Book Review: Therafields, by Grant Goodbrand

It was with considerable surprise when, browsing the shelves of our favourite used bookstore, Balfour Books, I was handed a book by my wife. "Did you see this?" It was purporting to be about a massive psychoanalytic commune which had its roots in downtown Toronto during the 60s and 70s. I was surprised because I'd never heard of it before - the group was called Therafields. I was immediately struck by the communal angle, the era, the emphasis on psychological investigation - it was like being handed a screenplay by David Cronenberg. The fact that I am studying psychotherapy and its theoretical/historic development made it irresistible.

Subtitled The Rise And Fall of Lea Hindley-Smith's Psychoanalysis Commune, Grant Goodbrand's Therafields is just that. From the mid-60s till the early-80s, what was eventually coined Therafields, became one of the largest active communes in North America (significant considering both the era and that it happened with virtually no physical or cultural traces left in this city), owning as many as 35 houses within, and 400 acres of farmland just outside Toronto. At its apex it had over 900 members.

Starting out with a modest practice in the Annex, Welsh émigré Lea Hindley-Smith began by seeing people in her home. Her open embrace of students combined with an uncanny ability to get to the bottom of her clients' problems (not to mention her real estate acumen) conspired along with the socially progressive ideals of the 60s to develop a remarkable experiment in psychotherapy: a live/work environment which operated also as an ongoing group-process for its members, all under the auspices of Hindley-Smith who became their professor, CEO, and den mother. More houses were bought so that more living spaces could be added to accommodate new members, and new groups were developed. The story of Therafields is an account of how this creative hive eventually became an unmanageable empire. It is also an invaluable reflection of the changes happening at the time, guest-starring those stranded by the revoked promises of Vatican II, the back-to-the-farm movement, and the idea that psychotherapy could be about society rather than the individual.

I am a child of the 70s. Nothing could possibly be less meaningful than that statement. However, culturally speaking, I was surrounded by the 70s. The mid-70s to mid-80s were a formative time in Canadian television. In other words, we saw a lot of ourselves. And what we saw was produced and inflected by those who came of age in the 60s and early 70s (that's the way it always worked until recently, by the way - the older generation helped the younger generation identify with their own generation). In other words, I can imagine Therafields, while reading about it. Goodbrand has done a good job of contextualizing the era in which his book takes place. It also helps that Goodbrand was a key member of Therafields himself, and as such is gifted with a familiarity which an outside author would struggle to develop. The flip-side to that statement is that an outside author might have had a better chance of keeping the rhythm of the book's story consistent: there is a habit of temporal back-and-forth which does not make for smooth comprehension at times.

Considering Goodbrand's credentials, Therafields unfortunately suffers from a detached perspective. He is as qualified as anyone to write about Lea Hindley-Smith and those who were key to the group's skyward development - like esteemed poet bpNicol, for example - yet it seems only an accumulation of actions, the plotline of a biography, which gives us clues to the hearts beating behind the cast of characters. Goodbrand's book sometimes reads like an account rather than an experience.

And here we come to a marketing dilemma: I'm not sure who the intended audience is. I am thankfully, luckily, well-suited to read, understand, and enjoy Therafields. Yet... With its insistence on differentiating what Hindley-Smith practiced (Kleinian) from classical psychoanalysis, without necessarily providing a debriefer for the reader on what makes Kleinian psychoanalysis different from it, I cannot imagine the "average reader" walking away knowing what that all should mean. Perhaps that won't matter if they are keen on digging into a prime slice of Toronto history - complete with addresses, one could conceivably operate a motor-tour of where Therafields took place.

It is, nonetheless, an insightful read and an invaluable chronicle of a peculiar social/cultural phenomenon. Therafields, by Grant Goodbrand (ISBN: 978-1-55022-976-9), is available (evidently) from a used bookstore near you, and also online.

Another One Bites The Dust

ARG! One of my favourite literary blogs is ending its run! I encourage you all to visit Ward Six. I really appreciated their approach: to book reviews, to the art of writing. To art itself.

The reasons they give are sensible, yet I will be selfish and whinge that I am now left with oh so very few relevant, intelligent, knowledgeable literary blogs to follow.

Nonetheless, I wish John and Rhian all the best.

Book Review: The Tiger, by John Vaillant

(I had done a mini-review of this on my end-of-the-year post, but thought it merited its own entry)

I found myself flipping through the Globe and Mail book section one weekend in the fall of 2010, and found myself staring at a review for a non-fiction book called The Tiger, by author John Vaillant. Let me begin by saying that I am a prolific reader, yet not someone phased by what's new so much as what interests me. To this extent, given my eclectic tastes, I will switch from Turgenev to Bukowski, from John Ralston Saul to Stanislaw Lem, and so on. I sometimes don't have a lot of time to read books, period, owing to a fairly full schedule of projects (which includes working on a novel). As a result, I sometimes feel a little out of touch with the contemporary world of books, especially when there are people on Twitter who are aiming to read fifty books this year.

Getting back to me and the review, I glanced at the synopsis and was struck by how meaty it was: the Russian far east, a vengeful killing machine, a dark exploration of our ties to nature. It seemed to be everything I was looking for (especially as a Russophile) and gave me an opportunity to actually read something published in the year that I was reading it.

It is, in short, a fabulous book. Fabulous, above all, because of the depth of Vaillant's research into his subjects and his skill at balancing this collective learning against the white knuckle tension that is at the heart of the story. The Tiger begins with the stalking and subsequent killing of a tayozhnik - a Siberianism for forest dweller - named Markov and the series of events it sets in motion against the backdrop of the merciless taiga (or "boreal forest") surrounding the little logging town of Sobolonye.

The tension is established early, not by Markov's demise so much as the complex relationship between humans and tigers in this paradoxical part of the world, much of the relationship predicated on the aboriginal teaching that a tiger will never attack a human, so long as the former respects the latter's spiritual and physical superiority. This superiority is laid out in full measure: from a zoological perspective, the tiger is perhaps the most sublime killing machine that exists in the world of mammals and Vaillant spares no time outlining how every inch of the beast exceeds any comparable hunter on the planet - both in physicality and mentality. The tiger thinks. The tiger learns. Most compelling of all, the tiger remembers.

It is this last quality which lends much tension, because, as the tiger is tracked by a team of professional hunters over the course of two weeks, the question is repeatedly asked: did Markov bring this on himself? And how?

The Tiger is a stunning combination of layered storytelling and educational insight into the evolutionary relationship between man and animal. Indeed, given the barren environment of the setting, it feels sometimes as if the conflicts between man and animal are staged in a prehistoric past rather than their modern setting in the late 90s. There are also some sad truths made about the aftereffects of the economic collapse of the former Soviet Union and the perennial designs China has on the taiga's natural resources - tigers included.

The Tiger, by John Vaillant (ISBN: 978-0307268938) is published by Knopf and is readily available in your local, independent bookstore.

Movies & A Book: Some of The Best Things I've Witnessed in 2010

Here's the best of what I've seen this year. I haven't seen everything. You may disagree with what I have seen. This is life.

FILM:

Inception

Go ahead. Try. Try disagreeing that this is one of the most technically (and perhaps conceptually) elaborate mainstream Hollywood productions released in years which also happens to work as a "movie" that a wide variety of audiences would enjoy watching.

There has been a backlash against Inception. I don't know how or why this is - perhaps it was over-sold as a deep "puzzle-solver" film, which it is not. And yes, the NYT's A.O. Scott has a point in his comment that the film's literal depiction of dreams are lacking psychological heft (outside of Marion Cotillard's performance as DiCaprio's wife). In any case, something has caused a revolt against this film and I say this revolt is missing the point.

Inception is, generally speaking, the most watchable, the most fascinating film of 2010. You are allowed to hate it.

