What R. F. Delderfield does well is to evoke a sense of England goneby. Writing from the distance of 40 or so years, he captures the zeitgeist of England between wars: the daily routines, the language, the small moments that add up to a life well lived - or not.
As in Delderfield's other works, the protagonist is a veteran of the Great War. Unlike either David/P.J./Pow-Wow or Paul Craddock, Jim Carver is neither scarred by the war (physically or mentally), nor single. He returns home to his seven children and the still-warm body of a wife who has just succumbed to the Spanish flu, determined to make a better life for his family.Although there are several characters to whom Delderfield has given starring roles, if you will, Jim is ultimately the soul of the book; Delderfield deftly portrays both his striving for a better world, as well as his aloofness from his family, particularly oldest son Archie with whom his relations are tenuous at best.
Also not unlike either To Serve Them All My Days or Long Summer Day, Delderfield is at times extremely long-winded. I plead guilty to occasionally needing to skim his work, rather than read closely. That said, Delderfield succeeds marvelously at the goal which he has laid out himself in the introduction: his "attempt to photograph the mood of the suburbs in the period between the break up of the old world and the preambulator days of an entirely new civilization."
Perhaps in another year, I'll feel up to the sequel, The Avenue at War.
Monday, June 26, 2017
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
A Man Called Ove
Ove really just wants to die. He's not picky about how; really, he'll try anything: hanging, carbon monoxide poisoning, being hit by a train, pulling the trigger...and yet, every time he gets close to carrying out his plans, something goes wrong. Or rather, someone needs something, and Ove, in his cantankerous, hilarious way, is the only one who can do it right.
There is, for example, the new neighbor who is so incompetent as to be unable to back up a moving truck without crashing it into Ove's mailbox. To say nothing of the community recycling room that must be monitored constantly for the least transgression. Who but Ove can ensure that the metal caps are unfailingly separated from the glass bottles? (Oh, those Scandinavians!)
Ove is charmingly, lovingly curmudgeonly. He is also desperately sad since the death of his wife, and longs for nothing but to join her in the hereafter, although this must certainly be done properly: subscriptions canceled, affairs in order, the lights shut off. Ove is nothing if not firm in his principles, a staunch believer in routines, in the world being a black and white place, in order, and the belief that right must always prevail. Have I mentioned that I loved Ove?
Yes, I loved Ove, and I loved A Man Called Ove. I especially love Fredrik Backman's voice, the inappropriate hilarity that crops up regularly, yet unexpectedly, the layers and layers of Ove that Backman reveals almost begrudgingly. In both the hilarity of non-hilarious situations and the depth of emotion, all emotions, that Backman strikes so well, I was reminded of one of my old favorites, A Prayer for Owen Meany.
If I have read a better book anytime recently I cannot recall it.
Five stars.
There is, for example, the new neighbor who is so incompetent as to be unable to back up a moving truck without crashing it into Ove's mailbox. To say nothing of the community recycling room that must be monitored constantly for the least transgression. Who but Ove can ensure that the metal caps are unfailingly separated from the glass bottles? (Oh, those Scandinavians!)
Ove is charmingly, lovingly curmudgeonly. He is also desperately sad since the death of his wife, and longs for nothing but to join her in the hereafter, although this must certainly be done properly: subscriptions canceled, affairs in order, the lights shut off. Ove is nothing if not firm in his principles, a staunch believer in routines, in the world being a black and white place, in order, and the belief that right must always prevail. Have I mentioned that I loved Ove?
Yes, I loved Ove, and I loved A Man Called Ove. I especially love Fredrik Backman's voice, the inappropriate hilarity that crops up regularly, yet unexpectedly, the layers and layers of Ove that Backman reveals almost begrudgingly. In both the hilarity of non-hilarious situations and the depth of emotion, all emotions, that Backman strikes so well, I was reminded of one of my old favorites, A Prayer for Owen Meany.
If I have read a better book anytime recently I cannot recall it.
Five stars.
Thursday, June 15, 2017
The Cruise of the Rolling Junk
Oh, but Fitzgerald could write. The Cruise of the Rolling Junk must be one of his lesser known works, unattainable but from a university library, discovered as a passing mention in Deep South, barely the length of a respectable short story, but fine writing on every page.
