The Imposter Bride by Nancy Richler

 Life is change, my dear, so we might as well enjoy it, don't you think? (63)

About a month ago I finally placed all the Giller Prize shortlisted books on hold at my library, and hoped to read as many as possible before the prize was announced.  Well, tonight is the big night!  Unfortunately, I did the bandwagon jump too late to receive and read most of the books in anything like enough time to accomplish that goal. I still plan to read Inside by Alix Ohlin, Will Ferguson's 419, Kim Thúy's Ru, and Russell Wangersky's short story collection Whirl Away as soon as I possibly can, but I did manage to read Nancy Richler's The Imposter Bride just under the wire, and am I ever glad I did!  I am hoping that I can make it home from running Erin to dance class in time to watch the televised event on CBC.

From the first scene, I was drawn into the post-war world of Jewish Montréal.  Lily Azerov, a Polish Jew arrives in Montréal and waits on the train platform for the man she has arranged to marry.  Sol Kramer, her fiance, sees her there, but intuitively turns away and without a word, rejects her as his wife.  His brother, Nathan steps in and Lily and Nathan are married.  A sense of mystery surrounds Lily and we find that she is not who she claims to be.  She had stolen the identity of Lily Azerov, along with a journal and a rough diamond, from a dead girl in Europe and her true identity remains submerged. 

At the wedding of Nathan and Lily, Sol begins talking to two strangers, the only two uninvited guests - a woman, Ida Pearl, and her daughter, Elka - who came to see if the newly arrived bride was a member of her missing family.  Ida confirms that Lily is not her cousin of the same name, but clearly she knows more than she is letting on.  There is something sinister about Ida.  Will she tell what she knows?

A year later, Lily leaves their home, and three-month-old daughter under the pretext of running out for some milk.  She disappears.  The family pulls together with love and support to help Nathan raise baby Ruth.  Sol marries Elka who becomes a type of surrogate mother to Ruth, along with her paternal grandmother Bella, and Elka's mother Ida Pearl.  Ruth knows little about her mother, and until her sixth birthday when Lily sends Ruth a gift she has not missed her.

This gift starts Ruth on a path to reassemble the puzzle pieces left behind of her mother's life.  Nina, Ruth's aunt, summarizes a major theme in the novel:

'We can't escape it.  None of us,' Nina said.
'What?'
'Our need to know where we come from, to connect it to who we are and where we're going.  That's what makes us human, what sets us apart from all the other animals.'
'I thought it was opposing thumbs,' I  said.
'Monkeys also have opposing thumbs, my dear.  It's origins and destiny - our obsession with that.  That's what defines us.' (234)

All of the characters are grieving a part of their lost story, and many have lost either parents or children through war, death or abandonment.  Nancy Richler tells a poignant and powerful tale of loss, separation, grief and isolation.  The legacy of war ripples through each character and their children.  Lily is so adrift without her own identity, without the memories of her family (her dead do not even visit her in dreams) that she isolates herself in her bedroom, unable to function fully in her new life.  Nancy Richler inserts gentle reminders throughout the novel of the pain and grief that surrounds Ruth as a result of the war, and reveals the characters through their reactions, most poignantly of her elementary school teacher, Mr. C. who would stand, silently sobbing in front of the class.  Until each character is able to reconnect with that lost sense of origin they remain searching and incomplete.  When they are ready to face their whole life and their whole past, they become fully realized characters.

The story is part mystery, part family history, part fairy tale.  Ida Pearl is a sort of fairy godmother to Ruth.  She came uninvited to the wedding (I was waiting for her offer up a curse involving a spinning wheel), was blessed with an intuitive nature (she saw Ruth's worst fear without being told), and is the keeper of the secrets.  As Ruth grows up, her curiosity about who her mother was and is continues.  It is, of course, Ida who tells Ruth the first truth about her mother, and gives her the key that unlocks the rest of the story.

This is a sad, but not a depressing story because in combination with the theme of exile, of separation and loneliness are the essentially redeeming characters of Ruth and young Elka who bring energy and continuity.  They carry forward with the best of the preceeding generation.  The elements of mystery and suspicion that prevade the beginning of the book fall away and are replaced with acceptance and compassion.  Ultimately, the sadness in the story is not what remains.  What resonates is the hope and optimism of moving forward, of moving on, of honouring and remembering with love and respect.


