Much like Wooster from P.G. Wodehouse’s Jeeves and Wooster stories (of which I’ve only listened to the audio for one of them), Three Men in a Boat is about a silly young man who tends to poetry, doesn’t work, and thinks rather highly of himself as a part of society. The audio for my edition (there are many available) was read by Martin Jarvis who is also an awarding-winning Wodehouse narrator, so the comparison is apt. In this novel, there are three such equally silly young men, and each thinks highly of himself! For various reasons, the three young men decide to take a river trip down the Thames in a boat.

But the story itself is not really about the boat trip. Rather, the narrator (called J) uses the boat trip to tell stories about everything from his opinion of wood paneling to his friend’s experiences in cemeteries. What ties the stories together is an underlying disdain of society and his own understanding of his supposed superiority in that society in so many ways. Because of that focus, the novel becomes a comedic satire of Victorian society and those in the middle class of that society, of silly young men, of vacations, and so forth.

Although the audio narration was very well done, I did find myself confused at times listening to the book and never having read it. Because I often listened in ten to twenty minute segments as I drove, I’d often begin a car trip and not remember where the characters were or if J was once again providing a digression from the actual trip down the river.  Such details didn’t really matter to minute-by-minute amusing stories of the novel, but I suspect if I had read a hard copy of the book, I may have looked at a map (such as this one) to see where these places were (I am rather clueless on England’s geography) and to enjoy the progression down the river. If I ever am to go to England, I’ll have to reread this book for the ridiculous factoids given about each location.

I realize I have said nothing of the dog, and I suppose that is just as well, for the narrator never does say much about him either. I have neglected much of the humor in the book. Three Men in a Boat is quite fun and I’m proud to add it to the Victorian Literature category, since it defies the stereotypical expectations normally found therein. I highly recommend it if you like the Jeeves stories!

• Flatland by Edwin A. Abbott
• Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell
• The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
• The John Cheever Audio Collection
• Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman + Giveaway (Used Book)
• Nineteen Eighty-Four (1984) by George Orwell
• The Green Knowe Chronicles by L.M. Boston
• The Victorian Art of Fiction: Nineteenth-Century Essays on the Novel, edited by Rohan Maitzen
• Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis
• The Odyssey by Homer: The Story

I intended to read the entire volume for the Circuit (about 600 pages), but I’m finding that summer living has made reading time scarce. Even reading half the volume, though, makes for quite a long post here, so I hope you don’t mind. I read the authors I had never read before and share my thoughts below: Aleksandr Pushkin, Nikolai Gogol, Mikhail Lermontov, Sergey Akaskov, Karolina Pavlova, and Ivan Goncharov. Some of them are writers that I intend to revisit. Other writers were a good read, but I’ll probably not revisit them.

According to Merriam Webster, superfluous means “exceeding what is sufficient or necessary: extra; not needed: unnecessary.” As I read the collection of stories, poems, and novellas, I couldn’t help thinking of that word. Ivan Turgenev wrote the novella “The Diary of a Superfluous Man” in 1850, which focused on one of the gentry who lived a rather aimless life. I haven’t read the novella (it is not in my Reader), but I read Mel u’s post about it early in the Classics Circuit Tour. As I read my selections, I kept thinking about how each story or poem seemed to discuss one of these “unnecessary” people in Russian society. Reading Russian literature in that light is quite depressing, yet the stories are, for the most part, wonderfully drawn together.

Alexandr Pushkin’s Poetry

In Russia, apparently, Aleksandr Pushkin is considered the greatest Russian writer, not Tolstoy or Dostoevsky. Ever since I heard that, I have wanted to read his poetry. I love the little bits I tried, although there were only about 30 pages in the Reader. It was so beautiful, and want to read more. The longest poem given in the Reader is called “The Bronze Horseman: A Tale of Petersburg.” It begins as an “ode” to St. Petersburg, and it ends by describing a man (one of the “unnecessary” or “superfluous”) during a flood of the Neva. He takes refuge by holding on to a bronze statue, all the while hoping his loved ones are safe. It ends sadly, and to me it seemed to echo the “superfluous man” concept:

…Against the threshold carried,
Here lay asprawl my luckless knave.
And here in charity they buried
The chill corpse in a pauper’s grave. ¹

In the end, he was expendable.

I also started reading Eugene Onegin, Pushkin’s novel in verse, but I have not had time to make much progress. (It is not in the Reader.)

“The Overcoat” by Nikolai Gogol

Gogol surprised me. I knew he was a satiric writer, and that is about all I knew. Gogol’s short story “The Overcoat” was immensely satisfying, and I think it may enter my “favorite short stories” mental list. My thought when I finished it: simple yet sublime.

“The Overcoat” tells the story of a superfluous man. He is a very poor man, working a menial job in a boring routine. One winter, he discovers his overcoat is no longer repairable and a new one must be made to order. This is his story of that new overcoat.

I am not sure how to express why I enjoyed this story. Akakii Akakiievich is a nobody, but I liked him immensely, possibly maybe because I could so easily relate to him (It’s not that I’m quite that much of a nobody, but he certainly seemed realistic and I pitied him). But also, I loved how Gogol moved the story so seamlessly from what was realistic to the supernatural. It seemed Gogol just wanted to see justice be done, and it made it quite satisfying as a story. Things came full circle, as we’d want them too. It was unrealistic in that sense, because life doesn’t end prettily for us. Although it was about a “superfluous” person, it was not as depressing as some other Russian stories I read. I look forward to reading more Gogol.

“Princess Mary” (from A Hero for Our Time) by Mikhail Lermontov

Mikhail Lermontov’s Pechorin is also one of the “superfluous.” He is middle class and idle, except for what he can do to entertain himself. He is utterly despicable, from my perspective, and that is the point. “Princess Mary” is told as Pechorin’s journal entries, an extended excerpt from A Hero for Our Time. In Pechorin’s journal, we see that his motives are all selfish, and in the story “Princess Mary,” he essentially uses a woman’s emotions for his own entertainment, even though he could not care less for her.

In the introduction to A Hero for Our Time, Lermontov wrote:

A Hero for Our Time, gentlemen, is indeed a portrait, but not of a single individual. It is the portrait composed of all the vices of our generation in their fullest development. You will tell me again that no man can be as bad as all this; and I shall tell you that since you have believe in the possibility of so many tragic and romantic villains having existed, why can you not believe in the reality of Pechorin? … You will say morality gains nothing from this. … However, do not think that the author of this book ever had the proud dream of becoming a reformer of mankind’s vices. … He merely found it amusing to draw modern man such as he understood him to be… ²

An excellent write-up from earlier in the Circuit by Exiled By Accident got me interested in finding the rest of the volume at some point. The “Princess Mary” section is, apparently, more than a third of the entire Lermontov collection.

“Mikhail Maximovich Kurolesov” (from The Family Chronicle) by Sergey Aksakov

Amateur Reader wrote about Sergey Aksakov a few weeks ago for the Circuit, so if you are interested, I defer to his posts. My Reader had just one small excerpt (called “Mikhail Maximovich Kurolesov” after the main person within it) from the more lengthy collection, and I found it horribly depressing. There was not much about the characters that I liked. Kurolesov turned out to be a rotten and abusive overlord and husband, and he eventually met his just reward. I failed to personally connect to any of the characters, and there was no engaging plot to draw me in. The biographical note indicates that Aksakov’s The Family Chronicle (also called A Russian Gentleman) is based on his own family history. In terms of history, I think the story of the different classes could be found interesting. As an engaging story or novella, it fell flat for me.

Chapter 6 from A Double Life by Karolina Pavlova

Karolina Pavlova’s contribution in the anthology was quite different in tone. It was a story of an eighteen-year-old girls’ dance with the man she loves. I liked the look at society, and it seemed, on the surface, less depressing than the other stories I read in the anthology.

Cecily lay down to sleep with that abounding happiness which sometimes fills and eighteen-0year-old heart for a moment, and which is so alive that in quiet and solitude one becaomse almost ill with it. … Happy, she sighed sorrowfully, not knowing why. ³

Yet we know why she was sorrowful, because earlier in the chapter, Pavlova wrote:

So much is forgotten in life, the years change and reshape us so strangely! So many young, inspired dreams in time become tax farmers and distillers. So many carefree young idlers become owners of Siberian gold mines. So many flightly scoundrels become merciless punishers of ever kind of passion. Time is a strange force! ⁴

Hence, even though the short excerpt from Pavlova’s novel had some “happiness” in it, I suspect in the end it will still reflect the “superfluous” theme as a whole. The title of Pavlova’s novel is A Double Life, which doesn’t suggest happiness to me!

“Oblomov’s Dream” (originally a short story, later included in the novel Oblomov) by Ivan Goncharov

One of the main things I wanted to read when I did that research for the Classics Circuit was Oblomov. I loved that cover (at left), and the thought of a novel revolving around man who could not get out of bed seemed ridiculously intriguing. However, my TBR has to be cut somehow, so I decided that the 400-page novel was not on the soon-to-read list, despite the fact that Oblomov was more popular in its day than Tolstoy. Reading the excerpts from the novel hasn’t removed it completely (I’m still very interested), but it is not a “must read.”

The excerpt I read was an extended dream that Oblomov had of his childhood. I loved how Goncharov described a scene (such as the surrounding countryside) and the little comments about society were so amusing. For example, here’s one exciting evening when the Oblomov family is sitting together in the drawing room:

Half an hour seemed to pass like that [dead silence], unless of course, someone yawned aloud and muttered, as he made the sign of the cross over his mouth, “Lord, have mercy upon us!” His neighbor yawned after him, then the next person, a though at a word of command, opened his mouth slowly, and so the infectious play of the air and lungs spread among them all, moving some of them to tears. ⁵

And then after a few more pages of such descriptions, it continues:

In his dream Oblovmov saw not one or two such evenings, but weeks, months, and years of days and evenings spent in this way. Nothing interfered with the monotony of their life … They would have been miserable if tomorrow were not like yesterday and if the day after tomorrow were not like tomorrow. ⁶

There was something so sadly sweet in Oblomov’s discover of the transitory state of childhood. I liked it, and I want to see how it all affected the grown Oblomov, as I know that is what the novel itself focuses on.

He looked sadly about him, and seeing only evil and misfortune everywhere in life, dreamed constantly of that magic country where there were no evils, troubles, or sorrows … ⁷

For thoughts on the entire novel, see what Stefanie at So Many Books said earlier in the tour.

I still want to read more from the Reader. If you’re looking for a general overview of many different voices from Imperial Russia, you may also find it satisfying. It’s a great collection and a broad overview of the era. There is even a timeline in the beginning listing both the political happenings in Russia and the publication dates. (I know nothing, so this is helpful to me!)

Still for me to read are 250 or 300 pages of the following: Tolstoy (The Death of Ivan Ilych), a Chekhov play (Uncle Vanya), some Turgenev stories (I didn’t enjoy the two ones I read a few years ago, but he deserves a revisit), and an excerpt from Dostoevsky (the excerpt in this volume is from The Brothers Karamozov, which I read years ago but don’t recall anything about).

Which of these (if any) have you read?

• Stories by Tommaso Landolfi
• Caldecott Corner Author Spotlight: Simms Taback
• If You Are Looking for Georgette Heyer….
• Sailing Alone Around the Room by Billy Collins
• Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky

I never intended that my first post for My Victorian Summer would come a full month after the inauguration of my project, but I’ve found that with summer weather, long books, and family in town, my blogging is becoming less of a priority than before. To my surprise, I’m okay with this. I may continue to leave things rather “hands off” for the next little while. Maybe I’ll get back into a blogging groove at some point, but for now, I’m living my life.

The two Victorian-esque books I have finished this month are completely different.

We Two: Victoria and Albert, Rulers, Partners, and Rivals by Gillian Gill is a non-fiction biography of the monarch and her husband. It was not, of course, written during the Victorian era, but I read it to get a sense of what made the Victorian Era a distinct era. I found the biography quite fascinating, even if the relationship between Queen Victoria and her husband Prince Albert was not quite as satisfyingly romantic as Hollywood made out in The Young Victoria.

Armadale by Wilkie Collins, on the other hand, was a fantastic sensation novel from the 1860s, complete with dual and mistaken identities, poison, attempted murder, and above all superstition. While the almost-700-page novel seemed a little slow to begin, the convoluted plots and depth of characters made it a satisfying and delicious book to devour.

