marginalia || Enormous Changes at the Last Minute, by Grace Paley

I read most of the stories in Grace Paley’s collection, Enormous Changes at the Last Minute, while I was in the hospital. I’d been confined last week, IV and all, and it made for hard going sometimes because the pain had the page seemingly reverberate before my eyes. Also, the needle and tubes attached to my hands made for hard marginalia and Moleskine-scribbling. Bah. But that’s that. I’m back, and I’ve got things to say about this book, salvaged from my scratchy handwriting on little Post-its.

[A backgrounder: So. I decided to buy me some Grace Paley because I’d read her short story, “Love,” which was anthologized in My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead: Great Love Stories from Chekhov to Munro, by Jeffrey Eugenides (which reminds me: this book really needs to be bumped off my Currently Reading stack.) It was a very short piece, and a little stylistic, and it had me going What just happened there?—but I obviously liked it enough, no? I love it when that happens (though it hurts my pocket, haha)--one story spurring me to get more of the author (same happened with Alice Munro, Raymond Carver, and baby pandas know who else).]

• Grace Paley’s stories are quirky, a little odd—the way she manipulates the language is a little out there, and I will always be fond of the puzzlement that comes over me when I’m reading her—especially her shorter work (two to four pages). These in particular had the feel of parables, surreal ones. Short but they manage to be meandering. Of course, that language of hers, her skewed worldview (haha), injects the stories with more than those few pages. It gets addictive–I admit to thumbing through the collection looking for those shorter shorts to read first. And since these stories are so short, but so full of depth and quirk and lots of other goodies, they entice you into dedicating pages and pages of close reading. So that’s an idea: when I teach a fiction class, I’ll demand my students to write a 15-page report on one 3-page story. Evil laughter!
• That said, I’ll probably be doing some Short Story Spotlights on Paley’s work–I can’t look at them collectively and do justice to them, but I can try with a per-story basis. I can try. Especially for her longer stories (uh, normal-sized stories?) I mean, for the title story, I wrote: “Baffling. I mean, yes, it was great, and it gets more so the more time spent away from it–but, well, it was very baffling. Baffling. Which is not to say I didn’t like it.”
• After a couple of stories (because there are seventeen stories in this collection), Paley gets exhausting. I suspect that although I am charmed and in awe of her work, I’m not fangirl-y about it (and I thought I would). She’s amazing, she has her moments–but sometimes, she’s just so odd, haha.
• And that’s the most sense I can make of those Post-its, haha. Fail. Anyhoo, Charles Baxter, in his essay “Maps and Legends of Hell: Notes on Melodrama” (from Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction) talks about Paley’s collection way better than I ever will, haha. So that’s another reason to get Baxter: I have baffled you so much, you’re dying for some clarity and closure.

I’ll definitely read more of her—not just because I have two more collections of hers waiting for me in my bookshelves.

Also, I’ve decided to make it a personal goal to read at least three short stories a day. Some people read the same number of poems a day, so why not short fiction? It’ll help me wade through the short story collections and anthologies that belong to that Currently Reading stack. I’ve read four now today–from four different books, haha. So the plan looks good. Anyhoo. Yay Reading.

PS — Apparently, there’s a movie! I want to watch that, darn it.

marginalia || Young Hearts Crying, by Richard Yates

The Birthday Boy

Hello there. It’s Richard Yates’ birthday today. Bring out the booze. Anyhoo, the following is a love letter to him, wherever he may be. Also, I blab about his novel, Young Hearts Crying. And be warned, for there be little spoilers, haha. Sorry!

*

Dear Richard Yates,

I made sure to finish reading your novel Young Hearts Crying in time for your birthday. It’s now the February 3, and dude, if you were alive, you’d have been 84. 84, man, ain’t that swell? Anyway. Happy happy happy birthday to you. I hope you’re having a grand ol’ time wherever you are. You deserve it. I mean, you kinda had a sad life, and there was that terrifying period when no one was stocking your books, although no one could deny what a kick-ass writer you were—only unknown, and on the precipice of being forgotten.

