when a turtle is not just a turtle

For the past week or so, this turtle has been the wallpaper on both monitors of my work station. Today I changed it. 

I had chosen it as one of the most gorgeous photos in my collection, although I was not the photographer. It's a photo that captures a magical memory and makes me feel many wonderful things. 

But there was also a slight haunting about it. That distant time my body was warmed by sun, and sea, and champagne, and romance. Those time-faded beautiful beaches. Grasping at wandering the lively streets of Bridgetown. A sense of once taking risks and being spontaneous. 

Life is so much not that right now. It is good. And it is not that. The gap between that memory and this reality was too poignant. 

So I swapped it for another image - a picture from the same golden trip, but with crucial reminders of who I am right here, right now. 

I'll get back to the Caribbean. Maybe even to Barbados again. I'll swim with more sea turtles, feel white sand and sunshine. Eat Rock lobster and wash it down with rum. Lose myself in a smile. Someday, all of that can happen again. 

And, in the meantime, courage is here. Curiosity is ever-present. Compassion abides with me. And that is enough.

That's the thing with values. Wherever you go, even in the dark cold days of December, there they are. 

Anthills of the Savannah: a review

Reading Chinua Achebe's 1987 novel Anthills of the Savannah in the weeks leading up to the U.S 2020 elections was difficult on multiple levels. Looking back at it for this review while a childish despot attempts to cling to power is almost chilling. Achebe's story is a reflection of its time and place in history. It is also a timeless reminder of how quickly a democracy can become a dictatorship. 

I'm unused to novels confusing me. Maybe I should have taken more post-colonial literature courses in university. Mind you, what confused me wasn't the theme, the reflection of late-80s Africa struggling against years of colonialism and a sudden vacuum where power used to be, or even (in the end) the plot. It was the structure. 

I was never clear if it was an omniscient narrator or one of the characters narrating. I think the narrator changed now and then, and it was those unclear transitions that threw me. Or, maybe I was just not paying enough attention or the right attention. I did a lot of flipping back to earlier chapters in the first half of the book. Both the story and the characters were compelling enough to keep me fighting through my confusion. 

The female characters particularly stick with me, perhaps because my learning in anti-racism this year has taught me how essential and over-looked Black women are. Moreso, the females in this story were full characters with their own motivations and complexities, not just addenda to the male characters. They were active, and they held their spaces. 

Find it at your local bookstore

Being a political story of the 1980s, of course the main characters were male (no offense, Margaret Thatcher and Kim Campbell). While these characters were also drawn with some complexity, their roles as plot devices - the "newspaper editor," the "dictator," the "minister of information" - kept them fairly prescribed. They were harder to connect with as people. 

At this point, I could go off on a whole discussion of gender norms and assumptions, the performative stress of gender, and how that is reflected in this novel, but I won't. 

Missing for me, Africaphile that I am, was a sense of setting. Generally, stories about Africa contain descriptions of the savannah or desert or jungle, herds of wildlife, the heat of a burning sun. And, most of these tropes come from colonial/white writers treating Africa as an exotic and mysterious other world - think of Dinesen, Gullman, Conrad, et al. 

Since Achebe is Nigerian, "Africa" itself is not foreign or exotic to him. This is an urban story. It could be set in almost any capital city. It's valuable for me, in diversifying my reading, to see how I have a particular stance regarding these stories, even as I roll my eyes at others who talk of Africa as if it is a homogenous monolith. 

Anthills of the Savannah is short, rich, and engrossing. I highly recommend it. 

regarding values

This was such a bizarre year to set my intentions on being fulfilled and living by my values. Then again, maybe it was the perfect year. Periods of global confusion and upheaval (not to mention being repeatedly thwarted in my personal life) can be an opportunity to stop and think about what really matters to us as individuals, if we take a moment to reflect. 

While in shut down for the pandemic, what did you miss most? What did you resist doing and not doing? What old habits got you through? What new habits did you pick up that may or may not be fulfilling? Who could you rely on to make life better (or worse)? As communities re-opened, what did you do first? What have you still not bothered to do? 

Answers to these kinds of questions might point you in the direction of your values. For me, having identified my values before Covid-19 was a household word, let alone a universal source for memes, gave me something to hold on to, and also something to bump up against and question. If justice is a value for me, how does that show up in life? What action am I taking to expand justice? How does watching Netflix for up to 10 hours a day reflect valuing my vitality? Who have I connected with? 

My values have helped through the lonely and dark days, though often I find that my emotions determine how much attention I spend on my values when I think that the reverse would be more effective. I have a theory that I'd be more fulfilled (happier, more content, more energized, prouder of how I spend my time) if I prioritized exercising my values over giving in to just not feeling like it. 

Over the 22 weeks (April 26 - September 26) that I kept daily track of expressing my values, I was surprised to notice that observation didn't really make that much difference. I am generally motivated by gold stars and quantifiable results (tales still bubble up about that time I totally lost my sh*t over an unfair A- in university), but knowing that these tick marks would turn into a table and that ultimately I would share it here really didn't induce more action. 

I also have the feeling, though it's not provable in this graph, that the value of "Connection" is a cornerstone for activating other values. That may be because of the people with whom I connect: the people in my bubble are also adventurers, they will talk with me about Black Lives Matter and the treatment of Indigenous peoples in Canada. My friends get me out for walks or a swim. So on days when I experience connection, it almost always increases the overall tally.

Click to enlarge

What I had hoped to see, over time, was a gradual but consistent levelling out of the weekly totals. Looking for progress, not perfection, I thought that if I practiced each value 4 times a week that would show a level of balance and growth that seemed like it would support feeling fulfilled. In fact, over time, the weekly gaps got larger as values such as vitality and adventure rose and stayed elevated while faith and (more surprisingly) creativity floundered. 

As I've continued to read about values, I've realised that six is too many. Most "experts" suggest that three or four values probably cover it, and I think I've found my refined list*:

• Courage (includes adventure, creativity, justice, vitality, and faith)
• Curiosity (includes adventure, creativity, justice, vitality, and faith)
• Compassion (includes connection, justice, and faith)

I'm going to keep pondering how these three values feel - are they sufficient? Are they true? Do they reflect who I have been, who I am, and who I want to be? More to come. 

Earlier posts in this inquiry include 

• So, it's 2020 is it? - January 1
• Onward - January 21
• About those values - April 27

* Technically, I stole this list. I was asked in a job interview which of these 3 organizational values I most identified with, and had a very very hard time choosing. Thanks for the inspiration, interviewer.

the scale and the light

If you have a choice between love and acceptance, which do you choose? 
Sonya Renee Taylor

[Sorry - this post has A LOT of personal pronouns] Almost a year ago I took a mauling axe to my bathroom scale. I have had a very problematic relationship to the numbers it reported since I was a young adult, and I'd had enough. Mostly, I'd had enough of the conversations I was having with brilliant, talented, high-achieving women in my life, all of whom seemed to be on a diet, constantly talking about what they "could" or "couldn't" eat, and linking their humanity to a dress size. I needed a tangible rejection of that obsession.

