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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Reading Well: The River by Peter Heller

Posted on February 15, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Reading Well’s very first entry was Peter Heller‘s The Painter. Four and a half years and many write-ups later, we find Heller’s The River (2019).

The novel traces two college friends as they kayak and camp along a river in Canada. They are both able outdoorsmen, but the voyage holds two dangers. First, there is a massive fire tearing through the wilderness and gaining on them; second, there are other people on the water, of unknown and perhaps sinister intent.

There are two deep strengths to the book; the first is the relationship between the young men, which is deep and palpable, managing to shed insight into each of them without sliding into cliche. The second is the setting itself: Heller has a true gift for describing the natural world, and the river–and most spectacularly a scene where the fire leaps from one bank to the other–is a powerful and central force in the narrative.

While not reaching the heights of The Painter, The River is a deeply satisfying read, with at least a few scenes that will stay with the reader for quite some time. Highly recommended.

#What I Wish I Could Do

The way Heller brings the environment to life is spectacular. It adds so, so much to the depth of the world when the natural surroundings are so vividly portrayed, and that’s a really worthwhile goal for my own writing, which often is a bit light on the specifics of flora and fauna, which can be a little overwhelming to invent.

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Reading Well: Black Leopard Red Wolf by Marlon James

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

I thoroughly loved Marlon James‘ A Brief History of Seven Killings, and when Black Leopard Red Wolf (2019) began generating next-Game-of-Thrones type buzz, I became quite intrigued.

Luckily, the buzz is both justified and not. Or, more accurately, the buzz is justified, but the GoT comparisons are only partially so.

Black Leopard Red Wolf is most definitely a sprawling, epic fantasy novel embedded in a setting and history deep and rich enough to hold many more stories. And it follows the fantasy genre most closely in the way the adventure moves from setting to setting, each with its own cultural context providing challenges to a core group of characters. But that’s about as far as the novel’s fidelity to traditional swords & sorcery goes.

For example, this is as much a horror novel as a fantasy one, which surprised me. I was not expecting the level of visceral terror that a few scenes generated, but that reveals more about James’ skill than anything else. Also, importantly, this is–or at least is striving to be–an African novel.

That’s a problematic label, for sure, and I don’t mean to either reduce or essentialize the book. But the scenery and tropes and cultural inspirations of the setting and the characters and the ethos and the magic of the book are clear. They are also very well done, and very striking.

Add in James’ weaving of homoeroticism and a deeply conflicted and ambiguous protagonist, and it’s all a very compelling stew. If you are up for a sprinkling of deeply disturbing scenes, I highly recommend it.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

You know … all of it. The sprawl, the courage, the diving into a world and just totally inhabitating it. One detail: as in A Brief History of Seven Killings, James loves diving into patois, and he does so well spectacularly, never crossing the line into something that reduces the insights/intelligence of the characters.

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Reading Well: The Importance of Being Iceland by Eileen Myles

Posted on January 21, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

A loosely structured collection of essays, The Importance of Being Iceland: Travel Essays in Art (2009) by Eileen Myles offers a small window into a particular moment; specifically the New York art scene of the 1990s and early 2000s.

In that community, Myles was well known: a poet of some note, and an out lesbian in a time that was both more rare and more risky than it is currently. The essays are most interesting when they offer insight into her aesthetic or her often striking observations on travel and its relationship to the creative process.

There is much here that, if you are not deeply conversant with Myles and her peers in the New York scene, is somewhat impenetrable: anecdotes of lunches and visits and gallery openings that bear interest in direct proportion to your knowledge of the involved parties.

There is also some insight into her run for President: in 1990, she campaigned as a write-in candidate, an effort that drew national attention (in today’s parlance, it went viral–to the point where she had airtime on MTV, which was a much bigger deal then than now). Her candidacy serves as a reminder that a totally unqualified candidacy was once an act of performance art (it should be noted that Myles’ platform was admirable: an early attempt to call attention to issues of race, class, and gender in national politics).

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Reading Graphically: Two by Tillie Walden

Posted on January 9, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I mentioned two short works by Tillie Walden in a Reading Graphically post. Her two longer graphic novels deserve some attention, too.

First, there is Spinning (2017), which tells of her time as a competitive youth figure skater, first in New Jersey, and then in Austin, Texas. Then, there is On A Sunbeam (2018), a space opera of sorts, complete with spaceships that look for all the world like Siamese fighting fish.

Both books, at their core, focus on two themes: first, a deeply human look at young women coming out as lesbians and, second, the importance of finding a community to belong to.

I find Walden’s work incredibly direct emotionally: it never fails to move me, whether it is looking at the highly mundane moments associated with ice skating (waking up early, going to practice, never getting enough sleep, the long boredom of meets, etc) or a galaxy-spanning yarn focused on a group of intergalactic building renovators doing what they can to keep the crew together.

Seriously.

If you enjoy graphic novels that are aimed at human relations and emotional directness, these are for you. And Walden remains one of the brightest young lights in the field.

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Reading Well: Elizabeth Costello by J.M. Coetzee

Posted on December 30, 2019 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I usually really react well to J.M. Coetzee’s work (see Disgrace). Elizabeth Costello (2003) is a very strange novel.

There are two dominant modes in the book: one is a series of lectures given by the eponymous lead character; the other is more traditionally fictive, covering her travels and reflections towards the end of her life.

The fictional Costello wrote a single great work, a retelling of Ulysses from the perspective of Molly Bloom, and the core of the novel are her attempts to come to grips with the gap between that single achievement and the rest of her intellectual life (which is much deeper and wide-ranging). It closes with two reconciliations: one with a sister she has not seen in decades; the other with a jury to whom Costello must prove her worthiness of passing through “the gate.”

Neither goes quite as hoped. The former provides the most striking moments in the writing; the latter is an intellectual exploration of the nature of truth and change, and whether either is actually required or possible.

It is an interesting book, but a minor one, more slow and thought-provoking than gripping or deeply engaging.

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Reading Graphically: 5 Graphic Novels

Posted on December 23, 2019 by Daniel (@MKNN)

{so, yeah … many months have passed. We’ll be catching up over the next few weeks.}

Another interlude …

Pierre Paquet and Tony Sandoval‘s A Glance Backward (2015) is a translation of Paquet’s original work in French, telling a fantastical story of a young boy’s journey through grief. It’s not terribly original material in this format, but the artwork is surreal and endearing, and there are some truly creative and touching moments.

Roz Chast‘s Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant (2014) is a brutally honest telling of the final decades of her parents’ lives. Chast is an experienced and established artist, and her skill never wavers here, including a level of critical self-presentation that is striking. At the same time, there is such a level of emotional incompetence in her family that the story serves best as a dramatic and forceful warning: if you have parents and you haven’t begun to talk with them about death and end of life care and how all that should happen, you need to do so. Now. No matter how difficult those conversations are.

Gale Bertrand‘s A Land Called Tarot (2017) is gorgeous and wordless, which really is a sub-genre of graphic novels all its own. It rewards a slow consumption due to the quality of the art, and the narrative that emerges maintains its own coherence, even without language.

Blutch has been producing cartoons for jazz magazines (predominantly in Europe) for decades; Total Jazz (2017) collects a series of these. The more of an aficionado of the music you are, the more amusing the pages will be, as they both pay tribute to artists and the art form and effectively skewer some of the cliches of the relationships between audience and artist.

My Heroes Have Always Been Junkies (2018) by Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips is a great one-shot: a tightly paced noir tale with enough of a twist to make the payoff worthwhile. As you may guess from the title, it’s not the most optimistic and happy of tales, but still excellent.

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