But that’s all in the past. I mean, you’re being read now. And I love you. You oughta know. [I’ve read three of your books—Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, Liars in Love, and, of course, Revolutionary Road, and damn, I think I have a crush on your skillz.] It’s nice to return to you.

Young Hearts Crying is your second-to-the-last novel (1984), and there are echoes of your usual subjects. Michael and Lucy Davenport are two intelligent people, with quite a lot of flaws. We witness their whirlwind (whirlwind in its nothing happens one moment, it’s WTF the next) courtship, their marriage, the disintegration of said marriage, the lives they lead after. It’s after the war, so there’s that whole post-war-disillusionment (or misplaced illusions?) thing going on. Michael wants to be a poet-playwright, and Lucy–well, Lucy is a rich girl who doesn’t really pin her ambitions on anything; she just wants to be something else [a stint in a writing class, and then taking up painting--she notes a scene she thinks she could write about, but then reminds herself that she isn't a writer any longer. Girl's ambitions are in phases, for cripe's sake.] Michael and Lucy are so full of wanting and yearning, but a) they’re unaware of what exactly it is they want/yearn for; b) they don’t know how to go about it getting whatever that is; c) they’re constantly coming up against roles and their standing in society, their reputation, the glamorous artsy lives they imagine for their friends and peers.

That’s one of the things that struck me about this novel, Mr. Yates. Besides all the wanting and yearning–which I’ll get to later–Michael and Lucy are so engrossed in ideas of non-comformity and reputation. Michael absolutely scorns conformity, he can go on and on about it–but he’s so swept up in it. That is, instead of just doing his own poet-playwright stint in their happy little cottage, he refuses to give up his job–because that’s what men do, apparently. Never mind that Lucy is a “millionairess.” There’s so much in Michael that’s dedicated to analyzing what people are thinking about him, about the Davenports. He’s constantly pointing out traits and flaws of his more successful friends, when we all know he wants nothing more to be like them. I mean, hello dramatic irony. And Lucy. Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. Confused Lucy, bereft Lucy, forsaken Lucy, you-have-four-million-dollars-and-you-can’t-freaking-figure-out-what-to-do-?! Lucy. I like Lucy. She’s all over the place.

I am loving the depth of the secondary characters. How unassuming Thomas Nelson is, and how the Davenports are so wounded by this fact. The shiny-ness (can’t think of another word) of Paul Maitland, and how the Davenports are continually dazzled by this, even though they know they should know better. There’s the string of lovers for both Davenports, and I very much enjoyed playing voyeur to these affairs. Although, as usual, you seem to forget the existence of your couple’s child, Laura. Why do you do that? I mean, at first it’s admirable that you not talk about the kid at all–you meant to focus on the couple–but sometimes I think why you bothered about Laura. I do appreciate what Laura brings to the dynamics–that part where she has conversations with her imaginary sister was just damned awesome.

And you know what I noticed? Your form. I see you busting out the technique. It’s so subtle, I’d missed it until I was two-thirds of the way through. Part I, it’s mostly Michael’s POV–until Lucy speaks up at the end (and she speaks up within the story, and in the novel, ya see?). Part II is pretty much Laura’s life.  Part III, we return to Michael and Lucy. It’s all so organic. [In Revolutionary Road, I was conscious of the fact that it's pretty much Frank Wheeler all the way--right up until that pivotal chapter, where we get into April's head, that chapter where it's of the absolute importance to get into April's head.] I also noticed that the chapters work as short stories, especially in Lucy’s case. They’re so episodic, but you make ‘em seamless. It gives the dork in me goosebumps. My favorite’s Part II, Chapter 2: the one with Jack Halloran. That made me wistful.

Your language gives me goosebumps too. It’s your usual straightforward style, and that just leaves so much room for depth, you know? It’s amazing. And you’re actually writing love scenes! Hah! That made me giggle. I love that you wrote them in Lucy’s stories–the scenes with her lovers, they’re so heartfelt, a little naive and heart-wrenching because of that.

Another thing, you sly badger you–despite the ambiguities of that ending, I do believe it’s happy. Oh, baby pandas are weeping at the thought, Mr. Yates! Confetti for you! Richard Yates and a happy ending, imagine that. Then again, I might just be projecting, haha. Like Lucy said, “How could you ever learn to trust the things you made up?”

