New Century Reading

The Butterfly Lampshade

I had an unusual experience with this book. I loved her previous novel, The Peculiar Sadness of Lemon Cake. But I struggled with the beginning of this one. It seemed kind of aimless and a bit confusing time-wise. I got to the 50-page point--yes, I'm one of those with a fairly strict 50-page limit--and turned to Goodreads to see what other people who read the whole book had to say. I often do this, looking particularly at 2- and 3-star reviews to see if the things that bother me in the first 50 pages continue to be a problem, and then I can decide whether to continue. Sure enough, those ratings indicated that several readers found these things to be a problem throughout the book.

But I found I couldn't quite give up. I decided just to read a few more pages and see how things went. 

I finished the book in one sitting and gave it 5 stars on Goodreads. 

I can see why some people don't like it. It's a very quiet book. There are plot points, yes, but this is more about character. Most of all, it's about Francie, whose mother's mental health has never been stable (and Francie doesn't know who her father was). But when Francie is young, her mother has a horrendous breakdown. Francie is sent from Portland, OR to live with her aunt and uncle in Los Angeles. In the tumult around this enormous change in her life, some peculiar things happen to Francie.

Now, as an adult, she's still trying to sort through the things that happened, trying to recover memories, trying to make sense of everything--all while always having a subconscious fear of whether or not her mother's mental illness might be hereditary (a fear clearly shared by her aunt). Is Francie doomed to end up like her mother?

That's compelling, right? But really got me was that while Francie obviously experiences terrible trauma, author Bender took the approach of surrounding Francie with people who are flawed, yes, but who love her and want to help her. Her own mother loves her very much and in her better moments, realizes that she can no longer care for a child. Her aunt, uncle, and younger cousin make her part of the family, giving her a stability she had never had. 

Maybe it's the pandemic, or the nasty aftermath of the US election, but that kindness and love just won me over. It's never sappy or sentimental. Bender is good about reminding us that no person and no family is perfect. But watching this fragile young woman grow up and do the best she can, surrounded by people who are doing the best they can--honestly? I'm choking up right now, just thinking about it. I choked up several times while reading. There are hard things in this book. But there's always kindness. And right now, that's an amazing message of hope. 

One other aspect interested me: Much of the book (told first person POV by Francie) uses a very passive voice. That falls into that category "things generally not recommended these days in the literary world." But I think it works beautifully here, as Francie is someone who has little agency and is someone to whom things happen, out of her control, especially as a child. It's no wonder she'd speak in a passive voice.

Red Comet

My review of this (spoiler alert: excellent) book is over on Sylvia Plath Info. 

Best American Short Stories 2020

I usually check out this series every year, with varying results; anthologies can be a tough go sometimes. This one is, I think, one of the better collections in the series. Editor Curtis Sittenfeld picked a wide range of stories, voices, and authors, many of whom were new to me. I didn't love every story, but I did love most of them. I especially liked Godmother Tea, a story combining magical realism with class and social justice issues; A Faithful but Melancholy Account of Several Barbarities Lately Committed, a hilariously dark story of family dysfunction; Sibling Rivalry, a story set in the future that was dark and eerie; Something Street, a fictionalized account of one of the more infamous celebs embroiled in the #MeToo scandal; This is Pleasure, which is a mind-bending, fully-gray-area story also about #MeToo; Kennedy, which is a brutal read but so well written; and The Special World, in which the author plays with the short story form to highly successful ends.

But really, I didn't thoroughly dislike any of these. 

Another fun aspect was that in her introduction, Sittenfeld listed the winning stories one by one followed by why she'd chosen them. It was enjoyable to read the story, then turn to her opinion to see where we did and didn't agreed. Mostly we agreed. 

In a good year like this, the BASS series highlights that the short story is indeed alive and well.

Little Big Bully

A year or two ago, we had a massive polar vortex in Minnesota (feels like a million years ago during a pandemic, but really, it was only a year or two ago) that lasted a couple of weeks. While some of us whined and moaned and glared at the weather map, poet Heid Erdrich wrote a book. Makes you wonder what she's got going during the pandemic. Because if her pandemic output is as stellar as her polar vortex output, she's got a doozy coming out soon.

Erdrich illuminates various aspects of Native life and history, both on a large and on a personal scale. Her poems are imagistic and often searing. And yet they can also have humor, the kind of humor that makes me want to have a beer with her and dish on trashy horror movies. But there are hard times here too, childhood and teen abuse for being Native, brutal history that often gets shoved under the rug, ongoing catastrophes that Natives face. I would love to quote some of it, but Erdrich is using some complex formatting--beautifully so--that Typepad is not reproducing properly. So I say, read her book. Read it. It's wonderful.

Transcendent Kingdom

When I read Yaa Gyasi's debut novel, Homegoing, I thought it was wildly ambitious, but ultimately flawed--too many characters, not enough time with any of them. But I noted in my review that I wanted to read her next book.

