Mind Picking : Farewell 2018

I chose this picture of our family together on an excellent day to sum up the year because, in a way, we've come to the end of those days: With Kennedy moving into her own home, and even with Mallory moving back in here with me and her Dad, our family foursome is no more. It's bittersweet, of course: we're proud of both of the girls and the women they've grown into, and while we always want them near, we also want them to be independent adventurers in life outside these walls. We had it all too good for far too long (but the future promises to be good as well). Once again, this was a year free of hardship and tragedy for our family, and for that, I acknowledge our bountiful blessings.

To begin my recap, my top reads:

Top Five Fiction Released in 2018

  Circe

This was probably my most entertaining read of the year - it puts the grrr in girl power and I loved every bit of Miller's female perspective on the Greek myths.

  Songs for the Cold of Heart

This was my favourite Canadian fiction release of the year, and if I ruled the world, it would have won the Giller Prize.

   The Shepherd's Hut

I loved the grit and suspense of this read; really a stand out for me.

  The Largesse of the Sea Maiden

Some surreal short stories that really piqued my imagination.

  The Long Take

A book that becomes better in my memory as time passes - my favourite read on the Man Booker Prize shortlist.

It's funny that this year's fiction releases didn't, for the most part, blow me away, but I read quite a few excellent nonfiction.

Top Ten Nonfiction Released in 2018

  12 Rules for Life

I agreed with just about everything Dr. Peterson writes in this book - and I loved being in the know when it became controversial to those who hadn't bothered to read it.

  BraveI was also fascinated by Rose McGowan's story and was pleased to have read her book just before she experienced fallout over it.

  I'll Be Gone in the Dark

This is such a strong work of investigative-journalism-meets-memoir on its own, but the related events of this year elevated the whole learning experience it provided.

 The Library BookA fascinating collection of information, well told.

  Educated

As interesting as Westover's personal story is, it was the bigger ideas about how history is shaped and passed on that really spoke to me with this book.

  All Things Consoled

Such a touching and personal memoir; probably more touching for me at this stage of my life.

  How to Change Your Mind

This book struck me in the way that it reminded me of a line of inquiry I had pursued decades ago; so fascinating, but I reckon I'll always be too straight-laced to drop that acid in search of answers to the big questions.

  Big Lonely Doug

I loved everything about this book - from the fascinating information to the unbiased writing.

  All Our Relations

This is the book that I wish I could put into the hands of every Canadian and say: read.

  The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs

Fascinating information, enthusiastically recounted.
Winter's Bone, The Price of Salt, and Imagine Me Gone were my favourite recent(ish) fiction releases, and I found some excellent reads among the classics: The Old Man and the Sea, Crime and Punishment and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (which, surprisingly, turned out to be my favourite of the Brontë sisters' novels). I also loved the related reads I encountered this year: the update that The Meursault Investigation added to The Stranger; the biographical information from Mary's Monster that elevated Frankenstein for me. All in all, it felt like another productive year of reading for me.
But, of course, my year consisted of more than just reading. This year, the bookstore where I work moved into a new location - with new branding and new store standards. Now, instead of spending all of my shifts talking to customers about books, my job is more about tidying and restocking; primarily lifestyle goods. Honestly, in every way that matters, the new ethos is that how the store looks is more important than how it functions - for us and for the customers. It doesn't help that two other stores in our chain had grand openings in the region this year - leaving our managers short-handed and our store overrun by these other stores wanting to train new staff there - but I feel let down by the entire company. I'm not quite at the point of rage-quitting, but the job has changed so much that I almost feel like they have quit me; I'll need to think on what will make me happy going forward.Like every year, we went to plenty of live shows. We started the year by watching Mal's directorial debut with Bye Bye Birdie at Laurier - I missed seeing her perform, but she certainly left her artistic mark on that play.  In February, we went into Toronto to see the amazing Seanna McKenna star in a gender-bent Lear, and later in the summer we saw her in the title role of Julius Caesar at the Stratford Festival. Also at Stratford we saw The Tempest (not fantastic) and Coriolanus (which was fantastic), along with The Music Man and The Rocky Horror Picture Show (in the picture above). We went to the Drayton Festival twice - once to take Ella and her friend to see Hairspray here in town, and Dave and I took Mal to see Beauty and the Beast when she was on an archaeological dig up in Penetanguishene (such an awesome getaway that made for us). We went to see Jimmy Carr do standup at The Centre in the Square in May, and in an undisputed highlight of Dave's life, we were front row to see Carol Burnett perform there in September. An undisputed highlight for both of us: Seeing Kennedy in her first Fringe show in Toronto in July, followed up by a live play reading in October. In July, Kennedy's boss gave her tickets to take me into Toronto to see Come From Away, and Mal was so jealous that Dave took her in to see it on Boxing Day (it was a hit with all of us). Also, because Kennedy works in the office of a children's musical theatre company, Dave and I went out to support her by watching performances of School of Rock and Fame - not nearly as interesting as seeing your own kids perform, but the company does put on high quality shows.We also saw some bands play live this year: In February, Dave and I saw Rob Thomas at the GIFT Gala, and later that month, Mallory and I went into Toronto to see a tribute to Leonard Cohen starring various Canadian artists. In June we went with Dan and Rudy to see The Monkees (really just Mickey and Mike, but it was very exciting for Dave), and in September, the family saw Gowan at the Fall Fair. In October, Rudy and I went to see Jann Arden sing and tell her stories - and that was a special night for both of us.As I wrote about before, summer vacation saw me, Kennedy, Zach, and Ella drive down to Nova Scotia to visit my parents, followed by a brief camping trip around Cape Breton (Mallory was busy taking a trip to Europe with her pal Chris; Dave was busy working). And in a last minute decision to give Dave a holiday this year, too, he and I went to Cuba at the beginning of December.

