Book Review: Brief Interviews with Hideous Men - David Foster Wallace

Brief Interview with Hideous Men David Foster Wallace

A male friend gave this to me as a gift, and possibly, as a warning. This book is not for everyone. Brief Interviews with Hideous Men is both exhilarating and excruciating. DFW's skills as a writer are tremendous, and even the stories that fall flat are exquisitly crafted. However, his themes are repugnant and difficult to ingest - it's hard not to react emotionally to his hideous men and pedestalled women. DFW is merciless to himself, the characters, and the reader. It must have been as painful t...more

A male friend gave this book to me as a gift, and possibly as a warning.

This book is not for everyone.

Brief Interviews with Hideous Men lives up to its title. It is a collection of short stories featuring candid confessions, sordid interviews, and bitter literary snapshots focused on the male perspective. His themes are repugnant and difficult to ingest - it's hard not to react with revulsion to his hideous men (and pedestalled women), and it is both exhilerating and excruciating.

Wallace's skills as writer are tremendous, and even the stories that fall flat are exquisitely crafted. The man is a surgeon.  He is as merciless to himself, his characters, and the reader; the honesty and sheer brutality of his storylines hit with the force of hurricane winds, as in "Suicide as a Form of Present".

Brief Interviews must have been even more painful to write than it is to read. It is, however, an exceptional piece of literature, and has earned a permanent place on my bookshelf.

Book Review: Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell (Part II)

 

Cloud Atlas David Mitchell
Review – Part 2

As discussed in Part 1, Cloud Atlas is a collection of six, seemingly-unrelated stories, each set in a different time and place, and written in a different genre.

The only obvious link between them is the comet-shaped birthmark each main character alludes to, almost casually. Ergo, the reader starts to look for clues that the main characters are reincarnations of each other. Luisa’s sense that she has (impossibly) heard Frobisher’s symphony before reinforces this idea.  Frustratingly, however, there is no evidence of linear, spiritual growth: each and every main character is as lost as the one who preceded them.

And the legacy hypothesis falls flat as well: although it’s possible that Frobisher, for example, fathered children, it certainly wasn’t deliberate; and Sonmi-451 had little opportunity (or perhaps not even the physical ability) to bear children.  So Cloud Atlas isn’t a generational epic, either, and the author is not using the birthmark as a genetic marker.

Common Threads

Upon closer scrutiny, there are common threads between stories. For example, the work of the preceding character in each story influences the following ones:

Adam Ewing’s diary is read by Robert Frobisher. Robert Frobisher’s letters are read by Luisa Rey. Luisa’s story, in the form of a detective series, is read by Timothy Cavendish. Sonmi-451 watches The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish. Somni-451’s testimonial orison is viewed by Zach’ry. And Zach’ry’s story is framed as an oral narration: the narrator is his son, passing on his father’s story to his descendants.

Not only does each story incorporate the preceding stories into their own, the vehicle of each story is different and evolving: Adam has a diary, Frobisher has letters and a symphony, Luisa has a detective novel, Timothy Cavendish has a screenplay, Somni-451 uses an orison, and Zach’ry, to bring it all back full-circle, uses oral storytelling.

There are also numerous thematic and motif repetitions, cleverly camouflaged, including references to Nefertiti, the number 6, the theme of David vs. Goliath, and so on.  Also, each character is stuck, initially, like the reader, with only half of their predecessor’s story – and each character expresses their frustration with this. In fact, the author delightfully inserts a great deal of self-referencing  humour: “It would be a better book if Hilary V. Hush weren’t so artsily-fartsily Clever. She had written it in neat littler chapteroids, doubtless with one eye on the Hollywood screenplay”.

What does it all mean? What is the point?

Cloud Atlas may be intended as a balm for the despair inherent in Atheism – that our lives are short, our influence limited, and our existence almost futile.

I think that the author is trying to show us that our lives can be important, no matter how small, and that the tiniest, most inconsequential acts can have tremendous, unintended impact on complete strangers.  Which brings us back to the comet birthmark.  Instead of being simply a clunky, awkward symbol of reincarnation, it represents the individual’s solitary, but inspirational, journey. Despite its loneliness, a comet can been seen from far, far away, and inspire those who see it. Yet the comet never knows what effect it has.

