Summer of France: Heroes and Tragedy

Here’s a thing that happens to me when I read historical fiction. If the characters are well-written, I get invested, maybe even develop feelings. Because really, in general, character is my jam when it comes to fiction. So I’ll be reading along, forgetting that maybe the book is set during a tumultuous or even tragic time, and hoping for a good outcome for all involved. And when bad things start to happen to the characters, I’m always shocked and somewhat disappointed, even though—Hello! It’s the French Revolution, and I should have seen it coming.

I won’t be spoiling things too much, I think, if I tell you that some of the revolutionaries in A Place of Greater Safety don’t make it out alive. Maybe you are more astute and guessed this already. But I was taken by surprise at times, and was disappointed to say goodbye to several of the characters, whether it was because the pages ran out or because they couldn’t outrun a noose or guillotine. I’ll never tell. You’ll have to read this sprawling but controlled epic of a novel that speeds along like a train, car after car; even if you don’t see clearly into each one, it’s a mesmerizing effect and you can’t look away. Mantel’s writing is witty, crackling, and always smart, and what she’s accomplished here with such a wide range of characters and complicated subject is awe-inspiring. I gave a flavor of the prose and an overview last week: Summer of France: Reading Update 1.

If you recall from my first post, this historical fiction novel highlights three main characters: Maximilien Robispierre, George-Jacques Danton, and Camille Desmoulins. For me, another character was also a standout: Lucile Desmoulins. Clever and brave, she determined to marry Camille Desmoulins as a girl and was a unique player among the groups of revolutionaries. The story of their courtship and partnership was intriguing, and after I finished the novel, I looked them up in the real world. Google, that is.

Camille was originally an admirer of Lucile’s mother. Mantel represents their relationship as fairly long and chaste, until a fateful kiss witnessed by Lucile and her sister. Ten years Camille’s junior, Lucile falls in love with him during his many visits with her mother. Later, when he proposes to Lucile (Mantel’s book suggests in retaliation for her mother’s refusal), Lucile would like to accept but her father won’t allow it because he thinks Camille’s profession in journalism is an unreliable one. Eventually, he relents, and the couple marries in 1790. Robespierre was one of the witnesses. Their only child, Horace Camille, is born in 1792.

After Horace is orphaned (I won’t spoil how!), he is raised by Lucile’s mother and sister. Later, he was pensioned by the French government and migrated to Haiti to set up a coffee trading business. He and his wife Zoe Villefranche had four children: Adolphe, who died young, Marie-Therese-Camille, Lucile, and Horace-Camille. The elder Horace died from fever, aged 33 years old, on June 29, 1825; some sources list his date of death as the same day his son, Horace-Camille, was born. Which would be quite a coincidence and another particular tragedy. June 29th! Also my first-born son's birthday, but that's beside the point.

The painting of the original family was done in 1792 by Jacques-Louis David. Next post: the Paris poems.

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Summer of France, Reading Update 1

Hilary Mantel’s historical novel, A Place of Greater Safety, takes place during the French Revolution, and it tells the sweeping story through the close perspective of three main characters: George-Jacques Danton, a driven, charismatic idealist whose face was famously scarred, Maximilien Robespierre, a controlled and formidable visionary, and Camille Desmoulins, the creative and beloved writer of pamphlets who battles a stutter. But there are many, many other characters. Hundreds of characters, in fact, who are listed in the six-page Cast of Characters at the beginning of the book. And the effect of the novel reminded me very much of the way we take in information today, in 2020, because it pivots between public events and private moments, between grand gestures and bloody actions, and the parlor conversations that take place simultaneously. Characters come in and out of focus; events rush by and much like a play, actors enter and exit the stage at what is sometimes a breathtaking pace. My reading strategy from the beginning has been to cling to those three main characters, and to try not to worry too much about keeping everyone else straight.

Mantel traces each of the main characters—all young lawyers—from their childhoods in rural areas through their migrations to Paris. The writing is always engaging, and so, for me, there’s a weird experience of not always knowing exactly what’s going on but being thorough entertained anyway. The setting: 1780s France, when unpopular taxes, a decline in harvests, and monarchical abuses of power have caused a civil unrest fueled, also, by watching the revolution across the Atlantic in America. The instigating circumstances, aims and events of the growing French Revolution are brought to life through the characters and their everyday interactions:

The voters didn’t go home; they stood in groups outside the Cordeliers’ church, gossiping and making predictions. Fabre didn’t have a vote because he didn’t pay enough taxes; the fact was making him spiteful. “Why couldn’t we have the same franchise as the provinces?” he demanded. “I’ll tell you what it is, they regard Paris as a dangerous city, they’re afraid of what would happen if we all had votes.” He engaged in seditious conversation with the truculent Marquis de Saint-Huruge. Louise Robert closed the shop and came out on Francois’s arm, wearing rouge and a frock left over from better days.

