Steal The Swan Thieves?

I was under the impression that I got a steal of a deal on a signed copy of The Swan Thieves by Elizabeth Kostova. My anticipation of the book’s release – a novel about painting and obsession, by the author of The Historian no less! – was such that I planned out my purchase beforehand. I waited for it to appear on the bestseller list, making it eligible for a discount at my preferred bookstore. Then I redeemed a full book club card, held in reserve for this express purpose, for an additional savings. The price I paid was so reduced I felt like I was ripping off  the store! The manager (who happens to be my friend Drew) had read an advanced copy of the book and assured me that was not the case. I waited to read his unfavorable review so that I wouldn’t be biased, but what he told me tempered my expectations.

I forged ahead, chewing my way through the first 250 pages of what is essentially back story. I can understand why a psychiatrist would find that information useful in treating a taciturn patient, but it hardly advances the story. The story is worth advancing: Robert Oliver, a renowned painter, is apprehended in an attempt to slash a 19th century painting. Deranged, he is referred to the care of Andrew Marlow, a psychiatrist and part-time painter who presumably will understand this peculiar painter-patient. It is said that Dr. Marlow could get a rock to talk, but he is unable to crack Oliver’s reticence. In the course of treatment Marlow provides Oliver with painting supplies, which he uses to paint a captivating woman. He paints the same woman obsessively and soon Dr. Marlow’s care goes far beyond professional. Marlow meets with Oliver’s ex-wife and his mistress, but neither one is a match for the mystery woman who graces his portraits and torments his mind. Who is she, and what is her connection to the painting he attacked?

It’s an intriguing story told through an irritating narrative. Marlow is the primary narrator, with supplements from the ex-wife, the mistress, and some letters from the mystery woman herself. With the exception of the letters the first-person narrations are wholly unreliable. Marlow imagines the historical chapters, undermining some of the best writing the novel has to offer. Many of the details shared by the ex-wife and the mistress are as jarring as speed bumps, both irrelevant to the story and unrealistic in that they are shared with a man whom they have just met (Marlow). Do these damaged women have such blind trust in a therapist that they would describe his patient’s nipples and pubic hair to him, or mention from whom they learned to insert a tampon properly? Really? Kostova’s extensive character studies are commendable, but details of that nature belong in the author’s notes, not the book itself. Fine concept, poor conceit.

I have not participated in an MFA program, but given the fact that Kostova won the Hopwood Award for the Novel-in-Progress at the University of Michigan I daresay that this novel would have benefited from the refinery of a workshop. Had Kostova spent more time on the back end and less on the back story The Swan Thieves would have left a better impression.

One final note: I would not recommend reading this novel within a week of watching the movie What About Bob? unless you want to confuse Dr. Andrew Marlow with Dr. Leo Marvin. Baby steps!

Here’s a Book for Me

The pseudo-spinning dial on the cover of Manhood for Amateurs: The Pleasures and Regrets of a Husband, Father, and Son by Michael Chabon is exceptionally fitting.* Choose a subheading along the lines of Experience or Sincerity as a starting point and allow Chabon to elaborate in his distinctive elaborate prose! Even for Chabon enthusiasts such as myself not every essay is required reading, and one certainly need not read them in the order presented.  There is something here for every reader, man or woman, novice or expert.

I skipped ahead when I read Maps and Legends: Reading and Writing Along the Borderlands (see review posted on 8/15/08), and I wish I had given the dial a spin with this book. Consider it an amateur error! “A father is a man who fails every day,” Chabon asserts in the lead off essay “The Losers’ Club.” A reasonable premise, if not an encouraging one. I listened to Bruce Springsteen’s greatest hits as I read the first few sections, and the repeated messages of failure and nostalgia had a synergistic downer effect. I knew precisely from whence Chabon came, yet the book was not lighting me up intellectually the way Maps and Legends had.

