Tag: fiction

Edoras

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A few little book thoughts this lovely Wednesday evening.

65. Scott Pilgrim vs the Universe by Bryan Lee O’Malley. Another rousing Pilgrim adventure! This one got a little sad and depressing (bit of melancholy always helps with flavouring the whole) but probably necessary to set up the finale. I loved all the Ramona and Kim interactions and also seeing Scott continue to grow. I realised while reading this that one of the things I love the most about the author’s storytelling is his willingness to be random and cut from moment to moment without feeling obligated to explain in detail the narrative. So many little moments that just set the scene so well and then…cut! Next scene and we’re off. So many little slices of life as Scott continues to figure out what’s going on with Ramona. I love it. Also appreciated all the background Scott vs robot combat while the more important conversations happen in the foreground. O’Malley is a superb storyteller.

66. The Story of Christianity – Volume II: The Reformation to the Present Day by Justo L. Gonzalez. For the most part, I enjoyed reading this one and thought it was a decent high level overview of church history from the Reformation to the present day. Still though, even with the high page count, it felt like we were flying through events with barely a space to breathe and attempt to understand the years we were wading through. I’m aware this is really meant to be an introductory work to church history, but I still felt the method seemed a bit scattershot at times. For the first volume which of historical necessity covers a smaller population and land area, the high-level approach worked for the most part. Here, it feels that with such a large amount of history to get through, the choice of the author on which bits to focus on looms large over one’s comprehension of the whole. And sometimes I felt like the author spent time on political or historical events which really were not necessary to the story of Christianity and perhaps the words could have been spent better on other topics. I guess I’m just trying to say that the author has to focus on certain topics and personages to keep the page count manageable, but the selective nature of such feels that there is much that is brushed by. Some prominent theologians are of course mentioned and focused on, others ignored entirely. The author’s perspective of course necessitates such. The first half of this book was fairly good and even-handed, but the last quarter or so (mainly 19th/20th century) was a bit weaker. I would even argue the author’s focus on the liberation and ecumenical movements of the 20th century detract from other theological movements which are ignored almost in total. Still though, this book is still worthwhile in giving a fairly high-level overview of the institutional church. At times I feel a bit annoyed the author doesn’t seem to write from a Christian perspective (i.e., acknowledging work of the Holy Spirit or show passion for the gospel) but I freely admit that’s my own issue – obviously this writer is writing a scholarly look without the apparent bias of personal faith. I understand that! Still though, there’s a reason I love reading Iain Murray’s biographies and histories! Anyways, I’m grateful I read this, just would caution that there is much that is left out of this work and certainly a bit of a bias towards certain perspectives.

67. Anne of Ingleside by L.M. Montgomery. A lovely book. I confess once I picked this one up, I groaned a bit inside. My memory informed me that this book and the following one were my two least favourite books of the Anne series. And so it may yet prove to be upon re-read. Yet still. I found myself enjoying this one more than expected, perhaps because of low expectations! Yes, this is a different kind of Anne book. Anne is a wife and mother of a large family and honestly she is not at all the main character in this one. And…well, she seems a bit off and different at times! But is that not fair enough? She after all cannot still be the young lady studying at Patty’s Place with her college chums. Yes, this book mainly focuses on Anne’s children and moves in very episodic fashion. Yes, it relies at times overmuch on random dialogues and conversations that really are a bit much – oh the quilting chapter!! – but still? I found myself reading the last page with a smile and almost a tear. Perhaps helped by the bit that the last few chapters are some of the best of the book and really made me realize anew how much I love Montgomery’s work. Perhaps my perspective is also shaped a tad by the fact that I am now married (which I wasn’t the last time I read this!). I wonder how I’ll react to this one five (or ten!) years from now. Because yes, I will certainly read this again.