A Prophet

I am a huge fan of Jacques Audiard, a French director who has always rewarded the viewer with films (Read My Lips, The Beat My Heart Skipped) that balance passion with style. With A Prophet, Audiard expands his canvas, creating a gritty, novelistic masterpiece on-par with The Godfather (yes). The story concerns a young incarcerated Muslim who slowly rebuilds himself from within the treachery of prison life, rising from under the thumb of a vicious mob leader to become his own person and create his own empire. Epic, patient, and in places extremely violent. People will be referring to this film for years to come even if it has not really made a mark in North America. Again, a masterpiece.

The Eclipse

I realize this Irish film was released in 2009, but it didn't get here until now. A compelling ghost story which eschews the two-dimensionality of ghost story films. It was around the twenty-minute mark that I realized it was a film which was going to confound my expectations (expectations based upon years and hundreds of similar plot lines): it wasn't going to squander what it was and fall prey to hackneyed cliché. A gorgeous, touching, ultimately humanistic film with a stand-out performance by Ciarán Hinds as a grieving father of two children who must swallow his pride to escort a loud-mouthed Aidan Quinn through the motions of a book tour of the small coastal city of Cobh, in County Cork. A sublime achievement by director Conor McPherson.

Notable: Winter's Bone - see it. It's on DVD now. Like A Simple Plan, it's a self-contained "rural thriller" (ugh) with a chilling undertone of barren hopelessness. Unlike A Simple Plan, it's uncomplicated which is what gives it more of an honest strength. Exit Through The Gift Shop is the perhaps best film made about art and the art world that I have seen - like Inception, it's not trying to be deep, just smart. Scott Pilgrim vs. The World blew me away because I expected it to be weak (perhaps because all the publicity photos inexplicably used a static image of Michael Cera standing against a fucking wall...imagine if you will, trying to sell Star Wars with a picture of Mark Hamill sitting cross-legged in the desert - sounds awesome, eh?). Not only was it not weak, it was the strangest case of "I don't know why I love this movie but I really do". Painstakingly, sublimely Toronto-centric (which, unlike the inexplicable promo photos of Michael Cera, shouldn't be factored into explaining why it didn't fare well at the box office) and wildly imaginative - those two things have never met before...oh but wait, I forgot the perfect companion piece: Kick Ass - also shot in TO, and also exceedingly expectation-defying (although the climax is kinda drawn-out). As far as performances go, Jesse Eisenberg (The Social Network) and Colin Firth (The King's Speech) stand out, along with Winter's Bone's Jennifer Lawrence, and Hailee Steinfeld for True Grit (who, at 14-years, shows huge promise as an actor).

BOOK:

I would have said "BOOKS", but due to work and school I haven't read anything published this year (that I can remember), with the exception of John Vaillant's The Tiger. Lucky for me, since it is without doubt one of the best non-fiction titles I've read in years.

The Tiger is a meaty real-life tale of vengeance by the titular beast, in the winter hinterland of the Russian Far East (which the author calls, paradoxically, "the boreal forest"). Vaillant describes an environment historically, politically, and biologically unique, inhabited by hardened outcasts. The shadow of a predator male tiger, known never before to attack without cause, creates a wave of dread throughout the land, with only a small band of volunteers to figure out the mystery. Vaillant provides wave after wave of fascinating detail - examples of how man and beast have evolved throughout time, how human and animal behaviour have worked in similar paths - that by the end of the book you feel as if you should have a credit in Ethology. This is truly a page-turner and I cannot recommend it enough.

Book Review: Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro

Sometimes things just line up in such a way that you can't help feeling they were put there on purpose. Early this month, as part of a course I'm taking, I went to a weekend retreat, held at a secluded compound by the Credit River. It was a bit eerie, because many of my dreams take place in expansive compounds: wherever I go, even if it seems I'm outside, I just have to look up to see that there is a roof, or some sort of enclosure to remind me that I am not free. So, what book from our library did I take with me at the last minute? Why, Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go, of course. What I didn't realize is that much of it takes place on a compound...but I'll get back to this.

I've not read any books by Ishiguro - I haven't even seen the movie adaptation of Remains of the Day. That said, I did work on Guy Maddin's The Saddest Music In The World, an adaptation of one of his short stories. I'd heard good things about Never Let Me Go, and had always meant to read it. With it being released as a film recently (I don't think it did that well, despite the critical praise), and since I needed something to read during my time away, I thought it would be a good pick.

Never Let Me Go concerns the story of Kathy, Ruth, and Tommy. It's told from Kathy's perspective in the present. She is a carer, who drives from centre to centre, visiting those she looks after. Very soon we are introduced to their beginnings, as children, in a place called Hailsham. It's an isolated educational enclave, somewhere in England, where the students live, go to school, and grow up. But there's something a little odd about it all. Perhaps it's the isolation from the rest of the world. Something in the way some of their guardians regard them. All too soon, their sun-dappled childhood in Hailsham becomes something which haunts them as they grow into young adults. It's practically all Kathy can use to mark the passing of her time.

Within these reminiscences, we are introduced to Tommy and Ruth, who become the foundational friendships Kathy clings to through adolescence, regardless that Ruth oscillates from friend to enemy - a colourful rather than careful individual who becomes a voice of danger in the fog of their relationship.

The magic of this book is the skill with which Kathy's perspective is written. There is a purpose for Hailsham, for their being there. There is a reason she is a carer. Never Let Me Go is a capital-H haunting novel, inhabited by people who are slightly cold but reaching out, never quite managing to touch a meaning they hope is there. I can't say much more without spoiling things, not that it's a book laden with surprises, so much as layered with subtle, sad observations. A beautiful book for a rainy day.

Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go (ISBN: 978-0-676-97711-0) is available at an independent bookstore near you, or at various online retailers.

Swirl

I am trying (desperately) to avoid a "boy, it's been a wacky ride these last few months!" post. It certainly isn't for lack of things to talk about, news to update you with, opinions to confess/shout.

Thing is, I don't know who you are. Sure, I know there are some of you who are semi-regular visitors. There are others who happen upon this place by accident (via Blogger or StumbleUpon). There are also those who come here via Google searches, either via my name or - most likely - a book review (which admittedly I haven't done in, oh, a year or so *). And no, this isn't going to be a "Matt wittily evading accusations of being a lazy bastard by turning the camera on the reader" post.

I've been posting artsy stuff, writerly stuff, industry opinion stuff. I don't mind the randomness, so long as there's no fluff. I do mind the lack of output. I wish, for one, that I could post more photographs (which is to say, I wish I had a better selection of photos to post **).

It comes down to the fact that I've been working like a dog since May (note: this happens every year that I'm working on a SAW film). When I come out of these periods, I feel like Rip van Winkle: a little dazed, slow on the up-take. Whereas last year this time I started teaching, this time this year I am a student (part-time) †. I have a small (but good) feature and a small (but good and potentially controversial) TV show on my plate from now till February. If funds allow, I also hope to have an editor working with me on my novel, with an eye to approaching a publisher or self-publishing if that doesn't seem feasible ††. I'm collaborating on a musical.

My plate is full.

- - - 

* which isn't to say that I'm not reading or that I don't want to do any more book reviews. I'm reading a lot of non-fiction, thank you. Much of it either out of professional or academic interest. However, if only to improve my Google ranking, here's a quick book review of Antwerp by Roberto Bolaño: What the fuck was that? (ISBN-13: 978-0811217170)

** another casualty of working so much is my photography. I still have the same roll of film in my camera that I'd loaded in June. I think I've only taken 4 exposures since then. Of course, my cellphone camera gets all the fun these days, unfortunately.

† I will be continuing teaching, but for only two terms this year as opposed to three (which was exhausting and... exhausting)

†† It needs a new name, for one thing. And I know this is going to drive me up the wall more than any changes to the actual content of the book.

All That Glitters Isn't Oranje

It should come as no surprise that my postings have been less frequent, in proportion to the success or lack thereof of the Dutch at the World Cup, which has just (mercifully) ended.

First: I'm happy we made it to the Final.

Second: I'm happy we lost (even though I wanted us to win at the time).

