The Summer of Summer: The Natural

 

I didn’t know much about The Natural, except that it was a movie I hadn’t seen starring Robert Redford, and that some consider the book, written by Bernard Malamud and published in 1952, the quintessential, literary baseball novel. And baseball is a summer game (in theory, although it runs from April into October, if you’re lucky); choosing this book for my Summer of Summer seemed like an easy choice. I even got my son to read along with me on vacation.

I was expecting a hero’s journey type of book, the story of a scrappy slugger and his rise in the leagues (again, with the image of Redford in mind). Certainly, those elements are there. The book opens with Roy Hobbs, a nineteen-year-old pitcher on his way to try out for the Chicago Cubs. We know his talents are considerable when the train stops at a carnival and he strikes out “the Whammer,” a top hitter in the game.

But this hero’s journey has its trials, as they do, and Roy is a tragic character more than anything else. Without giving away any of the plot’s surprising twists, I will tell you that often, Roy’s challenges come wrapped in a female package. Sidenote: the women in this story have great names: Harriet Bird, Memo Paris, Iris Lemon. In fact, everyone has great names, from the beleaguered manager of the New York Knights, Pop Fisher, to the journalist trailing Roy for a scoop, Max Mercy, to the star player and Roy’s nemesis, Bump Baily.

You can get a feel for the tone of this book, written in the fifties, by these names. In this world, the men call each other “bub” and “kiddo” and “son,” and the women say things like “How droll!”

But did I like it? I appreciated the atmosphere, dialect, and winding plot, and once I got a feel for the tragic element, I appreciated the character of Roy on a symbolic level. He’s a striver, a uniquely American character in his quest for fame and greatness—spurned on by an unhappy childhood and a string of bad luck. He’s a man of appetites that cause, in many ways, his demise. And in the way of tragedies, often we readers see what’s coming down the track before the character can; many times, I wished Roy would wise up, act better, do right.

I also liked some of the exaggerated elements of the book—such as when Roy literally hits a ball so hard that the cowhide falls off—these bits felt almost apocryphal and compounded that feel of heroism and the way we raise our sports competitors to mythic levels.

When I finished the book, I started to imagine how they took this story and filmed it, and now that I’ve watched the trailer, it would seem they made it into what I imagined the story to be before I picked it up—a story of a slugger making his way to the top. We’ll see. I’m planning to watch the full movie soon.

Next up for my Summer of Summer is quite a shift, the 2007 “fragmentary novel” by the Polish author Olga Tokarczuk, Flights. Let me know what you’re reading, or if you try any on my summer list! 

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Favorite Reads, 2021

The year is drawing to a close and as I look back over my reading for the year, I realize I’ve fallen short of my goals. But it’s for good reasons. In 2021, I was fortunate to have an increased amount of editing work, which means I was reading future books rather than those already on the shelves. Also, I read a fair amount of student papers, and even started writing another novel. I’m grateful for all of these aspects of my reading and writing life! In the tradition of this blog, here are the stats for the year.

In 2021, I read 28 books—down from 44 in 2020 and 30 in 2019. This year’s leisure reading included 14 novels, 1 short story collection, 6 memoirs and 7 graphic novels. The graphic novels are, of course, novels, but I distinguish them as a separate category this year so I can give the format a little plug here. My typical procedure for my end-of-year list is to choose my five-star reads and this year, there were only six. In no particular order:

Echoland by Per Petterson (1989)

Per Petterson is one of my favorite authors, and I was surprised to find a novel of his on my shelf that I hadn’t read. The international, translated version of Echoland was released in 2016, but the novel was originally published in Norwegian in 1989. Petterson’s writing, for me, evokes a depth of feeling similar to the work of other favorites—Kent Haruf, Marilynne Robinson—a quality that is difficult to explain. He quietly presents everyday moments in their resplendent glory. Haruf called it “the precious ordinary.” These writers strike a chord for me, some universal understanding about life’s struggles and joys and questions. Echoland didn’t disappoint. A coming-of-age story, the novel follows Arvid, a 12-year-old on holiday in Denmark. Arvid has the energy and observational skills of young adulthood, and a fair amount of unbridled longing—for answers, for adventure, for autonomy. There’s a strain of grief in his family, and Arvid is awakening as a sexual being as well. And Petterson creates a mood of apprehension and expectation that brings the reader right along. It’s a remarkable novel.

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson (1959) 

This National Book Award finalist by one of our great American masters is considered by some to be one of the best ghost stories—if not the best—written in the 20^th century. Adaptations abound, such as the 2018 Netflix series. The novel involves the named house, and four main characters who have arrived to investigate the paranormal activities within. Reportedly, Jackson was inspired after reading about a group of 19^th century “psychic researchers.” The resulting novel is about the house, but it’s really about the four characters and their pasts, motivations, and relationships. And it’s a spooky read, one that evokes a mood you won’t soon forget. I read this novel for my Summer of Houses project, and wrote more about it here.

Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro (2021)

I had many thoughts when I finished this new novel by the acclaimed author of one of my favorite, all-time novels, The Remains of the Day, but the main one was simple: How did he do that? And by “that,” I mean, how did Ishiguro manage to write an entire novel from the point of view of an “Artificial Friend”—an unique and objective persona on the outskirts of human feeling and insight, and yet, manage to keep this reader enthralled and entirely engaged? The novel begins in a store, where Klara and the other AFs await purchase by a family. As she interacts with humans, Klara’s innocence and moldability act as a mirror in which humanity’s foibles and strengths materialize. The novel raises existential questions: what does it mean to be human, to love, to lose ourselves? What are the best parts of being human, and the worst? And it does all of this while presenting a plot with twists and turns. I’ll think about this book for a long, long time, and how it reflects and interacts with Ishiguro’s other books.