Unseen

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It was a grey day. Grey seas sang under grey skies as grey birds soared and swooped low over the quayside. The quayside and its surroundings were also rather grey, nary a pop of colour to be found in the piles of gear and containers that lay here and there. Even the people that scurried about in the casual confidence that comes with being where they belonged could be said to wear faces set in shades of grey. Now to describe a face as grey seems to call for a bit of radical interpretation, but I believe you know what I mean. We have all seen those faces set in the default mode whereupon we decide we won’t smile and ask how’s their day. So yes. To sum up, an air of general grey-ness seemed to dominate the landscape at the shore and it would not be a stretch to say that this grey-ness seemed to stretch further than the eye could see. Ever a soul has strayed near an area where in the process of quick transit through it is felt that the colour is being leached from it. Now one may quibble with such and feel that we are getting dangerously close to invalid metaphysical applications. I will not argue and simply move on and resume my narrative and let the words stated previously sink into your soul and perhaps when you are a little older you will understand.

So to resume? It was a grey day. And so as John approached the dock and lifted his eyes to the heavens, the sigh that issued forth was an echo of the sadness within as he sought in vain for a glimmer of hope. The grey-ness of the day did not entirely escape him but it also did not startle him, for he was similar enough in mood at the moment to feel as if it was only fitting for the day to shroud itself in mourning in sympathetic communion with his yearning soul. John did not entirely abandon hope. Rather, he abandoned the idea that the hope would be consummated at any near point. It was promised and he believed the promise. But how long until hope’s longing would be fulfilled? He put his hand in his jacket pocket and felt again the letter that contained the words he had already memorized. The weight of the paper in his hand felt good, a reminder that his sanity had not entirely fled. But had it begun to fray? He thought not, but sometimes he wondered. And the doubt gnawed at him. John’s eyes narrowed. Begone, ye foul thoughts. I believe.

And so John’s firm steps took him up to the longest and greatest dock, the one at which the great ships moored. He walked up the steps and then begun the long trek down. At the end of the dock he expected to find the answer. Or if not the answer, at least a reminder of that for which his life was pointed towards. The chill wind picked up as he stepped further away from shore and his mind wandered towards the events of earlier that morning. He would not think further of what had happened to Alex. He would not. Her tears tore at him.

Without realizing, John had navigated down the length of the great dock and was even now nearing the end. He went past the inspection offices and broke again into the open air. The wind plucked at his jacket and he pulled his collar closer. His eyes were wet for more than the shrieking of the wind. The gulls hovered close by, wondering if he had a snack for them. Alas, not today my friends. I have in my pocket crumbs of something more valuable than bread. And then John’s eyes picked out the bench at the end of the dock. Upon it was a girl in a scarf of red. She was there.

Correspondence

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Hello, dear one. I write this now from the back of the wardrobe, hoping somehow it gets to you. You may wonder at the strange paper and perhaps what pen produces ink such as this. Well those are the lesser of the questions you should be asking. Firstly – how did it come to this? Bare three days ago we parted under the oak trees ringing the far field. I left you with a promise and you left me with a kiss. Do you remember the golden light that afternoon as the sun slowly bent down to the earth? In the moment it felt momentous and it felt as if the sun knew it too. And so she curtsied to us two and bathed us with the golden light from her beaming face. And through the rays I looked and saw a rainbow forming in the corners of your eyes. For yes even with my words you could not bring yourself to lie to me that you were happy and I don’t care I said. It’s ok my love to cry. Now I walk under stranger trees and stranger skies and I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. I write this in the hopes that your eyes will brush these papers with the dark fire that blazes forth when your emotions are roused. Please my love forgive me for my tardiness. I’ll forgive you your doubts. For now for certain this has gone far beyond the little matter that we thought it was those three days ago. Or was it four? I can’t be certain anymore. Still please pray for me. I need it, oh I need it. I wish I could say I’ll be with you tomorrow and that we could picnic on the porch. I’d delight to share a few sandwiches with you and some cold iced tea and perhaps a few strawberries. Yet I can’t think on that too much. My focus is demanded here, even writing this taxes me as I let my thoughts drift to kinder climes. Pray for me my love. Always yours.

Fresh White Linen

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This grey Sunday, a few thoughts on my latest.

44. Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner. A monumental book. I remain supremely impressed at the mastery of the craft Stegner shows in his writing. This book took me a little while to sink into, but once I did? I was very much absorbed in the story of Susan Beecher Ward and of her marriage to Oliver Ward. For truly as much as her story is central to this tale, so too the story of the marriage of Susan and Oliver is that which holds center stage and providing a through-line around which all else rotates. I am of two minds about this book and in some ways find myself incapable of conclusively saying I love this book. While I can most certainly acknowledge the greatness of the prose in this one (so many individual lines and paragraphs were pure poetry, words simply leaping off the page in their unadorned beauty), I’m not quite sure if I entirely appreciate the framing device Stegner uses. Unfortunately I can’t entirely recommend it removed either, as I understand Stegner is attempting to analyze a character from a distance and he well uses the character of the narrator (Lyman Ward) to contrast and highlight both the alienness and beauty of Susan Ward and I am not sure the story of Susan would work quite as well in isolation. Yet, I did find myself quickly turning the pages whenever we were back to the present day. Capping it off, I found the grotesquerie and hazy dream space of Lyman’s own moment of truth a bit too pat in the light of the grandeur and tragedy of what we’ve just experienced in the life of Susan Ward. Yes, the last line of this book was perfect, I will acknowledge that. And the themes of forgiveness and reconciliation are such strong ones!! That last line, for real. So perhaps this book is truly a great one, as much as parts of it break my heart. Tragedy looms over much of this book and one wonders when the storm will break. It is near the end when finally all is revealed and it is worse than I could have imagined. Still though. Despite the tears and sadness, I did love witnessing in such intimacy the lives and marriage of Susan and Oliver. Oh what flawed beacons of humanity are they! This is a book that I’m very glad I read, although there are some parts that were difficult to read. This is a book that made me think about myself and my own choices and my own life and inward turn to reflect on the path I’ve walked that’s led me to the brink of this present day and the future horizon over which I look. I could also wonder if the bulk of the magic of this book comes from the letters excerpted throughout, which I’ve now discovered were the letters of a real woman whose real story mirrors so much of Susan’s life. Did that take away some of admiration of Stegner perhaps, to realise that he is simply crafting his story around a life that was already lived so brilliantly in the flesh? Perhaps. Still though, this was a story wonderfully told. Well worth the read.

Anticipation Speaks

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A warm Tuesday evening here. I have a few minutes, so supposed I would fill the time by writing a few words on my latest book! Fair warning – it wasn’t a book I loved so I think my thoughts shall be fairly brief. I think.

40. Hotel du Lac by Anita Brookner. Oddly enough, reading this book made me feel distinctly less enthused about vacationing in Switzerland, regardless of the fact that it’s set in a lakeside hotel that presumably people go to enjoy themselves. And yet. That’s part of the thrust of this book, no matter that you may be visiting a charming location – you still very much come with your own baggage, corporeal and non. And the jury is still out if this hotel and its lake and its surroundings are actually charming. The author does good work here of making this lakeside retreat moody, dreamy and even a bit musty at times. It is not meant to be a happy story about a vacation, especially when the main character – one Edith – is not exactly at this hotel of her own free will. There are factors. Of which – of course – we shall discover over the course of this one, so I shall not divulge all. I don’t think I actually liked this book because I didn’t exactly like the main character. I suppose that’s admirable of course, to be able to write a main character is both sympathetic and unlikeable, but can I say I enjoyed the experience? Even the quite competent writing and sweeps of descriptive prose did little to sway my thoughts. Instead, I found my time in this book a bit claustrophobic, even overwhelming at times. Which now gives me pause as I wonder if that is an intentional device on the part of the author or if I just felt a bit removed from the drama of it all. The character work is brilliant and by far the best part of this book is discovering all the backgrounds and little secrets of the other residents in the hotel. Fascinating stories could be written about each of the other characters – the Puseys! Monica (woman with the dog)! Mme de Bonneuil! Mr. Neville! (Wait, no. No one wants his story) and I admire the fact that the author made them all feel so real – almost more real than Edith at times. Again though…is that not intentional? I hesitate to talk too much of the main themes of this work as it is very much a look at questions regarding a woman’s place in the world and the expectations and societal pressures working upon her. While there are of certainty male characters in this book, firstly none of them are exactly stand-up. Secondly, this is not a book about men. Rather, it’s a book about women (well, English well-to-do women) and engaged in very much prodding at the fabric of society that has led them to this little hotel on the lake. My experiences lead me to hesitation to speak further. I shall at least say that I didn’t find this book a warm one, but I daresay it’s not intended to be.