I also share my current Reading Journal below.

We Two by Gillian Gill

I loved watching The Young Victoria, a recent Hollywood portrayal of Queen Victoria’s courtship and early marriage to Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. That movie prompted me to go on my “Victorian Summer” reading frenzy. Reading the true story of the couple’s life together was a bit disappointing after Hollywood, simply because theirs was rather a non-romantic and more practical relationship. We Two: Victoria and Albert, Rulers, Partners, and Rivals by Gillian Gill provided a biography of both Victoria and Albert’s youth and then a biography of their life together until Albert’s premature death at age 42 of typhoid fever.

Princess Victoria of Kent was just a few months past eighteen when her Uncle passed away, leaving her Queen of England. Her first eighteen years of life were sheltered by her overbearing mother and her mother’s power-hungry associate Sir John Conroy in Kensington Castle. So upon receiving sovereign authority, she was determined to rule her way. She did not want to marry. She wanted to make a difference for her nation, which she loved.

For the first three years of her reign, she worked closely with Prime Minister Lord Melbourne, making mistakes but really putting her all in to her work. Yet, after a few years at court, she found that she longed for male companionship; her cousin, Prince Albert, had been groomed since childhood to be her husband, and so she consented to the marriage. It is evident that the two were quite fond of each other and certainly in love, but theirs was a convenient marriage: neither really seemed to have much choice about who they married.

Reading of Victoria’s and Albert’s life was somewhat of a tutorial in gender and family politics in England in the 1800s. The fact that Victoria was a married female altered her ability to rule England in part because of the Albert’s view of women; Albert was the one who made a political difference for much of their married life.

Had Queen Victoria not been quite so fertile (or as Gill points out, had they had any type of understanding of natural birth control), she may have dominated the political scene. She was prepared to lead and be a dominating force. As it was, she had pregnancy after pregnancy for the first two decades of her reign, left physically exhausted by the wear on her body. Also, Prince Albert was raised in a misogynistic environment and therefore seems to have stifled Victoria’s abilities somewhat.

Prince Albert, although not legally a monarch of England, was therefore the behind-the-scenes leader of England. So many of the things that seem definitively “Victorian” are really “Albertian.” His upbringing had been to prepare him to be consort to the isolated and virginal Princess Victoria, and since his family was known for their debauchery, he had been the family exception, raised to conform to a different morality than his brother and uncles. His arrival in the English court may have been what prompted the Victorian morality that we now think of. Further, Albert’s influence on the “Great Exhibition” is also an example of how he influenced England to think ahead. He was fascinated by developing technology, he had an interest in social innovation, and he was well trained in political discourse. He was, like Victoria, a born leader.

Gillian Gill’s biography of the two focused on their relationship, and the book was well researched and engagingly written. It was only a bit disappointing to read the truth, especially of how dominating Prince Albert was. (For example, it was Queen Victoria who always begged forgiveness when there was a disagreement between the two; in their relationship, Prince Albert expected her to see her place as a woman, which was of course below himself.) When their marriage came to an end with Albert’s early death, it was Queen Victoria who had succumbed to Albert’s position on women: no longer was she the strong teenaged queen, eager to make a difference in the world and unexcited about being tied down. When Albert died, she was the dutiful wife who proclaimed the goodness of her dead husband. Despite the fact that she was the sovereign ruler of England, Queen Victoria was also a wife as trapped in the familial duties just as many other women in Victorian England. She did have nannies and fine medical care, but she was still trapped in her role, with a domineering man at her head.

I’m glad I read about Albert and Victoria, even though it was rather disappointing to me. As I read the novels from the era, I think it may help to remember the influence of the queen and her consort. Since I love history, it was also fascinating to see how the family fit in to the international political picture.

I should note that Gill does not come to the same conclusions that I’ve mentioned above in so many words; that’s what I got from their story. At just under 400 pages (plus notes), We Two is not a comprehensive account, and much is left unsaid. Yet, if you are interested in reading the story of Queen Victoria and her husband, We Two is great place to start.

Armadale by Wilkie Collins

And then we go to fiction.

Oh, Wilkie Collins. I love you so much! The Woman in White was delightful and may have been better written than Armadale (a reread is in order to determine if that is so). The Moonstone, as a mystery, was well developed but simply okay for me, a non-mystery person. But Armadale just topped them both in terms of suspense and emotional attachment. No one beats Lydia Gwilt as a complicated villain.

Twenty years ago, two boys named Allan Armadale vied for the attentions of a young woman. Now (in 1851), their two orphaned sons – each also called Allan Armadale – cross paths. The mysterious money-hungry redhead Miss Lydia Gwilt shows up and things get a little bit crazy.

Like the other Wilkie Collins novels I’ve read, Armadale dealt with the question of identity: people had multiple identities and multiple names. It also dealt with generational identity as the Allan Armadale that form the bulk of the action are the children of men of the same name. Armadale seemed to ask questions: Are these young men destined to be their father’s sons? Are they, by nature, destined to similar wrong choices, for example? Collins also drew heavily on superstition because the story keeps circling back to Allan Armadale’s mysterious dream. Do these characters have choices or are events destined?

Another theme that seemed central was the one I most enjoyed, the question of good and evil. The first two hundred pages of this chunkster seemed a bit slow, but once Lydia Gwilt began to interact with the men at Thorpe Ambrose, I did not want to put it down. Miss Gwilt is a villain through and through, but I couldn’t help feel sorry for her. Wilkie Collins doesn’t quite excuse her actions but as we progressively learn more about her, the story truly becomes hers and we see a bit of where she is coming from. I liked her, ridiculous and bad as she was even on good days. I absolutely loved how Collins created her character, for she makes this story the fascinating page-turner that it is. She was captivating in a way no one else in the novel was. Collins gave us pages of her journal (progressively more throughout the book) so we’d see just what she was thinking and how she was developing. Though the book is called Armadale, I believe that Miss Gwilt is the main character within it.

Collins puts in plenty of excitement (poison, attempted murder, coincidence, and a lunatic asylum), yet it is utterly convincing and real. I feel I have barely touched on the main points and the depth that is in Armadale. Believe me when I say it is a fun ride.

For more insights into the novel, see Shelf Love, Bibliolatry, Novel Insights, Becky’s Book Reviews, and Savidge Reads.

Reading Journal (30 June)

I’m trying to let go of schedules a little bit more and just read what I want. I have so many Victorian reads on my radar I could just read Victorian for the rest of the year!

Recently Finished: The Audacity of Hope (audiobook, abridged) by Barack Obama

Recently Abandoned (for now): The Inferno by Dante, Hollander translation (I may have a post about this abandonment)

In Progress: Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell (for My Victorian Summer); Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome (audiobook, for My Victorian Summer); Love in a Fallen City by Eileen Chang (for Orbis Terrarum/Asia); Nineteenth-Century Russian Reader (for Imperial Russia Classics Circuit); I Am A Cat by Natsume Soseki (my personal JLit Challenge); Undaunted Courage by Stephen Ambrose (for my other book club)

On Deck: The Art of Victorian Fiction (essays for My Victorian Summer); Great Expectations (for My Victorian Summer); The Stranger and The Plague by Camus (the former for my Classics Reading Group); The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop by Lewis Buzbee (for the Spotlight Series); whatever other books as please my fancy.

• Introducing: My Victorian Summer
• The Life of Wilkie Collins (Biographies by Clarke and Peters)
• The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins
• Victorian Second Helpings (The Moonstone by Collins and North and South by Gaskell)
• May and Milton in May in Review + Challenges Update and Reading Journal
• Reading Journal (16 December): A Classics Circuit TBR List from Wilkie Collins to Harlem
• Reading Journal (21 Oct): Victorian Second Helpings + Giveaway of an Abandoned Book
• Reading Journal (18 Nov): Planning for a Quiet December
• November in Review + Reading Journal (2 Dec)
• Reading Journal (29 July): Summer Mode to Blog Reading

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, depicts how in the futuristic world of Panem, which emerged from the ashes of a war-torn North America, the government produces a televised reality show in which 24 teenagers kill each other. The purpose of the Hunger Games is to illustrate how the government provides everything for the populace and that without the government’s wise support, anarchy and personal battle will reign over the land. People in the far-off districts depend on the Capitol for support. The Hunger Games illustrate what would happen if people rebelled against authority: chaos and murder.

Yet, The Hunger Games is not about savagery or murder. It is about defiance. Katniss volunteers herself, eager to save the life of her twelve-year-old sister Prim, whose name has been selected from the lottery. And from the beginning of the games until the end, Katniss hates the games, hates the Capitol’s philosophies, and hates the forced murdering game she is a part of. In that sense, she is a hero.

Except, reading as the games played out felt to me like being a voyeur watching a reality show. Certainly, it was a gripping read, and Katniss and Peeta are heros working against the norm of Panem. But I was still watching a horrible display of survival skills in which teenagers, mostly rotten ones, are killing each other. I hated it. I didn’t like the writing (present tense, which at times seemed invisible and at other times jarring). I didn’t like the romance element (Katniss pretends to be in love in order to win). I didn’t like the ignorance (Katniss is ignorant that Peeta loves her; Katniss is ignorant of the danger of rejecting the Capitol, which seemed to take away from the power of her defiance). I just plain didn’t like it.

From the time I learned the premise, I had no desire to read The Hunger Games. This was probably my problem from the beginning, and I should have followed my gut. But since I have a book club on Thursday night and I didn’t go last month, I decided I’d bite the bullet and read it so I can go and socialize. Besides, so many people have praised this novel that I felt it couldn’t be that bad. In fact, I hoped to be blown away. That did not happen. I read fast so I could be done with it. I’m not sure I can discuss it without being sick.

I read the entire plot summary of the second book and it sounds just as horrible, with another set of games in which people must kill each other. Next time I want to read a young adult novel (which is about once a year) about defiance against a repressive society, I’ll finish reading the Uglies series. That was not so physically sickening.

In fact, the more I think about Uglies, the more I prefer that book to this. Both young adult novels are similar. In a futurist world, people are forced to do horrible things that they are brainwashed into thinking are good. The main character (a teenage girl) decides to reject the government’s plan. In Uglies, though, Tally seems to constantly be making difficult decisions that can be considered parallel to a modern teenager’s life. I don’t think the murderous survival choices Katniss made in The Hunger Games are very parallel to modern life, noble as they may be. I also thought Tally to be a much more developed character, a more likable person, and a better role model than Katniss was, who bothered me from beginning to end.

I’ll keep this short and end now. There are hundreds of book bloggers out there who love The Hunger Games. Find one of their reviews via Fyrefly’s Book Blog Search. Personally, I’m done with it.

• Hunger: An Unnatural History by Sharman Apt Russell
• Uglies by Scott Westerfeld
• Hunger by Knut Hamsun
• Nineteen Eighty-Four (1984) by George Orwell
• A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
• The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
• The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
• The Painted Veil by W. Somerset Maugham
• Listen to the Wind by Greg Mortenson and Susan L. Roth
• The Madonnas of Leningrad by Debra Dean

Reading Balzac certainly gave me a different perspective. In a sense, it’s kind of a mix between Dumas (humorous exaggeration) and Zola (heart-breaking realism). Honoré de Balzac, who wrote Père Goriot in the 1830s, is named the “father of realism” and this book seems an apt precursor to Zola’s sagas (one of which I read earlier this year).

Père Goriot is not a book I’ll label as a favorite. It was overly dramatic and yet full of humor that I didn’t find funny. But beyond the writing, I simply didn’t like the story and failed to seriously care about any of the characters. I wanted to care. I wanted to overly moved as Balzac  warned in the beginning that I would be:

you who sink down in your soft easy chair, saying to yourself: Maybe this book is going to be fun. And then, after you’ve read all about Père Goriot’s miserable secrets, you’ll have yourself a good dinner and blame your indifference on the author, scolding him for exaggeration, accusing him of having waxed poetic. Ah, but let me tell you: this drama is not fictional, it’s not a novel. All is true – so true you’ll be able to recognize everything that goes into it in your own life, perhaps even in your own heart. (page 6)

Balzac succeeded in writing of universal things, but as we discussed in our book group, it’s a somewhat negative portrayal of human nature. In Père Goriot, Balac depicts a young man (Eugéne de Rastignac) who will do anything to get to the top of society. At times, he seems to struggle to balance his upbringing with the questionable activities he seeks after. Yet, for the most part, it seemed to me that Eugéne was abandoning and using his mother, even as he was upset with Goriot’s daughters for abandoning and using their father. What a negative view of humanity to equate Eugéne’s desire for power to the politicians and business people today who likewise abandon family for positions of prestige! Yet, such is Balzac’s point.