Pale Morning Light with Violet Swan by Deborah Reed (2020)

The more I think about that Petterson novel, the more I realize I probably left it on my To-Read stack on purpose, waiting for a calm period of time when I could fully enjoy and absorb it. The same is true for this novel by Deborah Reed, which I purchased as soon as it came out but waited for the right time to read. The author and I have been acquainted for some years; early on, we bonded over our mutual love of Haruf, Petterson, Robinson, and her writing, for me, lives in the same realm and always touches me on some visceral level. This novel presents Violet Swan, a ninety-three-year-old artist in the last chapter of her life. She lives quietly on the second floor above her only son and his wife, painting abstract, colorful versions of comfort and calm. But a storm is brewing inside Violet, and the arrival of her beloved grandson sets in motion a string of events and the unearthing of memories she has kept hidden most of her life. It’s a stirring novel, full of soul and purpose and what Ms. Reed’s writing always means to me—that nurturing of an innate recognition of the feelings and complexity of our lives. This story and these characters are expertly drawn and continue to walk around in some corner of my mind.

Almost American Girl by Robin Ha (2020)

Almost American Girl is a memoir that begins with the teen Robin, whose life in Seoul, Korea, is disrupted when her mother announces a move to America. She leaves her friends and life behind, abruptly dropped into a place where she doesn’t speak the language or know the customs. Her relationship with her mother ruptures and she’s cut off from the world of comics she enjoyed in Korea. Robin’s story echoes the struggles many immigrants face, and it makes insightful observations about identity, gender expectations, and the power of artistic expression. Ha wrote and illustrated the book in muted colors that reflect her experiences, both in Korea and her new home, and the confusion of arriving in a foreign place and trying to make connections. If you haven’t dipped your toe into graphic/illustrated books yet, this would be a great place to start.

Long Way Down: The Graphic Novel by Jason Reynolds (2020)

Will is a teenager who’s just lost his older brother, Shawn, to what appears to be a gang shooting. Boys and young men in Will's neighborhood are taught three rules: No crying, no snitching, and always get revenge. So Will grabs a gun and sets out to avenge his brother’s death. Long Way Down takes place during the elevator ride in Will’s building; at each floor, he’s visited by the ghosts of men lost to gun violence. As they tell their stories and advise Will, he goes through a rollercoaster of emotions as he decides whether to live by the rules or not. This graphic novel version is an adaptation of Reynold’s 2017 award-winning book of the same name, and it’s truly enhanced by Danica Novgorodoff’s illustrations. She presents watercolor images that bleed through panes and create an eerie, memorable effect. Another highly recommended entry to the world of graphic novels, if you’re interested.

And speaking of graphic novels, here are some more recommendations. I read mostly in the YA and Middle Grade categories, because of the Children’s Literature class I teach, but I’m looking to expand more into adult offerings in the new year.

 

The Magic Fish by Trung Le Nguyen (2020)

Tien communicates with his Vietnamese immigrant mother through the fairy tales they read together. She struggles with English, and he struggles with coming out. This beautifully illustrated novel is touching and lyrical, a true reading experience.

 

Daytripper by Fabio Moon (2011)

This unique book presents several versions of the life of Bras de Olivias Deominguez, and several versions of his death. Each chapter starts at a different point of his life, demonstrating life’s possibilities, joys and sorrows, and in the end, the tenuousness of existence itself. Uniquely, brilliantly illustrated.

 

American Born Chinese by Gene Luen Yang (2008)

A ground-breaking, acclaimed book that reads like a modern fable. Three distinct characters come together in unexpected ways in this novel that touches on Chinese history, immigration, and self-realization.

 

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Summer of Houses: The Yellow House

 

“To be remembered is next to being loved” –Emily Dickinson

Often, we'll call books in a range of genres “love letters” to a place. Whether it’s memoir, poetry, fiction, or even travel writing, this term is used to describe writing that pays homage, fondly, to a specific point on the globe. 

And what is the best expression of love, if not being remembered, as so aptly expressed by perhaps one of our most sentimental poets, Ms. Dickinson. Places from our past can leave indelible impressions, especially when they were shared with the people and events that have shaped us. I wrote about my grandmother’s house once, and how—if I close my eyes—I can picture every detail of her house as if I was there last week. The proportions of the rooms, many of the details of things like carpet and cupboards and lamps, the quiet and fragrant stillness.

If remembering was a sport, perhaps Sarah M. Broom would be an Olympian. The Yellow House is her detailed, comprehensive love letter to the home where she spent her childhood. She remembers and remembers and remembers—every hiding place in the house, the “medium-size hole in the floorboard (of a bathroom) that will eventually become a large hole letting in more sound and outside creatures,” the smells, the holiday decorations: “gold garland around the door trim; shiny red paper on the front door, which served the dual purpose of keeping the draft out and hiding its ugly tan color.” We see the house through Broom’s eyes as she grows from childhood to adulthood, the magic along with the state of disrepair stemming from Hurricane Betsy, which made landfall forty years before Katrina.

“The plumbing was never right. We had buckets underneath the kitchen sink catching dishwater. The kitchen cabinets had big holes that led to the outside. Mom plugged those holes with foil after hearing somewhere that rates couldn’t chew through. And still they did.”

So the house is the thing, and in the introduction, she lets the reader know the significance of those four walls.

“Before it was the Yellow House, the only house I knew, it was a green house, the house my eleven siblings knew. The facts of the world before me inform, give shape and context to my own life. The Yellow House was witness to our lives. When it fell down, something in me burst.”

But Broom’s remembering isn’t confined to this building and its details. She remembers all who lived in it. She describes each of her siblings and their manner of speaking and dress. Throughout the memoir, she reaches for understanding and recollections of her father, who died when she was a baby. Often, she shares family photographs and describes what they are reflecting—things we can see, and things we can’t. She remembers events outside the walls of the Yellow House; this family history spans back one hundred years and takes into account the changes afoot in New Orleans, America, the world. As I said, it’s very comprehensive and at times, this avalanche of details feels heavy for the reader. But there's a lulling reverence to it as well, a power. In an interview for The Atlantic, Broom talked about the difficulties she had with publishers, because of this inclusiveness of topics and the breadth of memories:

“’The main complaint was that I needed to choose,’ … ‘that I was either going to write a book about New Orleans or a book about my family, but not both—which was so confounding to me that I couldn’t even process it.’" 

Broom’s memories start with the house, and everything is tied to it. How do we order memory, or separate, cleanly, one thing from another? For the author, place and people and events intertwine and stay that way. 

