The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, by Mark Haddon

Note to self: Read more British authors

I read another book recently that made me laugh and cry and wonder, but I enjoyed this book. How Haddon got into his character’s head so completely is as genius as the protagonist himself. We’re always told as writers–character first, character driven, it’s all about the character. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time is a perfect example.

It isn’t just the protagonist, a teenage autistic genius, who is real, but his fallible parents as well. Two out my four sons have scary similarities to Christopher, so I read this book as a parent. I found myself condemning these parents’ immaturity and denseness, until I thought more carefully about my own parenting history.

Haddon makes a few plot flaws, but forgivable ones considering he couldn’t know what it’s like to parent someone like Christopher. If he has, then perhaps the gap in logic is mine.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time was a personal read for me, hitting a little too hard in a few places, but that only made it that much more meaningful. This is one of those fiction books that can teach us more than any non-fiction ever could. Haddon has given a clear, engaging voice to some of our population’s most misunderstood and rejected.

The 100-Mile Diet, by Alisa Smith and J.B. MacKinnon

What a pleasant surprise.

This book rolled me in like stuffing in a fajita, a food that was deprived the authors until they found a local wheat grower. It was wonderful, with its weaving in and out of relationships and landscapes and adventure stories, but the idea of always eating strictly locally? Like it says on the back cover, “I think they’re nuts.”

Smith and MacKinnon tell us about their experiment eating only locally for one full year and how it changed the way they eat now. Obviously, eating locally can work, if your kids are used to it, or if you don’t have kids, or if you are young and able to get around readily, or if you drive, or if you know the right people. Of course, all of these obstacles can be overcome if you’re rich.

Unlike these courageous authors, I’ve been eating locally my whole life, not strictly locally, but quite a bit. I’ve had lobster and potatoes in Shediac and oranges in Florida. I learned young the difference between fresh and grocery shelf, and it’s a huge difference. I grew up in the midst of farms and ate vegetables from our little plot that I despised weeding when I was a kid, along with the evening’s BBQ of local beef burgers. I’ve had homemade ketchup and relish made with produce from local stands, and canned peaches from trees growing out of the side of my house. I have milked a cow and drunk the milk an hour later, and hated it.

I will never recover from moving away from the organic farm across the street. There’s nothing in the world like free range organic eggs that were laid that very day, or waking up to find a pail of greens on the front porch, enjoying this simple fare while watching the sheep graze.

I can relate to the authors learning to appreciate local fare after eating the same thing day in and day out. Our own vintage apple tree dropped a wheelbarrow of apples every day for nearly two months. And I can appreciate fighting off other creatures for my share. In our case, it was five different kinds of bees and wasps, worms, and raccoons. I miss my apples now.

It was nice to be reminded of the times when I was close to my food. One year, our pear tree produced one pear, but it was the biggest pear I have ever seen. I’m not kidding, it was bigger than my hand, and I don’t have small hands.

If only I had taken my mother’s cue and raised my boys on local food. I did try, and we eat some local foods, but I admit, I was seduced by the chance to try something new and different. I’ve always been the type to try new things, so why would food be any different? Not to mention convenience. Who wants to drive around the countryside looking for local food when you have everything you need at one store?

I do.

I don’t see me becoming a strict locavore anytime soon, but I promise to do more countryside shopping in the future. I had forgotten how important that is.

Heart of the Sea, by Nora Roberts

Okay, if you like syrupy romance, you might like Nora Roberts. Sure, no news there, but, seriously, this was the first Roberts I’ve read, rather heard on CD, and it will likely be my last.

Why are all romance novels the same? And what is the big attraction?

Woman is single, gorgeous, has some endearing quirks
Man is tall, thin, and gorgeous, oh, and, of course, rich
They meet, have some kind of reaction, end up in bed, but not in love
They break up
Some crisis happens that brings them together and miraculously clears up all their misunderstandings
They live happily ever after.

Cinderella didn’t do it much differently.

In Roberts’ books, so I’m told, the faeries and ghosts and legends are what bring these exceptional couples together. No exception here.

A good read if you’re into that kind of thing. She has a huge fan base, obviously, but I’m afraid I won’t be joining them anytime soon. Not enough pancakes here for all that syrup.

Souwest Words: 25 poets in Southwestern Ontario, Canada, compiled by Win Schell

Apparently available in audio CD only, at our library anyway, it was a lovely listen with a variety of poets from London, Ontario, reading their own works, including some of First Nations origin, on a wide range of topics. A few were a bit iffy, but most were very well done, and a few had me hitting pause to think quietly.