I was well into the fourth section before I encountered an essay which shook my intellectual moorings. Reading “The Ghost of Irene Adler” on the train I almost exclaimed aloud! Chabon’s depiction of Alexis from Texas is tantalizing and his enumeration of the ways “the Woman” gets on a best friend’s nerves is spot on: “and worst of all, most egregious of all, you cannot believe the way she talks to him. No, worst of all: You can’t believe that he puts up with it.” But what caused me to sit up and re-read the essay was his diagnosis: the death of a friendship over a woman can be attributed to a failure of imagination. In essence that is what a person admits when he says “I don’t know what he sees in her” or “I just don’t get why he’s with her,” but I had not considered it from that salient angle. And I have given it due consideration, particularly with regard to C.S. Lewis, his wife Joy Davidman, and his friendship with J.R.R. Tolkien. Just as Alexis from Texas presented Chabon with an interpretation of his story that had not occurred to him, he then presented me with a novel interpretation of an age-old dilemma. I had no idea that this topic would be addressed in the book, but this is the profound type of insight I expect from the sage Chabon!

I did not expect an essay about carrying a man purse (“I Feel Good About My Murse”), but then one should always leave luxuriant latitude for the unexpected when reading Michael Chabon! I won’t fault him for it, but I think I will stick with my “reading is sexy” canvas messenger bag. Nor do I see myself collecting cookbooks (“Art of Cake”) or throwing my support behind Jose Canseco (“On Canseco”), but I will not deny a man’s right to do so. Chabon is unstinting with his personal experiences, be it admitting his reformed habit of marijuana use to his kids (“D.A.R.E.”), losing his virginity (“Verging”), the dissolution of his first marriage (“The Hand On My Shoulder”), or the outré recommendation that resulted in his being set up with the woman who is his ideal complement, fellow author Ayelet Waldman (“Looking for Trouble”). His contemplation of his contemporary David Foster Wallace committing suicide (“Getting Out”) called to mind the U2 song “Stuck In A Moment You Can’t Get Out Of”, written about the suicide of INXS frontman Michael Hutchence.

There were a couple of essays that left me cold, a fair amount that sailed by with a comfortable recognition, and a precious few that had me grinning from ear-to-ear (“Surefire Lines” to name only one). There are some that I won’t be inclined to re-read, some that I have already re-read and shared with other like-minded individuals, and some that I will wait to revisit until I (and my children along with me) have aged a few more years. As a thirty-two year old husband, father of three, and aspiring author, this is exactly the type of book for which I have been searching. The insights of a forty-six year old husband, father of four, and accomplished author. It is material I can identify with, presented in inimitable style, by an author whom I admire and respect.

I’m not much of a pool player, but I would relish the opportunity to shoot pool with Chabon after one of his readings like Alexis from Texas. Better yet, to associate as parents of kids in the same social sphere. Would our shared “strangely possessive feelings about mythology” (“Sky and Telescope”) be a bond or a barrier? He would pity me “with the especial harsh pity of the geek” for not having an appreciation of Dr. Who (“An Amateur Family”), but considering my firstborn son gave me a t-shirt with the phrase “I’ve got MAD Bat’leth Skills” on it for Christmas I’d say I’m doing my part to raise the next generation of geeks (or amateurs, as Chabon prefers)! I gave myself Manhood for Amateurs for Christmas; is it manly to send yourself a thank you card?

*Cover design by Will Staehle

Old-Fashioned Ending

Margaret Lea is an old-fashioned gal. She has an old- fashioned name and an old-fashioned residence over her father’s antiquarian bookshop, which she knows as well by feel as by sight. Promptly at 8 pm each night she retires to her rooms to read “old novels.” [her emphasis] She attributes this to her preference for what she deems to be proper endings: “[m]arriages and deaths, noble sacrifices and miraculous restorations, tragic separations and unhoped-for reunions, great falls and dreams fulfilled. They should come after adventures, perils, dangers and dilemmas, and wind up everything nice and neatly.” This presage is a self-contained spoiler of sorts. The story that unfolds contains all of these elements and it most certainly will wind up nice and neat.