Not all humanity is power-grubbing and selfish. The sweet scenes between Eugéne and the old man are precious, and I did get rather chocked up towards the end. But even Goriot was a man who had cheated his fellows during the years of the Revolution, spoiled his daughters, and lived for a powerful life (not that he succeeded). In some respects, his miserable end seemed to me what he deserved. But that makes me sound rather heartless.

I read this for my classics book club, and we had a great discussion Wednesday night. Will I be reading more Balzac? Probably not. But I’m glad I read this and could discuss it with a book club.

I read the Norton Critical Edition, translated by Burton Raffel. I loved the translation: it was easy to read and yet had a depth of writing that the other I tried (Henry Reed) didn’t have.  While I didn’t read much of the end matter, that which I did read was very interesting.

Have you read Balzac? Do you like his “realistic” portrayal of society?

• Possession by A.S. Byatt
• May and Milton in May in Review + Challenges Update and Reading Journal
• Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
• A Taste of Imperial Russian Literature
• The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy (In Chancery and To Let)
• The Help by Kathryn Stockett
• East of Eden by John Steinbeck (Thoughts on a Reread)
• Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather
• Baby’s Sunday Salon, January 4
• Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See

Besides being an interesting look at 1920s gender roles in raising a family, The Home-maker by Dorothy Canfield was, to me, a reminder at what it means to “make a home,” particularly by making it in to a pleasant place. l loved the reminder that being a stay-at-home parent is not about nagging my child and scrubbing the floor but rather watching him learn and grow. It was so beautiful.

Home-maker Evangelina Knapp is an energetic perfectionist, who cannot do anything halfway. Her husband, Lester, is a thinker, one who cannot stand living by a clock and meeting exacting deadlines. He prefers to consider all people and situations with a little bit of poetry; nothing is clear-cut or obvious.  Since it’s the middle of the 1920s and they live in a small New England town, their lives are pretty much decided for them: Lester is the unhappy and unsuccessful breadwinner of the family and Eva is what she considers to be a perfect mother, full of unrealistic expectations for her young children.

From the first page, I despised the mother. Eva was overly critical to a fault, and when she literally made her son sick with her nagging at his imperfections, I wanted someone to interfere physically, since I couldn’t. There seemed to be no end to her taking her frustrations out on her children, and I wondered why she and everyone else in town thought she was such a great mother. After the first dozen or so pages, I put the book down. I thought I couldn’t stand any more.

But then we met the father. Lester was frustrated with his wife, his job, his inability to take the time to talk to his children, and pretty much everything about his life. He’s unable to get promotion because he’s so bored and unsuccessful at his job, and I felt there was no end to his frustrations either. Could I take much more of this? Life really was horrible for everyone in this family.

Then, when their roles were suddenly reversed, I fell in love with the novel. Although some readers may most love seeing the way Eva blossomed in her new role, I most related to Lester and his coming to terms with being a “home-maker.” Mostly, I loved how for him that term didn’t mean “keeping the house spotless” as it had for the compulsive Eva. Rather, for him it meant reaching out to his children, loving them for who they are, and watching them grow into themselves. I loved when he started telling his young son the story of Pilgrim’s Progress. And there were many such memorable scenes. In the Persephone catalog online, they say, “The scene where he surreptitiously watches his youngest child learning to use an egg whisk is one of the great scenes in the literature of childhood.” I have to agree. I even cried, especially as I pondered my own young son’s learned curve. Lester was the embodiment of patient nurturing in a parent. I wish I had a dose of such patience.

The characters are two extremes. One loves working outside of the home and seems to have a never-ending supply of energy. The other has an endless supply of patience for such tasks as learning to cook (even cracking an egg for the first time) and listening to a rowdy child. I think most parents, whether they are a stay-at-home mom or a stay-at-home dad or a full-time employee, are a mix of both extremes. I suspect that most parents need some outlet so they don’t get frustrated (as Eva did in the novel) and most full-time employees need time off from the job to unwind. I think it helps that now, 90 years later, the tasks of being in a home have lessened, from cooking (take out, anyone?) to darning the socks (we normally just buy new ones) to refilling the coal furnace every day (how Lester Knapp disliked that task in his “down time”!).

Since it was written in the 1920s, The Home-maker was mainly about the gender roles that were expected: Lester, the man, was expected to bring home the bacon. Eva, the mother, was to be the home-maker. Both knew their roles, and it took a tragedy to allow them to have a chance at swapping them. Some of the conversations stood out to me.

“Do you know what you are saying to me, Mattie Farnham? You are telling me that you really think that home-making is a poor, mean, cheap job beneath the dignity of anybody who can do anything else,” said Lester.

… “How dare you say such a thing!” [Mattie responded.] “I never dreamed of having such an awful idea. . . . Home-making is the noblest work anybody can do!”

“Why pity me then?” asked Lester with a grin, drawing his needle in and out of the little stocking. (178-179)

And that is what I loved about this book, for home-making was celebrated. As a full-time home-maker, I am sometimes a bit frustrated like Eva was. I am sometimes just dying to get out of the house and out of two-year-old conversations, which is why I volunteer at the library one morning a week and blog in any free time. But I was also frustrated and bored to death for the five years I worked full-time. The day I quit because my son was coming was a day I felt I left a cage that had entrapped my soul. (I really related to Lester’s feelings on that.) I love being a stay-at-home mom!  I can’t say I love cleaning toilets and sweeping the floor (and I loved Lester’s solution to mopping….) but most of the aspects of home-making are much more to my satisfaction than working full time. I don’t want pity today, just like Lester didn’t want pity.

And Lester kept getting pitied. The 1920s shock of having a man be the home-maker reminded me how necessary it is for all people to be taught to nurture, listen, and have patience. This book made me glad for the times I’ve seen my little son hugging his baby doll and saying, “Mommy, baby doll is crying. You give him a hug too?” It made me glad that he loves to help me cook and he mixes up his own invisible creations in a bowl with a spoon, saying “Yummy!” It also made me glad that he types on the computer “working,” and helps dig in the garden with me, and sweeps the kitchen floor, and is otherwise a worker. In short, I’m glad my son is well-rounded!

There were things that bothered me about the novel, especially the lack of communication between the husband and wife. Maybe this is a reflection of the 1920s, when intimate conversations about gender roles were not acceptable. Dorothy Canfield’s preface to the novel had some interesting comments on gender roles. She says, in essence, that each family should do what works for them, and not succumb to “tradition” if it’s not working out. Couples should communicate.

Once again, this is a book I wish that my library had a dozen copies of so I could suggest it to my book club which has a few stay-at-home moms and some working moms. We’d have a great discussion!

Ironically, once again the only copy my library system had was not the new Peresphone-published copy but the Center Point Large Print edition. I am not sure about the faithfulness of the text, since even the back cover has a typo (“Selected as one of the 500 greatest books every written by a woman…”). This is one book I’ve love to own in the Persephone edition, for I think I need to reread it every time I start to get Eva-overwhelmed and need a Lester-reminder of what home-making really is about.

• The Enchanted April by Elizabeth Von Arnim
• Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day by Winifred Watson
• Home Buying for Dummies and Three Other Books
• The Odyssey by Homer: The Story
• Aucassin and Nicolette by an Out-of-the-Box Medieval Author
• The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy (In Chancery and To Let)
• Death in Children’s Literature: Love You Forever by Robert Munsch
• Naomi by Junichiro Tanizaki
• We by Yevgeny Zamyatin
• Père Goriot by Honoré de Balzac

The first part of the month was taken up by reading a Dover Thrift anthology of stories by American Women. Edited by Candace Ward, the volume had thirteen stories, one of which I skipped because I couldn’t get into it. (That story was “Life in the Iron-Mills” by Rebecca Harding Davis. The blurb about it compared it to Emile Zola, and that was enough to turn me against it. It also started quite slowly.) The anthology has (mostly) public domain works in it; I’ve found an online link where available.

The stories I did read, with my thoughts about them, were as follows. This is the order I read them in. A dark red font indicates it was one of my favorites.

1. “Sweat” by Zora Neale Hurston. An unappreciated laundry lady deals with her adulterous husband. I thought this was an interesting story, but the writing was not as impressive as I thought Hurston’s other works are. As in her novels, Hurston writes dialog in dialect, and the characters and situations were realistic. This was her first major publication, and it appeared in one of the Harlem Renaissance journals, so I appreciated it for its historical value as well, even though it wasn’t a favorite story.
2. “Sancturary” by Nella Larsen. Loyalty is put to the test when a young man shows up in Annie Poole’s house seeking a hiding place. I have Larsen’s novel Passing on my TBR, so I was really hoping I loved this story, which was one of her last published works. It was so short that I felt I couldn’t get into the characters. Yet, the theme is one that couldn’t have been extended. It was a plot and issue-based story, not a character one. Read it online >>>
3. “A New England Nun” by Mary Wilkins Freeman. Louisa has been waiting fifteen years for her lover to return with his fortune and marry her; the time has come. I think it’s a great short story because the characters and setting are well introduced, and I also have an emotional connection. In the end, there is a catharsis, and someone is changed by the end of the story. I had read this before and once again I found it subtly satisfying. Read it online >>>
4. “Trancendental Wild Oats” by Louisa May Alcott. A family settles in an utopian community. The note in my book indicates that this was semi-autobiographical, and I could sense Alcott’s bitterness toward the event. As a short story, though, I found there to be little point to this story. I didn’t connect with any characters, I didn’t think it was humorous, and I was plainly bored. (Apparently, this is a satire. I totally missed that!) Read it online >>>
5. “The Yellow Wall-Paper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. A woman is put on house rest to calm her mental state, only to find the wallpaper tormenting her. I’ve read this many times before, and I’ve always enjoyed it. It was definitely time for a reread. Although it was not my favorite story from this collection, I think it’s a necessary story because it does such a great job of capturing a tormented woman’s mind.  Read it online >>>
6. “Smoke” by Djuna Barnes. The weakly child of a strong couple struggles to meet their expectations for the family. This was the most unmemorable story that I read in the volume. I wasn’t impressed with the writing or the story line (such as it was). I didn’t feel drawn in to the characters in any way.
7. “The Stones of the Village” by Alice Dunbar-Nelson. A mixed-race young man tries to escape the racism of his past by “passing” for white. While I knew a lot of Harlem Renaissance stories dealt with “passing,” I haven’t read any, other than Schuyler’s satire. I found this quite interesting for that historical reason. I didn’t feel drawn in to the characters or the story but there is plenty there in this story. Maybe it deserves a reread someday so I can give it another chance.
8. “The Storm” by Kate Chopin. During a violent rainstorm, a happily married man stops in the house of a former lover, who is now a happily married woman. This was a great story. It was incredibly short but the two characters’ thoughts were foremost in the action, and the concept of the raging storm was an appropriate symbol for the passion of the young people. Chopin did a great job of capturing people and characters in little space. It made me want to read more Chopin (see below). Read it online >>>
9. “The White Heron” by Sarah Orne Jewett. A young New England woman meets a traveling young hunter who wants her to reveal the home of the local white heron. I read this years ago and I had hoped I’d “get” it more now. Unfortunately, I still didn’t really enjoy it much. The introduction indicates that Sylvia’s decision (help the man or save her friend the heron) allows her to gain “an awareness both sexual and spiritual.” I didn’t see that at all. I just never connected to the characters and I felt bored as I read it.  Read it online >>>
10. “The Angel at the Gate” by Edith Wharton. Paulina feels it is her duty to keep up the House of her famous ancestor, even though no one else remembers him.  Wharton always seems to write about “duty” and makes us think “what would you do?” From what I’ve read by Wharton, this was not her strongest work. I didn’t feel any sense of connection with Paulina. But I’m not one to hold on to strange traditions for no reason; maybe if I did, I’d have related to Paulina’s predicament more.
11. “Paul’s Case” by Willa Cather. A young man seeks for his place in the world, only to be constantly thwarted. This was a complicated story. At parts, I felt like I was getting to really know Paul, but other times he felt just out of reach. In some respects, I think that was the point. Paul was supposed to appear non-understandable. Since I’d hoped to love Cather’s contribution, I was disappointed, but this may be because I was getting bored with the short story overall by this point. Read it online >>>
12. “A Jury of Her Peers” by Susan Glaspell. A quiet and unassuming local woman is accused of murder and her neighbors visit her house to try to figure out what happened. I loved this story! Although it was plot driven and not character driven, it was a refreshing look at how women were underestimated and discriminated against in a small community at the turn of the last century. I connected with the women in the story and loved the ending punch. Read it online >>>

After I finished this volume of stories, I decided to read my volume of Chopin’s stories. (I have her novella The Awakening, with about 10 short stories afterward). I wasn’t, overall, impressed with the Louisiana short stories. I struggled with the dialect, the French, and the unfamiliar themes. But I really enjoyed the stories about women in distinct situations. Two stood out to me.

