Michelle Bailat-Jones

Writer, Translator, Reader

Posts from the ‘reading notes’ category

Hustvedt thoughts and Hawthorne Books

By

Finished Siri Hustvedt’s beautiful novel, The Sorrows of an American. Loved it. Will write about it properly before the week is up. Here are just some early thoughts.

This is the kind of book I love stumbling upon when I’m knee deep in my own fiction because it just asks for a second and a third and a fourth read…to take a further look at the skeleton of the text, and the layers that cover it. So many things I admire. Namely, the way Hustvedt’s dialogue accepts difficult conversations, enables the characters to say complicated, thoughtful things. Nadine Gordimer does this as well, allows her characters to engage in long-winded, meditative conversations about difficult topics.

Also, I enjoyed the authenticity of the narrative voice. I mean this in a very particular way. What I liked was that the narrator gave us his thoughts without too much framed narration. This can be risky because it can alienate the reader, asking the reader to do a lot more work than he or she might be willing to do. But Hustvedt kept a good balance. There was a definite narrative structure in place, but the narrator allowed his thoughts to wander at times, mixing previous memories and experiences. Something mentioned on page 3 might make an appearance, without any real explanatory triggers, on page 156. Things like that. It gave the novel a nice texture.

Finally, there was a lot, and I mean a whole lot, of psychoanalysis and psychoanalytic theories in the book. I’m still wading through my reaction to that element of the novel.

 **

 Before I forget…the small press I’d like to highlight today is Hawthorne Books. This wonderful little press is based in Portland, OR and has some fantastic titles. I’m at a loss to choose just one…Seaview by Toby Olson, Leaving Brooklyn by Lynne Sharon Schwartz, Little Green by Loretta Stinson…take a look at their catalog and you’ll see what I mean.

Friday reading notes

By

Received my first book from Open Letter Books (I have a subscription to their catalog, which is a fantastic deal, by the way) yesterday – The Golden Calf, a Russian classic by Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov. This book looks absolutely excellent and downright hilarious. The From the Authors bit at the very beginning of the book is already funny and I can’t wait to read this novel. Hooray for Open Letter Books and the fantastic translated fiction they are bringing to English-speaking readers.

*

Anyone else wondering whether the literary world is about to be flooded with unpublished JD Salinger fiction? Apparently, he never stopped writing…

*

I started reading Siri Hustvedt’s The Sorrows of an American. First, I was completely shocked to learn on page 6 that the narrator is a man. I hate it when this happens. I think most readers can’t help but assume a 1st person narrator is female when the author is female unless specified to the contrary within the first paragraph. But I went back and diligently reread those first six pages and I still think the voice is feminine…but I put the book down and will pick it back up in a day or so with my expectations in line.

*

Have made two big reading resolutions for 2010…

#1 – read as much as possible from the small presses. I continue to be overwhelmingly impressed with what is coming from the independent houses and less and less impressed with anything coming from the big houses. Especially for new writers. I realize a lot of this is simply because the independent presses appear to be the only ones even taking new writers, and therefore new fiction. In the long run, I see the closed-up-ness of the big houses for the past year and a half as detrimental to their future in a big way.

#2 – read second novels from anyone I’ve read only once. I tried to do this in 2009 but failed rather spectacularly, except for John Banville, Graham Swift and Philip Roth. But really, I need to be getting further into André Brink, Arnost Lustig, Michèle Lesbre, Richard Powers, Shirley Hazzard, David Malouf and a bunch of others. Plus Iris Murdoch, I cannot forget Iris Murdoch.

 

continuing the discussion on Roth

By

Let’s continue this discussion on Roth because there have been a number of thoughtful comments made on my last post.

First, Mike raises a really interesting question.

Since an enormity of books written before 1960 (and much later in some instances) were overtly racist, do we stamp them all, fine lit, classic mysteries, humor, all of it, as shameful?

I think we could discuss the word ‘racist’ first, in the same way that I’d like to get down to the nitty gritty of the word ‘misogynist’. These are words that involve the notion of active contempt. Which I think is very important for this discussion.