We may live small, short lives but our stories live on, and influence those who follow us; and for those of us who grapple with Atheism, Cloud Atlas is a solace. The author is encouraging readers to create, be it symphonies, novels, screenplays, letters – in short, to tell our stories. We never know what impact we might have on in the hearts and minds of those that follow us.

Book Review: Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell (Part I)

 

Cloud AtlasDavid Mitchell

Review – Part 1

Cloud Atlas is a very unusual book, and deserves an unusual review.

Cloud Atlas is separated into six individual stories, vastly separated in time and place and genre, with only the remotest links between them.

It opens in the 18^th century with the diary entries of Adam Ewing, an American notary in the South Pacific, confronting the realities of the slave trade while being secretly poisoned by a ‘friend’.  The story is cut off, mid-story, mid-sentence, and we find ourselves reading letters from Robert Frosbisher.

Frobisher is a scheming, amoral, irresponsible young English musician in the early 19^th century who attaches himself to a composer’s family to further his own goal of writing a great symphony and becoming a famous composer. He is a nasty and selfish man and yet likeable as a sexy, incorrigible scoundrel.

His letters, too, end abruptly, and the reader is suddenly introduced to Luisa Rey, an idealistic journalist in the 1970s in a fictional city fighting to expose a corporate conspiracy to deliberately cause a nuclear reactor meltdown in order to maximize oil profits.

Luisa leaves us, having been driven off a bridge by a corporate henchman and is replaced by Timothy Cavendish. Cavendish is a funny, nervous little publisher with very few principles in the present time who finds himself incarcerated against his will in a nursing home replete with Nurse Ratchett-types and no hope of escape.

Cavendish’s story is interrupted by an “orison”, a kind of legal testament given by Somni-451, a service clone in future Asia. We are introduced to her life as a clone, and the bewildering experience of becoming a focal point for a revolutionary movement she doesn’t understand.

Again, her story is ended without completion to bring us to Zach’ry, a young man in post-apocalyptic Hawai’i who becomes embroiled in an outsider’s attempt to save the remnants of her people. Zach’ry’s story is the only story offered whole, without interruption.

Then the book resumes with the closing half of the preceding stories in reverse order. We learn the fate of Somni-451, if Timothy escapes the nursing home, if Luisa survives her plunge and saves her city, if Frobisher succeeds in his games, if Ewing survives his ‘friend’.

What is initially curious, and frustrating, is that there seems to be no solid common thread in the stories. They are set far apart in time, space, and genre, and there is no obvious, underlying theme tying them all together. The only clear link is the clumsy detail that each of the main characters has a comet birthmark. I suspect this comet birthmark had a lot to do with my friend’s review of Cloud Atlas:

"What a load of pretentious rubbish that book was...makes me cringe just thinking about the time in my life I spend reading it that I will never get back."

However, I disagree. In Part II of this review, I will explain why Cloud Atlas is a literary treasure, and offer up my theory on the birthmark issue (spoiler alert: it has nothing to do with reincarnation).

 

Book Review: Shogun - James Clavell

 

Shogun

James Clavell

A gripping, larger-than-life epic set in Feudal Japan during the early colonial period of European expansion (ca. 1600). Although first published in 1975, this is a timeless work that remains in my top five books of all time. Some of you may remember the TV miniseries with Richard Chamberlain – and as fun as it was, it doesn’t even come close to doing justice to the book.

The protagonist is an English pilot, John Blackthorne, who is shipwrecked off the coast of Japan with his Dutch ship and crew. They are immediately arrested as spies and scheduled for execution.  Blackthorne’s intelligence and courage save (most of) the crew, and he gains the attention of Toranaga, one of the greatest warlords, and one of the most fascinating characters in literature.

