NUNAGA : TEN YEARS AMONG THE ESKIMOS by Duncan Pryde

Here is a story about a Scottish man who lived in the Arctic for most of the 1950s. I guess the use of the word ‘eskimos,’ and the period, made me think that we might be in for some pretty serious exoticizing of native Canadians, but in fact it’s not like that at all. This poor guy grew up in a series of orphanages, and ended up becoming so embedded in the the Arctic community that the word NUNAGA, I’m sorry to tell you, actually means ‘home.’

After reading this I feel sorry for people I meet at dinner parties, because I am just BRISTLING with info about Inuit life. I am not sure what I expected, but for sure I did not expect so many THROUPLES. There is SO MUCH throuple action. Apparently there was much female infanticide, which led to very few women, so ‘wife exchange’ was fairly common, and Pryde was in a throuple for years. He says people who make fun of nose-rubbing as a sexual activity have just never had a good nose rub, and describes it most evocatively.

The seal hunting was particularly interesting. They would go as a group of men to sit by seal holes in the ice, just waiting for a seal to surface so they can spear it. They might have ten men by ten holes for ten days (sitting in silence!) and only kill one seal. Whoever killed the seal would share it out according to agreed relationships – one guy gets the heart, one the liver, etc etc, and these organ partnerships were passed on to their children.

I am not eager to be eating Inuit food of fifties. He described taking a break to have ‘a good dinner of raw frozen caribou,’ and then followed that up with seal flippers with hair still on them.

One of the very last scenes is when he and his friend are out hunting, and get their camp gets overwhelmed by a caribou herd. Get ready to feel sad about how much we’ve degraded the environment, because the herd filled the sapce for as far as he could see on all sides, and it took NINE DAYS to go past them

HOTEL DU LAC by Anita Brookner

Anita Brookner published her first novel at 53, and went on to have an impressive career, winning the Booker. This inspirational stuff at midlife (late life?) and so I through I would give her a go. HOTEL DU LAC tells about a middle aged woman, Edith, spending some time in the off-season at a genteel hotel in Switzerland. It’s as glum as it sounds.

Eventually we find out that Edith has just bolted out on her wedding day, and is here to hide from the shame. She spends much of the time writing letters to the man she is actually in love with, who is extremely married; but most of the book is concerned with the other guests, who are almost all female. It’s wild to see the misogyny. Try this, from Edith:

“But I only miss (my mother) in the sense that I wish she could have lived long enough to seehtat I am like her in the only way she valued: we both preferred men to women.”

“Well, who doesn’t,” said Monica, her brows arching to their fullest extent.

I am surprised to see it was published in the 1980s. It read like my worst fantasy of how bad the 1950s might have been. There is only one male guest, and this is the only person to whom she speaks in any kind of intelligent fashion. SPOLIER ALERT, NOT THAT THE PLOT IS THAT IMPORTANT. He eventually proposes, and she declines, deciding to continue to pursue her married man. Apparently we are supposed to feel this is an appalling risk, because the danger of spinsterhood is so awful.

I’m not sure how I felt about this book. I can’t say what I liked about it, or even if I liked it, but I can see it will stay with me.

BROTHER OF THE MORE FAMOUS JACK by Barbara Trapido

I knew I was going to like this book from the moment I read the blurbs. It’s a 40th anniversary edition, draped in commentary from people who are crazy for it, with comps to books like I CAPTURE THE CASTLE.  It’s hard to explain what’s so great about it, as it’s a sort of an ordinary coming-of-age story; the joy of it is the language and the world. 

It’s about a young woman who becomes friendly with her English professor’s bohemian family.  Here is that professor’s dedication page on his latest book:

“I cannot in good conscience give the statutory thanks to my wife for helpful comments on the manuscript, patient reading of drafts or corrections to proofs, because Jane did none of these things.  She seldom reads and when she does it is never a thing of mine.  Going by the lavish thanks to wives which I find in the prefaces of other men’s books, I deem myself uniquely injudicious in having married a woman who refuses to double as a high-grade editorial assistant.  Since custom requires me to think her for something, I thank her instead for the agreeable fact of her continuing presence which in twenty years I have never presumed to expect.”