“Think what would happen if women had votes,” she said. She looked up at d’Anton. “Maitre d’Anton believes women have a lot to contribute to political life, don’t you?”

“I do not,” he said mildly.

And:

M Reveillon remarked that the price of bread was too high. There was a murmur of agreement and a little sycophantic applause: as if the observation were original. If the price of bread were to come down, M. Reveillon said, employers could cut wages; this would lead to a reduction in the price of manufactured articles. Otherwise, M. Reveillon said, where would it all end? Prices up, wages up, prices up, wages up…

And with these glimpses around the city, we understand the situation, politically and economically, and we feel the dissatisfaction amongst the citizenry. None of it was completely unfamiliar, I must say: the disenfranchising of a group of voters, the disparity between rich and poor, the frustration and lack of agency leaving lower classes to feel they have to fight for their most basic needs. When Robespierre begins to address the crowd, there’s a feeling of a storm being unleashed:

Those few steps seemed like a field, and he was walking uphill in the mud, shouting “No, no,” his voice carried off by the wind. His heart seemed to have jumped up and hardened into his throat, the exact size of the piece of black bread the archbishop held in his hand. He turned, saw below him hundreds of white, blank, upturned faces, and heard his voice in the sudden hush, blistering and coherent:

“Let them sell their carriages, and give the money to the poor.”

The characterizations are vivid and creatively drawn, from Camille’s bisexuality and playful spirit, to the famous figure of Jean-Paul Marat represented mostly through word-of-mouth, to the depiction of the book's surprising heroine, Camille’s wife, Lucile, whom he has come to marry after an affair with her mother sputters out. Events are often rendered in surprising ways; it’s through Lucile that we get our first glimpse of the Storming of the Bastille:

“All this was planned,” she said. “I know there are reinforcements, but they have to cross the river.” She walked to the window. “Look. No moon tonight. How long will it take them to cross in the dark, with their commanders falling out amongst themselves? They only know how to fight on battlefields, they don’t know how to fight in the streets. By tomorrow morning—if they can be held now at the Place Louis XV—the troops will be cleared out of the city center. And the Paris Electors will have their militia on the streets; they can ask for arms from City Hall. There are guns at the Invalides, forty thousand muskets—”

“Battlefield?” Claud said. “Reinforcements? How to you know all this? Where did you learn it?”

“Where do you suppose?” she said coolly.

“Electors? Militia? Muskets? Do you happen to know,” he asked, with hysterical sarcasm, “where they will get the powder and shot?”

“Oh yes,” Lucile said. “At the Bastille.”

These moments of parlor discussion are punctuated, often startlingly, with images of the bloody acts that took place. The overall effect of Mantel’s methods is that you’re left with the feeling that reading her novel mimics what it must have felt like to live through these events—things escalating at a rapid pace from various directions, players leaping into view, the whole thing moving forward with a force of its own.

At the same time, Foulon’s son-in-law Berthier, the Intendant of Paris, had been arrested in Compiegne and conveyed, glassy-eyed with terror, to City Hall. He was bundled inside, through a crowd that peppered him with crusts of sour black bread. Shortly afterwards he was bundled out again, on his way to the Abbaye prison; shortly after that, he was bundled to his death—strangled perhaps, or finished with a musketball, for who knew the moment? And perhaps he was not dead either when a sword began to hack at his neck.

Again, Mantel's retelling mimicking the revolution itself: cause and effect are not always clear, but what is clear is that things are moving forward, the movement is growing, gaining strength and becoming much, much more serious. Reading this during the recent protests in our country certainly made some aspects more relatable. How can you break down the exact order of events for something like that? How can you say, for certain, where the first spark appeared?

I shared several passages from the book, because I think the style of writing speaks for itself in ways I can’t describe. As I said, it’s a completely engaging read, despite its difficulty. I’m reading it much more quickly than I thought I would; I’m over the half-way through the 748 pages. And I’ve started to poke around in the book of Paris poems, too, and will share something from that soon.  

“The secret of freedom lies in educating people, whereas the secret of tyranny is in keeping them ignorant.” Maximilien Robespierre.

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Summer Reading Project, 2020

(photo credit: quarantine paint-by-number, Satchel White, Mary White)

Let’s face it. We’ve all been locked down and dreaming of travel. Or is it just me? I keep asking people where they would go if they could go anywhere, and I get all sorts of answers from the mundane—the nail salon!—to the exotic—Mozambique! Okay, no one actually said Mozambique, but I would like to go there.

Faithful followers of this blog know I like to choose a summer reading project based on some theme. Last year, I read books that had something to say about trees; in 2018, I read only books by Michael Chabon. I often use this time to pick up a big book I haven’t had the gumption to attempt during the other months of the year.