Unbeknownst to them, the crew of the Erasmus has arrived at a crucial turning point in Japanese history, as rival warlords struggle to unite Japan and control the potentially disastrous influences of European expansion. Spain, in particular, has ‘claimed’ Japan, and Blackthorne, a Protestant, is targeted as not only a heretic by the Inquisition, but as a dangerous subversive who threatens Spain’s political and economic control of the region. Also at play are the ambitions, dreams, and day-to-day lives of a huge cast of characters, including samurai, ninja, geishas, Jesuits, monks, wives, and servants. 

By strength of wit and incredible courage, Blackthorne maneuvers  through the  great political power game being waged between feuding lords, and European powers, and becomes, eventually, the only non-Japanese to ever be honored as a samurai. But the cost is staggering.

The story is one of adventure, love, religion, and politics; and is a breath-taking, mind-boggling, introduction to a culture so entirely different that it shakes the reader's beliefs and world-views, permanently. Clavell re-creates the world of feudal Japan with such incredible, well-researched detail without ever being boring or repetitive.

 If you like losing yourself in a whole new world, this book is for you.

*For curious history buffs, Sho-Gun is based on the true story of English pilot William Adams - and, astoundingly, most characters and events are historically accurate. Don't be put off by the length (over 1,000 pages) as the last page will leave you wishing for more.

Book Review: The Sisters Brothers - Patrick DeWitt

 

The Sisters Brothers

Patrick DeWitt

The Sisters Brothers is a unique and playful rendition of the standard Western.  Two brothers, Charlie and Eli Sisters, are guns-for-hire for the mysterious Commodore, who’s sent them on a mission to gold-booming San Francisco, to assassinate one Hermann Warm. Along the way they meet (often lethally) bandits, Indians, witches, orphans, assorted prostitutes, runaway horses, and one dentist.

Eli, the narrator, is an oddly likeable killer, with a soft spot for women, children, and horses named Tub. His brother, Charlie, is meaner, colder and far more lethal – but both value their loyalty to each other above all else. Their rapport is both funny and touching, and their support for each other never wavers, despite all their bickering.

After finally reaching San Franciso, the brothers successfully locate their quarry – only to be presented with a ‘golden’ opportunity unlike any they’ve ever come across.  Changing plans and loyalties, Eli and Charlie join forces with Warm, and in doing so, meet an enemy so insidious, unexpected, and deadly that the Sisters brothers are forever changed.

Book Review: The Girl with No Shadow - Joanne Harris

The Girl with NoShadow

Joanne Harris

We are reunited with Vianne Rocher four years after her victory over the Man in Black as recounted in Chocolat.  She now lives in Paris, under an assumed name, living a mundane life and hiding like a fugitive. Her daughter Anouk is now nine, and Vianne has had another daughter, Rosette,  who is four years old.  Vianne works in a humdrum café in a tacky suburb, and is tentatively involved with a respectable but boorish businessman. She has closed her life to magic and meddling, wears drab clothes and tries to remain as insignificant as possible. This is because, we are told, of an Accident.

The familiy’s quiet, furtive existence is utterly transformed one day when a fantastic, outgoing and cheerful woman named Zozie appears in their neighborhood.  In no time at all, she has ensconced herself as the family’s new best friend and older sister and an inspiration for Vianne’s return to the chocolate arts. Everyone loves her.

However, Zozie is also a witch. She, too, has uncommon and powerful abilities, but unlike Vianne Zozie is happy to use them for her own personal gain, and against anyone she considers a suitable victim or potential foe. She is a master of identity theft and manipulation; and revels in her powers.  Vianne’s willful blindness allows her to welcome Zozie without recognizing her abilities or intent -- and Zozie, through manipulation and magic, slowly begins to take over.

Anouk is a far more important character in this second book. She is dealing with all the usual problems of growing up: friends, boyfriends, a loving but difficult mother.  She has inherited her mother’s abilities, but has agreed to keep them unused and hidden.  However, she misses her old life and old friends in Lansquenet, and resents her mother for this new, grey life where everything must be ordinary.

