Farewell, Dorothy Parker by Ellen Meister

Farewell Dorothy Parker

It’s been awhile since I’ve written a review, and this book might not be the best one with which to resume. But it’s something to get me started again. In the past, my reviews have been academic, formal, dry. Something tells me Dorothy Parker would have hated them.

“The great trouble lies in expecting too much of a thing.”

-Dorothy Parker in ” Ziegfeld Follies of 1921″

Parker was, arguably, authentic in her voice. At least when it was time to bring the snark, which I honestly expected more of in this book. Probably one of the biggest takeaways I found here is that Parker’s voice cannot be emulated, and her wit defies imitation.

In Farewell Dorothy Parker, we’re introduced to Violet Epps, a somewhat renowned movie critic, whose life is complicated by a custody battle involving her niece and her niece’s grandparents. Violet is articulate and feisty. In her reviews. But her gumption is reserved for her writing, and her backbone all but disappears when she has to interact with people in real life. There’s a complicated backstory there that involves her older sister, now deceased, but in all honesty, the reason for Violet’s pliability seems sort of underdeveloped.

Through a series of bizarre circumstances, Violet is introduced to the real live (sort of) Dorothy Parker, who invades her life and, perhaps predictably, teaches her how to use her own voice off the page as well as on. And somehow, in the process, Violet manages to teach Parker a thing or two as well.

The idea for this story is a unique one, a literary what-if if there ever was one. The writing…eh…it’s ok. I wouldn’t say it’s the book to pick up if you’re looking for pretty sentences. But anyone who’s a fan of Parker will appreciate the nerve it must have taken to put words into her spitfire mouth. The book is a fun read and a quick one, and I don’t regret the time it took me to finish it. Meister is also the author of Dorothy Parker Drank Here, which is also currently on my bookshelf. I don’t know that I could read them back to back, but  I’ll probably get to it sooner than later.

For now I’m content to move on to something a little less fantastic (maybe) and a little more scandalous: Judith Mackrell’s Flappers: Six Women of a Dangerous Generation.

Reading Unpacked: How Reading Helps to Cure My Travel Envy

In his song “The Inner Light,” George Harrison wrote, “Without going out of your door, you can know all things on Earth.” I realize he adapted the idea from the Taoist Tao Te Ching and that he is actually speaking about enlightenment, but it sure does make me feel better when I see my empty suitcase shoved in the back of my closet.

The thing is sometimes I feel like everyone I know has been somewhere worth going to, and I can’t help feeling left out. Sure, I’ve been to some cool places:

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But the truth is I can’t help feeling like I’m missing out on something, like there’s this big wide world out there that I haven’t seen and everybody else has (maybe a little bit of an over exaggeration, but just go with me on this).

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Typically, when I start feeling a bit bored and blue, I turn to my books. What better way to forget your own petty annoyances than to get involved in someone else’s fictional ones, right?

Therein lies the Ah-ha! Moment when I realize I couldn’t be more mistaken about my lack of expedition experience.

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I am a firm believer that reading is the only way to get anywhere without going anywhere. Except maybe to the local library or bookstore. This one is my favorite.

Anyway, when I start getting travel envy, I think of all the places my books have taken me and feel an immediate sense of relief, not because I’m proving that I’ve been somewhere, but because my vision of what these worldly places should be is untainted by the experience of reality.

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 Take The Shadow of the Wind.

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It’s one of my favorites, a book I’ve returned to multiple times. In its pages I’ve wandered the streets of Barcelona with Daniel. I’ve seen its best parts. I’ve seen its dark parts, too, at least the way Zafon paints them. And I have to say that the Barcelona I see in my mind is one I have fallen in love with, especially the parts that may or may not really be there (like the cemetery of forgotten books—if you don’t know what it is, you should definitely find out).

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I’m sure the real Barcelona is lovely. I even wanted to go there for awhile (I still haven’t ruled it out.). Then I realized that going there would force me to sacrifice the city I’ve constructed for myself because you know what they say: once you’ve seen something, you can’t unsee it. And I’m just not sure I’m ready to relinquish the fictional city I love for a real city I honestly don’t know much about. Call it fear. Call it rationalizing. Whatever.

There are a lot of reasons for a lot of people to disagree with me about this. They’ll say it’s a cop-out, that I’m just trying to find a way, any way, to make myself feel better for being state-bound. I suppose there’s probably some truth to that. If someone handed me a plane ticket and said, “Go,” I don’t think I’d say no. But that’s not really the point, is it?

