Consequences, Revisited

Sometimes I go on and on about the most pointless things. It’s apparent to me now that my most recent blog post was one of those times. I don’t know why I felt the need to dwell on that book’s title, for heaven’s sake, but that is what I did. Now to revisit the book itself.

Penelope Lively writes beautifully and she does so again in Consequences. The story spans several generations of women: Lorna (mother), Molly (daughter), Ruth (granddaughter) and the ways that they have influenced one another and been influenced by the artist Matt, whose brief life and briefer marriage to Lorna sets the stage for what follows. Can you call Matt the patriarch? He was the father of Molly but his early death makes him more significant for his absence rather than his presence.

Consequences takes place in Britain in the 1930’s up through the present day. The momentous events of the 20th century provide a backdrop but are not the central theme. Some might call this a home-front novel rather than a war novel, and that is accurate – even Ruth in the 21st century confronts the war’s aftermath when she travels to Crete to visit the site of Matt’s death. But it is art, rather than war, that really brings everything together in this book. Matt’s murals, painted for Lorna and rediscovered by Ruth link the women to one another.

I didn’t love this book as much as I have loved some of Lively’s earlier work, especially Moon Tiger and Oleander, Jacaranda, which is a memoir of Lively’s youth in Egypt. If you are new to Penelope Lively I would start with one of them.

Consequences by Penelope Lively

Penelope Lively is interested in the consequences of our behavior and of our choices. In fact, she has examined this theme at least three times in three different books; in Making it Up, in The Photograph, and now in Consequences.

In The Photograph, a woman dies and her husband finds among her papers an incriminating photograph that proves she had an affair. What are the consequences of his finding the photograph, and the consequences of the affair itself? Making it Up, which I wrote about back in 2006, examines Lively’s own paths not taken: In a series of connected short stories she considers what her life might have been like if she (or someone in her family) had made a different choice instead of the one they made.

The themes in Consequences are both more and less obvious than in these two earlier books. On the one hand, it’s called Consequences. Could she make the sign any larger, do you think? On the other hand, it’s a straightforward novel that you can read without thinking too hard about the device Lively is using. Two people meet when they end up on the same park bench because of choices they have each made earlier in the day. They marry and have a baby. The man dies in World War II – that is certainly a consequence of someone’s actions, though not directly of his own. The man’s death has lasting reverberations for his daughter’s life, and for her daughter’s. It’s a good read, though not a great one.

But I have to ask, what novel isn’t about consequences? You could discuss every book I’ve read recently from this same perspective. In fact, couldn’t you discuss most of literature with consequences in mind? Not to get too obvious, but the deaths of Romeo and Juliet were the consequences of the feud between the Montagues and the Capulets. Should Shakespeare have called the play Consequences? I’m kind of disappointed in Penelope Lively for her lack of imagination here. This is the same woman who gave us a book called Oleander, Jacaranda; now that is a book title!

(Book 44, 2009)

American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld

This is another fact/fiction mashup. Is that all anybody is writing these days? Unlike Daphne and The 19th Wife, both of which place a real-life person in a partially fictionalized setting, American Wife takes a more traditional approach; it’s a fictionalized account of the life of Laura Bush, but she is never identified as Laura Bush, and instead is called Alice Blackwell. Her girlhood is transferred from Texas to Wisconsin, her husband is called Charlie Blackwell, and she’s given one daughter instead of two. Otherwise many of the details are based on the circumstances of Laura Bush’s life, including a tragic automobile accident that occurred in her teens, her career as a school librarian, and her obvious ambivalence about her role as First Lady of the U.S.

I tried to approach this book purely as a work of fiction, and as such, it worked beautifully. I really loved reading it, and I loved Alice Blackwell. I could even see why Alice married Charlie, and why she stayed with him. Their relationship is complex and multi-layered, like most marriages. It’s a very mature, insightful book, considering the relative youth of the author (who is in her early 30’s now).

The trouble comes when you think about the story in light of what you know about the Bushes. Laura Bush was always an enigma as First Lady. Because I had no particular preconceived ideas about her, it was easy for me to connect with Alice Blackwell. If Laura Bush is indeed at all like her fictional alter ego (which seems to be true, according to independent sources) then I think I would very much enjoy a long afternoon with her.

But I really didn’t like having good feelings about George Bush, even a fictionalized George Bush, and that made me uncomfortable. Again, because this is a good book, Charlie Blackwell is well-drawn; he’s crude, impulsive, and judgmental, but he’s also warm and funny, and he loves Alice and their daughter with all his heart. I just kept saying to myself “it’s only a novel, it’s okay to enjoy it.”

A lot has been written about this book. The piece I liked best was published in Salon back in the fall of 2008. It’s a long interview with the author, Curtis Sittenfeld, and in it she addresses a lot of the issues that preoccupied me as I was reading the book. Here is the link.

(Book 43, 2009)

Does This Mean I Have OCD?

This morning I reminded myself of Hannelore, from the Web comic Questionable Content. She’s the girl who compulsively counts things (other quirks include worrying; I do that too). So that was me, earlier today, sitting at my computer counting up the number of women whose books have been recognized by the New York Times in its annual list of Best Books of the Year over the past several years.

I started this crazy counting endeavor when I noticed that four of the five fiction titles on this year’s list were written by women. Wow, when had such an event occurred before, I wondered, an actual majority of women writers! Then I noticed the non-fiction list also sported two more titles written by women! This meant that 6 out of the 10 books were written by women! I had to know if this had ever happened before.

