East of the Sun & West of the Moon » novels

Eleanor Rigby

andwestofthemoon — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 13:43:15 +0000

Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland

This entry will be proof that I should really write these up as soon as I’ve finished a book, and not a month later after I’ve already returned the book to its owner and forgotten whatever it was that I intended to write about it. (Unfortunately both of these things have happened, and the book does not seem to have made a lasting impression on my memory, even though it really only has been a few weeks since I read it!)

I think that this is probably my favourite of the books by Coupland that I have read so far. I still haven’t entirely made up my mind about how I feel about his writing, even though I’ve now read four or five of his books. I keep reading them because they come so highly recommended to me, and because I feel so ambivalent about the previous ones I’ve read. (This is precisely how I felt about Margaret Atwood until I read Alias Grace.) It’s not that I didn’t enjoy reading Eleanor Rigby but I don’t think that Coupland is my kind of writer.

I can’t quite put my finger on what it is about his books that I don’t like. I think that a large part of it has to do with his pessimistic attitude toward modern society that I don’t entirely agree with. I do believe that our society has its problems, but instead of feeling motivated to fix things after finishing his books, I just have an overall feeling of negativity. I found that Eleanor Rigby was actually better for that than some of his other books.

I realize that this entry makes it sound like I really didn’t enjoy Eleanor Rigby, which isn’t true. It’s more that it didn’t stay with me at all, and now my memory of it is vague and clouded, but I have no intention of revisiting it to clarify my feelings toward it.

The Rebel Angels

andwestofthemoon — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 23:54:04 +0000

The Rebel Angels by Robertson Davies
Book One in the Cornish Trilogy

I read this on the recommendation of a friend, who mentioned that the book is set at a Toronto university. This was one of the main draws for me, because I’m almost always interested in reading about scholarship, and academic intrigue. I’d enjoyed Fifth Business when I read it a few years ago, so I was familiar with Davies and already knew I liked his style. Besides, I always feel vaguely guilty for not reading more written by Canadian authors, and am trying to read more.

Until I was about two thirds of the way through the book, I probably couldn’t have told you what I thought the plot was, and once I did get to that point, the story took veered off in a completely unexpected direction. Basically though, the book deals with the interactions between several professors at this unnamed Toronto university, an old acquaintance many of them went to school with, and a graduate student they all teach.

One of my favourite things about this novel was the way Davies told the story alternating from the perspectives of the grad student Maria Magdelena Theotoky, and one of her teachers, professor and priest Simon Darcourt. I often rather dislike this, but I felt that in this case it was both well done, and that it added to the overall mood of the book. I liked that their narratives overlapped enough to demonstrate their different interpretations of the same events, and diverged enough to move the story along and keep things interesting. I also really enjoyed reading about the academic pursuits of all the various characters, and about the passion and mystery that came about as a result of their rather intense academic devotion.

Autumn, to me the most congenial of seasons: the University, to me the most congenial of lives. In all my years as a student and later as a university teacher I have observed that university terms tend to begin on a fine day. As I walked down the avenue of maples that leads toward the University Bookstore I was as happy as I suppose it is in my nature to be; my nature tends toward happiness, or toward enthusiastic industry, which for me is the same thing.

White Oleander

andwestofthemoon — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 20:56:33 +0000

White Oleander by Janet Fitch

Once I had finished Cloud Atlas, I had no idea what to read next. I often find it really difficult to follow up a fantastic book. I’m never sure if it would be better to raise the stakes by reading something that I know can compete with the quality of the book I just finished, or if I should just read something short and fun that I don’t have high expectations for. Sometimes, I wonder if I would have liked perfectly okay or even solidly good books better if I hadn’t read them on the tail of excellent ones.

This time I decided to re-read an old favourite. I’d been thinking about the protagonist of the novel, Astrid, for some time, so I decided just to go for it. I was a bit hesitant to re-read this one though, just because it spoke to me so deeply the first time I read it. Re-reading can be disappointing, and I really didn’t want to ruin my memories of the book.

As it turns out, I wasn’t disappointed at all. There’s something about this book that catches hold of me, and just doesn’t let go. It’s the story, but also the prose. Fitch’s writing style is like reading a 450-page prose-poem. When I was reading the book I found myself savouring every word like a morsel of delicious food, letting them melt on my tongue. I felt that Fitch chose each of her words with the care a fine jeweller would take when selecting precious stones for a necklace.

The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights, my mother and I. I woke up at midnight to find her bed empty. I climbed to the roof, and easily spotted her blond hair like a white flame in the light of the three-quarter moon.

