C.D. Wright movingly juxtaposes the personal and the political, in a voice that is sharp, precise, lively, articulate and immensely caring. She obsesses about body counts in Iraq and at home in the U.S. She follows enumerations of depersonalized numbers with very personalized worries for the safety and wellbeing of beloved sons in particular. She is deeply aware of how we all must account for ourselves, as countries, citizens, family members, partners and individuals.
This book offers educational insights into the shameful history of slavery, in North America and in Africa. It would have been considerably more memorable and profound, however, if I could have felt an emotional connection of some kind to the main character, Aminata Diallo. She is more a symbol and didactic construct than a fully believable human being – could that all have happened to one person, physically and with historical accuracy? Unfortunately, because I could not suspend my disbelief for so central an aspect of this book, it was difficult for me to really warm to this book and its worthy themes.
Calling something a guilty pleasure suggests that while that thing is amusing or satisfying in a fleeting fashion, it is also superficial, not particularly well executed or not of lasting value. I’ve read all of Elinor Lipman’s books – of which her latest, “The Family Man”, is one of my favourites – and I realize that I need not think of them as guilty pleasures. The Jane Austen comparisons may be a tad overstated, but Lipman lovingly and elegantly crafts charming characters, foibles and all, along with engaging storylines and refreshing dialogue well within the realm of believability. Rueful Henry Archer and how he goes about forging a new extended family from fragments of his past, present and future are a delight to follow. Elinor Lipman’s work is a pleasure … no guilt necessary!
Reading Dean Young’s poetry is a rush – sugar, adrenaline, pick your intoxicant. With an energetic presenter (is Young a good reader of his own work, I wonder?) the dazzling wordplay and startling juxtapositions of the dramatic and the mundane would be stunning to listen to. Somehow, though, just like a sugar or adrenaline rush, when it’s over, you’re left drained and a bit bewildered, retaining little or nothing. I’m not sure why Young’s words don’t stick, but at the same time I know I’ll be happy to revisit them.
I do love this, from the poem “Self Search”:
Self, I’m stuck with you
but the notion of becoming unglued is too much
and brings tears that come, of course,
because you’re such a schmuck. Some days
you crash about raving how ignored you are
then why the hell don’t people let you alone
but I’ve seen you too perform small
nobilities, selfless generosities.
One way or the other, we’ll part I’m sure
and you’ll take me with you?
Jeff Jarvis’ enthusiasm for how Google has broken the rules and forged new ones is infectious, if a bit fanboy-ish. Even as he is prone to rather sweeping statements about how not bad but just lame the old days were (we all apparently got caught up in “Who Shot JR” because there was nothing else to choose from), the reader can’t help but pick up the cue from his title and wonder “what if …” in all the scenarios he posits where Google philosophies could be applied to mend many of industry’s and society’s woes. Essentially, Jarvis calls for the openness, transparency and apparent “power to the people” that Google tools and applications provide, and discusses how this could be applied to everything from customer service and car design to politics and governance, education and health care.
Jarvis too blithely dismisses the “privacy warriors” and the reluctance of institutions and individuals of certain ages to just relinquish control, but at the same time, he seems to personally espouse of what he speaks, so at least he has strong convictions about the validity of Google’s approach. He makes everything from his health to his political beliefs very public, and says that he has garnered more benefits from doing so that he has incurred apparent risks. He advocates collaboration, and cites commenters to his blog as helping him to hammer out some of the concepts for this book. In these respects, he lives the somewhat utopian view he has of Google, but he also suggests towards the end that the premise of honesty and connectedness fostered by online openness is perhaps just pragmatism or a fait accompli. Once your whole life is online, it is an easily searchable and traceable vapour trail, so what is the point of trying to hide anything, whether you are seeking love, a new job or public office?
As Jarvis sees it …
“The ethics and expectations of privacy have changed radically in Generation G [Google]. People my age and older fret at all the information young people make public about themselves. I try to explain that this sharing of personal information is a social act. It forms the basis of the connections Google makes possible. When we reveal something of ourselves publicly, we have tagged ourselves in such a way that we can be searched and found under that description. As I said in the chapter on health, I now can be found in a search for my heart condition, afib. That is how others came to me and how we shared information. Publicness brings me personal benefits that outweigh the risks.