So. I love Young Hearts Crying, although I am already Swimfan-crazy about you, so that may not come as a surprise to anyone. Still. I don’t know when I’ll get to read any of your other books, and that makes me sad. But, well, it’s always nice spending a couple of days with you, in your world. I’m so happy you’re part of my life now, haha.

Lastly, I apologize for sounding a little drunk. And for my alarming tendency to speak in italics.

Love always,

Sasha

PS — This is my 100th post! Wahoo!

marginalia || Release, by Beth Kery

Are you excited? Because I am. It’s the second of February (well, it was yesterday, but then again, I’m in another part of the world), which means Beth Kery’s latest novel, Release, has, er, has now been released. The details:

His need for her was so absolute, he agreed to share her with another man in order to possess her.

Genny loved her husband Max, but something was missing—a sexual charge that was instead ignited by his business partner, Sean. He was ruggedly handsome, with a heart-stopping smile and a slow, sexy New Orleans drawl that made Genny weak. The more time they spent together, the stronger the attraction between them became and when her husband offered to share her with Sean for one intoxicating night, both Genny and Sean were too tempted to refuse.

That night in the company penthouse, Max and Sean showed Genny the heights of ecstasy. But it was Sean who scored her very spirit, and one-on-one, they were red hot. But as Genny learns, there’s a price to pay for such impulsive pleasure. What began as a night of forbidden desire spirals into a whirlpool of murder, sensual submission, secrets, and a scorching passion that threatens to consume everyone it touches.

And, a note on those details. They’re actually quite misleading–though it seems like the menage is the central trope of this novel, it’s more of a foundation for the characters’ interactions. That is, that pivotal night carries with it not only the convoluted relationship of our main characters, Sean and Genny–but also details that will reverberate throughout the rest of the novel. Like, say, murder. So no, it’s not about the menage. Not really. It’s about what life Sean and Genny build long after that menage that kicked things off (in more ways than one).

Some notable things about this kick-ass book that everyone and their mama (okay, hold that thought) should read:

1] Of the three novels of Kery’s that I’ve read, Release would have to be her darkest. See, while I was reading Wicked Burn, the dominant images in my head where creamy-walled condo units and, later, farmland and barnyard and quilts and fried chicken. In Paradise Rules, there was the sand and the sea, a lot of boats, and the grittier Hawaii in sepia-tone. In Release, the mood was all high-tech boardrooms, and dimly lit penthouses, and elevators, and the concrete of parking lots, and sliding doors. Hell, those sliding glass doors. So yeah–those were the images in my head. Which goes to show how versatile the author really is, and how well she pulls off these different fields and settings and moods. It’s admirable, really. [I'm thinking WB would have to be the most identity-building and relationship-dedicated; PR would have just that touch of sadness in it for lost innocence, not to mention a wrestling of dominance and a whole lot of stubbornness. Release, as the darkest, has murder, and sliding glass doors. Sliding glass doors, mmm.]

2] I’ve always found Kery to be an outstanding character-writer. She doesn’t balk at dedicating time and space to building up her characters. Genny is classic Kery’s strong-with-a-touch-of-vulnerable heroine, who’s confused and in danger, but showing mettle without being stupid about it. I especially love the fact that despite her insecurities, despite the fact that the past plagues her so much, she’s actively doing something about it. And Sean? Sean has a N’Awlins drawl. That should be ’nuff said, haha. He’s sexy and strong, a little arrogant, definitely in control, and he has a good heart underneath all that bad-ass yumminess of his (he’s so sweet during that menage, imagine that).

3] The pacing is particularly important in this novel, what with it being loaded with secrets and more secrets. Revelations are well-timed that you never tire of finding out more, and you never feel like you’ve been cheated out of speculating, out of thinking. That menage we’ve been talking about’s actually shown in flashback, which I appreciate because it emphasizes the fact that it’s always in the minds of our characters, that it can be bothersome in so many good and bad ways. And they’re well-written and integrated so seamlessly, they never jar with the narrative, and instead carries it forward. Which is what flashbacks should do, as professors the world over always tell us, no?

