As a reader I am lazy. I try hard to read edifying, improving things and yet always fall for a good story like a pretty face.
As a means of learning something while being entertained I read The Other Boleyn Girl -- to be truthful this was inspired not a little bit by a movie starring Scarlett Johansson, who is always a good thing even in a bad film. Being Canadian and therefore taught only the history as seen through the prism of this young and juvenile place -- such a stark country, history as taught in school amounted to who said what in Parliament and the tale didn't improve with the re-telling -- I had never learned a damn thing about England and its romping royals until the days of Chuck and Di.
Henry VIII is more or less the Clinton of his day, known more readily for sexual exploits than any Good Works. What do we really know about Henry and his era except he had a thing for women, had a number of wives (I thought eight but the number is slightly lower) whom he beheaded when he got tired of them (in truth he didn't behead them all but did behead them more often than is truly ideal).
I am always drawn to the story of the underdog, the watcher, the minor character in a major life. These are the observers, the truth tellers, the ones who have the freedom to say, or express, how it really was. The other Boleyn girl was tragic Anne's sister, Henry's first fling.
This is a page-turner, what's known as a "romp", a truly wonderful suntan lotion scented Saturday afternoon read. I swear there are improving aspects to it, too -- for example, it does outline the history of Henry (from the waist down but still) and is a testament to the significance of family and court politics, there is an encouraging tale of Mary, the "Other" and her love of her children and how despite having to lay down for the King she found love, a happy relationship, a nice man within the muck. All good, and it inspires a quest for more knowledge -- at the end of this book Elizabeth I is a dark horse to say the least, so HOW, pray, did she manage to become perhaps the greatest ever ruler of an empire -- and a woman when such were distinctly an underclass. Curiouser and curiouser.
Brimming with confidence I talked to a good friend of mine, very intellectual, who loves and seeks out Jacobean Tragedies (whatever they are) whenever she's in a theatre town like London. I'm not sure when the Jacobean period would be but it sounds long ago and so I mentioned that I'm newly fascinated with the Tudors and dying to read more about how Elizabeth managed to gain the throne, saying that I was on a quest for more learning. Which I thought my friend would appreciate and applaud. Ha. What led to this new interest she asked and when I said it was the wonderful Boleyn Girl book she snorted. Rather rudely if I am honest. "A Harlequin at best."
What a smack-down!
I wonder what she would say of the Josephine B. trilogy I've just devoured. Again, what a wonderful character in history and what a modern approach Jo had to family, love, passion, her children. What a close, knowing, passionate and adult relationship she had with Bonaparte. Talk about in-law trouble! Talk about adultery! (not hers, though she's been smeared in history).
There are so few relationships we see up close. We see our own, though that is akin to trying to understand a mural from an inch away. Forest, trees, a mishmash of hope and desire versus truth. We have seen a marriage from up close through our parents, clearly no experts. So we learn of the myriad ways of love and life through books. Only these can offset cultural and societal expectation of love and happiness and real estate, the essence of what I see of the "relationships" all around me. These historical figures were circumscribed by a set of rules sometimes literally set in stone and yet they lived as moderns -- following their hearts within these confines in a way that looks liberated and liberating to these millennial eyes.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Cruelty TV
This is not about books. It isn't about reading. This is about flipping through channels and seeing something horrifying on TV.
For about a minute I watched American Inventor, a show I've never heard of and I hope you haven't either. I watched a gorgeous, chubby little girl show off a nice picture she'd painted, and I saw I don't know, say five adults tell her she wasn't good enough. I saw this brave little creature fight back tears and then lose that battle, I saw her crushed little face, her shiny happy expression turn to sorrow that surely cannot be erased.
Who came up with this idea? When did utter cruelty to children become entertaining? Why do I read and hear about how violence on TV is bad for kids and walking to school alone is bad for kids and the internet is bad for kids when some beautiful little girl's parents allowed her to be exposed like this and grown ups who should know better sit in judgement of her ideas and her creativity and her very self?
This must be stopped. Is anyone else appalled by this?
I can hardly believe I saw it.
If she were to report that her parents judged her homework so harshly, that someone in her family did said these things her apropos of a pleasant conversation about something she'd created there would be Children's Aid and police and therapy and anguish aplenty.
Please, please please make it stop. This show must be stopped.
For about a minute I watched American Inventor, a show I've never heard of and I hope you haven't either. I watched a gorgeous, chubby little girl show off a nice picture she'd painted, and I saw I don't know, say five adults tell her she wasn't good enough. I saw this brave little creature fight back tears and then lose that battle, I saw her crushed little face, her shiny happy expression turn to sorrow that surely cannot be erased.