The point, my friends, is this: we are unbelievably lucky, those of us who know what it is to see so clearly in our minds something we’ve never actually seen in real life, because when resources or circumstances prevent it, we are still able to whisk ourselves away to stories, lives, and places infinitely more interesting than our own. So I’m not suggesting a forfeiture of travel in favor of the couch in the living room (although that couch is pretty darn comfy and doesn’t require a passport or a suitcase). What I’m saying is that the stories we read are both a consolation and a prize, but not a consolation prize. They allow us the pleasure of experience AND the beauty of imagination. And who knows? Sometimes what we imagine can feel as good as the real thing.

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Wonderstruck: A Review

Wonderstruck

Several years ago, I inherited a children’s literature course from a teacher who was retiring. To make a long story short, she was generous enough to provide her syllabus since I had nothing, nada, zilch in the way of course prep. Scanning the reading list, I noticed Brian Selznick’s The Invention of Hugo Cabret, and I was so stoked for the semester.

Selznick visited Memphis my last year in grad school, and I missed the opportunity to see him (darn you, stupid job). I always regretted not being able to hear him read and speak because I admire his work so much.

When he released Wonderstruck in 2011, I immediately added it to my TBR list, no questions asked. Now, here we are in 2014, and it was finally at the top of my stack.

Selznick’s books are nothing if not behemoths, but their heft is well worth the extra forearm strength it takes to tote them around.

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The books’ content is mostly composed of beautifully crafted illustrations done with pencil on watercolor paper (as per the frontispiece). Selznick’s ability to manipulate light and shadow in his work is helpful to his intended audience, as light and shadow often guide the reader’s attention when it might otherwise have been lost. He also has the uncanny ability to use his characters’ eyes to radiate emotions as powerfully as real people. My favorite illustration in Wonderstruck is a depiction of Rose’s mother, who is angry that her deaf daughter has come, unaccompanied, to visit her in the city. The mother’s back is turned away from the reader in the illustration, but we are able to see her angry reflection in the mirror on her dressing table. Masterful!

Ben’s story in Wonderstruck felt very familiar to me, as I couldn’t help comparing his story to Hugo’s. There are quite a few similar elements: a young boy searching for his place in the world, trying to connect himself to family members who are no longer present, a rediscovered familial connection that might have been lost if the main characters had behaved as their guardians wished them to, a benevolent friend who provides information without realizing it and without whom the connections would never have been made.

While some readers may find the repetition story elements to be tiresome, I think the technique works really well in Selznick’s work. Children who love The Invention of Hugo Cabret will find the themes reinforced in Wonderstruck, and sometimes reinforcement acts as the equivalent of validation.

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The coolest thing about Selznick’s books (depending on who you ask and on what end of the eBook vs. pBook spectrum they’re on) is that he doesn’t make his books available electronically. That’s right. You can’t download Hugo or Wonderstruck. Read more about that here. When you consider that the illustrations make up the biggest part of both books, it makes sense for the author/illustrator to be biased towards an actual physical product. As a lover of both e- and pBooks, I find it sort of comforting that there are authors who are willing to hold out in favor of ink and paper (or, in this case, pencil and paper), and there is something intrinsically satisfying about watching a child’s self-esteem blossom after realizing he can finish the whole thing on his own.

So far I’ve loved everything I’ve ever read of Selznick’s. The stories and plot lines are tightly woven, and he doesn’t allow the reader to get distracted, an important quality in a text intended for children. His illustrations are more expressive than many similar books in the genre, and he provides his readers, both young and old, with a sense of comfort, of knowing that someway, somehow, we all belong, and we all have a purpose, accomplishing not just the goal of children’s literature but of capital-L Literature as well.

Have you read The Invention of Hugo Cabret or Wonderstruck? What did you think?

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The Group by Mary McCarthy

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This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of Mary McCarthy’s The Group. Set in the 1930s, the book follows the lives of eight girls as they enter the real world after graduating from Vassar. Think Mona Lisa Smiles meets Mean Girls but wittier and with more biting social commentary.

It’s fairly easy for us to look back with mild condescension on previous generations as being stuffy and overly conservative. However, McCarthy’s depiction of life for the women in The Group is far from what we might consider prudish. McCarthy deals with birth control, infidelity, homosexuality, sex, and, of course, love in no uncertain terms. Readers are reminded of the decade in which the story unfolds only by way of the characters using graduation years as identifiers (i.e. Vassar ’31), making it easy to forget that the story was not written more recently.

