Look out! Duck! It's another one o' them dastardly Christian novels! Because of certain themes well covered by The Secret Life of Bees, I'm going to split this review into two posts, the second being about social politics. Here's the first, which is about real things.
It's the year 1964. Our white-skinned heroine, Lily Owens, has turned fourteen. It was the best of times, because the Civil Rights Act has just been signed (That's the federal mandate doing away with Jim Crow Laws and enforcing the right to vote regardless of race or ethnicity. There was probably more to the story, but it's not covered in this book, and my memory for history is notoriously bad.) It was also the worst of times, because a culture of racism is still alive and kicking (among other things... sorry). Lily's caretaker and role model, a black woman named Rosaleen, goes to town to exercise her new rights, and finds herself beaten and in jail. Lily takes action into her own hands by fleeing from her abusive father, freeing Rosaleen, and running off in search of the origins of her long-dead mother, whom Lily accidentally killed as a toddler. The fugitive pair are taken in by a trio of wild and crazy bee-keeping black women, who teach Lily a new perspective on spirituality while gradually helping her to discover a painful past.
Here's one of my first reactions to this book: it should be taught in middle school or high school. I'm not trying to devalue it, even though those kinds of booklists are frequently catered toward kids who don't want to be in class as well as the ones interested in reading. But there are many things that make The Secret Life of Bees right for the role. First: the writing style is not obscure or overly subtle. One of the most impressive aspects of Kidd's writing is that she is able to create intricate, flowing description without losing the fourteen year-old girl's narrative voice. Second: the main character is the right age. She's a strong, realistic girl, instead of an unrelatable narrator. Third: it's historical. The Civil Rights Act, the space race, Johnson vs. Goldwater, and some more are good lesson spearheads that enter the plot. Fourth: it's damn good.
If there's one aspect of a book I enjoy more than complex characters, it's complex symbolism. The Secret Life of Bees' symbolism revolves around (you guessed it) bees, which are connected both with the nuclear feminine society and with feminine spirituality. I have mixed feelings about the structure of these relationships, but my overall opinion is positive.
For those not in the know, Christianity carries with it a Marian tradition based around the adoration of Mary, the Mother of Jesus. As far as I know, this is true even of denominations that don't emphasize sainthood in the same way as Roman Catholicism. Like Jesus, Mary was born free of original sin and was assumed body and soul into Heaven. We don't worship her or any of the saints, but we look to her and study her life as the best example of how to live. The Daughters of Mary in The Secret Life of Bees portray her as a black woman because, as one of the characters says, "Everybody needs a god who looks like them." Although I take personal issue with the phrasing, I love the sentiment. I've heard of people who, even recently and in such tolerant lands as New York, have been offended by pictures of a black Jesus or who say Jesus is American, and they're not setting themselves up for much sympathy.
This brings me back to the symbolic structure. The Daughters of Mary are a spiritual and social society created by the bee-keeping women who shelter and mentor our heroines. They create their own hybrid religion which, in the words of our charming narrator, "would make the Pope keel over right there," but which has quite a bundle of good ideas. August Boatwright, the closest mentor to Lily, is a genius for all the answers she has for every question. She's the only unrealistic character by being too perfect, but I enjoyed reading her anyway. All of her bee facts are relevant both to Lily's predicament and to her perception of the Blessed Mother. If the queen dies, the hive becomes despondent and unproductive; the women of the world depend on the guidance of Mary; Lily's emotional turmoil is all based on the death of her mother. I also thought that Lily's familial world was a bit too mired in absolutes; she and her father are both unnecessarily fixated on her dead mother, and her father is crazier than most supervillains. But again, these exaggerations do not detract from the book's high enjoyability.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
Review: Going Postal by Terry Pratchett (2004)
In the wacky fantasy city of Ankh-Morpork, Moist von Lipwig is the best swindler in town, until he's caught and condemned to death for a life of crime. But the local tyrant, Lord Vetinari, has other plans: he fakes the hanging of von Lipwig's alter ego in order to appoint the arch-fraud as the city's new postmaster. He even assigns him an unstoppable golem as probation officer, in case Moist has any plans of escaping. The Post Office is obsolete, having long been outstripped by a privately-owned network of signal messages, whose monopoly is beginning to frustrate the city. Armed only with his talent for fooling people, Moist decides to give the corporate pirates (whose chairman is an actual pirate) a run for their money in order to see who is better at conning the city.