4] Do I need to even say that this will singe your eyeballs? I mean, Kery’s always written scorching novels, but, you know–this will make you very very very bothered. The sensuality is at an all-time high–not only in the sex scenes. I mean, it permeates the entire novel, and it’s always emotional. How difficult is it to pull off heart in a menage, especially when you have to make readers aware of the fact that something is happening between A and B, when B and C should really be the one connecting? And–Sliding! Glass! Doors!

So: Beth Kery has written yet another wonderful novel–this time darker, more exploratory, more daring. And the romance is there, the relationship between these two well-written characters are developed–emotional, sensual, and scorching. Release is on my virtual keeper shelf.

marginalia || Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction, by Charles Baxter

Some time ago, during one of my adventures in the Intarwebz, I came across a snippet from an essay called “Rhyming Action.” I don’t remember what that snippet was, what it talked about–but I did took note of its origins. Skip to a couple of days ago, where I disbelievingly unearthed this book from a BookSale. [Moar backgrounder: My first encounter with Baxter was with The Feast of Love, a beautiful and complex novel that has everything in it. And then I gave his The Art of Subtext: Beyond Plot to myself as a 20th birthday present. And we come to here--]

Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction is a collection of nine, uh, essays about, uh, fiction. Written by Charles Baxter, he says in the preface: “…[the book] addresses a set of subjects of urgent concern to me, issues that in the broadest sense have to do with the imagination’s grip on daily life and how one lives in the pressure of that grip. The essays return to the scene of writing as a location where some of these matters can be addressed, and where the pressure is greatest.” It’s a book for writers (or writers-in-training) and readers alike. Part reflection on the craft and the genre and part instruction (and partly writing-ideas-well, since I scribbled like mad along its margins), he examines different (and specific) aspects of fiction in each of his essays. Among them: defamiliarization, the death of the antagonist-protagonist trope in literary fiction, the “inner life of objects,” epiphanies, and melodrama.

I’m always sucked in when I read his essays. I mean, I’m beginning to suspect that I love Baxter more as a writer-about-fiction than an actual writer of fiction. I mean, I like his fiction, but there’s just something about his reflections about fiction. The language? Yes, of course—

The habit of narrative is unceasing. We understand our lives, or try to, by the stories we tell. (From the preface, p.xii)

It seems to be in the nature of plots to bring a truth or a desire up to the light, and it has often been the task of those who write fiction to expose elements that are kept secret in a personality, so that the mask over that personality (or any system) falls either temporarily or permanently. When the mask falls, something of value comes up. Masks are interesting partly for themselves and partly for what they mask. The reality behind the mask is like a shadow-creature rising to the bait: the tug of an unseen force, frightening and energetic. What emerges is a precious thing, precious because buried or lost or repressed. (From “Counterpointed Characterization,” p.113)

The tone and language never feel pedantic, not even professorial. There’s the impression that he’s just this guy who happens to palpably love the craft, knows how to write it, knows how to write about it–well. And I think that’s it: he loves what he’s doing, he loves the very existence of the craft. You can feel it, especially when he examines a short story or a detail of a novel (and the literature he cites is never confined to the classics). It’s a dignified giddiness that’s the undercurrent of most of these essays. And I like that. There’s no arrogance in his writing–just shared wonderment.

And he can be adorable. The essay titled “Rhyming Action” makes this book the clincher for me. It begins with the dichotomy between poets and prose writers, and Baxter (who calls himself an “ex-poet”) often uses hilarious examples [well, at least I laughed] to get his point across.

[Prose writers'] souls are usually heavy and managerial. Prose writers of fiction are by nature a sullen bunch. The strain of inventing one plausible event after another in a coherent anrrative chain tends to show in their faces. As Nietzsche says about Christians, you can tell from their faces that they don’t enjoy doing what they do. Fiction writers cluster in the unlit corners of the room, silently observing everybody, including the poets, whoa are usually having a fine time in the center spotlight, making a spectacle of themselves as they eat the popcorn and and drink the beer and gossip about other poets. Usually it’s the poets who leave the mess just as it was, the empty bottles and the stains on the carpet and the scrawled phrases they have written down on the backs of pizza delivery boxes–phrases to be used for future poems, o doubt, and it’s the prose writers who in the morning usually have to clean all of this up. Poets think that a household mess is picturesque–for them it’s the contemporary equivalent of daffodils… (From “Rhyming Action,” p.138)

[Okay, I quoted a lot, haha, but I could go on and on--this essay's just kick-ass.] And then he cites “rhyming action” as a detail or a technique prose writers can loan from them poets. I love it, the dry humor, the self-deprecation–and, yeah, I learned stuff. I learned a lot. And I won’t share them because I want to write about them, haha.