Allow me to explain: I will always support Oranje, but that doesn't mean I have to suspend my critical faculties while doing so. It also doesn't mean I am living in a nostalgic cloudbank in which Holland must either play soccer like the Kirov ballerinas dance or else they are "cynical" - a word bandied about by once-every-four-years-I-pay-attention-to-soccer pundits.

In case I haven't beaten this point enough, my Oranje is the team of 1998. It always will be. They were beautiful to watch (take a look at my Ryeberg essay if you haven't already) and most aficionados consider that squad the greatest team of the competition, regardless that they lost to Brazil in the semi-finals. The thing is, if you accept that, then you must also accept they were the very same team who flamed-out against Italy in Euro 2000 in the quarters, in perhaps one of the most humiliating games I've seen us play: same squad, folks. How's that for beauty?

The toughest question in the world if you are a Dutch international soccer player: What can you do when the public, the pundits, the former stars from the Golden Age all want to see you play ballet if playing ballet doesn't win anything? Don't get me wrong: I like the Oranje ballet - I am one of those people who can walk away from a loss, still chuffed that we played "as we should". I do side with author David Winner's thoughts about Dutch soccer philosophy, as laid out in his (brilliant) book, Brilliant Orange: The Neurotic Genius of Dutch Soccer. But inevitably you want to win something, and the only silverware the Dutch have is the Euro title in 1988.

This brings us to the present. Sadly. Sadly, because for the most part Oranje did not live up to the philosophy we had come to World Cup 2010 expecting. Under the direction of Bert van Marwijk, they took a detour: individual beauty, sure, when necessary, but collectively less a ballet than an assembly line with a very narrow directive: win, above all else. And they did. They were rusty at first and their games, outside of pockets of that ol' Clockwork Oranje we hoped to see, were not pretty, but they won, and continued to win. Lord, I wanted them to win, too - I was a willing enabler.

When the final against Spain came, I was a nervous wreck. I can only imagine how it must have been in Holland, for those making their way to the Museum Square in Amsterdam where the games were shown for the public. They had come so far, had been through so much, for so many years: 1974, 1978, the glimmer of 1998, the disappointment of missing 2002. So much baggage that you wanted them to win just to shake off the voodoo of the past.

But as I got prepared that morning I visualized what it would be like if we won, if for the first time ever we won the Cup. Instead of tears of joy, I have to tell you, I saw that it would have felt as if we had cheated. As if in winning, we had not done so as ourselves but as a cunning machine, as if someone had invented a "Dutch Soccer Team" to take our place. I cannot describe how difficult it was to deal with that: to stare at a historic vindication within reach of your fingertips, knowing simultaneously there was something inherently inauthentic about it. In fact, had we won, I fear the "victory" would have irrevocably punctured the heart of Dutch soccer, as opposed to the bittersweet reality I live with now: we lost, Dutch soccer is merely dented. Coach van Marwijk's corporatist approach has been repudiated, that is for sure. What I don't know is who or what, philosophically speaking, has been vindicated, since we are bridesmaids once again.

Perhaps it is our souls? I can't speak for yours, but mine is in a better if not exactly comfortable place right now.

Book Review: Night Work, by Thomas Glavinic

One of the nice things about following blogs (certain blogs at least, or at least the few that are still being updated) is the wealth (and depth) of recommendations one can find. In this case, I happened upon Ward Six one day and found a description of an interesting novel, called Night Work. I'd never heard of it before and probably would not have if it weren't for their recommendation. This is the nice thing about the Internet.

Written by Austrian author Thomas Glavinic, Night Work tells the story of Jonas, a young professional living and working in Vienna, who one day while waiting for the morning bus finds that the bus isn't coming. It isn't coming because, as he soon discovers, everyone is gone. Every living soul in Vienna seems to have disappeared and there is no television or radio reception. He calls his girlfriend, Marie, who had just left the day before to visit relatives in England. No answer. Everything is silent.

There is a decided chill to the first half of Night Work, with Jonas dealing with an overwhelming fear that he is not alone, that he is being watched. His unexplained predicament, while extraordinary, is rendered in ways which make it easy to relate to. His fears are human fears: being alone, being permanently separated from those he loves, not knowing what lurks in the dark. There is a pronounced longing for his family; one of the first things Jonas does is move into his father's townhouse. As the novel progresses, his preoccupation with his childhood and family life becomes an evolving theme, particularly - as he explores the city and the remnants of places he knew - the question of what is left when people leave the earth.

The book's title takes its form as Jonas suspects that something may be happening around him - perhaps to him - when he sleeps at night. What begins with a single video camera taping his sleeping patterns evolves into an elaborately orchestrated multi-camera obsession: to solve the haunting clues left behind on the videotapes he watches the next day.

No matter how far the book progresses, Glavinic manages to keep taut the suspense surrounding the question of whether Jonas is truly alone. We share his childlike fears as he attempts to methodically explore his surroundings, eventually to make one last attempt to contact Marie. Obviously, it's a challenge for any writer to keep the reader's interest given a single character, his reminiscences, and a world filled with abandoned artifacts. Glavinic manages to do this without cheating the reader or over-spicing the soup with unnecessary (or illogical) scares. Indeed, Night Work is about atmosphere and memory: these are, after all, the only things Jonas is left with. And, despite its sci-fi/speculative nature, it evolves into a rather touching literary and philosophical tale.

There are some small quibbles: not knowing Vienna (or Austria for that matter), Glavinic's reliance on Viennese street names/neighbourhoods to denote where the story is taking place can be a little confusing (Brigittenaur Lände, anyone?). Also, I wish at times there had been a deeper view into Jonas' emotional realm - that said, not to dwell on Austrian cultural stereotypes, the protagonist is an entirely practical, self-reliant character. This aside, I would recommend this novel for those looking for something different; perhaps for readers who like a little speculative fiction mixed in with their personal journeys.

Night Work, by Thomas Glavinic [ISBN: 978-1847671844] is published in North America through Canongate U.S. and is available at an independent bookseller near you, or readily available online. This edition was translated into (UK) English by John Brownjohn (I mention this in case you don't know what a lorry is, etc..).

Book Review: A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, by David Foster Wallace

For those of you who didn't know already, author David Foster Wallace took his life last September. It was an all-too-unfortunate excuse for me to delve into his work, particularly his non-fiction, having enjoyed it years ago when I was a Harper's subscriber (see here for context).

A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again is a collection of seven essays he wrote during the 90's (there are other collections of more recent work available as well, fyi) for such periodicals as Harper's, Esquire, and Harvard Book Review. On display is everything I recall from my earlier introduction: his wry sense of humour, an idiosyncratic writing style (in particular his prominent affection for footnotes), and his ability to turn the subject matter back onto his own life without self-indulgence.

This is where I make a (hopefully) short (and hopefully respectful, considering the circumstances) tangent: after DFW's death, along with the dismay of those who were fans, I read just as many comments from people who - without hesitation - admitted to simply not liking the man's style of writing. This sentiment (though still not what I would call "the prevailing opinion") was even echoed in Harvard professor/New York Times book critic James Woods' recent opus How Fiction Works; for him Wallace's prose evidently did not. I figured this mood extended itself more to his fiction which - truth be told - I have not read. His most recognized piece, Infinite Jest, is over 1,100 post-modernist pages long. Not interested.

Because I had such little exposure to his work, reading ASFTINDA was an interesting experience: I could see what his detractors must have been referring to. While there is no doubt Wallace was an extremely intelligent and talented writer (which I shall get to), there are numerous examples in this volume where he comes across as rather pompous, which wouldn't be so bad were it not for his habit of typing huge swaths of text which any good editor would have asked him (nay demanded) he remove because of either its redundancy or its convolution of said essay's point. He also suffers an ailment similar to what I found with Carl Wilson (recently reviewed here) where, for no particular reason, he seems hell-bent on exhuming obscure words which stick out like antlers on a house cat.