One girl’s sexual awakening, another’s struggle with her tortured artist husband, and yet another’s jaunts around a much more accepting sexual climate in Europe reinforce the cliche that times change, but people don’t. We watch as the girls struggle to maintain the social class perpetuated by their parents, but we also learn that the only girls who are truly happy seem to be the ones with the simplest lives, the ones who have strived more to be themselves instead of concentrating so forcefully on being different from their mothers, which has really made them just the same.

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I don’t mean to suggest that the girls always got along well with one another. College was a tumultuous time for many of them, and cattiness, apparently, is an unavoidable biological (it seems) disposition from which even Vassar girls cannot escape. The struggle for the position of authority as well as membership in the desirable group begins early for the girls, and it never really ceases, although it does become more of an undercurrent than a preoccupation.

I first learned of The Group through the book club at Parnassus Bookstore. It was chosen for last month’s book club read because of its anniversary, and I was immediately intrigued when the hostess talked about having read it for the first time when she was in college. She then, reluctantly, admitted that she wasn’t even sure how she got her hands on it, as it was considered more than a little risqué, even in the ’60s. Call me captivated. I love a good banned book as much as the next girl. I jotted down the title and author and quickly moved on to the next book on my stack, which happened to be 11/22/63 by Stephen King. Coincidentally (or not, if you’re into that kind of thing), Jake, the narrator, also makes reference to The Group (his girlfriend reads it), though no one comments in detail on its content. It will suffice to say that King’s choice of literature for Jake’s girlfriend is deliberate and appropriate. (If you haven’t read 11/22/63, I also highly recommend that book but for completely different reasons.)  So I eventually made my way down to the library and checked out this copy:

They just don't publish books like this one anymore. This well-thumbed copy has belonged to several different libraries and has been "annotated" in crayon on the first few pages.

They just don’t publish books like this one anymore. This well-thumbed copy has belonged to several different libraries and has been “annotated” in crayon on the first few pages.

I was not disappointed.

Coincidentally, Getty Images recently launched this picture collection of women in leadership and professional positions in an effort to inspire us to change the way we think about women in general. If you haven’t had a chance to browse the photo gallery, I suggest that you wander on over to their site and do so. It’s totally worth it. But I think it’s equally important to remember that efforts to change the perception of women and their capabilities have been ongoing, that women have, for decades, been trying to overcome the obstacles placed in their professional and personal paths. I don’t mean to be a gender crusader here, but in honor of Mary McCarthy’s The Group, I think it’s relevant and appropriate to give a nod to those who went seeking change before us.

Have you had a chance to read The Group? What did you think?

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How to Judge a Book by Its Cover

This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. There. I said it. I told myself this was not my battle, that I should remain an casual observer rather than a participant. But the debate rages on, and I can’t help myself.

In what I assume (in my limited knowledge of the publishing world) to be true publishing style, the book has been re-released with a new cover, informing those of us who might not have been aware before that this is, indeed, an anniversary edition. No problems so far.

Yeah, right.

Critics, teachers, readers, and writers have latched onto the cover with steely fervor, berating it as misleading, confusing, and contradictory. Readers, they fear, will think The Bell Jar is nothing but chick lit, a “light and fluffy read.” The cover gives the wrong impression, they say. The book has nothing to do with beauty and everything to do with angst. It is an offense to Plath as an author and an offense to The Bell Jar as a literary work.

I see the merit of these arguments. However, I think we’re all being nearsighted. We are missing the point.

Shouldn’t we instead be focusing on the fact that after fifty years readers still find The Bell Jar hauntingly relevant, that despite the social changes that have occurred readers still find something with which they identify? There’s something to be said for the fortitude of such a book, published first under a pseudonym. Instead of focusing on the book’s cover, can we instead give readers the benefit of the doubt? Can we allow the unknowing to make the glorious mistake of stumbling accidentally, if that is possible, onto a work from which they might otherwise have shied away? Critics of the cover seem to be under the impression that readers today are not discerning enough to know what The Bell Jar is, that readers today cannot read the blurb on the back of the book (or inside the front cover flap) and tell that Plath’s work is not a sip-on-a-soda-and-read time killer. 

