Yates, Richard. Revolutionary Road. Vintage, Toronto, 2008. 355 pp.
Wow.
I know this is not a recent book — it was published in 1961 — but I wanted to read it before seeing the movie and my only regret is not having read this book before.
Though published in 1961, at the peak of suburbia and the American Dream, Yates’s Revolutionary Road is still as relevant as ever.
When Frank Wheeler first meets April, he lives the bohemian life in New York trying to find himself and because they both believe he’ll achieve great things she gives him all the time in the world to think about what he wants to do in his life, about what will make him truly happy. But when April becomes pregnant and Frank convinces her to keep the baby (though admittedly only because he was offended she would make that kind of decision without him), he finds himself applying for a job at the company where his father worked his whole life, though he applies in the most ironic kind of way. He never wanted to work there, the place had depressed him when he had visited it as a child, but now, because he needed to support his new family for a few years until he figures out what he really wants to do, he takes the job as a joke.
But as time goes by, the joke runs thin and Frank find himself with two kids — one girl, one boy — a white house in the suburbs, a daily commute to New York and regular drinks with “friend” (I don’t remember the last time everybody drank so much in a book it made me feel kind of dry, as though I had to go make myself a rhum and coke or something). The fights between Frank and April get worse until — after a particularly violent fight — April decides that they need to pack up and go to Paris to start fresh. She’ll find secretarial work there, she says, and he’ll have all the time in the world to think.
This is the first book of Richard Yates I read and I’m eager to read more. He is a very deft writer who tells you everything you need to know about these characters (especially Frank) without telling you anything at all. This book is a perfect example of showing readers what’s going on instead of telling them. We feel as though we’re under each character’s skin.
This is a book I highly recommend.
You’ll like this book if: you don’t mind existential angst. Best place to read this book: on a comfy couch with a drink in hand.
When I first heard that Byatt’s latest book The Children’s Book was inspired by the fact that many children born of Victorian children’s literature writers end up being somewhat dysfunctional, I rejoiced. Sounds great! I thought. Sounds interesting! To illustrate her point, Byatt then promptly gave a few examples. Among these examples were:
Kenneth Graham who wrote The Wind in the Willows. His son, whom he called Mouse, committed suicide on a railway track.
J. M. Barrie who wrote Peter Pan for the Llewelyn Davies boys. We’ve all seen the movie, but what we didn’t see was that Peter eventually threw himself under a train because he couldn’t bare to be associated with the fictional character.
Rudyard Kipling’s eighteen year old son was sent off to be butchered in WWI because of his father’s ideals.
The Children’s Book is indeed very interesting. It follows the lived of three families: The Wellwoods whose matriarch, Olive, is a well-known children’s literature author, the Caines whose widower father takes care of the South Kensington Museum (now the Victoria and Albert Museum) and the Fludds whose patriarch, a potter, is one of those weird bipolar artists who easily becomes angry and whom everybody fears.
The book opens with Julian Cain and Tom Wellwood discovering Philip Warren (who will eventually become Fludd’s apprentice) who lives in the basement of the South Kensington Museum, thereby creating a link between the three families. A link that will grow as the book progresses and the children grow up.
Interspaced with stories by Olive Wellwood, the novel represents the Victorian era in a way we’re not used to seeing. Though the Victoria era is mostly associated with grim people and dark, suffocating dresses, The Children’s Book offers a world of free love, of letting children run wild and of sunbathing naked. A world where ideals are high and dreams are important. This world, which is described in detail as the children grow up, is fascinating and three-dimensional. Even though this might sound cliché, you feel as though you’re there.
The feeling is not sustained, however. As the novel progresses and the children grow up, Byatt increasingly skims over their story to report important historical event of the time. While the beginning of the novel is filled with details and daily accounts of the characters’ lives, the end is a compilation of historical facts that have little to do with the three families on a personal level. By the time they’re adults, the children become a list of actions they take when faced with the historical world and readers don’t feel attached to them anymore. Byatt’s use of these historical facts illustrate how the personal ideals of that generation became an impersonal system that had nothing to do with them anymore, a system that culminated in WWI.