“I thought then and still think now: when a person dies in a place they become the place and nothing is ever the same again.”

Of course, Hurricane Katrina was for Broom’s family—as it was for many—a seismic, devastating event. The Yellow House is destroyed, and the family spreads out. Just as Broom’s mother, Ivory Mae, scraped and fought to keep “the only house I ever knew,” the author returns after Katrina and tries to get some reimbursement for the house, the ruins of which were hauled away without notice by the city.

My Summer of Houses reading project concludes with this gorgeous and accomplished memoir, which deserves every bit of the National Book Award it received. It’s a book that certainly presents a memorable and notable house, one that looms at the center of this author's story. The Yellow House is a a touching expression of love, an examination of the ways places can reach our very depths, clinging like vines on a wall, and surrounding everything.

 

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Summer of Houses: Deathless

 

      You enter here, in helmet and greatcoat,
Chasing after her, without a mask.
You, Ivanushka of the old tales,
What ails you today?
So much bitterness in your every word
So much darkness in your love
And why does this stream of blood
Disturb the petal of your cheek?
                        -          Anna Akhmatova

Throughout her novel, Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente sprinkles excerpts from poems by the great Russan poet, Anna Akhmatova. One of the best known and most prolific of Russian writers, Akhmatova lived from 1889 to 1966, experiencing both prerevolutionary and Soviet Russia. She writes here about a stock character in Russian folklore, Ivanushka. A simpleminded but lucky young man, Ivanushka is described as amiable, with blue eyes. The details of his family and station vary from tale to tale, but he is always portrayed as someone who leads with his heart over his head. He’s naïve but kind, sometimes considered a fool but often misjudged by those around him. He’s not always what he seems to be. 

I said in an earlier post that this novel is perhaps the biggest stretch for my summer reading theme: houses. Yes, there’s a house, and it makes somewhat of an impression. Deathless opens with this:

“In a city by the sea which was once called St. Petersburg, then Petrograd, then Leningrad, then, much later, St. Petersburg again, there stood a long, thin house on a long, thin street. By the long, thin window, a child in a pale blue dress and pale green slippers waited for a bird to marry her.”

Well, actually, the novel begins with a short scene in which a young boy is questioned and then released by a pair of military officers. He’s only eleven, but he’s accused of desertion. Three “skinny, molting creatures” (birds) watch from a nearby branch. This scene is followed by the first of the Akhmatova quotes, a poem about a faceless visitor, a riddle, and a wanderer in darkness. My point is, from the start, the stage is set for everything this remarkable novel aims to do: say something about the history of Russia, particularly throughout the twentieth century, recycle certain characters, tropes and stories from the vast landscape of Russian folklore, and tell a lyrically moody, visceral and exciting tale. And like the folk staple Ivanushka, things are not always what they seem. 

The novel focuses on Marya Morevna, the girl in the pale blue dress. For years, she has watched as her sisters were claimed for marriage by men who arrive as birds but transform into handsome young men before whisking away their brides. And so, she waits for her bird. When he comes, he’s handsome, all right, but his name is Koschei the Deathless, another figure from Russian folklore whose main characteristic is his inability to be killed.

And the house? The one Marya has been living in, before leaving with Koschei, has a tendency to expand and there are little domovoi, or house-goblins, about. And once she escapes with her bird-suitor to the Isle of Buyan, there are other strange features in the new world she inhabits, other strange, house phenomena:

“The main thing was the ruin of her house, like film laid on top of other film, so that she could look at a wall and see not only the wall but Svetlana Tikhonovna and her mother arguing over laundry in front of it, and Zemlehyed pawing at it, and the skin of a Buyan wall, so far from her. Everywhere her vision doubled and trebled, and her head sagged with the weight of it. Everything kept occurring all at once, each thing on top of the last.”

This novel draws from Russian folklore, with its dark imagery and themes. It’s not a book for children. I will admit that from time to time, the book was a riddle, as promised by Valente in that early Akhmatova poem. I had some trouble following certain relationships and twists of plot. It felt like things were happening, all at once, each thing on top of the last. And although the novel is strong in folkloric roots and fantastical elements, Valente draws complex characters; the development of Marya’s character was probably my favorite aspect. She changes from an innocent girl to Koschei’s frightened concubine and eventually, his wife. A major part of the story here is the sexy and ultimately, tragic love affair between them. The book has been compared to Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, and at the time of its release in 2011, the AV Club said “Deathless does for Russia what Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr Norell does for England.” I can see where the book fits somewhere between these two, and yet, is something entirely different and unique, too.

As we run out of summer days, one book remains for my Summer of Houses reading project. I’ll be diving into Sarah M. Broom’s memoir, The Yellow House, next. I do love a book with a map at the start, and Broom starts hers with an outline of New Orleans, where the notable house she writes about lives.

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Summer of Houses: White is for Witching

 

My second read for my summer of houses reading project is Helen Oyeyemi’s White is For Witching. As I mentioned in my previous post, Oyeyemi’s writing has been compared to Shirley Jackson’s, and for the gothic tone and the way she builds an eerie sense of uneasiness and foreboding, I would agree. Yet this novel is less straightforward than The Haunting of Hill House; it’s circular in structure and at times it’s difficult to gain footing in the narrative. The writing is trancelike, lulling the reader in, and our guides are unreliable on many levels. But where Hill House follows a linear trajectory that repeats wording from the beginning at the finish, and draws to close with the characters firmly ending their association with that house, White is for Witching feels like it leaves off where it starts, with each character tied by tangible or intangible tethers to the place where the trouble began—or at least, the space within four walls where they experienced it.

Oyeyemi’s novel tells the story of the Silver family house in Dover, England, and the four generations of women who have lived there. Our main character is Miranda, or Miri, who has moved to the house her mother, Lily, inherited, when her father decides the family should return to live there and turn it into a bed and breakfast. Miri and her twin brother, Eliot, are ten, and their first glimpse of the house is innocuous:

“Our new house had two big brown grids of windows with a row of brick in between each grid. No windows for the attic. From the outside the windows didn’t look as if they could be opened, they didn’t look as if they were there to let air or light in, they were funny square eyes, friendly, tired.”