This gives you the general vibe.  There’s just so much fun in it. Describing a man’s chest, his hair emerging “like sofa stuffing from the neck of his open shirt;” or a lady’s pubic hair as making sex like being with “Archbishop Makarios” (immensely bearded head of the church of Cyprus).  When the main character declares she will work hard to making a living off her knitting, the professor says:  “My dear child, what has hard work got to do with it? Money was never made out of hard work.  Nobody ever got rich through labouring.  Money is made through the exploitation of the labour of others.” 

It’s a deeply literary world, with the main character under stress “(reverting), as I do in moments of crisis, to re-reading EMMA, with cotton wool in my ears.”  I loved this.  I have a set of books I do this with (mostly THE PURSUIT OF LOVE) and I think this one will enter that rarefied rotation.

THE TRANSITION by Luke Kennard

I know we already talked about this when I covered BLACK BAG, but I just love BLACK BAG too much. So I went out and bought the only other book by this author, THE TRANSITION.  It’s not as good as BLACK BAG, but nothing is as good as BLACK BAG, so it’s still fantastic.  I also just like saying BLACK BAG.

It tells about a couple in their early thirties who are offered a chance to avoid jail if they enter an ‘education program.’   Their crime was to get into some credit card debt, and the program involves them living with some boomers who are going to teach them how to be responsible adults.  As if what makes young people get into debt is a lack of personal responsibility; as if that’s what boomers have!  LOL ALREADY.

Here’s one of the boomers: “A few years ago my generation kicked the ladder away behind us,” said Stu.  “This is our chance to teach you to free-climb.” 

The program is a lot of making them go to bed early and do exercise and accept the importance of budgeting.  The plot is not that important; what’s important is the fun of the world. E.g., the young husband’s career – he has an MA in the Metaphysical Poets (Boomer: “You’ve made some rotten life decisions, but we don’t blame you for that at all.”).  He now writes essays for university students too lazy to write them for themselves, and here’s the summary: “It was dishonourable work, but he was getting paid for doing what he loved in a competitive economy, and how many people really got to use their degrees in the real world?”

LOL!

The author is a poet, mostly, and you can tell.  Try this description of his best credit card: “one beautiful, transparent credit card which shimmered like a puddle of petrol and had a limit of £11,000 . . . his most copious line of credit, the rat queen of his nest of cards.”

Only thing I didn’t like, is there there’s some pretty questionable raging against capitalism.  E.g.:  “if there are ten people in a race, ninety percent of them don’t win.  You only ever make a profit because someone else is making a loss – ”  This is just objectively not how markets work.  Anyway, more of a poet than an economist, and that’s okay.  I don’t think I could stand it if he was great at everything.  I wonder if he will win the Booker? It’s announced on Monday.  My money’s on LET US FEED THE KING, a dream-like story with an unnamed narrator, I haven’t read it but I’m sure it’s dreadful, ie., exactly the sort of thing the Booker rewards.

THE GOD OF THE WOODS by Liz Moore

My relentless hunt for something to read led me to the New York Times list of the best thrillers of this century. This was described as ‘literary’ which seemed a bit strong, though I don’t deny the artistry. It was tightly plotted and clever and the resolution was unexpected. But, if you’re going to read genre, I just don’t know why you would read thrillers. It’s such a sad world. I’d much prefer romance, where you know nothing is going to go really wrong and people will end up happier than they began. This one was particularly bleak, being about the death of a child. I don’t know why this would be relaxing? But many people find it so, so let me not judge.

BIG MAGIC by Elizabeth Gilbert

People like to make fun of Elizabeth Gilbert, because of EAT PRAY LOVE, and I can’t tell you why, but I feel like there is something misogynistic about that. In any case, here is her book on living a creative life. I enjoyed it. Try this:

“Sometimes I think the difference between a tormented creative life and a tranquil creative life is nothing more than than difference between the word awful and the word interesting.  Interesting outcomes, after all, are just awful outcomes with the volume of drama turned way down.”