This is about the sixth Terry Pratchett book I've read. So far, it's the least humorous, but it's also got the best plot. Go figure. It seems that unlike Vonnegut, Pratchett needs to give up plot consistency for the sake of his jokes, and vice versa. Perhaps it's a function of British humor, or perhaps because most of his jokes are literal gags, they drive the story haywire. Either way, the book doesn't suffer from lack of humor; it's just slightly less cram-packed with its usual.
I once saw an interview in which Pratchett described the premise of his Discworld universe, of which Going Postal is a part. Nowhere did he mention the fact that his books are funny, not once. That would be like implying that your book doesn't have characters, or a plot. As usual, go figure.
Going Postal stands out from the larger Discworld collection by its characters. Apart from Moist, we have Mr. Pump, his golem probation officer, Who Talks In Capitalized Words And Isn't Quite Sure What Happiness Is. Moist's love interest, Adora Belle Dearheart, is a chain-smoking cynic and the only person who sees through Moist's various tricks and shams. As long as I'm discussing details, I thought the dynamic between Moist and Miss Dearheart was one of the most original romantic relationships I've ever read. Their attraction isn't random, as it so often happens, and Miss Dearheart is critical to the story as more than just a love interest. In fact, the story wouldn't work without her, and Moist's flirting is just a well-fitting backdrop. Take note, fiction writers: women are more compelling secondary characters when they have interests other than the main character. This works especially well if your protagonist is full of himself (or herself), but try to avoid the trap of making the love interest preoccupied with taking the protagonist down a notch. That's still a kind of obsession.
Other fun characters include Mr. Groat, the disgusting old postman who takes care of the abandoned post office; Stanley, Mr. Groat's young assistant who is obsessed with collecting pins until Moist accidentally invents stamp collecting; and Reacher Gilt, Moist's pirate-turned-CEO-for-better-pay nemesis.
One of my favorite aspects of the book is its theme. Pratchett plays the mailman storyline to its full advantage. Because Moist can't resist fooling people with style, he eventually establishes himself as a mailman messiah, promising "deliverance." His several near-death experiences are punctuated with discussions of angels, from which the book draws on the theme of divine messengers. Tied up with these is the concept that words immortalize their speaker. This has always entranced the likes of Dante and Shakespeare, but Pratchett can't resist immortalizing junk mail as well. It's just wacky enough to make sense.
This is about the sixth Terry Pratchett book I've read. So far, it's the least humorous, but it's also got the best plot. Go figure. It seems that unlike Vonnegut, Pratchett needs to give up plot consistency for the sake of his jokes, and vice versa. Perhaps it's a function of British humor, or perhaps because most of his jokes are literal gags, they drive the story haywire. Either way, the book doesn't suffer from lack of humor; it's just slightly less cram-packed with its usual.
I once saw an interview in which Pratchett described the premise of his Discworld universe, of which Going Postal is a part. Nowhere did he mention the fact that his books are funny, not once. That would be like implying that your book doesn't have characters, or a plot. As usual, go figure.
Going Postal stands out from the larger Discworld collection by its characters. Apart from Moist, we have Mr. Pump, his golem probation officer, Who Talks In Capitalized Words And Isn't Quite Sure What Happiness Is. Moist's love interest, Adora Belle Dearheart, is a chain-smoking cynic and the only person who sees through Moist's various tricks and shams. As long as I'm discussing details, I thought the dynamic between Moist and Miss Dearheart was one of the most original romantic relationships I've ever read. Their attraction isn't random, as it so often happens, and Miss Dearheart is critical to the story as more than just a love interest. In fact, the story wouldn't work without her, and Moist's flirting is just a well-fitting backdrop. Take note, fiction writers: women are more compelling secondary characters when they have interests other than the main character. This works especially well if your protagonist is full of himself (or herself), but try to avoid the trap of making the love interest preoccupied with taking the protagonist down a notch. That's still a kind of obsession.
Other fun characters include Mr. Groat, the disgusting old postman who takes care of the abandoned post office; Stanley, Mr. Groat's young assistant who is obsessed with collecting pins until Moist accidentally invents stamp collecting; and Reacher Gilt, Moist's pirate-turned-CEO-for-better-pay nemesis.
One of my favorite aspects of the book is its theme. Pratchett plays the mailman storyline to its full advantage. Because Moist can't resist fooling people with style, he eventually establishes himself as a mailman messiah, promising "deliverance." His several near-death experiences are punctuated with discussions of angels, from which the book draws on the theme of divine messengers. Tied up with these is the concept that words immortalize their speaker. This has always entranced the likes of Dante and Shakespeare, but Pratchett can't resist immortalizing junk mail as well. It's just wacky enough to make sense.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Review: The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky (1880)
When I said this blog was going to review the books I read, I meant almost all of those books. Limiting myself to fantasy would limit fantasy, saying that it can't stand on the same shelf as other great literature.