Sounds nice! But soon, reader is told of the steps leading up to the house, which “bulged with fist-sized lumps of grey-white flint, each piece a knife to cut your knee should you slip.” Out in the garden, there is an Andersen shelter for air raids, and another shelter under a trapdoor in the floor of the sitting room. As they tour their new home, Eliot calls it a “wicked house,” and Miri thinks it’s “magic;” from that moment, we know their ensuing experiences will dramatically diverge.

“Miri’s room was darker than mine, even before she took to keeping her curtains drawn at all times and Lily started calling her room ‘the psychomantium.’”

Now, if you’re like me and can tell this isn’t a good sign but have to look up things like “Andersen shelter” and “psychomantium,” I give you this: “A psychomanteum is a room set aside with a chair, dim lighting, and an angled mirror, for communication with those who have died.”

So it’s Miri who is most affected by the house. She, and her mother before her, and her mother, Jennifer, and her mother, Miranda’s great-grandmother, Anna. And the house tells the reader much of the history of the previous generations. Those four POVs I mentioned? One is the house itself, and it speaks in an authoritative but often meandering way. From the start, the Silver house claims a sense of power over the proceedings within. And like the other POVs in the novel—Miri’s, Eliot’s, and Miri’s lover, Ore—we often don’t know how much to trust anyone (or thing).

Especially Miri, and her perspective. When the present action of the story begins, she has just been discharged from a “clinic.” She is dangerously thin and has a condition called pica, which I’d wager appears much more in novels than it does in real life, but which certainly does lend a creepy aura. Miri struggles with eating and her condition means that she eats things that aren’t food, like plastic and chalk.

“Miranda had been admitted to the clinic because one morning Eliot had found her wordless and thoughtful. It had been a long night, a perfect full moon tugging the sky around it into clumsy wrinkles. Miranda had been bleeding slightly from the scalp and her wrists were bound together with extreme dexterity and thin braids of her own hair.”

We’re aware of the presence of something, someone, in the house, in addition to the immediate Silver family. How would Miri have bound her own wrists? Are the visions she sees real, or part of the reason for her visit to the clinic?

I will admit, I struggled with the novel at first. These shifting perspectives, in which you are doubting veracity, timeframe, the intrusion of sinister, non-human forces, and sanity itself—well, it could be hard to follow what was happening sometimes. And I suppose what I’m about to say makes a certain sense… but the house doesn’t always communicate clearly. Here’s a passage from the house POV:

“But Anna Good couldn’t hear me. When she closed me up again it was only because she was too cold. Most nights she went with the moon, and when it was round she stayed in my biggest bedroom and wouldn’t answer the

thing that asked her to let it out

(let you out from where?

let me out from the small, the hot, the take me out of the fire i am ready i am hard like the stones you ate, bitter like those husks)”

I grew to like the sections from the house’s perspective; key information was relayed, albeit in this often ambiguous way. When Miri leaves for Cambridge at the close of Part One, I was worried about the loss of this POV. But this is when Ore’s perspective crystallizes, in Part Two, titled “And Curiouser.” And this is, in fact, when I feel the novel reached its peak pace and heightened interest. To this point, we have always doubted Miri’s thoughts, but this is when the story of her and her family seems to fade under the presence of bigger, dark forces. Just what/who is Ore? What is the nature of her relationship with Miri, and how does this new connection factor into the story of the Silver family? And who, exactly, is stabbing people at Cambridge? One concentric pattern emerges when Ore comes back to see Miri at the house.

“I took the stairs—Miranda had told me that it was only a flight up to hers and Eliot’s rooms. It seemed more like four. But in an unfamiliar house, when you’re uncertain where you’re going, every movement is prolonged by the sense that you’re going to try the wrong door or get in someone’s way.”

Through Ore’s perspective, we, too, recenter and reassess the situation with the Silver family in that old house. I wish I could say that everything becomes clear at this point, but White is for Witching is the type of book you’d probably do well to pick up right when you finish and give it a second go. It’s a moody, scintillating and, at times—challenging read. Oyeyemi’s novel fully fills my criteria for my summer reading project, because the Silver house-turned-bed-and-breakfast is a force to be reckoned with in this unique, startlingly written novel.

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Summer of Houses: The Haunting of Hill House

 

Reading a book that scores of people rave about always comes with a sense of anticipation. At least, it does for me, because I’m of the mind that scores of people usually aren’t entirely wrong. Even if I don’t end up raving about the book myself, I usually find some reasons for the mass appeal.

In the case of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, I find myself among the ravers. What Jackson does with characterization, with point of view, with mood—is simply masterful.

Four strangers arrive at an old, creepy house, one at a time. Three have been enlisted by Dr. Montague, an occult scholar, to help identify evidence of the supernatural in Hill House, which has a tragic past and has been the subject of rumors amongst the townspeople for decades. From the moment the house comes into view, it becomes a character with a sense of agency:

“This house, which seemed somehow to have formed itself, flying together into its own powerful pattern under the hands of its builders, fitting itself into its own construction of lines and angles, reared its great head back against the sky without concession to humanity.” 

Throughout the story, the house continues to have a life and intent of its own. Noises rise from nowhere; doors close on their own accord. Part of its disregard for humanity lies in the construction itself. Dimensions are wrong (“the walls seemed always in one direction a fraction longer than the eye could endure”) and the floorplan is like a maze. Once our four protagonists are inside, they have a hard time finding their way around in this “masterpiece of architectural misdirection,” as Dr. Montague calls it. They constantly feel disoriented. These descriptions of the house, along with the convoluted things the characters think and say, keep the reader feeling as they do: confused and claustrophobic. How Jackson achieves this consistent mood, the lack of equilibrium the reader experiences—I have no idea. 

As for characterization, each of the four instantly inspire our interest and curiosity. Did I mention the wit and dry humor in this novel? Here is how two characters are introduced:

“Luke Sanderson was a liar. He was also a thief. His aunt, who was the owner of Hill House, was fond of pointing out that her nephew had the best education, the best clothes, the best taste, and the worst companions of anyone she had ever known.”