I also know that as a group, these women and I were/are striving for an ideal that we all knew was never going to be attainable.  Even if gravity's effect on my body (measured in pounds) reached some mythic ideal, I was never going to have J Lo's butt, Michelle Obama's arms, or an abdomen free from a hatch-mark of scars and stretch marks. I was never going to escape my chronic illness. I was never going to have perfectly-aligned teeth.* 

That "not good enough" body I could never escape shows up in so many ways. It shows up in how I walk, and how I smile, and how I slouch into theatre chairs. It shows up in not wanting to buy quality clothing when I gain weight, then over-investing in smaller sizes when I shrink. It shows up as gratitude for being wanted instead of fidelity to my own desires. It shows up as thinking "f-the-world, I'll eat what I want," shame eating, having low energy and erratic moods, and berating myself. 

Of course, smashing the scale did not undo five decades of conditioning. I still look at my saggy belly with disgust. I have spent way too much energy and focus in the last 11 months suffering under the lashes of comparison, both with other bodies and with prior (thinner, smoother, stronger, sexier) expressions of my own body. I wore my two-piece swimsuits all summer, but I did it with the reassuring hum in my mind that "there will be someone fatter at the beach." Judge and compare. Judge and compare. Judge and compare. I had let go of a stone, but I was still dragging a sledge of judgement and self-hate, and a growing recognition that I don't have the tools or knowledge to get out of that yoke no matter how long I avoid the scale. 

Until, maybe, today. Today I listened to Brené Brown's podcast with Sonya Renee Taylor, author of The Body is not an Apology. I knew there would be richness in this podcast, so I set aside other distractions, got out my journal, and attempted active listening. I rewound moments when my mind drifted. I played over and over the truly perspective-shifting statements. And, I felt hope. Hope that all women (truly, all people - the body hierarchy is not just female) can let go of the idea that our bodies are a reflection of our wellness, our happiness, our desirability, our value, and our lovability. 

Spending one hour listening to a podcast can no more retrain me than smashing the bathroom scale did, but now I have a spark of hope that retraining is possible. I am not interested in body positivity. I am interested in being a whole, loving, loved human. What I find especially powerful in Taylor's work is her linking of body politics and social justice. I'm not going to explain that link as I don't understand it clearly enough yet, but hearing that the cultural belief "some bodies are better than other bodies" is the basis for racism, misogyny, ableism, homo and transphobia, etc affirmed my discomfort with diet culture and body privilege. In Taylor's words,

All of our systems ... of oppression based on the body are attempts to navigate the ladder of social heirarchy. 

If someone - some body - is better than another, that 'other' is equally inferior. The system is inherently one of oppression. Which, by extension, means that redirecting my energy from my measurements and dress size can be a personal act of freedom, justice, and resistance. That is inspiring for me. I can't wait to buy and learn from Taylor's book, and to carry that learning with me as a guiding light in this strange and new land. Oh, I'd still like to look like a model. I want to have the strength, stamina and agility for adventures with my grandson as he grows. As I age, I'd like to continue travelling without worrying about my health. I want, again, to experience sex without embarrassment. I also want to do all those things without linking them to my value as a human being, being trapped in comparison, or contributing to the oppression of other people. I choose radical self-love over self-acceptance - or at least I will with practice. 

 You can listen to the podcast here: 

* I recognise that other bodies present different culturally-created obstacles to self-love: bodies of colour, bodies outside the gender binary, bodies with disabilities, thin bodies, short bodies, hirsute bodies, and so many more. No human is free from the body hierarchy. I hope someday we will be.

Dreams from My Father: a review

"Everyone was welcome into the club of disaffection." 

For the eight years he was in the White House, I watched Barack Obama with a mixture of admiration, gratitude, and curiosity. Did this man never lose his cool? Never display doubt or uncertainty? How could anyone be that ON all the time? I understood that as the first African American president he had to be better than any prior president in ways that I couldn't even dream mattered, but where was the passion? Reading Becoming last year helped me better understand the extreme pressure of that life for both the President and the First Lady. In many ways, those roles required the Obamas to give up a part of their humanity that allows the rest of us to breathe, to fumble, and to recover.

Dreams from my Father, written by Barack Obama before he entered politics, largely answered my questions about the man behind the Presidential podium. Barack Obama the fatherless son, the struggling teenager from a "broken home," the mixed-race American perceived as Black and raised white, the pre-public-figure author is real. He smokes weed, uses the N word, and questions his place in the world. He experiences anger, insecurity, and loss. He questions himself and the people in his life. He looks for learning, though not necessarily in the classroom.  

Obama of the White House always had the right words, even if he sometimes seemed to lack emotion in delivering them. Young Obama the author was allowed to combine his linguistic power with his very real frustrations with, questions about, and concern for the world. Dreams covers what Obama knows of his family background - his mother's parents from Kansas and eventually his paternal relatives in Kenya. It includes the stories he is told of his early life, his own remembrances from childhood and youth in Hawaii and Indonesia, and his development as a community organizer in Chicago. It ends with him ready to enter Harvard Law School. 

This Obama is articulate, funny, insightful and real. As a young man he struggles with who he is, knowing his place in the world, and that inescapable dichotomy of being Black in a white family and in a white country. Obama is forgiving of his grandparents, with whom he lived for most of his childhood and youth, for their blindness to their own racism. Theirs is the kind of racism we all have because of living in a culture that ensures the road for white people is laid smooth. It is insidious and alive just under the surface. He also forgives them and his mother for the impossibly perfect stories they told of his father, a man he met only once and about whom he later learns more honest apprisals. 

Like all memoirs, the structure and plot of this one are built into the telling. What makes this special is seeing the development, told with vulnerability and apparent sincerity, of a man who would go on to make history. This is the Barack Obama I wished for on TV as he attempted to rebuild America into what it might actually be, the one we only got hints of after countless school shootings. This Obama wouldn't let people compare his wife to a monkey or question his Blackness or his birth. Then again, this unpolished Obama probably wouldn't have been elected, and that's the real injustice.  

I highly recommend this book. It is pleasantly free of American jingoism, and it ends with an extended visit to Kenya, and that can never be a bad thing. 

How to be an Antiracist: a review

EB: I am writing this as a white woman in Canada learning about antiracism and confronting my own privileged naïveté and racism. Any missteps in this post are utterly accidental and borne of ignorance, and I invite feedback. 

Ibram X. Kendi, author of How to be an Antiracist (and other books) is one of the foremost academics working in the field of antiracism in America. He founded The Antiracist Research and Policy Center at American University, and recently moved it to Boston University (where it has been renamed the Center for Antiracist Research). He is a professor of History, and has taught Africana Studies and African American Studies. He has written umpteen articles, given a TED Talk, and is the go-to guy on antiracism for American news and late-night shows. Besides all of that scholarship, Kendi has the lived experience of being a Black man in America. 