First, I agree that most American literature written before the civil rights era did nothing but uphold the status quo so in that sense it simply reflected the inferior position of black Americans at that time. But I don’t think the good stuff, the stuff we study now, the big ‘greats’ actively promoted the inferiority of one culture vs. another. I could be wrong here and I’d love some input on this but I think the difference between active and passive is worth discussing. Yes, perhaps many of these writers could be faulted for including a passive acceptance of the racially imbalanced world they lived in, but an active, contemptuous promotion of racist attitudes seems much graver to me. But also much rarer. I am trying to think of an example of this among my repertoire of great American writers – McCullers, Wharton, Steinbeck, Twain….

I want to clarify one last thought on this. I would hope that in today’s world, where we have finally crawled out of our cave and at least pretended we agree that all cultures and all humans are equal, a writer would get called on the carpet for either passive or active racism.

Okay, so let’s go back to the word misogyny, a word I do not throw around lightly. If I’m reading Roth and identify this active, palpable contempt toward women, why does it matter? I do believe that literature is not meant to be Good, so why does it bother me so much? I think Jacob Russell’s excellent comment gets to the heart of this.

When a book goes wrong, what matters is aesthetics. When a good and experienced reader like you finds yourself drawn in, made to feel complicit in a failed moral universe–not because you recognize that you are, complicit in the world outside the fiction, (as can happen)… complicit in some comparable way–but because you cannot fully engage with the book without feeling as though you are being invited to confirm, not merely understand or sympathize with, but confirm what is vile and hateful–then I think the problem is aesthetic, a failure of aesthetic distance.

This is exactly true – Lolita is one of the best examples for comparison (I can assume The Kindly Ones is right up there – but I haven’t had the courage to read it yet), exactly because the reader is never asked to confirm what is vile and hateful. Humbert Humbert tries every trick in the book to get the reader to sympathize and understand, but never once to confirm.

Jacob continues: What is it then about the misogyny in Roth’s novels that breaches the aesthetic borders, that draws the reader in as a kind of enabler of his misogyny? Is there such a fault? Or has the reaction to the narrator’s attitude and behavior perhaps overwhelmed the reading, created a situational blindness to aesthetic elements that might redeem both the novel and the reader’s sensibilities?

I think that the misogyny in Roth’s novels breaches the aesthetic borders simply because it is not a part of the novel’s thematic project (like HH’s obsession for Lolita was the entire project of that novel). Roth’s misogyny is a side element, a part of the decoration, it is entirely beside the point of what else is going on. As far as I can tell, he isn’t exploring the idea of misogyny through his misogynistic characters and/or narrator. So the breach is huge, because it’s unintentional.

So that’s my answer to the first question, but the next bit is going to have me racing back to reread The Human Stain and perhaps take up a few more of Roth’s books because now I am curious whether my gut reaction to the narrator has created a situational blindness to any redeeming aesthetic elements. I’ve stated very boldly that Roth isn’t exploring the idea of misogyny in his writing but am I really sure? I haven’t read all of his stuff. Does anyone think he might be doing this? Exposing and critiquing the inherent misogyny in American culture? This has not been my experience with him, and I’ve never seen anyone claim this as one of his preoccupations. But I’m going back to the texts and I’ll be reading very carefully, very carefully….

And will be back with more thoughts!

thoughts on Philip Roth

By

‘The work of a genius at full throttle’.

Generally, I hate blurbs like this on books and I can usually overlook them. But these lines, printed in eye-catching type on the bottom of my copy of Philip Roth’s The Human Stain, keep coming back to me. And they don’t sit well. Despite his publishing success and the sheer breadth of his overall literary project, I am hesitant about granting Roth this label, mainly because I feel his work contains a fatal flaw.

He is a misogynistic writer and I find that this element of his work interferes with my appreciation of anything else he does. There is a difference between exposing social issues (a misogynistic character, for example) and colluding with them (a misogynistic narrator who is often not much more than a stand-in for Roth). Roth is hailed for his dissection of American life, and he does get into the nitty-gritty and often-unpleasant aspects of human behavior, something I usually applaud in literature, but I find that his portraits of male-female relationships are overwhelmingly caricatural. Yes, sex does come into the equation between men and women and their dealings with one another, but it isn’t the entire equation and it isn’t always such an ugly, angry, unbalanced equation.