Ripples

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A lovely evening to let my fingers play across the keys and imagine I hear the music. Perhaps faintly it is there, floating in the air on the other side of the pond. Do you hear it? I wish I could. Instead I sit here at the edge of the dock and wait for the first rays of moonlight. I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad thing to hear the voice of another, especially when now all I can hear are the recriminations playing on repeat. Maybe in a few minutes she’ll walk down and join me, even if it is a bit chilly this night. And we’ll talk about the things that stir the surface waters and she’ll give me a smile or two. And then if we feel like it the moment will grow wistful and I’ll gaze across the waters and then she will join and do the same. The times when we both in tandem look across the lake are the times when our minds tend to be most in sync and so then she (or I) will bring up the subject that is a bit further down yet no less potentially painful because of the depth at which it sits. It’s far too long since we’ve had a frank heart to heart, and maybe that’s the reason for the distances that now lingers between us in moments such as this. Oh come down my love and join me at the end of the dock. Let’s sit under moonlight and stars and share our deepest heartaches and linger in the intimacies in being truly known by the other. I will open up myself to you – will you not do the same? Listen to the piano and the sound the fingers make sweetly dancing hither and yon. I hear the music now and yes the footsteps nearing.

What is this Feeling

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A little book review this rainy Sunday afternoon.

32. Wandering Stars by Tommy Orange. A book that’s simultaneously an easy read while also being very likely the most depressing book I’ll read all year. And yes before everyone chimes in, I’m well aware that depressing books can and often are worthwhile in how they point out the horror of all that’s been and was and still is right under our noses. Still though? Doesn’t mean these books – or this one in particular – are quite the type of books I love to read. This book is a rough one. It frankly unveils the horrors of both addiction and loss of cultural identity as it explores the aftershocks and still reverberating effects of the systemic erasure of Native American life and culture throughout the United States. Sometimes one would wish that we lived in a world where such horrors were not perpetrated by those in power, yet we cannot close our mind to history or deny that such events ever existed. And so I’m grateful for books like this that seek to show through the sweep of history and might-have-been personal narrative that the brokenness of this world is not so easily fixed as some might believe. I also found reading it a troubling experience, a lot of content warnings here, as the saying goes. I really do hate reading books with addiction themes. And…pretty much every single main character in this book struggles with such. I don’t think I could read this book again. Yet still – I did breathe a sigh of relief to see signs of hope at the very end of this tale, a hope that points to something better beyond the curve of the road ahead. As much as addiction and loss are all over this book, there is also just a bit of recovery.

And beyond the addiction themes, there are many discussions of identity and what it means to have a certain cultural identity. What is cultural identity and what brings such? Is it blood, is it cultural heritage, is it geographical longevity and ties to a certain piece of land? Is it familial connections or is it merely knowledge and being connected to that which came before? We all long for an identity as such – we wish to be known and valued for who we are – but who are we? It is difficult for me to overmuch critically analyse this book as I’m aware there are many questions that I am ill qualified to answer. This is a book written from a cultural minority viewpoint and thus questions are raised that I have never had to face sheerly due to the – at least outward – fact that I am in a cultural majority position. Does this mean I have the luxury of not thinking or caring about my cultural and/or ethnographic identity? I would argue part of my apathy in regards to such lies with my belief in Christ and that my true identity is found in being a Christian. Such tags as “race/colour/nation” are not ones I resonate with and find them less than helpful at times. Yet still I must and do recognize it is easier for me to shelve those labels as I don’t have to live in a society in which I am a minority. I must remember this. I don’t think this is a book I shall revisit and likely one I will not keep on my shelf. Yet. This book spawned a lot of thought and I am grateful for such, as much as I did not always agree with the author on some of the answers he pointed towards. I am grateful for the author sharing his perspectives and yes, even a piece of his story.

Another Turn about the Room

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A few book thoughts this grey Saturday.

26. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. A strange and beautiful delight of a book. Typically one reads a book and feels that one has a decent understanding of it and feels satisfied upon reaching its close. To the contrary with this one – I feel that five more rereads will not begin to plumb its depths. And I greatly look forward to reading it again. I could talk more about the many characters who are so richly presented and teased throughout – the titular Clarissa, Peter Walsh, the Warren Smiths, even all the smaller bits that still receive more lavish study and attention than the main characters in most other novels – the scene-stealing Sally Seton, the contradictory Mr. Dalloway, Elizabeth and Miss Kilman and others. I think that’s what I loved most about this book, the empathetic and deep look into the lives of those who in other cases would be passed over as mere superficial things. Of course the imagery and description is simply luscious. This book is veritably cinematic. But even so, much of the action is internal and in the minds of the characters we follow, so in a way – is this a story that can only be told properly in the form of a novel? Perhaps perhaps. I feel as if I need to read this again in a year or so and see how it strikes me then. The storyline following young Septimus and Rezia – powerful and affecting and the scene near its close still haunts my dreams. I think on how Septimus and Clarissa mirror each other in certain ways yet wonder on the thread that binds them. Also it’s fascinating seeing the comparison and contrast between Sally and Clarissa and the lives they once led and the lives they now lead. Are they so different now after all? Many more words I could write but I fear without insight. This book is not one that can be entirely captured or comprehended on first read.

27. Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar. This book is written masterfully yet I confess I struggled with it at times. The themes in this one are deep and rich and highlight the inability of the mundane and human to fulfill the eternal longings of the soul. For what are we on this earth? Why do our hearts cry? I wish I could write half as well as this author, whose prose is such that it quickly and incisively places one in the midst of a richly textured scene, all the particulars laid out that one can imagine you’re actually there, watching and hearing and getting swept up in the drama of this young man Cyrus Shams. The character work is strong and though I’m not always a fan of many POVs, the author here handles it marvelously, even with the dream sequences that while a bit self-indulgent, are a delight to read and aid well in developing and revealing the character of our protagonist. I do feel though that the scenes where Cyrus is center were my favourite and I was always excited to get another glimpse through his eyes. This book is a weird one yet wonderful – showing us a man who feels a bit lost and searching for meaning, trying to understand how an Iranian-American can feel at all at home in the Midwest, USA. Does he have a home? Or will he forever be an outcast, a wandering pilgrim in a land that knows him not? I will always resonate with a book and protagonist that has poetry and art – I do love a book where I feel a bit akin to one who feels so fulfilled in writing and where the struggles of such are laid bare. There is a great line about the best part of writing being what comes after it has been accomplished and the satisfaction and feeling of completion it brings. I wish I could whole-heartedly recommend, but as those who know me would not be surprised at, I did cringe and wince at times at the profane and graphic content in this book. Not a fan, though yes it is a part of reality of life. Still, I struggled with it and thus would not recommend this book to all. Yet! There is beauty in this book at times. A bit dreamy and searching and I appreciate reading the heart cries of one who knows this world is not enough.

The Process

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What one does when one seeks to relax says a lot about a person. Or at least, that’s what I’m pondering now as I – in my own way – spend a few minutes sprawling on the couch attempting to put words to page. When one’s creative juices have gone dry and there are no more faded memories fit to be mined, what does one write about? Well that’s when it all goes meta and the wannabe author starts talking about the process of writing. Nothing more boring for the non-author, am I right? But for some of my fellow authors, well…maybe you’re interested in what I have to say? At this point probably not, because I’m just spinning my wheels in this endless intro and you may now suspect – and you’d be right – that I don’t actually have a plan for what I’m writing. And there’s a reason for that.

I most certainly cannot speak for all writers but guess what? I can speak for myself, and so I do. Writing is something that ends in somewhat the same destination. There are words on a page (or on a screen, or on a wall, or various other surfaces, who am I to judge) and these words are presumably an expression of the author’s mind. Yet the process of writing varies in an almost infinite kaleidoscope of ways. The routines and the tics, the little tricks an author does to trick himself into writing something that could be construed as creative are some of the most treasured tools in the author’s toolbox. And I cringe that I have finally used the dreaded toolbox metaphor. Oh may I never do such again.