And so, this year’s summer reading project was sparked when a friend loaned me a big book written by an author we both like; certainly a sense of wanderlust only served to cement the direction of my reading aims. Without further ado, this year’s summer reading project will include books on the theme of…FRANCE. Books set in France, inspired by France, or simply books by a French author.

That big, loaned book is Hilary Mantel’s A Place of Greater Safety. At 748 pages, it is my greatest challenge and the novel I'll start with. A work of historical fiction originally published in 1992, it involves the events of the French Revolution, as told through the lives of three provincials: Georges Danton, Camille Desmoulins, and Maximilien Robespierre. According to The Seattle Times, a work of “brilliant, edgy historical fiction that captures the whiplash flux of the French Revolution.” Can’t wait. 

Sidenote: Some other summer, I read Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies, the first two novels in Mantel’s trilogy about Thomas Cromwell. With the third, The Mirror & The Light, recently released, this would be a stellar summer project, if you’re looking for one yourself.

Anticipating that I may need breaks now and then from Mantel’s vigorous prose, I chose this lovely Everyman’s Library series from Knopf: Poems from Paris. I will probably read this alongside the historical novel, to accentuate the French mood and setting.

Next is a classic in French literature, published originally in 1954 but still widely read today. Bonjour Tristesse (translation: Hello Sadness) was an overnight sensation written by an 18-year-old author, Francoise Sagan. It’s the story of a precocious teenager who spends her summer in a villa on the French Riviera. Talk about feeding the wanderlust. This novel is a coming-of-age story often categorized as young adult for modern audiences.

Lastly, I chose the psychological thriller, Based on A True Story by Delphine De Vigan. Published in 2017, this international hit sold tons of copies, won awards, and is based on a true story “about a friendship gone terrifyingly toxic and the nature of reality.” This is actually a fairly lengthy read at 384 pages and will round out my summer of French-themed reading.

Total pages: 1,511. Probably overzealous, but I'll give it my best shot. Drop me a note if you'd like to read along at any point. I'll post periodic updates here on my progress.

 

À vaillant coeur rien d’impossible. -Jacques Cœur

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Adventures in Memoir

A couple of weeks ago, I finished the first draft of a YA book I didn’t intend to write and so, it comes as no surprise to me that the next project vying for (and currently winning) my attention might be some sort of memoir, another unexpected project. One of the things people often tell us when they find out we’re writers is that they, too, have an idea for a book. Frequently, this idea involves telling—in full or part—the story of their lives. Why? Because this life—its successes and failures, joys and heartaches, fateful events and surprises—is all we have, really. And when things happen to us, they seem full of meaning because they are, right? Or at least, isn’t that why we’re alive, to find meaning in the things that happen to us?

Reader, I have no answers! Only questions.

• I’ve been thinking about the roles we play in life, and how they change from season to season, year to year. I’ve been thinking about the different phases that sometimes, go along with these roles. Sometimes, not.
• I’ve been thinking about how these chapters of life line up, shoulder to shoulder, hyper-aware of each other.
• I’ve been thinking about family and how it’s defined by intent, sentiment, and presence. And the strongest of these is presence (literal and imagined), which proves the other two.
• Related: I’ve been thinking about DNA, the imprints in our very machinery.
• I’ve been thinking about reportage as a way to honor yourself (myself!).
• And...I’m interested in finding ways memories can be translated into words. How can we relay our experiences in a form that feels like life?

Lately, I’ve been reading more in the memoir lane: traditional memoirs and other books that don’t look and sound like traditional memoir, and yet... I share some of them with you here.

The Glen Rock Book of the Dead by Marion Wink (2008)

Shoutout to Prof. Danger for pointing me towards this book. Basically, Wink writes short pieces about people she knew who died; in these snapshots, an autobiography of sorts emerges. I keep thinking about this book, and thinking about it…

The Cost of Living: A Working Autobiography by Deborah Levy (2018)

The author writes about her life, post-divorce, touching on universal themes relevant to all women: the conflict between nurturing your creative self and others, feminism's goals and failures, the death of parents. From the Guardian review: “Instead, what Levy gives us is an account of her internal world, a shape-shifting space where past and present coexist, where buildings are not so much bricks and mortar as extended metaphors and where identity is in a radical flux of unraveling and remaking.” Yep, this book hit close to home in topic and in method, was probably the turning point from which I had no choice about writing something memoir-ish.

How to Write an Autobiographical Novel by Alexander Chee (2018)

I wrote about these powerful essays in my Favorite Reads of 2019 post.

I Am, I Am, I Am: Seventeen Brushes with Death by Maggie O’Farrell (2018)

The author recalls seventeen occasions in her life that brought her near death. I found some of these quite poignant, others less so. I’m not sure the book had the cohesiveness I would have liked, but the form and intent were interesting.