Who came up with this idea? When did utter cruelty to children become entertaining? Why do I read and hear about how violence on TV is bad for kids and walking to school alone is bad for kids and the internet is bad for kids when some beautiful little girl's parents allowed her to be exposed like this and grown ups who should know better sit in judgement of her ideas and her creativity and her very self?
This must be stopped. Is anyone else appalled by this?
I can hardly believe I saw it.
If she were to report that her parents judged her homework so harshly, that someone in her family did said these things her apropos of a pleasant conversation about something she'd created there would be Children's Aid and police and therapy and anguish aplenty.
Please, please please make it stop. This show must be stopped.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Esquire
I love magazines. I adore the fairy tale life as per Vogue, Elle, Bazaar; I love the thinking in the essays of Harpers, The New Yorker, all the usual suspects. I love Paris Vogue for its arty kink, beautiful enough to leave out on the coffee table without making you seem perverse. I don't love the edgy new 'zines that don't seem to have much writing in them, or pictures for that matter, just a lot of space and a graphic designer's ego-nourishing attempt at something interesting -- these magazines tend not to be around that long.
I have also loved men's magazines -- and I don't mean Playboy and Hustler but Esquire, GQ, Maxim, the others. I've liked that they tend to make the distinction between art and ad, so that unlike women's magazines, you won't see an advertisement for shampoo and then an article on how best to wash your hair. Men's magazines seem to assume a basic intelligence in their readers. My favourite of these is Esquire I think, for its coherence -- every single story is an aspect of "man at his best" -- and for the writing which is far less uniform and blandly flawless as what you find in, say, Vogue. Esquire is a collection of the writing of individuals. While the overall message and theme and focus is always consistent and clear, each story holds the voice of its writer. I suppose an analogy might be the choir - lots of individual voices, one complete whole. You will, though, find stories on topics pretty similar to how to wash your hair, but written with a wry "we know you don't really know how to do this" sensibility that somehow seems interesting and fun rather than offensive which is how a similar story in Glamour can come off. I learned new tricks on how to wash dishes in Esquire, for example. Key factor when washing fine china and crystal: line the sink with tea towels before filling with water, so there are softer edges should you clink.
In Esquire I learned also the chilling truth of the psyche of a serial philanderer. The story was called something like "I've had 3,000 affairs" or was it 30,000? and was a first-person look at someone who simply cannot connect with women or himself. He admitted he is plain as porridge to look at, a salesman, utterly unremarkable but for this feat of the seduction of women. He can smell their vulnerability, he comes in as the nice guy they'd never suspect was capable of what his does by habit at this point; his wife found out once and said more or less, well, let's not talk about that. It's hard to know who to feel sorry for in that instance: her for her marriage to a cad or him for being married to someone who couldn't care less about herself or him. Where else but Esquire, with its willingness to help a man be his best, would you see so searing and insightful a profile of a serial offender?
Because I have read all the Vogues and other favourite magazines already this month and because I was in an airport and because I haven't visited Esquire in a while I picked up the latest issue, which has a picture of Angelina Jolie on the cover. I like Angelina, I think she is one of the more interesting women in her circle and while the marriage of plain-jane Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt never made sense to me, the connection between the two gods, Angie and Brad, seemed perfectly like-attracts-like. So I have never borne her ill-will for homewrecking and hurting one of America's sweethearts.
The picture on the cover and inside is weird, Angie looks robotic and inhuman, not the super-human goddess she usually is.
Perhaps that is a sign that something is amiss with Esquire, or maybe I've grown out of it. This time the articles on "how to wake her" seemed cutesy to the point of gagging. (Waking her doesn't involve a quick, hard thrust but instead breakfast in bed with a rather complicated recipe for what, in the end, is scrambled eggs.) There is the cutesy story of a joke (lame) told by a beautiful woman. There is a cutesy story of Ten Things Men Should Know About Women by Tea Leone which is cute cute cute. And, far more confident and assured than most women are. So what we have here is a fantasy world and a fairy tale where men are a bit awe-shucks and women are all (and I mean all) gorgeous and sexy and confident. It is all about the cult of Me, Manly -- all so boy brat I left my issue behind in the seat pocket in front of me, where the card explaining the safety features of this aircraft also hides, unread.