But enough griping. I present: The Brothers Karamazov.
Set in post-feudal, pre-Communist Russia, this book follows the trials of the dysfunctional Karamazov family, the father of which is Fyodor Pavlovich, an old man known for his buffoonery and sexual promiscuity. Fyodor's eldest son, Dmitri Fyodorovich (you get the hang of the naming rules after a while), is a hotheaded man who often gets into trouble with love and money. The middle son, Ivan, is cold and critical, but tragically passionate. And the youngest, Alexey, is an overzealous monk whose dying elder knows that Alexey belongs out in the world for a longer time. Reuniting after living apart for many years, the family must find a way to keep from destroying each other over matters of money, women, and ethics.
You guessed it: this book is very different from anything I've already reviewed on this blog, both in time and space. I'm a big fan of Dostoevsky's philosophic beliefs, and so I must recognize from the beginning that these may tip the enjoyment of the book depending on where you stand. Because, as it turns out, philosophy and moral speculation are the backbone of this book. Its biggest problem is that the plot is secondary until the dramatic twist.
I'll tackle things chronologically. Dostoevsky's characters are amazingly complex and come with lots of baggage. I don't know whether this is more a 19th century trope or a Russian one, but that baggage is described in massive detail, including an entire chapter of back-story whenever a significant minor character is introduced. It's important to note that the book was originally released in chapter-long installments in a magazine. Dostoevsky was enormously popular by then, and readers were hooked; they looked forward to this month's exposition of the disgraced army captain's woes. But put into a continuous narrative, translated into English, and picked up by a young man in the attention span-fearing 21st century, the technical details slow the story nearly to a standstill. If it were written in the U.S. today, The Brothers Karamazov would need to be a third of its current size for a publisher to touch it with a ten-foot copyright. As it is, the first task is to sort out all the characters and their histories, making the book difficult to dive straight into.
Once it picks up, the book fluctuates between solid and brilliant. The long characterization pays off: everyone is understandable as a real person, and their actions make them more understandable rather than too complicated. For me, all the real points of gold come to or from the character Alexey, who is the only character without any concealed intentions. His bravery and honesty do not make him simple-minded or even all that naïve, as is the tendency. He is faced with the problem that too few books try to tackle, perhaps because nobody knows the answer: what to do when you have succeeded in becoming humble and good-hearted, but the world keeps on turning up new problems.
The other characters are explored just as well. I didn't understand or like Ivan until the very end, mostly because he felt like a crabby "stock atheist" who should have been more complex. Here's a spoiler: he is. The women in the book are brilliant, which is more remarkable considering the time (I don't know about the place, never having read a Russian, non-Dostoevsky book). 19th century authors, even those I wouldn't consider sexist, didn't tend to know quite how complex women act. I'm not an expert, but at least I try to give my women characters layered personality traits and actual motivations. Dostoevsky's women are at least as complex as his men–they're as realistic as people. None of his characters is limited to a desire for love, sex, money, power, purpose, or any other mold into which a sociologist might try to cram one of us. Just like anybody, they're not always sure what they want. This is something I try to give my characters, so I can say from experience that it's the hardest character trait to write, because the whole character goes bonkers if he's not written naturally. And Dostoevsky does it masterfully.
The political and religious debates were interesting. Not knowing enough about Russian history, I didn't have enough context to judge the attitudes with which his characters discuss socialism, which was already a common–if not popular–concept there. I was able to get down and dirty with the religion, and I found myself morbidly fascinated by Ivan's story "The Grand Inquisitor," in which a bishop explains his dystopian vision of the Catholic Church to his prisoner, a heretic who is actually Christ. Dostoevsky does well to include his characters' personalities in their religious views, keeping them real and at least semi-rational. After all, it's people who believe that humans and faith can be separated who have the dimmest sense of what constitute belief, apart from those who take it for granted. This, I digress, is the reason stories are useful for exploring philosophy.
What lost my interest was the turn of the story after its climax, which I won't spoil here. It involves a crime, an investigation, and a trial, none of which interested me very much. Caught up in rhetoric, the book loses some opportunities for its characters to develop smoothly, although they get there in the end. It's certainly not a thriller.
Although I hold this book in high regard, it's not the first one I'd recommend off the shelf. Read it if you're looking for some solid insight on Christianity, ethics, psychology, Dostoevsky, or Russia. Don't read it if you're looking for some insight on legal proceedings, or if you're looking for thrills and spills. Better find those elsewhere.