This paragraph, a description of the daily after-dinner walk Ruth and her father would take home from Sol and Elka's home is a favourite, and is so evocative of Canadian childhood.  I think I can feel my own father's mittened hand in mine as I read this:

When I thought about that walk  it was always winter.  In reality, of course, it was often spring, summer or fall, and the nights were variously warm, cold, rainy or windy, but what remained in my mind, what rose to the surface of all the blended memoires of those nightly walks home was one cold winter night, a night so cold that the bones around my eyes ached, and so still that the only sound was the squeak of snow beneath our boots, and so peaceful that the only thing that pressed on me was my father's mittened hand holding my own. (182)

Devoted Ladies by Molly Keane

After reading Good Behaviour by Molly Keane earlier this month, I was thrilled to see that my library has most of Molly Keane's books in its collection.  I lost no time in putting them all on hold.   I was happy to jump directly into Devoted Ladies when it arrived last week.  There is nothing so satisfying as finding a new author to love!
Devoted Ladies is the story of a small cast of very badly behaved characters.  The story begins at a party in the flat of Sylvester, a jaded thirty year old writer and playwright who refuses to be involved in anyone else's business except if he can make it worse.  To Jessica, Sylvester has "a nameless quality which was Sylvester's power over others."  This domination and subservience between each character is the main thematic thrust of the novel.

 To the party come Jessica and Jane, a couple for only six months, who appear not to have anything in common beyone their relationship.  Jane is an alcoholic American and "genuine in nothing.  [Sylvester] believed even her complete stupidity was partly a pose of mind." (7)  Jane's tagline is "Oh, darling - fix me a brandy and soda, I feel horrible," or a variation thereof, which is all we hear from Jane for the first many pages.  Jessica, on the other hand, is the one in control.  She is keen, alert, and lives in her head.  From the beginning she is likened to an animal in her ruthless destruction of those she has loved.

In her friendships with men as well as with women Jessica spent herself so lavishly and so emotinally that soon there was no more she.  She had spent what she was in a sort of dreadful effort towards entire mental contact with the person she loved.  And having reserved no smallest ledge of herself for herself, no foothold for the last secret feet of her mind, she would retreat in anger and despair from her friendships.  Then cruelly, disdainfully and despitefully she would speak against such a one as she had loved.

Her dreary enthusiasms were tolerated by her friends for the sake of those moments when, her lips curled back from her teeth like a dog, saliva in their corners and hysteria in her eyes she would tell and tell and tell of that past moment in her life; with pitiless mimicry and sure malice breaking the one who had shared it with her on the wheel of her words, on the wheel of her own despair. (9)

Sylvester can see that the violence in their relationship is heading down a dangerous road, but he feigns disinterest and positions himself in his chosen role as passive observer.  Even when his old friend, the aptly named George Playfair expresses an interest in Jane, Sylvester does not hint to him that she is involved with Jessica, but rather encourages him to pursue Jane.  He is not as passive an observer as he pretends to be; Sylvester is, in fact, a catalyst for all the action that happens in the story. 

How [Sylvester] adored to see an old woman really well made up and really well dressed. It was as exciting to him as the flight of a bird. White hair, a silver dress and pearls - the loveliest piece of decoration. She was queen of all the jewelled fishes in his green aquarium. So he saw his party now a little distorted as though seen through water - or, clearer still, gin - they were poised as though hung on threads - like those fish sold outside Lords (and other places too, of course). Yes, they thought themselves free of his aquarium and of their own lives, never perceiving the threads of their movements were gathered up and hitched to some reel of fate or accident that held them prisoners in its devices or, more terrible, in its lack of device, proportion or purpose.

We then move with Sylvester to Ireland where he stays with his cousins Hester and Piggy while working on his latest writing project.  Jane and Jessica, and their "nasty" (read: gay) manservant Albert, crash land with great violence on this quiet home after taking up George Playfair on his suggestion that they visit him in Ireland.  All the characters are all together and the story begins in earnest.  The cracks in all the relationships shatter as the subservient attempt to break free.  Keane cleverly pits characters against each other, and creates perfect foils - especially Jessica and Piggy as those who gave their all to their relationships.  But how they react is in perfect keeping with their position as a dominant or a subservient in their relationship.

Mary Nesta ('Molly') Keane (Mrs Robert Keane)

by John Swannell
Iris print, 1983
15 1/2 in. x 19 3/8 in. (395 mm x 492 mm)
Given by John Swannell, 1998
NPG x87599

Molly Keane is such an enjoyable writer to read.  Her prose is tight and direct without being abrupt, and her sarcasm and wit is in evidence on every page.  She is not above poking fun at herself, as here, after Sylvester finds himself thinking nostalgiac and poetic thoughts about the landscape of his childhood:

Such thoughts were rude and fit only for some hysterical Irish novelist writing her seventy thousand words through which the cry of hounds reverberates continuously: where masters of hounds are handsome and eligible men and desirable young girls over-ride hounds continually, seeing brilliant hunts on incredible three-year-olds: and all - after even the hardest day - are capable of strong emotion at night.

