Canada

After seeing Richard Ford at the Portland Public Library last week, I couldn't wait to settle down with Canada. Besides, I've been on a short-story kick, not that there's anything wrong with that, but I was eager to emerse myself in a novel. Then I came down with an awful cold on Thursday, which I see as the Universe's way of telling me to sit down and read a book. So I did.

Canada is a first-person account of fifteen-year-old Dell Parson's, starting with the robbery his parents commit, and delving into the events which occur as a direct or indirect result of that. It's told by Dell, fifty years after teh evets occur, which is an interesting choice, and gives the novel a quietness versus the racous immediacy it might have had otherwise. Still, even though you know things turn out okay for young Dell (he's alive and literate, after all), as a reader, you want to know how it all came to be. This is no small task, but Richard Ford is a master, even though, as someone at the reading in Portland said to me afterward, he seems like he could be anyone's friend, the kind of guy you'd like to get a beer with.

Canada, like The Art of Fielding, has the feel of an old-fashioned novel. And, done well, there's nothing like an old-fashioned novel. Like a plain donut, some things are what they are because they're good. Canada is done better than most. 

I'm still sick, and my couch is calling me. Next, John Irving's new novel. In some ways, I'm grateful for this cold. (I'd be staining my deck otherwise)

God Bless America

I didn't pick Steve Almond's God Bless America because we're nearing the 4th of July (although that is something I would do, if I were more organized). Rather, I saw it recommended somewhere by another author I like, and I've read some of his stories here and there.

I loved this collection. I read it in about three days, and that was with forcing myself to slow down and savor it. I just kept wanting to turn the pages, to be surprised and intrigued by his lovely, misguided characters. And oh, they are so misguided. Honest and human and funny and sad....these are the kind of stories that remind me of people I know, doing stupid things, but trying, really trying. These are the kind of stories I strive to write.

Speaking of much-loved authors, today I had the privilege of seeing Richard Ford read from his new novel Canada. Although I arrived at the Portland Public Library dripping with sweat and with huge-frizzed hair, I sat, sipped my (ridiculously) hot coffee, and listened to this master, this absolute pro, read and answer questions. I loved Ford's Independence Day--but I love his stories even more. Maybe because I mostly write stories and the way he shapes his narrative just takes my breath away. It was interesting to hear him talk about the control he maintains over his work, and how he sometimes wonders if the work suffers because he doesn't let it get away from him. I sometimes wonder the same. And even though I came back to find a parking ticket on my car (I paid the stupid meter..but I didn't read the instructions and I didn't leave the little receipt on my dashboard...blasted technology....), I will never forget what he said: If you aren't doing this because it's important, why are you doing it? You only get one life.

The Angel Esmeralda

I really liked the title of Don DeLillo's The Angel Esmeralda. I went to high school with a very exotic-looking girl named Esmeralda (at least, I think I did...sometimes I make things up and then I get confused) and the name makes me think of bold, jump-off-the-roof risk-taking. So, maybe I was a little disappointed because of my high expectations. I didn't not like these stories, but I didn't love most of them. No one jumped off a roof (although someone was thrown). They were a little too quiet, which is funny for me to say because, as a writer, that's the criticism usually bestowed on me. But, maybe I can see the point better in work that is not mine Some of DeLillo's stories just felt too far away from the characters, too circumspect. Maybe I'm a victim of the modern sensibility of virtually attacking a reader's senses--not that I prefer those stories, either. I like more of a balance--a character you can get to know but with some of his mysteries left undiscovered, a story where you can fill in some of the blanks, and you feel compelled to do so. DeLillo's stories brought me in, but, for the most part, I found it easy to leave the characters behind when I was done. That said, there were a couple of stories in this collection that will stay with me--the title story being one (it reminded me of Dave Guterson's Our Lady of the Forest, which I loved and have, many times, tried to re-write) and the last story The Starveling which is an appropriately distant voice for the hauntingly lonely and movie-obsessed protagonist.

Walk the Blue Fields

Sometimes, and I believe this is in part due to my overly-high expectations, I'm disappointed when I read the second book by an author I have loved. (Also, I tend to read things out of order, reader a later work after a newer work). So it was with a bit of trepidation that I picked up Claire Keegan's Walk the Blue Fields. I am thrilled to report that I was not disappointed in the least (except that the collection is a slim 168 pages and I just wanted more). Unlike Antarctica, all of these stories are set in Ireland and all of them have that misty, foggy, damp, fairy-tale feeling I associate with Ireland. Maybe that's just me--I've never been. The stories are deeply evocative, brightly emotional, and complete in a way that is satisfying but doesn't feel over-worked. I'm so glad I discovered Keegan and I'm keeping my eyes open for more by her.