Of the seven essays, three are distinctly underwhelming for reasons cited above. In particular, his essay E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction is a terribly long argument for post-modern fiction (ie. the type he writes) using academic media theory as a course of analogy (via reminiscences of 70's and 80's television shows). While the fact that his examples are quite dated is no fault of his (it was written in '93 after all - hello, St. Elsewhere), it is problematic that after many excruciating paragraphs of explanation/theorizing he never actually gets around to completing his argument in a way that satisfies the effort of having read it.

That all said (he types, rolling his eyes) the remaining four essays are gold and worth the price of the book. In particular and unquestionably his essays Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All (an assignment from Harper's to cover the Illinois State Fair) and the eponymous A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again (another Harper's assignment - do you see a trend? - this time to take a 7-day ocean liner cruise of the Caribbean). On display in both is the perceptive laugh-out-loud satire of society's absurdities as well as well-crafted reportage. There is also enjoyment in reading the essays on David Lynch (hanging out on the set of Lost Highway while opining on Lynch's place in the American cinematic landscape) as well as tennis player Michael Joyce (set at the Canadian Open in Montreal, one of many coincidental Canadian-content inclusions throughout the book).

These four essays provide an opportunity for us to assess Wallace, the writer and person, without the willing academicism or pro-post-modernist chip on his shoulder. There is, for example, a wonderfully personal (yet appropriately witty) gem in the tennis essay where he admits, having previously questioned Michael Joyce's IQ only to discover that, rather than a lack of intelligence it was an overwhelming physical and mental commitment by the athlete to his sport, and realizes by comparison that he can be a snob and an asshole. I like to come by my revelations honestly and it is in these four essays where Wallace's gift shines.

So, if you don't mind wincing a little and skipping a couple of entries, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again is rewarding in the end. When he was on his A-game, Wallace had a unique voice and a wonderfully biting sense of humour; it makes the suddenness and nature of his passing all the more sad. I'm sure I will pick up more of his non-fiction in the months to come.

A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, by David Foster Wallace [ISBN: 978-0316925280] is available at a friendly independent bookseller near you, or online at numerous impersonal sources.

Book Review: Let's Talk About Love: A Journey To The End of Taste, by Carl Wilson

Celine Dion.

There is something about the utterance of her name which induces an involuntary sneer on some faces. As a Canadian, there is a double-whammy to this in that - of all the internationally recognized names from our country - hers is the most prevalent.

We associate her name, subconsciously, intentionally, metaphorically with everything that is crassly commercial, saccharine, and paradoxically successful in spite of the fact that "people like us" (which is to mean, those of us with cultivated tastes) can't stand her music.

Yet, despite these reactions, are we giving her a fair shake? Are we just a bunch of snobs? Is it possible to approach her music as we would approach our cherished performer x. This is the premise of the 52nd edition of the wonderful 33 ^1/3 series of books (appropriately CD-sized) by the publisher, Continuum. The purpose of the series has been for various people to write about albums which influenced their lives (without constraints on form, so rather than all of them being journalistic essays, some are fictional prose, some are non-linear ruminations inspired by said album).

Whereas others wrote from direct inspiration, Let's Talk About Love: A Journey To The End of Taste is Carl Wilson's unique attempt to explore the Celine Dion phenomena knowing in advance that he didn't particularly care for her music.

What begins with curiosity (the fact that Celine shared the stage with Elliot Smith, a fave of Wilson's, during the 1998 Academy Awards) and a faint appreciation for her success turns into a deep exploration - the kind you would see a fictional FBI agent do in a movie, you know, the guy who gets into the mind of the killer, etc. - of Celine's life story (her disadvantaged roots in a small Quebec town), the power of her music internationally (from the Caribbean to the Middle East), as well as an astute aggregation of studies done on popular taste (which show that, yeah, sneering at Celine is kinda snobby and narrow-minded when you think about it).

Wilson's summary of Dion's youth and Quebec's socio-political history, the distinction of kétaine (a sort of Quebecois kitsch), and how she is both a product and a paradox of the society in which she was raised is brilliant. It is rare to find someone (Quebecois or not) who can write about Quebec, who can encapsulate its frustrations with the rest of the country, its cultural tonality and political upheaval without either trivializing the causes and effects or isolating the province further from our understanding. The fact that Wilson can do all this in a relatively brief chapter of an already svelte-sized book is commendable.

Also of note is the book's well researched and thought-provoking exploration of what we mean when we talk about taste and - intriguingly - whether there truly is any point in claiming that one form of art (or one artist) is intrinsically better than another. In particular the perspectives which support the (unfairly derided) trope of sentimentality, that hallmark of Celine Dion's repertoire, are fascinating. Why, Wilson realizes, must everything be so f#cking bleak in order to be seriously respected? I found myself nodding in agreement with him and pondering the philosophical reach of the arguments.

In the end this is a personal rather than purely journalistic task for Wilson. Celine's presence and music are weaved, sometimes touchingly, through various aspects and events within his life. However, if there is a fault it is Wilson's penchant for using 5-dollar words; it lends an unnecessarily academic tone to the book which (thankfully infrequently) obscures an otherwise fun and fascinating read.

That quibble said, I cannot recommend this book enough.

Let's Talk About Love: A Journey To The End of Taste, by Carl Wilson [ISBN: 978-0826427885] is available at a wonderful, friendly independent bookseller near you, or online via various impersonal vendors.

Book Review: War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy

"I took a speed-reading course and read War and Peace in twenty minutes. It involves Russia." - Woody Allen

There is a time and place for everything. The trick is having a sense for timing; the place will take care of itself, which I believe is an as-yet undiscovered Newtonian law. When I heard/read that there was a new (somewhat bally-hoo'd) translation of Tolstoy's 500lb (226.79kg) gorilla, War and Peace, I felt it was the right time to tackle it. Santa Claus delivered and I begun my task of reading all 1,224 pages with the aim of finishing by the end of 2008. Now, normally I am not a slow reader, but because this was an exquisite hardcover edition (384cm² in size and weighing under 3lbs) it was not something I could take with me on the streetcar to work. It became my bedside book for the entire year.

War and Peace follows the lives of several members of Moscow nobility during the Napoleonic wars of 1805 and 1812. In particular, two families are focused upon: the Rostovs and the Bolkonskys. Skirting between the two, becoming the unlikely main protagonist of the book, is Pierre Bezukhov, an awkward intellectual who inherits his ailing father's fortune at a young age without having any sense of purpose to guide him.

The Rostovs, represented by their patriarch, the well-meaning but indebted Count Ilya Andreevich, feature the principle protagonists Nikolai and Natasha (as well as siblings Petya and Sonya - the latter an orphan). The Bolkonskys, represented by the hard-nosed military man Prince Nikolai Andreevich, feature the siblings Andrei and Marya.

Before I go any further, I bet you're asking yourself something: "Hey, that's a little confusing. What with both patriarchs having the name Andreevich and one of them sharing the first name with the other's son, Nikolai. Wow - how do you keep track?". One of the nice things about this edition (and I can only speak of this edition as I haven't perused another) is that it has a handy list of principle characters at the beginning...which you will need for the first, oh, 200 pages.

Right, where were we. Oh, yes, Russia. Introductions are made to the principle characters in a way which seems presciently tailored to a sweeping Hollywood adaptation: colourful fêtes with dancing and ball gowns, the young Count Bezukhov at his dying father's side, the talk of war amongst the men. It is from this point that the eldest sons - Nikolai and Andrei - ready themselves to join the military: Nikolai as a member of the corps, Andrei as an adjutant. During the build-up to the first battles, Pierre, a reluctant member of the nobility perennially in search of meaning without any family or friends to guide him walks through the lives of both the Rostov and Bolkonsky families, acting as both an outsider and confidante.

If I may take this moment to say the following: it's a really long book, and so I'm not going to draw a quaint plot summary. If anything, the book follows the travails of the Bolkonsky and Rostov siblings - through war, personal tragedy, love, and faith. Tolstoy renders the winding lifelines of Prince Andrei, Count Rostov, Pierre, and Natasha in a knowing way. He knows that, between idealistic teenhood and adult maturity, people's lives do not often move in diagonally vertical lines; mistakes are made, passions are erupted, and past conflicts infect our clarity. In short, Tolstoy has formed unique characters who capture the spirit of their day (and class) while also imbuing them with strengths and weaknesses which seem tangible.