Inheritance by Dani Shapiro (2019)

One of the traditional memoirs I’ve read recently. Shapiro was in her mid-fifties when her Ancestry.com DNA test pointed out a startling truth about her family. I also heard the author speak about the experience, and her story is personal and moving but also raises all sorts of ethical questions for our times.

All You Can Ever Know by Nicole Chung (2018)

Another story of biological family lost and found. When Chung was pregnant with her first child, she began a search for her Korean birth parents. This memoir explores ideas of family, identity and culture.

In the works for 2020 reading:

And more:

In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado (2019)

Constellations: Reflections from Life by Sinead Gleeson (2020)

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

I’d love to hear your ideas for memoirs, especially the non-traditional sort. By all means, point me in the right direction as I begin this journey.

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Favorite Reads, 2019

I was debating whether or not to do my usual write-up this year. It didn't feel like I read that much and I wasn't sure I had many five-star experiences, as far as books go. But it turns out that in 2019, I finished 30 books, up one from last year’s count of 29. Perhaps this range is a new normal. I was so busy with other things: editing, writing (short stories, the bulk of that pesky YA I’ve been dancing around for years, and the beginnings of what looks to be some sort of memoir), and teaching, both workshops and my first experience in a university classroom. So I’m pleased with this number. 

My reading list for 2019 is the most varied I can remember in terms of genre. Of the 30, only 18 were novels. I read one short story collection (a crime!) and 11 books that fall into the “Other” column. Of these: two essay collections, two memoirs, one grammar guide and three other books that address the writing craft and/or life in some way. I read one book of "tree portraits"—a botanical guide of sorts, one collection of the extra bits an author has written as introductions to other books, and one scientific-leaning book about the hidden life of the tree world.

Readers of this blog know that the bulk of my summer was consumed with thoughts and readings about trees, so I won’t revisit that here. A couple of those books made their way onto my list, however, which I will begin here. My eight favorite reads of the year, in no particular order, are:

Meetings with Remarkable Trees by Thomas Pakenham (1997)

This is that book of tree portraits, one of the most unique books I’ve ever read, one that surprised me, educated me and surprisingly, touched me. Read my original post here.

The Overstory by Richard Powers (2018)

This Pulitzer-Prize-winning novel—also from my Summer of Tree Books—is an wholly original, encompassing read with a unique form and layer upon layer of meaning. I wrote several posts while reading it; here are my first impressions, which were gushing.

Ordinary Grace by William Kent Krueger (2013)

This is a literary mystery about several deaths over the summer of 1961 in a small, Minnesota town. But it’s also a poignant, coming-of-age tale and an exploration of memory and how tragedies can be reconciled with notions about God’s grace. I suppose if I had to choose just one book from my list as a recommendation, it would be this one, for its beautiful writing and deeply felt wisdoms.

How to Write an Autobiographical Novel by Alexander Chee (2018) 

These essays deal with what’s promised in the title—considerations of autobiography in writing—and other topics about the craft of writing, but they encompass much more too: reading, identity, politics, family, culture, and one man’s experiences in and out of making art.

The Friend by Sigrid Nunez (2018)

From the publisher: “A moving story of love, friendship, grief, healing, and the magical bond between a woman and her dog.” And I would argue that if you start this book hoping for a This Dog’s Life vibe, you will be disappointed. It’s definitely about all of those things, but the dog is almost beside the point. As a writer, this is one of those novels that blows open a world of possibility. As a human, it reached me in ways I couldn't have anticipated. This novel sneaks up on you and doesn’t let go for a long time. Well deserving of all the praise, in my opinion.

Dreyer’s English by Benjamin Dreyer (2019)

Yes, a guide to grammar was one of my favorite books of the year. This book is funny and entertaining and satisfying on so many levels to those of us who care about such things. If you don’t, then maybe you wouldn’t like it. But I can’t really imagine anyone not liking it.

Sudden Fiction: American Short-Short Stories by Robert Shapard and James Thomas (Editors) (1983)

Considered by many to be the harbinger of the rise of flash fiction in the U.S. (although, certainly, flash has existed for centuries), this collection edged its way onto my list. Not every story is a five-star read, but enough of them are to justify recommending it here. So many great pieces that hold up these many years later. 

Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jesmyn Ward (2017)

The story of a Mississippi family told in alternating perspectives, including a ghost’s. This beautifully written novel bridges past and present, the living and those who have passed, and illuminates the complicated bonds of family and unpleasant truths about America’s history. This was my last read of the year and an inspiring springboard into 2020.

What are my reading goals for the new year? Here are the books calling to me from my to-read pile, as of right now. In the coming year, I plan to read more YA and possibly, a biography or two. I’d like to continue seeking out novels and memoirs that experiment with form. And for my summer reading project, I might just build a French theme around that Hilary Mantel book.

As always, I’d love to hear about your very favorite reads of the year, or any recommendations you may have. Happy reading in the new decade!

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