And was that ever the right call. Transcendent Kingdom knocked me right out. Instead of tracing many generations of people, Gyasi focuses more closely, taking a first person point-of-view to look at the havoc and harm one family experiences when a teenage boy becomes addicted to opiates and dies a horrible, premature death.

That's the major plot line of Kingdom. For those who like a book with a ton of plot, this may not be the choice. For me, it had enough plot, but what it really had was deep, deep dive into character and philosophy. The narrator, Gifty, is the younger sister of the opiate victim. She's already got a lot on her plate: Her parents came to the US from Ghana, seeking a better life before she was born, but her parents' marriage ended up in trouble, and her father returned to Ghana. Her brother's addiction and death sent her mother into a frightening spiral of depression and hopelessness.

As an adult, Gifty has become a scientist, studying addiction. But emotionally, she's stalled; she can't make friends or manage long-term relationships. And among other things, she reflects largely on her evangelical upbringing and early belief in God. 

It's such a thoughtful book, one that really fleshes out Gifty and her family, that I became very involved and actually choked up a bit at a couple of points--rare for me, who usually needs more visual cues for that to happen. I ended the book feeling like I'd had a privilege in being allowed to read it. 

And yes, I am fully on board for Gyasi's next book.

Keep Moving

I'm not usually one for self-help or affirmational books. I don't have anything against them, they're just not my cup of tea. But when I saw that Maggie Smith, the poet who wrote the beautiful collection Good Bones, had this book coming out, I decided to give it a try. And I'm so glad I did. 

A talented poet, Smith has a way with words, and she also understands the value of being concise rather than going on and on about something (a problem with many of the self-help books I've tried to read). This is the story of her life post-divorce, but as she wisely notes, many of the lessons are pertinent to any kind of troubled times someone might go through. Her message isn't one of "Cheer up, silly, it'll all get better!" but one of "There will be hard times, but hold on, you can do this." That, I think, is a wise message. It allows room for people to acknowledge they're going through something hard, even life-changing, and there are going to be days, weeks, months, when they feel miserable. 

The book is divided into several sections, starting with an anecdote from her own life, then followed by several pages of short readings (anyone who follows her on Twitter or Instagram will recognize some of them). She never loses sight of the fact that life can be hard, brutal at times, and that it can seem almost impossible. What she's doing is a gentle coaxing: One foot in front of the other. That's all. Just do that. Don't be hard on yourself:

"Tell yourself kinder truths. You are not failing at life; you are reeling, sure, but you are succeeding at surviving. Keep moving."

This was originally scheduled to be published in May, but the publishers delayed it due to COVID, no doubt hoping by fall they'd be able to send Smith out on tour. When it became apparent that wouldn't happen, they published in October. Initially I was annoyed, thinking, Hey, we could use this book at the beginning of the pandemic. But you know what? As the pandemic marched grimly on--thanks, 45, for NOTHING--and the election loomed large and terrifying and ever-closer, having this book in October felt right. I read it over several days, slowly, savoring it. And now I'm going to turn right back to the beginning and start again.

Smith even put together a Spotify playlist for the book, which I'm listening to right now: Keep Moving playlist

 

Between the Acts

Well, I did it. I read all of Woolf's novels in publication order this year, in spite of the pandemic. This final book is a melancholy way to end. As usual, there's some gorgeous writing and a lot of interiority (is that a word? Guess so, Grammarly's not flagging it). I feel like this is in some ways a return to a more traditional novel format, but with touches of the stream of consciousness of The Waves. 

The plot, what there is of it, centers on an English country estate where the creme de la creme of the village arrive to attend a pageant put on by the locals, focused on British history, ancient and modern. Among those watching: Giles and Isa, who are having marital difficulties. The book is told as one long story, no chapters, with scenes of the pageant alternating with the breaks between the acts, as Giles and Isa circle each other and ponder their marriage and lives.

Woolf did not actually finish this book. She had a complete draft, but committed suicide before doing final revisions. It's hard not to wonder what she could have done. I felt the book was somewhat uneven, the pageant scenes way too long. Yet the ending was beautiful and heartfelt, as was much of the writing:

"How am I burdened with what they drew from the earth; memories; possessions. This is the burden that the past laid on me, last little donkey in the long caravanserai crossing the desert. ... That was the burden, she mused, laid on me in the cradle; murmured by waves; breathed by restless elm trees; crooned by singing women; what we must remember; what we would forget."

The book is set in 1939, but Woolf worked on it up until her death in 1941. There are traces of hopelessness, and hints to the worsening political situation in Europe. That gives the book its melancholy, especially knowing Woolf's personal history. Yet it ends--slightest of spoilers--with a trace of hope, which itself is sad, given that Woolf lost all her hope. 

Uneven though it is, I found myself moved, and want to get an annotated edition. I'm sure I missed a lot of subtext that foot/endnotes would help with. 