Form meets subject matter brilliantly, but readers can’t help but wish they were back in the garden where the Wellwoods used to hold their Midsummer’s Eve party.
Though it is no longer a very recent book, Boyden’s Three Day Road remains one of my favourite books in recent Canadian literature.
Three Day Road is the story of Elijah Wiskeyjack and Xavier Bird, two Crees from Northern Ontario who join the army during the first World War. Because of the tracking and hunting skills they developed while growing up in the bush, they soon become excellent snipers which wins them the respect of their fellow soldiers. A respect they wouldn’t normally have, being native. A respect they lose after the war, as soon as they set foot on Canadian land once more.
Told from the perspective of Xavier after he’s returned home sick and wounded and of Niska, Xavier’s aunt, as she tends Xavier’s wound, Three Day Road intertwines two story lines making a beautiful and evocative tapestry. While Xavier recalls the war and his relationship with Elijah — a relationship so tightly knit that Xavier’s perspective sometimes shifts to become Elijah’s — Niska recalls life in the bush.
Some stories are told many times over, but this story is new. This story is fresh and it shows us a side of Canada we may have never seen before. This story heals.
You’ll like this book if: you like really good books. Best place to read this book: Up north, in a canoe.
de/by Pablo Neruda
100 Sonetos de Amor (La Centaine d’amour, 100 Love Sonnets)
De las estrellas que admiré, mojadas
por ríos y rocíos diferentes,
yo no escogí sino la que yo amaba
y desde entonces duermo con la noche.
De la ola, una ola y otra ola,
verde mar, verde frío, rama verde,
yo no escogí sino una sola ola:
la ola indivisible de tu cuerpo.
Todas las gotas, todas las raíces,
todos los hilos de la luz vinieron,
me vinieron a ver tarde o temprano.
Yo quise para mí tu cabellera.
Y de todos los dones de mi patria
sólo escogí tu corazón salvaje.
(traduit par Jean Marcenac et André Bonhomme)
Parmi les étoiles admirées, mouillées
Par des fleuves différents et par la rosée,
J’ai seulement choisi l’étoile que j’aimais
et depuis ce temps-là je dors avec la nuit.
Parmi les vagues, une vague, une autre vague,
vague de verte mer, branche verte, froid vert,
j’ai seulement choisi l’unique et seule vague
et c’est la vague indivisible de ton corps.
Vers moi toutes les gouttes toutes les racines
et tous les fils de la lumière sont venus.
Je n’ai voulu que ta chevelure pour moi.
Et de toutes les offrandes de la patrie
Je n’ai choisi que celle de ton coeur sage.
(translated by ??)
Of all the stars I admired, drenched
in various rivers and mists,
I chose only the one I love.
Since then I sleep with the night.
Of all the waves, one wave and another wave,
green sea, green chill, branchings of green,
I chose only the one wave,
the indivisible wave of your body.
All the waterdrops, all the roots,
all the threads of light gathered to me here;
they came to me sooner or later.
I wanted your hair, all for myself.
From all the graces my homeland offered
I chose only your savage heart.
Quand un roman anglais est aussi court, on le nomme « novella », mais en français, il n’y a pas de terme équivalent pour ces petites vites de la littérature. Le dictionnaire dit simplement « roman court ». Comme c’est ennuyeux! Dans ce blogue, je vais donc nommer ces petits livres, livre que l’on peut lire en deux voyages en métro tout au plus, des « romanelles » (romanette est déjà pris).