So. Lovers of fiction–writer or writer-in-training or reader: this book is wunnerful. It is. It’s one of my best finds of this year, this decade (ha!). I mean, it excites me; it makes me want to bust out my tattered notebook and write, for baby pandas’ sake. I thank the Book Gods for sending this book my way.

January 2010 Reads

And I just put the 22nd book read of the month back on the bedside table. I’ve been a busy bee. Here are my reads for the month of January [and I won't bore you with little summaries of each. I'm redundant enough as it is]:

1. The Fiction Class, by Susan Breen.
2. Little Children, by Tom Perrotta.
3. Dangerous Boys and Their Toy, by Shayla Black.
4. Strong, Silent Type, by Lorelei James.
5. To-Do List, by Lauren Dane.
6. Ride A Cowboy, by Delilah Devlin.
7. Shoulda Been A Cowboy, by Lorelei James.
8. Chronicles: Volume One, by Bob Dylan.
9. Shopgirl, by Steve Martin.
10. Chance of a Lifetime, by Joey W. Hill.
11. Paradise Rules, by Beth Kery.
12. Too Wicked To Kiss, by Erica Ridley.
13. Romeo For Hire, by Jane Beckenham.
14. Written On The Body, by Jeanette Winterson.
15. Retreat, by Mari Carr.
16. Every Book Its Reader: The Power of the Written Word to Stir the World, by Nicholas A. Basbanes.
17. Atmospheric Disturbances, by Rivka Galchen.
18. The Gin Closet, by Leslie Jamison.
19. Eternal On The Water, by Joseph Monninger.
20. Love Letters of Great Men, edited by Ursula Doyle.
21. Birds of America, by Lorrie Moore.
22. Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction, by Charles Baxter.

My favorite reads would have to be #16, #22 for nonfiction. #01, #09, #11, #19, #21. Debut authors whose work I’m excited about are #12, and #18. Anyhoo. On with February. Currently reading Young Hearts Crying, by Richard Yates. [To keep updated on my Books Read list, please head on over to my 2010 Reads page.]

sunday salon || Reading the Short Story

Short fiction is, quite possibly, my favorite genre. This is plain personal bias, and the fact that I have been studying the art form and its craft for school—I major in Creative Writing, and fiction is the genre-track I’d chosen. Yes, there’s a pleasure in reading the short story, but I also read short stories to learn. Every experience with the short story is at least two-fold: there’s the joy of having a couple of minutes pass with a well-written piece of literature in your hands, and then there’s the excitement of finding something you can emulate, something you can absorb and then deviate from.

Questions arise—What can I do? How can I do that? How does this character burn on the page, when mine seems to just gasp? There’s required reading, for seminars and lectures, handed to us by professors who know these are stories to learn from. And then there are encounters with (seeming mandatorily) flawed stories put up for workshops. Most of these, it seems, geared toward the honing of my so-called critical eye. I need a critical eye, we are told often—learn the craft, read your books, before you set out in an attempt to do some art of your own.

And then there are stories that I’ve encountered almost incidentally. No syllabus telling me I need to read them and reflect upon them, no midterm exam I have to study for. Yes, that critical eye is present—no escaping from that, it seems [and, for heaven’s sake, I don’t mean to sound snotty]. Yes, the writing spark occurs here too, that urge to do something with your hands, to take language and shape it, and hope that it’ll come out at least not-half-bad—but I like to think the spark here is nobler; no one is breathing down your neck and pressuring you to sound like Chekhov or O’Connor or Joyce. You stumble upon Stephen King’s macabre tales about rats shaped like cows and autocannibalism, and something tells you that you need to create stories that illicit such a visceral response in readers—these stories had me scurrying to the nearest well-lit place. How can I do that?

