Lost in a Painting

The Museum Guard - Howard Norman (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1998)

This is one of those novels that creates a deep sense of unease from the start. Maybe it's because you find out right away that something is not right with DeFoe's romantic relationship, or because of the telling of his parents' horrific death when he was a child. Not only their death, but the way that adults tried - ineptly, as all efforts must surely be - to protect him from some of the worst of the blow. Or maybe it's just 1938, and a growing awareness of the tragedies already taking place in Hitler's Germany.

At any rate, nothing feels right in DeFoe's Halifax: neither in the residential hotels where most everyone seems to live, nor in the art museum where he guards an unpretentious collection.

Much of the first half of the novel was taken up by my wondering why his girlfriend was so cruel to him. I think I used the term "jerking him around" quite a bit. I was not impressed. But as she falls further and further under the spell of one particular painting, everything gets so convoluted, that you just want the train wreck to actually occur, the crash to happen. It's like watching a disaster in slow motion.

Despite my saying slow motion, the pacing is both fast and slow. Just when I began to feel I understand Norman's rhythms, it would switch up again. Considering how consistently I've reached for cheerier books over several months, this was a departure for me. And a difficult one. I need some sunshine.

One exchange, though, between DeFoe and Miss Delbo, the museum's tour guide, stopped me in my tracks. Somehow, it seemed the truest and most familiar moment in the whole book.

Miss Delbo: Imogen is lost to you, DeFoe. I may as well state it now as later. You aren't -- forgive my bluntness -- you aren't a man who recognizes his own nature.

DeFoe: I recognize a lot of it. I just don't know what to do with what I recognize.

The People's History of the Fastest Game on Ice

Hockey: A People's History - Michael McKinley (McClelland & Stewart, 2006)

So, the blog title is kinda lazy, but I'm going with it.

This monster tome is the coffee table companion to what I believe was a CBC miniseries about 5 years back. It's about 9x12 and weighs in at.... a bunch of pounds (kilos?), and is chock full of pictures and sidebars. Including some amazing ones from early in Canadian hockey history and of a shockingly sweet 13 y.o. Wayne Gretzky.

The book is a little like if a Ken Burns documentary got shoved into a book. It makes strange segues, and fades to sepia a bit. Which is probably all the case b/c it was a documentary shoved into a book. But such fantastic stories. Girls using their skirts to help hide the puck as they deked around a defender, dudes whose names are on trophies being actual people. Getting drunk and trading a player for $1million for example. Or forcing everyone on your team to enlist during WWII.

It took me weeks to get through this thing - lots of lapses in concentration and intervening life and whatnot. But experiencing it over time, in bits and pieces, was sort of the way to go. How better to go through >100 years of one's favorite sport, especially as interwoven into the history of a country?

I'd like to mention the severe lack of Paul Kariya, but I guess that's to be expected. *I* know that he was a crucial part of the 2002 Olympic team, and that'll have to be good enough. :)

A heartbreaking work of ... oh, wait

A Complicated Kindness - Miriam Toews (Counterpoint, 2004)

I've already told the story of how excited I was to finally track down this book (with the correct author and title), and I even managed to related to hockey, since that's what I do. What I haven't done is actually write about the experience of reading the book.

It was like one extended sucker punch. I felt so protective of Nomi, so much desire to somehow fix it for her. And I couldn't. I mean, obviously, since Nomi is a character, but still.

Let me back up. It's the 1970s, in Canada, in a small Mennonite community not that far from the US border. Nomi, at 16, lives with her dad, because her mom and sister each left within months of each other, about three years earlier. Both father and daughter are broken, utterly. Nomi deals like you might expect: she fantasizes about New York, smokes cigarettes and pot, listens to rock music, has an older boyfriend, shaves her head, gets in trouble at school.

But it's more than that. Toews elegantly handles what may actually be the easy part: showing how the community and its sensibility has damaged her family. While Nomi isn't the only teen who rebels, clearly, she is further adrift than the others. What makes Nomi's story so powerful is that she is so often unflinching in her assessment of how things have fallen apart, and yet the ways in which she tries, when she needs to, to spare herself or her father or her best friend the worst of it. To be cliche about it, she reminds me of nothing so much as a wounded animal that's still trying to be tough.

I didn't even bother trying to note remarkable and representative passages. There's something on virtually every page. At random:

...every time I looked at it I was reminded that I was, at that very moment, not bleeding from my face. And those are powerful words of hope, really.

Hmm. The problem here is that they are too long to reproduce here, and they lack context. But to give you the best sense of it, here Nomi explains the impossible decision her father would have faced had her mother stayed in town in the face of excommunication: shun his wife, or leave his faith? "He was stuck in the middle of a story with no good ending. He had the same disease I had." You're not sure if you should pray, since prayer has done so much harm already, but if you did pray, you would pray for a cure, a way for them to find a suitable ending to the story.

Serendipity, finally

Not quite ready for the real post, but I've been excited about mentioning this for two weeks now...

A few years ago, I was walking around West LA listening to the NYT Book Review podcast where one of the reviewers mentioned a book that she just absolutely fell in love with. I forget the context, but whatever she said made me want to read it. So when I got home, I wrote the following in my "books to read" list: "An Uncommon Kindness - Muriel T..." But when I went to find this book at the library, it didn't seem to exist. I'd try again now and then when I noticed it, but really, I kinda figured it was a lost cause. Why, oh why, did I not actually listen to the podcast again right when I got home so I'd get the author right?

But then, a couple weeks ago, I was at the library, list in hand, looking to see what was in stock. (Not much.) I went to find The Flying Troutmans, even though from what I could remember hearing about it, I wasn't sure it was the book I wanted to read right then. But it wasn't on the shelf anyway. But sitting right where said book was supposed to be: A Complicated Kindness, by Miriam Toews. Erin to self: Wait a second.... [jaw dropping]

So there it was. Uncommon and Complicated: got that wrong. Muriel & Miriam: really? Toews though? That's clearly forgivable. (Why I know and like the name Toews right now, btw. Chicago's my ideal hope for the Stanley Cup this year, and I like their players w/o knowing really anything about them except that they are mostly young and all signed to looooooooong contracts.)

Anyway, so I found the book. By accident. Yays.

I heart Michael Ondaatje

Anil's Ghost - Michael Ondaatje
New York: Knopf, 2000

I went through a Canadian phast in my late high school years. While this was largely due to a certain hockey player, it also included a love affair with Ondaatje's The English Patient (both novel and film) and Joy Kogawa's Obasan. I had dreams of moving to Vancouver and having a big dog and taking him on walks to Stanley Park. All of which is introduction, of sorts, to the Canadian Ondaatje's 2000 novel about his native Sri Lanka.

I read it in Denver, and the cold weather and warm family atmosphere made for a gripping counterweight to the book's sultry temperatures and political chill. You understand why Anil left for England, America, etc., and work to understand why she returned to practice forensic anthropology, investigating the murders and atrocities committed by political factions within and against the government. You also work to understand the two brothers who accompany her, one an anthropologist, one a doctor, both destroyed both by their own pasts and the turmoil of their country.

It's hard to say that a lot happens, in the traditional sense of the word. I found myself thinking, well this is where I would go with this plot, and then remembering that Ondaatje is a lot less trite or more interesting than I can be. His prose is lyrical and haunting and quiet and disjointed and all sorts of other good things. Had I not been on vacation, I might have noted passages to share; instead you will have to take my word for it.

In short, he's gorgeous, and I was unsettled and unsatisfied in an entirely satisfying way.