What an interesting thought, that we don’t have to create a rod for our own back. She is big on how unhealthy the tortured artist mindset is. She points out how strange it is that we have turns of phrase like ‘I’ve broken the back’ of a project.  As if suffering gives us legitimacy.  I think it’s a good point; why do we think joy can’t do that? I liked this:

“You can resist the seductions of grandiosity, blame, and shame.  . . You can measure your worth by your dedication to your path, not by your successes or failures.”

“The seduction . . . of shame” is a great turn of phrase. The more I write, the more I think I really liked this. Let’s not bother with my ‘thoughts.’ Let’s just quote extensively:

“It seems to me that the less I fight my fear, the less it fights back. .. In fact, I cordially invite fear to come along with me everywhere I go.”

And

“Laziness and perfectionism are the worst.  You want to learn to become a really disciplined half -ass”

And

“If you want to be an artist of any sort, it seemed to me, then handling your frustration is a fundamental aspect of the work. Frustration is not an interruption of your process, frustration is the process.”

BLACK BAG by Luke Kennard

I loved this book so much I can hardly function. I keep recommending it to people who have not asked for recommendations. Usually the Booker prize actively avoids actually good novels, but somehow this one has got on to the shortlist. I haven not read the others but CLEARLY THIS DESERVES TO WIN.

It tells all about a struggling actor who gets hired to attend university classes in a large black bag, as part of a sociology experiment.  Over time he comes to love being black bag.  Why? I can’t tell you, it’s a profoundly great book in which black bag can mean many things.  As with all books I love, let’s just quote extensively. Here we are on his caring for his elderly parents:

“I would like to be able to look after you, but I can’t because I have stubbornly committed myself to an art and vocation with no future and precious little present., rather than training as an accountant or a stockbroker or maybe a lawyer.  And out of what? Sheer perversity of spirit, encouragement at an impressionable moment (the nineties), and, by this point, sunk-cost fallacy. 
Isn’t it time someone rescued me from the cult of myself for deprogramming?
To trust in the arts is an act of hubris so self-destructive the gods don’t even bother to punish you for it.”

On a swan shaped pedalo: “It’s face, like any swan’s face, real or plastic, resembles that of a man who doesn’t really want to be at the masquerade ball.” Who can ever look at swans the same way again?!

On a rainy afternoon: “The kind of rain that only happens on a Tuesday, heavy like preordained rain, rain augured and written by prophets aeons ago This will be a wet place.”

On entering an audition: “The usual plunging feeling that every human being is real, substantial and well-defined except for me.  I dismiss this. Inverted vanity.  Get over it.  Well, hello, I must be myself, they’re grateful to me for coming in, my experience is impressive, just relax, they’re going to do something a bit different.”

On his friend: “Claudio and I get on well because we have known each other since the age of seven, which is to say thirty years, and we have, at some base level, no respect for one another: we do not fall for one another’s hasty renovations of character or revisionist sophistications; we are not convinced by one another’s adult selves.”

General lols:

“I pick up the collected poems of Frank O’Hara. I have a television.  Sometimes I like to tell people that, in the way other people like to tell people they don’t have a television.”

And

“I worry that I smell of stale cofee but perhaps this isn’t something to worry baout in academia.”

And

“Within black bag I am wearing only a pair of maroon boxer shorts which – I don’t know why – have the words DARE TO WEAR written on the elastic in capital letters.  This is the twenty-first century.  Get on board or your pants will.”.

And then this lovely thought, not even by Kennard but quoted by him from the Pensees by Pascal: “A trifle upsets us because a trifle consoles us.”

HAPPENS EVERY DAY by Isabel Gillies

Here’s a memoir by some poor woman who moves to Ohio for her husband’s work and three months later gets dumped by him for a much younger colleague. It reminds me of the Belle Burden’s STRANGERS, another memoir about how very possible it is to know almost nothing about your own husband.