I read an article about Roth over the weekend from The Guardian and it said this:

This perceived misogyny is seen in some circles as Roth’s Achilles’ heel, the ugly stain on his greatness. Like Bellow and Updike, he belongs to a generation of male authors whose coming of age predates the coming of modern feminism, and who share a tendency to create female characters who are either emasculaters or victims.

‘One must resist the urge to psychoanalyse,’ says Grant, ‘or to conflate Roth with his male creations, but the palpable sense of disgust towards the women characters has certainly intensified in these last great books. He has no problem with intellectual women, it’s their sexuality that he finds difficult. It’s deeply rooted, and almost medieval. But, it’s not a defect. It’s an element of who he is as a writer, and it does not for me diminish his greatness.’

At first, I found this description of Roth’s misogyny as an Achilles’ heel useful. An effective metaphor to remind me that perhaps I could separate the rest of his fictional gifts from this one, important flaw. And yet, I can’t. Imagine if Roth’s flaw ran in the direction of an incredibly powerful and compelling depiction of white supremacy or pedophilia. A writer with an obvious tendency toward inappropriate depictions of relationships between adults and children would not be considered a genius. And no one would say – it’s not a defect. It’s an element of who he is as a writer, and it does not for me diminish his greatness.

It does diminish his work for me. It impels me to dismiss a lot of what might be revelatory, because I become deeply suspicious of his capacity for insight, his ability to engage in objective critical exposure of other aspects of human nature.

weekly reading notes

By

This week has me reading The Human Stain by Philip Roth. This is my third experience with Roth, and only my second Zuckerman novel, which means I have only scratched the surface of his work. Still, I suspect it will be a while before I’m tempted to try another one. What’s causing my reserve? Two things. First, two old men sitting around talking about sex doesn’t offer me much in terms of seeing the world from a new perspective, especially when the deepest thing either one of them manages to offer is that the ability to talk about sex means they are true friends. And second, I believe I need some more time with Zuckerman before I’ll feel comfortable with his presence as a literary device. I’m hoping his pertinence to the larger story will become clearer, but at the moment he feels superfluous. Why does the story (or any of the Zuckerman novels) need this additional filter?

My South American reading project continues with Augusto Monterroso’s collection of fables The Black Sheep. These are short, eccentric little tales with surprising moral lessons and twists. Easy to pick up and put down, but also fun to take apart to see what larger idea Monterroso was trying to express.

Finally, I decided to try Anthony Trollope for the first time and got all six of the Barsetshire novels. I’ve dug in to The Warden but it is far too early for me to venture an opinion…

more Fournier

By

We are snowed in today on my little mountain so instead of visiting the region with my sister and brother-in-law, we’re all snuggled down in various corners of the house with mugs of tea and books. Lovely to have bookworms for visitors.

And I thought I’d take a few moments to spend some time on this somewhat neglected (of late) blog…

Last spring I read a difficult, very emotional book called Ou on va, Papa? by the French writer Jean-Louis Fournier. The book is a memoir, dealing with Fournier’s life with his two disabled sons. My reactions to the book are here and here. As I mentioned when I first discussed the book, it was a controversial piece of literature when it came out (although it was selected to win the Prix Femina) because of the way it dealt with its subject. Fournier is a comedian and his book uses humor (quite dark) to approach his feelings of frustration and rage with respect to his difficult experiences. Despite the challenging nature of the emotional tone, I enjoyed the book and Fournier’s writing. Mainly because it was exceedingly honest about the conflicting emotions a parent must encounter when raising a child who will always be different, about the disappointments and anger which must have been an integral part of his day to day relationship with his sons.

I mention the book again for two reasons. First, it has finally come out in English and is called Where are we going, Daddy? I expect there will be some continued controversy as the book reaches a broader audience. And I am very curious to see the American reaction to the book since it doesn’t ever attempt to locate a positive aspect of Fournier’s experience. It isn’t depressing, at least I didn’t think so, and it was profoundly moving.