 

 

Before the Ever After

ZJ loves his dad, a professional football player with a stellar reputation who's also an amazing father. But then things begin to change. His father can't remember things, and he's often upset or out of it in ways he never was before. His mother takes his father to all kinds of doctors, none of whom can provide much of an answer. But they think it might be related to all the concussions he got as a football player.

I'll admit I'm not a big sports person, especially pro team sports, but having read some about the discovery of CTE in pro football players--and the efforts of the NFL to play that down or ignore it, which is beyond shameful--I was curious about Jacqueline Woodson's new children's book in verse. I think Woodson has done something remarkable in this gentle, sad tale of ZJ trying to understand what's happening to his beloved father, in that she's taken a story from the headlines but personalized it, created a very individual story. It's very age-appropriate, showing the terrible CTE symptoms and the toll they take on a family, while still showing ZJ as a young boy trying to grow up in a way that would make his father proud. There are so many things here bewildering to ZJ--why is this happening to his father? Why is his mother so sad? Why don't his friends want to come to his house anymore? Why do some of his father's friends never come around either? 

So no, it's not a happy book, although it has happy moments: Memories ZJ has of good times with his dad, or days when his father is almost normal; and his core group of friends who don't desert him, even when what's happening is too hard to talk about. It's a very human story rather than an "illness of the week" story. And that makes it most readable and affecting. I'd be lying if I said I didn't choke up a couple of times while reading it.

Such a Fun Age

This book. Wow. Knocked me right out. I hate to even try and synopsize it, because I'm not going to do it justice. But I'll try: Affluent influencer Alix (white) needs a nanny, so she hires, part-time, Emira (Black), a nearly-26-year-old woman who's floundering after college and worried about hitting age 26 because she'll be dropped from her parents' health insurance. Emira is all too aware that she's floundering, especially compared to her friends, who are moving up in their careers, earning good money, and--of course--having health insurance. Yet Emira actually loves her job caring for toddler Briar, and grows very close to the little girl.

Late one night, Alix has an emergency and calls Emira for some last-minute sitting. Emira's been at a party with friends, but leaves to help, taking Briar out to the local grocery store, a place Briar loves. Unfortunately, shoppers and the store manager assume something is wrong with a young Black woman dressed for partying walking around a grocery store with a young white child late at night. Emira is able to call Alix' husband, who comes and rescues her.

But that's just the beginning. As much as Emira just wants to forget that night, and as much as Alix wants to overcompensate for it, neither can quite escape it in ways they can't foresee.

Yes, this is about social injustice and how a Black woman will be more quickly vilified than a white woman. But that's not all it is. It's about class, but it's also about looking beyond class, or looking into class roots. It's about women and friendship, and how Black women can be similar in their friendships to white women, but also about how they differ. It's about parenting and judging parents from the outside.

This is a debut novel that's so assured and confident, and it made me think of a Black author, sadly I can't remember which one, who posted something on Twitter about how it's harder for Black authors to gain traction in publishing, so they may write several novels before breaking through, while white authors get published much earlier. That means a Black author's first published book is likely to be more polished than a white author's book, and truly, I have read some seriously half-baked debuts by white authors. 

One place where author Kiley Reid shines is in her portrayal of Briar. Kids are hard to write. But Briar is real, fierce, funny, and frustrating. As a friend on Twitter said about this book, we need more Briars and fewer Alixes in the world. Another is the ending. There were a million ways the ending could have gone wrong, or wrapped up in tidy little bows, but Reid doesn't do that. So yes, I loved this book, and anticipate reading it more than once. 

Christmas in Minnesota

Christmas in Minnesota, published by the Minnesota Historical Society, is a delightful collection of tales and reminiscences past and present. One of the book's charms is that it doesn't just highlight the heartwarming stories, but includes excerpts from letters from desperately homesick pioneers who find a Minnesota winter to be hard going. That keeps the book from being treacly and overly sentimental.

But don't worry, there are plenty of heartwarming stories too. Several prominent Minnesotans are included, such as a piece by Kevin Kling, in which he finds unexpected grace in the grungy old Uptown Bar, or an excerpt from Lorna Landvik's Patty Jane's House of Curl. There are stories from Minnesota politicians, pioneers, writers, and performers. There are tales of how the fighting sides during the bitter Austin, MN meatpackers strike put aside their differences to make the children happy on Christmas, or how a family friend took care of a child after her father died. 

This was originally published in 2005, which might explain why Garrison Keillor has such a large chunk of text. I have to wonder, if the MNHS was to do an updated version, if they might not consider removing that since his fall from grace with MPR. If a new edition were to come into being, I'd also like to see a lot more diversity. There are a couple of pieces by African Americans, and a reference to a Mexican family's tradition in Minnesota, but nothing from the Somali, Hmong, or even Native American communities, some of whom have adapted December traditions. I'd buy a new edition with those kinds of updates. But in the meantime, this is still worth reading and enjoying.