Margaret Lea is a biographer of the deceased, known mostly for a biography of a pair of brothers. She bears a more powerful but unknown biography of her own sister in the form of a scar where she was separated from her conjoined twin, who did not survive the separation. For these reasons she is selected by Vida Winter, the nation’s greatest living (albeit not for much longer) writer, to take down the inveterate storyteller’s true biography.

The writer has shared many stories from her past before, every one as false as her assumed name. As Vida Winter gradually reveals to Margaret Lea the sordid story of her true identity and the mystery of the missing Thirteenth Tale, the young biographer makes her own connections and discoveries that allow the story to continue beyond the ending the writer had planned.

Through these interdependent characters Diane Setterfield weaves an engrossing story, and the unique approach to unveiling a writer’s identity is laudable. I did find the missing twin element somewhat troubling, as I have an incomplete set of twins among my siblings. To me the most troubling part of this ghost story is the tidy way in which all of the loose ends are gathered into one old-fashioned quilt of an ending. In this respect I am more like the narrator’s father, who prefers the “beautiful desolation” of muted, ambiguous endings.

I enjoy old novels, but not for the same reasons that Margaret Lea does. In my formative years an interest in mythology lead me to reading the classics. The library at my junior high was hardly an antiquarian bookshop; when I had exhausted its lamentable dearth of classic literature I turned to my English teacher, Mrs. Hunt, whom I liked and trusted. She recommended Pride and Prejudice. Fifty pages into it I nearly threw the book at her head. Needless to say I have never cracked the cover of Jane Eyre, the classic so often referred to in The Thirteenth Tale.

Initially I shied away from reading The Thirteenth Tale due to this apparent influence. But I have progressed a little in my reading since junior high, and, like the doctor prescribing Sherlock Holmes to correct Margaret Lea’s inner Eyre imbalance, we could all stand to vary our reading habits from time to time. In that respect I am glad I read The Thirteenth Tale, even if I do not approve of its nice, neat ending. I’m not saying that I’m adding Jane Eyre to my reading list, but it might be time to give Pride and Prejudice and Zombies a try!

Shock Therapy

Historians of modern Russia know that shock therapy refers to the volatile economic reforms instituted by Boris Yeltsin in the late 90s, after the break up of the Soviet Union.  Forty years prior Nikita Khrushchev delivered a speech to the 20th Soviet Congress detailing the atrocities committed by the cult of Stalin (thus distancing himself from complicity). The so-called “secret speech” went viral long before the advent of social networking, shaking the Soviet Union to its foundations. This tumultuous time provides the backdrop for Tom Rob Smith’s new historical thriller, The Secret Speech, which is ultimately about a dysfunctional family undergoing its own self-imposed version of shock therapy.

Leo Demidov, the persecutor-turned-protector from Smith’s first novel Child 44 (see review posted 6/17/08), returns in the role of surrogate father to a pair of orphaned girls. Leo was responsible for the deaths of their parents and taking them in is his act of redemption, but the girls know about his actions and they aren’t about to forgive him. A new nemesis emerges, one with an intimate knowledge of his past deeds who is intent on retribution also.

Smith handles the personal and political elements of the story very well, and this thriller delivers its share of plot twists and page turns. The enemy from the past bent on revenge feels like something out of Batman and reminded me of the line “Some men just want to watch the world burn” from “The Dark Knight.”  The uprising in Budapest was a compelling addition to the story, but it wasn’t given full attention as the novel raced to its conclusion. A unique thriller about a flawed hero attempting to rescue a flawed family at a time when a self-proclaimed utopia admitted that it too had fatal flaws.

Brooklyn review

Here we have another novel about New York City, also written by an acclaimed author of Irish origin, also about an immigrant trying to find her place in the world. Brooklyn by Colm Tóibín takes place long before 9/11 and I read it prior to reading Netherland, but I am deliberately posting my reviews out-of-sequence. I was interested in the premise of this novel, a young woman departing her native Ireland for New York in the early 1950s. I was less interested in Eilis Lacey, the young woman it turned out to be.  I never found myself gripped by her predicament, so it didn’t matter by whom she was asked to dance on which night. When she suffered a major misfortune that necessitated her return to Ireland I was unmoved. For me the entire story flowed by like the placid water of that return trip rather than the choppy seas of her maiden voyage.