Quick to exploit a weakness, Zozie deliberately charms a very lonely Anouk. She begins to teach Anouk a much darker magic than her mother’s, and one more focused on revenge and self-interest.  Zozie’s influence grows quickly in Vianne’s emotional absence, and soon Anouk is using her abilities for petty revenge against schoolmates, thrilling at the potential benefits of using the very abilities her mother is trying to hide.  The story’s conclusion rests on Anouk, who has to make the decision about who she is going to be -- a coming-of-age milestone slightly more complicated than usual.

This sequel is a deliciously sweet as the last. My only complaint is that it may be too sweet: Chocolat was bittersweet, but The Girl with No Shadow is almost aspertame.

Book Review: Chocolat - Joanne Harris

Chocolat

Joanne Harris

The town of Lansquenet is tiny. Traditional.  Quiet. God-fearing.  The townspeople are hardworking, keep to themselves, don’t like strangers, and are very much under the thumb of their local priest, Father Reynaud, a sour, dour man with a terrible sin on his conscience.

Then one day Vianne arrives, blown in by the wind and a past full of secrets.  She shows up in Lansquenet with her daughter, Anouk, and a head full of uneasy dreams; she is different, and strange, and is soon the object of curiosity and suspicion.  She is, at first, encouraged to leave. But the town of Lansquenet is in for a surprise.  For, although a gourmet chocolatiere by trade, Vianne’s true talent is for magic, and seeing into peoples’ souls.

When Vianne opens her chocolate shop in the town square directly across from the church, war is declared between Vianne and Father Reynaud.  Vianne’s weapons of choice are eclairs and truffles, cinnamon-laced hot chocolate, almond bonbons in cellophane, and marzipan flowers. Her opponent counters with guilt, penance, and shame. It’s a battle-royale without a single act of violence. The victor will claim not only the souls of the villagers, but also the right to stay in Lansquenet.

Vianne has spent her life running, desperately trying to avoid facing her own terrible secrets.  Now, with a daughter of her own, and haunted by memories of her long-dead mother, Vianne must face her past, as well as her present, to finally find a place to call “home”.

 

Chocolat was made into a movie starring Juliet Binoche and Johnny Depp.  It is a decent movie with a superb cast, but was “hollywood-ized” into a romance.  This book is NOT a romance.  It is, however, a delicious treat and perfect for curling up with on a rainy day.

I was a Teenage Anglophone

I was a teenage Anglophone.

My parents were both born in Europe.  My mother was born and raised in London, England, of English and Italian parents. My father was born in Copenhagen, Denmark, and moved with his family to Quebec when he was 10 years old. They met in Malta as young adults, married in London in 1972, and settled in Quebec.

We were sent to English school. I have no recollection of French immersion being discussed. In retrospect, I have the impression that this was simply overlooked: my parents each spoke three languages, felt that French would come easily through daily life, and we would have the best chance to succeed in school in our mother-tongue.

However, against expectations, I found learning French incredibly difficult. It wasn't simply the complicated grammar with its gender discrimination and variety of tenses, but also the pronunciation. Quebec French rolls its "R"s, and I could never manage anything but a clumsy growl. Still can't do it.

(It didn't help that schools taught "proper" French - the original, formal French; because on the streets, people speak Quebecois, or "joual". Joual drops most of the formal grammar, adopts words from other languages easily, and has a twang not unlike a Texan. Joual is near incomprehensible to anyone taught "school French".)

It wasn't until the second grade that I became aware of any issues surrounding language in Quebec. One of my teachers became antagonistic. At the time I had no idea why. I was an able, enthusiastic student and regular honour roll recipient. Teachers liked me. This one did not.

Madame X did not seem to enjoy her job very much, and was known for exaggerated, exasperated sighs and bitter asides against her slower students. I think she may have harboured a suspicion that I was deliberately provoking her. After all, I excelled in every other subject. Why would I consistently come close to failing in her class, if not on purpose? Clearly, I was a maudit Anglaise.

The pattern remained throughout my early education. Although no teacher ever quite made me feel as stupid as Madame X, all French teachers tended to regard me with suspicion: she's so smart, it is impossible she could be this terrible at French unless she's doing it on purpose. Some of them even voiced this suspicion. My failure was viewed as a deliberate political statement.