Most interesting thing about this book is how extraordinarily old fashioned the writer is. The divorce happens in 2005, but it reads like its 1955. It is just wild. Try this:

“Because I was on the cover of Seventeen magazine when I was fourteen and I am an actress, I depend on the fact that, objectively, I am good-looking. Tall, blond hair . . But I can tend to depend too much on the idea that I am pretty and sometimes, I don’t try very hard.”

She spends a really astonishing amount of time on home decor, and really cares a great deal about her husband’s height. And again:

“It seems clear to me now that although Josiah loved us and wanted dearly to have a ncie family, there was something in him that just did not want to let him do it.”

‘Nice family’?!? What is that?!? Who says that kind of thing?

I’ve got to report she also comes from money. She seems to think it is pretty normal that she spends her summers in Maine, with the ‘other women’ all of whom apparently don’t have jobs. She grew up in an apartment overlooking Central Park. She acts like moving to Ohio is an insane trek into the wilderness.

I don’t know why I sound like I’m slamming her so much. I enjoyed the honesty of this book. It was refreshing. And it was encouraging to see how she recovered. One wonders how she did not see the red flag that he left his first wife while she was pregnant. He left her with two toddlers; maybe with this third wife he’ll make it till the next kids are in elementary school.

BELOVED SON FELIX by Felix Platter (ed. Stephen Greenblatt)

Get ready for the real-life diaries of a teenage boy in the 16th century. It’s everything you can imagine, especially if what you imagine involves a lot of public torture. The diaries begin with his journeying to Montpellier to study. Coming into Nantua, they see bodies hanging from trees. “The night came upon us as we descended the mountain,” he writes, “and it became so dark that we only just missed bumping into a corpse that was hanging from a branch.” A few days later, coming into Lyon: “we saw several men hanging from gibbbets and others exposed on wheels.” And then at Nimes, they passed an execution ground. “Pieces of human flesh hung from the olive trees, and the sight gave me a curious sensation.”

It’s sometimes quite Adrian Mole, except if Adiran Mole dined with Nostradamus (which this guy did!). Lots of classic teenage stuff: they find “an infallible recipe for making the hair grow,” and smear it on their chins every day. They then razor their bare chins every day and astoundingly, this does not work. It’s also touchingly honest – about how frightened he is of the dark, about the pressure from his dad about his studies, even about his medical issues – e.g., 29 May 1553: “I purged myself with pilulas coccias, which sent me to stool sixteen times and left me very weak. My master was sent for and was very alarmed.”

I am also now annoyingly bursting with info about the 16th century, so I would avoid dinner parties with me for a while. That they had flocks of peacocks from the Indies, that they burnt huge bushels of rosemary to keep warm, that the apprentice program was basically a swap of sons between houses, and etc.

But mostly what I take from these diaries is the life of an ordinary sixteen year old boy. How unique and not unique everybody’s little experience is. It feels weird to think he’s dead, and has been for four hundred years.

MY BRILLIANT CAREER by Miles Franklin

Here is a book written by a teenage girl in rural Australia in 1899. Considered an Australian classic, I was well into it at first. Try the beginning:

“MY DEAR FELLOW AUSTRALIANS – Just a few lines to tell you that this story is all about myself – for no other purpose do I write it. I make no apologies for being egotistical. In this particular I attempt an improvement on other autobiographies.”

And shortly after that:

“You can dive into this story head first as it were. Do not fear encountering such trash as descriptions of beautiful sunsets and whisperings of wind. We (999 out of every 1000) can see nought in sunsets save as signs and tokens whether we may expect rain on the morrow . . “

The brilliant career is something of a joke. She wants to be a famous writer, but her family is poor and rural and she ends up having to work as a housemaid. The sequel is called MY CAREER GOES BUNG, which I thought sounded amazing. I won’t get to it though, because I confess I kind of quit this one part way through. It kind of read like an over excited teenager, which is I guess what she was, but for some reason I just didn’t have the tolerance. Feel a bit bad about it, because what a teenage girl she was!