Netherland review

I don’t live in New York City. I don’t play cricket. Why then do I keep picking up books about the disorientation of living in post 9/11 New York (see Chronic City) and the civility of cricket (see Psmith in the City)? Joseph O’Neill came to Salt Lake City and signed copies of Netherland at Winter Institute prior to receiving the PEN/Faulkner Award, so I did have two valid reasons for reading this book. Which leaves the question of timing. Why did I wait until now to read it? I had picked it up earlier but another book interposed it’s way on to my reading list. Had I read Netherland at another time I’m confident I would have enjoyed it more. It is well-written and award-worthy, it has a cast of original characters, and I identified with the malaise that held the protagonist in an inert state despite not sharing his Dutch/Englishman in New York background, his enthusiasm for cricket, or his income bracket. I identified with Hans against my will; I’m weary of the malaise. Netherland is indeed a relevant book, but it’s not the kind of book I’d like to be reading  at the moment. I’ve had enough of New York City. I’m going to hold off on reading Joanna Smith Rakoff’s A Fortunate Age as a result and get back to some non-fiction.

Frame of Reference

I’ve been struggling to find a frame of reference for my review of Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem. One of the themes of the book is the very transmutability of frames of reference, which makes it all the more difficult to apply one to the story. I even attempted to read Psmith in the City by P.G. Wodehouse, an author who is repeatedly cited in the text, but did not profit from it. I was able to identify a suitable song by U2:

I was lost between the midnight and the dawning
In a place of no consequence or company
3:33 when the numbers fell off the clock face
Speed dialling with no signal at all

“Unknown Caller” is a good fit, but it requires its own frame of reference rather than providing one. Chronic City is replete with pop culture references, but they have been distorted to the point of being barely recognizable. Lethem is holding a mirror to New York City, but the mirror is warped. Chronic City also contains an abundance of drug references, primarily to marijuana. Some are implicit, such as one possible interpretation of the title, while most are explicit use by the point of view characters. This only heightens the surreal “through the looking glass” sensation. I felt agitated while reading it, as if Lethem’s writing is itself a form of illicit stimulant. Like a dealer, Lethem is guilty of possession with the intent to distribute!

Chronic City follows Chase Insteadman, the former child actor, through his life-altering acquaintance with Perkus Tooth, a former counterculture soothsayer. Chase and Perkus share fixes and fixations with Richard Abneg, a former activist turned fixer for the mayor. Rounding out this expansive social circle is Janice Trumbull, an astronaut stranded in orbit who is only present in the letters she writes to her fiance (Chase), and Oona Laszlo, a ghostwriter who is not present in her writing. Each character negates their own identity, casting off frames of reference along the way until the baffled Insteadman finally comes to terms with his relation to the people around him. Lethem writes the story so brilliantly that we are left wondering which is more warped, the city or its reflection?

National Book Award Finalists

Congratulations to Daniyal Mueenuddin, author of the short story collection In Other Rooms, Other Wonders (see review posted 2/18/09), which was named one of the five National Book Award Finalists in Fiction. Winners will be announced on November 18.

New Poems Page

With my renewed focus on time spent writing I have recently completed a new mythological poem entitled Then came Thor, beard aflame. It can be found on the Poems by J.A. Clemens page, a new addition to the blog!

Reading vs. Writing

Recently I made a conscious decision to redistribute the amount of time I spend reading versus the amount of time spent writing. I have felt somewhat stymied in my writing lately and find it necessary to commit more time to that pursuit. Unfortunately devoting more time to writing entails reducing reading time. That decision is evident in the lapse between posted reviews. Bottom line: less reading, fewer reviews, more writing. Time to test the formula.