There’s the thrill of discovery too—a pat on the back for the fourteen-year-old who discovered Faulkner in “A Rose for Emily”: what other piece could prompt the realization that one could write about anything beautifully? The stories in Alfred Yuson’s Eight Stories have always been instrumental—I read them quite young, and I found out that Hey, being a writer isn’t an exclusively Western thing; people can be writers here in the Philippines too (the realistic dimensions of that epiphany requires a whole ‘nother space).

So, although I shall be eternally grateful to years of education that required me to read Hemingway, Chekhov, Garcia Marquez, Angela Carter, Lakambini Sitoy, Kerima Polotan, and so on—I would like to say Yay to the workings of the Universe for allowing me to come across those who’d never been taught to me in a classroom setting, or at least letting me get to them first before some malevolent being assigned them for a final exam (hehe). There are stories I read by a.) authors recommended to me by friends [or, to be more accurate, pushed upon my person]; b.) authors I found one wandering afternoon among the university library shelves; c.) authors I would never had read, but whose books looked cool in a BookSale; d.) authors that just chanced upon me by some weird quirk or another: Ann Beattie, Raymond Carver, Lorrie Moore; Alice Munro, Joan Silber, June Spence; Grace Paley, Richard Yates. The rest of Chekhov, the rest of Hemingway. A lot of Wilfrido Nolledo. Kelly Link, Alice Hoffman, Amy Bloom, Harold Brodkey, Richard Ford. Miranda freaking July.

In our senior’s thesis, we had to write an essay that talked about our poetics—why we write the way we do, what we really want to write, how we write, etc. The first part of my essay dealt with a gushing enumeration of the authors that have shaped my perception of the craft, authors whose voices and words are always in the background whenever I write. The authors I’ve mentioned made an appearance, and some of them are fairly new to my bookshelves, and my psyche. And, with graduation looming near (and that’s the optimistic side of me talking, okay?), I suppose all the required reading shall slow to a trickle, or perhaps, will simply end. And there are more books out there, and more authors I am yet to read, more short fiction to relish. Nomnomnom.

+ + + + +

In the short existence of this blog, I hazarded talking about some of the authors mentioned above:

• “The Children Stay,” by Alice Munro.
• “Intimacy,” by Raymond Carver.
• “The Virgin,” by Kerima Polotan.
• “First Love and Other Sorrows,” by Harold Brodkey.
• “Charades,” by Lorrie Moore.
• Liars in Love, by Richard Yates.
• Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, by Richard Yates.
• No One Belongs Here More Than You, by Miranda July.
• Birds of America, by Lorrie Moore.

Funny, but for someone who attests to loving short fiction so much, the ratio of short story to novel thoughts is rather low. Let me explain myself? I read my short story collections/anthologies in sips. For example, I’ve been reading the Collected Stories of Carol Shields for two years now. Although it’s satisfying to have finished a book, and to proclaim it, there’s still that joy in letting short stories soak in—and maybe fester, haha—before you go on and let another be the star of the show. Know what I mean?

marginalia || Birds of America, by Lorrie Moore

I fell in love with Lorrie Moore when I found her short story “How to Be an Other Woman” in an anthology of love stories. There, by pure accident (I was scouring the library shelves, just because), I fell in love. She just blew me away—her language, her quirkiness, her ability to sucker-punch your right between the eyes.

And so it was a pleasure when mah homey Petra let me take this book home with me (originally Sir Larry’s, hello!) Birds of America is a collection of twelve stories from Miss Moore, and the stories were good. They were. But were they yummy?—

It pains me to say that these stories, though masterful, did not fascinate me the way her stories in Self-Help did. Yes, I recognize how well-written the stories are, how precise Moore’s observations can be, how she has retained her ability to charge a single phrase with so much meaning. The stories in this collection are great stories, created by a writer who knows her way around the craft, has mastered it.