I find it odd that in a culture that so values the don’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover mantra for every other aspect of life we so willingly embrace that judgement when it comes to actual books. There is a lot to be said for a cover, yes. And generally speaking it is, perhaps, the first thing to which we are drawn. That, however, does not form the only basis on which we choose what we read. It does not negate the reader’s ability to distinguish content from presentation. 

I say that to say this: given that Plath’s novel has withstood fifty years of readership and criticism, it is possible that we are allowing the cover too much importance. For some the cover will never be right; certain people will always be finding fault. And while the cover is a visual representation of the novel, it is not the novel itself. The Bell Jar can and will speak for itself, whether it is accidentally or deliberately read. 

 

Novel Thoughts: The Grievers by Marc Schuster

Adulthood is a wonderful thing. We evolve from pimply teenage mess into responsible, productive members of society. At least that’s the ideal progression. But for some of us, the voice of the inner child doesn’t fade as readily. For some of us, it becomes difficult to let go and face reality, so we hold onto that which keeps us innocent, inculpable. And somehow it becomes easy to maintain this childlike revery. That is until the reality of adulthood comes hurdling towards us at full steam like a bully in the halls of Anywhere USA High School.

Marc Schuster’s Charley Schwartz of The Grievers is one such individual. Throughout the novel, readers will find themselves growing increasingly frustrated with Charley until they realize that he represents the parts of themselves that they must deny in order to function as adults. In many ways, Charley behaves in a manner that we have all envied at some point. He is sarcastic, irreverent at times, and completely unsure of his adult self. This uncertainty of just what it means to be an adult is precisely what allows Charley to ingratiate himself with readers. By the time he comes to the realization that none of us is sure what it really means to be an adult, readers are already sympathetic to his plight.

The Grievers contains a number of examples of people we could all be, paths we might have taken when we reached the proverbial crossroads that separate childhood from adulthood, and it is interesting to note that no one seems completely confident of their decision. Some characters are better at faking it than others, but for the most part, everyone involved in the story is operating under some sort of pretense, a quality that lends itself to both believability and relatability. Anyone reading The Grievers will find someone with whom they can identify, and it becomes very comforting to note that everyone has uncertainties.

While the story itself is very realistic and the portrayal of the characters makes them both endearing and frightening, there are times throughout the book when the dialogue seems better suited to reading than to speaking. In other words, people don’t really talk that way. However, these instances are so few and far between that they do not detract from the novel, its purpose, or its impact.

The Grievers is an ideal novel for those of us who sometimes seek to read books with which we can commiserate, rather than books into which we can escape. It allows us to be more aware of our humanity, while learning to accept it (flawed though it may be) at the same time.

The Grievers will be available for purchase in May 2012. In the meantime, interested readers can get more information here and here.

Novel Thoughts: The Dressmaker of Khair Khana by Gayle Tzemach Lemmon

Media-painted portraits of Afghanistan are rarely favorable. What we see on the television and in newspapers and magazines exposes a war-torn country where everyday life is precarious and little to no order exists for its citizens. Over the last decade, the emotions of the American public have run the gamut from enraged to indifferent regarding the state of that country and the continued presence there of the US. In The Dressmaker of Khair Khana, however, Gayle Tzemach Lemmon carefully weaves the true story of what it’s like to live in a Taliban-centered world.

The Dressmaker of Khair Khana tells the story of the Sidiqi family and begins in 1996 when the Taliban first came to occupy Kabul. Through Kamila’s story and that of her family readers are able to see the human face of the conflict-ridden country, a valuable history for those of us who aren’t necessarily well-educated regarding the history of the Middle East prior to the events of September 11.

Lemmon’s writing style allows the reader to forget, if only momentarily, that she is in fact telling a factual story. Sure, details have been changed, altered, or omitted for the sake of safety, but nonfiction is not at all infallible as a genre. The storytelling style used in The Dressmaker of Khair Khana reads as though it is fiction until Lemmon includes a detail that makes the story altogether too real.

Kamila, the “protagonist” of the story, comes to be the head of her family when her parents are forced to move north after the Taliban occupation. Through her ingenuity she is able to sustain not only her own family but numerous other families in her neighborhood as well. Her story is one of intrigue, perseverance, daring, and danger, a timeless inspiration for any reader.