My favorite story this month is one I think all should read. In “The Story of an Hour,” Chopin follows the thought process of one woman when she gets news of her husband’s death. It is so perfect, and I love the irony at the end. Because it is incredibly short, I don’t want to say anymore. Instead, go Read it online >>>

The other Chopin story I really liked was “A Pair of Silk Stockings.” In this, a busy and frugal woman spends her $15 on herself instead of on her children. Chopin doesn’t follow the woman’s thoughts, but rather her actions in this. I loved it because, I admit, I can relate to some extent! Mothers certainly need time to splurge on themselves. I felt sorry for this woman who hadn’t had the chance to do so for so long a time. Read it online >>>

I also have a volume of Mary Wilkins Freeman short stories, and since she’s contemporary to these other authors, I thought I’d give hers a try to. At this point in May, though, I was quite tired of short stories. I only read a few Freeman’s stories before I ended the project early.

The one Freeman story that I really did like was “The Revolt of Mother.” As with the last Chopin story, this is an action-driven story rather than one that follows the character’s thoughts. I cheered for the woman’s choices, for she was also a slighted woman who deserved something for herself. Read it online >>>

In the end, I have decided that a short story a day is far too many. I don’t like them that much, and reading that many shot stories gets tiring. I like a plot and characters that I can sink into, and short stories can’t do that. That said, I have rediscovered some old favorite stories, and I need to read more of them at some point. Just maybe not all at once.

What are your favorite classic short stories? How often do you read short stories? Do you get tired of them if you read them in bulk?

• Stories by Anton Chekhov
• The Student by Anton Chekhov: A Perfect Short Story
• Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Favorites)
• Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Introductory Thoughts)
• Why Women Should Rule the World by Dee Dee Myers
• Love in a Fallen City and Other Stories by Eileen Chang
• Stories by O. Henry (and Another BBAW Giveaway)
• How to Read and Why: Short Stories Retrospective
• Stories by Vladimir Nabokov
• Stories by Flannery O’Connor

Little Boy Lost

In the aftermath of World War II, Englishman Hilary Wainwright is trying to come to terms with his life, which is now in tatters. Since he’d been living in Paris before the war, friends are no longer where they once were, and post-occupation Paris is nearly unrecognizable as itself. His beautiful European wife, Lisa, has been captured and killed by the Gestapo. Most significantly, his son, John, whom he met only on the day he was born, has been lost.

I honestly had never considered the impact of the war, occupied France, and so forth, on the families that had been living in France. As I read, I felt the pain that Hilary was going through. I felt like I was emotionally on edge at the stress of the situation and the heart-breaking events of occupied France, from families torn apart to fear and betrayal. My own son is two years old, and so I was constantly thinking of him as Hilary thought of his own son. In that respect, I could better relate to Lisa, the mother who had been killed but who had first found some way of protecting her son. I loved how the story all worked out.

In some respects, I think Laski wrote with a detached perspective. I never felt quote like I was completely relating to Hilary, and only in retrospect do I see that that is how it needed to have been done. Laski was writing herself very close to the horrors of the war. She herself could not immerse herself into the horrors; she needed to have a little bit of distance as she presented the facts. The best part of this approach was that I never felt manipulated. I was emotionally drawn in, but never tricked into emotion. That is a successful novel.

The title, I think, refers not just to the young child but also to the man Hilary, who is looking for his son. He also is lost without love, and he’s afraid. I love how it all comes together in the end. For a while I was pretty frustrated (and horrified) by Hilary’s selfishness. It made him truly real, though, for after all the heartache and loss he’d been through, feeding his passions and loneliness through superficial means did make sense.

I read Little Boy Lost because after all the reviews during Claire and Verity’s Peresphone week, I thought I’d give another Peresphone book a chance. Claire at Kiss a Cloud had a very short glowing post about Little Boy Lost that caught my eye and then Nat at In the Spring is the Dawn also had a review. I was able to find a copy of it in the state of Illinois via Worldcat, so I was pleased to be able to read it. Note that, ironically, the only copy I found is not the new Peresphone-published copy but the original 1949 printing. Nonetheless, the book is the same!

In the end, I enjoyed it. It was a perfectly satisfying quick read that let me become emotionally attached to the characters and left me thinking. It’s given me a definite interest in reading more Persephone books! In fact, I’m off to search for more that may be in my library system or in the state of Illinois somewhere.

• I Kill Giants by Joe Kelly and JM Ken Nimura
• Any Interest in a May Read-Along of Paradise Lost?
• Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
• Milton in May Week 1: Introduction and Paradise Lost Books 1-3
• Milton in May: Paradise Lost, Books 4-6
• Milton in May: Paradise Lost, Books 7-9
• Milton in May: A Paradise Lost Read-Along
• Milton in May: Areopagitica and Adam and Eve’s Choice in Paradise Lost
• Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
• Milton in May (erm, and June): Paradise Lost, Books 10 to 12 + Two Reading Aids

Silence

Yet, to some extent, Silence seems similar to the other Japanese novels I’ve read (Naomi, The Makioka Sisters, The Old Capital) because all occurs under the conflict of Japanese society versus western society; Silence happens to take place 300 years earlier, showing that such conflicts are long-rooted in Japan. Silence, although at its heart a Christian novel, is likewise a Japanese novel in the way it adopts the common struggle toward accepting western ideals that seems to recur in Japanese literature (at least, in the ones I’ve read: I suspect this is a common theme).

The main character in Silence is Father Rodrigues, a priest coming from Portugal to discover why the other fathers have disappeared from contact. Surely, those faithful men did not apostatize from the faith? At this point in the 1600s, Christianity has been made illegal, and anyone found practicing Catholicism is tortured, priests especially. Father Rodrigues is entering a place from which he will not emerge the same.

The novel’s writing felt uneven to me: it switched from first-person narration to third-person narration to “reports” by unknown officials. I didn’t like this writing style, I didn’t like the change in perspective, and it felt odd to constantly be searching for ground when I picked it up. I was not crazy about the novel for those reasons. The subject, however, made this a book I had to keep reading.

Although I am a Christian, I am not a Catholic. I don’t worship idols or images, nor do I consider such items sacred. The people’s specific faith and Father Rodrigues’ presence seemed very ritualistic and “western” to me. Father Rodrigues clearly had a strong faith in Christ. Yet, his relationship to the people seemed to be as a leader of ritualistic importance, from confession to providing rosaries and crosses. Despite the fact that the Catholic elements were not familiar to me, the need for missionary work in an area where it is not appreciated reminded me strongly of occurrences elsewhere in the world and in scripture.

The novel’s title, Silence, refers to the Father’s frustration with the heavens not stopping the atrocities happening to the faithful Christian people. He didn’t feel he’d received any understanding as to why these things were happening. Similar atrocities to people of faith have happened throughout history, from the early Christian missionaries to the Jews in the Holocaust.

One scriptural example from the Book of Mormon seemed to echo through my mind as I read Endo’s book. I share it simply because it gives me comfort to see that (1) God takes the righteous into his care; (2) God allows people to have agency, even when they choose poorly; and (3) God will hold people responsible for the ways they treat others, even if retribution is not evident here on earth.

Contextual note: After the missionaries Alma and Amulek taught the people in the community of Ammonihah, persecution arose and the missionaries were kept in jail while the righteous were tortured and killed. Amulek own family is probably among the wives and children.

8 And they brought their wives and children together, and whosoever believed or had been taught to believe in the word of God they caused that they should be cast into the fire; and they also brought forth their records which contained the holy scriptures, and cast them into the fire also, that they might be burned and destroyed by fire.

9 And it came to pass that they took Alma and Amulek, and carried them forth to the place of martyrdom, that they might witness the destruction of those who were consumed by fire.

10 And when Amulek saw the pains of the women and children who were consuming in the fire, he also was pained; and he said unto Alma: How can we witness this awful scene? Therefore let us stretch forth our hands, and exercise the power of God which is in us, and save them from the flames.

11 But Alma said unto him: The Spirit constraineth me that I must not stretch forth mine hand; for behold the Lord receiveth them up unto himself, in glory; and he doth suffer that they may do this thing, or that the people may do this thing unto them, according to the hardness of their hearts, that the judgments which he shall exercise upon them in his wrath may be just; and the blood of the innocent shall stand as a witness against them, yea, and cry mightily against them at the last day.  Alma 14:8-11

And so Silence also seems to me to echo the issues surrounding Milton’s Paradise Lost. People have agency to choose what they do, just as Eve and Adam did in the garden. The military leaders in Japan in the 1600s probably weren’t quite sure about Christianity; I don’t think those leaders fully comprehended the doctrine of the priests that they were torturing. Nevertheless, whether they did or didn’t, God knows: he will take all in to consideration and he will hold them responsible.

As for the novel: *spoiler* Personally, I don’t think Father Rodrigues truly apostatized, and maybe that is the point. He still believed. Putting one’s foot on an image, while breaking his faith to some extent, didn’t mean that he stopped believing in Christ. The last section of the novel, which was a series of “reports” from the era, seemed to suggest that Rodrigues was still secretly teaching of Christ. Christianity had to change tactics and go “underground.”

Silence is a Christian historical novel, and also a purely Japanese one. There is a definite conflict between East and West in it, and yet the main conflict is an internal one. It is a story of a man of faith coming to an understanding of the world and his place in it. Although his faith is tested in a violent situation, his story is one that I suspect resonates in Christians today, for who has not questioned the “why”s behind the relationships of God and man?

• Naomi by Junichiro Tanizaki
• Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan
• The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order by Samuel P. Huntington
• Abraham Lincoln: A Man of Faith and Courage by Joe Wheeler
• The Makioka Sisters by Junichiro Tanizaki
• Divine Songs by Isaac Watts (Poetry Friday)
• Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis
• The Old Capital by Yasunari Kawabata
• A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
• Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton

In the introduction, Knut Hamsun’s Hunger is compared to works by Camus, Dostoevsky, and Kafka. I’ve only read one Camus, The Stranger (thoughts here), which dealt with the hopelessness of life. Hunger certainly did make things seem pointless: the narrator was just trying to live, and the stories and articles he tried to write just seemed ridiculous in the middle of his extreme poverty.

On the other hand, Hunger was a perfect novel to read so close on the heels of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment (thoughts here). Much as Raskolnikov, the unnamed narrator in Hunger thought highly of himself. Trained to be a scholar and writer, he imagined himself a class above the people he met on the street. When a beggar (of a lower class) stopped him and asked for a bit of money to buy food, the narrator immediately went to the pawn shop and sold his vest for one and a half krone. He gave one krone to the beggar, saving only 50 øre for himself, despite the fact that he hadn’t eaten for more than a day himself (page 9).

Later, when he stays in the police station overnight because he’d lost his house key, he was too proud to request a free breakfast:

A ticket, a ticket for me too! I haven’t eaten for more than three long days and nights. A loaf of bread! But nobody offered me a ticket and I didn’t dare request one. That would have aroused instant suspicion. They would begin to poke around in my private affairs and find out who I really was… (page 70)

Despite the fact that he was starving, he feared admitting to strangers that he was not a journalist who had simply lost his room key; he did not want to admit that he was a starving writer that hadn’t written anything worthwhile in some time. He was prideful, as I saw Raskolnikov as prideful.

The narrator also couldn’t allow himself to steal, which ironically reminded me of Raskolnikov. Although the later did steal, he could not, in the end, tolerate his own action. Similarly, when the narrator inadvertently gained some money (a clerk gave change when it wasn’t due) and decided to use it for food, he ultimately felt guilty and gave it all away to a vendor: he wanted to keep his conscience clear of guilt, even when he hadn’t eaten for quite some time.