 And later, when Jane receives a gift of books, including one of Molly Keane's own titles, Young Entry.  She uses an acerbic tone of derision and dismissal in mocking the books that is really very funny.  I love an author who can turn that black humour around on herself.

I *Heart* Roy G. Biv

Good Behaviour by Molly Keane

2 a.m. insomnia and none in the stack of half-perused books on the floor by my bed would suffice. Off I trundled to scour the shelves for something that would make being awake at such an hour a joy rather than an ordeal.

Tucked between the half-forgotten thrift shop finds from last spring was Good Behaviour by Molly Keane.  Oh, good!  Something to make me glad to be awake!  Secrets, lies, betrayals, isolation, disinterest, jealousy, infidelity, ridicule, impatience, money worries, humiliation, death, seclusion, injury, name-calling, pity... I was riveted from the first page.  Told in the first person, a challenging point of view to pull off, Molly Keane creates a complex character who, although unlikeable, is eventually understandable.

Molly Keane

We begin at the end, as the narrator, Aroon St. Charles is in charge of her dying mother (to say "caring for" would be inaccurate!).  An eminently unlikeable character, cruel and domineering, and untrust-worthy, we wonder... "How did she become such a nasty piece of work?"  She admits that she too is confused about how it is that things have gone so badly.

All my life so far I have done everything for the best reasons and the most unselfish motives.  I have lived for the people dearest to me, and I am at a loss to know why their lives have been at times so perplexingly unhappy.  I have given them so much, I have given them everything, all I know how to give - Papa, Hubert, Richard, Mummie.  At fifty-seven my brain is fairly bright, brighter than ever I sometimes think, and I have a cast-iron memory.  If I look back beyond any shadow into the uncertainties and glories of our youth, perhaps I shall understand more about what became of us.

The rest of the novel is Aroon recounting her life story.

The world in which Aroon grew into an unloved and unattractive girl was devoid of any mentor for a healthy emotional life.  Her beautiful mother is pathologically incapable of emotion, pouring her energies into her "preposterous and curiously hideous" paintings, that Aroon describes as "angular, airified shapes in a graveyard atmosphere, unimaginably ugly," and, into gardening.  She appears to take no pleasure in anything other than her own company, and even food is of no interest to her.  Aroon's father is an irresponsible philanderer who spends all his time at hunting and fishing.  Her brother and his friend use her for their amusement.  The rug is constantly being pulled out from under her just as she thinks she has gotten a toe-hold on some one's affections.  Either that, or she is receiving unwanted attentions from those whom she distains (the family solicitor, and the comical Uncle Ulick) which make her feel even worse.

Into her sad childhood comes Mrs. Brock, a jolly governess full of amusing stories and sympathy for the children.  Her attempts to soften the hard edges of life in the St. Charles home, and the home of her future friend Richard, are all rebuffed, either in life, or in posthumous ridicule and rejection.  Love and caring cannot thrive in such an environment.

Aroon becomes a sympathetic character over the course of the book as we see her innocence and naivete being abused and misunderstood. As Aroon suffers blow after blow, and loss of self-esteem she cannot face reality.  Incapable of seeing the truth that has always been hidden behind good behaviour she overlooks what is clear to the reader regarding the truth of all the relationships around her.  Her mother and father are incapacitated by reality and brush it aside, just as they ignore the mounting bills, and turn away from grief.  Aroon deludes herself about how others feel about her so desirous of being loved is she.  Aroon has been lied to and manipulated so much that she is powerless within the family, ranking even lower than the household servants.  This is what she has learned, and this is what she becomes.

This novel is a psychological excavation of Aroon St. Charles's life, a reminder that we are all who we are because of the forces that have worked on us through our lives, and how we manage those challenges.  In the guise of good behaviour many crimes are committed against Aroon who is stunted through neglect, ridicule and open distain.  I thoroughly enjoyed this novel.

Wheels Within Wheels by Dervla Murphy

Having never read any of Dervla Murphy's writing before picking up her autobiography at the library last week, I only knew that she wrote travel stories about cycling in far-flung parts of the earth.

