The Leftovers

I am working my way through the NY Times notable book list, starting with Julie Otsuka's book. This past week : Tom Perrotta's The Leftovers and Geoffrey Eugenides' The Marriage Plot.
When I began The Leftovers I was a little disappointed. It seemed like another of Perrotta's easy riffs on contemporary culture. Yet I kept reading and found myself engaged by the plot. The review in The New York Times gushed that Tl is "the best Twilight Zone episode you never saw." The novel is both bleak and funny and full of lovely, pithy sentences and sentiments. It isn't about character, but about society and situations and in this case, the rapture---or not. The use of religion as an explanatory force is one of the themes of the book.
So is it too easy and too fun? Or, (as some reviewers have hinted) is Tom Perrotta really inspired by Chekhov?
I kept thinking about this as I read The Marriage Plot. This, too, is more plot than character.
Like The Leftovers, this novel is clever, awash in details and long-winded sidetracks that burst from the verdant author-brain, from the zeitgeist, from the air. A passage giving background on a protagonist's father is a pastiche the includes a very minor character's "near sexual attraction to a chestnut mare named Riviera Red." The windup of this passage, and many others, is lots of fun. These walkabouts are loaded in precise and often meaningless detail that are enjoyable to read, and flesh out the context of the day (in Perrotta's novel, that is the present; in Eugenides' book, it is the early 1980s). All that said, Eugenides' novel felt flat. I didn't believe the characters or the situations, even while being entertained. Why? I don't know yet.
Perrota's novel stuck with me a bit more. The characterizations aren't fleshed out and there seems to be a reliance on sketches, rather than full development of people or ideas. Yet the writing worked. Here is what may be Chekhovian in all this. The descriptors are meant to give us verisimilitude, yet lend our invisible, omniscient narrator his power, as in a scene where a character is on the phone, yet as she speaks,"...the Great Dane next door bellowing..." applies the sheen of the quotidian about it all, gives us the real in the fiction.
Also, Chekhov gives us the human character, rather than an single individual. Perrota does this as well. However, Perrotta also, in his easy, pithy style, reminds me of Stephen King. Hmmm. Perhaps I'm wrong about all this and I will change my mind. For now, it's on to the next book.

The Catcher in the Rye

Here we go again. I have assigned The Catcher in the Rye for my students to read over the winter break and have just started with it this week. Most of them love it. A few don't. That's okay. As I prepare to teach it again, I need to muster up the enthusiasm. It's great, but I feel a little burnt out. So here I pause, as I often need to when prepping, and look over notes and lesson plans to recall exactly why I picked up this book in the first place.

Why am I choosing to teach this text? Catcher still has enormous resonance with teenagers. The response to the novel the past few years has been hugely positive—many students call it their favorite read of the year. I have also found my own response to the text deepen after teaching it. One thing that I have taken from this text is how subtleties are employed despite the quite unsubtle voice of the protagonist. Voice, too, is a good reason to teach this text—since Holden isn’t subtle at all, and has a distinctive voice, it is easy to identify and discuss.

What objectives/goals do I have? The big goals of appreciation for literature and enjoyment in reading are primary here. Close, analytical reading is another. What’s nice about teaching the skill of analytical reading with this text is that it is a departure from the other, mostly non-fiction texts we have worked with. In other words, same skill set, but with a slightly different application. What is the author doing? Why? How? These are the question we can still ask, but clearly the purpose is going to be so different with this text, and our answers will be too.

How is Catcher relevant and in what ways? The answer to this is found above, in part, with the first question. But this is also a question that I’d like the students to answer. What universal realities does this novel illuminate? Why do people still relate to Holden? What does Holden/the novel have to say about contemporary society? The themes of isolation, of disillusionment, of the end of innocence have not disappeared over time. I would like to ask my students these questions, and ask them when or how or why they lost their innocence--if indeed they have. What are the things that contributed to Holden’s loss of innocence? Essentially, this is a novel about a very young man who is grieving And most of us have, at one time or another, been sick at heart, been sad to our very core, if we haven't experienced the very close loss, as Holden does. Holden tries to ward off this utter sadness through drinking, smoking, swearing, staying awake or reaching out and then pushing away (none of which work). It is clear that his parents aren’t accessible to him, aren’t there as a source of comfort.

One of the remarkable things about this text is the ease of the reading experience. It is accessible, and quick. Yet in that quickness, that ease, much is revealed. As I mentioned, Holden's voice isn't subtle, but the revelations are. This is where the close reading comes into play. One of the most terrible scenes is Holden recalling the death of James Castle. This revelation comes during another scene, one that relates in no clear way to Castle's death. Through Holden's reverie, though, we discover that Holden both identifies with Castle, (who has either jumped to his death, or was pushed) and is horrified by his death and the events leading up to his death. These are referred to obliquely, and are often only revealed to the reader upon close examination.