There are some religious elements to the narrator’s struggling, but it wasn’t as strong a theme as Raskolnikov’s internal religious struggles. On the contrary, the religion of Hamsun’s narrator actually appeared rather ridiculous, rather than helpful.

And then: Kafka. While I haven’t read Kafka, there are some aspects of this reading that made me think of him. I feel somewhat ridiculous referring to a “Kafka-esque” style when I’ve never read Kafka. Yet, the introduction used this section as demonstration of the Kafka-esque style, and I’d noticed it myself as I read:

I felt I was myself a crawling insect doomed to perish, seized by destruction in the midst of a whole world ready to go to sleep. (page 27)

But beyond the analogy to a bug (which recurs later in the text), the narrator occasionally shifted tenses from the general past tense (he told the bulk of his story in retrospect) and present tense, as if he is still living it. I found such tense shifts utterly fascinating. It seemed that telling the story brought the narrator back to those moments. But this also reminded me of Kafka (which again, I have never read): the narrator is becoming something he is not. For example, take this sample of tense shift that came just before the above-quoted insect passage:

Quite instinctively, I had again gotten paper and pencil into my hands, and I sat and wrote mechanically the date 1848 in every corner of the page. . . I sit there on the bench and write 1848 dozens of times; I write this number crisscross in all possible shapes and wait for a usable idea to occur to me… (page 26-27)

When the tense began to shift in the middle of a paragraph, it made the narrator seem a little less mentally complete. When I think of an unreliable narrator, I often think of narrators that are lying, whether obviously or subtly. In this case, the narrator was trying to be honest as he told his story. He still became unreliable, though, because his present was confused with the story he was telling. The pain (both physical and emotional) of starvation was very prescient even in retrospect.

Knut Hamsun was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1920 mainly for his 1917 novel The Growth of the Soil, a saga about Norwegian settlers told in third person. Hunger (in Norwegian: Sult) was written in 1890, when Hamsun was a relatively unknown beginning writer. It is told in a fascinating first person, and seems intensely personal, possibly because it is semi-autobiographical.

If this is Hamsun’s powerful early novel, I am quite excited to see how he treats his family saga. Hunger was a wonderful introduction to a novelist I look forward to reading more of.

A note on the translation, which is from Norwegian by Sverre Lyngstad: The translator’s note indicates that “the two English translation of Hunger hitherto available are both marred by egregious flaws.” Such flaws include the excision of erotic passages and misreading of the text, including elimination of the tense shifts that made it so interesting. As such, I’m grateful I read the translation I did. Beware the free online options! More likely than not, they are the flawed translations.

• Hunger: An Unnatural History by Sharman Apt Russell
• The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
• Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell
• Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog) by Jerome K. Jerome (narrated by Martin Jarvis)
• The Odyssey by Homer: The Story
• The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
• The Madonnas of Leningrad by Debra Dean
• Jazz by Toni Morrison
• A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
• The Elements of Cooking by Michael Ruhlman

It was not an enjoyable read for me. Coming from both a Western perspective and a modern one, I found just about all the aspects of the dying Japanese upper-class culture to be dreadful. The attempts at an arranged marriage for the aging third daughter, the repression of the modern and talented fourth daughter, and the family and social politics (that is, trying to keep up appearances as a successful and happy family) all seemed pointless.

Yet, Tanizaki captured the family so exactly that I could not help believing that such a family did exist. I better understand the era of Japanese history and the pain that came from rapidly modernizing centuries-old traditions.

The eldest (and married) Makioka sister lives Osaka, and the two youngest (unmarried) sisters live with the second sister (Sachiko) and her family in the nearby suburb of Ashiya. The sisters are all quite different, and the ultimate goal of marrying off the shy and quickly aging third daughter, Yukiko, causes stress and strife among all personalities. Further, the youngest daughter, Koi-san, is intent on living a modern life, which constantly conflicts with the traditions of respectability the older sisters insist on conforming to.

Much as Jane Austen’s novels of social propriety surrounding marriage (as Tanabata mentions in the review that got me to pick up this book), The Makioka Sisters is a study of traditional social mores and necessary traditional steps to a proper marriage. With the clash of modern and western ideals, such traditions are not welcomed by all the sisters. Unlike in Jane Austen, the results of accepting such traditions are not altogether romantic and satisfying to the parties involved. This is a realistic novel.

I am not familiar with Japanese politics prior to World War II, yet all references to politics seemed to me to give the novel a sense of foreboding. Just as in their daily lives obscure events are deemed “lucky” or “unlucky,” various political events were deemed as positive developments not just for the future of Japan but for the sisters.

Tanizaki wrote the novel from 1943-1948, in serial form, meaning that he wrote the beginning (which was the late 1930s) before the war had ended. Reading the long (500+ page) novel at a slow pace myself, I found it interesting to consider the significance of the war on the development of the novel. Tanizaki increasingly mentioned the war at the end of the novel,  because the end of the novel took place in 1940. It had been written probably eight years later, so Tanizaki’s perspective had changed in that time. I sensed that all would not be right in the end, either for Japan’s plans to dominate China or for the Makioka family’s arrangements. It ends, as I mentioned, with diarrhea. This is not a happy ending, although I cannot imagine it ending in any other way.

Most reviews include some indication of whether or not the reader liked it, and whether or not I’d recommend it. When it comes to The Makioka Sisters, I do not feel I can answer either direction, yeay or nay. I read it over the course of nearly two months, and at times I found it horribly dull. The characters were irritating and boring, their lives were boring, and there was no hope for change. But having finished the novel, I can look back on it as a whole. Such boredom was utterly realistic as it pertains to life. It was perfectly crafted, and Tanizaki’s ability to capture the social mores of the Japanese social world was exquisite. For those with the patience to deal with the gloomy details of everyday life, it is edifying. I am ultimately glad I read it for it is truly a classic Japanese masterpiece.

Translated from Japanese by Edward Seidensticker.

• Naomi by Junichiro Tanizaki
• Silence by Shusaku Endo
• The Pillow Book by Sei Shonagon
• The Old Capital by Yasunari Kawabata
• Beauty and the Beast + The Complete Fairy Tales of Charles Perrault
• The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
• The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy (The Man of Property)
• The Enchanted April by Elizabeth Von Arnim
• The Housekeeper and the Professor by Yoko Ogawa
• Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See

The title comes from a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley: “Lift Not the Painted Veil Which Those Who Live.” For Kitty Fane, lifting the veil of life certainly does reveal a “gloomy scene.” Kitty was a beautiful but spoiled and flirtatious girl, raised in turn-of-the-century London to flirt and marry well. Marrying the dull Walter Fane in desperation (so she would not still be single at her younger sister’s wedding) did nothing to temper her passion for self-indulgence. As the novel opens in Hong Kong, Kitty and her lover Charles have been discovered in the midst of their affair. What follows is her coming to terms with life as it really is, not as she had been raised to see it (i.e., as a setting for parties, flirtations, and entertainment).

At the beginning of the novel, I thought it was going to be about adultery. Quickly, I realized that this novel was about so much more. At times, it is about reconciliation and forgiveness. It is about understanding other people. Even more, it is about understanding one’s self and one’s place in the world.

Do not be mistaken in to thinking that The Painted Veil is a love story: the realistic bits of life are not quite as pleasant as we may prefer; there is no romance in betraying loved ones and facing the consequences. The Painted Veil does show Kitty’s change to some extent. I struggled to appreciate it, for the book ends without Kitty’s self-realization being complete. Yet, in the end Kitty hates herself, while in the beginning she thought highly of herself. Since I never liked her to begin with, it seemed rather dreary to me. I consistently wanted to smack her.

As for Maugham’s writing, I was wholly unimpressed. At points I thought the dialogue was well done, but the description of Kitty’s thoughts and feelings were tedious; I thought of the maxim to “show and not tell.” Truly, Maugham’s forte was the plot, and I unfortunately happened to dislike this plot. Maybe someday I’ll try Maugham again when I find a plot that intrigues me. Unfortunately, The Painted Veil was not a promising start to Maugham for me.

I’ve had numerous people indicate they like this book, however, so don’t take my word for it. It is a fast read, and if you are intrigued, it may be a favorite for you. (And no, watching the movie does not count, as there are significant changes in that. For the record, I did not like that either.)

• To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
• May and Milton in May in Review + Challenges Update and Reading Journal
• The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
• Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
• The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy (The Man of Property)
• Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
• God’s Bits of Wood by Sembene Ousmane

I’ve been meaning to read the Robin Hood story, and this one was as good as any. Written by Tony Lee and illustrated by Sam Hart and Artur Fujita, Outlaw captures many facets of the tradition. As in most traditions, Robin is the Earl of Loxley, returning home from the crusades; John Little was the previous leader of the outlaws; Marian is the love interest who helps the outlaws; the outlaws steal from the rich to give to the poor; and King John attempts to usurp the throne from King Richard. It all works out well in the end.

Because I’m familiar with the story, I wasn’t reading this so much for the familiar but to see what they did differently. Reading as a graphic novel was the most interesting aspect. I enjoyed Sam Hart and Artur Fujuita’s illustrations. They were full-color and detailed, which was both good and bad. I liked the gorgeous sweeping full-page illustrations, but as I read the smaller panels, each detailed bearded man blended with the next and I struggled to tell them apart.  However, I was reading it quickly. (Visit the Amazon Page and click “Look inside” to see samples of the illustrations.)

I liked the author’s interesting story arch. Robin wants to revenge his father’s death, and he wants to prove himself as “that good.” His father had been unable to save a friend who’d been sent to the gallows, and Robin Hood is determined to never let that happen. Robin’s story comes full circle by the end.

I liked reading this version of the legend, and I also enjoyed the note at the end of the book (by Allen W. Wright, Robin Hood expert) about how the legend has evolved. There are so many sources for this story, and what “really happened” could have been far different from all of them, since it’s evolved over the past millennia.Being a classics geek, I was most interested to hear that Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe has Robin Hood as a supporting character.I am not completely finished with Robin Hood. Outlaw was certainly a fun perspective on the legend.

What folkloric legends are you fascinated with?

Do you have a favorite Robin Hood retelling or movie?

• May and Milton in May in Review + Challenges Update and Reading Journal
• The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Other Stories by Washington Irving
• Caldecott Corner Author Spotlight: Simms Taback
• The Complete Maus: A Survivor’s Tale by Art Spiegelma
• Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi
• Graphic Novels Challenge
• The Arrival by Shaun Tan
• Castle Waiting by Linda Medley
• Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton
• Caldecott Corner: David Wiesner

Today begins the Golden Age of Detective Fiction Classics Circuit, and I have the honor of beginning the tour with reviews of two mystery novels. See the full schedule to see where the tour goes next.

It is rather ironic that I get to start off this great tour, because after reading my two novels, I’ve decided pretty strongly that I am not a great fan of the mystery novel. Although I enjoyed both of them, I found myself a bit bored, I’m sorry to say.

That said, both novels actually were rather excellent, just not my favorite genre. If you, like me, do not normally read mystery and would like to try one, either Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express or Strong Poison by Dorothy Sayers would both be great books to start with, although for different reasons.

Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie is a novel that I read when I was younger (maybe age 13 or 14), and I’ve been looking forward to a reread.  It was a quick and easy read, and while it feels a little superficial, Hercule Poirot was just a great caricature of a detective. Overall, the murder mystery seemed almost pleasant to read. I never thought I’d put murder mystery and “pleasant” in the same sentences, but there you have it! The victim was not a very likeable person, and Mr. Poirot was such a calm detective solving the mystery that it was amusing to read.

It was not simply that Poirot was a caricature: every person in the novel met some stereotype. The two-page summary “cast of characters” in the beginning of the novel pretty much captures all we learn about most of the passengers on the train, which had been snowbound in the night at the time that a passenger was murdered. The mystery is not one that could be accurately predicted by the reader, I don’t think, simply because there is enough left unsaid that Poirot just happens to observe. (These “conveniences” of detection are one reason I do not normally read mystery; it bothers me that the solution always happens to be something a little bit out of the blue.) But despite the fact that Murder on the Orient Express lacks depth of characters and has a convenient plot, it does not need either of those aspects. It’s a clever and satisfying story.