In this detailed - almost granular - primer on racism in America, Kendi uses his life story so far (he is only in his 30s) to frame his growth in knowledge and to link chapters. In some ways, this is not necessary, as most topics stand alone, but it does add some personal interest. I was especially thrilled to read that Dr. Yaba Blay, who has been essential listening for me all summer, was one of two women who taught Kendi about Black feminism, queer Black life, and his blindness to both. Black women are leading the current phase of the fight for racial justice in America, and they don't get the same air time as men. That mention really stood out for me. 

Kendi knows his stuff, but the whole time I was reading Antiracist I was wishing I had read it before I read Between the World and Me. Kendi is a scholar and a teacher. Coates is a writer. Kendi breaks things down, gives multiple examples, and builds up new definitions. Coates pulls you into his world. Both books are about racism and structured as life-stories, though Coates' book, because it is a letter to his son, is warm, personal, impassioned, and compelling. It is also visceral and raw at times, something Kendi never approaches but that to me feels appropriate for this conversation. 

Kendi is a good place to start. If hearing that race is made up (and understanding that that is NOT the same as saying you are "colour blind") is new to you, start with Kendi. This is not an either-or conversation read them both, and other things as well. White people need to be learning about racism from those who experience it, and since no one person speaks for their community, reading multiple perspectives is essential.  

On that note, please seek out Canadian, UK, Caribbean and other writers about racism, BIPOC* fiction writers, and podcasts with BIPOC hosts. The American experience is not the only experience, and finding alternative perspectives sometimes takes some digging.

If you want more of a reading list, Victoria Alexander shares one on her website. It includes articles and books, and covers everything from fiction to biography to history: Antiracism reading list.

*BIPOC stands for Black, Indigenous, and People of Colour. 

Their Eyes Were Watching God: a review

"Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board."

When a novel opens with a sentence that beautiful and revelatory, it's hard to imagine the author can maintain that high standard throughout. In Their Eyes Were Watching God, Zora Neale Hurston creates such poetry and truth on nearly every page. 

Beyond her mastery of language, Hurston's experience as an anthropologist, ethnographer, and folklorist give her an incredible insight into humanity, particularly the humanity of Black communities of the southern US in the 1930s, (though Their Eyes reaches back to the slave era in explaining the motivations of protagonist Janie's grandmother). 

I was fascinated to learn of Eatonville, Florida, one of the first self-governing all-Black communities in the US. I was even more fascinated with the way Hurston weaves Black folklore throughout the story without ever foregrounding it as such. The personification of Death. Community moments of song. Games. Nicknames. The depth of culture and the celebration throughout the story adds a richness like the soil in the great Floridian muck. 

Their Eyes has a framing story that begins at the end, yet the story moves with surprise. Janie grows and moves and makes free choices that women still struggle for 90 years on. The plot travels - literally and figuratively - it never hurries, but it keeps action happening even in simple domestic scenes.

Hurston's female characters, especially main character Janie, do have more fullness than the male characters, but that feels appropriate to the story. The males aren't flat, they are just peripheral characters. I love Janie. I wish I could sit on the porch with her and learn more from her. She is wise, unique, brave, strong, and honest.  

Their Eyes is simple, and it is incredibly complex. It is comfortable and unique. It is brief and deep. I understand why Alice Walker said "There is no book more important to me than this one." I will not be loaning my copy out. 

PS: I cut the earlier quote short so you could feel the power of it. In fact, the whole paragraph hangs together so beautifully that it should be enjoyed in its fullness: 

Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board. For some they come in with the tide. For others they sail forever on the horizon, never out of sight, never landing until the Watcher turns his eyes away in resignation, his dreams mocked to death by Time. That is the life of men.

The Little Paris Bookshop: a review

Nina George's writing is a master class of the true meaning of sensuality. On each page you might smell a riverbank, taste the sea in a pot of mussels, hear the cry of cicadas, feel a cat purr against your belly, or watch the hair rise on a lover's arm. 

Having devoured Little French Bistro, I tried my best to savour The Little Paris Bookshop. I failed. Once again George swept me into a French adventure, this time leaving Paris via riverways and canals to Provence. Bookshop is the bigger selling of George's books, and perhaps if I'd read it first I would understand why. I do recognize, however, that my lack of engagement with the main character Perdu comes from my own particular circumstances and is probably unfair both to him and the author. Unfortunately, to explain that statement would require a spoiler, so you'll just have to ask me about it in private. 

The theme of healing, through relationships and literature, from the inevitable bruises of life is one with which I have deep experience and deep appreciation. The bookshop in the title is called The Literary Apothecary, and Perdu sees himself as a druggist prescribing the right book for the right reader at the right time. The knowledge of both people and of books that such a job would require is remarkable - perhaps only achievable in fiction, but still highly compelling. It made me understand a little better the drive to read that I've experienced in recent months. It's not a new drive, but it has definitely grown like an unsated hunger. I get hangry for books, but the right books. And Nina George's books satisfy. How she manages to combine light and depth amazes me. Most writers make you choose between being talked down to and having your spirit assaulted. Like Anne Patchett, Nine George does neither. 

High praise and gratitude aside, Nina George's world is shockingly lacking in diversity or awareness. No people of colour, only the most tertiary of lesbianism. There are no gay men in the arts in France? No trans people in Brittany or Provence? None of France's millions of immigrants have anything to say or do (besides producing cooking smells behind closed doors) or ever enters a popular bookshop? Seems implausible. Celebrating "Christopher Columbus discovering the Americas" was jarring, anachronistic, inaccurate and out of touch. 

Still, this book was pleasing and insightful and lovely. I look forward to whatever else Nina George writes, and hope her next story includes a more representative cast of characters. 

Little French Bistro: a review

Aaaaaaaah. Is there any more satisfying feeling than choosing a random book off a bargain pile and finding it the perfect read? That was exactly how Nina George's Little French Bistro felt. Charming. Encouraging. Refreshing.

It started out a little rocky for me - a suicide attempt. This is not a spoiler, it is on the book blurb and is the very first scene. In my world it's not the perfect way to open an novel, but the story really picks up from there. The theme of finding your true self at any age followed so nicely with having recently read Untamed, but George's writing (and, to be fair, the novel form) appeal to me SO MUCH MORE.

With moments in Paris, Bistro takes place largely in Brittany, a region of France I never read about without wanting immediately to book a one-way ticket. I want the wild sea. I want the wild woods, I want the wild people harkening back to their Celtic roots. Oh sure, that may all be fictionalized exaggeration, but it is exaggeration that appeals to me. The food*, the settings, the stories, the wine - it all just works.