That said -- the profile of Angelina Jolie is extraordinary. I can't tell you if she and Brad are still an item or not. I can tell you she is building a sustainable Millennium Village in Cambodia, building a soy milk factory, water system, roads and a school on her own dime. She is reading international law. She is working out UN policy on countries such as those her children come from. She is trying to ensure that every day, each of her children receives enough attention from her that they feel equal and confident. She's trying to make a difference, to fill an emptiness she feels by doing something for the world rather than shopping. Maybe she's a freak and crazy and all the other things they say about her. Maybe it takes someone crazy to save a village no one else cares about.
Esquire is irritatingly "I'm just a cute little boy and don't you love me" but I didn't read this about her in Vogue. I did learn where her trench coat comes from. That fact is a little shameful when you think about it. No wonder Hillary won't win the White House and women still struggle for power -- as a very culture we take it away from each other.
I have also loved men's magazines -- and I don't mean Playboy and Hustler but Esquire, GQ, Maxim, the others. I've liked that they tend to make the distinction between art and ad, so that unlike women's magazines, you won't see an advertisement for shampoo and then an article on how best to wash your hair. Men's magazines seem to assume a basic intelligence in their readers. My favourite of these is Esquire I think, for its coherence -- every single story is an aspect of "man at his best" -- and for the writing which is far less uniform and blandly flawless as what you find in, say, Vogue. Esquire is a collection of the writing of individuals. While the overall message and theme and focus is always consistent and clear, each story holds the voice of its writer. I suppose an analogy might be the choir - lots of individual voices, one complete whole. You will, though, find stories on topics pretty similar to how to wash your hair, but written with a wry "we know you don't really know how to do this" sensibility that somehow seems interesting and fun rather than offensive which is how a similar story in Glamour can come off. I learned new tricks on how to wash dishes in Esquire, for example. Key factor when washing fine china and crystal: line the sink with tea towels before filling with water, so there are softer edges should you clink.
In Esquire I learned also the chilling truth of the psyche of a serial philanderer. The story was called something like "I've had 3,000 affairs" or was it 30,000? and was a first-person look at someone who simply cannot connect with women or himself. He admitted he is plain as porridge to look at, a salesman, utterly unremarkable but for this feat of the seduction of women. He can smell their vulnerability, he comes in as the nice guy they'd never suspect was capable of what his does by habit at this point; his wife found out once and said more or less, well, let's not talk about that. It's hard to know who to feel sorry for in that instance: her for her marriage to a cad or him for being married to someone who couldn't care less about herself or him. Where else but Esquire, with its willingness to help a man be his best, would you see so searing and insightful a profile of a serial offender?
Because I have read all the Vogues and other favourite magazines already this month and because I was in an airport and because I haven't visited Esquire in a while I picked up the latest issue, which has a picture of Angelina Jolie on the cover. I like Angelina, I think she is one of the more interesting women in her circle and while the marriage of plain-jane Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt never made sense to me, the connection between the two gods, Angie and Brad, seemed perfectly like-attracts-like. So I have never borne her ill-will for homewrecking and hurting one of America's sweethearts.
The picture on the cover and inside is weird, Angie looks robotic and inhuman, not the super-human goddess she usually is.
Perhaps that is a sign that something is amiss with Esquire, or maybe I've grown out of it. This time the articles on "how to wake her" seemed cutesy to the point of gagging. (Waking her doesn't involve a quick, hard thrust but instead breakfast in bed with a rather complicated recipe for what, in the end, is scrambled eggs.) There is the cutesy story of a joke (lame) told by a beautiful woman. There is a cutesy story of Ten Things Men Should Know About Women by Tea Leone which is cute cute cute. And, far more confident and assured than most women are. So what we have here is a fantasy world and a fairy tale where men are a bit awe-shucks and women are all (and I mean all) gorgeous and sexy and confident. It is all about the cult of Me, Manly -- all so boy brat I left my issue behind in the seat pocket in front of me, where the card explaining the safety features of this aircraft also hides, unread.
That said -- the profile of Angelina Jolie is extraordinary. I can't tell you if she and Brad are still an item or not. I can tell you she is building a sustainable Millennium Village in Cambodia, building a soy milk factory, water system, roads and a school on her own dime. She is reading international law. She is working out UN policy on countries such as those her children come from. She is trying to ensure that every day, each of her children receives enough attention from her that they feel equal and confident. She's trying to make a difference, to fill an emptiness she feels by doing something for the world rather than shopping. Maybe she's a freak and crazy and all the other things they say about her. Maybe it takes someone crazy to save a village no one else cares about.
