beach by Eden Robinson, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul by Douglas Adams, etc.

Original Sources:
Have you read and reviewed The Odyssey, The Iliad, Gilgamesh, a Nordic saga, etc.? I'd very much welcome your post.

Collections:
Any collection of myths from anywhere in the world would be perfect!

Non-Fiction:
Have you reviewed books by Joseph Campbell, Karen Armstrong, etc? I'd love to be able to include your post.

Poetry, Comics, TV, film, illustrations, etc:
Other formats/media would also be very much appreciated. I'd love to see a post on Ovid's Metamorphosis, for example, or any other mythic poetry. As for comics, I've already mentioned the Sandman series, but there's also Thor by J. Michael Straczynski, Lucifer by Mike Carey, Promethea by Alan Moore, and plenty of others that make wide use of mythology.

As for film or TV, I know this is the Bookworms Carnival, but we're all bookworms by definition, and a post about something else would add some nice variety. So if you want to submit a post on a movie, or on the Merlin series, for example, please go ahead!

Mini-FAQ

Do I have to read a book specifically for the Carnival? Nope!
So I could submit an older post? Yes, older posts are perfectly fine. The Carnival should bring some new readers to your blog, so the post will be new to them anyway.
What do I have to do again? Just e-mail me your submission and I'll take care of the rest.
And then? Then on the 13th of December you drop by for a big mythology lovefest.

I hosted an edition of the Carnival before, in June 2008, and the theme was fairy tales. If you've never participated before, you can click the link for an example of what an edition of the carnival looks like.

And because bribery is awesome, I will, as I did back then, draw a name from among those who submit a post, and the winner gets to pick one of the books reviewed or discussed in the carnival. So please e-mail me at untuneric at gmail dot com with your submission!

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The Optimist's Daughter by Eudora Welty - A Tribute to Dewey

Back in 2008, Dewey and I co-reviewed The Optimist's Daughter by Eudora Welty. We were both doing the Pulitzer Project, and when she noticed that we both planned to read it next, she suggested we discuss it and post the results. This was my very first buddy review with another blogger, but I never actually got around to posting it myself. I misunderstood the date when I was supposed to, and then I was embarrassed to post it late. Isn't that silly? I wish I had told Dewey, so that she could have made one of her sarcastic but not unfriendly comments that never failed to make me laugh at myself and feel so much better - about everything.

It's been a year now that Dewey passed away. For those of you who never had the chance to know her, she was the blogger behind the hidden side of a leaf. I wrote a post about why I thought so highly of her after she passed away, and another one along with Debi, Renay and Chris for BBAW this past September.

I thought it would be a fitting tribute to her to finally post our joint review today - so that those of you who loved her too can remember her along with me, and those who never knew her can get a glimpse of the lovely, thoughtful, intelligent and insightful person that she was:

The Optimist's Daughter begins when Laurel flies from Chicago to New Orleans to be with her father as he recovers from an operation. The recovery doesn't go well, however, and when he passed away Laurel is left alone with Fay, his unpleasant second wife, in the community in which she grew up, full of people who worshipped her father. The story takes place over a short period of of time, during which Laurel is forced to confront all her losses.

Dewey: I found Fay the most extremely self-centered character I’ve seen in literature in a while, but she was just shy of over-the-top. She was as believebly self-centered as it’s possible to make a character, I think, and I admired Welty’s ability to walk that fine line. My second thought is about loss/grief. It was very realistic to me that Laurel’s father’s death triggered renewed grief over her loss of her mother and husband. I think Welty said much else about grief in this novel, too.

Me: I completely agree about Fay. She’s as dislikeable as a character can possibly be without becoming a one-dimensional cartoonish villain, and, like you, I really admire the way Welty managed to maintain that balance.

About halfway through the book, though, I started wondering about Fay. I disliked her from page one and I kept on disliking her right until the end. But we never really find out why the Judge married her, and I found myself wondering if perhaps there wasn’t more to their relationship than what we got to see at the start of the book; if perhaps there wasn’t a hidden side to Fay that only the Judge got to see.

All of Laurel’s friends in Mount Sallus reject Fay, and she undoubtedly doesn’t deserve more than their contempt, but I also wondered if their reaction would have been any different if she had been likeable. Wouldn’t the fact that she was a stranger, that she was a woman marrying a man much older than herself, have been enough to make them reject her?

This brings me to another point: I really liked the way the book portrayed small communities and the good and the bad that can come out of them. When Laurel and Fay return from New Orleans, the Judge’s house is full of people offering their support, and there’s warmth and solidarity and genuine concern. But there’s also unintentional cruelty, especially directed at Laurel. At some point somebody tells her that “it is a good thing that she has nobody else to lose” or something to that effect, and isn’t that a terrible thing to say? They also seem to be dismissive and even a bit contemptuous when it comes to Laurel’s life and work in Chicago. I thought that there was a bit of a “we’ll accept you and love you and support you, but only if you behave according to our norms” vibe behind the whole thing.

I also agree that this novel says a lot about grief and loss. There’s a quote I wrote down because I thought it nailed down a lot of what the book was about for me:

The mystery in how little we know of other people is no greater than the mystery of how much, Laurel thought.

After her father’s death, when the people of Mount Sallus are reminiscing about him, Laurel compares her own version of her father to the stories that are being told, and they don’t always match. I think that she realizes that there are several versions of her father, and even though she's his daughter, and therefore closer to him than most, she can’t exactly claim that her own version is more accurate than anyone else’s. I think that this adds another dimension to her loss – realizing that no matter how close you are to a person, there are always sides to them that you don’t get to see, and once they are gone, you will never get to see those sides of them at all. And of course, if this is true of her father, then it is also true of her mother and of her husband. I think that this realization could have made her feel that she was losing the people she had loved all over again, or losing more of them than she had known before. Does this make sense?

Dewey: About Fay: Yes, I think that your quote also relates to why the Judge married her. We don’t know anything more about her than we get to see through Laurel’s point of view. We never get the Judge’s point of view. So we only have the mystery of how little we know about her. And I agree that if she had been a likable person, she still might have had troubles being accepted in what seemed like a very insular social group in a very insular town. No one would have been good enough for the Judge! No one would have been Becky.

Another thing I wanted to mention to you about Fay is that she said something odd to Laurel, that she would never have gone off and left people who cared about her like Laurel had when she went to Chicago. But that was when she was still lying to Laurel about having any family. Later, when her family showed up, I remembered that and thought, “But she did go off and leave people behind!” I’m not sure what Welty was trying to say with that. The one negative judgment Fay can find to make against Laurel is something she herself has done. What does that say about her?

About the unintentional cruelty at the memorial service: I find in real life that someone, maybe several someones, will always say the wrong thing, something appalling that you just can’t believe they said. People feel so at a loss for what to say in those situations that they sometimes blurt out something completely inappropriate. Sometimes they even know it and feel sorry later.

About there being different versions of the Judge: Yes, I thought that went right along with the idea that you only know your own version of someone based on your limited experience with them. And when Laurel was going through her mother’s papers, she didn’t read the letters from the Judge. So she didn’t take the chance to see another version of her mother, to see her mother through the Judge’s point of view. I think this book is so much about point of view. She never gets to see her husband grow older, never gets to see him through her own changed point of view, the point of view of a long-married woman. When Fay’s family shows up and we have the chance to know more about Fay through them, it doesn’t really happen.