Previous to this one, I listened to another CD of poetry from one author. I won’t even burden you with the title. It was terrible. Not only was it full of nonsensical new age philosophy, but the poetry and the background music, supposedly there to add to the “experience”, was beyond bad. Good thing I had Souwest Words to wash away the bad taste in my ears.

Anil’s Ghost, by Michael Ondaatje

I have recently rediscovered the joy of listening to books. As a knitting freak, it’s the perfect solution to employing two of my favourite activities.

How lovely that I chose Ondaatje’s book. Read by the author, both the story and the reading of it was haunting, beautiful, and polished.

Anil is an archaeologist who is sent on a human rights mission during the political upheaval of Sri Lanka in the seventies. She (having robbed her brother of his name) finds definitive proof of a government murder, and winds up traumatized not only by the treatment she receives from Sri Lankan officials who will not allow such evidence to accuse them, but by the treatment of many with whom she worked on the project, including her close coworker who, through his own wiles, allowed her to keep Sailor, the skeleton of the murder victim.

This book is difficult to explain in a brief synopsis, but that’s okay because you really want to read it yourself. No, that’s not exactly true. You want to hear the author reading it, especially if you like to knit!

Now if only I could figure out a way to write, listen, and knit…

Sergei Rachmaninoff — A Lifetime in Music, by Sergei Bertensson and Jay Leyda

What is art? It is explained perfectly by Rachmaninoff.

My constant desire to compose music is actually the urge within me to give tonal expression to my thoughts. . . .That, I believe, is the function that music should serve in the life of every composer; any other function it may fill is purely incidental. . . . What I try to do, when writing down my music, is to make it say simply and directly that which is in my heart when I am composing. If there is love there, or bitterness, or sadness, or religion, these moods become a part of my music, and it becomes either beautiful or bitter or sad or religious.

Having a son who shows as much promise as this great Russian did as a child, I often wonder if it’s all really worth it, all the work that goes into consummating talent. An absent foolish father, being sent away from home at nine, a mean teacher, two world wars, all this did bring about some of the most beautiful, meaningful music ever composed. So did hypnotherapy, early exposure to some of the greatest musical talents of all time, and eleven years in Conservatory. After reading this extensive account of the Russian artist’s life, it makes one keenly aware of the influences we expose talented children to, how those experiences will shape their art for all their lives.

Of course, it isn’t influence that births talent. Much of Rachmaninoff’s musical ability was inherited by his father, as was his inherent laziness and irresponsibility. It was the mean teacher, by today’s standard abusive, who worked this laziness out of him, by commanding every minute of his day, but exposing him to the greatest art and artists of the day–not just music and musicians, but visual art, plays, books, poetry, every kind of art.

Nikolia Zverev was known as an excellent but severe piano teacher . . . When a needy pupil showed unusual gifts, Zverev’s generosity matched his severity. This year Rachmaminoff was one of three pupils whom Zverev brought into his home, on the condition that he could supervise their lives and interests while they continued piano lessons with him at the Conservatory.

Rachmaninoff later learned to love this teacher and always regretted parting with him. We would not encounter such a situation here in Canada today. We know better.

Everyone knows that Rachmaninoff composed extensively, but I did not realize the range of music he composed, everything from his famous concertos to choral music to ballets. It was not fun for him to endure all those years of the critic’s heyday, but nothing seemed to stop him from composing, or performing, not exile or illness or even war, even though he was well known for saying, “Music can only succeed where there is peace and quiet.” Only conducting was hampered by fatigue and failing health in his later years.

Rachmaninoff is nearly as well known for his self criticism as he is for his music, but I was surprised to learn of his wry sense of humor. Imagine six in the morning the day after your wedding, disturbed by a clamor outside your bedroom window you look out to find the world famous conductor conducting an orchestra of pots and pats played by your wedding guests.

It took some hoop jumping to allow Sergei to marry his longtime companion and cousin, Natasha. They had two daughters, one of whom married a prince who left her a widow while expecting their first child. They lived all over Europe, but ended up in America for the last years. His wife reports as he lay on his death bed, “…in his delirium he often moved his hands, as if conduction an orchestra, or playing a piano.”

Sergei Rachmaninoff was as great in talent as he was in stature, soaring above his contemporaries and successors still. How blessed we are to have still available the results of this extraordinary, brilliant talent.

The Doulos Story

Wow. I’m sure glad I didn’t read this book before my niece went on the Doulos. If you have any questions about the reality of God, read this book. Then read the Bible.

Yes, the first part of it is a bit dry, but persist and you’ll be rewarded. At about the halfway point, I started to wonder why the author did not just write the book from her husband’s point of view, but perhaps that was a faulty editing decision. Still very worth the read.

Get it. Read it. Have fun! See you on the other side.