All this sadness doesn't obliterate the humor. There are so many passages in which Holden contradicts himself, says absurd things, does absurd things and lies his way into ridiculous conversations. It is all thematic, and I hope to help the students see this. I will also indulge myself and have the class read aloud the section in which Holden explains for the reader, for no apparent purpose, the naming of Ossenburger Hall at Pencey Prep. Juvenile humor in the deft hands of J. D. Salinger. Good fun.

The Buddha in the Attic

Julie Otsuka's The Buddha in the Attic, listed as one of the year's "notable" books in the NY Times, is a tiny work of fiction that is based on straight-up fact. Written in a plural voice, this collection depiction of the life of the "picture brides" from Japan in the 1920's is an impressionistic yet vivid portrayal of lives lived, in both broad and small strokes.

"On the boat, we carried our husband's pictures in tiny oval lockets that hung on long chains from our necks. We carried them in silk purses and old tea tins and red lacquer boxes and in the thick brown envelopes from America in which they had originally been sent."

Otsuka mixes the general with the specific, puts together speech with memory in this compact, effective narrative that takes us from the boat ride over to California through the forced internment of these immigrants during World War II. The perspective (oddly? interestingly?) departs when the Japanese do, switching to that of the non-Japanese population left behind. "Our mayor has assured us there is no need for alarm. The Japanese are in a safe place." It is still effective, but why do this? Is it to elicit from us the idea of a silenced voice? I found this to be a strange way to end this book, a book that was, otherwise, a very satisfying and illuminating read.

The book is beautifully written. The critics, therefore have bestowed the usual plethora of adjectives: "spare, incisive"; "exceptional"; "incantory";"resonant";elegiac"; "nuanced"; "crystalline". The descriptors are never ending and never-endingly trite. Unfortunately, when I first perused the back cover, I was put off by these overloaded blurbs. What I found out, though, is that they were all true. Well, mostly. There is this on the back cover, from Kate Washington of the San Francisco Chronicle: "Her spare prose is complemented by precise details, vivid characterization, and a refusal to either flinch or sentimentalize." Other than the "vivid characterization" part, this is pretty much dead on, but all this leads me to what I hate about book reviews: the bullshit. The idea is to pile on the adjectives so that someone can pull out a good excerpt to use on the book's cover. In this instance, "characterization" is an interesting choice, since the characterization is collective, so this phrase is a problematic one---Otsuka's concern is not character, though the writing is certainly vivid. Perhaps the reviewer is lumping all those brides together? Or maybe she didn't read the whole thing and wrote the review anyway---something I suspect happens more often than not. Yet the rest of the praise from the back cover certainly applies to this book: "Stunning economy"; "unsentimental prose"; and on and on. While I feel all this praise to be accurate, it isn't any different from all the blurbs on a thousand other book covers. Reading the back of Otsuka's cover, I realized that there is no way to tell if any of those reviewers actually read the book, or read it all the way through. Otsuka's book is surely worthy of praise. But are all those other books really "stunning" or "incantory" or "resonant" or otherwise "remarkable"?

My new crush: Norman Rush

I read Norman Rush's Mating recently. I am late to the party: this novel won the National Book Award in 1992. I think this would be fabulous with Heart of Darkness for a number of reasons that I don't wish to articulate, lest I spoil the story. There is, however, a journey to search for a man; this man is heading up an alternative society, a matriarchal utopia that is shrouded in secrecy. The protagonist of the novel, who goes searching for said man, is an academic (semi-failed) and smart, funny, self-conscious and well-read. I don't know of another voice like this: consistent all the way through the novel, she is undeniably clever in ways I can hardly begin to list.
One triumph of the novel is Rush's ability to elucidate the uneven nature of the male-female relationship: why a woman can leave behind her dissertation and professional life and hitch her wagon to a successful man without anyone thinking less of her. His ambition will become hers. She, of course, will think less of herself, always and forever; it will be the thing that shapes a relationship, destroys or cements it whether or not he or she or anyone wants to acknowledge the existence of such a dynamic. Rush gets it.
The insertion of politics in the novel is brilliant, and essential to the relationship. The narrator's crossing of the Kalahari and the approach to her destination must be read to be believed--again, nods to Conrad here. This is a novel about politics, about adventure, about love. I am in awe.

Howard's End

This book is as good as ever as I reread for the fourth (or is it fifth?) time. I can hardly say, though, that I am rereading it, as most of it--save the general plot structure--seems utterly new to me. I have only the glimmer of recognition here or there. "Only connect..." Forster admonishes us and so he does, as an example. I had forgotten, or had never known, quite how bluntly he does so.
"Connect," has multiple meanings, of course. The connection between what one says and does in the world and the ethical sensibilities that inform those actions is central here. But Forster also wants us to connect with others through and despite those actions. This is difficult, as the very nature of being human is difficult.
I found myself quite moved during Margaret's showdown with Henry in Chapter 38, when he wishes to expell her sister, who has committed adultery, from their home:

"You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry!...only say to yourself: 'What Helen has done, I've done.'"

The shocking bluntness of this exhange is beautiful. Margaret is, in Forster's words, "transfigured."

The novel is complex on many levels and the writing transcendent in places. I won't say another word in fear of spoiling it.

