Reading Well: Half Brother by Kenneth Oppel

Posted on June 11, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Reading Half Brother (2010) was somewhat surreal. I kept having this memory of reading not this book, but another book, quite similar to this book, but somehow darker, but maybe the same book?

Turns out I was remembering Karen Joy Fowler‘s We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves (2013), which I read way back when before Reading Well started. The two novels share a core structure of a family raising a chimpanzee as if it were a human child, and both are told from the perspective of an older human “sibling” (in We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves, it’s a sister; in Half Brother, it’s a brother). There’s more–issues of animal cruelty are, predictably and understandably, central to both; some of the settings and observations of human/ chimpanzee interaction are strikingly similar, etc.

I have no idea if they had any effect on each other’s development or not, nor do I know how or why Half Brother crossed my path.

Fowler’s book has some darker moments, so I had this feeling of dread reading Kenneth Oppel‘s novel, which is actually much, much lighter–it falls squarely in the YA realm, tracing both the relationship with the chimp as well as the protagonist’s social development in his early teens.

It’s lightweight and enjoyable, and the chimpanzee angle adds depth to the usual tropes of parental struggles and early romantic attractions and the like. If that sounds too YA for your taste, pick up Fowler’s book, which is quite a bit more demanding.

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Reading Well: House of Names by Colm Tóibín

Posted on June 2, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Sitting in a long tradition of revisiting the Greek classics, Colm Tóibín‘s House of Names (2017) tells of the House of Agamemnon. Agamemnon fought in the Trojan War and, when things weren’t going so well, agreed to sacrifice one of his daughters to the Gods in favor of the Greek cause.

Tóibín begins in the voice of Agamemnon’s wife, Clytemnestra, who has been summoned to battlefield along with their daughter Iphigenia under the pretense of celebrating the imminent Greek victory. Instead, Clytemnestra is imprisoned and then, after Iphigenia’s murder, is sent back home, where she, along with her son Orestes and surviving daughter, Electra, plots her vengeance.

The novel shifts between these characters’ points of view, and the degree their perspectives resonate with the reader is the most likely key to whether you enjoy the novel. For me, the Orestes chapters are the most successful, especially in their description of his exile and return. Tóibín’s brilliance shines through in Orestes’ interiority, and in his gentle longing for the consummation of a relationship with his erstwhile best friend.

The other voices are well-rendered, especially as they drift towards madness at different points, but the palace-intrigue was, for me, less successful than the psychological insights. Still, Tóibín is a master of language, and the confident, steadfast writing carries the book along at a quick pace.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

I’ve often wondered about retelling a well known story. It would seem to address some of my endless struggles with plot, allowing me to focus on some technical components where I think I’m more successful.

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Reading Well: The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I had never read Carson McCullers‘ The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter (1940), which is sort of a shameful admission, right?

Now, I have; and if you haven’t read it yet, you should, too.

There are a few things to recommend it. First, the characters are drawn with a loving kindness that permeates the reading. There is a warmth to their portrayal–from young adults to community leaders to those struggling in poverty to an introverted mute who serves both as a primary character and a screen for projection for others in the novel–that is rarely seen.

And this is what, I think, enables the second point. I think The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter would struggle to get published today. There isn’t really a plot, per se: there are interconnected scenes, there are things that happen, there are characters to care about. But there is really nothing that drive sit all forward in anything like a coordinated way.

So, the attractiveness of the characters becomes a pre-requisite for the novel’s success, and our empathy and care for them is what makes the novel such a beloved work.

I was surprised by how explicitly political the book was as well: one of the central characters spends, over the course of the story, several pages railing against capitalism and how its internal logic is rigged forever against the working class. The fact that that critique, along with quite a bit of both the implicit and explicit racial observations, remains cogent 70 years on is sobering.

Highly recommended.

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Reading Well: Educated by Tara Westover

Posted on May 13, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Educated (2018) is in the same broad genre as Hillbilly Elegy, a tale of an individual’s struggle to move beyond the context and control of their family of origin. It shares many of the same strengths and weaknesses.

On the one hand, the books are very compelling: Tara Westover‘s recognition of the issues in her family of origin, and her increasingly desperate efforts to escape from those impacts, make for good reading, especially given how strong her writing is.

On the other hand, these narratives also function as cultural tourism: part of their success is embedded in the ways in which their protagonist exists in a foreign land, one that is hard for “us” to conceive of, and the general arc is one of escape from that locale into “where we are.” That’s … problematic.

The point here is that, beyond their being hardcore Mormon isolationists in rural Utah, the contours of Westover’s struggles are not all that unusual: a domineering and controlling parent and rampant emotional, mental, and physical abuse resulting in very limited options being available to her and her siblings. This happens everywhere–even if it is often independent of a narrative tied to the End of Days–and by seeing it as happening “out there,” it becomes far too easy to ignore the noises next door.

That, of course, is an argument about reception not about Educated itself. I don’t begrudge Westover an ounce of her very hard-earned success. I just wish narratives like this led to more discussions of universality, and less of a sense of individuals/groups being exotic.