If I were to have read about her epic cycling journeys before reading this autobiography first, I suspect I would have spent a lot of time wondering: "How on earth does such a woman exist!  And what kind of a life brought her to the point of contemplating this lifestyle?"  I wonder if the writing of this autobiography was in part an answer to such questions she no doubt received after becoming well known as "the mad Irishwoman on the bicycle."

Reading Wheels Within Wheels is like being transported to the Irish countryside in the 1930s and 1940s; Dervla Murphy is capable of so vividly rendering people and place I feel as though I know what she describes.  I could easily picture all the scenes she recounts, although she follows the advice given to every learner of writing: "Show, don't tell." and she does this with aplomb.

Born in 1931, in Lismore, Ireland, the only child of her librarian father and invalid mother.  She depicts a childhood of permissive rambling and cycling around the countryside.  Dervla Murphy paints portraits of some of the most significant figures in her childhood - her grandparents, various servants, teachers, and friendships. Her ability to self-educate especially when her opportunity for schooling was taken away is astounding, and yet she never seems to fall into the trap of either bravado or self-pity.  Her writing style is smooth, apparently effortless, and eminently readable.

When she was removed from school and retained at home as her mother's carer she reveals a disintegration in her lifestyle both shocking and terrible to read.  She suffers greatly, but tells her story with an unvarnished honesty we have come to trust.  When both of her parents are gone and she has gained her freedom she emerges from her seclusion as a butterfly from a cocoon.  She struggles to suppress her socially inappropriate exuberance at the death of her mother.

Dervla Murphy is a deft storyteller, an honest writer, a kindred spirit and a mentor.  I will be searching out her other writing as soon as possible.

I *Heart* Elephant Bookmarks

A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle

 Divided by the months of the year, we dip into the lives of Mayle and his (largely unmentionned) wife as they settle into life in their new home in Provence.  As they adjust to the food, the pace of life, and their colourful neighbours we glimpse a somewhat curmudgeonly lord of the manor.  One can't help but wonder why he can't be a little more upbeat about the charms of the place.  Afterall, he presents it as a fulfillment of a lifelong dream.  But his appreciation of the gastronomic pleasures are plainly seen.

There is a lack of concrete details about time and place that frustrated me whilst reading.  The book feels ungrounded.  I kept wondering, "Where is he now?  How did he get there?  What does he do for a living?  And why does he seem to ignore his wife so much?"  Not that I was looking for a daily journal entry, but his impressionistic narrative style seemed a bit vague and distracting to me.

He focuses in on the vignettes of his life beautifully, and gives the flavour of the place.  I know nothing about Mayle beyond what I learned in this book which is precious little, but I got the sense that he had looked back over a couple of years worth of journal entries and compiled those that he could easily translate into a comprehensive narrative form.

I've been curious for years about the exact nature of these books and although it certainly made a sick day on the chesterfield pass more quickly, my curiosity has been sated and I probably will not bother to seek out any more of his work.

I *Heart* Libraries

The Awakening by Kate Chopin

The Awakening is very close to perfection.  In each paragraph, there is much to be pondered.  Kate Chopin's s subtle use of symbolism, the interweaving of themes, the deeper issues so deftly approached make me want to delve into this story for a very long time.

Mrs. Pontellier is such an appealing protagonist.  I liked her.  She married a man who keeps her as a trophy but does not value her for more than her status as his possession.  He even pushes her into the companionship of Robert LeBrun, the man who flirts with all the women at the summer resort.  His foil, Arobin, really is a scoundrel who does not, as Robert does, leave to protect everyone's honour, but presses on with his entanglements.

This story has an ambiguous ending - and rightly so.  We are left to draw our own conclusions.  But whether it is actual or symbolic, a death has indeed occured.  Edna has completely separated from her old life.  She can never return to the way things were.  She has no problem with leaving her husband, or lovers, or friends; she is only torn about her children.  All that is left at the end for her are her children.  They are part of who she is, part of her own body and they are the last things she thinks of as she departs that life, truly or symbolically.

Kate Chopin

There is so much to enjoy about his story.  Like many of the books I encountered in my university women writer's classes, I didn't have the maturity or experience to appreciate them as I now do.

The View from Castle Rock by Alice Munro

Included as the first story in Jane Urquhart's Penquin Book of Canadian Short Stories (2007), it is also the title story from Alice Munro's collection of short stories by the same name.  Somewhere (cottage? packed?) I have the collection, but am only able to read this story on it's own at the moment.  Munro is a master, truly the finest, wordsmith.  She can write a sentence to bring you to your knees with it's perfection, and create a scene with slight of hand.