Although the book seems to be ultimately geared toward a female audience, both males and females will enjoy the history related in Kamila’s life story. Through the book, we come to learn that the conflict within the borders of Afghanistan was not initiated just prior to September 11, that the conflict had in fact been raging there for a number of years, something not necessarily pointed out in media reports today. Readers are also educated as to the difference between the Taliban and Al Qaeda, an important detail since we generally tend to conflate the two terms.

By the end of The Dressmaker of Khair Khana, readers will have gained a better sense of what it meant to live in Afghanistan then and what it means to live there now. While it remains certain that there are pockets of resistance (as there have been for a number of years), a sense of hope also remains, a hope that someday the country and its citizens will again assume their normal ways of life without the added stresses of war and conflict.

What’s New?: Celebrate Like the Dickens

Capital L Literature is slippery to define, even on the best of days. Generation after generation has struggled to define the qualities inherent in Literature (as opposed to literature, or the stuff that populates both the bestseller list and the book stands in local grocery stores). We ponder over innumerable cups of coffee what it means to be part of the great literary canon: what characteristics link the greats to one another? How can those characteristics be replicated? How do we define them in concrete terms? What happens when we try?

Over the years, the literary canon has changed, multiplied, divided, become inclusive and exclusive all at once. But some things never change. Some authors remain constant fixtures in Literature, and no amount of debating, dissecting, or declaiming can ratchet them from their honorable places.

Among these sit illustrious, albeit misunderstood, literary geniuses (the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, Mark Twain, Poe, and Louise May Alcott), of whom Charles Dickens is one. Today marks what would have been the author’s 200th birthday, and a celebration is seemingly in order.

Even those who are not readers of his works have been influenced in some way by Dickens. His story A Christmas Carol has become part of the holiday catalogue, inspiring animated films and Christmas decorations. The film and television industry has been arguably generous to Dickens, ensuring that each generation has its theatrical embodiment of the classic holiday tale, and each generation has bent the story to its purpose.

Dickens’s works are full of one-liners familiar to us all for one reason or another:

“It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.”

“Please, sir, may I have some more?”

“Bah humbug.”

And for these the world owes a debt of gratitude. Not only have they illuminated poignant moments in literature, but they have also provided the masses with entertainment and laughter at their own expense.

To say that Dickens had a way with words seems trite and inadequate. The names of his characters alone are enough to inspire both readers’ and writers’ imaginations. One needs little more than the name of a character in any given story to understand the true nature of him. Take, for example, Wackford Squeers of Nicholas Nickleby or Lord Verisopht of the same novel. While Dickens has absolved himself of outwardly accusing these characters of certain natures, their names provide the reader with enough context to form an opinion before the character has even acted.

Dickens had a knack for making a point with his work without overtly using his authorial voice to comment on the state of his world. In Nicholas Nickleby, for example, he uses Squeers and Smike to illustrate the deplorable conditions of boys’ schools, but he allows the text to resolve the problem, allowing Wackford Squeers his just deserts.

Important writers, those with canonical staying power, are few and far between. Many aspire to greatness, but few are able to achieve it. Today we celebrate one of the few who did, one who gave to the world more than he could have ever realized in the voices of Tiny Tim, Pip, and Oliver Twist. For this a celebration is indeed in order.

Novel Thoughts: Separate Beds by Elizabeth Buchan

Elizabeth Buchan’s Separate Beds weaves together many different stories to which many of her readers will be able to relate. Annie and Tom, arguably the main story’s protagonists are struggling with marital, familial, and economical woes, and their children are not faring much better. The story is realistically told and the characters realistically constructed in a way that adequately portrays the hardships with which they are dealing without over simplifying or hyperbolizing.

Buchan takes a tone of hopeful realism in relating the various tribulations of the family in the novel. Readers will find them sympathetic and relatable given each different set of circumstances. Since the reader’s life could potentially mirror that of any character in the novel, the predictability and tidiness to be found at the book’s end become assets instead of liabilities.

However, while the story ends nicely enough, it takes its time getting there. After awhile, readers might become overwhelmed by the sense of boredom associated with books that have become long-winded. Most subplots are given far too much attention, causing the story to drag its feet across the finish line, and one of the most important subplots, arguably THE most important, while embedding itself in some way into every subplot, is only superficially dealt with at the book’s end.

Despite its eventual slow crawl to its finish, Separate Beds gives readers a chance to interact with characters similar to themselves without the gloom and doom imposed so often on them by reality. Readers will find themselves contented and hopeful at the novel’s end, an end that engenders positive feelings for the reader’s own life.