Long time readers of this blog will note my general hostility toward these lists and toward literary awards in general. I often specifically bemoan the lack of attention given to works by women, and to the preponderance of accolades given to certain white male authors (yes, I mean you, Philip Roth). Thus I was driven to discover whether this year’s list was unusual or not. As much as I could, I went back through previous years’ lists and compiled this information about the Times’s list of 10 best books:

2008: 4 out of 10 titles written by women.
2007: only 2 out of 10
2006: 3 out of 10
2005: 4 out of 10
2004: 2 out of 10

At this point I got bored, and the lists became harder to find, so I gave up. (I know, Hanners would have kept going and going and going….). But isn’t this great? It does look like this year was the first majority-female list. And, even better, this year’s list contains books I actually want to read. In fact, A Gate at the Stairs, and A Short History of Women are already in my queue at the library. Even the single lonely male-authored fiction title, Chronic City, is by Jonathan Lethem, whose book Motherless Brooklyn is one of my favorites. What if I read all five of these books? Would I then have to shut up about how irrelevant these lists are? I guess so, unless I hate them all…..

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout

When I heard that Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout, had won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction this year I thought “Oh finally, they are giving that award to someone I like.” I hadn’t read the book yet but I was very optimistic. After all, I loved Strout’s two earlier novels, Amy and Isabelle, and Abide with Me.

I should have known better. One of the requirements for winning the Pultizer Prize for fiction is that I must hate the book.* Indeed, the Pulitzer committee calls me every year to make sure that they aren’t giving the prize to something I liked, by accident. (Ha! Just kidding!)

Olive Kitteridge is a series of connected short stories set in New England, where Strout’s previous two books have also taken place. The same characters pop in and out of various stories, including Olive Kitteridge, who is a retired school teacher. Most of the stories are just small episodes in the lives of the townspeople. I suppose they are meant to be poignant snapshots, but I found them to be disjointed and confusing. While the characters in Amy and Isabelle and Abide with Me are clearly drawn and memorable, the characters in Olive Kitteridge seem almost interchangeable with one another: here’s an ineffective man, and here’s another; this woman is disappointed, and so is this other one. I really can’t say enough awful things about this book. On the other hand, Abide with Me was just lovely. Go read that instead.

*Okay, I’m exaggerating. I liked Middlesex (2003), The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (2001), and Interpreter of Maladies (2000). But I hated (really really hated) The Road (2007) and was pretty bored by several of the other recent winners.

(Book 42, 2009)

ETA more specifics, less ranting.

Can't Blog Fast Enough

What’s going on with all those books in my “Currently Reading” list, especially those two that have been there since the summer, The Omnivore’s Dilemma, and Building a Home with My Husband? I just don’t think I’m going to write about either of them. The Omnivore’s Dilemma, by Michael Pollan, has some good parts that I’ve been reading bits of, but I don’t have the stomach to read the part about the pig (you know that part, right? Where he butchers a pig himself?). I can’t really write anything coherent about the book if all I’ve done is read random bits. Besides, I think enough people have talked about this book in newspapers, magazines, blogs, on TV, etc. that you can use one of those articles to figure out whether or not you want to read it.

Building a Home with My Husband is by Rachel Simon, with whom I went to college. She had her publisher send me a copy of this expressly for my blog. Rachel, I loved your earlier book, Riding the Bus with my Sister, but this one is too intimate for me to read and write about. I think because I know Rachel I can’t separate myself enough from her story to analyze it objectively. Building a Home with My Husband is classic Rachel: beautifully written and very detailed. If you enjoy creative non-fiction, especially books that deal with families and relationships, you should absolutely read this book.

And the other books in the list are books I’ve read recently but haven’t gotten around to blogging about. I'm going to run out of weeks in 2009 before I run out of blog posts. I have had lots of time for reading recently. (I have not, however, had time for housework, grocery shopping, or cooking. Nope, sorry, much too busy.)

Daphne by Justine Picardie

Finally, another book to add to my “2009 Favorites” list, though I can’t say this book will appeal to everyone. Did you read Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier, when you were younger? Or, like my friend Nora, did you read it last week? Just be sure to do so before you begin Daphne or much of the depth and significance will escape you.

Like several other books I’ve read this year, Daphne is a mashup of fact and fiction, and it shifts back and forth between the past and the present. The chapters set in the past are a fictionalized account of several years in Daphne du Maurier’s life, years during which she embarked on an ambitious biography of Branwell Bronte, the little-known brother of the famous Bronte sisters Charlotte and Emily. It’s also a time of marital upheaval for Daphne, and of doubt about her own abilities, direction, and sanity.

Another set of chapters tell the story of the researcher that du Maurier has hired to help her with the Branwell Bronte book. This character (John Alexander Symington, who is real, not fictional) was involved in a scandal concerning missing Bronte manuscripts. He is unstable and of questionable value to du Maurier; his chapters add another layer of dread to the story.

The (purely fictional) chapters set in the present are narrated by a young Oxford PhD student who is researching du Maurier’s life during the period she wrote the Bronte biography, and following the trail of Symington and his shenanigans. Thus we see many of the same episodes from two vantage points. This present day narrator has much in common with the narrator of DuMaurier’s book Rebecca; both are young, unsophisticated, and married to distant older men who may or may not be hiding something. Parallels between these two narrators abound, and it’s interesting to spot them.

In her heyday Daphne du Maurier sold millions of books, but was dismissed by her contemporary critics as a lightweight purveyor of gothic-type fiction for women. Yet du Maurier proved to have staying power and enjoyed a long and fruitful career. Modern critics are busily reshaping her image. As anyone knows who has read her books, she is a wonderful writer who created enduring characters, fascinating locales, and unsettling stories. Her writing is top-notch: erudite and atmospheric. In Daphne, Justine Picardie has paid homage to du Maurier’s legacy with similarly excellent writing and a haunting story.

(Book 41, 2009)

ETA: Mutual blog love.