A Geography of Reading

"It is by reading novels, stories, and myths that we come to understand the world in which we live." -Orhan Pamuk

Dividing Identity and Point of View with Ondaatje’s Divisadero

by Leave a Comment

divisadero - michael ondaatjeIn 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 Bookshop.org. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Sherman Alexie and Microaggressions in Indian Killer

by Leave a Comment

indian killer sherman alexieI 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 Bookshop.org. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

James Ellroy and Sexual Violence

by 2 Comments

LA Confidential - James EllroyWatching 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 Bookshop.org. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

The Wildness of Women Who Run with the Wolves, a Story of Becoming

by Leave a Comment

Opening Women Who Run with the Wolves by , I found a scrap of adding machine tape with my mother’s handwriting. In the top left corner was my own writing from the days when I was learning to shape eights from sixes (before I decided I liked two circles better). I remember sometime long ago when my mother gave me the book, but it had sat so long on the to-read shelf that it was dusty and I no longer remembered what she had said that day.

I enjoyed reading about wild women who trust their instincts and feed their souls. I found post-its beneath important passages and imagined what my mom was thinking about my dad. I’m old and settled enough in myself now that I want her advice on life and love, but it is a newish feeling and I am still hesitant to ask. The mystery deepened when one of the post-its was covered in handwriting that was not my mother’s.

Reading this book and feeling a connection to my mom and to all womanhood was a wonderful way to spend this weekend. Clarissa Pinkola Estés touched on the importance of growing into ourselves and trusting ourselves. She talked about what to do when we have been diverted from the path to ourselves by our families, culture, and choices. I could feel this book feeding my newest novel (the one I’m not ready to talk about). I could feel it feeding me, too. I was learning about my spirit and also my psyche. I was reading about Baba Jaga and Jung. I was integrating and growing.

My first critique is the book is not tightly written. Estés goes on and on in loops and often says in ten paragraphs what she could have said in one. But as she was repeating things, I was taking the chance to daydream about the lessons she was imparting and the fairytales she had introduced. I had the space to create my own thoughts and get closer to myself. I was sorry the length of the book (and my mistaken assumption that it would be dense) kept me from reading it all these years.

My second critique is that this book need not be geared toward women only. There are some lessons that are women-centric (most men, I’d wager, don’t spend time worrying if they are nice enough), but the ideas of learning from instinct and trusting yourself and becoming are universal. Though it will be easier for some women to enjoy the book because it is geared toward them (and I’m sure most of the self-help market is women anyway), I felt sad that men might not see this book’s value for them as well.

Third and last critique. Estés often uses Spanish words where English would have done. I think she was trying to create a voice that was more open and free while evoking her own heritage. As a Spanish speaker, I kept looking at the words wishing that there was a reason they were in Spanish, that there was a strong connotation only Spanish could capture, when often the English meaning is the same.

On Mother’s Day, I spoke with my mom about the book and about how much I was learning from it. She said she never could get into it. A friend had given it to her saying that my mom was a wild woman. Perhaps she couldn’t get into it because my mom already is a wild woman. Perhaps I was quietly learning lessons she already knew. Perhaps I started reading this book at exactly the right time.

My copy of Women Who Run with the Wolves is now heavily underlined and the dog ears at the bottoms of pages grow more frequent toward the end. Those turned corners along with the initials “HG” denote passages I will explore as I write my new book. A book about being a woman not a girl. A book about wildness. A book about becoming.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype from Bookshop.org. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Love Note to Jonathan Lethem

by Leave a Comment

Seven years ago my husband taught me to love Jonathan Lethem. This is unusual because, though my husband is a deep and careful reader with a fantastic memory, I am the voracious one who recommends authors and always hungers to discuss the latest book with him before I forget it. When he kept telling me about this fantastic detective novel he was reading for school, I picked up Motherless Brooklyn and never gave it back.

This week I pulled Gun, With Occasional Music from my to-read shelf because I was tired after a long Soviet binge and wanted something familiar, something easy, something I knew I would enjoy. I have read exactly one novel I didn’t like—Amnesia Moon—but even that may have been my mood. Late at night as I picked up this new read, I didn’t even care what the book was about—I simply sought comfort in Lethem’s pages.

I should have taken a clue from the Raymond Chandler epigraph, still I was surprised by the classic detective novel opening. I’ve read a lot of detective novels and one of the things I liked about Motherless Brooklyn was how it reimagined the genre whereas this book seemed to be pulled straight from it. I closed the book to examine the blurbs—references to both Chandler and Philip K. Dick. I’ve (sadly) never read Dick, but I have watched Blade Runner more times than I care to count. I started reading again and I started to understand—Lethem had immersed himself deeply in the genre so he could play with it from the inside. And it was fun.

One of my favorite things about Lethem is the freedom and playfulness with which he writes. From The Disappointment Artist to Men and Cartoons, I always feel like he is enjoying the writing process and that makes my reading all the more fun. I could go on and on about all the craft elements, and Lethem is an artist, but this week I simply want to appreciate the gift of a writer who loves writing.

I am reading this book slowly—savoring it—so it has been at my bedside for many nights. When my husband saw it, he mentioned how much he had enjoyed it. I said, yes, I loved Motherless Brooklyn but that this was a different approach to a detective novel. He said he’d read Gun, With Occasional Music years ago and asked me whether the kangaroo had started to talk. It was his copy I was marking up night after night and it must have lain on my to-read shelf for years. I’m glad I picked this book this week. I’m even more glad I can discuss every delicious page with my husband.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of Gun, With Occasional Music or Motherless Brooklyn from Bookshop.org. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.