Young Zelda hankers for peaches and biscuits; F. Scott, in one of those fantastically spontaneous and crazy episodes that will mark their collective lives and demise, proposes driving from Connecticut south to Montgomery to obtain just that. And so they do. While some of the story has been dramatized for effect, much is true, particularly the myriad automotive disasters. In fact, it's rather amazing to think that driving cross-country was possible almost 100 years ago, particularly through the rural South that was still so marked by the Civil War.
The story, in and of itself, is fine. The writing, and particularly the writing of the south, is what makes it lovely. Many of the characters who people the pages can recount specific battles to the Fitzgeralds; when he writes that "we had added one more rattle to the ancient bridge over which the fugitives from Bull Run had streamed on an afternoon of panic and terror," one doesn't doubt that it was, in fact, the same ancient bridge. Likewise, Fitzgerald writes of "the Wilderness where slain boys from Illinois and Tennessee and the cities of the gulf still slept in the marshes and the wooded swamps," one understand this to be the literal truth - and that did they not, they might still number among the living. Even the imagery of the present (1922, mind you), harkens back to the war they are still fighting: "The for an hour we passed group after group of negroes bound singing for the cotton fields and the work of the hot hours." The war may have ended, and slavery officially, but the condition of "the negroes" is ever worse.
As both Julian Evans in the Introduction and Paul Theroux in the Foreward note, there's something, too, of a premonition about this book, of the way it all will end for Scott and Zelda, the bight shining future turned to frenzied rot. Still in his 20s when he wrote this, some two years after the adventure itself, it is as if Scott already understood that the best was behind him. For early in the story, he writes the story of his life: "To be young, to be bound for the far hills, to be going where happiness hung from a tree, a ring to be tilted for, a bright garland to be won - It still a realizable thing, we thought, still a harbor from the dullness and the tears and disillusion of all the stationary world."
May we all be young and bound for the hills and tilting at rings of happiness. And may we do it in so many beautiful words.
Young Zelda hankers for peaches and biscuits; F. Scott, in one of those fantastically spontaneous and crazy episodes that will mark their collective lives and demise, proposes driving from Connecticut south to Montgomery to obtain just that. And so they do. While some of the story has been dramatized for effect, much is true, particularly the myriad automotive disasters. In fact, it's rather amazing to think that driving cross-country was possible almost 100 years ago, particularly through the rural South that was still so marked by the Civil War.
The story, in and of itself, is fine. The writing, and particularly the writing of the south, is what makes it lovely. Many of the characters who people the pages can recount specific battles to the Fitzgeralds; when he writes that "we had added one more rattle to the ancient bridge over which the fugitives from Bull Run had streamed on an afternoon of panic and terror," one doesn't doubt that it was, in fact, the same ancient bridge. Likewise, Fitzgerald writes of "the Wilderness where slain boys from Illinois and Tennessee and the cities of the gulf still slept in the marshes and the wooded swamps," one understand this to be the literal truth - and that did they not, they might still number among the living. Even the imagery of the present (1922, mind you), harkens back to the war they are still fighting: "The for an hour we passed group after group of negroes bound singing for the cotton fields and the work of the hot hours." The war may have ended, and slavery officially, but the condition of "the negroes" is ever worse.
As both Julian Evans in the Introduction and Paul Theroux in the Foreward note, there's something, too, of a premonition about this book, of the way it all will end for Scott and Zelda, the bight shining future turned to frenzied rot. Still in his 20s when he wrote this, some two years after the adventure itself, it is as if Scott already understood that the best was behind him. For early in the story, he writes the story of his life: "To be young, to be bound for the far hills, to be going where happiness hung from a tree, a ring to be tilted for, a bright garland to be won - It still a realizable thing, we thought, still a harbor from the dullness and the tears and disillusion of all the stationary world."
May we all be young and bound for the hills and tilting at rings of happiness. And may we do it in so many beautiful words.
Sunday, June 11, 2017
A Piece of the World
Christina Olson was the muse, if you will for Andrew Wyeth's painting Christina's World, which depicts a female of indeterminate age situated in tall grass, half-reaching, half-crawling toward an unremarkable farmhouse on a hill spreading before her. The farmhouse, one can learn, was located in Cushing, Maine, as was Christina Olson. In A Piece of the World, author Christina Baker Kline has imagined the backstory for Christina, complete with decades of physical and emotional hardship, creating a complex, and frankly fascinating character.