This is a novel you read in two sittings, not because it is light and airy, but because it is deep and moving and keeps pulling you forward. The central love stories in Bistro happen between people in their middle years with baggage and scars and insecurities and sagging breasts. I love these people. Oh sure, there's a young couple, but their story isn't central, which is a nice change. Sadly, the  one spot of diversity (I'm not going to be more specific because that is a spoiler) is downplayed rather than celebrated, and I thought that was a missed opportunity. 

I loved this book. I will re-read this book, which I honestly don't do much with novels. I think everyone should read this book. I also think I should learn to speak French and Breton and move to Brittany and work in a bistro. That is all.
___________________________________________

* At the end of both this and The Little Paris Bookshop (review soon coming) George shares several regional recipes. Sure, gluten means some of them - like the fabulous sounding Breton pancakes - aren't for me, but it shows how essential food is to George's stories. Maybe have a snack before you read one of George's books as they will make you hungry. 

Untamed: a review

One of the downsides of an advanced education in critical thinking is that it can be easy to emphasize the "critical" and overlook the "thinking." When I first became aware of Glennon Doyle, it was because she has left her husband for a woman, which was somehow newsworthy in the circle of writers I follow, and because the woman she now shares her life with is Abby Wambach, bad ass US soccer phenom.

My issue was not at all with Doyle's choice, but with the decade of history she had as a Christian mommy blogger, bragging about her amazing marriage and how she single-handedly saved it despite her husband's serial cheating. In fact, she was on a book tour cashing in on her magical role as a "Love Warrior" when she met Abby. Now she makes money off that marriage instead.

I never actually read her blog. I never learned anything about her beyond my assumptions. It was easy, since Christian mommy bloggers aren't really my thing I had no interest in reading her writing. I jumped to a whole lot of conclusions, assumptions and judgements based on maybe five Instagram posts and a gossip blog post or two. Mucho critical. Almost no thinking. 

And yet, despite my ignorance and bias, I bought Doyle's latest book, Untamed, on a whim recently. Liz Gilbert likes and loves her, it was well displayed, and I liked the cover. It doesn't take much to make me buy a book these days. Honestly, so much of my response to this book is not about the book nut about me that it should probably be two posts - a review, and a response. But ... here we are. 

This book is like a human: deeply flawed yet capable of brilliance that streaks through the sky. The problem with reading books by people who began their writing careers as bloggers is that their books read like blogs: consistent in voice, but a jumble of times, places, anecdotes and characters. Often the books are comprised of blog posts, with not quite enough editing to pull them together. This book is not a story - it is an uncoordinated collage laced with morals and aphorisms. It's a very choppy one at that: short sentences. Short paragraphs. Short chapters.

Reading this immediately after finishing Between the World and Me was like going from War and Peace to Dick and Jane. There's nothing wrong with Dick and Jane,  but ... we are all adults here. Thirty pages in I thought "I get it" - the bit on the flyleaf that caught my attention is really what there was for me to get. But I'm no quitter, and I was wrong.

As I read I was curious about my steady stream of judgement popping up in the middle of learning. Part of it is jealousy - I've never turned my writing into anything meaningful, while Doyle built an empire on (unconscious?) inauthenticity, and then pivoted to authenticity and expanded her empire.

Part of the judgement is also not understanding: I have definitely lived a lie, at times, but it was recently pointed out to me that I have always had a strong sense of "no, not this" and been willing to let go and move on. I felt like she was exaggerating. I can't reconcile being so utterly conditioned by cultural expectations that you turn to eating disorders, addiction, and a loveless, frigid marriage rather than be yourself. It just doesn't compute for me. I consider myself a relatively empathetic person, but I can't understand that. I can only chalk it up to

1. It's an American thing, and
2. I was never going to be petite enough or pretty enough or quiet enough or slow-witted enough to make people comfortable, so I gave up trying pretty early on. 

Also, I don't remember my parents ever telling me to be more ladylike or that Girls do/are X and Boys do/are Y. My sisters and I played sports, or we didn't. We created music and art and clothing, or we didn't. We read and wrote and gardened and performed, or we didn't. We rode horses and swam in lakes and rivers and played with our dog and hung out in treehouses. Or we didn't. We can all swing a hammer and drive a manual and gut a fish and dance in heels. I don't know this small, prescribed world Doyle blames for her struggles.

Yes, I felt and still feel the unyielding pressure of not being skinny/sexy/pretty enough. Yes, I feel sufficated by my need to be impressive but never EVER confident or proud. Yes, society constantly reminds me that I am both too much and not enough. But somehow, I missed the memo on being a little lady, on smiling - but not too big or too easily- and sitting on the sidelines while the boys have all the fun. 

The jealousy also comes from never experiencing the love Doyle describes between her and Abby. Or I thought I had, but now that it's long-gone I have to assume it wasn't that. When Glennon met Abby, she "became." I am 52, and I am still optimistic about becoming. It turns out that becoming is a perpetual project, that sometimes happens in bursts - going weak in the knees on a drizzly street corner, or breathing deeply the humid air outside Norman Manley International Airport. I'm still looking for the secret to keep becoming without needing the impetus a man or an adventure. 

I suppose my smaller dose of conformity is also why I don't identify much with Doyle's parenting chapters. I did my best; sometimes my best was awesome and sometimes it was truly shitty, but everyday it was that day's best. I gave up on perfect really early, I never did try to match the soccer moms. I couldn't stand the PTA. I just ... couldn't. 

I struggle with the whiteness and the richness and the multiple other privileges Doyle has but doesn't acknowledge, and at the same time I take a lot from her stories. The kind of fairy tale love Doyle describes is also a privilege, one that women who grow up being told we are too big (in all directions), or that "someday someone will see how beautiful you are on the inside" don't expect. We aren't conditioned to see it, so we miss it if it does happen. 

The chapter on unlearning racism and whiteness 100% correlates to the process I'm currently in, except, of course, that no one is inviting me to put on seminars for thousands of people. And frankly, I don't think white women should be making money teaching anti-racism when skilled, qualified, and knowledgeable Black women are available. But, I still appreciated knowing I'm not alone in my anti-racism learning.

Doyle's writing is light and easy. The sparks of learning are powerful - they drew tears and relief from me. On balance, I do recommend this book for women. The nuggets of truth in it are valuable enough to make excavating them worthwhile, and it's a quick, encouraging read. Just manage your expectations. Maybe I'll re-read it now that some of my harsher judgements have been silenced.

Damn this is one long rambly post. 

A Newfoundlander in Canada: a review

In 2007 I had the great good fortune to spend a week at Hollyhock Farm learning about creativity from an absolute master: Nick Bantock. A few days into the workshop Nick was looking over my creations - which, like his fantastic Griffin and Sabine trilogy combined multimedia collage and writing.  After a moment, Nick said something like, you make pretty pictures and you have a way with words, but if you really want to capture people's attention you'll need to find the darkness of life and let it out in your work.