One Corpse Too Many by Ellis Peters

Part of the Brother Cadfael series, which I’d never heard of before, One Corpse Too Many is another medieval murder mystery by brilliant English novelist Edith Pargeter under the pen name of Ellis Peters. Brother Cadfael is sent to clean up after a horrific massacre instigated by the new King Stephen and finds a mysterious corpse obviously out of place among the poor victims. After carefully examing the body, Cadfael realizes that someone has strangled the young man from behind and tried to hide his deed by irreverently tossing his body amongst the victim’s of King Stephen’s latest antics.

I won’t spoil this one because I hope you have a chance to read it, and other Edith Pargeter novels, but I did not see this one coming at all. The resolution came as a complete very pleasant surprise.

Edith Pargeter was not only a very prolific novelist, but if her other novels are as well contrived and contstructed as this one, she is also genius. I will be reading more of her work.

Smoke, by Elizabeth Ruth

WARNING: Spoilers ahead!

For the most part, I enjoyed Smoke. However, a few issues were hard to overlook.

Smoke is about a young man named Brian, nicknamed Buster, a high school senior in 1950’s southern Ontario tobacco country, who becomes sorely disfigured after he is badly burned because of falling asleep drunk with a cigarette. Buster finds unlikely help working through his issues in the faithful Dr. John Gray, who himself has a hidden psychological disfigurement which Ruth unsuccessfully tries to hide until the end of the novel where it is revealed that the doctor is a transexual.

Smoke is full of such parrallels and metaphors. Too full, I found. I liked the interactive quality of the book, but found it slightly overworked. Metaphors are great to a point, but all the fire-related adjectives and adverbs began to get tiresome, and the unidentified robber was just plain annoying. I understand, as she said when I went to hear her speak about the novel, that the robber represented how close the doctor’s world really was, as well as the not-so-novel idea that plots do not always have to be completely resolved, along with several other metaphors, but I think the novel would have worked better without him as he seemed out of place and distracting.

The plot was well planned, but the characters not so much. A couple of times, I had to go back and check which character I was reading about because they all seemed so alike at times, like they were all related rather than from the same small town.

Ruth said she finds it boring to write from an outline. She is the type of writer, as am I, who writes the story in her head first and then finishes developing it on paper. Perhaps that’s why the novel seemed a bit muddy at times, not always crystal clear in the imagery or in the characters.

Ruth does do an excellent job of putting you back in the tobacco fields of the late 1950s. She doesn’t apologize for the smoking pregnant mom, who ends up with a baby on one hip while handling a cigarette with her alternate hand. That’s the way it was then, and I’m glad she didn’t lose the reality of the times in politcal correctness.

I think if I were a transexual, I would feel exploited. Not that no one should write about transexuals, or anybody else for that matter, but the author herself told us that she actually started the book with the doctor as the protagonist and later on found that Buster would be better suited to that role. I won’t go into the sexually explicit part of the book, but suffice it to say that while her descriptions were not gratuitous or offensive, I found it rather difficult to believe that intercourse between the doctor and his wife would have functioned the way she described.

I liked the contrast to the clear sexual roles of the heterosexuals with the perverted roles of the transexuals, which was easily achieved in that setting. Without intending it, Ruth has confirmed my own convictions on the topic even though they are quite opposed to her own.

Most disconcerting was finding out that this book is being considered, perhaps already slated to be included, in the high school curriculum in Winnipeg. My consternation has nothing whatever to do with the fact that the book condones transexuality, but rather that it contains explicit adult content that a teen doesn’t really need to know. I hope the young people who read it receive godly moral guidance.

I liked hearing Ruth speak. She is a lovely, graceful, confident, bright woman, and I wish her much success in her future endeavours.

The Black Velvet Gown by Catherine Cookson

I have to say I’m a bit disappointed. As a Cookson fan, I expected another tight, intelligent, heart-wrenching story of a woman suffering and triumphing through difficult times. While the latter expectation was fulfilled, the former was not.

I wasn’t sure, still am not sure, who the protagonist was, and I found the actions of the oldest son, Davey, and his mother, Riah, unreconcilable, unless Cookson felt it was fine for a mother to ignore her son’s claim of sexual abuse. I found the subject of pedophilia unsuitable and distracting to the story and the setting, as though it was a cheap gimmick to sell the book.

That said, it’s still a Cookson novel and worth the read. Much better than a certain HP novel read before this one that was so bad I couldn’t find it in my heart to write a review for it. It’ll be a long while before I’ll be willing to put up with that kind of horrendous grammar and the condoning of snotty-nose attitudes like that. I really cannot understand what all the fuss is about, but good for JKR. If it was going to happen to anyone, I’m glad it happened to a single mom.

There you have it. Two book reviews in one.