Strong Poison was my first Dorothy Sayers novel, and since I’d read Christie’s novel first, I was surprised, by contrast, of the depth of characters, the emotional struggles of the characters, and the intrigue surrounding the mystery in this novel. There was also a subtle romance in it, and I liked that (since I’m a romantic).

Lord Peter Wimsey is a complicated man enjoying detection as a hobby. In the first scene, he is watching the end of the trial of Harriet Vane, a mystery writer who is on trial for murder of her former lover. He’s decided both that he loves her and that she is innocent, and thus begins his quest to prove her innocence by finding the true murder. I really liked Lord Peter, mostly because he had a deeper personality than I’d expect (at least, compared to the first mystery novel I’d read). He struggled to appear happy, and Sayers shared some of his complex thought processes. He wasn’t the “whimsical” character he at first appeared to be, and I liked the added dimension. It made the novel feel literary, rather than simply a plotted story. It was a long read (I admit I got bored in places) but with red herrings and realistic motives, it seemed satisfyingly complex.

I also found the beginning scene in the court room to be quite interesting, since Harriet’s character is sullied by the fact that she had been living with the deceased man. The judge discussed this at length, and it apparently influenced the court case, which really surprised me. I had to stop and check when it was written (1930), and it reminded me that life for a single woman has certainly changed a lot in the last 80 years!

In sum, then, Strong Poison was certainly more satisfying as a cohesive novel, full of more complex characters and realistic motives as compared to Murder on the Orient Express. Yet, Orient Express had a great story, and because it was so superficially written, it moved quickly I was actively engaged for the whole read. If you are looking for superficial by wonderfully crafted story, I’d suggest Murder on the Orient Express.  If you are looking for something a little more “literary” and deep in terms of writing, character, and plotting, maybe Strong Poison is for you.

I haven’t been converted to detective fiction, and I probably won’t read any more in the foreseeable future, but this was a nice change from my regular reading!

Are you a fan of mysteries? Why or why not?

Have you read Christie or Sayers? Which is your favorite novel by each author?

• Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky
• The Beekeeper’s Apprentice by Laurie King
• May and Milton in May in Review + Challenges Update and Reading Journal
• Genre Fiction: A Tolkein, A Heyer, and A Verne
• Alexander McCall-Smith
• Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton
• My Victorian Summer: We Two by Gillian Gill and Armadale by Wilkie Collins + Reading Journal
• East of Eden by John Steinbeck
• Babylon in a Jar: New Poems by Andrew Hudgins
• The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins

I enjoyed meeting the Ents. I recall that people who adore the books have mentioned that they were mad when the movies came out because the Ents were so poorly portrayed in those, and I can see why. I much prefer the Treebeard of the book. But much as I enjoyed the little bits of Entish folklore in the first section of the book, the first half of the book was mainly about the battles against the orcs, and about the horrible waste that was Saruman’s land. There were few pleasantries and many consequences and battles.

By the second half of the novel, I felt like I was wading through a swamp. I enjoyed the beautiful waterfall retreat, but then the two hobbits and Gollum were back in the dark again. I struggled to not be disgusted by Gollum. I hated Sam’s obsequiousness, and thought Tolkein’s representation of Sam was blindly classist. Someone has mentioned to me before that they loved the example of friendship that Sam and Frodo have, but I personally saw nothing but a master-to-servant relationship in this book.

As for the story of their journey, I was struck by how many themes had been borrowed by J.K. Rowling when she created her Harry Potter series: the lake with dead bodies to spook the travelers, the giant spiders. Obviously, Tolkein’s is much scarier than Rowling’s children’s novels. (Rowling’s spider is not completely blood thirsty.) But I guess symbols of  “evil” are pretty universal, especially in fantasy.

I have been putting off writing my thoughts on The Two Towers. It is not a cohesive novel, nor is it meant to be. The beginning begins elsewhere; the end is yet to be discovered. I found if I read my 20 pages a day as I exercised I was bored to death. But if I sat down for an hour or two and read it straight, I was less bored: I felt I was making progress.

I had originally intended to finish off the trilogy and write my thoughts on the last two books at the same time. But I am dreading picking up the third book, and I wonder when I’ll bother to get around to it. (I may try to focus on it in June.) Yes, The Two Towers ends in a moment of suspense. However, because this is a formulaic good versus evil story, I know good is going to prevail in the end. I’m not holding my breath for the final book’s story of “how that happens” to sweep me off my feet.

Maybe I need to reread The Silmarillion so I can fall in love with Tolkein’s writing again. I really did enjoy that book!

P.S. Isn’t that a great cover above? I read a book with a different one, but I do like the illustration of the Ents!

• The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkein
• A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
• The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkein
• Genre Fiction: A Tolkein, A Heyer, and A Verne
• East of Eden by John Steinbeck (Thoughts on a Reread)
• Foundation by Isaac Asimov
• March in Review + New Challenges + A Brief Reading Journal (7 April)
• East of Eden by John Steinbeck
• Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling (and BBAW giveaway)
• Castle Waiting by Linda Medley

Her role as giant killer is quite apropos, given her surname. Thor was the god of thunder, wielding a giant hammer in his fight against giants. Barbara’s giants exist in real life, but they are genuine problems, and ones we can all relate to.

I love this blend of fantasy and realism. Barbara’s story of learning to fight her giants is both entertaining and emotionally draining. We cheer for this sarcastic yet zesty young girl because we can relate to both her imaginary world and her realistic world.

Amanda mentioned in her mini-review that she was thrown off in the beginning. I was too. I didn’t mind it, though, because I was starting to see the strange blend of fantasy (Barbara’s imagination) and real-life (what actually is happening on this page?). I thought it was cleverly done, but I can see one being a bit disinterested after the first section if one was not expecting fantasy.

I also really enjoyed the conversation between the author and the illustrator that followed the story. Joe Kelly indicated that the idea came to him as he faced a similar “giant” in his life. By teaming with a manga-style illustrator (JM Ken Nimura), Kelly’s story was infused with a greater sense of fantasy. It gave the “battles” of the story a proper ground to expand into a wonderful novel.

And that is all I can say about I Kill Giants. I do not want to reveal the secret giants that Barbara faces because they are so well revealed by degrees in the novel. Suffice it to say that Barbara Thorson battles giants. It brought me to tears. That doesn’t by default make it great. Yet for this book, I was incredibly surprised to have been so emotionally moved. I wasn’t expecting it and to be so emotionally engaged gave this book a rewarding depth.

It’s a great story with marvelous illustrations and an inspiring point in the end. I think it’s the first non-fantasy fiction graphic novel I’ve enjoyed to such an extent. Of course, it might be the first non-fantasy fiction comic I’ve ever read, too, so I’m now incredibly eager to find another favorite!

Here is one picture from the comic. It’s kind of the defining moment at the beginning (page 9).

If you’d like to get an even better feel for the artwork and mix of fantasy versus reality, you can read the first part online at Image Comics. I’d highly recommend you read the entire novel, whether you’re getting it from your local bookstore or the library. (I had to Interlibrary Loan my copy!)

• To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
• Little Boy Lost by Marghanita Laski
• Outlaw: The Legend of Robin Hood by Tony Lee
• To Kill a Mockingbird, The Movie
• A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
• The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkein
• Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
• Caldecott Corner Author Spotlight: Simms Taback
• Understanding Comics by Scott McCloud
• May and Milton in May in Review + Challenges Update and Reading Journal

Of Mice and Men is a sixth the size and, unfortunately, I thought had a comparatively lesser portion of the grandeur and subtly. It is  unfair to compare the two: one is a novella, the other a sweeping generational epic. Yet, my read of Of Mice and Men was colored by my comparisons to East of Eden. Reading Steinbeck’s novella reminded me of reading Wharton’s novella Ethan Frome recently: it just didn’t equal the longer, better work by the author, although it was still well-written and emotionally charged, and addressed an intriguing subject: innocence and guilt.

I still loved the characters (who felt real), the setting (a community near Salinas), and the story. But Of Mice and Men was so short, I found it lacking simply for what it was not. I wanted more: I wanted to be swept away.

Lennie is a gentle giant, a mentally retarded man more than six feet tall who loves to carry mice in his pocket to “pet” them. George is his ever faithful friend, helping him navigate the unfair world. Lennie’s innocent strength is his downfall, and George can’t always come to the rescue.

Chris book-a-rama recently wrote about the Robert Burns poem “To a Mouse,” which inspired Steinbeck’s title. Burns apparently wrote the poem after he overturned the mouse’s home with his plow.

The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

(Read the full poem, and listen to it read, at Chris’s post.)

A note on reading this book: I did something I never do. I bought this book without opening it. I had already picked up a half dozen books at the thrift store (89 cents each) , and then I saw this calling to me so I grabbed it at the last minute as I walked to check out. Well, when I came home and opened it, I realized it was covered with writing. Highlighting, commentary, questions for the teacher,  words circled multiple times with lines leading to the margin saying “Vocab!!” I was annoyed at first, but as I read the novella, I became amused by this girl’s commentary. In the end, it was kind of a fun experience to read it as if I were in eighth grade, reading it for the first time for a class. I wouldn’t suggest that for your first read, but it was, in retrospect, okay and amusing for me.

This post doesn’t really say much about what Of Mice and Men contains. I feel I am talking around the subject. But in my opinion, at 103 pages, the novella doesn’t seem to need much discussion. It’s so self-explanatory, so complete, and so heart-breaking just as it is. As the previous reader of my book wrote in the margin at the end, “I just died inside” reading this novella. And that was a good thing.

I’ll let Of Mice and Men speak for itself.

Do you like reading previous reader’s commentary in the margins of your books? Could you have put up with it? It kind of drove me nuts, but it was okay.

Did you read Of Mice and Men in high school? How did you discuss it? It just seems so self explanatory to me.

• East of Eden by John Steinbeck (Thoughts on a Reread)
• Painting a Novel: East of Eden by John Steinbeck
• East of Eden by John Steinbeck
• Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov + Giveaway
• Carmen by Prosper Merimee
• Milton in May: Comus and Lycidas by John Milton
• Call for Poetry Posts: Deadline Extended!
• Love in a Fallen City and Other Stories by Eileen Chang
• The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway
• The Touchstone by Edith Wharton

Ousmane’s writing was impressive. Although I’ve never been to Senegal, I could picture the setting. He also did a wonderful job of capturing the people in action. It was not a comfortable read given the subject matter, and it was not a novel to be rushed. It was, ultimately, rewarding.

God’s Bits of Wood was, to some extent, about race. It reminded me of the American civil rights movement. Yet, the struggles of the Senegal natives in the 1940s were far different from those of the 1960s American blacks. These natives were repressed by the entire social system, and by protesting the repression of their colonial oppressors, their very freedoms were checked. The colonial leaders denied them water and made food literally impossible to come by (people took to eating rats, among other things). Striking against the colonists was more than walking away from work: Striking was walking away from repression and discrimination and demanding equality in every sense of the word. It was walking away from “modern life” as they knew it.

Since Ousmane is an African writer, his portrayal of the French colonial leaders was not sympathetic. The racism of those leaders was blatant and painful. It made me laugh in disgust to think these leaders thought they had a right to suppress the natives. It made me want to go read my history of Africa book (The Fate of Africa) so I could better understand how the continent got to such a point.

Yet, the novel was about more than race. Although the women at the beginning did not approve of the strike, by the end, they are the ones holding the families together, demanding rights, and showing the colonial leaders the unfairness of their rule. I loved seeing these women come to the understanding of what “freedom” meant. They learned that freedom meant something to them, even as they worked to feed and cloth their large and starving families.

Since Senegal is a Muslim country, many of these women were the polygamous wives of the striking men. The novel was interesting in how it illustrated the positive relationships among the women (for the most part). In the end, I really liked the women the most.

Overall, God’s Bits of Wood emphasized forgiveness, support, and familial love and appreciation. The end showed how forgiveness is necessary in order for all people (God’s bits of wood) to live in peace together. Both the French colonists and the natives of Senegal needed to understand each other. Ousmane showed, just a little bit, how some of those people came to a mutual understanding, at least to a small extent. I’m not sure exactly how much some of the French leaders learned, but they certainly were humbled!