It is important to note several things about W&P and Tolstoy. First and foremost, that, as a book, it is not really easy to classify. In his own words (from the Appendix): "[...] it is not a novel, still less an epic poem, still less a historical chronicle.". Secondly, that it was first published in serial form, which may explain its girth (assuming he was paid by the word). Third, that regardless of its size, its ornate complexity as regards relationships between characters, regardless of Tolstoy interrupting the story from time to time to philosophize about the nature of war or critique the narrow-minded assumptions of historians, you will probably not read (or find) a book like this again.

There are three predominant voices in the book: Tolstoy the storyteller/character-driver, Tolstoy the military historian, and (as noted above) Tolstoy the agit-prop polemicist. I didn't expect that latter. I thought I was getting a thick slab of story wrapped in history, but what I didn't realize is that the wrapping is heavily spiced. In several places Tolstoy makes asides to the reader, and whether it is describing the clock-like movement of troops or the erroneous presumption of Napoleon's genius, I felt closer to Tolstoy the writer; although some will find these sections a bit out of place, his commentaries are poetic and philosophically powerful.

Excerpt:

"As in the mechanism of a clock, so also in the mechanism of military action, the movement once given is just as irrepressible until the final results, and just as indifferently motionless are the parts of the mechanism not yet involved in the action even a moment before movement is transmitted to them. Wheels whizz on their axles, cogs catch, fast-spinning pulleys whirr, yet the neighboring wheel is as calm and immobile as though it was ready to stand for a hundred years in that immobility; but a moment comes - the lever catches, and, obedient to its movement, the wheel creaks, turning, and merges into one movement with the whole, the result and purpose of which are incomprehensible to it." (Volume I, Part Three, Chapter XI, p. 258)

It is at this point where I return (briefly) to the translators of this new edition, Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. They have (thankfully) preserved the Russian-ness of the book, unlike previous translations. Character names are left as-is and not Westernized, nor are elements like religious ornaments (such as the ever-present ikons) given Westernized names. When French is spoken, it is left in French w/ English footnotes at the bottom of the page. While this may require a little more dexterity on the part of the reader, this edition also comes with a handy 20-page appendix of reference as well as historical notes.

Will one's life be less if one doesn't read War and Peace? Only you can answer that. I'm happy to have read it, yet by the time I'd reached the end I barely had room in my head for Tolstoy's more essay-like commentaries on Napoleon, his so-called genius, and the philosophical symbiosis between freedom and necessity.

I will say that it is not light reading, in case this hasn't been sufficiently communicated in this review. Truth be known, there is much (much) more I could write on this book, but this is a blog and not the NYT Book section. I do, however, recommend W&P to anyone catching up on classics, or who are curious about non-traditional styles of literature.

War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy (translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky)[ISBN-13: 978-0307266934], is available at a fine independent bookseller near you, or via any number of places on the Internet.

Completion

A quick note: I've just finished Tolstoy's War & Peace. I've been reading it for just over a year - the gi-normous, anti-public-transit hardcover version of the Pevear/Volokhonsky translation - and finally read the last of the last pages last night (if that sounds awkward, the thing has an Epilogue in two parts, each spanning several chapters, plus an Appendix by Tolstoy). I would've finished sooner had the second half of the Epilogue not consisted of an essay by the author on the philosophical/socio-historical implications of freedom vs. necessity in society.

So, yes, in the upcoming days, I will post a formal review. There shall be more book reviews in general in the coming months, seeing as those are the things which are responsible for 50% of this blog's traffic. I'm assuming this percentage consists, in equal measure, of both curious readers-to-be and desperate students cramming for their essays/tests (Question 2a: "What are the themes in Hesse's Siddhartha?").

Book Review: Unended Quest, by Karl Popper

"Pfuel was one of those theorists who so love their theory that they forget the purpose of the theory - its application in practice; in his love for theory, he hated everything practical and did not want to know about it. He was even glad of failure, because failure, proceeding from departures from theory in practice, only proved to him the correctness of his theory."

- Leo Tolstoy, War & Peace, Vol. III, Pt. 1, Chpt. X

My self-guided study in philosophy brought me to Karl Popper this past summer. Yes, another 20th century Austrian (seeing as the last philosopher's book I reviewed was Wittgenstein's Tractatus Logico Philosophicus). Another logician as well, but what's compelling about Popper is that he did not limit himself to one particular field of study (in his case, science). He was just as passionate and knowledgeable about social dynamics, art, and politics.

Popper approached the long-held observational scientific method with distrust; rather than prove a theory to be correct with empirical evidence, he took inspiration from Einstein's openness to critique (when he released his theories on relativity) and insisted that falsification was a better method (ie. allowing one's theory to be refuted by opening it up to the community-at-large for inspection from more angles). This, he argued, protected the world from the success of pseudoscientific "pet theories". His inspiration for this came from his disenchantment with social and academic institutions of the day which rigidly held the works of Marx and Freud in high esteem.

Allow me to stop here and say the following: there is no way in hell I can sufficiently (to my own or anyone else's satisfaction) and clearly lay-out the man's theories, justifications, and *how* he came about his all in what I always hope and aim to be a succinct blog entry. It has taken me a day to revise the above paragraph and I'm still not particularly happy with it.

That said, I found Unended Quest to be a fascinating portrait of a great mind who refuses to stop questioning. His way of thinking about the underpinnings of logic and about systemic, ingrained assumptions in society is nothing short of radical. Under Popper's means of demarcation such seemingly scientific pursuits as economics, climatology, and even dietetics are left looking like...well, not quackery, but certainly not anything approaching science.

So, yes, feet get stomped on, lines get drawn...and this brings me to what makes a great philosophical treatise: it forces you, whether you like it or not, to recalibrate your assumptions about society. Even if you have fundamental disagreements, you are forced to work hard to justify them. In other words, it's the perfect way to give your brain a shake (perhaps even your foundations of understanding).

Unended Quest is full of ideas and strong opinions, with the socio-political history of the 20th century as its backdrop. This is a man who lived through two World Wars, whose early experiences as a social worker with neglected children made him fundamentally question the learning process, and who ended up being on a first-name basis with some of the greatest minds of the then-burdgeoning realm of quantum physics (Einstein, Schrödinger, Bohr).

That's it. That's all I can write without this becoming a term paper. All I can add to this is that I aim to re-read this book on a yearly basis, which is perhaps the best complement I can pay to an author.

Unended Quest (ISBN: 978-0-415-28590-2), by Karl Popper is available at an independent bookstore near you, or online at any number of vendors.

Book Review: H.P. Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life, by Michel Houellebecq

When I first noticed a series of novels in a local bookstore by a writer I'd never heard of, with a strange last name (reminiscent of Benelux origins rather than French), I proceeded to do some research - as I often do when faced with a writer I've discovered - to find which book I should read first. This writer was Michel Houellebecq.

I ended up picking The Elementary Particles, which I reviewed earlier this year. However, during my search I discovered - to my astonishment - that he had written a biography of H.P. Lovecraft (!)...complete with an introduction by Stephen King (!!?!). I will tell you that, even if I ended up throwing Elementary Particles across the apartment in disgust, I would still have purchased the biography. How do I put it... It's as if Vincent Price wrote a biography of Boris Karloff, or if David Lynch wrote a biography (inevitably it would be a Faber edition, you know this) on Andrei Tarkovsky. Irresistible to this mere mortal.

In the end, though tempted on a few occasions to throw said novel across said apartment (and/or unsaid streetcar), I liked Elementary Particles. It's a tough novel; not "tough" in a muscular, masculine sense, but rather "tough" in a mentally-I'm-squinting-because-he's-pouring-acid-on-humanity-in-the-way-only-a-French-intellectual-can sorta way.