This was a year with a few more changes for me: I finally decided to join the book club that a few of my coworkers go to. It's good for me to get out like that among women, nice for me to be able to talk books with others readers, but I don't have much in common with this particular group; we don't really like the same books (but I do like going). I also said yes back in September when Rudy asked me if I wanted to join a boot camp with her. We attend at 6:45 every morning, and that half hour workout plus a limited meal plan saw me lose thirty-five pounds in twelve weeks. It's funny how some people tiptoe around asking me if I *maybe* was doing something different - I understand that saying, "You look like you've lost weight" can feel like saying, "You sure had a lot of weight to lose" - but I have enjoyed the attention; and particularly at Christmastime, seeing the people I only see a few times a year.My inlaws have been about the same: Granny Bev is losing more mobility and memory all the time, but still seems like herself. Grandpa Jim takes care of her the best he can, getting older and a bit weaker all the time (but it is good that he gets away once a week to his bowling league; that he can put Granny into an all day program once a week to get some respite). Of course, Rudy is the one holding it all together, working hard to take care of both of them every day. So far so good.Meanwhile, my own parents have decided to move into town from their big impractical house in the woods - if they ever make a final decision on their new living situation, my little brother Kyler will take over the lake property for all of us to continue using. There has been some drama - especially for my big brother Ken - surrounding this, but we'll all be happy and relieved once the parents are in a safer, less strenuous situation. Finally, we got through Christmas with all the usual traditions (including long and tiring shifts for me at work):

So, I worked and read, went to shows and the gym. I did some low key travelling this year, and as I began with, knew very little strife; I get more than my share of happiness. I am delighted that Mallory moved back home to figure out her next steps after pausing University, and although I'll miss having Kennedy's smiling face around here, I am so proud that she and Zach became homeowners at the tender age of twenty-three. And although that also meant that Kennedy took her dog, Peaches, with her, that directly led to the happiest of year-end situations for us. Meet Cormac, who will be coming home next week:

What more could anyone ask? Happy New Year!

Black Leopard, Red Wolf

You, with your eye of a dog, me with my eyes of a cat. We are quite the pair, are we not, Tracker?

One of the things I most admired about Marlon James' Man Booker-winning A Brief History of Seven Killings was how authentic every shifting voice was – each section could have been written by a different author. Now with Black Leopard, Red Wolf, James has given us something totally different once again: a Tolkeinesque epic fantasy set amongst the kingdoms of precolonised sub-Saharan Africa, complete with that continent's diverse folklore, monsters, and politics. In this interview James explains the inspiration for and beginnings of what will eventually become The Dark Star Trilogy, and the idea of bringing traditional African stories and storytelling into the Fantasy mainstream seems a natural and overdue project. This was maybe too long for me (but should one really complain about an epic stretching to epic length?), and it felt a bit anachronistic for characters to focus so much on feminism, gender and sexual diversity (but I acknowledge that bringing these themes into the mainstream is overdue as well), but at its core, this is a compelling and surprising quest tale that immersed me in a world I knew very little about. I would definitely pick up the next volume in the trilogy. (Note: I was fortunate to receive an ARC and the quotes here may not be in their final forms.)

The child is dead, what is left to know? Truth? Is truth only one thing in the South? Facts carry no color or shape, facts are just facts...So let me give you a story. Hear me tell you that I am just a man, whom some have called a wolf, and others worse. Did the old woman bring you different news? I know you have spoken to her. A soothsayer said the child's head was infested with devils. It was no devil, it was bad blood. I can describe his death.