The second reason I bring this book up again is that when I originally discussed it, there was some question about what this same story would look like from the perspective of Fournier’s ex-wife, Agnès Brunet, the mother of Matthieu and Thomas. A thoughtful commenter pointed me in the direction of her blog (which is in French) and is very interesting. She has a clearly different perspective than Fournier on the lives of their sons….or perhaps she simply has a very different manner of expressing her emotional response to their shared experience. I am not interested in deciding which version is the truth, or even more compelling – they are both powerful narratives and both undoubtedly true.

What is interesting to me as a reader is how Fournier found the words to express, or attempt to express, what must have been a devastating, heartbreaking, exhausting long-term reality. He expresses his dismay and sorrow with great eloquence; even the parts that made me uncomfortable were compelling in a literary sense. As a reader and a writer, I can’t help admire that literary journey.

2010 begins

By

Happy New Year !

This little reading room is on holiday while my wonderful sister and brother-in-law are visiting – so until next week, I hope you are all enjoying the books you received over the holidays and I look forward to reading you soon!

p.s. I recently finished Nicholas Nickleby, Luisa in Realityland and City of Thieves….lots to discuss when I get back

a start on the best reads of 2009

By

It is about -6 degrees Celsius outside the farm this morning and in an attempt to avoid taking the dog for a walk until it warms up at least a degree or two (an event which involves a considerable amount of bundling for Mademoiselle Petitvore), I thought I would begin to write about some of my favorite reads from 2009. These are in no certain order of importance and my categories may stand on shaky ground:

For making history something magical and mysterious:

  • Onitsha, J.M.G. Le Clezio – A young boy travels with his mother to colonial Africa to meet his until-then absent father. This is an extraordinarily beautiful book which captures perfectly how that kind of displacement must feel to such a young child.
  • Burnt Shadows, Kamila Shamsie – It’s very hard to capture what this book is about in just a few lines but I will attempt it and hazard that the central preoccupation of Burnt Shadows is how ignorance and fear, mostly fear, breed violence. Aside from that weighty focus, the book is uniquely constructed and beautifully written.
  • The Passion, Jeannette Winterson – A fairytale. I don’t know how else to describe this book. It’s short and lovely. If you like history (the Napoleanic Wars in this case) and a good, bittersweet love story witha real magical quality, then just read it.

For the sheer beauty of the prose:

  • Housekeeping, Marilynne Robinson – Set in a cold and gray town in the midwest United States, this is the story of two sisters and their coming-of-age after their mother’s suicide. They are first cared for by their grandmother, and then a set of elderly great-aunts, but eventually their mother’s sister (an eccentric woman who has spent her adult life adrift, riding trains back and forth across the country) comes to live with them. Her presence is not a stabilizing force and the novel, told in the voice of the older sister, details the ultimate collapse of the small family unit. There is also a gentle exploration of what I can only call mental illness, but that term seems too strong…how about psychological fragility.  
  • Featherstone, Kirsty Gunn – A book about two tragic events in a small town. But the way Gunn creates the atmosphere of this town is truly remarkable. She does this from the inside out, I believe, creating characters with inner lives so intense, so intricately emotional that they all feel ready to burst. I really enjoy this view of humanity.

For making me laugh:

  • Vanity Fair, William Makepeace Thackeray – A romp through 19th century Europe and a hilarious satire of the “beautiful people” of that era. What made this book for me was the narrator and his tongue-in-cheek delivery of the story. Long, but brilliant fun. 
  • Into the Beautiful North, Luis Alberto Urrea – This book was funny, but the humor worked to soften an otherwise critical and serious story about life in small-town Mexico and how The United States looms and hulks over its southern neighbor. Some of the most unforgettable characters I’ve read about in a long time.  