Back to the book at-hand. When I was a kid I read a lot of horror/mystery books, and yes, Stephen King was among them. I also recall reading H.P. Lovecraft, whose style I found to be as instantly recognizable as, say, a painting by Mondrian or Kandinsky. One only needs to read the first paragraph (or sentence) and you know it's Lovecraft. The same instant familiarity cannot be said of many writers, whether they be pigeon-holed in lit or genre fiction. The thing is, I never really got around to reading much of Lovecraft's work, seeing as the time at which I discovered him was a sort of indeterminate period in my teenhood, from which I have few fond memories; as often happens when you step away from darkness, you also step away from everything else that was appended to the darkness, good or bad.

Lovecraft has always been at the back of my head as a writer I wanted to read more of, so this biography served a dual purpose; not only does it have the introduction by King, but it also contains two of HPL's "great texts" (as Houellebecq refers to them, rightly so), The Call of Cthulhu and The Whisperer in Darkness.

Indeed, King's introduction is as predictably King-like as one familiar with his work would expect: engaging, funny, poignantly personable. And yet, when you stand back, you realise he probably just read the first twenty pages of the biography and, as they say, phoned it in. The thing is, I'll take an introduction that's phoned-in as long as it is two things: short and good. An introduction to a book, after all, is a like an opening-act at a rock concert; as long as their instruments are tuned and they keep an eye on the clock, I'll clap.

The biography itself is not a traditional (read: dry, linear, boring, historicist) one. One must first understand, as I had an inkling of going in, that H.P. Lovecraft wasn't a happy man. Nor was he likely to win a Humanitas Award for his insights into the enriching possibilities of mankind's potential. And so, with his biography being written by Houellebecq - arguably a misanthropist's misanthropist - the reader will have a unique opportunity: to see darkness filtered through another, somewhat sympathetic darkness.

Houellebecq does a very good job of tapping the man who was Lovecraft - his deep prejudices, his emotional and intellectual isolation from society - as well as postulating how the events of his life influenced the outcome of his work without the current populist habit of divining what isn't known for sake of milking controversy. Lovecraft was a man who based much of what he wrote on dreams, whose one and only relationship with a woman ended with financial destitution and heartbreak. His racism leaked into the grim depths of his "weird tales" in the form of the onlooking "savages" and "half-bloods" who - particularly in The Call of Cthulhu - seemed to aid and abet the ancient evil lurking among us. Not a pretty picture in retrospect. There is also some interest in how Houellebecq calls to attention HPL's habit of never mentioning two things in all his work: sex and finances.

And yet, while we may not wish to embrace Lovecraft the man, one cannot dismiss Lovecraft the writer. In reading The Whisperer in Darkness, arguably his masterpiece, one beholds a very seminal kind of horror; a slow, creeping alien night descending upon a remote Vermont farmhouse, revealed mostly through correspondence with the narrator, a professor of literature in Massachusetts. There is a poetry in Lovecraft's prose, and by that I mean the ability to articulate flourished description with condensed, exacting verbiage. It is for this reason that HPL was (and is) such a seminal literary influence, not just in so-called genre circles.

I would not say Against the World, Against Life is essential reading. In fact, if you were to just read The Whisperer in Darkness or any of his other "great texts" you would be well served. However, there's something alluring about having the life of such a tortured soul (remember that Lovecraft never lived to know his fame and fortune) rendered by someone so well-placed to plumb his depths. I suppose the question I would ask is: to what end? In this, I would say the book is not a great success, but there are nuggets of great interest for those drawn to both H.P. Lovecraft and Houellebecq alike.

H.P. Lovecraft: Against The World, Against Life, by Michel Houellebecq (ISBN:1932416188) is available at an independent bookstore near you, or online at any number of vendors.

The Best Fake Book Cover

Over at Bookninja, they're having a contest: design (aka misappropriate) an existing book into something entirely different.

Here's the link - feel free to vote on the three you like best. I've submitted two, Ingrid has submitted four, however I will be agnostic and not reveal our submissions until the winners are announced (and I'm sure Ingrid will win).

A couple of samples:

Art & Suicide

As reported in the news over the weekend, spilling into the papers this week, American novelist/essayist David Foster Wallace took his life. He had hung himself in his home, only to be discovered later by his wife.

To be honest, I've only read one piece by Wallace - an essay in an issue of Harper's almost ten years ago on the release of the revised Oxford English Dictionary - and yet it left an indelible impression on me. It made me laugh out loud with its quirky honesty and his style was unique and strong; in short, it made me take notice of writing and writers at a time when it simply was not on my radar (for various reasons). I always swore I would read one of his books, but the prospects of picking up the one he is best known for, Infinite Jest, all 1,000 pages of it, was intimidating. It still is, but that has more to do with the fact that I'm in the middle (or, factually, just past the middle) of War & Peace with Joyce's Ulysses staring at me from the bookshelf longingly.

Wallace's suicide is the second in the last few years by an artist who's work I'd kept an eye on. The first was that of American humorist and performer, Spalding Gray, who - it is assumed - leapt from a ferry into the Hudson River and drowned. I saw him at Massey Hall (one of the most venerable venues in Toronto) many years ago. As with Wallace's essay, I remember crying with laughter during Gray's droll monologue.

Which brings us to the question of artists and suicide.

Someone on Bookninja had this to say in reaction to the story:

In my work (psychiatry) I’ve seen so many creative people who are so tortured inside. I’ve often wondered if, given the choice, they’d choose peace over creativity. Maybe suicide is exercising that choice.

I thought about this. I wanted to respond, because I had something to say, but in the end I decided it would only be a tangent and while tangents are allowable in most online situations, an obituary is not exactly the place for one.

The answer is that artists do not want peace, or at least an artificial peace. To do so would be to abandon the tension which is inherent in art (and science, for that matter). In their art, over the course of their lives, artists attempt to resolve this tension; to articulate what it is that is at the centre of a storm which motivates them to create. The tension is the artist. Them against an outside world which does not work. Art becomes a philosophical expression of an existential dilemma. With this as the case, how many artists would willingly barter peace for creativity if such a trade were even possible? Not many, I would wager. What is peace when art allows you to reach higher than ever before, to touch the cookie jar of euphoria with your fingertips?

Like Wallace and Gray, I too suffer from depression. Their passing gives me pause, to put it lightly. Last night over dinner, Ingrid and I had a long talk about this - Wallace, Gray, art, and suicide - and she used a quote from Wallace that she'd read in one of the obituaries, that suicide happens very slowly. He is right. It is not, as commonly portrayed, an impulsive decision, but rather something which gestates very gradually within the mind of the sufferer. The danger is that this internalized dialogue, over the course of years, may eventually lead to the rationalization or acceptance of suicide as a logical option or self-fulfilling prophecy.

Art, however, is not depression, and depression should not be construed as something which only afflicts those in the arts. When you are depressed, anything can inflame the situation. Both the fire and the water used to douse it. It is for this reason that I take a moment to bring this up. So that people may understand what is, for lack of a better term, a mental illness. Allow me to suggest a wonderful series in the Globe and Mail, perhaps the best collection of stories and first-person recollections on the subject to be found in any newspaper.

I tip my hat to Wallace, to Gray. I mourn for the grief experienced by their loved ones.

What The Internet Hath Wrought: Film vs. Book Reviews

One thing the Internet has helped birth is the ability of anyone to sound (or sound like they are writing, rather) like a professional film critic, regardless of whether they know what they they are talking about, whether they have seen more than three films in their lives, etc. . I've glanced at "user-contributed" reviews on Facebook's Flixter application which make even the trashiest pieces of celluloid sound like fair-game for a first-year Media Arts screening.

There's nothing wrong with this. I'm not going to editorially trample on anyone's feelings, yet.

However, while the same could be said for online book reviews, it's much harder to get away with it (it being sounding like a professional...or a professional who writes as they sound. Something like that).