And I have now wasted another paragraph spinning my wheels. Oh what is this nonsense! I could be smug and say there is a purpose to that and you know what? There is. But I must also be a bit humble and admit that the fact I have spent two paragraphs talking about nothing to illustrate my point is a fortuitous turn of events that I did not realize its ultimate end until now. And that point shall now be illustrated.

Simply this – and I am proud to think that I am alone in this technique but I am sure I am not and I wait for the other writers to hoarde around me and echo that I am not at all unique – I write of random thoughts and tidbits in my brain knowing the writing soul shall not awaken until I give it a good few kicks. Much as one primes a pump, I know that my best output won’t happen right away. Indeed, I can stare at the screen all I want but it is very rare that my best words bloom immediately. Instead, I write. Sometimes nonsense, such as now. Other times, I will visualize a random scene and simply write what comes to me, allowing my imagination to slowly wake and rub the sleep out of its eyes as it looks around and sees what there is to see. But this is the important thing. I write. It is the most basic and excellent writing advice there is and it is preached for a reason. It works. How does one write? You write. It matters not what one writes. Of course eventually one may seek for quality and depth of substance in one’s prose or poetry, but initially? Just write. I stretch my mind and as I write and let my fingers outpace my conscious mind, sometimes I am even stunned at what is eventually resting on the page, alive and vibrant with meaning and truth that I did not myself know was waiting to spring forth from my soul.

I crave to write things that are of beauty and truth. I often fail, it is true. But occasionally I succeed. And I cannot credit my own foreknowledge or depth of craft that I possess in such meagre quantity. Instead, I am grateful for what I have been blessed with, the ability to communicate somewhat of the miraculous, releasing spirit thoughts from my brain to the great beyond, words on a page. If I simply put fingers to keyboard and pound away, eventually some gold emerges from the dross. Not all the time. Not often even. But when from beyond the great sea come words that ring true in a way that leaves my soul in stunned silence at what has been wrought? I lift my eyes to heaven and say a prayer of thanks. For this is how I rest, by pounding out the fresh harvest of my thoughts so that the chaff may be released and perhaps pure silken wheat may be left behind to witness true. I don’t know what it says about me. But in this ultra modern era in which I inhabit, I write to rest. Writing slows my thoughts and reveals inner dreams that soothe and invigorate my very soul. I cannot promise any of these words are or will be of any use to anyone else. But writing them was of use to me. And why not now release them into the wild? These words are not of anymore use to me now – may they run off into the woods and bless who they will.

oh Winter where is thy sting?

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17. Song of Spheres by Walker Larson. Well, this book was definitely interesting. It was a book that I was hoping to love – elements of science, space travel, philosophical questions all. Yet at the end of the day, I found it wanting. Several reasons and I’ll be brief because I don’t really want to spend all that much time writing about this one. Spoilers follow so please be warned if you care for that sort of thing. Firstly, the scientific concepts at the core of this one threw me for a bit of a loop and I’m not quite sure if the author believes in a geocentric model of the universe or not, but I’m left puzzled. I suppose from a conspiracy theory perspective, it’s fascinating to believe it might be true. But for a whole book centered on it? Oh wow. Oh dear. I will give this book some points since I now want to read some actual non-fiction books on astronomy and the earth since this book annoyed me with so much of its science. So yeah, if you want a thriller about a bunch of scientists proving that the sun revolves around the earth? This is your book. Secondly, the prose and craft in this book were…lacking. Thirdly, as much as the book hints and suggestively raises its eyebrow at philosophical questions and the place of man in the world, it never quite goes there. That frustrated me. Either go there or don’t. If you want a book discussing the meaning of life and and the place and purpose of mankind and the possibility of God…well, then, dive in!! This book dances around the edges and never quite commits. All that said? It did keep my attention! I read it in only 2 nights because I really did want to see how the author would wrap up this story. There are certainly thrilling moments! I slightly apologize for being so harsh here, especially as I’m sure this author is still learning his craft and I can certainly not confess I could write anything better. But poor storytelling and wonky science annoys me. What can I say?