A trip to the library is on the agenda for today or tomorrow. Maybe I'll pick up one of the classics I've missed, or maybe I'll re-read something beloved.

Short stories, and Kafka

I've been reading a lot of short stories these past few weeks--the new Ploughshares (with a  fantastic essay by Maine author Sarah Braunstein) as well as the new Glimmer Train. I love short stories because the time commitment is often small but the emotional payoff is usually really big. And, what really gets me is that often I read a story and I don't like it--sometimes I even hate it--but then, the characters hang around in my head, or the ending--that perplexing, convoluted ending!--keeps coming back to me. And the more I puzzle it out, the more I start to like it and even, in some cases, to emulate it in my own writing. Which raises the question--do we have to like a story for it to be good? Isn't the job of writing to raise questions, challenge ideas, make the reader (and maybe the writer) a little uncomfortable? In truth, I think sometimes my intial dislike is really discomfort and I have to give myself time and space to think about the why and maybe turn it around a little.

Speaking of things not liked on first glance, this afternoon on the way home I heard a story on NPR about Kafka. The story was about his papers, and who "owns" them, and what should be done with them. But it made me think about reading The Trial for AP English. Not only reading it, but my friend and I had to team teach it. The first time I picked up that slim little volume, I thought easy. And then. So, not so easy. But that book changed everything for me. What do you mean you don't have to give a character a full name? Obscurity? Disorder? The feeling of the book being put together out of orderI remember sitting at my dining room table and crying as I was trying to piece the thing out. But then, once I had it, once I understood it, it was like I'd found something no one else knew about. And I knew that was how I wanted to write (I'm still working on exactly how to do that). And then, when I learned Kafka had wanted all his papers burned upon his death, I felt a spark of something else--maybe, as writers, we don't even have to know we're good.  

Antarctica

Oh, boy. I do love it when someone (my dear Librarian friend Kathleen) puts a book in my hands and says "I think you'll love this." Even better when I do. Antarctica is a collection of stories by Irish author Claire Keegan. It isn't new, but I'd never heard of Keegan before. I'm so glad I have now!

These stories are not for the faint of heart. When suggested by Kathleen, she likened it to Kissing in Manhattan, a very dark and strange collection of stories which I loved, but I've found few other people who feel the same. In Antarctica, I especially loved the first and title story but there are other gems in this collection that kept me awake at night, made me scribble ideas on pieces of paper while I drove (I know, but I was careful and I'm afraid I'll forget!), and made me gasp. Some of the stories made me pause, and turn things over in my mind, and consider if I liked them or not---but then, is it necessary to like a story for it to be good? If the characters stay with you (and stay they will), isn't that a sign of a really good story? Even more wondrous for me was that some of the stories were not new (although the argument can me made that there are no new stories). For example, the beautiful sister with the long hair coming home, ungrateful and unwelcomed by her less attractive, harder-working sister--I won't spoil the end, but I saw it coming a mile away. And I feel like I shouldn't like a story that doesn't surprise me...but, then, Keegan writes in a way that is uniquely captivating and that ugly sister has really lingered in my head.

The only bad thing I will say about this collection is that some of the dialogue, especially for the stories set here in the United States, felt a little forced, a little contrived. Like me trying to do an Irish accent. But maybe I was looking for that, I can't say for sure. All I know is that I'm going to be requesting Keegan's Walk the Blue Fields and keeping my eyes out for anything else by her.

The Lieutenant

Even though I only skimmed it for my Saturday book club, I was reminded of how fabulous Kate Grenville's The Lieutenant was (I read it fully a few months ago). Grenville, also the author of the similarly-set The Secret River, is extraordinary at placing us in newly-settled Australia. Slowly, but with the sense of a timely unfolding, no rushing, this story takes the reader into the life of Astronomer Daniel Rooke. Rooke is initially hoping to find Haley's Comet but instead he finds a link to humanity--his own and others'--through language. Grenville does a masterful job of underplaying tension so that it builds and builds. She doesn't over-sentimentalize the brutality of the soldiers, or Rooke's friendships, and Rooke's courage is not of a super-hero variety, nor are the others completely one-dimensional. The book is quiet, and the protagonist is quiet, but if you take the time, you will not be sorry. Everyone in the book club loved it, and I think that's a first.

In addition to the two above-mentioned books, Grenville is also the author of The Idea of Perfection, which I also really enjoyed but which, if you read without knowing the author, you would never suspect it had been written by the same. The Idea of Perfection is filled with quirky characters doing odd-ball things, and really running amok through the story. It's a completely different subject matter, not historical at all, and not really something you'd want to give as a Father's Day gift. My mother hated it. I loved it...but then, I really like strange people doing strange things.

I know some people like an author to stick to one genre--they want a story to be what they expect it to be. But I like to see an author with range. It keeps things interesting, as far as I'm concerned.