And

“Eleanor Vance was thirty-two years old when she came to Hill House. The only person in the world she genuinely hated, now that her mother was dead, was her sister. She disliked her brother-in-law and her five-year-old niece, and she had no friends.” 

Eleanor becomes our guide; it is through her point of view that we experience the unusual events of Hill House. But from the beginning, the reader can’t be sure about Eleanor. She is socially awkward and emotional. Constantly in her own head, Eleanor reprimands herself, makes up stories and recites maxims and lines from songs to herself. Another dimension arises with the appearance of the fourth main character, Theodora. With their alliterative names and similar ages, the two young women are meant to be presented in comparison to each other. Unlike Eleanora, who saw the invitation to Hill House as an escape from her life, Theodora arrives after a rash decision, with little thought. Or does she? The women establish a banter from the start, and their uneasy friendship leaves us wondering—as we wonder about the house—which way is up.

The characters settle in and being to explore the house and follow the strict dining routine set up by the housekeeper, another eccentric and eerie character, Mrs. Dudley. And as expected, strange things begin to happen. We aren’t sure of anything, especially the characters themselves, and the book escalates to a thrilling conclusion that seems completely expected and yet, I hadn’t fully seen it coming.

So, I’d say the raves are justified. It’s a great read, a book I finished in a few sittings and enjoyed from the first page to the last. The Haunting of Hill House requires a second reading, and perhaps a third, because Jackson has woven such an alluring and layered web. It is the perfect start to my Summer of Houses reading project, as it features what is perhaps one of the most famous literary houses, one that certainly demands attention in the story: 

“Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more.”

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Summer Reading Project, 2021

 

Recently, I moved to a new home. Throughout my life, I have lived in close to two dozen dwellings; this latest is notable for being the first home purchased on my own. Houses matter quite a bit to some people, don’t they? Our sense of success and achievement, our identity, even a sense of inner peace—all can be influenced by the particular four walls we find ourselves within. To me, moving isn’t the dramatic affair it is for many. As I get older, the mechanics of it certainly have become more arduous but I’ve always enjoyed a new perspective, new surroundings. Having lived in so many homes, I find that some stand out and others fade from memory, and this isn’t always connected to the length of time spent in the place. Some homes have an unforgettable quality that plants them firmly in the consciousness, some are more beloved because of the events that occurred while living there, and some take on a dark hue for the same reason.

 

For some fiction writers, a story begins with setting, and houses often become a starting point. In creative writing, houses can be an important element, rising up to assert their presence alongside other, human characters. Perhaps you’re already thinking of a book that features a house as an ominous, reassuring, steadfast, or other type of entity. Here are some I won’t be reading this summer, either because I’ve already read them, or because I chose otherwise:

 

The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende

A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Room by Emma Donoghue

House of Sand and Fog by Andre Dubus III

Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Turner House by Angela Flournoy

The Past by Tessa Hadley

The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro

We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson

The Hundred-Year House by Rebecca Makkai

Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson

The Door by Magda Szabo

 

Yes, I know there are many more! These are some that were mentioned or occurred to me. Please do comment with your favorite books that feature a notable house. My first novel would certainly fall into this category, that story about a young couple sorting through the belongings inside an old, country house. And certainly my next novel, Starling (coming soon!), has much to say about homes and how they can comfort and confine.

 

What is my purpose for ruminating about houses in books? Faithful readers of this blog know that over the summer months, I become happily obsessed with a theme. Two years ago, I read books all about trees and last summer while we were shut down, I read books connected to France in some way. For 2021, my reading project will be Summer of Houses, books that feature a house as a key element. I have chosen four, which I’ll read in the order shown. As always, I welcome readers who would like to join in! My choices are:

 

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

It could be said that my entire summer theme started here, with this well-known book I’ve never read! You may know it from the 2018 Netflix series, but if you don’t know the novel, join me in reading this classic written by a force of nature, Shirley Jackson. Published in 1959, it’s the story of four protagonists who arrive at Hill House, seeking evidence of its haunted nature. They get that, and much more.

 

White is for Witching by Helen Oyeyemi

The house in question in this 2009 novel is Silver House, a family home now converted to a bed-and-breakfast in Dover, England. The house has always been occupied by generations of Silver women like Miranda, who begins to suffer strange ailments after the death of her mother. The book is hailed as “boldly original, terrifying, and elegant,” and its author is often compared to Shirley Jackson so it’s the perfect follow-up to my first choice.

 

Deathless by Catherynne M. Valente

This book is a less obvious choice for my theme, but one that jumped out to me when scouring lists. Marya Morevna watches from the window of her upper middle-class home in Saint Petersburg as suitors arrive for her sisters. But the suitors are first birds who transform before her eyes into men. This 2011 novel combines the Russian fairy tale, "The Death of Koschei the Deathless," with the events and aftermath of the Russian Revolution, in what the publisher calls “a collision of magical history and actual history, of revolution and mythology, of love and death.” I’m very excited about this read.

 

The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom

This memoir, winner of the 2019 National Book Award in Nonfiction, is ambitious in its scope: it spans one hundred years of the author’s family history and relationship to their home in New Orleans. The Yellow House magnifies a segment of the city unseen in tourist guides “to demonstrate how enduring drives of clan, pride, and familial love resist and defy erasure” through natural disasters, class inequality, and other challenges.

 

As always, I’ll be posting to report on my progress. In the meantime, enjoy your summer, your own reading choices for the warmer months, and the comfort of your current dwelling.

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Stories and Memories, Flashes and Forms

 

When I wrote my second novel, Bellflower, I was thinking about the end of a life, making sense of events and memories. I had seen loved ones lose their sense of time and place. At the end of my grandmother's life, she sometimes thought my mother was her sister; once, she asked about a place she hadn’t been for decades. I was contemplating that phrase—"her life flashed before her eyes"—and imagining the flashes of memory that might be playing on the screen of my grandmother’s mind during those last weeks of her life.

Bellflower is a “novel-in-moments,” the story of three families told in interconnecting flashes from their lives. The method is not unlike a novel-in-stories, books like Olive Kitteridge and The Things They Carried, and a novel that was one of the fundamentals for me as a youngish undergraduate: Winesburg, Ohio. 