Esquire is irritatingly "I'm just a cute little boy and don't you love me" but I didn't read this about her in Vogue. I did learn where her trench coat comes from. That fact is a little shameful when you think about it. No wonder Hillary won't win the White House and women still struggle for power -- as a very culture we take it away from each other.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Works of Imagination
The lineup to see Gore Vidal talk to Adam Gopnik on a theatre stage (which doesn't at first have the most exciting ring to it) was a full sidewalk wide and four blocks long, a wonderful thing to witness for an author and not a rock star or Paris Hilton. How encouraging! Upon closer inspection the crowd was definitely of a certain age, perhaps not a full head of hair or set of teeth in the lot. Ah well, you take your fans where you can get them.
Vidal is vital but very elderly, an "old" 81 if you see what I mean, wheelchair bound and a bit shaky in everything but the mind. Sadly the combination of his old man's voice, a poor microphone and acoustics and my own aging ears meant that I could barely make out what he was saying, though I was perhaps alone in this -- the rest of the crowd laughed uproariously at various junctures and I laughed along too, so as not to seem as though I didn't get the joke. You don't want to appear stupid anywhere near Vidal.
One thing I did hear was the answer to Gopnik's question about what writers Vidal admires these days. The short answer I think is "none". Why? "Writers today seem to want to TELL IT LIKE IT IS!" lamented Vidal, who cried there is no more flight of fancy or work of imagination. Hence an interest in children's books.
"Telling it like it is" is certainly a trend, and now people aren't even hiding the fact the story is autobiographical. The first such book I recognized was Stone Diaries by Carol Shields, which I found remarkable because it was about very ordinary people doing ordinary things, to whom nothing happened. And yet it was a good read. It takes a fine writer to pull that off.
However, I think Vidal is wrong. Some of the most entertaining books lately are those that are entirely made up and fanciful -- Harry Potter of course being a most obvious example. The Time Traveller's Wife is a story entirely of fantasy, and I'm not speaking merely of the time travel. This book encourages us to think there is such a thing as a destined soul mate, a recognizable twin in the world. It's a comforting if erroneous thought. Is this book a part of any pantheon, will it live through the ages? Probably not. But as a pleasant and leisurely Saturday afternoon read it sure beats Stone Diaries. Same goes for The Thirteenth Tale (delightful, and also poignantly about twin-ness, finding the "other" who completes you) or Special Topics in Calamity Physics. None of these have the intellectual heft to attract the likes of Vidal I'm sure. That said, these books provide a kind of nourishment sorely missing in a frantic and dire world. It is wonderful to get lost in a book again, any book that offers its larger truths in colourful, whimsical packages.
Vidal is vital but very elderly, an "old" 81 if you see what I mean, wheelchair bound and a bit shaky in everything but the mind. Sadly the combination of his old man's voice, a poor microphone and acoustics and my own aging ears meant that I could barely make out what he was saying, though I was perhaps alone in this -- the rest of the crowd laughed uproariously at various junctures and I laughed along too, so as not to seem as though I didn't get the joke. You don't want to appear stupid anywhere near Vidal.
One thing I did hear was the answer to Gopnik's question about what writers Vidal admires these days. The short answer I think is "none". Why? "Writers today seem to want to TELL IT LIKE IT IS!" lamented Vidal, who cried there is no more flight of fancy or work of imagination. Hence an interest in children's books.
"Telling it like it is" is certainly a trend, and now people aren't even hiding the fact the story is autobiographical. The first such book I recognized was Stone Diaries by Carol Shields, which I found remarkable because it was about very ordinary people doing ordinary things, to whom nothing happened. And yet it was a good read. It takes a fine writer to pull that off.
However, I think Vidal is wrong. Some of the most entertaining books lately are those that are entirely made up and fanciful -- Harry Potter of course being a most obvious example. The Time Traveller's Wife is a story entirely of fantasy, and I'm not speaking merely of the time travel. This book encourages us to think there is such a thing as a destined soul mate, a recognizable twin in the world. It's a comforting if erroneous thought. Is this book a part of any pantheon, will it live through the ages? Probably not. But as a pleasant and leisurely Saturday afternoon read it sure beats Stone Diaries. Same goes for The Thirteenth Tale (delightful, and also poignantly about twin-ness, finding the "other" who completes you) or Special Topics in Calamity Physics. None of these have the intellectual heft to attract the likes of Vidal I'm sure. That said, these books provide a kind of nourishment sorely missing in a frantic and dire world. It is wonderful to get lost in a book again, any book that offers its larger truths in colourful, whimsical packages.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Sister Age
Aging happens suddenly, in discrete increments, with a thud, not a gentle creeping up on you like you'd expect. When I turned 40 I suddenly, overnight, gained 10-lbs and grew a belly that wasn't there before; at 45 suddenly I can't read the prescription label. And yes, there are a few prescriptions. Such is age.
Another victim of age is memory. There was a time when mine was a steel trap, I could remember plots and titles and intricate details of everything I read -- now I look at the covers of beloved books and I can't recall anything about them except that I enjoyed them. In some cases, of books that are truly well-thumbed, I see handwriting in the margins and think wow, that sentence made an impression on someone....but that someone, I judge from the handwriting, was me. It must be akin to the onset of Alzheimer's, to know that you know that face (cover) and yet -- sister, daughter, mother, friend? Not at all clear.
As a younger booklover I kept everything I read even if I hadn't liked it much, out of respect for the writer who toiled and I suppose also out of respect for my own self, who also toiled, spending that amount of time and effort getting to know the story. It seemed akin to burning a book to get rid of it in any way, even if that was to give it to someone worthy. After spending some years in the book business this changed. A survival instinct kicked in. There are so very many books you see and to keep all of them makes the apartment ever-smaller. I also shifted thinking on reading itself; I was drawn to the book company I worked with because I was committed to its original mission: connect booklovers to the books, inspire people to read. I embraced this fully and so it seemed somehow selfish to keep a book I'd enjoyed. Better to let it fly free, to inspire another soul. I began (and continue) to distribute everything I love to anyone I think needs a good few hours and inspiration.
But the memory, well, that is getting in the way of things. The books I've loved in the past reside with me still, on my bookshelves or bedside table, and should anyone want a suggestion on what to read (something I am proud to say I am asked quite often) I had a running, physical, literal list of literature to refer to and suggest. Now I'm sketchy. I know I have loved a lot of books so far this year. But, because the books no longer live with me like children I tend to forget who they are -- I loved The Thirteenth Tale but now don't quite remember why; there was another book about something what was it now, it was interesting maybe if I stop thinking about it it will suddenly pop into my head ...It gets all jumbled. So, I think I need to revert for very different reasons, keep my friends close so I can recall them well enough to introduce them to others.
Sister Age, by the way, is a terrific book by the very terrific MFK Fisher. Now, what it's about exactly -- you know I can't tell you. But read it, it's good.
Another victim of age is memory. There was a time when mine was a steel trap, I could remember plots and titles and intricate details of everything I read -- now I look at the covers of beloved books and I can't recall anything about them except that I enjoyed them. In some cases, of books that are truly well-thumbed, I see handwriting in the margins and think wow, that sentence made an impression on someone....but that someone, I judge from the handwriting, was me. It must be akin to the onset of Alzheimer's, to know that you know that face (cover) and yet -- sister, daughter, mother, friend? Not at all clear.
As a younger booklover I kept everything I read even if I hadn't liked it much, out of respect for the writer who toiled and I suppose also out of respect for my own self, who also toiled, spending that amount of time and effort getting to know the story. It seemed akin to burning a book to get rid of it in any way, even if that was to give it to someone worthy. After spending some years in the book business this changed. A survival instinct kicked in. There are so very many books you see and to keep all of them makes the apartment ever-smaller. I also shifted thinking on reading itself; I was drawn to the book company I worked with because I was committed to its original mission: connect booklovers to the books, inspire people to read. I embraced this fully and so it seemed somehow selfish to keep a book I'd enjoyed. Better to let it fly free, to inspire another soul. I began (and continue) to distribute everything I love to anyone I think needs a good few hours and inspiration.
But the memory, well, that is getting in the way of things. The books I've loved in the past reside with me still, on my bookshelves or bedside table, and should anyone want a suggestion on what to read (something I am proud to say I am asked quite often) I had a running, physical, literal list of literature to refer to and suggest. Now I'm sketchy. I know I have loved a lot of books so far this year. But, because the books no longer live with me like children I tend to forget who they are -- I loved The Thirteenth Tale but now don't quite remember why; there was another book about something what was it now, it was interesting maybe if I stop thinking about it it will suddenly pop into my head ...It gets all jumbled. So, I think I need to revert for very different reasons, keep my friends close so I can recall them well enough to introduce them to others.
Sister Age, by the way, is a terrific book by the very terrific MFK Fisher. Now, what it's about exactly -- you know I can't tell you. But read it, it's good.
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