And I think the bread board was a symbol of point of view. Laurel has only ever seen the bread board in one role: the well-kept, smooth board her father made and her mother used only for bread and kept “as clean as a dish.” She’s furious about the version of the bread board she sees after it’s been in Fay’s care: something beat up and splintered, something Fay used as a surface on which crack open walnuts with a hammer. Laurel wants to take it away with her and restore it to its original state. Fay at first says no, doesn’t she? And then she say she doesn’t care, which in turn leaves Laurel not caring, either. I think the bread board represents several things. I think it represents the Judge, and how well-cared-for he was with Becky, and how sick he became once Becky was gone and he was married to Fay. The same could be said about the house. And I think it represents the different versions there are of everyone, and how unwilling Laurel is to see any other version of people but her own.

Me: You said, “I find in real life that someone, maybe several someones, will always say the wrong thing, something appalling that you just can’t believe they said. People feel so at a loss for what to say in those situations that they sometimes blurt out something completely inappropriate. Sometimes they even know it and feel sorry later.”

That’s a very good point, and it makes sense that that was the case in the book. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard it must be to come up with the “right” thing to say. I also like your thoughts on what the bread board symbolizes. And yes, Laural seems very much unwilling to see other sides of people – your example of the Judge’s letters is a perfect one.

(I had almost forgotten that The Optimist's Daughter was very much about death, grief and loss - which, sadly, makes it extra fitting. Miss you, Dewey.)

Other reviews:
Paperback Reader
A Fondness for Reading

(Did I miss yours?)

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Tales of Mystery & the Macabre by Elizabeth Gaskell

Tales of Mystery & the Macabre collects nine Gothic short stories and novellas by Elizabeth Gaskell, most of which were originally published in Charles Dickens’ weekly Household Words, and then collected in Curious, If True and The Grey Woman and Other Tales.

Let’s get this out of the way: this is Victorian Gothic wonderfulness and I loved it with all my heart. These are strange and atmospheric stories of crimes, ghosts, curses and premonitions. Yet Gaskell’s customary themes and social concerns (or so I hear—this was my first time reading her, though certainly not my last) are still very much present. What particularly appealed to me was that most of these stories showed a clear sympathy for outcasts; for what happened outside the norms of Victorian conduct; for women left in positions of vulnerability, for those who suffered the effects of poverty, for the lonely and the unprotected.

I think I'll start by telling you about my least favourite, “The Squire’s Story”. Amy reviewed it last week and was not a fan, and I agree that as a piece of fiction, it hasn’t aged nearly as well as the rest of the collection. But I still found it interesting as a historical document. The reason why the story feels pointless today is because certain things—certain crimes, in particular—no longer surprise or shock us nearly as much as they did the Victorians.

“The Squire’s Story” plays with Victorian fears about the growth and inevitable depersonalization of communities. In a world filled with increasingly large cities, opportunities for social mobility, and people moving about freely, it was easier than ever before for someone to create a whole new identity. How, then, could a newcomer ever be trusted? What secrets could a seemingly respectable stranger be hiding? This brings me to my second point: another reason why “The Squire’s Story” was my least favourite was because it was less progressive, less welcoming of social change than any of the other stories.

But on to the wonderfulness: “The Old Nurse’s Story” is about a woman who, when the little girl she looks after becomes an orphan, moves with her to a Manor House in Northumberland, where her remaining relatives—two ageing sisters—live. So yes, we have an isolated Gothic country house, which means that with it inevitably come scandalous family secrets. The story unfolds slowly, but it’s not really a spoiler to tell you that there’s a ghost, and that the aforementioned old secrets are eventually revealed. It’s a deliciously atmospheric story, and, interestingly, it reminded me of the Brontës even before I read that it was based on a story that Charlotte Brontë told Gaskell.


Original illustrations for "The Grey Woman"

“Lois the Witch” is a novella set in Salem in 1691-2—you can guess what it’s about. It’s a long piece, even for a novella, which follows Lois all the way from England, where she became an orphan, to her uncle’s house in Salem. When the witch-hunting begins, you know it’s inevitable that the newcomer will be accused. There’s a curse early in the story that gives it a touch of the supernatural, but above all, this is a story about people, about religious conflicts, about intolerance and fear, about isolated communities, about regret.

It was interesting to read a piece of historical fiction written over a century ago—it made me think of how the way we relate to the past changes over time. The narrator clearly sides with Lois, but if this story was written today, there are things that would inevitably have to be taken into account (namely the role of the Native American characters, though to be honest Gaskell was more sympathetic than I ever expected a Victorian to be.)

“The Ghost in the Garden Room” (also published as “The Crocked Bench”) is more of a crime tale in the same vein as “The Squire’s Story”. But because it’s longer, more fleshed-out, it works a lot better than the first story does. It’s about an ageing country couple who do the best they can to help their only son, but after he goes to London to become a lawyer things take a sad turn. It’s a long story, but I can’t actually tell you much more about the plot than this. I’ll just say that Gaskell’s social concerns are clearer than ever here: the effect of city life on country people is an obvious theme, as is the fact that an education that wasn’t followed by real opportunities did little more than alienate people from the world they were born in. This isn’t, of course, an argument against education, but an argument for opening the doors to a world that education was supposedly preparing people for, but from which they were still excluded socially.

“Curious, if True” was the most surprisingly story of all. I have no words for how much I loved it. I don’t want to give too much away, so you can be as surprised as I was, but two words: fairy tales! The story’s protagonist gets lost in a forest at night, and ends up finding an old castle where a party seems to be taking place, and…well, read it for yourself. To tempt you further, I will also add that it reminded me a lot of Fables.

I could talk at length about the rest of the collection, but it’s probably wise to wrap this up here. Let me just add that I read this book for the Classics Circuit—a wonderful idea that Rebecca had to encourage people to read more classics. Thank you, Rebecca! I look forward to the next Classics tour.


Bits I liked:

'The sin of witchcraft.' We read about it, we look on it from the outside; but we can hardly realize the terror it induced. Every impulsive or unaccustomed action, every little nervous affection, every ache or pain was noticed, not merely by those around the sufferer, but by the person himself, whoever he might be, that was acting, or being acted upon, in any but the most simple and ordinary manner. He or she (for it was most frequently a woman or girl that was the supposed subject) felt a desire for some unusual kind of food—some unusual motion or rest her hand twitched, her foot was asleep, or her leg had the cramp; and the dreadful question immediately suggested itself, 'Is any one possessing an evil power over me, by the help of Satan?' and perhaps they went on to think, 'It is bad enough to feel that my body can be made to suffer through the power of some unknown evil-wisher to me, but what if Satan gives them still further power, and they can touch my soul, and inspire me with loathful thoughts leading me into crimes which at present I abhor?' and so on, till the very dread of what might happen, and the constant dwelling of the thoughts, even with horror, upon certain possibilities, or what were esteemed such, really brought about the corruption of imagination at least, which at first they had shuddered at. (“Lois the Witch”)

I mention these things that you may have an idea of the desirability of the letting of the white House in the Barfordites' imagination; and to make the mixture thick and slab, you must add for yourselves the bustle, the mystery, and the importance which every little event either causes or assumes in a small town; and then, perhaps, it will be no wonder to -- you that twenty ragged little urchins accompanied the 'gentleman' aforesaid to the door of the White House; and that, although he was above an hour inspecting it, under the auspices of Mr. Jones, the agent's clerk, thirty more had joined themselves on to the wondering crowd before his exit, and awaited such crumbs of intelligence as they could gather before they were threatened or whipped out of hearing distance. (“The Squire's Story”)