How To Read The Air

How To Read The Air, by Dinaw Mengestu, is a novel of exile, though this isn't immediately, forcefully apparent. It is sad, tragic, but the weight of it all doesn't come upon the reader at once but gradually builds. It is also about narrative: the stories we tell and the stories we don't tell. Jonas, the protagonist, invents narratives for the immigrants he aids in a legal clinc; soon, fiction enters his own life as he creates and reconstructs stories of his family. The need for the stories, the narratives on which we construct our identities and our relationships becomes a preoccupation for Jonas, as he traces his parent's marriage and the demise of his own, interweaving the time lines of the two sets of couples. Jonas barely knows how much he needs these narratives until the stories begin to converge on one another, and this, too, is tragic. Jonas uses his position as a teacher to begin to tell the story of a father whose past is elusive and unknown; even he, the teller, does not know how the story actually began or how, exactly, it might end.

When I returned to the academy the next day, I realized that my father's story had already gone on longer than I had intended, and that soon it was going to have to come to an end...While the rest of the teachers were rfulfilling their mandate to prepare the students for what most assumed would be a bright, affluent future, my students indulged me by letting me pass off this story as being somehow relevant to their own lives. I told myself that it was for their sake that the story of my father's life and near death in Sudan had to have a fittingly moving denouement.

The unknowable parts of his parents and their lives, and the dearth of these narratives proves destructive for Jonas. The elliptical nature of this book, while appropriate for the themes, might be a bit too slippery for some readers; I found it hard to gauge where Mengestu was writing skillfully and where he was just having difficulty drawing out character. To whit, in a passage about Jonas' mother, we get this: "It was better, she believed, not to translate emotions into actions, to let them lie dormant, because once they were expressed, there was no drawing them back." Yes, perhaps, but these characters often remain ciphers. That may just be the intent.

The Hunger Games

I just finished reading a YA novel, The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins. I was reading a bit of it in advance of my twelve year-old son, and found myself enmeshed in the narrative. It is very readable--addictive even--and it will get the most reluctant middle or high-schooler to read and keep on reading. This dystopian story, set in the not-to-distant future, centers around a fight to the death between twenty-four teenagers, the “tributes” from the twelve Districts of the country of Panem. Panem is what was once the United States; the country is controlled by the wealthy "Capitol" which controls and exploits the surrounding populace. The protagonist is the strong, intelligent Katniss Everdeen from the 12th District (formerly Appalachia). I will stop there with summary--no reason to dilute the suspense.

Collins' style is straightforward and clean; the dialogue is most often in the present tense. This technique is often used to convey a child’s voice, conveying simplicity and immediacy, or is used in the hands of a writer with limited skills. Rather than simplifying the narrative style, however, Collins ramps up the suspense with the present tense; we thus seem to be experiencing events as they happen, feeling the tension of the moment along with Katniss.
What also makes The Hunger Games so interesting is the commentary on contemporary society, providing plenty of food for thought without ever becoming pedantic. The citizens of the Capitol are materialistic and image-obsessed; the acceptance and commodification of violence and the omnipresence of the media are essential components of the story. Katniss, a citizen of the impoverished District 12, is easily able to identify the self-absorption of the prosperous:

It’s funny, because even though they’re rattling on about the Games, it’s all about where they were or what they were doing or how they felt when a specific event occurred. “I was still in bed!” “I had just had my eyebrows dyed!” “I swear I nearly fainted!” Everything is about them, not the dying boys and girls in the arena.
We don’t wallow around in the Games this way in District 12. We grit our teeth and watch because we must and try to get back to business as soon as possible when they’re over…

If I had a criticism here, it would be that the ideas are subsumed by plot…but I cannot really call that a problem.
Given the premise, there is violence, though none of it gratuitous. Collins gracefully shows us the particulars of what Katniss witnesses and experiences through her thoughts and reactions. The violence is not sensationalized; it is not titillating or intended to be pleasurable in anyway. It is a fine balancing act, and Collins does a great job of writing about a horrifying subject without alienating this reader! I am not a fan, for example, of Brett Easton Ellis and don’t at all like graphically violent films. I found much of this story disturbing, yes, but I was not put off but the content. Nonetheless, I am not now giving it to my son to read. Based on content alone I find this book inappropriate for children under thirteen or fourteen, and even at that age, you might consider waiting, depending on your particular child.*
There are nods here to dystopian novels of the past: 1984 and Brave New World come to mind, and I’m sure there are more. The Hunger Games isn’t derivative, though, and it doesn’t end here; Collins has two more novels in this series. I plan on seeing how the rest of the story plays out
Will this novel, clearly steeped in contemporary culture, be relevant in the future? Will The Hunger Games become a classic of dystopian fiction? Hard to say. Read it now.



*I may be in the minority, here, as it seems that even some teachers are recommending this book to fifth graders! I hold firm, though. I am opposed to exposing children to so much so soon, even though it seems to be the fashion. Childhood is fleeting; adulthood is long. I think innocence should be savored and preserved, brief as it is.