Although there are similarites between Kline's work here and such fictionalized biographies as The Paris Wife or The Aviator's Wife, Olson was a relatively unknown woman, and Kline was therefore freer to invent a backstory for her that fits hand-in-glove with the harsh-but-lovely Maine landscapes she paints so clearly. (No pun intended.) In fact, in making a quick search for Olson in my own efforts to learn more about her and separate fact from fiction, I learned only that she likely suffered from a degenerative neurological disorder, one formerly thought to be a form of muscular dystrophy. Kline obviously had lots of room to imagine.
Kline's prose, like that of her previous novel, Orphan Train, is rich, crisp, and highly readable. She has again created a multi-dimensional character who is alternately maddening and worthy of deep sympathy, and has written a book set at a quiet time in history, if you will, no wars, no depressions, just regular folks doing their best to get on with their lives. This is a wonderful work of fiction, beautifully crafted and highly enjoyable.
Although there are similarites between Kline's work here and such fictionalized biographies as The Paris Wife or The Aviator's Wife, Olson was a relatively unknown woman, and Kline was therefore freer to invent a backstory for her that fits hand-in-glove with the harsh-but-lovely Maine landscapes she paints so clearly. (No pun intended.) In fact, in making a quick search for Olson in my own efforts to learn more about her and separate fact from fiction, I learned only that she likely suffered from a degenerative neurological disorder, one formerly thought to be a form of muscular dystrophy. Kline obviously had lots of room to imagine.
Kline's prose, like that of her previous novel, Orphan Train, is rich, crisp, and highly readable. She has again created a multi-dimensional character who is alternately maddening and worthy of deep sympathy, and has written a book set at a quiet time in history, if you will, no wars, no depressions, just regular folks doing their best to get on with their lives. This is a wonderful work of fiction, beautifully crafted and highly enjoyable.
Monday, June 5, 2017
Doc Holliday: A Family Portrait
Karen Holliday Tanner's Doc Holliday: A Family Portrait has been on my reading list for years now (literally almost six years!), ever since I read the fantastic fictionalized account of his life and times, Doc, much of the background for which the author, Mary Doria Russell, credits Tanner's book.
For better or for worse, Russell has made excellent use of the most interesting bits, such that even six years after reading Doc, Tanner's work felt extraneous. (Which, yes, I recognize is completely backwards, given that hers is the original source material, but there you have it.) The most interesting parts of A Family Portrait are, perhaps not surprisingly, the early bits that really focus on the family portrait. Once Tanner places Doc out west, there's little new; far more in-depth writing exists on Doc's years out west, from his relationship to the Earp brothers to, most notably, the shootout at the O.K. Corral.
As noted in the forward, Tanner "brings fresh insight into the history and culture of the antebellum South, the cataclysm of the War Between the States, and the catastrophe of the Reconstruction period." That is, in writing about Holliday, and particularly the Holliday family, and especially the pre-"War Between the States" Holliday family, Tanner's language is certainly that of an apologist or, as the forward also notes, "Tanner's empathy for her biological subject tends to extend to Doc Holliday's friends and close associates." Certainly, as a Yankee with twenty-first century sensibilities, Tanner's portrayal of Reconstruction goes a bit far, and the extent to which she portrays the family's slaves as happy as loving their masters has a whiff of I-think-thou-doth-protest-too-much, but on the whole, this is still an interesting and highly readable book - particularly the early chapters that deal with Doc's childhood and adolescence.
For better or for worse, Russell has made excellent use of the most interesting bits, such that even six years after reading Doc, Tanner's work felt extraneous. (Which, yes, I recognize is completely backwards, given that hers is the original source material, but there you have it.) The most interesting parts of A Family Portrait are, perhaps not surprisingly, the early bits that really focus on the family portrait. Once Tanner places Doc out west, there's little new; far more in-depth writing exists on Doc's years out west, from his relationship to the Earp brothers to, most notably, the shootout at the O.K. Corral.
As noted in the forward, Tanner "brings fresh insight into the history and culture of the antebellum South, the cataclysm of the War Between the States, and the catastrophe of the Reconstruction period." That is, in writing about Holliday, and particularly the Holliday family, and especially the pre-"War Between the States" Holliday family, Tanner's language is certainly that of an apologist or, as the forward also notes, "Tanner's empathy for her biological subject tends to extend to Doc Holliday's friends and close associates." Certainly, as a Yankee with twenty-first century sensibilities, Tanner's portrayal of Reconstruction goes a bit far, and the extent to which she portrays the family's slaves as happy as loving their masters has a whiff of I-think-thou-doth-protest-too-much, but on the whole, this is still an interesting and highly readable book - particularly the early chapters that deal with Doc's childhood and adolescence.
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