But enough griping. I present: The Brothers Karamazov.
Set in post-feudal, pre-Communist Russia, this book follows the trials of the dysfunctional Karamazov family, the father of which is Fyodor Pavlovich, an old man known for his buffoonery and sexual promiscuity. Fyodor's eldest son, Dmitri Fyodorovich (you get the hang of the naming rules after a while), is a hotheaded man who often gets into trouble with love and money. The middle son, Ivan, is cold and critical, but tragically passionate. And the youngest, Alexey, is an overzealous monk whose dying elder knows that Alexey belongs out in the world for a longer time. Reuniting after living apart for many years, the family must find a way to keep from destroying each other over matters of money, women, and ethics.
You guessed it: this book is very different from anything I've already reviewed on this blog, both in time and space. I'm a big fan of Dostoevsky's philosophic beliefs, and so I must recognize from the beginning that these may tip the enjoyment of the book depending on where you stand. Because, as it turns out, philosophy and moral speculation are the backbone of this book. Its biggest problem is that the plot is secondary until the dramatic twist.
I'll tackle things chronologically. Dostoevsky's characters are amazingly complex and come with lots of baggage. I don't know whether this is more a 19th century trope or a Russian one, but that baggage is described in massive detail, including an entire chapter of back-story whenever a significant minor character is introduced. It's important to note that the book was originally released in chapter-long installments in a magazine. Dostoevsky was enormously popular by then, and readers were hooked; they looked forward to this month's exposition of the disgraced army captain's woes. But put into a continuous narrative, translated into English, and picked up by a young man in the attention span-fearing 21st century, the technical details slow the story nearly to a standstill. If it were written in the U.S. today, The Brothers Karamazov would need to be a third of its current size for a publisher to touch it with a ten-foot copyright. As it is, the first task is to sort out all the characters and their histories, making the book difficult to dive straight into.
Once it picks up, the book fluctuates between solid and brilliant. The long characterization pays off: everyone is understandable as a real person, and their actions make them more understandable rather than too complicated. For me, all the real points of gold come to or from the character Alexey, who is the only character without any concealed intentions. His bravery and honesty do not make him simple-minded or even all that naïve, as is the tendency. He is faced with the problem that too few books try to tackle, perhaps because nobody knows the answer: what to do when you have succeeded in becoming humble and good-hearted, but the world keeps on turning up new problems.
The other characters are explored just as well. I didn't understand or like Ivan until the very end, mostly because he felt like a crabby "stock atheist" who should have been more complex. Here's a spoiler: he is. The women in the book are brilliant, which is more remarkable considering the time (I don't know about the place, never having read a Russian, non-Dostoevsky book). 19th century authors, even those I wouldn't consider sexist, didn't tend to know quite how complex women act. I'm not an expert, but at least I try to give my women characters layered personality traits and actual motivations. Dostoevsky's women are at least as complex as his men–they're as realistic as people. None of his characters is limited to a desire for love, sex, money, power, purpose, or any other mold into which a sociologist might try to cram one of us. Just like anybody, they're not always sure what they want. This is something I try to give my characters, so I can say from experience that it's the hardest character trait to write, because the whole character goes bonkers if he's not written naturally. And Dostoevsky does it masterfully.
The political and religious debates were interesting. Not knowing enough about Russian history, I didn't have enough context to judge the attitudes with which his characters discuss socialism, which was already a common–if not popular–concept there. I was able to get down and dirty with the religion, and I found myself morbidly fascinated by Ivan's story "The Grand Inquisitor," in which a bishop explains his dystopian vision of the Catholic Church to his prisoner, a heretic who is actually Christ. Dostoevsky does well to include his characters' personalities in their religious views, keeping them real and at least semi-rational. After all, it's people who believe that humans and faith can be separated who have the dimmest sense of what constitute belief, apart from those who take it for granted. This, I digress, is the reason stories are useful for exploring philosophy.
What lost my interest was the turn of the story after its climax, which I won't spoil here. It involves a crime, an investigation, and a trial, none of which interested me very much. Caught up in rhetoric, the book loses some opportunities for its characters to develop smoothly, although they get there in the end. It's certainly not a thriller.
Although I hold this book in high regard, it's not the first one I'd recommend off the shelf. Read it if you're looking for some solid insight on Christianity, ethics, psychology, Dostoevsky, or Russia. Don't read it if you're looking for some insight on legal proceedings, or if you're looking for thrills and spills. Better find those elsewhere.
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