If life is but a series of moments we’ll remember in flashes near our end, why shouldn’t memoir take a variety of inconsistent forms? Reader, it does! And for the past several years, I’ve been seeking out both novels and memoirs that experiment with methods of storytelling. Often, the line between genres is blurry, or filtered through a questionable lens. As memory itself is. There are novels that seem to be hardly veiled autobiography, memoirs so considered in their creative approach that they seem only partially true. Writers attempting to make some sense of their own life (or to distill and express some of what they’ve experienced into a fictional story) stretch, process, and create, and the myriad of forms for memoirs (and novels) continues to expand like the colorful feathers of a peacock’s tail.

A few such books made my list of Favorite Reads, 2020—things like Late Migrations: A Natural History of Love and Loss by Margaret Renkl, a memoir that imbues the natural world into Renkl’s mediations on life, love, and grief, and Department of Speculation by Jenny Offill, a novel that reads like a series of journal entries (basically, a memoir). But you can read about those at the link.

Here are some recent reads.

Constellations, by Sinead Gleason, is a study of the female body in general and specifically, it’s about Gleason’s body—illnesses, losses, and other physical changes and experiences. By telling the story of her corporeal self, she explores the intangibles of her "self."  The topics in this collection of essays  vary as much as the methods Gleason employs writing them. She writes about things like pregnancy and breastfeeding, leukemia and blood transfusions, hair and loss. Despite a lifetime of bodily trials, an appreciation for the body—with all of its imperfections—emerges.

Wife / Daughter / Self: A Memoir in Essays, by Beth Kephart, is bold where form is concerned, a read that feels very accurately like being dropped directly into someone’s consciousness. In sections that consider her relation to her husband and her widowed father, Kephart contemplates how these relationships have contributed to her life and development. Often, the result is unflinching. Uncomfortable questions are posed; self-doubt and questions remain as much as answers are found. There is little continuity in form from one section to the next and often, following the thread of Kephart’s thoughts requires a fair amount of effort. There are whole sections told in dialogue, lyrical passages brimming with visceral details, short, pointed revelations that sometimes feel apropos of nothing. As I said, it reads, perhaps, similar to how the mind functions: circuitry firing away, colors and light, flashes of a life.

 

The Suicide Index, by Joan Wickersham, is a memoir centered around the suicide committed by the author’s father. She recounts memories and attempts to make some sense of this incomprehensible loss. This searing look at a particular brand of grief is touching, contemplative, and strikes universal chords about love and loss.

 

Would you like more reading suggestions in this vein? Check out this recent Lithub post, "7 Autobiographies and Memoirs That Remind Us of the Messiness of Memory."

And watch this space for information about my summer reading project for 2021. Regular readers may recall that each summer, I choose a theme and build a reading list around it. Last summer, I read books tied together by association with France, and in 2019, I learned an awful lot about trees. Here's a hint about the focus of my reading for this summer, in the form of a quote from the first book I'll read:

"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are suppose, by some, to dream."

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Favorite Reads, 2020

 

What can we say about 2020 that hasn’t been already said (and continues to be said, as we fight our way through the dregs of it)? Well, how about…I read more books this year! There’s one positive outcome. Through this endless expanse of homebound months, I read 44 books, up from 30 last year. In my finished pile this year: 29 novels, 4 short story collections, 5 memoirs, 3 poetry collections, and one autobiography. Last year, I said I wanted to read more biographies this year, which I did not do, and more young adult fiction, which—in part, thanks to my teaching job—I did. It should be noted that one of the books I read this year was a graphic novel, and I expect to have that as a new category in 2021, considering the eagerly anticipated stack on my shelf right now. I also expect to continue reading memoirs in the coming year, particularly those that experiment with form. From time to time, I work on my own strange-form memoir. And I’m beginning to formulate my summer reading project, which will have something to do with place as character—specifically, with houses. If you favor a book in which a house is one of the main characters, kindly send me your recommendation.

So many of the books I read in 2020 struck a deeply personal chord with me. Perhaps my antennae were open and receiving to emotionality during this unprecedented year; perhaps those were the type of reads that caught my eye and attention. In the end, it doesn’t matter. So many books were a balm for me this year. Of my ten favorite reads, most had some sort of autobiography or memoir element, whether it be direct, poetic, auto-fictional, or something else. As always, I enjoy reads that inspire contemplations about genre although in the end, it doesn’t really matter. Feeling in writing is what breaks through, at least for me. 

In no particular order, my favorite reads of the year:

 

 Glen Rock Book of the Dead by Marion Winik (2010)

After a discussion about writing memoir, my friend and colleague (thanks, Jessica!) said I would love this slim memoir, and I did. In chronological order throughout short chapters, Winik reminisces about people she has known who died. Each section is titled (i.e. The Eye Doctor, The Bon Vivant, The Graduate); some are people quite close to her and some are known through others. All left an imprint on her and as she writes about these losses, much more is revealed about Winik herself, life in general, and the times we live in. A unique, surprising—and ultimately, touching read.

Department of Speculation by Jenny Offill (2014)

This novel reads like a series of journal entries, short observations from the point of view of a mother, a wife. When the marriage falters due to an infidelity, she retraces the events of their relationship, trying to find a way forward. She talks about the isolation and fulfillment of motherhood, and about striving for a creative life amidst life’s demands. She notices patterns and brings up things she’s read and learned, all in a concentrated effort to make sense of life, her life. I loved this book. Like the best poetry, I often wanted to take my eyes from the page after reading a section and lean back, enjoying the ripples of association. Another unique, contemplative and beautiful read.

The Carrying by Ada Limón

How does one speak about poetry, about a collection that speaks to so many deep truths? In this stunning book of poems, Limon shows the range of human experience, the burdens and joys we carry from beginning to end. Maybe it’s best if I share my favorite.

After the Fire

You ever think you could cry so hard

that there’d be nothing left in you, like

how the wind shakes a tree in a storm

until every part of it is run through with

wind? I live in the low parts now, most

days a little hazy with fever and waiting

for the water to stop shivering out of the

body. Funny thing about grief, its hold

is so bright and determined like a flame,

like something almost worth living for.