A film is inherently visual. It also has sound (most of them, at least). It also usually uses actors who speak lines. For the armchair (or E-Z Boy) critic, this audio/video-based performance makes the casual accusation of, say, "bad acting" somewhat verifiable (again, somewhat verifiable - there are always disagreements and prejudices, but these tend to be questions of degrees rather than disagreements of monolithic good or badness. To this end, it's always harder for the viewer to infer a good performance from a bad film; it's like a supermodel who cleaned her hands with an old dish cloth - sure she's pretty, but she smells bad for some reason.).

Outside of the necessity of reading words printed on a page, books by comparison are not visual, nor do they have sound (assuming we forget for the moment about audiobooks). When a character speaks in a book, we don't see Sally Field (mind you, perhaps some of us do...), but rather some variously fuzzy or non-fuzzy imaginary abstraction - an avatar if you will - that we attach to the words in order to help us visualize the character(s). For one person, they may be fluffy, indeterminate cloud-like beings, for others the animated cast of Battle of the Planets. Whatever floats your boat.

In other words, as regards books, whether it be War & Peace or The DaVinci somethingsomething, chances are pretty slim that someone's going to criticize the performance of their personalized imaginary helper-beings, who mouth the pretty words in their head whilst they read. For the book reader, they don't need to be convinced primarily through performance, but rather through conviction; the conviction of the author's choice in story crafting, character actions, etc... This is not to say that the topic of conviction in books cannot be just as debatable as an actor's performance in a film, however, due to being a medium which is more abstract, the arguments are invariably deeper than those shared about films.

Let me cut to the chase, this being the Internet and most of you having probably left to check out porn or martini recipes by now: books are abstractions whereas films are pantomimes of abstractions. Here, let me pull my chair closer [chrrrr]: films are easier to criticize. Period. They are small books, painted big. Once you have a rudimentary sense of what works and what doesn't in film (acting, dialogue, story, and, peripherally, visual effects, sound design, directing) it's pretty easy to sound like A.O. Scott, even when reviewing, say, Tank Girl:

In this wild, cheeky romp, the audience benefits from wonderfully imaginative environments, spunky performances, and a ceaseless plot driven by pure adrenaline. Tank Girl issues a decree to the viewer: the graphic novel-turned movie is a serious threat to original screenplays.

Is this valid? Again, if you've only seen three movies in your life, perhaps it is. Perhaps Tank Girl is for you. I only saw the first half of Tank Girl. I suggest you see none of it. In fact, I suggest all remaining prints be stored on the moon - but that's me.

The problem (or advantage) with a book review (vs. film) is that there is much less wiggle-room when declaring your opinion. Unlike film, where there is more latitude for interpretation (particularly as regards camera work and editing), with books we are dealing with what is literally written on the page. Room for interpretation? Of course - there will always be room for interpretation, otherwise MFA professors would have nothing to structure their courses with. But certainly - whether we are talking about so-called professional book critics, or their translucent-skinned basement-dwelling non-professional Internet cousins - the opinions don't nearly or consistently bounce from one end of the "good/bad" spectrum to another as is common with film.

I think it comes down to the fact that readers generally respect authors more than viewers respect filmmakers [and on this note, I suppose that really means "directors" - filmmakers, in my book, are people who go out with a camera, an idea, and come back from the edit room having done 80% of the process with their own hands - I'll write more about this later]. This isn't to say that readers respect authors as people; rather, I submit there's a begrudging respect to anyone who has the perseverance to lay down 40,000 words which construct coherent sentences and paragraphs.

It's a layman's respect, whereas with filmmakers, if we don't like what they do, then... well, they suck.

[For sake of disclosure, I've only done one film review on this blog - albeit in collaboration with my friend, Simon - and it was an artsy documentary about a soccer player.]

Book Review: A History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters, by Julian Barnes

It's been well over a month since my last book review, coincidentally enough regarding another book by the same author: England, England by Julian Barnes. I was impressed by his skill in crafting an inventive satire as well as the philosophical depths he explored, though as a whole the book was not entirely satisfying. My wife had warned me it was not his best book. She suggested instead that I read A History of the World in 10 ^1/2 Chapters. And hey, it was already there on our bookshelf, so being the frugal person I am (and honestly wishing to explore more of his compelling style) I considered it a win-win situation.

The short version of this review follows: I really liked this book

The long version of this review, admittedly, I must approach with trepidation, the sort of which I have not had to experience in previous reviews. The reason I shall submit up-front: the very first chapter contains elements that I can only surmise (if I may craft this sentence in a way that is both fair while not attracting the undue curiosity of lawyers) were lifted from another author's book. I'm not going to go into great detail, as I don't wish to write a J'accuse, so much as innocently hope that someone - perhaps even Barnes himself - would clarify the situation. I shall touch upon this again, later.

A History of the World in 10 ^1/2 Chapters is not, strictly speaking, a formal history of the world, though it does shift throughout time. Essentially, it is a collection of stories and one or two essays, the whole of which makes some attempt to summarize the haphazard longings and deceits of humanity through history, with the recurring theme of Noah's Ark sprinkled throughout in variously literal and metaphorical techniques. Some narratives are light-hearted and satirical, others are solemn and erudite. It is a book which, as a whole, has something to say about mankind - the big and small picture of mankind - from various viewpoints, the majority of which is not flattering. Yet, Barnes is not a nihilist; he sees our faulty strengths and compelling weaknesses as part of the way humanity is wired.

This is illustrated with both striking description and considerate attention to detail, particularly in the series of "chapters" (which sometimes are really just separate, standalone stories) regarding the shipwreck of the French frigate Medusa off the coast of Mauritania in 1816. With this as the central focus, the author devotes three perspectives on the event: one which describes the horrific facts of the shipwreck and its survivors, another which takes an entirely different approach by offering a historical critique of Théodore Géricault's famous painting based on the shipwreck, and yet another - this time purely fictional - which touches upon the themes of representation vs. idolatry with the painting serving as an afflatus for its determinedly devout protagonist.

There are no prescriptions for mankind's delusions, no salve provided to alleviate our existential isolation, or our violent impulses. At the end of the day, summarized lovingly in the last chapter, we find ourselves compelled to go through the same motions, but not without circumspection which perhaps is our only saving grace. In Barnes' world, humanity will always, ultimately, shit the bed (a phrase my cousin passed on to me), but not without looking for a means to change, even if that change is perpetually out of reach. It is evident that Barnes' is one of us; he respects those, regardless of mental state, who are compelled to find the truth, particularly those truths which are only revealed to the individual and ignored by society-at-large.

And now, the bane of the book I mentioned earlier. In the very first chapter, a satirical narrative of Noah's Ark and the Biblical flood, Barnes' seems at first to take inspiration from Timothy Findley's Not Wanted on the Voyage (Barnes' book was published in 1989, Findley's in 1984), a novel whose story is an equally slanted (and somewhat vicious) satire on the flood narrative. In both - told by a non-human passenger on the Ark - Noah is a drunken, abusive man whose pious subservience to God's will pushes him and his family to violent extremes. However, the similarities - particularly in two passages - became so blatantly identical that I had to throw up my hands in dismay (a perfect case in point being Barnes' use, in similar reference - just as Findley used in the prologue to his novel - the phrase "Not Wanted On The Voyage", with Findley upping the ante originally by putting this in full-caps). Again, I don't know what to do with this. After some research, I know that Findley was shocked by the similarities, however he decided not to pursue legal action because he didn't want A History of the World to gain any more publicity than it had. My hope is that - at some point - Barnes will address it, "it" being so blatant when you've read both the novel and the short chapter. The fact that I can still recommend Barnes' book is a testament to his skill as a writer, though this ethical discrepancy unsettles me.

A History of the World in 10 ^1/2 Chapters (ISBN: 978-0679731375) is available at any number of friendly, independently-owned bookstores. Or you can purchase it online. You can also find Timothy Findley's wonderful novel, Not Wanted on the Voyage (ISBN: 978-0140073065) as well.

Book Review: England, England by Julian Barnes

"Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.". Those are the apocryphal words someone once spoke on their deathbed. I would up the ante and add that "Satire is harder".