There is a reason those wise words came back to me while reading Alan Doyle's second book, A Newfoundlander in Canada: Always Going Somewhere Always Coming Home. Alan is one of my favourite songwriters and musicians. I have followed him since the early days with Great Big Sea, having first heard of them at UNBC in Prince George in 1995 (Alan's version of that story made it into the BC chapter of this book, where he reveals that playing that show in front of a heavily alpha-male crowd waiting for a grunge band was the moment he knew they could play anywhere. Good old PG). I enjoy his solo music as much as I did the music he made with "the boys."

And, I enjoyed this book - overall. It's fun to read about the early days of GBS, how they grew as men and as a band, and Alan's impressions of Canada. Before heading to Halifax on their first maritime tour, Alan had never been off of Newfoundland. His reflections across the provinces - each one given its own chapter with other stories interspersed - are charming and full of innocence. And that, in a nutshell, is my complaint. The stories are too charming and too innocent. It's overloaded with sweetness, not unlike the irresistible case of Cadbury Easter Creme Eggs the band were given in Toronto. We know it wasn't all sweetness and light, yet this book never lets you see the struggle.

I have a second complaint, one that reveals the depth of my loyalty to BC. Doyle assigns each province a familial relationship to Newfoundland, and I have to say some of them are BS. In particular, that Ontario is the talented oldest sibling that we all rag on but secretly admire. BARF. Ontario is neither the oldest province nor secretly admired, at least not by Western Canadians. Sure, they have a big population, but being the centre of capitalism is not worthy of being admired, but I digress, and my pale pink socialism.is showing. And, Doyle calling BC the distant cousin you hardly know and find a little odd is hard to reconcile. As the only maritime province on the Pacific coast, I would have thought there's a lot we share with Newfoundland. Only, of course, I've never been to Newfoundland, so how would I know? 

Doyle does have a way with words. I don't know that I've ever read a more apt description of the Winnipeg cold, and I've only been there in October. (Sadly, I lent the book out without writing down the quote, so you'll just have to read the book). His story-telling, if a little simple, is entertaining. At the very least, he's inoffensive, and I suppose that's something. 

A Newfoundlander in Canada is Short. Fast. Fun. Canadian. If you're looking for a quick summer read that makes you feel good about this summer's lack of international travel, you'll probably like this book. If you're looking for deep insight and books that change how you see yourself in the world, maybe read  Between the World and Me instead. 

Between the World and Me: a review

I just finished reading Ta-Nehisi Coates' Between the World and Me. I think I will need to read it three more times through to understand all that is in it. The cruelty and love and history and hatred and injustice and victories - small, fragile, even temporary as they sometimes are - pile on top of each other in this small book with the might of 500 years.

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Between the World and Me is a history lesson. It is an autobiography. And it is a love letter between a father and his 15-year old son, one that acknowledges how much of their relationship has been determined by the fear with which a Black person in America lives every day, and the force of that fear in seeking to protect their children. Fear is the third party in this book - fear, and an impressive bravery to continue. Coates writes with power, intellect, and honesty that, as I said, requires re-reading. You must work your way up to absorbing these truths. They are not self-evident, and yet when you read them, they are as undeniable and obvious as the ground beneath your feet: 

• Race does not exist - it is not a scientific or biological reality. Again. 

RACE DOES NOT EXIST.

• That is not to say differences don't exist, or that cultures don't exist. It is to say that genetic difference does not make us separate races. 
• Race was invented to justify racism. 
• In order for one human to own another human, they must first create some inviolable difference that makes the owned human not human at all. That invention was race based on skin colour, it could just have easily been eye colour or height or arm span. Literal ownership has changed, but the results still echo.
• I am not white by biology but by training. My delicate sensibilities. My freedom to look away from what upsets me. My desire to be rescued. My opinions and outspoken-ness. These are markers of whiteness more than my lightly-melanated skin. 

Author and Son.

As Canadians we so often want to distance ourselves from the reality of America - of it being built and sustained on the blood and bodies of stolen people. But we are, at the very least, complicit in the continuation of that domination. We trumpet the Underground Railroad as proof of our goodness, ignoring that many of those who found their way to Canada returned to the US seeing no more opportunity here than there. We feign colour-blindness, further denying a reality we don't want to acknowledge and erasing others for their difference. We pretend that Black Canadians aren't policed as heavily as Black Americans. We pretend that race is real and justice is abstract. 

Toni Morrison said this book should be required reading. It should, for most of us, also be required re-reading. Few people who call themselves white will really be able to take in what Coates says on first read. 

oh dear: about the nice white lady's book reviews

Well. That's uncomfortable. I was going to publish a list of my reviews of books by Black authors in time for Juneteenth, and I'm kind of horrified to realise that of the 161 book reviews I've published here, only 8 are by Black authors. Since people of African descent comprise only 3.5% of the Canadian population, I suppose that's actually representative, but it sure doesn't feel right.

Statistics Canada 2016 data

I don't actually review every book I read, but even so, I can and will do a lot better in reading mixed voices. Apparently, only 5% of Canada's population is Indigenous, but I've done an even worse job reading books by Indigenous authors, so ... ya. I've read relatively more books by authors of South Asian ancestry, but I think maybe that reading everything by Michael Ondaatje and Yann Martel, and the majority of Salman Rushdie's books, should really only count for one each - it's diversity of voices I'm interested in hearing. It's the people, not the books.

Anyway, this is the mini-list of now belated Juneteenth reviews/suggestions:

• Washington Black - Esi Edugyan
• Becoming - Michelle Obama 
• A Brief History of Seven Killings - Marlon James 
• Half-Blood Blues - Esi Edugyan 
• The Book of Negroes - Lawrence Hill 
• Say You're One of Them - Uwem Akepi
• Breath, Eyes, Memory - Edwidge Danticat
• Beloved - Toni Morrison

And my take-away - Canada is a lot less ethnically diverse than I thought and I need to do better choosing a wide-range of voices and artists to read.

Washington Black: a review

I hate when I read a book and forget to review it right away - I am simply not reliable to remember the details of the reading experience once I've moved on to another book. Which is all to say, this is what I think I thought about Washington Black, Esi Edugyan's third novel and second Giller Prize winner.

Esi Edugyan is the kind of writer who makes me ashamed to think that I could ever aspire to be a published author. Her skill with character, plot, language, culture, history, atmosphere, and so much more is stunning. Washington Black begins in Barbados (💗!), and travels to Virginia, Nova Scotia, Inu lands, England, Amsterdam and Morocco, all following the growth of our titular hero, Washington Black (aka Wash).

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One of the most striking elements of slavery revealed in Wash's story is how subject to the vagaries of fate and whiteness slaves were/are. The death of a relatively "kind" (one cannot own another human and be kind, but bear with me) master leaves Wash subject to a cruel and mercurial master. Rescued from that fate by the new master's "kinder" scientist brother, Wash has the protection of an "exceptional" mind, setting him apart from the other slaves and from many of the white people - and the free people of colour - he encounters on the plantation and once he and the master's brother flee Barbados.

