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.