I grew to hate French. I began to hate the classes, hated speaking it out loud (stuttering endlessly), resented the teachers for their impatience, and resented my brain for failing. Oh, I could get by, and passed all my French courses (barely), but it was always a struggle.

Adolescence was more of the same, only I was more exposed to the society around me. I discovered that Madame X's attitude was fairly standard.

I've been yelled at by random, old ladies for mistakenly using "tu" instead of "vous", berated by countless public transit goons, sneered at by bureaucrats, and viewed with suspicion by peers, because I could not master the language. It didn't matter how hard I was trying, it didn't matter if they themselves understood English perfectly. Ici on parle Francais!

Most Anglos, and many innocent tourists, have had terrible experiences over mundane things (for examples, see here, here, and here). Transit workers are particularly notorious. And heaven help you if you are not white (here, here, and here).

The most offensive element of all is the Office Quebecois de la langue Francaise. The OQLF was created in 1961 to strengthen the French language in Quebec and ensure its priority over other languages. Given that Quebec is surrounded by English-speaking provinces, this was understandable. What is not so understandable is the methods they use:

For example, I worked for many years at a large, predominantly English, bookstore in downtown Montreal. Book people generally like other book people, regardless of their language, so it was rare that there were any issues. If the client spoke French, we spoke French. If they spoke English, we spoke English. If they spoke another language, we'd do our best. No big deal.

But one day the "language police" showed up. In the future, we were informed, all intercom pages had to be in French. If a Chinese person called, asking about a Polish cookbook, and reached an English clerk at the information desk, the page could only be in French. If an English-speaking person wanted to purchase an English book, the clerk had to conduct the transaction in French, regardless.

A  few years later, when I working in a neighbourhood pharmacy, the language police showed up and threatened legal action because the signage, which was bilingual, had the English and French portions the same font size.

Considering the hefty fines levied for breaching any language laws, managers had no choice but to enforce them. These laws were hardly draconian, just incredibly irritating, costly, and short-sighted.

What is a more serious problem is that many people used the OQLF and language laws to "legally" discriminate against, and harass, native English-speakers, as illustrated in the links above. Worst of all, the OQLF is subsidized by tax revenue that could (should) be used to repair the notorious crumbling infrastructure. Quebecois people are dying because highways and buildings are collapsing. But somehow the OQLF can send their "tongue-troopers" to investigate bookstore signage and restaurant menus.

Why is this working?  The PQ politicians and their cronies are using fear-based marketing on the Francophone people. Fear-based marketing is horribly effective. The politicians tell the French that their culture is fading, their language is disappearing, they are beset by the hostile Anglophone provinces that surround them. Their (the people) only hope is to support the Parti Quebecois, unless they all want to end up becoming.... what, exactly? A shining example of human diversity? A tourist paradise? A multicultural, sophisticated population?

The irony of it all is that the Quebecois people (French, English, and other) are some of the most generous, friendly, playful, and wonderful people I have ever met. When removed from the "language debate". they are generally welcoming, extremely funny, down to earth, kind, and way more fun than the average Ontarian (sorry, Ontario).

An yet, the people of Quebec are turning on one another, provoked and encouraged by political rhetoric. Exploiting the language difference between two co-existing cultures for political gain is ruthless and short-sighted. It's bad for the province and bad for its people. What is, underneath all the hyperbole and manufactured strife, a unique, vibrant cross-culture, is being destroyed by the petty and the dishonest. The fundamentalists (on both sides) should be ashamed.

Stereotypically for an Anglo, I eventually moved to Toronto. It's hard to ignore the politicians and their cronies reminding you, frequently, that you are not welcome in Quebec, even if you were born there.  I was tired of being a "maudite Anglaise", I just wanted to be a person. Toronto, for all its many faults, doesn't care about language. Most of the people here aren't from here anyway, so nobody really cares, and everyone manages to communicate without top-down legislation.


* My apologies for the lack of correct accents of the French words. It is not an intentional slight - my keyboard is low-end.

Thanks to Hipster Joe and Tabby G. for their help with this post!