For being something completely different:

  • Goldberg: Variations, Gabriel Josipovici – I had no idea what to expect for my first sampling of Josipovici but I loved this strange novel. The same story (but never really ever the same story) told from a variety of perspectives and time periods.
  • The Transit of Venus, Shirley Hazzard – In essence a love story but what intrigued me so much about this book was the way in which Hazzard’s characters experience their lives. Their thinking and the way they approached their situations was unique and asked me to re-evaluate or re-consider how I might approach a similar event.

So that is a start, I have more to come!

new Gordimer coming out

By

I just found out that Nadine Gordimer is coming out with a new book in January: Telling Times; Writing and Living, 1954 – 2008. As the title indicates, this is a compilation of her non-fiction writing spanning fifty years. Here is part of the description from W. W. Norton:

Telling Times, the first comprehensive collection of her nonfiction, bears insightful witness to the forces that have shaped the last half-century. It includes reports from Soweto during the 1976 uprising, Zimbabwe at the dawn of independence, and Africa at the start of the AIDS pandemic, as well as illuminating portraits of Nelson Mandela, Desmond Tutu, and many others. Committed first and foremost to art, Gordimer appraises the legacies of hallowed writers like Tolstoy, Proust, and Conrad, and engages vigorously with contemporaries like Achebe, Said, and Soyinka.

This looks just wonderful. And not that this will be surprising to anyone, but I have already ordered my copy.

English in decline and another TQC review

By

It may seem as though I’ve disappeared but I haven’t. I have been reading, a bit less than last month since I am slowly starting to translate and work again, but I’ve got several books I would like to write about. Before I get to that, however, since I don’t have time to sort through my reading notes today, let me point out two things:

First, my review of Philippe Claudel’s novel Brodeck is up at The Quarterly Conversation and second, I came across an interesting article in the most recent issue of The American Scholar – The Decline of the English Department

Crace begins with statistics* showing that majoring in English and other Humanities is in decline, while majoring in Business is up. He outlines some of the pertinent external reasons why this might be so but then focuses on an examination of several factors coming from within English Departments themselves which could explain their failure to grow. I apologize for the long quote, but I feel this gets at the heart of Chace’s argument:

Perhaps the most telling sign of the near bankruptcy of the discipline is the silence from within its ranks. In the face of one skeptical and disenchanted critique after another, no one has come forward in years to assert that the study of English (or comparative literature or similar undertakings in other languages) is coherent, does have self-limiting boundaries, and can be described as this but not that.

Such silence strongly suggests a complicity of understanding, with the practitioners in agreement that to teach English today is to do, intellectually, what one pleases. No sense of duty remains toward works of English or American literature; amateur sociology or anthropology or philosophy or comic books or studies of trauma among soldiers or survivors of the Holocaust will do. You need not even believe that works of literature have intelligible meaning; you can announce that they bear no relationship at all to the world beyond the text. Nor do you need to believe that literary history is helpful in understanding the books you teach; history itself can be shucked aside as misleading, irrelevant, or even unknowable. In short, there are few, if any, fixed rules or operating principles to which those teaching English and American literature are obliged to conform. With everything on the table, and with foundational principles abandoned, everyone is free, in the classroom or in prose, to exercise intellectual laissez-faire in the largest possible way—I won’t interfere with what you do and am happy to see that you will return the favor. Yet all around them a rich literature exists, extraordinary books to be taught to younger minds.

Chace’s frustration seems to lie in the continual off-centering (and he does attempt to locate a traditional center) of English departments, and what he might call a frantic race to embrace the multi-cultural and multi-faceted aspect of “English” as it’s understood today. While that embrace might be admirable, he feels we’ve gone in that direction at the expense of constructing a “coherent” discipline.

I know that many of you are English / Humanities professors or, like me, come out of and are committed to the discipline and I’d love to hear some of your reactions to his argument.

*Crace’s statistics include English, Philosophy, History, Languages and then as a comparison, Business. His article focuses exclusively on English, but the decline in History is just as significant and I am curious what he might suggest to explain this similar failure, since I think of History as a very coherent discipline, with fairly rigid boundaries and so forth. I’m not saying his argument about English doesn’t hold, I’m just wondering about the similar drop in History and if it might be explained in similar terms.