It is notably unfortunate that her violently abusive sibling, who is described as having committed many felonies in his treatment of his family and romantic partners, remains untouched at the end of the book. I hope that has changed since its publication.

All that said, the book is a good read, and is especially fascinating in the evolving role of Westover’s mother, and the way she navigates her agency through the interactions between her husband and their offspring, cast against an increasingly successful, increasingly dubious New Age health practice.

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Reading Well: The Raven Tower by Ann Leckie

Posted on May 1, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I’ve written about Ann Leckie‘s science fiction before on Reading Well. Her initial trilogy was a lovely surprise, and a fresh take on the space opera genre, and her follow-up was quite strong, hinting at her staying power as an author and a creator of worlds. So, I was excited by Leckie’s venture into fantasy marked by The Raven Tower (2019).

The novel is hard to write about in summary mode … suffice to say there is a lot going on here. At its core, it is a story of the relationships and interactions between humans and their Gods. The most creatively worked notion is that Gods cannot lie. That is, what is uttered by a God is necessarily made true … but at the cost of effort and energy on the Gods’ part. So Gods have to be very careful about what they say.

The other key notion–which is far less original, but still great fodder for fiction–is that Gods are able to build and replenish their energy through offerings and sacrifice dedicated to them.

The story itself concerns two related threads. The first is that of one of the aforementioned Gods, and their observations of and interactions with the world since long before humans existed. The other is a struggle for political control in a city ruled by a religious structure that fits nicely within this system (there is a God–the Raven, who inhabits an actual raven–and a human who serves them and who then, at the end of the lifespan of an individual bird, sacrifices themselves and passes their service on to their next generation).

This role is termed the Raven’s Lease, which is a decent summary of the arrangement.

The problem is that the current Lease has vanished, and it seems the Raven itself–who has, for centuries, protected the city and its inhabitants–may be no more as well. The protagonists in the story are the Lease’s son and, increasingly, one of his trusted advisers.

But the real hero is probably the God and, as the book evolves, the question of their motivation and their reactions to what is happening dominate the narrative.

Leckie insists the book is a standalone, despite it feeling an awful lot like it is setting up a sequel. However, much like Provenance is in the same universe as her earlier trilogy, she has teased some more writing within the same world.

I’d certainly read it–The Raven Tower is an entertaining read, even if it doesn’t reach quite the heights of her science fiction work.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

There are books that are driven along by a core idea, a notion so creative and compelling that it creates, almost by itself, the wider context needed for world-building. Leckie stumbled on such an idea here, and it’s a joy watching her extend and play with it.

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Reading Well: Lot by Bryan Washington

Posted on April 18, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I first read a chapter of Lot (2019) in the New Yorker, and was struck by the way it portrayed dimensions of Houston that are neither commonly represented nor part of the emergent picture of Houston as a 21st century exemplar of diversity and progress, funded by the 20th century energy boom.

Instead, Bryan Washington lays out, in a series of 13 short stories with somewhat overlapping storylines and characters, a view of Houston from the perspectives of those being forced out of historically underserved neighborhoods by waves of gentrification, of those disowned by their families for their sexual orientation, of those struggling in the wake of the city’s growth.

The characters are compelling, and presented with enough depth to generate empathy in the reader as they work to navigate the challenges in their lives.

It’s a good collection, and if you have any affection for Houston, recognizing landmarks and events will add to your enjoyment. I’m certainly intrigued by what Washington does next.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

I love the way the characters continue across many of the stories, but without a need to be explicitly recognized. Each story–or almost each story–can be seen as a standalone segment, or they can be read together to form a broader fabric. It’s an impressive handling of a common situation.

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Reading Well: Serpent Songs – An Anthology of Traditional Craft curated by Nicholaj de Mattos Frisvold

Posted on April 3, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

This is a little bit of a departure, as it marks a return to my reading in and around my academic (and other) interests.

Serpents Song (2014) is a compilation of essays by Scarlet Imprint, an esoteric publishing house in England that has this neat model of releasing books in very high end, special editions with fancy paper and bindings, in addition to standard trade paperbacks. I just got the paperbacks, but I think it’s a fun model.

These essays fall into a few major buckets. One are examples of various local craft traditions, ranging from Cornwall to the Basque country in Spain. This last group are among the most interesting–these are traditions of which I was totally unaware and represent some intriguing concepts, especially of the relationship of spiritual practice to a concept of home and belonging.

There are always two views of this kind of collection. As an academic, it’s a great collection to look at through various standard anthropological lenses: there is a ton of boundary maintainance, a lot of arguments around the notion of “authenticity,” etc.

There is a little transgression fatigue if you have studied much in the 20th century magical traditions–the consistent argument around the potential value of the left-hand path is deeply flawed, and usually insufficiently supported and contextualized. If that is unfamiliar, the argument is basically that by pushing boundaries, by transgressing, we are able to come closer to our true solves, to an honest and direct encounter with both the inner and outer worlds. And it’s not wrong: we all have limits and boundaries that we or others have imposed on ourselves that we need to move beyond. But it’s also often in danger of veering into cliche and, more importantly, into a radical rationalization for self-importance.