Je ne connaissais pas Philippe Claudel jusqu’à la semaine dernière où une collègue de travail m’a prêté ces deux romanelles : Le Café de l’Excelsior et La petite fille de Monsieur Lihn. Héritier évident d’écrivains tels que Guy de Maupassant et Edgar Allan Poe, Claudel construit son histoire méticuleusement pour, à la toute fin, en retirer une brique, une seule, ce qui fait tomber toute l’histoire, laissant ainsi le lecteur avec des questions et un envie de relire le livre pour trouver les indices menant à ladite brique. Je me demande par contre si Claudel utilise cette approche pour tous ces livres et si un lecteur ne s’en lasserait pas assez vite.
Ce qui m’étonne surtout c’est à quel point Claudel peut transmettre de l’émotion en si peu de temps, en si peu de mots. Surtout dans le cas du Café de l’Excelsior. Dans cette dernière romanelle, qui raconte les souvenirs d’enfance d’un homme alors qu’il vivait avec son grand-père, des phrases qui semblent banales à première vue renferment tous les détails de la relation entre le narrateur et son grand-père, si bien que quand l’enfant doit quitter son grand-père (je ne vends aucune mèche ici), toute l’émotion du narrateur me monte à la gorge comme une boule que je ne peux avaler. Jamais de romanelles n’ont réussies à me lier autant avec un personnage au point de vouloir pleurer. Normalement, ça demande un plus grand engagement.
Le Café de l’Excelsior et La petite fille de Monsieur Lihn sont de bonnes petites romanettes à lire quand on a une petite heure ou deux à perdre. Quand on attend un ami sur un banc de parc. Quand on s’ennuie de quelqu’un.
Vous aimerez ce livre si : vous aimez être surpris. J’ai lu ces romanelles : l’un dans le métro un matin, l’autre en attendant quelqu’un. Meilleur endroit pour lire ces romanelles : sur un banc, dans un parc.
Découvert lors du festival Metropolis Bleu (édition avril 2009), Le Ciel de Bay City semblait être un roman intéressant et différent. La lecture qu’en avait faite Mavrikakis (les quelques premières pages) m’avait intriguée. N’est-ce pas suffisant pour décider d’acheter un livre?
Le ciel de Bay City (décrit à l’aide de toutes les nuances de mauve possible et impossible) est oppressant. Il nuit à la santé autant physique que mentale de la narratrice Amy qui revit, tous les soirs dans ses cauchemars, les horreurs qu’ont vécues ses ancêtres, horreurs, comme d’une broche ancienne qui pique sans cesse la poitrine, dont elle a hérité de ses grands-parents.
Amy se sent prise dans ce monde où sa mère et sa tante ne cessent de parler de la France, de cette France qu’elles ont quittée après la guerre pour ne jamais y remettre les pieds. Dans ce monde où cette guerre, qui n’est presque jamais mentionnée d’ailleurs, devient le quotidien d’Amy. Elle se sent emprisonnée jusqu’aux jours menants à son anniversaire de dix-huit ans.
Le Ciel de Bay City est un livre qui aurait facilement pu être coupé de moitié, facilement. Racontée à la première personne, la narration s’étire et se répète et s’enroule dans des idées rapidement recyclées. Plutôt que d’être concise, donnant ainsi plus d’impact à ses idées, Mavrikakis choisit de raconter en long et en large tous les aspects d’une idée et de répéter ces aspects plusieurs fois tout au long du roman. En effet, le lecteur a très peu de travail à faire, et, par conséquent, éprouve très peu de plaisir. Tout est donné au lecteur. Combien de fois est-ce que la narratrice doit dire qu’elle est “morte” et qu’elle aime Alice Cooper?
De plus, autant les premières pages du roman étaient intéressantes lors de la lecture de Mavrikakis, autant celles-ci sont sans fin lorsque le lecteur décide de continuer. Liste des événements qui forment sa vie jusqu’à l’âge de dix-huit ans, le premier chapitre rend le lecteur inquiet : est-ce que le roman au complet sera comme ça? Le deuxième chapitre n’est guère mieux : c’est un petit essai philosophique dont j’ai vite oublié la teneur. C’est seulement au troisième chapitre que le lecteur entre dans l’histoire même, mais celui-ci est constamment retiré de l’histoire fort intéressante pour être précipité vers un présent (où la narratrice raconte son histoire) « radoteux » et pseudo-philosophique.