But these stories, they aren’t magical—not for me. I was not compelled to go on a little walk (cigarettes in my pocket, a boatload of heartache as well) after every story. I was not compelled to sigh at the general direction of walls. I was not compelled to run to the nearest scrap of paper and emulate. Kids, I did not gasp. Not once.

But yes—yadda yadda—these stories were written by a master. The craft was flawless. And I’m not even saying these stories didn’t have heart. Because they did. Not just the kind of heart that spoke to mine—these are stories you let a Creative Writing major read, not the kind she has to discover on her own, those stories that spark that Ooh writing is the shiz inside her. Am I making sense?

Well. Which is not to say that I hated this boo. I mean, I like it enough. I like it very much. Sigh. You can’t deny that these are kick-ass stories, ya know?

One of the stories I like best is “Charades”—it’s a night with a family, and this family happens to be playing that most scorned of parlor games. Testament to Lorrie Moore’s genius is how she’s able to create a story about what an awkward little monster a game of charades can be. And, at the same time, display all those undercurrents working within a family? Champion.

Of course, I suspect that given time to soak in, I’ll have other stories “I like best.” I give this new collection—and the author—that: it’s all so very bothersome in oh-so-many levels.

book dump || BookSale Spelunking v.03 + From Kael’s Bookshelves

La-dee-dah. Have completely thrown off my reading schedule with these beauties. First picture, from a BookSale—never knew that there was one right beside the hospital. Imagine my glee, imagine my Waaaah at realizing I could’ve found a place to traipse to when it all got to be too much. There’s still the future. Anyway:

1. The Interpretation of Dreams, by Sigmund Freud. Why not?
2. Toot & Puddle, by Holly Hobbie. Whatever book of the Toot & Puddle series is auto-buy for my boyfriend and I. We like cute pigs who live in Woodcock Forest.
3. Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction, by Charles Baxter. I love how Baxter talks about fiction, its essence, the reading of it, the craft. I squealed when I found this book in the depths of the store.
4. Sudden Rain, by Maritta Wolff. I have no idea who she was, but the blurb was intriguing—this was a manuscript found in the author’s fridge long after she’d died. A 1970s Little Children, it was called.

+ + + + +

And. From a few days ago—the following’s from the newly installed bookshelves of my friend Kael—the big fat tome at the bottom and the skinny red one on top are journals. I figured I’d get started on Calvino and Chabon—authors I have never read before, but am quite willing to sample.

1. Love Letters of Great Men, edited by Ursula Doyle.
2. If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler, by Italo Calvino.
3. I Have the Right to Destroy Myself, by Young-Ha Kim.
4. Mendocino and Other Stories, by Anne Packer.
5. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, by Michael Chabon.

Oy, reading. One of the few things that gives me true bliss.

Bye, Mr. Salinger!

I call your WhutFace and raise you a SadFace, J.D. I admit that I never really liked Catcher in the Rye, mostly because Holden himself was a phony (hah)–I read it at nine, and then again at twelve, and then read it again at sixteen (so don’t say I didn’t try). But still, this makes me said. This makes me really sad. :[ Hug. I wish he’d talked to the world more. Ah, the hermit.

Off to look for my mother’s copy of Nine Stories, and Franny and Zooey. And most likely rewatch Finding Forrester. You the man now, dawg.

You’ll be missed, sir. You can now look at all us phonies from heaven.

marginalia || The Gin Closet, by Leslie Jamison

Ladies and gentlemen, I will allow the long-ass blurb of The Gin Closet, the debut novel of Leslie Jamison to do the honors:

In the late 1960s, Tilly Rudolph abandons her middleclass home in the suburbs and flees to the seedy underworld of Reno. She stays away for decades, working as a prostitute and nursing various addictions, eventually drinking herself to the brink of death in a dusty trailer park. One day, after Tilly spends nearly thirty years without a family, her niece, a young cosmopolite from New York, shows up on her doorstep and changes both their lives forever.

The Gin Closet unravels the strange and powerful intimacy that forms between Tilly and her niece Stella. Its narration shifts between their perspectives as they move to San Francisco to make a home with Abe, Tilly’s overworked and melancholic son, building a fragile triangle that eventually breaks under its own weight.