It is parallel in some ways to the challenge of gurus: intense one-on-one work with a guru is among the most effective modes of study; the history of such relationships are rife with abuse and manipulation.

Still, if the areas of focus are of interest–and both the Basque information and the details around local practices in the southwest of England are notable–it’s a nice window into contemporary Central European practice.

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Reading Well: Washington Black by Esi Edugyan

Posted on March 24, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

The attention around Washington Black (2019) was really the impetus for my reading of Esi Edugyan‘s earlier output (see Half-Blood Blues and The Second Life of Samuel Tyne). Overall, Washington Black is as good as Half-Blood Blues (which I loved) and, for the first 2/3 or so of the novel, even surpasses it.

Each of the three novels are–and this is a tribute to Edugyan’s skill–set in totally different worlds. Washington Black traces the life of the eponymous protagonist, born a slave on a sugar plantation in Barbados in the late 19th century, through adventures that lead him to the far Canadian north, England, and, ultimately, Morocco.

Most profoundly, the novel explores the meaning of identity and freedom in a sophisticated, tender, and compelling way. At core looms the question of whether, for someone born into the brutality of slavery, it is possible to overcome the physical and psychic damage it inflicts? The answer, somewhat thrillingly, is both yes and no, which certainly seems reasonable.

Little is simple in Washington Black, and for every remarkable insight and development made by the characters, the demons of their personal histories refuse to be fully defeated. This makes the novel incredibly human, quite a success for something attempting to be fully grounded in a history over a century in the past.

The key relationships all resonate, especially between Washington and an older female slave and an enigmatic white man, the brother to the abusive and cruel plantation owner, who ends up being both a path to freedom and a lifelong burden for the main character. Along the way are literal flights of scientific fancy, a shipwreck, a search for marine specimens in Canadian bays, and the construction of one of the world’s first aquariums.

Readers may quibble with the ending–and indeed, whether it is an ending at all–but the journey is magnificent. Very highly recommended.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Edugyan strikes such an amazing balance between an adventurous page-turner, a historical novel, and a psychological exploration. That is something to which I aspire–to keep a reader anxious about what happens next while still providing a depth of character that brings the page fully alive.

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Reading Well: The Parking Lot Attendant by Nafkofte Tamirat

Posted on March 10, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

The Parking Lot Attendant (2019) is Nafkofte Tamirat‘s debut novel. Book-ended by more fantastical sections set on an unnamed island, the majority of the novel is set in Boston, focused on the relationship between a young Ethiopian woman in her late teens and a mysterious older man, the parking lot attendant of the title.

The book is decidedly, and deliciously, Ethiopian (who do in fact dominate the parking lot industry in many East coast cities), but it is clearly also making a larger statement about immigrant communities in general.

The protagonist is estranged from her mother, and coexists with her father in a largely silent relationship. Almost accidentally, she begins spending time after school at a parking lot, doing homework and falling under the thrall of the man who both runs the business and a highly informal community network.

The novel is at its best in the narrator’s voice, in the small details that grab her interest, and in the lens of not-quite-belonging through which she sees the world. There is a larger plot of political intrigue which is most successful when it mirrors the confusion and lack of agency that often accompany being dislocated.

A quick read, and an entertaining one as well.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

I admire Tamirat’s book-ending the novel with a more surreal, fantastical setting: there is a clear effort here to take the bulk of the book–which is deeply steeped in reality–and expand it to a larger statement. Readers may decide for themselves how effective it is, but I love the attempt.

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Reading Well: Cecilia Valdés by Cirilo Villaverde

Posted on February 27, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Hailed as perhaps the first great Cuba novel, Cecilia Valdés was first published in full 1882, when Cirilo Villaverde (then living in exile in New York City) returned to a story he had begun some forty years prior.

There is much to recommend here, most notably insight into the rich and complex interactions of race and class in late 19th century Cuba, where skin color is insufficient to identify someone as “white” (that is, Spanish), “black” (a slave or a newly freed peasant), or “mulatto” (everyone else). This alone makes it an interesting read, especially if you pay close attention to whose voices are believed and whose are ignored throughout the work.

It is also, and explicitly, a novel of its time: while the complexity of the social mileau is well-drawn, the comparative worth of its denizens is thickly racist and uncontested, by either the characters or the narrator’s voice.

There are significant holes in the plot–the largest being a case of mistaken lineage that is only unseen by key characters by their being completely blind to the obvious. But this is not terribly unusual in novels of the time, and if you enjoy those, you would probably enjoy Cecilia Valdés, especially if the history of the Caribbean, and Cuba in particular, holds interest.

#What I Wish I Could Do

Return to a novel started many years earlier, complete it, and see it receive decent acclaim despite its obvious flaws.

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