 

Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates (2015)

This National Book Award winner garnered many more accolades in the year it was released and it’s been on my shelf for some time. Written as a series of letters to his son that touch on the history of African Americans in this country, Coates describes his own life experiences within the framework of racial inequity. In describing what it’s been like for him to survive and make his way as a black man, he also he expresses his fears and hopes for his son. Toni Morrison called the book “required reading,” and CNN named it one of the most influential books of the decade. I only wish I had gotten to it sooner.

 

Late Migrations: A Natural History of Love and Loss by Margaret Renkl (2019)

This captivating, introspective book marries grief with hope, and reminds us that humans exist within the folds of nature. Renkl has experienced many of the life changes we all experience: marriage, children, aging parents and loss. In chapters that alternate between memories of family stories, episodes of love and grief, and observations of the plant and animal life outside her back door, a narrative emerges: we are all part of the world, good and bad, bloom and decay, happiness and pain. For me, reading this book was akin to having your hand held. A wise, comforting, and beautifully written book.

 

Based on a True Story (2017) by Delphine de Vigan

The only end-of-year entry from my Summer of France reading (I wrote more about it here), this international bestseller is a surprising and wholly entertaining read. It’s fiction (or is it?), a suspenseful read that follows the friendship between Delphine (the character), who is a writer, and the mysterious woman who reemerges from her past (or has she?). The suspense lies, in part, in figuring out which parts are true, might be true, couldn’t be true. It’s a compelling read with a dark undercurrent. As I said, a great diversion for the elements of the story, but it managed to be an exploration of literature too, and how we determine what is true/real and what is fiction/imagined. And if you’ve been paying attention to the books on my 2020 list so far, you will know that this is a current exploration of mine as well.

The Poet X by Elizabeth Acevedo (2018)

Another National Book Award winner (in this case, for Young People’s Literature), this novel-in-verse tells the story of Xiomara, an Afro-Latina teen who finds her voice through spoken word and poetry. Acevedo says she wrote the book to shed light on the experiences of girls who aren’t often the protagonists of novels. This coming-of-age story addresses religion, the first spark of sexuality, family pressures, and the powers of creative and self-expression. An engaging read, it’s beautifully crafted and packs much emotional resonance.

 

The Book of Boy by Catherine Gilbert Murdoch (2018)

This middle grade novel takes place in the Middle Ages. Boy is a child who has survived the plague but lives in a village desiccated by not only disease, but generations of war as well. When a mysterious pilgrim arrives and chooses Boy to accompany him on a quest to collect the relics of St. Peter and return them to Rome, the adventure of his life begins. It’s a quest story, but so much more, because Boy has much to learn on this pilgrimage—about true spirituality and morality, about the bonds that join people, and about his own true nature. I loved this book for its unique setting, and for the surprising layers in this lovely story for young people.

 

Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman (2018)

The main character of this novel, Eleanor Oliphant, is somewhat of a misfit. Her social skills are questionable, she often says the wrong thing, and she doesn’t spend time with people all that much. When she meets Raymond, a similarly eccentric type, their relationship is the catalyst for her journey back into life and love. This book is funny and smart and full of unseen twists, introducing a character you will remember for a long time. It may seem strange for me to compare this book to the last one on my list—The Book of Boy—but it strikes me that they are similar in many ways. Both are about the redemption available when two unlikely hearts meet.

 

Olive, Again by Elizabeth Strout (2019)

One of my most anticipated books in a long time, and now, one of my favorite reads of the year. Strout picks up the story of Olive Kitteridge, the character from her 2008 Pulitzer-Prize-winning novel of the same name. When you love a book as much as I loved the first, you worry about a sequel living up to your expectations. In this case, I was not disappointed. Strout has a way of imbuing life’s ordinary events with gravitas—because, of course, it is exactly life’s most ordinary events that have the most impact. Like Eleanor Oliphant, Olive is a character who is as large as life, and Strout surrounds her with a cast who reveal themselves to be as people are: confounding and endlessly complicated but also, opportunities for warm connection.

Looking back over my list of the year, I would say that what all of these books—whether novel, memoir, or poetry—have in common are that they somehow, in some way, highlight the importance and redemption of human connection. Isn’t that what the best stories are about? I hope your year of reading sustained you somewhat through the challenges 2020 threw our way. As always, I’d love to hear about your favorite reads of the year!

 

 

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Summer of France: Based on a True Story

 

Rounding out my Summer of France is Delphine de Vigan’s “metafictional thriller,” Based on a True Story. This French bestseller is the story of “a friendship gone terrifyingly toxic.” There was a film adaptation in 2017, directed by Roman Polanski, which was not well-reviewed. I may watch it anyway.

In the novel, a writer (also named Delphine) is finishing up the book events related to her most recent publication, an autobiographical novel which enjoyed great success. She’s exhausted and lacking inspiration for her next book. She begins to receive unpleasant letters accusing of her of being opportunistic and untruthful about some facts from her childhood. Of course, her novel was just that—a novel, and Delphine (the author in this novel) grows tired of always fielding questions about whether the fictional events and people she wrote about have solid basis in “reality.”

Around this same time, she meets L., a mysterious person from her past (or is she?)—someone from her school days who has read everything Delphine has written, and who begins to wiggle her way into all aspects of Delphine’s life. She’s Delphine’s biggest fan and her most ardent critic. She tries to show Delphine the way out of her writing slump. But is it the right way?

If this setup rings vaguely familiar, you may be recalling Stephen King’s Misery and in fact, de Vigan uses quotes from King’s novels at the beginning of each of the book’s three sections. And the similarities are there; L. is a fan in the way Annie Wilkes was a fan: both have particular expectations for future work by their favorite authors, both walk a tightrope between sanity and insanity. But where King’s novel descends fairly rapidly into horror, Based on a True Story treads more cerebral ground. And I loved it for that.