The family leaves Scotland for the new world and the vividness of live aboard fills all the senses.  When the son is cheeky to the father, Munro describes:

Barely on board the vessel and this seventeen-year-old whelp has taken on knowing airs, he has taken to contradicting his father.  Fatique, astonishement and the weight of the great coat he is wearing prevent Old James from cuffing him.

and,

Agnes comes from a large Hawick family of weavers, who work in the mills now but worked for generations at home.  And working there they learned all the arts of cutting each other down to size, of squabbling and surviving in close quarters.

Alice Munro paints such vivid images, often just on the verge an extreme of comedy or surrealism.  But, we can feel what she expresses happening in the minds of each of the characters as, for instance, the view of the homeland recedes and the tears and sadness turn to boredom and loss of interest.  Each of the characters has a different reaction and Munro honours each: Agnes does not want to move herself, she has different pain to consider; Old James is loyal to his town but not a nationalist, his loyalties are parochial; it is a solemn and majestic moment for Walter, the narrator.  Munro can paint a picture, and the images endure because they are not merely physical, but emotional descriptions.

At a Loss for Words by Diane Schoemperlen

   

At a Loss for Words by Diane Schoemperlen is a very fast and fun read.  Written as a letter to a man who has broken her heart, we see and understand long before the narrator does that he is not only "leading her on" but he is incapable of being truly and honestly there for her on any level.  As she pushes closer toward him he backs off.  She so cleverly leads us through the deception that it isn't till the end of the book that we have the realization of what is really happening and then it all becomes clear.

Written as a "he said/she said" letter as a history of their relationship, it is more accurately a "you said/I said" recounting for his benefit.  The most damning contrasts are when "I said" emotionally effusive comments that beg for a response paired with "you said nothing," or worse, you didn't respond about anything I said, but merely commented on a triviality in your day.  He is obviously not even reading her emails.  Ouch!  The decline in the sanity of the narrator is clear as her obsession increases, and love continues to make a fool of her.  While she continues to interact with him makes good, if frustrating reading, the only explanation for her tenacity is the madnss that comes with romantic obsession.

But this is not just a fluffy piece of "Chick Lit" about a relationship that went wrong, Diane Schoemperlen has created a revealing work of imagination and writing.  Although we have no reason to doubt that the narrator is an accomplished writer, when she is writing about love, all the skill goes out of her words.  They are trite and cliche and syrupy.  The theme of the novel is stated early (p.45) and is something she quotes from one of her (the narrator's) own earlier works:

It is only in retrospect that I understand that obsession has nothing to do with love and everything to do with anxiety, insecurity, uncertainty and fear.

Look what love does to language.  Either it sends you straight into breathless, shameless, hyperbolic logorrhea (like then) or it leaves you wordless altogether (like later).

The (unnamed) narrator starts off the book unable to write fiction, but concludes by writing her truth, which in a literary twist is actually fiction that feels as though it must be the author's truth.  Highly recommended!

(Also, Diane Schoemperlen is a fascinating collage artist!)

Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood

My experience with all of Margaret Atwood's books has always been that they start off slowly, setting the scene in almost a plodding manner.  Like a snowball rolling downhill, page by page her genius becomes more and more evident until by the end of the book I am overwhelmed by her cleverness.  Every single time.  I now know that I need to stick with it, no matter my mood, because it will all come together and knock my socks off.  Her writing is like some kind of a puzzle photo; hundreds or thousands of tiny photos placed together and when you back up you realize that all together they have made one giant, miraculous, gorgeous photo of its own, nuanced and intricate and just plain clever.

I'm not going to summarise the story except to say that this is a novel set in the not too distant future at a time when the division between the corporate "haves" and the plebian "have-nots" is complete.  There is undercurrent of rebellion and sabotage, but the totalitarian society has virtually complete control.

Margaret Atwood's nuanced language always makes me want to turn back to the first page as I finish one of her novels just to fill in all the blank spaces.  Those blank spaces can be frustrating the first time through if you get too caught up on trying to know all, and asking too many questions as you go.  Margaret Atwood's writing definitely rewards close reading and re-reading (my favourite kind of books).

Although I found the stories of Oryx's childhood very tense reading (fearing I was going to be reading something I did not want to read), my delicate sensibilities were not offended in the least.  In fact, it just made me love this book even more.  I thoroughly enjoyed this novel and will be searching out The Year of the Flood, the sequel to Oryx and Crake.

Wild Geese by Martha Ostenso

 'I spent some time farther north - went up to a mission when I was only a kid with one of the priests, and later after I had grown up,' Mark told her.  'That's a country for you.  If there's a God, I imagine that's where he sits and does his thinking.  The silence is awful.  You feel immense things going on, invisibly.  There is that eternal sky - light and darkness - the endless plains of snow - a few fir trees, maybe a hill or a frozen stream.  And the human beings are like totems - figures of wood with mysterious legends upon them that you can never make out.  The austerity of nature reduces the outward expression in life.  Simply, I think, because there is not such an abundance of natural objects for the spirit to react to.  We are, after all, only the mirror of our environment.  Life here in Oeland, even, may seem a negation but it's only a reflection from so few exterior natural objects that it has the semblance of negation.  These people are thrown inward upon themselves, their passions stored up, they are intensified figures of life with no outward expression - no releasing gesture.'

'Yes, I think perhaps human life, or at least human contact, is just as barren here as farther north,' Lind remarked.  'The struggle against conditions must have the same effect as passivity would have, ultimately.  It seems to me that one would be as dulling as the other - one would extort as much from human capacity for expression as the other.  There's no feeling left after the soil and the livestock have taken their share.' (p.93)

Lind Archer, a young teacher, arrives from the city to board on the farm of the Gare family in the farm district of Oeland of northern Manitoba.  The family's father, Caleb Gare, is a member of the school board, and the wealthiest farmer in the area, and he runs his house with unflinching control.  It is through Lind's eyes that we experience life in Oeland as he insidiously bullies and manipulates everyone he encounters.  His neighbours are scared to defy him; over his wife Amelia, his sons Martin and Charlie, and daughter Ellen, he has total control; his daughter Judith offers only surface obedience, and when she has motivation to defy his plan for her, the stage is set for a show down.  Judith is passion personified, a powerful force of nature.  When the handsome and young Mark Jordan arrives in the neighbourhood, he unknowingly sets off a chain of events that has far-reaching effects for everyone in the community.

Using both realism and naturalism, Ostenso explores the big themes of passion, power, morality, and the psychological effects of tyranny on different personalities, of the destructive power of secrets, lies, and hatred, jealousy and greed.  It sounds like a very grim book, doesn't it?  Well, it is, but in a good way.  There is no gratuitous violence, no graphic scenes that are painful to read (at least for me, an I have a sensitive radar for that sort of thing); the violence for most of the book lies bubbling just below the surface.  And this psychological drama is where Ostenso shines.  But rest assured, there is an immense sense of satisfaction as the story unfolds; the good are rewarded and protected, the bad are punished with total destruction, the misguided are set back on the path of rightness.

This is my third reading of Wild Geese.  I fell in love with it on first reading, when Ostenso's use of figurative language knocked my socks off.  She frequently gives clues to how we should read the book, making those connections for us through similes, or obvious comparisons.  Some might say that Ostenso is heavy handed in her use of figurative language, especially in her frequent reference to the wild geese as symbolically important.  She is not always subtle, but she is effective.

The second time I read this book I recorded in my book journal that I was a bit turned off by how Ostenseo wrote the romance between Lind and Mark.  It seemed as though she didn't know how to write about love in a way that didn't sound like a poorly written romance novel.  Perhaps it was my mood, because I didn't notice that in the least this time.  What struck me with this reading is how Ostenso has under-drawn both Mark and Lind.  I have enough faith in her as a writer to believe that she chose to write them this way intentionally.  We do not get to know them the way we get to know the members of the Gare family; they are "types" rather than fully drawn characters.  They are written as the Everyman foil against the harsh realities of the Gares and an emotional entry point for the reader into the novel.  Amelia thinks of Lind as, like she herself had been at one time.  Judith tries to be more like her.  We are able to put ourselves, as readers into the place of either Lind (the prettiest) or Mark (the handsomest).  They are characters the reader can relate to as Ostenso takes us into this isolated, rural community.

This is close to a perfect novel, so well crafted, and absolutely clever in its ability to show us any number of points of view without jarring transitions between perspectives.  It wasn't till close to the end of the novel that I realized how smoothly that was being accomplished.

I was very surprised to read in the Afterward by David Arnason about the life of Martha Ostenso, clearly a very clever woman.  She wrote the first draft of Wild Geese in about six weeks for a contest, and was awarded the cash prize of $13 500 - a princely sum in 1926!  The novel was published in serial, in novel, and in film form (silent film!).  Martha Ostenso was Norwegian born, and lived in Canada for only about six years from ages 15-21 where she worked as a rural school teacher after finishing high school, and then attended the University of Manitoba in 1918.  Beginning a relationshi with her professor, she followed him to America.where she attended Columbia University from 1921-1922.  I look forward to reading more of her novels, although there is suspicion that she and her professor/lover collaborated on her later work.