Exemple parfait d’une narration qui raconte sans montrer et sans créer un lien entre le lecteur et le personnage principal, Le Ciel de Bay City est comme ces amis qui parlent sans cesse, qui parlent tellement qu’on fini par les ignorer, et qui ne disent pas vraiment quoi que ce soit de mémorable.
Vous aimerez ce livre : si vous aimez les gens qui radotent.
At a time when some courageous women were asking for the right to vote, others were trying to achieve higher education. One such woman, Maude Abbot, a McGill Donaldas, was one of the first women to graduate with a BA in Arts. Despite her academic success, however, McGill wouldn’t accept her as a medical student because she was a woman. Against all odds, Maude Abbot became one of the first female doctors in Canada and an expert on congenital heart disease. Enough to inspire most women.
Enough for Rothman to write a novel inspired by Abbott’s life.
Agnes White is abandoned by her father and left orphaned by her mother. She is raised by her grandmother who is troubled by the fact that Agnes likes dissecting dead or near-dead animals and placing dead butterflies in Mason jars. After her governess teaches her everything she can, Agnes goes to high school in Montreal and then McGill University. Her path to medical school and beyond is far from easy, but Agnes proves once more that a woman can do anything a man can do, even if she is a bit more emotional about it. Though maybe too emotional sometimes?
The Heart Specialist is not a biography of Maude Abbott, rather it a novel inspired by Abbott’s life. Well written, in a prose that flows and draws you in, The Heart Specialist reminds us of a time when women didn’t take anything for granted, least of all their independence, in whatever form the latter may take.
You’ll like this book if: you don’t mind abnormal hearts in formaldehyde.
Hill, Lawrence. The Book of Negroes. HarperCollins Publishers: Toronto, 2007. 486 pp.
When a book enlightens us about a history we all think we know, when it builds bridges between our ignorance and our certainty, it is a good book.
Winner of the 2009 edition of Canada Reads, The Book of Negroes is the story of Aminata Diallo, a young Muslim girl from a village called Bayo in Africa. Where in Africa? It’s never really clear because she herself has little geographical notion of her surroundings, but it’s some three-months walk away form Freetown, Sierra Leone, we eventually find out. At the age of 12, Aminata is kidnapped and made to walk to the coast with other future slaves in order to be herded onto a slave ship and brought to North America. In a series of events that bring her from an indigo plantation to Charles Town, New York, Nova Scotia, and other sundry lands Aminata becomes a strong, independant woman whose thirst for knowledge and intelligence makes her invaluable to the whites.
Though Aminata’s voice can be annoying in the beginning as she complains of how old she now is (how many novels have started that way), the narrative soon moves on to the heart of the action and doesn’t let go until the very end. The way Aminata perceives things is incredible. It accomplishes what literature does best: it gives the reader a different perspective on things. It makes readers see life in a different way. What makes this new perspective most striking is that Hill never explains what Aminata sees in modern terms we would easily understand, but keeps it in her voice, in the terms an African girl would use, and yet we know what she’s referring to.
For example, when Aminata first arrives in Charles Town after crossing the Atlantic, she describes the slave auction thus: “One toubab [white] broke into nasal singing. He stopped quickly as he has started. A man in the crowd shouted, and the first toubab picked up where he had left off. More men shouted. The song stopped and started, over and over, and so it went until Biton was led off the platform, into the thick crowd.”
Though readers probably never thought of it, how true is it that an auctioneer could sound as though he’s singing? Hill’s writing is a perfect example of show, don’t tell.
You will like this book if: you like history and good writing.
Yates, Richard. Revolutionary Road. Vintage, Toronto, 2008. 355 pp.