For he told me of instances where, by prayers and long fasting, the evil possessor had been driven forth with howling and many cries from the body which it had come to inhabit; he spoke of those strange New England cases which had happened not so long before; of Mr. Defoe, who had written a book, wherein he had named many modes of subduing apparitions, and sending them back whence they came; and, lastly, he spoke low of dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo their witchcraft. But I could not endure to hear of those tortures and burnings. I said that Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than a malignant witch; and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; and that, in putting her to the trial, by water or by fire, we should be torturing—it might be toth—the ancestress of her we sought to redeem. (“The Poor Clare”)

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Asleep by Banana Yoshimoto

Banana Yoshimoto’s Asleep collects three slightly surreal novellas, all narrated by young women, and all connected with sleep—and loss. The first is called “Night and Night’s Travellers”, and it was my favourite of the three. It's narrated by Shibami, who is mourning her brother’s death. But this is as much her story as it is that of her cousin Mari, who had a deep connection with her brother and was profoundly affected by his passing. And it's also Sarah's story—an American exchange student who fell in love with Shibami's brother, and who hides a secret whose discovery brings her some solace.

In “Love Songs” we meet Fumi, a young woman who has been hearing a voice singing ethereally every night right before she falls asleep. The voice reminds her of Haru, another woman with whom she was once part of a love triangle, but who she hasn’t seen or heard from in years. Fumi and Haru supposedly hated each other, but the more she thinks of the other woman, the more Fumi realizes her feelings were more complex than that. Finally, “Asleep” is Terako’s story. Terako’s best friend Shiori has recently taken her life, and ever since, Terako has been sleeping her days away. She hasn’t told anyone what happened, not even her boyfriend—a boyfriend who has a wife in an irreversible coma, and who is mourning a loss of his own.

What I enjoy so much about Banana Yoshimoto’s books is not really the plot, and not even the characters—though I like these well enough. The reason why they appeal to me so much is the tone she uses—subtle, introspective, melancholy, subdued, bittersweet, and at times achingly beautiful. The emotional content of her stories is never flashy—most of the time, it's merely implied, and you find yourself slowing down to let it wash over you. If the tone were any different, I can see these stories becoming sentimental, or leaving me indifferent, or both. But fortunately the tone is just right, and this makes them both moving and memorable.

These are sad stories, but they're of a kind that is likely to leave you with a smile. Not because what is painful about them is brushed aside with levity at the end, but because they end at a point where you can just start to see the characters move on to a better place. These three young women confront their losses, and though this doesn't erase their pain, it allows them to begin to move beyond it.

Another thing I really enjoyed about Asleep was its surreal and dreamy tone; the seamless mix of fantasy and reality. Two of the stories have ghostly apparitions, and even the one that doesn't allows you to imagine one just around the corner. These moments of strangeness, which could very well be dreams, feel natural among the book's late night hours, sleep-walking episodes, and lonely, thoughtful protagonists.

The more I read Banana Yoshimoto, the more I enjoy her work. And I've yet to pick up Kitchen, which most people seem to think of as her masterpiece. I mustn't let another year go by before I read her again.

Bits I liked:

The road stretched along one of the mounded-up banks of a river near the house where my father had grown up. It was that time of the evening, when off in the distance the other bank of the river is just beginning to drop away into the darkness of night. Soon the halo of light that always hung over the town would be reflected in the river, and even now the clear air was gradually filling with indigo, the indigo air drifted up, so that you almost felt as if you were seeing the air itself. The sky gleamed ever so faintly with the last traces of daylight, and everything was blurred, difficult to distinguish. Everything was beautiful.

The reverberations of that voice wandered sweetly, softly, working like a massage on the area of my heart that was the most tightly clenched, helping those knots to loosen. It was like the rush of waves, and like the laughter of people I’d met in all kinds of places, people I’d become friendly with and then separate from, and like the kind words all those people had said to me, and like the mewing of a cat I had lost, and like the mixture of noises that rang in the background in a place that was dear to me, a place far away, a place that no longer existed, and like the rushing of trees that whisked past my ears as I breathed in the scent of fresh greenery on a trip someplace…the voice was a combination of all this.

They read it too:
She Reads Books
Tip of the Iceberg
vvb32 reads

(Did I miss yours?)

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The Bride's Farewell by Meg Rosoff

“On the morning of August the twelfth, eighteen hundred and fifty something” (I just love this opening line), Pell Ridley decides to run away from home. What she's leaving behind is not just her home and family, but also her village, her outlined future, and the only life she’s ever known. One more important detail: the twelfth of August, eighteen hundred and fifty something is Pell’s wedding day.

Accompanied by her horse Jack and by her little brother Bean, who sees her when she’s about to leave and silently communicates that he’s coming, too, Pell makes her way to Salisbury Fair, where she hopes to find a job and start a new life. But nothing goes like she had imagined.

I loved the fact that The Bride’s Farewell was so focused on gender. I was recently telling someone, either through blog comments or on Twitter, that one of the reasons why I love contemporary books set in the Victorian era is that it’s almost impossible for them not to take a stance on gender politics. The Bride’s Farewell is no exception. The reason why Pell decides to leave everything she’s always known behind is because she's terrified that she'll end up living the sort of life that has crushed her mother: a life with an unpleasant husband, with pregnancy after pregnancy, loss after loss, permanent servitude, premature ageing. Her mother’s example makes her decide that she can never marry. But that doesn’t mean, of course, that she’ll never fall in love.

Pell’s goal, then, is to escape a life of limitations and constraints, the kind of life that awaited most women at this time. And if by now you’re thinking, “Oh, this is one of those works of historical fiction with a nauseatingly contemporary protagonist”, I'll tell you not to worry. It could have been one, yes, but the tone was very balanced, and Pell’s discontentment always felt real, and the way she articulated it never felt out of place. And after all, just because a life of domestic slavery was common, we mustn’t assume it was peacefully accepted by all women.

I also loved that The Bride’s Farewell explored new possibilities, new ways of living, relationships and living arrangements that were outside the social norms. Pell’s journey is not a lonely one, though initially she means it to be. There’s Jack and Bean, but also there are also people she meets on her journey: Esther, Dogman, and even an actual dog named Dickens. As a young unmarried woman travelling at her own, Pell is the target of a lot of gossip, but she never gives in to the pressure to conform. She's smart, resourceful, and not particularly concerned with what others think.

Though only a little over two hundred pages long, The Bride’s Farewell packs a lot. Pell’s journey is an intense one, and in only a few months she experiences emotions to last her a lifetime: discontentment, loss, anger, love, peace. Her story is often a sad one, but that doesn’t mean this is a bleak book. It is, like the rest of Meg Rosoff’s work, mostly bittersweet. I particularly liked the way Pell's story ended. Her decision has some real costs, as difficult decisions often do, but she's not punishing for living by her own rules. I won't spoil it for you with specific details, of course, but here, too, Meg Rosoff achieved a perfect balance.

I guess that, if pressed, I’d have to say that The Bride’s Farewell is my least favourite of her books to that, but—well, I’ll spare you the pizza, cheesecake or pie analogies this time and just say that I still enjoyed it a whole lot. It's different from her others, but then again, one of the things I love about Rosoff is her versatility. Though they have thematic similarities, each of her books has a completely unique voice.

