The Sisters Brothers by Patrick DeWitt

The Sisters Brothers by Patrick DeWitt is the literary equivalent of the winner in the Miss America pageant. She deserves to win because she looks fantastic in evening wear, her smile never wavers and she cares about shut-ins, but it's all just a little too much sugar. I like a little wrong with my right. I like the literary equivalent of Miss Canada, peeking her head out and awkwardly waving from behind the curtain.

I have to admit, this book is very hard to review. All I can really think to say is...it was good. This isn't meant as a backhanded compliment in the least, good is good. Good is solid, good is satisfying, good is good. I'm not surprised that it's been nominated for awards. But good isn't the type of thing that makes you want to get up and run around the park or tongue kiss the person sitting next to you. DeWitt makes all the right editorial choices and while the plot is definitely not sugar-coated or safe (i.e. Tub the horse's eyeball extraction with a spoon), something about the entirety of the book was just so...perfect. Everything from the cover design to the fully realized characters to the pacing and tension was an out-of-the-park home run. But if every hit is a home run, the magic can start to wane. Ultimately, this book was just a little too fantastic and therefore, there isn't much to discuss.

On the cover of the book, there is a quote by Gil Adamson that cites The Sisters Brothers as "A bright, brutal revision of the Western." Even though terms like revision can easily be lumped in with other useless terms used in book reviews (my personal least favourite being tour de force), Adamson offers the best explanation of what this novel does. The Sisters Brothers is undoubtedly Western in its motifs, but the focus of the story weighs heavily on the fraternal tension between Eli and Charlie and how their personalities, Charlie's cool insouciance and Eli's soft-heartedness, both complement and segregate them from one another.

So going back to my earlier comment of "there isn't much to discuss". So yeah. It was really, really good.

P.S. What does tour de force mean anyway? Whatever it means, I'm sure The Sisters Brothers is one.

P.P.S. I'm sorry, this was a dreadful review. It's very hard to review something you thought was great and didn't need to change in anyway. Am I right?

The Rain Ascends by Joy Kogawa

The Rain Ascends by Joy Kogawa is the literary equivalent of trying to get a straight answer from a witch doctor.

If you've read the About Me page on my blog, you'll know that I expressed concern about only reviewing books I was inclined to enjoy. Well, I guess I didn't need worry. I did not enjoy this book at all but I read it all the way through. In past years I would have quickly deemed it "not to my taste" and tossed it aside. But I slogged through The Rain Acsends because I want to discuss what I hate and why just as much as what I love.

First of all, I have to acknowledge that this book deals with some heavy subject matter: pedophilia, abortion, incest. I feel that there is a general tendency to favour books that engage difficult and sometimes taboo subjects, even when quality is distinctly lacking. Subjects that are "safe" are deemed wimpy and scorned outright, especially by literary fiction readers. These are the sorts of people that when you say, "This book deals with pedophilia in the Church", they will bob their heads in unison, glass of Pinot Nior in hand, and reply in a knowing voice, "Hmmmm, yes, yes, quite." To be honest, I'm probably one these drones myself. What I don't agree with, however, is the automatic brownie points authors get for simply using these topics. Just because someone writes about abortion doesn't mean that it will be a courageous masterpiece by default. And moreover, if they do choose to write about abortion, they better bring their A game. Treacherous subjects require skillful footing and, in my opinion, Kogawa traverses the slippery terrain like an oiled hippo, falling deeper and deeper into gaudy sentiment.

Millicent, the main character, doesn't know her father, a high-ranking clergyman of the Church of England, used to molest young boys. Told in Millicent's voice, the narrative structure is fractured as Kogawa moves the reader through different time periods and Millicent's different states of understanding. Millicent's sister in law, Eleanor, is the main vehicle for justice in the novel and the book begins with Eleanor reprimanding Millicent for not confronting her father about his indecency. This carries on FOR THE WHOLE BOOK and Millicent weakly buckles under Eleanor's screechingly moralistic presence again and again. She often speaks indirectly to Eleanor and also to a multitude of spirits, goddesses and entities. Millicent seems to spend more time talking to questionable beings from an alternate universe, or to someone when they aren't there, than she does talking to real people.

This brings me to another point: sop. The sheer soppiness of this novel is my number one annoyance. But I can go further.

I used to go to Church every Sunday with my friend's family when I was about 9. My sole reason for attending was to hustle the Church out of their supply of Scotch Mints. I can remember the day when I actually began to listen to what the Minister was saying and I remember getting very angry. I felt as if I were being told what to do and yet, I didn't understand what was being asked of me. Only as I've gotten older have I begun to realize why I felt such a strong reaction; it was the language. Everything seemed to be a metaphor for something else and it was impossible for me to come to any logical conclusions. Kogawa's writing, intentionally perhaps, reads like a sermon. The Rain Ascends is so mired in metaphor, the true gravity of the situation is unable to surface. The plot is not the issue; in fact, I find the idea to be compelling. But Kogawa obscures the plot line with such unnecessary imagery and language that I would go so far to say that it felt like her writing insulted the complexity and gravity of child abuse by subjecting it to a world of metaphor and deferred meaning. Here, Millicent rhetorically addresses her father, denouncing him for his misdeeds:

You took the pastel shadings of their dreams and splashed crimson and dung across the canvas of their innocent days. You swooped upon the sheltered nests of infant birds, their beaks open, their heads awkwardly angled upwards in a trust as large as the sky. With your unseeing hunger, you plucked the trust from their upturned faces and fed yourself till you could eat no more.

There is nothing to hold on to here, everything is a signifier of something else. I won't ever be able to get behind this type of language, especially when it's used to describe horrific situations. In the book, 300 children were raped by Millicent's father and Kogawa chooses to spend her time talking about the Goddess of Mercy, the Maker of Hope, the great Shadow Boxer and the Father of Lies. What does this mean? Who are these people? It's like asking for a glass of wine at a restaurant and the waiter reciting a lengthy poem about the Goddess of the Grape instead. Except, we are talking about child molestation, which changes this scenario from confusing to enraging.

I am not a religious person and I'm sure my reading of this book would have been drastically different if I were. I also know that Kogawa is undoubtedly skilled at her craft. But I would suggest that true discussion can only begin when truth is confronted, not obscured.

This Week's Highlights

Blue Jays vs. Yankees: Best seats in the house

The "beach" in Etobicoke: Not really a beach

Bata Shoe Museum: If only these were for real...

The Dangers of Loving Books Too Much

Sometimes, reading can be the literary equivalent of a torrid summer time love affair. Sometimes, you can't get enough. You stay up into the darkest hours of the night, fawning over one another, face to face, revealing yourself, your heart. Your world becomes tinted with the colours of the book and you begin to pull away from the realities of your life to sneak back under the covers with your beloved. You feel like a poet's lover, an artist's mistress, a genius' paramour. You live and die for each other.

And then sometimes, you'd just rather sit in a chair and stare at the damn wall! I'm trying to understand this. Occasionally, I feel shame because as a English Literature Major, I should have a swingin' love life when it comes to books. I should be devouring books like Mae West devoured men. I should be putting out a sign that says Open for Business, totally indiscriminate about what I read and what proverbial diseases I walk away with after the affairs have cooled. But sometimes picking up a book feels like too much of a gamble and my heart cries out, "Don't do it, it'll just end up hurting you!"

And maybe I'm misguided in thinking that it's the bad books that have the ability to emotionally hurt you. You read a bad book, you just put it down and start a new one. All you stand to lose is your time. Maybe it's the books that skillfully give voice to the parts of yourself that you thought to be speechless which have such high potential for emotional vulnerability. What you stand to lose here, is yourself. Books that are emotional excavators are the ones that we claim to be the most worthwhile and the most dangerous.

Wait. This means I'm scared of reading good books?

A couple years ago I was waiting to get the go-ahead for some crazy sinus surgery that couldn't come fast enough. My plan was to have the surgery, recover, then zip off to Asia for the trip of a lifetime. I had plans to meet up with a few friends but the majority of the trip was going to be solo. But as departure day got closer and closer I became more and more anxious and upset. It wasn't because I was scared to go, it was because I was scared to come back. I was scared that I would be so changed as a person when I came back, the life I was living before I left wouldn't match who I would be. I thought that this trip would change me so much, that my world would be in such disconnect, I'd be forced to become someone else. Most people get anxious about getting robbed in the back alleys of Bangkok or missing their train in Japan. I was worried that I would lose myself. It's the same worry that I have when I pick up a book. At the outset, you don't know what will become of yourself as you read and long after you set the book down. Reading is dangerous and wonderful and the most dangerous writing is often the most wonderful.

This whole post has been a round about way of explaining why I don't have another book review yet. But I will soon. I am deciding between The Sentimentalists by Johanna Skibsrud or The Rain Ascends by Joy Kogawa. Both books threaten to lure me in under the covers, whisper to me that I'm the only one, and then tie me up in a burlap sack and boot me head first out of the passenger door. Oh well. I've chosen this life and all I can really do is tuck and roll.

What's that? I couldn't hear you over my autographed book...

I tapped her on the shoulder and burbled something about signing my book, as I struggled to free it from my bag. She asked my name and I guess I said Caroline. Her friend complimented me on my toenail polish, to which I replied "Yeeeaaaahhhhh" and wiggled my foot at him. Then she said "Bye Caroline!" and I just stood there, my mouth opening and closing like a guppy, as she shimmered into the night.

This cake is for ME!

This Cake is For the Party by Sarah Selecky

This Cake is for the Party by Sarah Selecky is the literary equivalent of sitting around the dinner table in silence while your Aunt makes passive aggressive comments about your Uncle's "erectile deficiencies", and his insistence that everything would be fine if your Aunt "put a little effort into her saddlebags." And you're loving it!

Speaking of love, I love short stories! Their format always seem to make a hell of a lot more sense than novels. Real life is far more episodic; for example, do you remember what happened to you last Tuesday? Of course you don't because you were probably alone on the couch eating Corn Pops for dinner, wondering where your dog is. Memory is shaped by events, not by the repetition of day to day life. Short stories fundamentally function according to this law and therefore, are better suited to represent the way life works. Some people say: "But, y'know, I need to get into a story..." Fair enough, but just realize that novels are much more likely to hold your hand though the narrative while short stories just throw ideas in your face and leave you to clean it up. How do you like to read?

In her stories, Selecky takes a hard look at the problems with turning thirty. Stuff like infertility, adultery and having your drunk ex-boyfriend show up at your house in the middle of a dinner party, and, as a real gear-grinder, everyone being happy to see him. Everyone says your thirties are the time when you are really living; for some reason you are supposed to be earning lots of money, guffawing with your chums at the bar after work and damn sure of "who you are". Selecky's characters apparently missed the boat. Her stories, instead, are full of intensely real people who have problems that elude clear definition. One of the characters in "How Healthy Are You?", has to deal with two opposing facts:

1. Her husband is a health freak who looks down his nose at people who aren't health freaks.
2. Due to a cash flow problem, she was once forced to volunteer for an illegal experiment where she had to live in confinement and pop pills for a week just to pay the rent.

She is unable to reveal her true self to him, the person she was before he became a part of her life and molded her into his image. While this scenario may seem far-fetched, it explores who we are before relationships come to regulate how we behave. Were you the same person with one partner as you were with another? Of course not! With one, you were probably into reading each other to sleep in bed and with the other, you enjoyed going to the local bar to slam some beers and make out in the corner. But Selecky carefully nuances her work, bestowing her characters with the gift of absurdity. It's who we were, who we are and who we could become.

Food is another connecting theme and the characters are continually using it to normalize awkward situations, clinging to the ritual of eating as a way to mask the tensions that ripple through the text. In "Go-Manchura", the main character attempts to solicit her friends into a bizarre pyramid scheme of health food products, inviting them to her cottage to try to sell them on the idea of the Manchura nutritional line of food. Of the few friends that do show up, it becomes quite clear that they are more concerned with the free accommodation than with the food. Here, the health food that claims to "start an avalanche of abundance in so many other parts of your life," only serves to complicate the relationship between the protagonist and her friends, until eventually, you are writhing in your seat like your watching a comedian bomb on-stage. All her stories speak directly to a generation of people coming to terms with the realization that their thirties are not working out as promised. Her writing states little and implies much, a sign of a genius at work.

This Cake is For the Party is an ode to awkwardness. In other words, while everyone else sits around the proverbial dinner table in horrified silence, trying desperately to change the subject/disappear/kill themselves, Sarah Selecky is taking notes under the table. Because she knows that this is the stuff great stories are made of.

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro is the literary equivalent of having a gigantic fudge cake set down in front of you, but you know that whoever made it spit in the batter. But here’s the thing: I’d still eat it.

I had actually heard of the movie before I knew of the book and from what I heard, the movie was very good. Naturally, then, you could assume that the book is better because everyone knows the book is always better than the movie. The book begins innocently enough, with students from Hailsham, a private boarding school in England, going about their idyllic daily lives. Slowly, Ishiguro drops hints that the situation at Hailsham doesn’t add up: teachers lurking about the halls, the distinct lack of parental involvement, the abnormal emphasis on creative output from students. By the end of part one, you become aware that the students are not so much being raised, as they are cultivated for their healthy vital organs. Ishiguro opens up a big can of worms here, delving into the ethics of scientific progression, cloning and sacrificing one human life for another. The reader walks side-by-side Kathy and the other students as they slowly become aware of their purpose. Each chapter ending seduces the reader with another salacious clue, coaxing you to read just one more. In this way, Ishiguro successfully positions the reader to experience the same confusion, the same realizations and the same hope that their “lives” could be spared.

And then…nothing.

Kathy and Tommy’s theories hit a brick wall. There is no escape, no deferral of their scientific role and no purpose to their artwork from Hailsham. The book is either a thorough study in tragedy or a sloppy ending to a book that forced the reader to become so invested on the final outcome that they are willing to overlook the simplistic narrative. This can be taken further: are we as readers conditioned to expect the worst, the most complex, the most uphill-iness of battles? Perhaps less and less readers expect a clean ending to a story, or more specifically, a clean ending to a concept or theory introduced in the beginning. Books that question generally do better than books that answer. While there seems to be a move away from these conventional narrative rhythms, Ishiguro employs them so heavily in this book, it proves to be incongruous to the style he sets for himself. The subject matter is another area of concern. Ishiguro illuminates the complexities of scientific and human ethics, all of which could be shattered into a million seeds for thought. Yet he ends up denying the birth of almost every single one of these ideas, leaving them to gestate then, eventually, flatline.

I have an undeniable urge to call this book “Dystopian Lite”. And I just did. If you appreciate the “whimper” over the “bang”, this book’s for you. It’s definitely enjoyable over all, but the unmistakable flavor of let-down lurks in the bottom of the pan.