With an uncanny ear for dialogue and a witty, unflinching candor about sex, love, and power, Leslie Jamison reminds us that no matter how unexpected its turns are, this life we’re given is all we have: the cruelties that unhinge us, the beauties that clarify us, the addictions that deform us, those fleeting possibilities of grace that fade as quickly as they come. The Gin Closet marks the debut of a stunning new talent in fiction.

That sounds helpful enough, doesn’t it? Let’s get per-point with this one, because life is too short for segues:

[1] It begins slowly. It takes its time. Reading the blurb, all giddy, it’s like you submerge yourself in a tubful of water, and, extending the metaphor, the actual exposition is when you surface, all slow-mo. That’s how reading this novel is like. Is that a bad thing? No. Why? Let me explain: Jamison allows the Rudolph family to solidify before our eyes. By not immediately plunging us into the drama of that “fragile triangle,” the actual family dynamics—before meeting Tilly, how the family had changed upon her leaving thirty years ago—are better explored, better established. Did I wish things were speeded up a little? No, not really: One of the things I admired about this novel was that it was, for lack of a less trite phrase, calmly violent. It was leashing in all that angst and pain, making every scene charged, making every character interaction brim with meaning. Which is an odd observation, I know, for a family wrecked by estrangement and indifference, and many other demons—but that’s how it is. It’s painful because all those secrets, the weight of thirty years on the characters’ shoulders. You can’t insist on speed when you owe it not only to the readers, but to the characters themselves. Still, Jamison’s got such tight control, for a subject matter that could go every which way.

[2] Can I tell you how awesome the very concept of a Gin Closet is? It’s that little room in a house where you think you can store away all your demons. In Tilly’s case, it’s filled with bottles of gin. It’s where she rots, it’s where she’s held prisoner, it’s where she believes that things are under control as long as the demons stay locked inside that room with her. But, of course, she’s wrong. It’s genius, I tell you—you don’t need concrete rooms, you don’t need walls. Just your mind telling you, I can handle this, see how I can handle this?

“What do you need?” I asked. “How can I help you?”

“I do it in the dark,” she said. “I can’t stop.”

I stayed quiet. I let her keep going.

“I turn off the lights and take little sips—just little sips one after another. Then I sleep and I wake up and I think maybe, I don’t know, it’s stupid what I think, but maybe if there’s a door I can close… that maybe, I don’t know, it’s a kind of an ending.”

[3] One of the most laudable things about the crafting of this novel was its language. And, if you’ve been following me, you know I can’t talk about a book without talking about its language. And Jamison’s language blew me away. She has a way saying things plainly, but true, and raw, and honest—when the situation demands it. Look at this snippet of dialogue, one that focuses on how the characters never really talk to each other:

“Did you miss me?” I said.

He said, “I’m glad to be with you now.”

[4] Tilly, damaged Tilly, we never really know why she became the way she was, even with the alternating POV, she remains a mystery. The reader is left to conclude that perhaps some people are really just prone. We don’t even really know why Stella is doing what she’s doing—a messianic complex brought on by how crappy and pointless her own life is? Does Stella even know why she’s doing this? Is that lame? Am I making excuses for Tilly, for Stella, for this novel? I like to think that I’m not. I like to think that Tilly and Stella—and Abe, and Stella’s mother—are all too-human in that they’re unknown even to themselves (no, I will not bust out my Philo readings). I have always hated characters who know too well what they are, who know their motivations. There’s self-aware, and then there’s cardboard cut-out. So, yeah. That’s what I think.

[5] Also. You know what this book reminded me of? Change Baby, by June Spence. But this is grittier, if only because it’s set in cities rife with things that could easily be bad for you.

>> The Gin Closet is a meandering story of loss and redemption, and, yes, many failures. This is not a feel-good novel. You will not be inspired. If you want to believe in the fairy-tale goodness of people, I suggest you steer clear of this book. But if you want something human, something that speaks about how we disappoint ourselves, and we disappoint the people we love—how we walk away from things that we value, and can’t quite the things that will only destroy us—pick this novel up. It’ll be nerve-wrecking read, you’ll sigh many times. But it’s damned good storytelling, and I cannot wait for Jamison to litter our bookshelves with her work.