Because the main action takes place in a number of different cities (Dakar, Thies, and Bamako, which is now Mali and not Senegal), God’s Bits of Wood, in the beginning, felt like a series of vignettes. It was very hard for me to keep the characters apart in my mind, and I wished for a “character list” in the beginning of the novel. (The novel had a map of Western Africa, and I referred to that often.) It was also heart-breaking reading. Ousmane would introduce characters and just as I fell in love with them, something bad would happen and the novel would switch to a different setting with a different group of people. It showed just how so many people (bits of wood) there were to learn about and watch suffer.

Despite my confusion initially, though, as the strike (and the novel) progressed, the large cast of characters comes together into a cohesive and satisfactory novel.

Translated from French by William Heineman.

• Why Women Should Rule the World by Dee Dee Myers
• The Makioka Sisters by Junichiro Tanizaki
• Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day by Winifred Watson
• Library Loot and Friday Finds
• Half the Sky by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn
• A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
• Persepolis 2: The Story of a Return by Marjane Satrapi
• Personal History by Katharine Graham + Why I Love a Great Biography
• The Painted Veil by W. Somerset Maugham
• Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell

This first week of May is Persephone Reading Week, which means bloggers around the blogosphere are reading books by the British publisher Persephone. I do not typically search out books based on publisher. Yet, Claire and Verity have such an (I think it’s fair to say) obsession with this publisher that it certainly caught my attention. Persephone Books republishes less well-known classics and brings them back in to print. From the descriptions I’ve read, it seems many are written by women about women, and I love the emphasis on women finding themselves, especially given the era (1920s to 1950s) in which these classics were written.

All that to say: I decided to give a Persephone book a try this week, and I’m glad I did! Although it wasn’t a favorite book, Miss Pettigrew Lives For a Day by Winifred Watson was certainly entertaining. It’s been summarized as a Cinderella story, but I thought it was more comedy than romance. It’s better than any fairy tale. Miss Guinevere Pettigrew is a middle-aged, inadequate governess that can’t keep a job. When she appears at Miss LaFosse’s door one morning, she is determined to be persistent in getting a job.

Miss LaFosse, however, is exactly what Miss Pettigrew least expected, and what follows is a day such as one she’d never expected before. I loved observing how Miss Pettigrew progressively saw herself, and her role as a woman in the late 1930s, in a new light. As Miss Pettigrew talks to the young Miss LaFosse, for example, she realizes “being a woman” had changed:

“I’ve lived too secluded a life,” thought Miss Pettigrew. “I’ve not appreciated how my own sex has advanced. It’s time I realized it.” (page 24)

Miss Pettigrew becomes the confidant and advisor for young trusting Miss LaFosse, and as she reflects on her own life, she finds she does have something to offer to this spontaneous young woman.

“In my life,” said Miss Pettigrew, “a great many unpleasant things have happened. I hope they never happen to you. I don’t think they will because you’re not afraid like me. But there’s one thing I found fatal: pitying myself. It made things worse.” (page 50)

Miss Pettrigrew, you see, is just as able as the other women she meets: she’s just spent so long being looked down on she hadn’t realized her own potential and internal confidence. Put in the right situation, Miss Pettigrew simply blossomed. I loved seeing how clever she was, and I loved even more the moments when she realized that it was still herself being confident. We can do far more than we anticipate.

Her day got more and more ridiculous, yet it was completely satisfying to me. And I felt so sad for the Miss Pettigrews of our day. We all need to friends that appreciate us! We all need something or someone in our lives to help us have a little out-of-the-ordinary day ever now and then.

In all her lonely life Miss Pettigrew had never realized how lonely she had been until now, when for one day she was lonely no longer. (page 69)

Being a romantic, I loved the ending. I wished there was more scenes like The Cab Scene because I loved it so much. This was not, however, primarily a romance. Miss Pettigrew was, firstly, a comedy, and it was just right.

I didn’t like some aspects of the novel, mostly the alcohol. I wished that Watson could have shown Miss Pettigrew being clever without requiring her to have alcohol beforehand. In the beginning, Miss Pettigrew was on top of things and clever as the situation needed. Later, she was “clever” only because she was drunk. For me, the alcohol lessened the effect of Miss Pettigrew’s own abilities. She seemed a far weaker character to me because she let herself be overcome by the alcohol. Obviously, this is colored by my own moral standards, as I am a nondrinker and always have been for personal and religious reason. While I could see the detrimental effect Miss Pettigrew’s super-religious upbringing had on her social abilities (an abundance of guilt and repression, it seemed), I do think it possible to continue to refrain from alcohol and still feel like you “live.” The suggestion that alcohol was necessary for her “day off” lessened the “wonderfulness” of the book for me.

Persephone readers always praise how beautiful the books are. I can’t say anything nice about the physical book. I got a library copy. It’s paperback. Also, it’s a reprint of the original, so it has weird spacing issues and some lines of text are uneven. The illustrations are cute, but in the end it goes to show you can’t judge a book by its cover: reading a book should always be for the words, not the pretty cover. I’m not, therefore, converted to Persephone books themselves or anything like that.

That said, I have spent the last 20 minutes browsing the catalog and deciding which of the 1920s and 1930s woman-centric books I’d like to read next. Apparently, Persephone Books has made an impact on my TBR!

The tragedy is that most of these books are not available. That is, they aren’t in any USA libraries and cost an exorbitant amount to purchase. And purchasing expensive unknown books that I haven’t yet read isn’t going to happen. Books that caught my eye nevertheless: Flush by Virginia Woolf (which thankfully is available in non-Persephone form), The Home-Maker by Dorothy Canfield Fischer, Hostages to Fortune by Elizabeth Cambridge, How to Run your Home Without Help by Kay Smallshaw (which, though it was intended to be self-help manual, sounds hilarious given today’s context). I’m still looking through the catalogue for romantic stories.

• Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell
• A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf
• Why Women Should Rule the World by Dee Dee Myers
• Aucassin and Nicolette by an Out-of-the-Box Medieval Author
• Library Loot and Friday Finds
• The Enchanted April by Elizabeth Von Arnim
• The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck
• The Help by Kathryn Stockett
• Half the Sky by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn
• Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman + Giveaway (Used Book)

It’s an  interesting classic from an historical view point, and the universality of women’s needs speaks to me as a modern stay-at-home wife and mother. Although some of the details aren’t the same anymore, the sentiments in Von Arnim’s forgotten classic haven’t changed much over the years. This is a great book for any person in need of a vacation to recharge, and it’s one I’ll be suggesting to my book club of busy women.

Isolated thirty-year-old Mrs. Wilkins was the one who first discovered the advertisement for an Italian villa. As the novel opens, it’s clear she’s intimidated by her husband and bored with her life. When she finds neighbor Mrs. Arbuthnot likewise dreaming about the villa in the advertisement, Mrs. Wilkins takes matter in to her own hands and reserves the villa, despite her fear of her husband’s displeasure.

By the time April comes, four strangers are ready for a month of reflection and friendship. The story is formulaic, but that does not take away the charm nor the humor. By the end, I found myself wishing I too could have spent April on the coast of Italy.

The Enchanted April reminded me of the getaways I’ve taken with my friends. One summer, my college roommates and I took a road trip across the Midwest: six of us borrowing my mother’s van for five days. A few years later, after some of us had gotten married, we met in a family cabin for two days: no spouses, just girls having a weekend-long sleepover full of gossip and giggling. One fall, years later, another friend and I toured Paris and Italy for a week. Von Amrin’s description of the villa at Portofino reminded me of Cinque Terre.

The fact that my husband and I haven’t had a similar child-free vacation since before my two-and-a-half-year old was born made this book all the more timely. Someday, maybe, we too will get away!

The novel illustrated what it meant to be a woman in the 1920s, and it made me glad to live when I do.  As in the contemporary novel of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, The Enchanted April referred to each woman as called “Mrs.” Their identity was defined by their husbands, and the two young married women had to ask their husbands for money. Mrs. Wilkins truly was trapped with her dissatisfaction and boredom in her marriage, and Mrs. Arbuthnot’s only options were to adapt and accept her husband’s estrangement. In this novel, the ending was happy, although i’m sure in many real-life situations, it is not quite so easy to resolve deep-seated issues. I feel, by contrast, quite free in my marriage and life choices. Yet, it struck me that these 1920s books (I’m also thinking of Virginia Woolf) were so focused on the plight of women. There is much to learn from the past, and I suspect such limits to life options are still quite a real situation in many women’s lives today.

I’m glad this particular forgotten classic has been republished. This gives classics a good name. It’s a delightful and easy read, the setting is somewhat “magical,” and it has a universal theme, for we each have need of a vacation to recharge at times.

Highly Recommended.

I picked up this book because I saw it in the New York Review Books catalogue. The Spotlight Series is highlighting this small publisher in May. Sign up before tomorrow to invite them to your blog as well!

• The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
• Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell
• A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf
• Reading Journal (May 4) and April in Review
• The Home-maker by Dorothy Canfield
• Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day by Winifred Watson
• Half the Sky by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn
• Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman + Giveaway (Used Book)
• Great Short Stories by American Women + Thoughts on A Few Other Great Stories
• Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

The Invention of Morel by Adolfo Bioy Casares was a perfect book for such a time. Although I read the novella quickly and enjoyed it simply as a fantasy story, it has depth that I suspect would benefit from more serious reading and study.

An unnamed narrator has fled to an abandoned island to avoid serving a sentence. After a few months, strange visitors, including a beautiful woman, arrive. His reaction of paranoia caused me to wonder at first if the story was really a psychological study. However, I quickly came to see that it is a science fiction/ fantasy story that questions reality.  Suffice it to say that things are not as they appear on a few different levels. In the introduction, Suzanne Jill Levine writes, “[Bioy’s] narrators say less rather than more, inviting one to read between the lines” (page xiv). I think that is a perfect way to describe what is going on, and what Bioy Casares wants us to find in the story.

I was intimidated by Bioy Casares because I knew he was friends with Jorge Luis Borges and I didn’t really “get” Borges when I read him last year. I was delighted to find The Invention of Morel to be such a quick and engaging read, and yet one that has depth if I chose to read it on a deeper level in the future. (I checked out the Spanish original as well, but since it’s been a heavy reading month for me, I chose not to read it at this time. Maybe I’ll try Spanish when I decide to revisit it!)

I realize I haven’t shared very much about the book. It’s less than 100 pages, though, so I wanted to avoid spoilers. If this mysterious and fantastical island sound like it appeals to you, you should give it a try. I have to say I’m also curious to read The Island of Moreau by H.G. Wells which was somewhat of the inspiration. Have you read that book?

If my word isn’t enough, take the word of Jorge Luis Borges, Adolfo Bioy Casares’ close friend and literary mentor. He did not hesitate in his praise:

To classify it as perfect is neither an imprecision nor a hyperbole. (from the Prologue by Jorge Luis Borges, page 7)

I can’t say I loved it quite that much, but I certainly did enjoy it.

A question: I say “science fiction/fantasy” because I’m not sure what category it fits in. It’s supposedly explained by science, but I suspect such science is actually impossible. What makes a novel science fiction? What makes it fantasy?

I picked up this book because I saw it in the New York Review Books catalogue. The Spotlight Series is highlighting this small publisher in May. Sign up before April 30 to invite them to your blog!

• Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges
• Stories by Tommaso Landolfi
• Foundation by Isaac Asimov
• Genre Fiction: A Tolkein, A Heyer, and A Verne
• I Kill Giants by Joe Kelly and JM Ken Nimura
• January 2009 Month in Review and February Reading Journal
• March in Review
• Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn
• My Life, According to Literature
• We by Yevgeny Zamyatin

At first glance, there is no mystery. The answers to “who, what, when, and where” seem self-evident, especially since the murder occurs center stage in the first 80 pages of the novel. Yet the “why” behind Raskolnikov’s crime arrests attention, and the mystery is determining exactly what is the “punishment” of the title. From the beginning section to the epilogue, Fyodor Dostoevsky’s psychological novel captures a disturbed mind in turmoil from its own philosophic ideals. Raskolnikov’s expectations for himself as a “Napoleon” above the law are distorted by his own inner turmoil, and his “punishment” may be realizing his place as a human in the midst of humanity.

But I say “at first glance.” The best facet of Crime and Punishment is its depth. An abundance of characters, some stereotyped and some individual, and layers of complexities of situation and personality illustrate just how each one of us has both a “devil” and a “saint” inside us.