This is a page-turner for writers. As their relationship evolves, L. and Delphine have many conversations about fiction and the process of creating it. When we use autobiography, what are the difficulties and obligations? Is there anything that could truly be called fiction? What do we owe readers? Ourselves? I may have written about this very topic myself, here. The women attend films together, they discuss other books they’ve read, they talk about Barthes—all the while contemplating Delphine’s next novel.

(L.) “’Yes, you talked about a trajectory that passed through different points and said it would be hard to go back to fiction now. I read your last book with that in mind, the idea it had within it another, more important, more dangerous one.’

(Delphine) I was starting to feel hot.

I explained to L. that I’d been wrong. I’d done that interview in early August, several weeks before the book came out. I’d had no idea what would happen, what the book would stir up. I thought I’d foreseen its consequences, but I was wide of the mark. I didn’t have broad enough shoulders for it. I wasn’t up to it—it was as simple as that. That was why I now wanted to go back to fiction, to tell a story, invest in characters, owe no debt to reality.”

As the novel proceeds, readers are left to piece together Delphine’s reality (and L.’s). There are insinuations of childhood trauma and psychiatric difficulties. There’s a divorce and children leaving for college. And of course, there is Delphine’s oeuvre (fittingly enough, a French word for work) and her current inability to produce new writing and how that affects and depletes a writer.

Meanwhile, L. becomes more and more suspect—as a friend to Delphine, as a character—as she becomes more important to Delphine. She expands into Delphine’s life, taking up space and as a reader, we aren’t sure how to read her. Or Delphine, for that matter.

(Delphine) “If you don’t grasp the little grain of madness in someone, you cannot love them. If you don’t grasp their point of craziness, you miss out. Someone’s point of craziness is the source of their charm.

I immediately thought of L.

I thought of L., who had perceived my point of craziness, and vice versa.

Perhaps that is what any encounter is, whether lovers or friends: two forms of craziness that recognize and captivate each other."

So, yes, this novel has many mysteries but mostly, it’s a deep exploration of the act of creating fiction. How it isolates us while we strive for connection, how we violate ourselves in the quest for understanding, how we come out the other side as if emerging from a fever dream. It’s a novel I’d be inclined to read again because at the end, I felt I was just beginning to understand.

“But you know, I’m not sure that the real is enough. The real, insofar as it exists at all, for it to be possible to recreate it, the real, as you put it, needs to be incarnated, transformed, interpreted. Without perspective or a viewpoint, at best, it’s boring as hell, and at worst it’s completely anxiety-producing. And that work, whatever the raw material, is always a form of fiction.”

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Summer of France: Bonjour Tristesse

From the opening pages of this slim novel, the voice of its young narrator takes center stage. It’s an assured voice, with poetic strains—observant, pensive, strangely aloof. When the book was published in 1954, the author, Françoise Sagan, was only eighteen, particularly poised to write from the perspective of her 17-year-old protagonist, Cécile. The setting: the French Riviera, where Cécile and her playboy father are vacationing with his mistress du jour, Elsa. Cécile has been in her father’s full-time care for two years, after leaving convent school; they live a life of parties and indulgences. Her mother died when she was quite young. Of her father, she says:

“He was a frivolous man, clever at business, always curious, quickly bored, and very attractive to women. It was easy for me to love him, for he was kind, generous, gay and fond of me. I cannot imagine a better or a more amusing companion.”

As for Elsa, she’s agreeable as well, and the three are enjoying a harmonious vacation until Cécile’s father receives notice that another guest will be arriving—Anne Larson, an old friend of her mother’s and a serious, practical woman who has taken Cécile under her wing at times. Cécile points out to her father the disharmony this arrangement would possibly create:

“She’s too intelligent and has too much self-respect. And what about Elsa? Have you thought of her? Can you imagine what Elsa and Anne can talk about? I can’t!”…

He laughed softly and rubbed the back of my neck. I turned to look at him. His dark eyes gleamed; funny little wrinkles marked their edges; his mouth was turned up slightly. He looked like a faun. I laughed with him as I always did when he created complications for himself.”

Cécile begins to fear that Anne will wreck the carefree lifestyle she’s been living with her father and begins to plot against the older woman. This is the setup for the novel—a beautiful, Mediterranean setting, a triangle (or quadrangle) of sorts emerging. I don’t want to say too much more about the plot because if you are looking for a quick, summer read that will distract you from the real world and transport you despite a lack of actual, physical travel, this is your book. Oh, I almost forgot. Cécile has a love interest as well:

“On the sixth day I saw Cyril for the first time. He was hugging the coast in a small sailboat and capsized in front of our cove. I had a wonderful time helping him to rescue his things, during which he told me his name, that he was studying law, and was spending his vacation with his mother in a neighboring villa. He had a typically Latin face—very dark and very frank.”

And to give you more ideas about 17-year-old Cécile:

“Usually I avoided college students, whom I considered brutal, wrapped up in themselves, particularly in their youth, in which they found material for drama, or an excuse for their own boredom. I did not care for young people; I much preferred my father’s friends, men of forty, who spoke to me courteously and tenderly—treated me with the gentleness of a father—or a lover.”

Because, you see, Françoise Sagan caused quite a scandal with the publication of this book, which quickly became a bestseller. Cécile runs with adults and begins an affair with Cyril. And despite her detached voice and steady gaze (and Anne’s determined interference), we begin to see the chinks in Cécile’s armour. This is no old-fashioned novel of manners; matters of sexuality and love are addressed frankly and often, strangely dispassionately, through Cécile's lens. She's a character I won’t forget for a long time.

I finished the novel in two sittings and immediately watched the film version, which came out in 1958 and starred the perfectly cast Jean Seberg as Cécile and Deborah Kerr looking as beautiful as she ever was as Anne. David Niven is Cécile's dandy father. You know, the film was okay, but it took the subtleties of the novel and made them painfully overt, through voice-overs, dialogue and song. There was lots of singing and music, in fact. It worked well from time to time, but it didn’t really feel like the vibe of the novel, at least to me. I think in hindsight, I would have rather given myself more time to digest and enjoy the book before watching this adaptation. I recommend Bonjour Tristesse, the novel, very highly. It was an entertaining, surprising and nuanced read, a breathe of fresh air in my summer reading.

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