If I had written this review last year when I read the book, this exceptionalism may have gone unnoticed and uncommented on. As I've recently been doing a lot of reading, listening and learning in response to the Black Lives Matter movement, however, the trope of exceptionalism feels somewhat problematic to me. His intelligence and artistry endear Wash, but I feel uneasy knowing that he has an easier life because of it. Why is the sweet, young, talented boy worth saving but his older, coarse, uncompliant mother figure isn't? Of course he never escapes racism or cruelty in all its iterations and measures no matter where he roams, and I appreciate that truth. Exceptionalism in relation to white supremacy allows for a black president of the United States to be considered "not that black." It allows for highly successful black Americans (Oprah, Tyler Perry, LeBron James) to be considered not representative of the communities they come from. Exceptionalism erases colour by raising the individual "above" others and above the systems in place to keep them "in their place." As a white reader of a book by an Afro-Canadian author, I am aware of this exceptionalism and I assume that Edugyan is using it in some other way - a way I am undoubtedly blind to.

Regarding the scientist brother "saviour," it's possible also to argue that he was not so much kinder as less honest about his assessment that Wash is disposable, useable, and less than fully human. He is painfully exploitive of the problem of the notion of the white saviour. It is a strength of Edugyan's characters that no one is wholly good, no one is predictable, and the "good" are only ever really "less bad" - and that in bits and pieces. Titch's complicity in the slave trade feels much too much like my own complicity in white supremacy for me to be at ease with his role. I am more at ease with the parts of the story that don't include him.

Quick-witted, intellectually stimulating, richly peopled and atmosphere, and moving at a compelling pace, Washington Black is a hugely readable and deeply enjoyable book. When Albert Camus said "fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth," Edugyan was exactly the kind of truth teller he was speaking of, and how fortunate we are to have truth-tellers like her.

Oh, and keep an eye out for the octopus. What an octopus!

Big Magic: a review

Another week, another book review. I'll say one thing for Covid-19 - it's been great for clearing my 'to read' stack. 

The entire premise of Big Magic, the eighth book by Elizabeth Gilbert (famed author of Eat, Pray, Love), is this: creating is scary. Do it anyway. 

Creating is a greatly varied and inherently human activity that we all do every day in some way - even if it's picking out an outfit. While Gilbert acknowledges that early on, she quickly focuses on writing, since that is her milieu, and on consciously and conscientiously choosing to create "to bring forth the treasures inside you." With occasional comments of "or painting, or dancing, or decorating bicycles," most of the examples Gilbert gives are of writers and writing and the writing life. The skills transfer. 

In one of my favourite examples, Gilbert describes being consumed by an idea, researching it vigorously, and then life getting in the way of her expressing that idea in a book. Having sat neglected several years, that idea made itself known to Ann Patchett (one of my all-time favourite novelists and a dear friend of Gilbert's), who had space in her life at the time to write the book - to get the inspiration out. Of course, to understand this example, you have to accept (and I do) Gilbert's vision of inspiration or ideas as free-spirited motes seeking a human partner to be made manifest in the world. Finding Gilbert unavailable to partner with at that time, the idea presented itself to Patchett. The way Gilbert tells the story is almost magical (hey, the book is called Big Magic after all), though she is very clear that magic and inspiration are nothing if you don't put in the time and effort. 

Another of  Gilbert's premises that really speaks to me is valuing curiosity over passion. I have often felt like there is something lacking in me because I don't have one big central driving passion. I have posted about it here several times, most explicitly when faced with the incredible (to me) passion of the man I loved. I enjoy writing, sure, but I also do it because it's easy for me. I equally enjoy singing, and being by the ocean, and chatting with my grandson (who pretty much ignores me right now, but give him time 💓). My point is, if there is anything I'm actually passionate about, it's curiosity. Passion is dark and stormy. Curiosity is a firefly. Passion is a mystery to me - uncatchable and sometimes destructive; curiosity is a life-long friend. Passion is sometimes threatening. Curiosity bring answers, and answers bring peace. When I can't find passion, I always have access to curiosity, which is currently lighting my path alongside a very captivating mote of inspiration. 

I've already posted last week that Gilbert recommends keeping your day job (or in my case getting a day job) and practising creativity daily. The first keeps creativity from crumbling under the weight of the electricity bill, the second makes a practitioner into a master. I may never write a best-seller and go on a nation-wide book promotion tour. Heck, I may not ever be paid to write again. But that's no reason not to write. Every day. Because it is a privilege to create, and playing with words makes me me. 

Reading Big Magic right now is timely for me. I like Gilbert's writing style - it's breezy and delightful. Her mojo might not be everyone's taste - there are certain people I can almost see rolling their eyes and muttering "get real." How very sad for them.

Some favourite motes of inspiration from the book:

on making

I'm midway through reading Elizabeth Gilbert's book on creativity, Big Magic. Full review to come when I'm done, of course, but something I read tonight really struck me. 

Gilbert is talking about keeping your "day job" even when you start getting paid for your art, because it takes the pressure off creativity and inspiration. A chapter earlier she spoke about being devoted to your craft/art/chosen field of expression and creating every single day, which can be a challenge to do when you also have a day job, and presumably outside obligations of family, community, etc. 

In Love's Civil War Elizabeth Bowen never talks about working at her writing like a job, but that approach comes through in her letters, and sometimes in Charles Ritchie's diary entries complaining that she has work to do during his visits. 

The intersection of these two reads comes when Gilbert - giving examples of people working and making time/space for their art - writes, "People don't do this kind of thing because they have all kinds of extra time and energy for it; they do this kind of thing because their creativity matters to them enough that they are willing to make all kinds of extra sacrifices for it. Unless you come from landed gentry that's what everyone does." (First emphasis mine, later emphasis Gilbert's). 

The thing is, Elizabeth Bowen was, essentially, landed gentry. She inherited Bowen's Court - her family estate in Co. Cork - was raised alongside lords and ladies and Sackville-Wests, and she still struggled to live off her earnings as a writer. Her lifestyle wasn't exactly going to land her on People of Walmart, mind you, but she did whatever side writing she could - having a standing order for book reviews for magazines, teaching summer writing courses for adults, taking writer in residence gigs, and just barely being saved from writing a "gauche" interview with Princess Margaret about the princess' affair with Peter Townsend. Bowen was a well-known author of several novels, and she ground away at whatever paid writing she could get to keep body and soul together (eventually selling the family estate and taking up residence in an English cottage). I suppose real landed gentry would have an income from their estate, but my point remains (and this may be a news to no one but me):

1. Writing (or whatever form of creativity inspires and calls to you) must be given time and energy consistently over long periods of you're going to get any good at it. 

2. Almost no one can live off the profits of writing (or painting, or sculpting or dancing, or blacksmithing) alone. That's no reason not to go on creating. 