As the Penguin Reading Guide asks, “Who among us is not a criminal? Who among us has not attempted to impose his or her will on the natural order?” I love Crime and Punishment because of the universality of that concept. The concepts do not seem specifically Russian or nineteenth century. Instead, it is universal in its look at human nature, and human nature has not changed much in the past 150 years, although the specific settings vary.

Upon this reread (probably my third reading), I was struck by some new things such as the structure, the variety of characters, and the family relationships. Most particularly, though, the religious elements stood out to me on this read. Although I realized before that there were religious elements to it, this time it seemed much more religious in retrospect. In my book group last night, I came to more of an understanding of the significance of the raising of Lazarus to the story. Raskolnikov’s request that Sonya read the passages from the scriptures was a way of asking her to help him with his faith. I have more thoughts about it, but since I am no longer in school, writing papers about such elements of the novel, I’ll leave that here for future reference: next time I read this book, I should consider Lazarus from beginning to end.

Crime and Punishment is a novel that I cannot praise sufficiently and that I could not reread frequently enough. Subsequently, I struggle to discuss it in an impersonal internet-post format. Just as with the murder motive, I cannot properly explain the “whys” behind my passion for this novel. I love it, and this post will have to remain as is. If I had more time, I’d do a three-part “why I love this” series as I did when I read The Iliad a year and a half ago. But I don’t have time for that anymore. Instead, I’ll look forward to yet another reread, and maybe then I’ll revisit it on this webpage.

I’ll just leave with a (rhetorical) question: How did Dostoevsky create such a complex psychological portrait? He did create a realistic and intimate portrait in this volume. Yes, there is such complexity in each person, yet Dostoevsky’s ability to portray humanity so realistically in text testifies that he is a truly great writer. I am in awe.

What novels leave you in awe of the author’s ability to create?

• Hunger by Knut Hamsun
• How Reading Order Affects Reading a Book
• Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather
• The Student by Anton Chekhov: A Perfect Short Story
• Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
• A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
• The Beekeeper’s Apprentice by Laurie King
• A Stop in South Africa (Two Novels by Alan Paton) + Giveaway
• Reading Journal (May 4) and April in Review
• Reading Reflections (Reading Old Books) + Reading Journal (31 March)

Duels. Lovers. Mid-night rendezvous. Mistaken identity.  Revenge. There was plenty of adventure in Alexandre Dumas’ The Three Musketeers. But it was the humor that captured my attention and kept me reading.

I mentioned the other day that, thanks to Zola’s emphasis on “a point,” I was frustrated by the first bit of Dumas’ book, simply because I kept expecting some point to it all. I came to realize, however, that the point of Dumas’ story is to have fun. It’s full of humor, and the entire concept of dueling is rather amusing when every possible offense is “solved” by challenging to the death.

D’Artagnan is a young man sent to Paris to seek his fortune. His dream, of course, is the work with musketeers of the king. Within a day of arriving in Paris, he finds himself at odds with a few of the king’s musketeers and when he approaches them for their duel, he finds they are three close friends. When he proves himself through his swordsmanship, they all vow to remain friends: “One for all and all for one,” they say. They soon find adventure and reason for revenge, and the rest, as they say, is history.

The humor kept me laughing. Aramis, the soon-to-be abbé, writes love poetry with one-syllable lines. Athos locks himself in a wine cellar for weeks. Porthos claims a duel ended because he slipped on a stone and sprained his knee (while in reality, the adversary ran him through). The characters’ are funny and endearing, and the desire for revenge and “honor” kept me cheering for them.

I was quite surprised by the amount of history in the novel, although it may be more accurate to call it “tradition.” It captures some of the religious conflict in 1628 France, as well as the delicate political balance between King Louis XIII and Cardinal Richelieu. The only problem with calling The Three Musketeers “historical fiction,” however, is Dumas’ multiple inaccuracies, which I found amusing to read about in Richard Pevear’s extensive notes (and some of which were blatantly obvious to me, a novice in French history). There are also chronology errors on Dumas’ part. Some of the issues I noticed as I read. For example, one chapter it is December, and in the next chapter, eight days later, it is August. Um, did I miss something? No: Pevear points out that was Dumas’ error. Other anachronisms are slightly less noticeable: such as when the main character in 1628, considers Gulliver’s adventures a full century before Jonathon Swift wrote it. These anachronisms and errors didn’t ruin the book – but rather just made it amusing to me, and reminded me of the reason there are editors and fact checkers today!

Despite all the positive things about the novel, there were two things I strongly disliked in Dumas’ adventure: the women and the lackeys. One woman was a villainess compared to Lady Macbeth, and yet she found herself afraid of heights at one point and had to be carried by a man. At one point, she recognizes she’s weak because she is a woman and decides to use that to her advantage. Apparently, then, her strongest weapon is her ability to seduce men. It made me a little annoyed to see that was Dumas only way of depicting a “strong woman.” I also disliked the ways the musketeers treated their own servants. These servants’ own desires were discounted. True, this added to the humor of the story, but the unfair treatment made me see the lackeys as slaves and not servants, and that reflected poorly on their “masters,” the musketeers.

Nevertheless, it is obvious that The Three Musketeers and its story are an ingrained part of Western culture. Their loyalty to each other as friends, amusing antics, and humorous adventures surely haven’t been forgotten.

After all, what are their names again?

Dusty, Lucky, and Ned?

Alvin, Simon, and Theodore?

What other “Three Musketeers” can you think of in popular culture today?

For other reviews of Alexandre Dumas’ works, see the Classics Circuit schedule.

• How Reading Order Affects Reading a Book
• Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift
• Aucassin and Nicolette by an Out-of-the-Box Medieval Author
• Medea by Euripides
• National Poetry Month + Call for Poetry Posts
• The Odyssey by Homer: The Story
• Robinson Crusoe Adaptations for Children
• Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (translated by Simon Armitage)
• Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
• The Green Knowe Chronicles by L.M. Boston

Whenever I recalled that Naomi was written in the 1920s, I was again taken aback. It felt so modern. Kawabata’s 1950s novel of the old capital of Kyoto (read last month), on the other hand, seemed steeped in tradition. Seeing the two novels in context to each other clarifies the clash between the Western traditions and the Japanese traditions, and I can now better understand Kawabata’s novel. Kyoto truly was the old capital, for Tokyo, where Naomi takes place, was much more Western even 40 years earlier.

I began Naomi knowing very little, so I hesitate to write very much about it. I knew that it revolved around a man who was obsessed with a mysterious Western-looking woman.  Although Naomi is definitely Japanese, her features seem “Eurasian” and so she stands out in a crowd. If I tell you further any of the details as to why this woman is engaging, it may somewhat spoil the effect of the novel. Suffice it to say, the mysteries that Tanizaki leaves unsaid for much of the novel left me wondering and interested. It was very well done.

In some respects, since Joji begins his obsession with Naomi when she was just 15, I wondered if this novel was similar to Nabakov’s Lolita (note to self: must read that some day). I felt uncomfortable throughout the novel. Joji’s obsession seemed to become progressively stranger as it progressed, and I became more and more convinced that Joji was insane. But while Tanizaki wrote sensually, it never was sexually uncomfortable to read (as I mentioned last week, I don’t normally appreciate sex scenes in my fiction). After all, this was published serially in the 1920s: things are suggested by not written out. It was, in that sense a tame book.

But beyond that, the question seems to me to be whether the obsession is on Naomi-the-woman or Naomi-the-representation-of-Westernization. I suspect Tanizaki is also capturing his society’s own obsession with the West. Seeing the novel in that light gives it a greater relevancy, and it makes me sad for the abandonment of the Japanese traditions.

Naomi dealt with an uncomfortable subject and had frustrating characters (I seriously wanted to hit Joji over the head a few times), so it was not a favorite read. Yet, I am very glad I read it. I learned something about the Japanese culture conflict with Westernization in the pre-World War II days.  It was a quick and engaging read, and although I was reading late into the night, I seriously could not put it down because I wanted to see how it resolved. Frustrating as it was to read (like watching a train-wreck), it is a novel I won’t easily forget. It is one that anyone interested in Japanese literature or culture should experience.

Do “train-wreck” novels keep you engaged or turned off? What “train-wreck” novels have you liked?

• The Old Capital by Yasunari Kawabata
• The Makioka Sisters by Junichiro Tanizaki
• Silence by Shusaku Endo
• March in Review + New Challenges + A Brief Reading Journal (7 April)
• The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order by Samuel P. Huntington
• The Pillow Book by Sei Shonagon
• Reading Journal (17 March): Happy St. Patrick’s Day
• Baby’s Monday Salon: Dogs, Trains, and Simple Illustrations
• The Housekeeper and the Professor by Yoko Ogawa
• Reading Journal (24 February): My First Vlog

I want to depict the artists’ struggle with reality, the sheer effort of creation which goes into every work of art, the blood and tears involved in giving one’s flesh, in trying to make something that lives.  (Introduction to Oxford World Classics edition, page ix.)

In telling the story of the doomed Claude Lantier, Zola does capture a painful side to creation. As a self-absorbed painter, Claude is unable to see beyond his skewed perception of the world, since he sees all through the eyes of his “impressionistic” painting style. (Although Zola does not use the word “impressionism,” it is clear that such is the era of art.)

I didn’t enjoy reading the story, but I certainly appreciated it as a whole. Zola shows a realistic disconnect for people who struggle with a vision, and I felt like I was glancing at real lives between the pages of the novel.

Zola’s own judgments come out through the story because he doesn’t appear to understand the new style of painting. To the omniscient narrator, Lantier’s paintings appear to be a mess of colors. They are ridiculous failures. It’s obvious that Lantier is aiming for some degree of symbolism when he depicts the naked woman in the center of all his paintings. Yet, Sandoz (the novelist in the story that represents Zola) finds it ridiculous and mourns for Lantier’s apparent insanity. The editor of the introduction indicated that Zola was not able to appreciate impressionism; his taste in art was rather immature as was evident in his art criticism essays of the day.

Incidentally, Lantier’s first major painting is based on one by Eduard Manet, which was displayed in the Salon des Refuses as was Lantier’s in the novel. Seeing Manet’s painting helped me to understand the reasons behind the ridicule, not that the painting was bad but that the concept was bizarre for the era.

Eduard Manet, Luncheon on the Grass (via Wikipedia)

Zola was somewhat careful to make sure that no character in his novel fully represented a person he knew in real life, yet the similarities were plentiful enough so that many of Zola’s friends were offended. Paul Cezanne, who shares many of the qualities with the doomed Claude Lantier, for example, never spoke to Zola again after publication of The Masterpiece. (See the introduction to the Oxford World Classics edition for more discussion of similarities.)

But the similarities were only one reason to be offended. Zola’s premise seems to be that it is hopeless to try to capture the world in art and create something original. Truly, artists of the day would have been slighted by such a premise. Further, attempting to do so leaves one isolated from reality. In the novel, Lantier failed to develop any real human relationships. Christine tried to bring Lantier back to reality, yet the art always called and Lantier was doomed in the end, for without art he was nothing.

Despite the hopelessness depicted in the novel, Zola’s friend Cezanne truly was an influential painter who began a new way of thinking about art: impressionism. I found it interesting that Zola’s counterpoint in the novel, the writer Pierre Sandoz, was not as doomed as Lantier the painter. Yet, Zola’s writing was apparently as cutting edge as Cezanne’s paintings: seeing the world in a new way.

Paul Cezanne, Montagne Sainte-Victoire (via Wikipedia)

I didn’t enjoy reading Zola. The only parts that captured my full interest and attention were the moments when he meets and courts Christine. Throughout the book, I kept waiting for a tragedy to capture my emotions and help me feel fully engaged. Yet, even when mortal tragedy struck, it was told in a matter-of-fact way that left me completely emotionless. That was, I’m sure, Zola’s point. Life is not a romantic experience. It’s harsh: we each suffer and in the end, everyone lives with their own life and their own suffering.

“And now, back to work!” a character says at the end of the novel (which is not a happy ending, I’ll warn you). Such is life.

While I’m sure I’m a romantic girl at heart, I am glad I’ve experienced Zola. It truly did help me see the world in a new light.

I read Zola as a part of the April Classics Circuit. See where Zola will visit here.

• Two Neuroscience Books (Proust was a Neuroscientist by Lehrer and Sacks’ Musicophilia)
• How Reading Order Affects Reading a Book
• To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
• The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
• Moses, Man of the Mountain by Zora Neale Hurston
• The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins