In that moment at the table he lifts his head and looks directly in her eyes. She blushes and stammers a response to his question and then waits with indrawn breath for his reply. He pauses. His head inclines to one side. And then he smiles. In that smile his eyes change from grey to green and she feels as if the earth has tilted and she doesn’t quite have as sure of a footing as she thought she did before this moment. And to cover for her confusion and her loss of place, she grabs for another piece of garlic bread and proceeds to stuff her face. The smile that has been slowing spreading now erupts into a hearty laugh. She likes hearing it and she at once decides to make it her life goal to provoke it as often as she can. As she is still chewing and pondering the newness of this life, she watches as he twirls some more pasta around his fork and join her in consecrating this moment that has made them anew. There are ceremonies and then there is ceremony, and this is most certainly the latter – a type of ritual that she isn’t sure will or should feature prominently in the tales they will later tell. Or maybe they will. For who else can tell their story and say that in the moment they knew their forever that they both couldn’t talk because they were eating spaghetti and garlic bread? And now Isabel laughs out loud and says, “My love – can I call you that now? I just wanted to say, this spaghetti sauce is divine. And the meatballs are better than the ones I had in New York.” And he takes a sip of wine and his rejoinder comes, “I hope so. For you’re stuck with my cooking forever now.” Her breath catches as she considers anew the promises they have made that night. It is startling to realize how the infinite can be compressed to such a small solitary point, a point of such concrete firmness that it is almost bewildering to realise that this communion is held together by a presence outside the two of them. In that reassuring thought she lifts her glass and calls for a toast. He agrees. And their words spiral up and around like smoke upon the November breeze and their words turn into a prayer. They are blessed and they know it well. He lifts out a hand and takes hers in his. And it is very good.
Tag: fiction
Snowbound
A quick book review.
79. A Winter’s Love by Madeleine L’Engle. Well, certainly not my favourite L’Engle I’ve ever read. But not entirely terrible and slightly redeemed by the ending, as I was hoping would be the case. Spoilers for this one may follow, so read further at your peril if that kind of thing will bother you. So. This was a book I saw mentioned in one of L’Engle’s memoirs (she mentioned writing it during a certain period of her life) and I had never heard of it so decided to pick it up. An adult novel, it’s one that feels both very real and also a bit surreal and dreamy at the same time. Like the best of L’Engle’s fiction, she interweaves the spiritual and the real together in such dreamy spirals and writes about characters that feel so real you believe they simply must exist in some reality somewhere. There is a solidity in her writing and yet also a floaty dreamlike sense to the whole thing as she attempts to understand the emotions inside us that we so often don’t understand ourselves. This story is a story grasping at what makes a person breathe and love and step forward once again, and as always, L’Engle’s prose is beautiful to behold, a masterpiece in and of itself. But the story. Ah well, the story is one of my least favourite kinds of stories, the kind that I winced at once I realised what would take up the bulk of this book. It’s the story of a woman (one Emily Bowen) who has lived many years with her husband and young children (Virginia and Connie and the ghost of wee sweet Alice) but now in a fraught time for their family, her heart pulls her in another direction and she begins to yearn after an old family friend who seems so much more solid and real and desirable than her husband. Oh joy. This is a real story though. And as L’Engle weaves in and around the lives of the various characters – as I mentioned, all of them seem so real in their own rights! – we begin to understand a bit of this moment that we have been dropped into and find ourselves seeing how the puzzle pieces of these people fit together. Gertrude and Kaarlo and Abe and Sam and Mimi and Virginia and Connie and Emily and Courtney and all the side characters (even Beanie who somehow L’Engle manages to humanize and make me wonder if I can forgive and understand him) bring this tale to life and I am frankly still awash in the emotions this one stirred up. I was even a bit amused to find a flashback sequence in which Courtney rages against Kempis’ Imitation of Christ, a book I just finished reading a bare few weeks ago!! While I wasn’t the hugest fan of it, I found myself amused to see that I disagreed with Courtney (and likely L’Engle) in the thrust of this one, and wondered if it’s partly the framework and perspective from which I sit. L’Engle has a bit more of a humanistic and individualistic outlook at times and of course this would clash against the humble servitude which Kempis preaches. Anyways! Just one of those happy little coincidences. That all being said? I was very prepared to loathe this book in its entirety, depending how it ended. I suppose I should have had faith in L’Engle though. The book does not end with Emily running to her lover, as much as she makes many decisions that made me wince and shake my head, even to the end. No, in the end, Emily chooses to stay true to her vows and oaths and press forward in her marriage to Courtney and her life with her family. A sigh of relief.
There is much in this book I haven’t talked about and many characters who I’ve barely mentioned in all their richness. But I’m grateful for L’Engle using her exquisite skill to bring forth themes that frankly sing in their brilliance and truth.
See How This Wind Calls to Me
This beautiful Sunday afternoon, the wind sings and sighs outside my window and it is almost time for a gorgeous walk, says I. But first? Well let’s talk about a few of my latest books – briefly oh so briefly! – and then I shall be off, hopefully returning later this evening with some creative writing if I am so blessed with the time and desire and inspiration for such.
74. The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion – Vol. 1 by Beth Brower. Utterly delightful read. I suppose I should not be surprised. I’ve seen these talked about for the past good bit now and have had the strong feeling that I would enjoy. They chronicle the adventures (sometimes misadventures) of the titular young heroine in 19th-century London and there are simply so many things in this volume that resonate with my silly self. Emma is a book lover, a observer of the weird and the beautiful, one whose heart longs for justice and has a good ear for a delightful turn of phrase. I was pretty sure I would like reading this one, but I confess I’m a bit surprised by quite how much I enjoyed this. The author has a wonderful command of the language and I’m almost convinced it was actually written by a 20-year-old woman. Yes, the language doesn’t quite seem like it comes from someone living in the 19th century, but it’s close enough that I can set that aside. There are numerous lines in this that simply sing and there are many times in this book where I laughed or nodded along with Emma’s exuberance and/or absurdity. Let me share one line that particularly touched me – “The lamps were lit, light coming from the houses, and there walked I, alone, and not upset to be so.” Beautiful. There are a few events in this book that brought me close to sympathetic outrage and I confess that I now feel far more invested in the future ongoings of young Miss Lion’s life than I have any right to be. The characters in this one are brilliantly drawn and the emotions sharply poignant, and if one could argue that all seems a bit black and white in Emma’s eyes, well is that not the experience of youth? I am stunned by how much I loved this one. Already halfway through Vol. 2 and a bit perturbed that I do not have Vol. 3 yet sourced.
75. Scott Pilgrim’s Finest Hour by Bryan Lee O’Malley. A fine conclusion to the Scott Pilgrim saga. A book that does a marvelous job of taking us to a conclusion that feels both right and earned and I can actually chronicle that both Scott and Ramona have grown and somehow matured during the course of these adventures! I do like how well Ramona’s arc is shown in these – very different from the movie – and how she actually feels like a real person and that we actually see how well she and Scott are suited for each other! And the last few pages? Simply profound and beautiful and I do say they make me almost emotional every time I come to them. And so.
Edoras
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
Something Weird 