The Money Tree: a review

I've read three of Chris Guillebeau's non-fiction books and liked them all. I was surprised to learn that his 5th book, The Money Tree, is a novel though it still addresses his favoured themes of life fulfillment through entrepreneurship and self-direction. Sadly, Guillebeau's open, easy, readable style, which I find so helpful in reading about personal finance and small business, doesn't really translate into a catchy novel. From the start The Money Tree reads like a pedantic life lesson for teens. 

The characters in The Money Tree lack depth or believability. The main character has $3,000 in his savings account, yet when something goes wrong at his apartment he sleeps in his car for several days. He's inept, the girlfriend is long-suffering, and the mentor is a cross between Buddha and Einstein, without much variation. And the speed with which the plot moves is similarly unbelievable. I won't give you examples as there's not enough plot to avoid spoilers, but several times I flipped back through to confirm that, sure enough, X just happened three days ago and now Y is happening - it's enough to give one the vapours.

If the story is just meant to be a delivery method for Guillebeau's lessons on life and finance, it fulfills that mission. The evening it took to read this book wasn't wasted as I gleaned a couple lessons I may use to supplement my income, and I was reminded of the incredible danger student loans pose, particularly in the US. But it sure wasn't a page turner.

Guillebeau is a fine writer or I wouldn't have read now four of his books. I can see recommeding this one to high school graduates and people beginning their college careers as both a cautionary tale and a guidebook. If you like great stories though, this isn't that. 

Love's Civil War: a review

Love's Civil War is an edited (by Victoria Glendinning) record of the 32-year affair between Canadian diplomat Charles Ritchie and Anglo-Irish writer Elizabeth Bowen. It comprises many of Bowen's letters to Ritchie and relevant entries from Ritchie's private diaries (Ritchie published four carefully and personally edited volumes of his diaries after retiring).

When Bowen and Ritchie met in 1941, she was an already famous writer living in an unconsummated (or at least "not fully consummated," whatever that means) but agreeable marriage. The six-years younger Ritchie was senior staff at the Canadian high commission in London, where he remained throughout World War 2. Their connection was immediate: the affair began days after they met and lasted until she died in 1973.

Over the course of the three decades, Ritchie rises through the ranks to become Canada's highest-ranking diplomat, instrumental in the creation of the United Nations Security Council and eventually serving as Ambassador to Germany, the United Nations, and the United States and High Commissioner to the United Kingdom. He marries a second-cousin he is fond of, "the female version of [him]self," mainly because he is urged to take a wife for the sake of his career. Sylvia, Mrs. Ritchie, is an interesting character we learn almost nothing about. Despite the obvious, he believes it was a mostly happy marriage.

Bowen suffers the whims of being in or out of popular taste, becomes a widow, and spends a lot of time at dinner parties with other people of her class who seem to have little to do and a lot of influence to do it. Eventually forced to sell her family estate in Ireland, Bowen complains about money as only someone who has never needed for anything can: while in a villa in Rome or jetting from London to New York. They are both somewhat brutal. Her only of others. He mostly towards the two of them.

Although Elizabeth Bowen is a novelist, essayist and short-story author, I find her contributions to the book dull. Obvious. Expected. Saccharine  Needy. Forgettable. - at least on the subject of them. Her sardonic insight into others is sometimes entertaining. On the other hand, in nearly every one of Charles's entries there is something painfully or embarrassingly familiar worth holding on to, or a hidden truth laid so brazenly bare as to be both recognizable and shocking.

Perhaps the difference is partly explained by the media used - Elizabeth is quoted through her letters to Charles and she adopts the most clichéd language of the love letter; Charles is writing diary entries for, one imagines, his eyes only - or at least for his eyes only until he is gone. He talks of destroying them all - the letters he received as well as diaries, though in the end they were mostly preserved - he mentions now and then destroying a letter from Bowen because is it 'unlike her' or unusually painful. Unfortunately, the bulk of the content comes from Bowen's letters.

I hardly know what to make of this book or the story it reveals. I've never been fond of infidelity as a trope for star-crossed lovers. I hated The Bridges of Madison County. When I watched Scandal, I never cheered for Olitz. So this book had a sort of strike against it from the beginning - I didn't root for them staying together. But it did fascinate on some level, mostly because of their status and social circles - they knew everybody in the literary and diplomatic worlds.

Charles at least has the decency to feel guilt and mixed emotions, especially because his marriage is, on balance, a happy one. Bowen (again, I think reflective of her circle) seems to think dalliances, trysts, and multiple marriages are no big thing, though it's clear her marriage is an arrangement. I was very confused by how much "a couple" they were within their circles, and even to Ritchie's family in Halifax. Bowen even visited at the Ritchie's home more than once when Sylvia was at home. His mother and Bowen kept frequent correspondence, and she visited his brother and sister-in-law without him more than once. And, it's hardly a passionate love story.

Despite all her whinging and pleading and following him around the globe (e.g. she takes a writing-in-residence semester at the University of Wisconsin primarily to be closer to him in New York City), the whole thing reads as somewhat dry and asexual. I wonder if that was Ritchie's selective saving of material, the work of the editors, or reflective of their reticence to put anything too damningly physical in writing (it can't be that though, since Ritchie writes about other lovers without the same filter).

Bowen, raised on an estate with friends and family of the same class, suffers from both classism and intellectual snobbery, not to mention anti-semitism. She's somewhat less offensive about people of colour, though I suspect that's because she rarely interacts with them. She also employs that irritating and pretentious practice of dropping French words and phrases into English sentences like Corabeth Godsey.

I'm interested to read some of Ritchie's professional diaries. I'm much less interested to read Bowen's novels, though in what she revealed of her life I did learn some things as an erstwhile writer: writing is real work that you set aside time for and treat like a job; even the very rich and somewhat successful have a hard time making ends meet just from earnings from their writings; fictionalising your own life is a valid basis for a novel; if you come from the landed gentry, you can spend a month or more in Rome doing research at a lovely hotel with a spacious corner room full of light.

I will hold on to this book, and perhaps look through it again in time - maybe to compare with Ritchie's public notes. I might recommend it, though I'm not sure to whom.

Some Charles quotes:

"... The affair threatens to develop into one of her long psychological novels in which I see myself smothered in love and then dissected at leisure. If I am not cruel now, she will be later."

"It would be shattering to quarrel with her. I have so much more respect for her than I have for myself."

"All of my love affairs have been floated on alcohol. If the rationing of wines and spirits becomes effective I shall become considerably less interesting as a lover."

(One discussing his annoyance at her devotion) "Any woman who kept me in a state of anxiety could keep me permanently. It's so simple, but none of them will."

"Would I ever have fallen for her if it hadn't been for her books? I very much doubt it. But now I can't separate her from her literary self."

"One of the luxuries of this love affair is the giddy feeling of being carried along on the tide of her imagination, being transmitted into literature; sitting for my portrait, or being swallowed alive?"

about those values

My mother, a number of ex-teachers and professors, a former boyfriend or two, and more than a couple former bosses will tell you that I don't really flourish in an environment of micro-management and close oversight. I balk at being told what to do, even if that thing is in my favour or something I want to do (sometimes even if I was already planning to do it).