PS: For some odd reason (I really can’t figure out why—perhaps I read it too fast?) I didn’t mark any passages to share, but you must believe me: the writing is as lovely as always.

Other opinions:
My Friend Amy
Page 247
Angieville
Bibliophile by the Sea
The Written World
So Many Books, So Little Time
My Favourite Books
Bookwitch
Fluttering Butterflies

(Did I miss yours?)

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The Children of Húrin by J.R.R. Tolkien

(I read this book back in June for the Once Upon a Time Challenge, wrote this post, saved the draft, and completely forgot about it until last week - oops.)

And he took up a long sword that lay there and broke it before the eyes of Húrin, and a splinter wounded his face; but Húrin did not blench. Then Morgoth stretching out his long arm towards Dor-lómin cursed Húrin and Morwen and their offspring, saying: “Behold! The shadow of my thought will lie upon them whenever they go, and my hate shall pursue them all to the ends of the world.

Set in the first age of Middle-Earth, long before the evens retold in The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings, The Children of Húrin is the tragic story of Túrin and Niënor, and of how the curse that the Dark Lord puts on their father ruins their lives. Like any tragedy, it’s relentlessly bleak. These characters are trapped; no matter what they do they cannot regain control of their lives and avoid loss after terrible loss. The story mostly follows Túrin, but his mother and sister are also not spared.

It’s a depressing story, but in many ways it’s also very satisfying. One of the reasons why I love Tolkien is the sense of world-building depth I find in his books: Middle-Earth seems to exist far beyond the pages of his books, to have a long history of which we’re only allowed a few glimpses, to have corners that will forever go unexplored. It feels alive, and I absolutely love that. So to be allowed to return to it for a little longer was a treat.

Even though I love Tolkien and Middle-Earth, I have not yet read The Silmarillion. And the reason why I haven’t is because I have always been told that it describes events from a distance, like a saga or a history book, without ever quite zooming in on any of the characters. That’s not necessarily a faulty approach, but I'm a character-oriented reader, and being able to feel close to Bilbo and Frodo, to Merry and Pippin, to Aragorn and Gandalf, only made The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit more enjoyable for me.

In The Children of Húrin, I was never able to feel close to any of the characters. This is something that also happens when I read a Greek tragedy, and I know it's meant to. I don’t think it means that Tolkien’s characterization failed; it’s just the kind of story that this is. But being the kind of reader that I am, I wasn’t quite as involved or moved as I would have been if I had felt close to the characters.

Nevertheless, there is a lot to love here. It’s a dark and beautifully told story, and I don’t think most Tolkien fans would find it in any way disappointing, not as long as they bear in mind that this is not quite the same kind of storytelling that we find in The Lord of the Rings. Also, the book is beautifully illustrated by Alan Lee—there are full colour illustrations AND back and white ones at the beginning of each chapter—and that alone makes it a treasure.


Other Opinions:
Chain Reader
Stainless Steel Droppings
Graeme’s Fantasy Book Reviews
Book Nook Club

(Did I miss yours?)

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The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux

Most of you know the story, right? Published in 1911 (but set in the late nineteenth-century), The Phantom of the Opera is the story of, well—should I worry about spoiling it? Just to be on the safe side, I'll be vague: it’s the story of the Paris Opera, let’s say, and of a series of strange events that take place there. These include the disappearance, mid-performance, of Christine Daaé, a young star on the rise, as well as the existence of a mysterious opera box that is never meant to be sold. And behind all of this, there's a sinister being that calls himself the Phantom of the Opera.

It seems to me that Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera has become somewhat obscure when compared to the musical or the many movie adaptations. And you know, there just might be a reason for this. The book surprised me, I’ll give it that. The tone is quite different from what I expected—much lighter, much more humorous. The problem is that while much of the humour was intentional, there were bits that I’m not so sure I was meant to be laughing at. At least not quite as hard. Though this was written much later, the level of over-the-top ridiculousness to be found here matches that of The Castle of Otranto. Examples:

Christine carried her hand to her heart, a prey to indescribable emotion. Her eyes stared before her like a madwoman's. Raoul was terror-stricken. But suddenly Christine's eyes moistened and two great tears trickled, like two pearls, down her ivory cheeks.
"Christine!"
"Raoul!"
The young man tried to take her in his arms, but she escaped and fled in great disorder.

Or:

"Who?" he repeated angrily. "Why, he, the man who hides behind that hideous mask of death! ... The evil genius of the churchyard at Perros! ... Red Death! ... In a word, madam, your friend ... your Angel of Music! ... But I shall snatch off his mask, as I shall snatch off my own; and, this time, we shall look each other in the face, he and I, with no veil and no lies between us; and I shall know whom you love and who loves you!"
He burst into a mad laugh, while Christine gave a disconsolate moan behind her velvet mask. With a tragic gesture, she flung out her two arms, which fixed a barrier of white flesh against the door.
"In the name of our love, Raoul, you shall not pass! ..."

OR:

The shadow had followed behind them clinging to their steps; and the two children little suspected its presence when they at last sat down, trustingly, under the mighty protection of Apollo, who, with a great bronze gesture, lifted his huge lyre to the heart of a crimson sky.
It was a gorgeous spring evening. Clouds, which had just received their gossamer robe of gold and purple from the setting sun, drifted slowly by; and Christine said to Raoul:
"Soon we shall go farther and faster than the clouds, to the end of the world, and then you will leave me, Raoul. But, if, when the moment comes for you to take me away, I refuse to go with you—well you must carry me off by force!"

Okay, okay, I'll stop. In all seriousness now, The Phantom of the Opera is not without its charm. The fact that the tone is so often humorous makes the exaggerated scenes seem less aggravating that they’d be otherwise. And, up to a point at least, the plot is quite exciting.

I also liked the way the story is framed: the narrator introduces himself as a historian, a reporter with an interest in documenting what he guarantees is real case—much like what happens in The Moonstone or The Woman in White. So whenever someone else takes over the storytelling, they are first introduced, and their presence is explained. Likewise, the narrator accounts for every bit of information he has access to.

I also liked all the details about the Paris Opera House and its construction—it sounds like an absolutely fascinating building, and one perfect for the setting of a story like this. But having said this, I have to admit that The Phantom of the Opera wasn’t quite as mysterious or atmospheric as I was expecting it to be. Perhaps it’s the fact that the plot has become so well-known that it’s nearly impossible for readers today to be left in suspense, wondering just who or what the Phantom is.

There were quite a few other redeeming features: the fact that Christine Daaé, while in many ways a typical classic Gothic heroine, is far from silent and has a mind of her own, the sympathy with which the Phantom is treated, the many instances of intentional humour, or the fact that seemingly supernatural events are eventually explained.

It’s funny: even though the story becomes more convoluted and absurd as it progresses, the book grew on me as I read on. Even its exaggerations became somewhat endearing. While The Phantom of the Opera will not join my list of favourite classics, I did have quite a bit of fun with it, and I’m glad to have read it at last.

Other opinions:
Once Upon a Bookshelf
The Zen Leaf

(Did I miss yours?)

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The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat by Oliver Sacks

To restore the human subject at the centre—the suffering, afflicted, fighting, human subject—we must deepen a case history to a narrative or tale; only then do we have a “who” as well as a “what”, a real person, a patience, in relation to disease—in relation to the physical...