Anne of Windy Poplars by L. M. Montgomery

Anne of Windy Poplars is the fourth book in L.M. Montgomery's Anne series.  Set during the period while Anne is principal at Summerside High School, the novel frequently takes the form of letters between Anne and Gilbert Blythe.  Other than the occassional syrupy sweet passage, the book is typical of L.M. Montgomery's style of writing.  The plot is almost non-existent, as she paints little vignettes of sleepy characters in a sleepy village.  None of the characters is fully drawn, and it unfortunately contains all of my least favourite aspects of L. M. Montgomery's writing with little of the best.  I had the distinct feeling that she was drawing from incidences in her own life and embellishing them for dramatic effect.  It is possible that such a person as Aunt Mouser exists, but her gloom is beyond the scope of the believable.

The character of Anne was not nearly as endearing as childhood Anne who loses some of her charm as she ages and seems to gain a too-perfect, idealised young professional veneer, that we never see beyond.  Her youthful optimism turns to Pollyanna sweetness when she encounters "challenges" in her new role  (eg. being disliked by the Pringles).  Her life is a little too rosy and her previously charming faults and foibles just give her a Goody Two-Shoes aura.  She charms every old biddy but fails to reveal why anyone should be charmed.  The events are scattered and haphazard, giving the impression of random stories that are plunked into the plot with Anne's involvement added as an afterthought.  It seemed like one of the books Montgomery wrote to satisfy publisher's greed and reader's appetites, but not from the heart.

All that said, I wouldn't have missed it, if only because I, like all her contemporary eager readers would have hated not knowing what happened to Anne between those childhood years, and the years when her own children were growing up.  L.M. Montgomery is strongest when writing about children and childhood.

Anne of the Island by L. M. Montgomery

It has been a very long time since I last read this book.  I can't remember if I read it since becoming an adult.  As I read it aloud to Elizabeth I remembered Mum reading bits of it to me and the image I had of Anne's meeting with Royal Gardner was much more dramatic and damsel-in-distress/knight-in-shining-armour than it seemed this time. 

I very much enjoyed the story of Anne's years at Redmond, but found it interesting how little there was about her actual school work.  It seemed that Lucy Maud Montgomery intentionally omited all mention of her classwork, and focused instead on her living arrangements and social life.  I have a special interest in historical curriculum and would have loved to have seen more mention of the books Anne was studying.

What she does do well, is what she always does well;  Lucy Maud Montgomery describes the interactions of the girls at Patty's Place so well that it takes me back to my own days of the comradery and cosiness of the big house on Johnson St. with all my housemates.

There is a stop-and-go hesitancy to the rhythm of the story at times as Anne moves from Kingsport to Avonlea over and over and with the visits to Echo Lodge and Bollingsbrook and her teaching stint one summer.  Those bits, although lovely somewhat interrupted the flow of the story.

I did love that Lucy Maud Montgomery was able to draw so much of the past in and wrap a few things up in nice little bows: Anne recieving her mother's letters, the death of Aunt Josephine, the weddings of Diana, and Jane, and of course, her own engagement to Gilbert.  The death of Ruby Gillis seemed very much an episode that was over and done when the funeral was over.  That thread didn't seem to flow naturally through the story as it might have.  Death at such an age should have more profoundly affected Anne than it seems to, even in such a time.  It is a pognant prelude to the anguish she does feel when Gilert is "knocking  on heaven's door."

I do love Lucy Maud Montgomery's writing, even when she gets overblown and flowery (five proposals!).  Anne is, as always, incorrigible, and yet Montgomery keeps her from being to syrupy sweet an over-achiever by allowing us into Anne's reality.  Yes, she was smart, but she wanted to do something with her life, and was striving to get there.  Yes, she was beautiful but her hair was still red and Philippa Gordon was much prettier.  Yes, she was popular, but she was still discerning about where to place her confidences (she rejects one Gardner sister as a close friend) and still has to work to impress others (such as Mrs. Gardner).  Yes, she is ambitious and accomplishes all she dreams, but we don't begrudge her what she earns because we see that she works hard for all of it and sometimes gets tired too.  But mostly we love Anne because she is emotionally available and we feel that she would love us, and have high hopes that she would find in us, as we find in her, a kindred spirit.

The Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence

I first read this book in my final year of high school when one girl complained to the teacher because she didn't think it was right for us to have to read a boring old story about some old lady dying.  My seventeen-year-old self scorned her. I remember being in complete awe of the skill of Margaret Laurence, and if truth be told, in awe of any author who had achieved the definition of success: the published novel.  I was willing to accept the value of a book merely because someone had deemed it worthy enough to print.  Although my definiton for literary success has become somewhat stricter, The Stone Angel has never wavered from it's position amongst my favourites.

The value I saw in fiction was, and is, empathic travel inside the world of another.  It is easy to dismiss others as losers and idiots from our comfortable positions in front of the television screen or behind the wheel of the car, but when we sit beside, or attempt to get inside the mind of another, we see the fine line between Me and You, Us and Other.  We have the potential to see and understand that action is not always just a random and meaningless act, that people all around us have a full and complete history we may know nothing about; it is that personal history that informs their behaviour, their preferences, their actions.

Hagar Shipley is different on the inside and the outside.  The two parts of herself are separate and although we can see the Why in some of her actions, she is not able to make those connections herself.  We hear Hagar's internal dialogue; we hear her say exactly the opposite at times of what she is thinking.  She prides herself on being the one in her marriage with manners, and despises Bram Shipley's tendency to say what he thinks without regard for proper decorum.  By the end of her life, Hagar has become exactly that which she despises.  She alienates her son and daughter-in-law who take care of her.  She continually speaks before thinking, or even realizing she has spoke aloud.

This is a story about the pendulum of life finding an equilibrium.  From one extreme to the other, Nature is the great equalizer.  By the end of his life, Bram Shipley, the n'er-do-well of the town has a farm that looks just like all the others.  The drought had effected all.  The final great leveller is Death.  In death, Bram Shipley is on the same level as his father-in-law, pioneer farmers with headstones in the town cemetary.

Hagar has lived long enough to see the great fall and the lowly rise.  But as the cemetary caretaker explains to them the history of the stones, Hagar offers no information of her own; she turns away and sits in the car.  She is the Stone Angel, enduring, blind and misunderstood.  She was the child of status who fell and was righted by her own efforts to respectability.  Actually, righted by her son.  But she sat precariously, the topple inevitable.  Hagar was so shut within herself that she was divorced from her own emotions.  She was incapable of connecting intimately with her husband, and observed or overheard the tender interactions between other couples without any understanding of herself.  She did not understand what she was overhearing when John and Arlene thought they were alone together.

You feel sorry that Hagar was never able to open herself to real communication in her life, and never had the kind of conversation the Jardines in the hospital were able to have after years of shared life.  She tries to warn the little girl on the beach not to be so bossy, but does she see herself in the little girl's cruelty?  Instead of being able to pass on the wisdom of her years to the children, she once again miscommunicates and scares them off.   There is no sense for me that Hagar is able to achieve full reconciliation of her own responsibilty for her life before she dies.  I sense that she is taking small steps in that direction, when she makes an effort to retrieve the bed pan for Sandra Wong in the hospital.  Is this the first truly altruistic effort she has made?

The book cover I owned in secondary school.

Even her attempts to save money for John to attend university is not truly for his benefit.  Hagar wanted to retrieve her elevated status through her son.  She discards Marvin as a less-worthy son when she thinks she sees that he takes after her husband.  He leaves home never having received the words of praise he so desperately wants and cannot ask for.  He has worked hard for her recognition and when it comes at the end - the last thing she says to him - it is as a comparison with John, her favourite son.  Hollow words for Marvin to hear, and offensive. Marvin leaves, calling her "a terror" which is justifiable.

Poor Hagar.  She lived the proverb, "Marry in haste, repent at leisure."  She even acknowledges this to her rival, Lottie, when John and Arlene are dating.  The ingredient missing from Hagar's life is respect, for herself and others.  She cannot respect her own family, her father, husband or sons, nor even herself.  She gives no heed to the emotional needs of others nor of herself.  When Mr. Lees talks with her through the night she finds herself at times drawn in to his story, alternatively disinterested and bored.  She sees his pain only as it is relevant to her pain.  When he seeks help for her, she is angry, rude, and dismissive of him.  A glimmer of recognition appears just as they are parting and she is able to acknowledge his pain in the loss of his son... not as it relates to her own loss, but seeing his loss, his emotions as real and valid and worthy.

I take away from this novel the importance of respect, and how hurtful the thoughtless selfishness can be.  Hagar never considers the feelings of others.  She hardly ever tempers her snarkiness, although because she does, we know she can.  She speaks with civility to the ladies in the seniors home and to Sandra Wong but not to her own family.  She never sees that she has never left Bram but taken over his harshness without knowing.

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