Books Archives - Page 44 of 51 - A Geography of Reading

Jonathan Lethem and the Space of Time in The Fortress of Solitude

May 26, 2012 by Isla McKetta, MFA Leave a Comment

In The Fortress of Solitude, Jonathan Lethem explores the world of Gowanus (aka Boerum Hill) in Brooklyn through the eyes of Dylan Ebdus as he grows from a small boy to a middle-aged man. Throughout Dylan’s life, he has a relationship with Mingus, Arthur, and Robert, kids and then men from his neighborhood. Lethem crafts Dylan as both a neighborhood insider and an outsider and uses this dual status as a means to examine his friends from up close and from afar.

In the beginning of the novel, Dylan is a young white boy in a predominantly ethnic and not yet gentrified neighborhood. He plays with all of the kids from the street and is a part of the neighborhood. This allows Dylan to remark on the way the neighborhood works from the inside. The reader learns about the declining economic fortunes of the neighborhood while Dylan and the kids on the street bounce “spaldeens” off of the abandoned house—about racial tension as Dylan is repeatedly “yoked” of his pocket change by black kids, one of whom is Robert.

When a new kid, Mingus, moves onto the block and befriends Dylan, Dylan is initiated into a new world. Mingus is black and more street smart than Dylan and this friendship helps Dylan see deeper into a world he doesn’t fully understand. He begins to understand the nature of being yoked, although he is never able to avoid it fully throughout his life. Lethem has positioned Dylan so as to have access to Mingus’s world, and by making Mingus’s father a cokehead, Lethem creates Dylan’s first conscious interaction with the world of drugs. Lethem is initiating the reader into this world at the same time.

The structure and interactions Lethem has created for Dylan’s life continue to strike this balance between insider and outsider as Dylan is the only white kid in his school and then ends up helping the new white kid, Arthur, meet Mingus which leads to Arthur becoming more a part of the neighborhood fabric than Dylan.

Then Lethem removes Dylan from the neighborhood by first making him a Fresh Air Fund kid who spends the summer in Vermont and then having him attend Stuyvesant in Manhattan. Suddenly Dylan is no longer teetering on the verge of being a part of the neighborhood; he is removed and is in the position of observer. This allows Lethem to look through Dylan at the kids from Gowanus from the outside even though he still lives there. When Dylan’s new and old worlds cross in a drug buy where Robert appears with a gun, Dylan gains a new perspective on his associates. Although his relationship with Robert was always difficult, the sight of Dylan’s date running in fear after having wet her pants forces him to see how truly scary Robert and Robert’s lifestyle are from the outside. At this point the reader is also forced to reassess the normalcy of Dylan’s life. Structurally, Lethem has been indoctrinating the reader and Dylan into the norms of Gowanus, but at this point he is splashing the reader and Dylan with cold water and forcing them to reassess all of their assumptions.

Dylan continues to separate from his friends and is accepted at a college in Vermont. While working his summer job to pay for school, he runs into Arthur again. Because the story had shifted to Dylan’s school life in Manhattan, the reader is able to view Arthur from a new distance as Dylan does: “Arthur Lomb had gained his height at last….His eyes were red and small and wrinkled like those of some fetal animal, a blind mole rate or cauled calf.” The formerly bookish Arthur who encouraged Dylan to try for Stuyvesant had become a drug fiend who could barely graduate high school and is now collecting the funds to purchase a kilo of cocaine for resale. Not only are Dylan and the reader looking at a shift that happened while Dylan was busy in Manhattan, but we are also looking at a cautionary tale and Dylan’s alter ego. The danger seems more evident and I was relieved Dylan was off to college.

Of course, Dylan is not able to brush off his past as easily as that and when he encounters Mingus, Robert, and Arthur later in life, Mingus and Robert are in prison and Arthur owns several businesses in Boerum Hill, but rather than being a successful entrepreneur, it seems like Arthur is a boy who couldn’t get away from the neighborhood, even when the neighborhood got away from him.

I like the way Jonathan Lethem started these boys out at a young age and brought them together in a time and place when they couldn’t question their fate—they were just living. As I was reading Dylan’s encounters and re-encounters with his cohort, I was thinking about my character Magda and the skaters in Polska, 1994. Magda meets up with the skaters and becomes a part of their group before she even knows what she is doing, but she has a natural in into the group—Olek. I wanted her to sort of fall into the group the way that Dylan fell in with his, although the age is different. Then she pulls away and starts dating Jacek and this is when she can gain perspective on the skaters. After Jacek, she falls into the group again but less because of Olek this time and more because she is forgetting herself. As she steps away from the group and finds herself, I she sees them in a different light as she seeks her truth and her strength. Lethem’s structure of pulling these people apart across time and space and then putting them back together allows for the reinterpretation that is so interesting.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of The Fortress of Solitude from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Hisaye Yamamoto: Quiet in a Boiling Bath

May 26, 2012 by Isla McKetta, MFA 2 Comments

Family tension seethes under the surface of the title story of Hisaye Yamamoto’s story collection Seventeen Syllables. Mrs. Hayashi has given up her passions long ago for a life of quiet suffering. When she discovers an interest in and a talent for haiku, she adds heat to the simmering boil of her family life. And yet Yamamoto conveys the initial familial tension and ensuing boil over through the careful, almost quiet, use of displaced description and contrast.

Description of the family life and Mrs. Hayashi’s character do not take place how I expected. Poetry is Mrs. Hayashi’s one passionate outlet and she reaches out of her placid shell to introduce her daughter, Rosie, to this expression of her soul. When Rosie responds patronizingly to her poem and subsequent description of haiku, Mrs. Hayashi gives no facial expression-only a response which Rosie takes as either satisfaction or resignation. A different writer would fashion a blowup here and the character’s passions would bubble all over the page. By having Mrs. Hayashi retreat into herself, Yamamoto is conveying the depth of her habitual repression.

A similar thing occurs when the Hayashis are visiting the Hayano family. I could feel Mrs. Hayashi brighten when she talked about poetry and the depth of her passion was portrayed only through her distraction from her husband’s needs. I felt already fear for her that she was engaging with Mr. Hayano instead of his wife. Culturally, I expected her husband to bristle at this breach of etiquette. But Yamamoto does not provide a flashpoint here. Instead she shows a wife backpedalling because she knows she’s in trouble, “I’m sorry…You must be tired.” He says nothing and Yamamoto gives only the spare insight of Rosie who “felt a rush of hate for both – for her mother for begging, for her father for denying her mother.” The weight of his control needs no further description.

The sparseness of detail and lack of blowups forced me to read closely, and in reading closer I was able to see where Yamamoto alludes to Mrs. Hayashi’s tension by describing other events. When Rosie is in the bath after her encounter with Jesus, she sings so as not to think of him “the larger her volume, the less she would be able to hear herself think.” She pours on more and more hot water and then immerses herself slowly in the boiling bath “until the water no longer stung and she could move around at will.” Yamamoto is providing a parallel to how Mrs. Hayashi lives her life – she has tried to stop herself from thinking and immersed herself in this heated situation, but she got comfortable and started to move around. Given the controlling nature of her husband, she must at least subconsciously expect to have the heat on the water turned up. So did I. The tension increases, and because the violence of Mr. Hayashi has only vaguely been hinted at, my fear was even greater. Mrs. Hayashi and Rosie know what this man is capable of, but I didn’t and because Mrs. Hayashi is resigned to her fate, I was forced to worry for her.

Yamamoto uses the contrast of the giddy play of the young girls to heighten the effect of the silence of the older women. The girls, even shy Natsu, romp and play and show off Haru’s new coat to the point of barging in on the adults. Mrs. Hayashi shows she wants to be more than the silent, obedient Japanese wife when she engages in the girl’s play, asking to inherit the coat. Mrs. Hayano serves as a cautionary character who, though she spends most of the scene “motionless and unobtrusive,” continues to fulfill her wifely duties in bearing children and fixing tea. This one page explores the full range of female openness within their culture and illustrates how delicately Mrs. Hayashi teeters between childlike bursts of excitement and the expected sobriety of a Japanese wife and mother.

We see from other exchanges that Mrs. Hayashi has not lost all sense of decorum. When Mr. Kuroda comes to deliver her award, her speech is so perfectly written, I could hear the softness of her whispering and the extra syllables she would have added in Japanese to speak in the properly indirect and feminine manner. “It is I who should make some sign of my humble thanks for being permitted to contribute.” Though even here she breaks form by asking to open the package in his presence, a general taboo.

Yamamoto raises tension with the heat, literally. The heat of the day and the imminent tomato spoilage provide atmospheric clues to the coming climax. Everything is hinted at, much like real conversations in Japanese. A character in another story from the same collection explains the culture, “Like a Japanese – quiet.” Yamamoto is softly yelling for me to pay attention. We aren’t privy to the shameful scene in which Mr. Hayashi must surely have thrown Mr. Kuroda out and we aren’t privy to Mrs. Hayashi’s torment as she watches her Hiroshige burn, but we don’t need to be. In the quiet desperation that Yamamoto has built, Mrs. Hayashi’s story and her insistence, “Promise me you will never marry!” say it all. The fire is hotter than ever, but she will re-acclimate herself soon enough, and then she will swim free once more.

Quiet desperation is important in my own writing. My characters often cannot say what they feel most deeply and I struggle to convey the constraints of the world to the reader. I can learn from Yamamoto’s way of “throwing” her tension like a ventriloquist throws his voice. I can also learn from her use of contrast to show the tightness of the constraints.

Though I read this book long ago now, I continue to think about Yamamoto when I realize too late that I am in an untenable situation. I think about this steadily heating bath and how comfortable you can feel before you are boiling. I have a terrible memory for books, but sometimes, when the writing is as strong as Yamamoto’s and when the message is something I need to hear, I carry them with me forever.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of Seventeen Syllables from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Dividing Identity and Point of View with Ondaatje’s Divisadero

May 25, 2012 by Isla McKetta, MFA Leave a Comment

In Divisadero, Michael Ondaatje uses an odd narrative point of view. Though Ondaatje shifts between passages in the first person points of view of Anna and of Lucien Segura and also third person omniscience, the novel can be read as a compilation of Anna’s reminiscences, extrapolations, and imagination.

The first chapter begins in the first person point of view of Anna as she reflects on growing up with her sister Claire and Cooper, a boy they were raised with. There are glimpses of omniscience in Anna’s voice: “[t]here is a broken path in both our memories toward this incident, even now.” What verges on omniscience here is that Anna is speaking for herself and for Claire as though they are still in touch, but so far as the narrative is concerned, Anna and Claire haven’t seen each other since they were sixteen and may never again.

Throughout the book, identity is confused, adopted, and changed and this mirrors the shifting quality of the point of view. When Cooper rescued Anna from the barn, he “called [Anna] ‘Claire.’ So that Claire herself became confused, uncertain for a moment as to who she was.” Anna refers to herself as “this person formerly known as Anna” and Cooper confuses Anna for Claire and later Claire for Anna. This quality of never quite knowing who is narrating made me want to understand how the different narrators fit together.

To add to the strange quality of the point of view, there is one section narrated in first person plural. In this scene, we are looking at pictures of people who have lived in or near Lucien Segura’s house and Ondaatje writes about the second of two photographs “[w]e are much closer to the subject in this picture. Photography has moved in from the middle distance as the century progressed.” Anna is referred to in the third person, as “[t]he woman” and “[t]his person who is barely Anna,” so it feels as though Anna is not the narrator, but Ondaatje is also giving a clue here. This section in with its odd point of view and passages about shifting distance was my key to unlocking the point of view. I started to understand what I had sensed earlier, that Ondaatje had created a world where the reader is seeing things from both inside and outside of Anna, but the narrator is always Anna.

It is easy to understand how Anna could have constructed a first person narrative for Lucien Segura. She is living in his home and she is studying him and his papers. It feels somehow natural for her to fall into his voice and Ondaatje reinforces this scholar-subject interaction in the last section of the novel, Say Your Goodbyes. Here the reader is gently lifted step by step out of Segura’s world by the third person narrator as Segura’s actions are less and less dramatized and more and more reported on as the narrator, who I have assumed is Anna, begins to analyze Segura’s life and his works and his life is wrapped neatly up. The book ends with Anna narrating in the first person.

Entire portions of the novel are told in a third person point of view that Anna could not have the information to relate. She so much as says: “I would never see Coop again.” If Anna is the narrator, only a few things could account for her omniscience about Claire and Cooper. Anna could have gained her power through some supernatural means, or, more likely, Anna has invented narratives for Claire and Cooper using her intimate knowledge of them from before just as she constructed a narrative for Lucien Segura based on his papers and her encounters with Rafael.

In the section titled The Person Formerly Known as Anna, the first-person Anna alludes to her inhabiting of Claire: “[i]n my work I sometimes borrow Claire’s nature as well as her careful focus on the world” and “I feel I can imagine most things about Claire accurately. I know her.” She goes on to say “[b]ut Coop I know only in one distinct way–as the twenty-year-old I fell in love with,” and it is true, Cooper’s narrative of becoming a lonely cardsharp and then being tempted into danger by a woman could easily be extrapolated from the loner lifestyle he led within Anna’s family and the risks he took to be with her. Claire’s rescue of Cooper and the love that develops between them as he calls her Anna seems like something Anna could have invented to assuage her guilt over leaving these two people she loved deeply behind while at the same time ultimately triumphing over Claire because Cooper is still in love with Anna, not Claire. It is as though Anna brought Cooper and Claire together in a mocking atonement for the moment in the barn where Cooper rescued Anna instead of Claire.

The point of view in this book was difficult for me to get a handle on. I sensed that Anna was narrating, but when portions of her life were recounted in the third person, I kept flipping back to see if I had misread the first section. I’m not sure yet that I completely understand whether there was something I missed in the mixing of Claire and Anna. Ondaatje managed to convey Anna’s disembodiment through his complicated construction of point of view and I’m not sure it could have been captured as well in any other way. I enjoyed mulling over the book and reading passages over and over, but at times I was also frustrated by not being to accurately place all of the pieces on my chess board. I couldn’t tell whether the narrator was reliable, because I didn’t know who it was and I kept looking for someone other than Anna to turn up as the third person narrator. That said, I like some aspects of the complexity of the narration.

In my own work, I am still grappling with point of view. At one time I wanted to construct Polska, 1994 from a series of narrators who were all observing Magda so that she would be drawn entirely from the observations of others until the rape when she decides to embody herself. In the long run, I found that I wanted to inhabit her more than that, but I still ache to create a richer world than I can totally create through the eyes of a girl of seventeen.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of Divisadero from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Sherman Alexie and Microaggressions in Indian Killer

May 23, 2012 by Isla McKetta, MFA Leave a Comment

I have spent the last several days riveted by Sherman Alexie’s Indian Killer and it has challenged me every step of the way.

I grew up in Idaho—arguably the whitest state in the nation. Yes, you know it for its white supremacists (who I’m told have moved to Montana, but I really wouldn’t know). My small town once made The New York Times when an Arab student was found “lynched” in the woods (the death was later ruled a suicide). I had an African American friend and a few Asian friends (the university did bring some diversity to town), but the culture was pretty homogenous and my experience with race was limited.

I’ve lived in Seattle for a decade and a half, but despite the greater diversity of communities here, I never got over my inability to talk about race. I try sometimes, but I mostly fumble awkwardly and throw in some words I learned in Sociology. I am not an unworldly person, I have lived abroad and I think managed not to be the ugly American. But when it comes to race at home, I’m still flummoxed, despite good intentions. And here I am still beating around the bush.

A friend has introduced me to the idea of microaggressions, defined by Chester Pierce as “brief and commonplace daily verbal, behavioral, or environmental indignities, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative racial slights and insults toward people of other races.” Alexie does a fantastic job of presenting these when the narrator muses about how a Native American student’s teacher interacts with him, “If John happened to be a little fragile, well, that was perfectly understandable, considering his people’s history. All that alcoholism and poverty, the lack of God in their lives.” Those two sentences, early in this book, rocked my world. I saw how “well meaning” can be hurtful when we are looking through our stereotypes instead of at people directly.

Indian Killers introduced me to a wide array of Native American experiences. Set in Seattle, the characters are homeless, housed, drunk, and sober. They are mixed race and not and they represent a number of tribes and degrees of identification with race. The Native American characters in the book are in themselves diverse and their experiences with Caucasians are equally diverse. All the characters are round (read universally flawed) and I learned from their strengths and foibles. I learned from their friction points and their biases.

I loved this book. I’m still a failure when it comes to talking naturally about race, but I am learning to open up and at least try to have the conversation and to look at people for who they are without the shortcut of skin color or nationality. Plus Indian Killers is a great mystery and flat out well-written.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of Indian Killer from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

James Ellroy and Sexual Violence

May 22, 2012 by Isla McKetta, MFA 2 Comments

Watching L.A. Confidential again last night, I started to reflect on my long history with James Ellroy. I was young when I first started reading him—maybe eleven or twelve—and The Black Dahlia was not my first of his books. When I started with Clandestine or Brown’s Requiem, the noir voice had me, a girl who had grown up on the movie The Big Sleep but never read Raymond Chandler, hooked. The Black Dahlia was the second book of his that I read and as a burgeoning woman, I wanted to be as beautiful and as desired as Betty Short. I was young enough and immortal enough that the extreme violence committed against her didn’t even phase me. Even after reading L.A. Confidential and several other books, I didn’t key into it or how it might be affecting me.

If you know anything about Ellroy, you know that his mother was brutally murdered and that his books, especially those early ones, are places where he is dealing with that trauma. Elizabeth Short’s death was not dissimilar to his mother’s and there is often at least one Bud White in each early James Ellroy novel trying to save the girl—any girl—from harm. I believe that the resulting works show a respect for women, even if it borders on unhealthy worship.

I was still very young and unsettled when I watched the premiere of L.A. Confidential in 1997 at SIFF. I still wanted to be one of the women that the foul-mouthed writer would worship, and I still thought murder, even brutal serial killer style murder, was interesting enough to take Bob Keppel’s class on Ted Bundy.

In the last few years, maybe as I’ve begun to see myself more as a mortal person not merely a sexual object, I’ve started to wonder about the sexual violence against women we expose ourselves to through various media. I used to enjoy Criminal Minds, but now I realize that (despite some smart detectives) the stories are populated with women as victims and the violence is often heinous and sexual. The last few years, the torture rape filled horror movies have ruined for me one of my favorite film genres. The only conversations I can have about The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo are about whether the sexual violence is for titillation and I’m still not convinced it isn’t.

Violence happens. I’m headed to Croatia soon and one of the things I can’t get out of my mind is the rape camps of the Bosnian War and that we can barely talk about it still. Humans are animals and at times that is far too evident. I don’t think we should ignore it, but I also don’t think we should normalize it. At the same time, it can be interesting to learn about those uncontrolled parts of ourselves.

I try not to read about rape (no more Stieg Larsson for me and I’ll skip The Kite Runner, thank you). I did write about rape in Polska, 1994 because I wanted to try to understand it. I’m glad I did, because through writing about Magda’s victimization, I was able to see myself as a whole person (rather than a victim) with power in my actions. My fear is that for many people scenes of sexual violence and torture are becoming sources of excitement rather than cautionary and we are teaching our children that women are victims not people. Even James Ellroy saw women as victim-objects to be saved.

I don’t have any answers, but the long-lasting effects of the victimization of women in media is something I will continue to think about.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of L.A. Confidential from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.