The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat is a collection of short essays—case histories, one could call them—about people afflicted with all sorts of neurological ailments. The passage I cite above summarizes why I loved this book: because these essays are human, sympathetic, insightful and personal. Sacks never writes about these people with pity or condescension. On the other hand, it also explains why I didn’t enjoy this quite as much as An Anthropologist on Mars, which I read earlier this year. Because the essays are shorter, there isn’t as much room for these people’s stories to deepen, and for readers to truly gain a sense of who they are as individuals.

But regardless of which book I prefer, the fact is that I love Oliver Sacks. Let me tell you why: he is, as I said above, extremely sympathetic, and always very, very human. But at the same time, he’s not one of those people who go on about The Evils of Modern Science—he truly appreciates science, and he knows there’s nothing implicitly or necessarily dehumanizing about it.Reading his books is getting the best of both worlds: he doesn’t even try to be detached, but he his science is spot on; he uses current terminology but also blurs the lines between “function” and “dysfunction”; he’s aware of how complex and unique people actually are, but also of just what their brains can do (or fail to do). Furthermore, he’s very much aware that there’s nothing “reductionist” (a term I detest) about thinking of people’s experiences in terms of brain functions. Doing so doesn’t minimize or dismiss who they are as people in any way.

But let me tell you a bit about the essays themselves: a great many of them made me want to wear a helmet at all times, because it’s seriously terrifying to think of how frail our brains really are, and of just how much could go wrong. Except, of course, that a helmet would do no good, because many of these problems come from within. The most frightening was possibly “The Lost Mariner”, the story of a man stranded in 1945: he doesn't remember a single thing that happened after that, and, at sixty-something, believes he's still nineteen. There was a horrifying and moving scene in which he looked into a mirror, and...well, in this case, it was a blessing that he forgot the incident a few minutes later.

Anyway, anterograde amnesia is one of my greatest fears - even more so than retrograde amnesia. I don't want to minimize how awful the second kind must be, and I guess that if you lose all your memories, you become a different person - but that's the thing. You can build a new identity from that point on (except, sadly, in cases like Alzheimer's, of course). But with anterograde amnesia, nothing you experience will ever stay with you again. And that's almost the same as never experiencing anything ever again.

“The Disembodied Lady” was also worrying and fascinating: it's about a woman who loses her proprioception, her sense of her own body. Which is one of those things most of us take for granted, but whose disappearance proves catastrophic. “Cupid’s Disease” is about a ninety-year-old who gains a new vitality due to syphilis, which she was infected with in her youth - and the most interesting thing is that she's grateful for the effects of the disease. Finally, “Reminiscence” was perhaps the most fascinating of them all. It's about a woman who begins to hear songs she knew in her childhood in Ireland in her head, as loud and clear as if they were coming from a radio. I believe that Sacks explores these cases in more detail in his book Musicophilia, which I definitely need to get my hands on.

I really love the fact that Sacks acknowledges the emotional validity of these experiences, regardless of what their origin may be. He says:

...it never occurs to us at first that a vision might be ‘medical’; and if an organic basis is suspected or found, this may be felt to ‘devalue’ the vision (though, of course, it does not — values, valuations, have nothing to do with etiology).

No, they absolutely don't. There isn't such a thing as "only" in your head.

Let me conclude this by emphasizing just how fun, readable and accessible these essays are. If you're thinking that this book sounds intimidating, please don't. You definitely don't have to be an expert to have a wonderful time with it.

Favourite bits:

‘Only connect’—but how could he connect, and how could we help him to connect? What was life without connection? ‘I may venture to affirm’, Hume wrote, ‘that we are nothing but a bundle or collection of different sensations, which succeed each other with an inconceivable rapidity, and are in a perpetual flux and movement.’ In some sense, he had been reduced to a “Humean” being—I could not help thinking how fascinated Hume would have been at seeing in Jimmie is own philosophical “chimaera” incarnate, a gruesome reduction of a man to a mere disconnected, incoherent flux and change.

(From “The Lost Mariner”)

And who could have dreamed that in this blind, palsied woman, hidden away, inactivated, over-protected all her life, there lay the germ of an astonishing artistic sensibility (unsuspected by her, as by others) that would germinate and blossom into a rare and beautiful reality, after remaining dormant, blighted, for sixty years?

(From “Hands”)

If we wish to know about a man, we ask ‘what is his story—his real, inmost story?’ for each of us is a biography, a story. Each of us is a singular narrative, which is constructed, continually, unconsciously, by, through, and in us—through our perception, our feelings, our thoughts, our actions; and, not least, our discourse, our spoken narrations. Biologically, physiologically, we are not so different from each other; historically, as narratives—we are each of us unique.

(From “A Matter of Identity)

(I confess that I almost added a (sic) after that “man”. Nevertheless, I really do love this passage.)

They read it too:
Care’s Online Bookclub (Thank you again for sending me this, O Most Awesome Care!)
Dog Ear Diary
The Book Brothel
Stuck in a Book

(Did I miss yours?)

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The Sunday Salon - A Women Unbound Wishlist

Book lists - aren't they fun? They're actually the reason why I keep joining reading challenges even though I keep saying I'm more or less over them. And because I want to have my cake and eat it too, I decided to make a list for the Women Unbound challenge that I'm not going to be forced to follow. See, this is more of a book coveting post than anything else. These are all books that I won't yet own, that I think would be perfect for the challenge, and that I want to keep in mind when making the Christmas/birthday wishlist that my family always asks that I make. (And if you're wondering, my book acquiring ban will be temporarily lifted during the holiday season. I'm weak.)

Fiction:

• Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters - Of course. I've been saving this "Victorian lesbian romp" (to use Waters' own words) for...I don't even know when. But I can only deprive myself for so long, and I know that when I finally do read this, it will be An Event.
  
  
• Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers - another Lord Peter Wimsey/Harriet Vane book, and one that is often referred to as the first feminist mystery. Plus it's set in Oxford back when women were just starting to be allowed to get degrees. What's not to love? (I will, of course, read Have His Carcase first.)
  
  
• The Group by Mary McCarthy - This book, about a group of women graduates from Vassar College in 1930s Manhattan, is not only highly recommended by Claire, but it's also one of Sarah Waters' favourite books. I have complete faith that I'll love it.

• The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks by E. Lockhart - Why haven't I read this yet?! Awesome feminist YA! Set in a boarding school! Plus it has the Renay Stamp of Approval, which I think of as highly as, say, a Printz Honor Medal. Which, by the way, this book also won. (Along with Tender Morsels! And Nation! Need I say more?)
  
  
• Graceling by Kristin Cashore - as above. Well, except for the boarding school and Printz bits. But it did win the Mythopoeic Award, which is just as awesome in my book.
  
  
• The Robber Bridegroom by Margaret Atwood - "by Margaret Atwood".
  
  
• Alas, Poor Lady by Rachel Ferguson - A Persephone book! I had to include at least one. Originally published in 1937, and by the author of the lovely The Brontës Went to Woolsworth, it's about the fate that awaited unmarried upper-class Victorian women, who were told that it was undignified to work but did not have any way to support themselves without a husband.
  
  
• The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman - because someone ought to smack me for not having read it yet.

Non-Fiction:

• Manifesta: Young Women, Feminism and the Future by Jennifer Baumgardner and Amy Richards - the title says it all, doesn't it? A look at what feminism means to young women today.
  
  
• Yes Means Yes: Visions of Female Sexual Power and A World Without Rape edited by Jaclyn Friedman and Jessica Valenti - if I end up only reading a book from this list, I want this to be it. This collection of essays sounds incredibly powerful and important. And I hope that Heather won't mind if I link to her brave and very personal review.
  
  
• Woman: An Intimate Geography by Natalie Angie - I first heard of this book via Katha Pollitt, which told me right away that I'd probably love it. Angier is a Pulitzer Prize-winning and awesome-sounding science writer, and here she tackles the female body, as well as the misconceptions and myths that bad science has helped perpetuate.
  
  
• The Case of the Female Orgasm: Bias in the Science of Evolution by Elisabeth A. Lloyd - Writing about the previous book reminded me of this one. I love science, I really do, but I realize that a lot of biased researchers have pushed their agendas or tried to perpetuate their preconceptions in its name. This book, which if I'm not mistaken I first heard of from Debi and Rich, is about how scientists have dealt with female sexuality over time.
  
  
• Mad, Bad and Sad: A History of Women and the Mind Doctors from 1800 to the Present by Lisa Appignanes - And on a similar note, how awesome does this sound? I'd be a perfect follow-up to all the Victorian literature I've been reading, where concepts like "madness" and "hysteria" seem irrevocably linked to femaleness, and where madness is often used as a tool of control.
  
  
• Learning to Drive and Other Life Stories by Katha Pollit - because I love Pollit's essays. J.S. Peyton tells me this collection is more personal than political but still very much concerned with feminism. Sounds great to me.
  
  
• Her Way: Young Women Remake the Sexual Revolution by Paula Kame - apparently based on surveys and interviews with young women about how they deal with their sexuality. As much as the topic interests me, I can see dodgy methodology causing this to go horribly wrong. But I won't know until I try it, will I?
  
  
• Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace by Ayelet Waldman - a collection of essays about motherhood and the feelings of guilt and inadequacy so many women are cornered into feeling when it comes to raising their children.
  
  
• Catching a Wave: Reclaiming Feminism for the 21st Century by Rory Dicker and Alison Piepmeier. Amazon suggested this when I was looking up the details of Manifesta. It sounds sort of similar, but more focused on the question of why so many younger women reject the word "feminism" despite the fact that they embrace its ideals.

Have you read any of these? If so, what did you think? Also, is there anything else you think I absolutely MUST read for this challenge?

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Lady Audley's Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

'Foul deeds have been done under the most hospitable roofs; terrible crimes have been committed amid the fairest scenes, and have left no trace upon the spot where they were done. I do not believe in mandrake, or in bloodstains that no time can efface. I believe rather that we may walk unconsciously in an atmosphere of crime, and breathe none the less freely. I believe that we may look into the smiling face of a murderer, and admire its tranquil beauty.'

Originally published in 1863, Lady Audley's Secret was one of the top three bestsellers of the Victorian era, and has remained in print ever since. The story opens with Lucy Graham, a governess in the village of Audley, accepting a marriage proposal from Sir Michael Audley, a wealthy widower. Some time later, a man by the name of George Talboys, who had gone to Australia to seek his fortune in the gold diggings, returns to England. He runs into his friend Robert Audley (nephew of the aforementioned Sir Michael), who is there for him when he receives some very distressing news about the wife he had left behind. I don't want to give too much of the plot away, so I'll wrap up this synopsis by saying that circumstances force the idle Robert Audley to become a detective: he investigates the disappearance of his friend George, as well as the truth about the woman his uncle married.

Let me start by telling you about how much fun Lady Audley's Secret was to read. Why did it take me this long to discover Victorian Sensation novels? I had as much fun with this as I did with The Woman in White. And to those of you who find Collins a bit wordy, well, this is much shorter. It's not even a chunkster! And everything that makes Collins such fun is here too: secrets, mistaken identities, crimes and 'foul deeds', an atmospheric country house, an amateur detective as the hero, a mystery, of course, and a subtle touch of subversion.

But how mysterious is the mystery, you ask? Braddon keeps the twists coming until the very end, but most of what happens is not difficult to guess. However, I still found Lady Audley's Secret very suspenseful and very hard to put down, because it's all about the details, the specifics, the motivations. I thought it was interesting that even thought the truth at the core of the book - Lady Audley's secret, or at least one of them - becomes clear fairly early on, there is so much that is only hinted at. The narrator knows it, the character knows it, the reader knows it, and furthermore the narrator knows that the reader knows it - and still the words aren't said. It's very Victorian, but it made me smile.

I have to wonder, though, if the answer was less obvious for Victorian audiences than it is for us due to certain...social expectations, especially regarding gender and class. Which brings me to the second main thing about this novel. As you can tell by now, I loved it and had an absolutely wonderful time with it. Only I expected it to be a little more subversive somehow. Yes, Lady Audley's Secret questions stereotypes about feminine docility. But on the other hand, the other extreme, the beautiful-angel-that-is-a-scheming-demon-in-disguise, isn't really any less of a stereotype. And it was far from unheard of in Victorian times. The novel could also be seen as a cautionary tale about the dangers of marrying outside one's class, and I really don't want it to be that.

I'm really on the fence here, as perhaps I was meant to be. On the other hand, the introduction to my edition tells me that critics have been arguing about these very points for years, so at least I'm not alone. I can see both sides, but at the same time I can't help but think that there's more to this story than meets the eye. The ending reinforces a more conservative interpretation of events, with order, so to speak, being restored - but the mere fact that Lady Audley's Secret raises certain possibilities is significant. The world of the novel is more flexible and less fond of absolutes than what one would expect from Victorian ideology. Like The Woman in White, it explores the cracks and the contradictions in what everyone 'knew' to be true. And these 'truths' have to do with appearances; with class, money, gender, and the expectations that surround these; with 'respectability'; and even with madness and sanity, which the novel clearly says are not at all clear-cut. In that sense, it feels very modern indeed.

This, I think, is what I've come to love about sensation novels. Not only are they fun to read, but they blur the lines. And traditional though their endings may be, they imply that if those expected to Be Respectable may be otherwise, then the reverse is also true: class, gender, nationality, all the reasons for which a person could and would be deemed unworthy in Victorian society, tells us nothing at all about someone's character.

Favourite passages:

Yes, the painter must have been a pre-Raphaelite. No one but a pre-Raphaelite would have painted, hair by hair, those feathery masses of ringlets, with every glimmer of gold, and every shadow of pale brown. No one but a pre-Raphaelite would have so exaggerated every attribute of that delicate face as to give a lurid brightness to the blonde complexion, and a strange, sinister light to the deep blue eyes. No one but a pre-Raphaelite could have given to that pretty pouting mouth the hard and almost wicked look it had in the portrait.
It was so like, and yet so unlike. It was as if you had burned strange-coloured fires before my lady's face, and by their influence brought out new lines and new expressions never seen in it before. The perfection of feature, the brilliancy of colouring, were there; but I suppose the painter had copied quaint mediaeval monstrosities until his brain had grown bewildered, for my lady, in his portrait of her, had something of the aspect of a beautiful fiend.

We hear every day of murders committed in the country. Brutal and treacherous murders; slow, protracted agonies from poisons administered by some kindred hand; sudden and violent deaths by cruel blows, inflicted with a stake cut from some spreading oak, whose every shadow promised—peace. In the county of which I write, I have been shown a meadow in which, on a quiet summer Sunday evening, a young farmer murdered the girl who had loved and trusted him; and yet, even now, with the stain of that foul deed upon it, the aspect of the spot is—peace. No species of crime has ever been committed in the worst rookeries about Seven Dials that has not been also done in the face of that rustic calm which still, in spite of all, we look on with a tender, half-mournful yearning, and associate with—peace

Madhouses are large and only too numerous; yet surely it is strange they are not larger, when we think of how many helpless wretches must beat their brains against this hopeless persistency of the orderly outward world, as compared with the storm and tempest, the riot and confusion within—when we remember how many minds must tremble upon the narrow boundary between reason and unreason, mad to-day and sane to-morrow, mad yesterday and sane to-day.

Other Opinions:
Books & Other Thoughts
Linus's Blanket
Savidge Reads
A Striped Armchair
Desperate Reader
The Book Whisperer
If You Can Read This

(Did I miss yours?)

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Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror by Chris Priestley

Edgar's Great Uncle (or is it Great Great? Or Great Great Great?) Montague lives in a cold, lonely house in the woods. It's a scary and desolate place, but there's a reason why Edgar visits him regularly: he's hooked on Uncle Montague's spooky stories. Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror takes place during one of these visits: Edgar and the elderly man sit by the fire and talk in between the telling of stories. And the more Edgar hears, the more alarming his suspicions about Uncle Montague become. Could he have lost his mind? Or is there a sinister reality that his stories hint at?

Amanda at The Zen Leaf was kind enough to send me this deliciously creepy collection-of-spooky-stories-slash-novel. Because she read it herself shortly before that, we thought we'd have a chat about it and show you the results:

Ana: One of the things I enjoyed the most about Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror was its slightly old-fashioned feel. This is true of both the stories and the illustrations by David Roberts, which reminded me a little of Edward Gorey (as I suspect they're meant to). If someone had told me these were Edwardian creepy tales, I'd have easily believed them. Did the book feel older than it is to you too? And if so, did you like the fact that it did?

Amanda: Yes, for the most part, they did feel old-fashioned to me. There were a couple tip-offs that they were newer tales - some of the deaths were a bit more descriptively gruesome than they would have been 200 years ago, for instance - but mostly I thought Priestley kept with the traditional fairytale vibe.

In all honesty, you picked up on the only thing that I felt detracted from the book, which was the few deviations from that old-fashioned feel. For example, while most of the tales seemed to have a traditional built-in moral lesson (don't steal, don't lie, etc), the ones that didn't fell a bit flat for me. Were there tales that you liked better than others? Worse?

Ana: It's funny that you brought up the traditional "moral", because I was planning to mention that soon! I normally really dislike stories with a specific "moral" or "message", but I think the reason why that didn't bother me at all in this case were because they felt so...traditional. Like you said, they had a feel a little similar to that of fairy tales, or of old-fashioned ghost stories like M.R. James' (the atmosphere reminded me quite a bit of James, actually). There's also the fact that there was a bit of dark humour, Gashlycrumb Tinies style. So while most of them were cautionary tales, they were more self-consciously than moralistically so.

I did have a few favourites, though - "The Un-Door" (the story of two women who pretend to be mediums until one day, at one of their seances, are forced to face what they have been using to exploit others) and "Winter Pruning" (about an old woman, said to be a witch, who lives in a cottage with some very interesting apple trees in the garden, and about a boy who attempts to steal from her) were perhaps the top two. My least favourite was actually "Uncle Montague", the story that ties them all together - it just felt a bit forced to me. What about you?

Amanda: Actually, I didn't mind "Uncle Montague" - I thought it tied everything up nicely, if predictably. I expect a certain amount of predictability from my fairy tales, though, so that didn't bother me. "Winter Pruning" and "The Un-Door" were two of my favorites, too, as well as "The Gilt Frame" (girl gets possessed by a new portrait in her home, only to find out the portrait is not what it seems). Usually, books or stories with a heavy-handed moral or message, like you said, are sort of irksome to me as well, but I like a straightforward, fable-like feel in fairy tales (even if the morality or message isn't traditional).

"Winter Pruning" was just about perfect in message and in tale, and the last line was so frightening it made me cringe. On the other hand, there were stories that seemed kind of pointless. For instance, I didn't understand "The Path" (a boy sets out on a journey only be find himself chased by a very grisly creature) at all. I mean, it was creepy, sure, but I didn't see the point. Am I reading too much into this? Or did I just miss something?


Ana: I don't think you did! Or maybe we *both* did. "The Path" was one of my least favourites too. At first I was really enjoying it, as the landscape and atmosphere were VERY creepy, but then... well, I don't want to give away the ending, but I was left feeling like I had missed something too. I'm a bit relieved I'm not alone, to be honest :P

I agree that the ending of "Winter Pruning" was brilliant - that story reminded me a little of Daphne du Maurier's short fiction, and that's high praise indeed. Returning to the final story, "Uncle Montague", did you like the fact that there was an overall plot to the book, rather than it just being a typical collection of short stories?

Please head over to Amanda's blog to read the second half of our chat!

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Remembrance by Theresa Breslin

Set (mostly) in a Scottish village during WWI, Remembrance is the story of four teenagers: Charlotte and Francis are the children of the village’s wealthiest and most respectable family. Margaret and John Malcolm, while not quite as far up the social ladder, belong to a reasonably well-off merchant family. While under normal circumstances they might not have gotten to know one another well, the change of mores and the breakdown of class distinctions brought about by the Great War allow them to get to know one another and even become more than friends. However, the war also means they eventually have to go their separate ways.

Even though Francis is the eldest, John Malcolm is the first to enlist. He does so as soon as he comes of age in 1916, eager to fight for his country. Francis, on the other hand, opposes the war and refuses to join—until, that is, the social pressure becomes too much to bear. Fifteen-year-old Charlotte, who would normally be expected to join her mother in her social visits and charity teas, begins to train as a nurse. And Margaret, no longer content to obey her father in the shop, eventually finds work at a munition factory in Edinburgh.

What I liked the most about Remembrance was the fact that it focused so much on the social changes that were precipitated by the war, namely in terms of class and gender roles. Even before the War, Charlotte and Margaret sympathized with the women’s movement. But after experiencing the unusual freedom that the conflict brings, they both know they won't go back to the lives they were expected to live: lives of innocent social engagements, marriage, and deference to the men in their lives.

Another thing I loved was the characterization. The characters were all of them real and complex. Not only the two pairs of siblings, but also the rest of their families, their whole village, and the people they eventually meet in Belgium and France. Through these characters, readers are exposed to a wide range of emotional experiences; to different reactions to the war and its consequences, all of which are acknowledged as valid. There was a conversation between Francis and Maggie that I really loved: he tells her that even though the war goes against everything he stands for, he gets both the despair and the exhilaration, both what causes men to lose their minds and what makes them eager to enlist and fight. I also loved that Maggie sends him a book of poetry by Siegfried Sassoon. Knowing that he's not alone helps Francis immensely.

But as much as it acknowledges different ways of experiencing the war, Remembrance is still a perfect illustration of how dreadful war in general is, and what a tragedy WW1 in particular was. We see consequences of every kind: lives lost, survivors psychologically broken, young people seeing too much too soon. There is hope amidst the tragedy, and perhaps a few more miracles than what would be statically likely, but that isn't to say this is a feel-good story – far from it. It's heart-wrenching, and parts of it made me cry my eyes out.