Emma

andwestofthemoon — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 17:59:29 +0000

Emma by Jane Austen

Sometimes I’m just in the mood for some Austen. (This mood is characterised of course by a desire for wit, outspoken heroines, and neat, clean, unambiguous endings.) I picked up Emma because I felt like re-reading Northanger Abbey but Mum was reading my copy. Besides, I’d never read Emma and am working my way through all of Austen’s novels. Now I just have Persuasion left. (It and Emma were the only ones that weren’t assigned in school!)

I had a bit of trouble getting into it at first, but once I did I found it absolutely hilarious. Emma herself was just too much for me in her complete inability to understand the realities of a situation. The best part about this is that Austen makes it perfectly clear to the reader what is going on, so you get all the smug benefits of dramatic irony. Also the dialogue is fantastic. A couple of specific things struck me when I was reading the book:

1. Whoever it was who said that Austen is embarrassing to read because her novels centre around money was absolutely correct. (How I wish I could find that exact quotation again!) I should elaborate and say that I don’t find Austen’s discussion of money embarrassing, but I do find it significant that it is such a prominent feature in her books, especially in relation to marriage. I noticed it more in this book than in her others, but maybe that’s just because I was paying more attention to it.

2. I kept thinking about the Facebook group I came across called “Reading Jane Austen gave me unrealistic expectations about love.” I know that there are obviously major differences in the way that relationships work today compared to how they worked 200 years ago in high society, but the whole courtship game really stood out to me in an uncomfortable way because I kept thinking about it in light of today. Do people really still have expectations about love based on Jane Austen novels? I honestly can’t imagine being disappointed that my love life doesn’t play out like an Austen novel (and this is no way intended as an insult to my delightful first cousins).

Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable house and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her….The real evils indeed of Emma’s situation were the power of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.

The Thirteenth Tale

andwestofthemoon — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 03:58:37 +0000

The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield

I have to admit to being drawn to this book entirely because of its cover. Something about it really appealed to me, but when I picked up up in the bookstore I was a little put off because it was labelled as a “Heather’s Pick” and I rather dislike reading anything Heather or Oprah or anyone, really, has picked out for everyone to read (I guess I’m a bit of a snob). But I decided to get over my snobbery and read it.

The book follows the story of a young woman named Margaret, who receives a letter from the popular writer Vida Winter asking her to write her biography. This is unusual because Winter has spent her whole public life as a writer clouding her past in mystery, and now she wants to reveal the truth. As one commentator points out on the back of the book, Winter’s life story is “reminiscent of such spellbinding classics as Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and Rebecca.” It is also described as “a love letter to reading,” which is a description I can only agree with.

My favourite thing about this book was the way that Setterfield created the perfect atmosphere for a gothic novel. (I have a bit of a soft spot for gothic novels, especially ones written during the Victorian period.) I would recommend the book based on her talent to create mood alone. Of course, the plot is also completely absorbing and well tied together, as well as just weird enough to be interesting without being over the top.

All children mythologize their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind, and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth: it will be a story. And nothing is more telling than a story.

Atonement

andwestofthemoon — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 20:57:29 +0000

Atonement by Ian McEwan

I have decided to begin this blog with my thoughts on Atonement. Although it is has now been a few weeks since I finished the novel, it seems like the appropriate place to begin this record of books because it is one that has lingered with me after I finished the last page.

The first half of the novel deals with the events that take place at the Tallis family home on the hottest day of summer in 1935. These events are described through the perspectives of various different characters, who all come to different conclusions about the significance of these events because none of them understand them in the same way. (Because of this narrative technique, I found the novel to be highly reminiscent of Virginia Woolf’s novel Mrs. Dalloway.) The way that McEwan reveals what happened on that hot summer’s day is where the suspense of the novel lies, because as you look at the same occurrence through the eyes of different people, you get closer to the truth of what happened. Or do you? Part of what I loved about the novel was the way it deals with the issues of truth and reality because it demonstrates that all we know is shaped by our perceptions.

Part II then jumps ahead five years to 1940 to examine the effects of the now 18-year-old Briony Tallis’s misunderstanding of what she saw on that summer’s day, and the crime she commits because of it. I found this to be a rather jarring leap into the future because of the accompanying shift in style; however, I adored the meta-fictional commentary McEwan employed with this change in style.

I think that this novel has quickly become one of my very favourites, and in addition is one I wish I had written myself.

It was thought, perception, sensations that interested her, the conscious mind as a river through time, and how to represent its onward roll, as well as all the tributaries that would swell it, and the obstacles that would divert it. If only she could reproduce the clarity of the light of a summer’s morning, the sensations of a child standing at a window, the curve and dip of a swallow’s flight over water. The novel of the future would be unlike anything in the past. She had read Virginia Woolf’s The Waves three times and thought that a great transformation was being worked in human nature itself, and that only fiction, a new kind of fiction, could capture the essence of the change. To enter a mind and show it at work, or being worked on, and to do it within a symmetrical design – this would be an artistic triumph.