There are two solutions: first, a little self-awareness goes a long way in doing things anyway. Second, creating structures that keep me accountable without too much ridigity keep me moving forward. I'm a pretty big fan of checklists, coloured spread-sheets, etc, but I have a long history of abandoning projects and commitments if something goes awry - dribbled paint in the powder room trying to create a feature wall? Stop work, you incompetent loser. Cheated on your diet? Eat all the things and pretend you're okay being fat. In modern business lingo, I have not always been agile. I have been brittle.

This year, before the whole world got sucked into an unplanned redesign, I started to take a deep dive (that has turned into a LONG soak) into the world of fulfillment, which lead me into the realms of character and ability, which lead me into really considering and clearly defining my values. It's been an interesting journey so far, and I'm considering what to do with all the information I've amassed. Today, however, is about what's keeping me moving forward, mostly because I have more questions than answers at this point.

Back to the point at hand and structures for fulfillment that aren't bossy schoolmarms: last week I had started a daily task list, but that felt SO uninspiring that I knew before I even started that I wouldn't want to stick to it. Since I already had a print out of my core values and what each value means to me, I decided to create a matching daily values check-in - and that does inspire me.

Now each day I can see which values I've taken action in, and at the end of each week I can see what's been neglected and where I might want to focus my attention. It's not necessary so much to practice every value every day, but handy to see where things might be out of balance. I have slipped both pages into glass-fronted picture frames that sit on my dresser, and I use whiteboard pens on the checklist, so I can wipe it off and start fresh each week.

I'll tell you in a month how that's going.

The Perfume Garden: a review

I pulled The Perfume Garden, by Kate Lord Brown, from the "to read" shelf as part of my new winding down before bed plan (in short, look at pages, not screens). That was a tactical error. Although 60 pages in I could tell you how every major plot point was going to unfold, twist, and weave around another lesser thread, I still couldn't put this novel down. 

• Maybe it's being stuck at home and yearning for the free travel of the characters. 
• Maybe it's the deeply sensual (as in luxuriously sensory, not as in a euphemism for sexual) descriptions. 
• Maybe I just lacked discipline. 

Whatever it was, I couldn't stop. I kept thinking to myself, "what are you doing - it's not that great." I had hours of "just one more page. Just one more chapter - they're short. I'll just read until [thing I know is coming] happens" Until finally it was 7 am and the book was done.  I still can't tell you why. 

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The central romance is charming and predictable. The supporting and background romances are static and predictable. The plot is entirely what you expect, and yet none of it is exactly boring - that's down to the setting. 

The story is mainly set in Valencia, Spain. It uses the not-that-clever plot device of flashing forward and back between two storylines that entwine (that's not a spoiler - the connection is made immediately) - the older generation meeting during the Spanish Civil War and the principle characters (generations on) meeting in the early '00s. There are bits in England, but they only seem to serve as points of contrast. The plot is saved by its focus on the Spanish Civil War since it lends uniqueness to tales that have otherwise been told. England, where less of the story takes place, seems unspeakably drab by comparison. 

If there is something special about this book, it may be the atmosphere Brown evokes. It's not as overwhelming as Rushdie or Ondaatje or Roy, with their South Asian humidity and jungle richness. The reader doesn't swim in this atmosphere so much as to be gently carried along by it. It clears the mind and makes the reader (at least this reader) feel as though they are taking deep breaths of the freshest mountain air. Part of the magic of that atmosphere comes from the central character's work as a perfume designer. The entire world of perfumery sounds like the most ideal balance of art and science, even for someone who doesn't like strong scents. 

Brown's true weakness - even worse than her predictable plot - is her flat characters. The predictability of the story is the predictability of all people whose motivations are openly broadcast and unchanging. The bad people are very bad and the good people are very good. The sad moments are very sad. And the happy moments are bright and unblemished. Life just isn't like that. Humans aren't like that. And we sure don't talk like Brown's characters talk. 

That said, I do recommend this book. It as a nice light read with some beautiful moments, and definitely steps above pulp fiction. I believe I could sit in an orange grove in Spain for hours and never tire of the setting. It's a sweet story nicely told. Nothing more or less. 

Dear Life: a review

I am often embarrassed to realise that I have two degrees in Literature and still so frequently find canonical titles or authors I haven't read. Until this book, Alice Munro was in that category. I am now a huge fan, and I look forward to making up for lost time. Mind you, my introduction to Munro was her final short story collection, Dear Life, for which she won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Perhaps I should stop now and avoid having my high regard undermined (a la Ondaatje).

The truth is, I don't read a lot of short stories. I tend to prefer the depth of character, language, and plot that the spaciousness of a novel allows. With a writer as skilled as Munro, however, the short form is more than enough length to tell a story that is as rich and engaging as any novel.

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Dear Life is a collection of short stories from very specific Canadian places, yet they could be anywhere. Or at least in any small Canadian town. Perhaps there is a particular Canadian experience that translates from rural Ontario to British Columbia. I tend to think the provinces are more distinct than that, yet riding the train through the Rocky Mountains, or watching the leaves turn gold, then orange, then red in autumn certainly translates, as do Munro's characters.

Perhaps what feels odd about Munro's compelling but unusual characters is their ordinariness. While mildly antiquated, they are, in the main, relatable and irredeemably human. And yet they are distinctly themselves. The women, in particular, have a fullness that keeps them from being tropes or clichés.

I find Munro's style hard to identify. It is a style with depth but without flourish. More Coco Chanel than Thierry Mugler. Mostly, I just enjoyed spending my time in the world Munro created - it felt peaceful to find myself in each separate tale. Munro can be cynical, but without bitterness and in a forgiving and tender way. Dear Life comprises mainly love stories with too much reality to be saccharine or even all that romantic.

Alice Munro and I share a similar philosophy of truth, which is that there is truth, and there are facts, and we musn't let the latter distract from or dilute the former. In introducing her final four stories in this collection, Munro states ...

The final four works in thise book are not quite stories. They form a separate unit, one that is autobiographical in feeling, though not, sometimes, entirely so in fact. I believe they are the first and last - and the closest - things I have to say about my own life. 

The Finale - these four separate works - are not so dramatically different from the prior ten works of fiction. The style, the settings, and the characters very much relate across the whole collection. Perhaps that shows that writers write who they are, no matter what name they give their story. Perhaps I'm over-reaching.

Somehow, particularly in those final personal stories, Munro - more than a generation older and most of a very large country away - recalls for me a small farmhouse, a bend in a river, trees at the edge of a field, sisters in bunk beds, a listening father, an adolescent girl's impatience for her mother. Even the worst horrors are unveiled gently and only with as much detail as is absolutely necessary for understanding. Her realism is just that - neither glossy nor lurid, but clear.