As a writer, I've dabbled with satire, having only dedicated a small number of short stories to being "pure satire" (that is, not dipping in and out of some subplot for sake of levity/irony, but keeping the absurdity afloat throughout). On that note, I must continue to paraphrase others; I remember a late night classical radio announcer who was prompted to list his all-time favourite opera. I cannot recall the specific opera he listed as I'd never heard of it at the time. However, afterwards, he assuredly qualified the choice, saying "[...] Because it's very. Very. Short."

Satire in some respects is like opera. The shorter the better (within reason - I'm not lobbying for some new "blitz opera" or anything). The reason for this is that, if one is truly writing a "pure satire" (as I call it, noting that it does not necessarily mean "broad satire", though I would argue that most "broad" satires are "pure" by necessity), then one has to create an entire environment that is somehow consistently out-of-whack, which also means characters who have to live in said environment. In doing so, there is always a tension between the narrative and the audience as to how long we (that is, the audience) must endure the ruse; that the "comedic absurdity" be taut enough to hold our interest, but not so complex that our suspension of disbelief becomes a claustrophobic mess.

While I wouldn't call it a "pure satire", Julian Barnes' England, England is by-the-book enough to warrant leaning more in that direction than any other. It too, tends to suffer from "long opera" syndrome, ie. taking too much of a good thing and extending it into territories where the lightness (and broadness) of the satire seems incongruous to the author's need to explore the interior drama of its protagonist.

The setup is inspired: a wealthy, eccentric industrialist - Sir Jack Pitman - conspires to one last show-stopper to top off his (slightly dubious) career. His idea: use the Isle of Wight as a tourist attraction which distills everything that England is (to the imaginations of "Top Dollar" or "Long Yen" clients; those, in the words of Pitman, interested in "Quality Leisure"), under the pretence that England proper is too large and unsightly to provide a satisfactory arena. As Sir Jack muses early in the going, England's "tits have fallen".

We are introduced to the protagonist, Martha Cochrane, in a prologue, who later in the book is hired onto Pitman's planning committee. We are given a glimpse of her childhood, her streak of perfectionism/competitiveness (revealed between a jigsaw puzzle of England and her county's yearly farm fair), and the hole left by her father's sudden departure from the family.

The consistent conjecture throughout England, England is whether, after time, there is any substantial difference between the authentic article and the replica. This argument is addressed by several characters, from Pitman to his historical adviser (a part-time television host), to Martha - all of them, to Barnes' credit, putting their own spin on what often becomes a profound if aesthetically controversial discussion.

In the words of a French intellectual Pitman's team hires as a consultant: "[...] Once there was only the world, directly lived. now there is the representation - let me fracture that word, the re-presentation - of the world. It is not a substitute for that plain and primitive world, but an enhancement and enrichment, an ironisation and summation of that world. This is where we live today. A monochrome world has become Technicolor, a single croaking speaker has become wraparound sound. Is this our loss? No, it is our conquest, our victory."

In other words, how is art imitating life any different after time than life itself? Where does its boundaries begin and end? This is ultimately illustrated in a fascinating turn in the plot as, long after the Isle is converted to a exclusive tourist destination complete with WWII fighter pilots, Robin Hood, and an actual royal presence, the actors playing seemingly stereotypical characters begin to accept their roles as real. The farmers begin to farm, Robin's Merry Men make real demands, to the degree that a new civilization is almost formed in the process.

Yet, while I will not hesitate to point out that the first half of the novel, in particular the planning stages of what is to be called "England, England", is satiric gold - in Sir Jack, Barnes' has created a template of outrageous corruption who is not entirely unsympathetic - the rest of the book is a bit of a mess. First, we simply aren't introduced to Martha Cochrane's character - events: yes, personality: yes, history: yes - in a way that allows us to (for lack of a better word) give a shit about her anymore than the broadstroked Sir Jack, which wouldn't be a bad thing if his character were not a duplicitous clown. Martha is given a prologue, an epilogue, and even a love interest. And while there are beautifully characteristic passages relating her inner doubts, it's written so objectively that it seems the reader is being given access to her by proxy of the author (as opposed to the sort of intimacy one would normally expect). It's rather like being slipped notes in class when you wish what you were getting were in the lesson itself.

England, England (ISBN: 978-0375705502) is an odd combination of broad (laugh-out-loud) satire and eloquent philosophical musing on the nature of authenticity. As a whole, it simply doesn't work, but if you can overlook the weaknesses, the satirical side of Barnes' world is formidable and honestly hilarious. It is available at a good independently-owned bookstore near you, or online from any number of vendors.

Book Review: The Elementary Particles, by Michel Houellebecq

I honestly don't know much about Michel Houellebecq. I typically don't take a lot of interest in the lives of authors (or musicians, artists, etc.). The only reason I came across his name - and thus this book - was browsing the shelves of a local independent bookstore, killing time. I saw his name, which I thought was odd/familiar, and glancing through the several tomes on the shelf I realised that I'd found a rather curious writer: controversial, philosophical, with a tinge of "speculative fiction" about him.

So, with his name in my head, I did some research later and decided to start with an earlier (1998) but well-considered novel, The Elementary Particles, tempted though I was by another book of his, on H.P. Lovecraft no less.

Not one for believing the publicity machine, yet knowing next to nothing about the man as a writer, the blurb on the back cover of Particles compares him to Huxley, Beckett, and Camus. If I may take the liberty of rearranging this, having read the book, I would say - if anything - it's Huxley via Camus. However, to make direct comparisons, though tempting, would be an insult to all involved. Houellebecq is Houellebecq - he's not channelling anyone in his prose. Hark: a unique voice.

The Elementary Particles is a study of the moral murk of modern society, a result, Houellebecq's omniscient narrative posits, of a world that has moved well-past the relevance and supremacy of religion, and in the middle of a phase of rational/scientific investigation. Without the guidance of a supreme set of rules, society embraced a virulent individuality and in doing so eventually begot a generation of spiritual and sexual materialists, beginning in the late 50's. It is the aftermath of this wave which Particles concerns itself.

Meet Michel and Bruno. Michel is an accomplished molecular biologist. Bruno is a civil servant. They are half-brothers, mutually and separately abandoned by their common mother, a libertine and prototype of everything wrong with the "me" generation. Despite his success, Michel is emotionally dead, and at the beginning of the book decides to step away from his position at a prestigious university research department. He remains in his apartment, contemplating his life and inability to feel anything. Bruno on the other hand, is a self-destructive hedonist with no aims or aspirations, aside from pleasuring himself in any way he sees fit.

I know what you're saying: Matt, where can I find this book! It sounds riveting!

Okay. Sarcasm aside, it may seem repellent to some on the surface. I found it repellent at first. And yet, the more I read, the more I wanted to keep reading. Not because it was misanthropic, but because of its philosophical undertow. Houellebecq is making a statement - it's unapologetic, citric, and compelling. Whereas it may seem he paints society with a thick brush, underneath it all - in the structure of the book, and certainly in its eye-raising epilogue - there are layers of fascinating subtlety and important questions which rise in well-crafted crescendos.

To be honest with you, I've been thinking a lot about The Elementary Particles. After I completed it, I wanted to dislike it. I wanted to find faults - and there are faults. There are moments where Houellebecq's prose is extremely dry and clinical (nay acetic), and while it can be justified by certain plot elements, these unnecessarily antithetical flourishes simply didn't make it easier to care about the characters, or the point of the book for that matter. That said, if anything, I have a greater regard for it now than when I read it almost a month ago - it is a book with the power to haunt.

What was particularly difficult for me was that I began reading this book right after Eugene Zamiatin's We. In other words, from a dystopian anti-collective polemic to a dystopian anti-individualist polemic. My head hurts, but I've decided it's a good hurt.

The Elementary Particles, by Michel Houellebecq (ISBN: 978-0375727016) is available at an independent bookstore near you, or online at various retailers. Note: this review is based upon the English translation by Frank Wynne.