“Publicness also brings us collective benefits, as should be made clear by now from the aggregated wisdom Google gathers and shares back with us thanks to our public actions: our searches, clicks, links, and creations. Publicness is a community asset. The crowd owns the wisdom of the crowd and to withhold information from that collective knowledge – a link, a restaurant rating, a bit of advice – may be a new definition of antisocial or at least selfish behavior.”
Charles Wilkins’ memoir In the Land of Long Fingernails is an intriguing and (dare I say) lively glimpse into the world of cemeteries and what goes on behind the scenes in enacting the final chapter of people’s lives. Wilkins looks at not just the processes involved and where those processes can go awry, comically or tragically, but he also casts an eye, that of his adult self filtering his youthful perceptions, on the individuals who carry out those processes, which most people do not want to know about, much less be called upon to take them on themselves.
In a fashion that is kind of Roy MacGregor meets Six Feet Under, the memoir recounts Wilkins’ one summer working in a graveyard. That summer happened to be 1969, a year pivotal in general and historical consciousness, and also so for the young Wilkins, who was a recalcitrant university student at the time. As such, his insights into the workings of the graveyard are intermingled with his own personal turmoil, as he struggles with decisions about his future and his relationships with friends and family. His is not the stylish angst of Nate Fisher, but something much more down to earth (guess that’s a pun) and not without a sense of humour.
Wilkins’ observations are never macabre or overly unsettling, and ultimately the book is quite respectful and compassionate of both the living and the dead.
In the Land of Long Fingernails is one of the Canadian non-fiction titles I’ve recommended for Canada Reads 2012: True Stories. If you’d like to support this book as a possible Canada Reads finalist, you can vote for it here, as well as perusing some other great recommendations.
This attentively crafted collection of poetry straddles a fine line between self-awareness and self-absorption, but more than once tips into navel gazing that excludes or repels rather than welcomes the reader. This recent winner of the Canadian portion of the 2009 Griffin Poetry Prize is forgiven its ponderous lapses, however, when it redeems itself with the wry humour and crisp observations of poems such as “Busman’s Honeymoon”. Who can’t help but feel included in the universal experience of waiting for, being frustratingly passed by and joining in the communal experience of riding a bus?
“it streaks through storm, now flashing Not In Service
from its radiant forehead, polluted and obscured
by splattered mud, till it can reach its station
and help to ease the overflow of us
waiting in anger. Then we all barge in
and improbably improve the poetry of the bus.”
This multi-layered story set against the 1947 partition of India and Pakistan absorbs, edifies and involves the reader on so many different levels. It’s a fascinating historical perspective on how societies and communities were torn asunder when India was seemingly randomly split across geographical and religious lines. It’s an engrossing cultural study of different religions and practices. It’s also an intimate portrait of a marriage involving three people – a successful Sikh landowner, his strong-willed and opinionated first wife and his young, idealistic and somewhat bewildered second wife. Tying these myriad strands together is the informing presence and resonance of the title, as “What the Body Remembers” spans everything from the connections between mothers and children and husbands and wives, to what a body such as a country or community retains or does not when it is broken apart … and even that idea takes on a striking literal form during the book’s explosive and unforgettable ending.
This is a sweet, calming, almost preternaturally zen book. It entertains, amuses and educates on many levels for all ages. The illustrations are exquisite.
This unforgettable book stunningly juxtaposes the utterly improbable with the emotionally profound. The connections and coincidences as young Oskar seeks to solve a mystery associated with the death of his father, who was in one of the World Trade Center buildings on September 11th, all just seem too amazing. Then again, planes flying into mighty buildings and those mighty buildings collapsing was utterly improbable and unimaginable too, wasn’t it? Then again, too, September 11th is perhaps not quite as singular an event as the 9/11 “industry” would have us believe, as “Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close” reminds us of historical precedents such as the devastating bombing of Dresden.
Although some of Jonathan Safran Foer’s stylistic effects throughout this book are a bit stagy and distracting, at core is a story of shocked and bereaved human beings trying to find meaning, comfort and solace in the aftermath of shattering events. From Oskar to his grandparents to his mother to the various people Oskar encounters in his quest, many are captivating and all are believable in their individual searches for peace and even a measure of happiness.