I vaguely remember learning about WWI in history class and hearing the number of deaths. I also remember being told, at home, that one of my great-grandfathers had fought in it. But it wasn't until I first read the WWI poets in English class that it truly hit home: the senseless carnage, the raw despair, the muddy hell that was the front, the full horror of the gas attacks. It was only then that I understood the fear, the sorrow, the regret that this war happened at all, that we did and keep doing such things to one another. Which is why I love writing, be it novels, poetry, short stories, scripts, you name it: they make reality more real.

I read this book for Kailana's unofficial Remembrance Day challenge: she's inviting people to read a book on one of the World Wars during the month of November, and she's also collecting and posting links to their reviews. I've read quite a few books on WWII, but not so many on WWI. Do you have a favourite you'd recommend?

Other Opinions:
A Comfy Chair and a Good Book
Jenny's Books

(Did I miss yours?)

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Green Books Campaign: Sleeping Naked is Green by Vanessa Farquharson

Today's post is part of the Green Books Campaign organized by the wonderful Eco-Libris. Here’s the official campaign description:

Today 100 bloggers are reviewing 100 great books printed in an environmentally friendly way. Our goal is to encourage publishers to get greener and readers to take the environment into consideration when purchasing books. This campaign is organized by Eco-Libris, a green company working to green up the book industry by promoting the adoption of green practices, balancing out books by planting trees, and supporting green books. A full list of participating blogs and links to their reviews is available at the Eco-Libris website.

Sleeping Naked is Green is the account of a year-long project that twenty-something Canadian journalist Vanessa Farquharson originally documented on her blog, Green as a Thistle: starting in February 2007, she vowed to make one green lifestyle change every day for an entire year. As I’m sure you can imagine, with so many changes some were necessarily bigger than others, but all were nonetheless interesting to read about.

However, Sleeping Naked is Green is more than a book version of Farquharson’s blog. It’s a more intimate and reflective account of her project—it doesn’t document all the changes, but it gives readers a glimpse of what was happening behind the scenes: what did this experience feel like? How did it affect her personal life?

It always seems unfair to base my opinion of a book on how much I like its author, but with memoirs and first person accounts of any kind, this becomes somewhat inevitable. As with The Impostor’s Daughter recently, at first I had a bit of a hard time connecting with Farquharson, and that affected my enjoyment of the book. For example, early in the book she tells us she had never imagined herself starting a blog because she always thought they were for Star Trek fans, which…well, yes, I rolled my eyes too.

Also, as much as I love Broken Social Scene, I’ve always disliked the oh-so-cool-and-detached hipster scene she spends half the book trying to convince us, not always successfully, that she does not in fact belong to. And furthermore, her concerns seemed so different from my own. When making the transition to reusable shopping bags, for example, I can’t say I stopped to think about how much of a fashion crime most of them apparently are.

But I’m happy to report that was I read on, both the book and its author grew immensely on me; so much so that by the end of the book, I liked her a lot. What won me over was above all her honesty and her sense of humour. I’m sure she’s not alone in worrying about how well a reusable shopping bag will go with her outfit, but how many people actually talk about it at the risk of being accused of being superficial? And this kind of unflinching honesty is present in every aspect of the book. Ultimately she’s a young woman trying to juggle her personal life, her career as a journalist, and a personal project that pretty much becomes a second full-time job. She has moments of doubt and insecurity, of course, and she sometimes breaks her own green living rules. But in the end, neither that nor her fashion concerns make her goals any less admirable. Plus she’s done more than most of us have.

As for her sense of humour (which is often sarcastic—my favourite kind), it saves her from ever becoming greener-than-thou. There’s also the fact that she’s always aware of this danger, as well as aware that there’s only so far she’s willing to go, only so much she can give up. I think this is true of most of us, and unfortunately we tend to think that if we can’t completely commit to a green lifestyle, we might as well do nothing at all. Sleeping Naked is Green shows us than any change, however small, is worth making. They do add up.

Having said that, it’s best to approach Sleeping Naked is Green as a personal account of a very specific project, rather than as a how-to book. The book did give me some ideas—why didn’t I think of buying a couple of handkerchiefs instead of using paper tissues before?—but many of the changes she makes would be impossible for me. For example, one of the biggest is turning her fridge off altogether, and simply cooking and eating fresh food. Which is a great idea, but what if you don’t live alone, or don't have the time to shop every day, or have no access to fresh products? These changes fit her lifestyle—which is, let’s face it, that of a very privileged and successful twenty-something living in a developed country where there’s easy access to countless resources—but they would probably not fit most people’s.

But that’s okay, because Sleeping Naked is Green never pretends to be a manual, or really anything other than a book about one young woman's personal journey towards a more sustainable lifestyle. The only thing I would have liked was more information about the reasoning behind each change. Some were explained, and others were pretty self-explanatory, but there were some that left me wondering how exactly they were green. It’s possible, however, that this information is available at Farquharson blog, and so she simply didn’t want to repeat it.

And because this Eco-Libris campaign focuses not only on books about green topics, but also on books that are themselves green, let me tell you why this is true of Sleeping Naked is Green: it’s printed on 100% postconsumer waste recycled and FSC certified paper. Hopefully before too long this will be true of all books.

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The Eternal Smile by Gene Luen Yang and Derek Kirk Kim

The Eternal Smile is a collection of three short stories by the authors of American Born Chinese and of Same Difference and Other Stories. "Duncan's Kingdom" is, at first glance, a traditional high fantasy tale about a young man who has to kill the Frog King and bring back his head to win the princess' hand. But from the very beginning, when our hero awakes startled from a nightmare, we suspect that not everything is what it seems.

"Granpa Greenbax and The Eternal Smile" is a story written in the tradition of older comics like Uncle Scrooge. Granpa Greenbax is a greedy frog always on the lookout for a new way to make money. When his assistant tells him about the Eternal Smile in the sky and the peace it brings him, Granpa Greenbax decides to start his very own cult.

Finally, "Urgent Request" is the story of a lonely and underestimated young woman who decides to reply to an e-mail from a Nigerian Prince is urgent need of funds. As you can imagine, that e-mail is only the first of many with requests for just one extra loan. But I bet you can't imagine the turn things eventually take.


If there's one thing these three stories have in common is that what I said about the first applies to all of them: things are not as they seem. These stories all seem to lead readers in one direction only to make them question their assumptions later on - assumptions about the story, the world it's set in, the characters and their motivations, and the beliefs that made us jump to certain conclusions. Maybe you're thinking that a book in which all stories use this kind of sleight of hand will be a little gimmicky, and if so I don't blame you. But somehow Gene Luen Yang and Derek Kirk Kim manage to avoid that completely.

What I loved about these stories was not the fact that they all surprised me, but the fact that they were so human. The twists, if I may call them that, are not there to prove to readers how clever the writers are. They serve a purpose: they add depth to the stories, they make them more effective and more moving.


Another thing these three tales have in common is that they explore the role of illusions, of the imagination and of fantasy in our lives. And I promise that by "explore" I don't mean "make some simplistic point about". There's no no one-size-fits-all conclusion, but rather an honest analysis of how the stories we are told and the stories we tell ourselves can deceive us, comfort us, or free us.

My favourite of the stories was the very last one, "Urgent Request", and I admit that part of the reason was the absolutely stunning art. But even though the final story stands out, I enjoyed the art in all of them. I liked how varied it was, and how well the style of each fit the content. A few more examples:



Other opinions:
Tripping Towards Lucidity
So Many Books, So Little Time
Reading Rants!
Stuff as Dreams are Made On
The Written World

(Please let me know if I missed yours.)

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