In its framing device, Black Leopard, Red Wolf opens with the main character – known only as Tracker – answering questions from an inquisitor (known also as the fetish priest) in a prison in the Southern Kingdom. Tracker's is the only voice we hear (although he does sometimes repeat the inquisitor's questions), and so what follows has more the feel of traditional oral storytelling than a written history. We immediately learn that Tracker had been one of a small group of mercenaries hired to find a child who had gone missing years before, and before the time of his capture, Tracker had witnessed this child's death. Starting somewhere in the middle of the tale, Tracker will eventually describe his childhood, his early friendship with a leopard who can shapeshift into a man, his uncanny ability to follow a person's scent across time and space, and his fantastical experiences with vampires, trolls, ogres, and witches in pursuit of the missing boy. Tracker often tells the inquisitor that he won't recount the story as expected, but in the end, he answers every question; tells every story of his life. (It was interesting for me to learn from that interview with James that the next volume will be the same quest told from the point-of-view of another of the captured mercenaries and that her first words will be, “Everything you read before is not true.”)

And that is all and all is truth, great inquisitor. You wanted a tale, did you not? From the dawn of it to the dusk of it, and such is the tale I have given you. You said you wanted testimony, but you wanted story, is it not true? Now you sound like men I have heard of, men coming from the West because they have heard of slave flesh, men who ask, Is this true? When we find this, shall we seek no more? It is truth as you call it, truth in entire? What is truth when it always expands and shrinks? Truth is just another story.

In addition to bringing to life so many fantastical creatures, James fills this story with grit and gore. Killings are frequent, brutal, and graphically described. Tracker loses some of his companions along the way (and I had to wonder if some of the tension of peril is lost when the main character is recounting the story after the fact; we know he survives), and some of these losses are heart-wrenching. There are also plenty of graphic (mostly male on male) sex scenes, and these range from aggressively playful to touching. And in addition to a mostly combative tone throughout the tales, there is also much clever and funny repartee (especially between Tracker and Leopard). With frequent shifts in chronology, subject matter, and tone, this novel reads more like The Arabian Nights than a straight narrative, but it all serves the greater story very well: even with magic, epic fighting skills, and the aid of godlike creatures, the affairs of men are brutish and banal:

Maybe this was how all stories end, the ones with true women and men, true bodies falling into wounding and death, and with real blood spilled. And maybe this was why the great stories we told are so different. Because we tell stories to live, and that sort of story needs a purpose, so that sort of story must be a lie. Because at the end of a true story, there is nothing but waste.

Like with The Lord of the Rings, the quest in this book serves a larger political structure, and it is useful to be reminded that Africa knew great civilisations, kingdoms and citystates long before the Europeans came along. But like I said before, while I do appreciate the diversity of the characters, it felt a little overt to have all the main characters be gay men (Tracker himself, being uncircumsised, is sort of nonbinary) and for the women to all decry the patriarchy in a way that felt too modern for me:

Men and their cursed arrogance. You curse, you shit, you wail, you beat women. But all you really do is take up space. As men always do, they cannot help themselves. It why they must spread their legs when they sit.

Overall, however, this is a truly epic novel. I reckon it will take some years for James to complete the trilogy, but I'll be looking for it.

McGlue

I get up. My head thwarts around and I see nothing, then I see stars. Saunders called Johnson dead, I think. I greet the cot again, blind. Saunders will come back with Johnson and have a laugh. Until then I’ll ride my cogitations out through the stabbing pains in my skull, the licking waves. Most likely I’ll doze then wake up to bread and butter and hot beans and whiskey and it’ll be night and we’ll be halfway to China and they’ll say, “Hit the well, McGlue,” like after my last bout. I try to remember the port of call I got this wet in.


First published in 2014 (when it won the Fence Modern Prize in Prose), McGlue was Ottessa Moshfegh's first release; and on the heels of her recent successes, this short novella is about to be re-released in 2019. All of the grit and debauch of Moshfegh's later novels are prefigured here, and as I tend to like transgressive fiction, for the most part, this worked for me. (I know I shouldn't quote from an ARC, but the language is the best part of this book, and since it's a re-release, I'll assume these bits are in their final forms.)

I call out, and my voice makes me ill to hear it. Get back down to the cot, McGlue. Yes, thank you. The stars come out. I look for the moon, but it eludes me. I can’t find or measure my way. Drift, drift. If I just close my eyes I’ll get there. 

I sleep some more.

Set mainly in 1851, McGlue – a boozy ship's hand – wakes up imprisoned in the hold of his ship, accused of murdering his only friend and benefactor, the slumming rich man, Johnson. As a chronic alcoholic, McGlue is more desperate to get himself a drink than to clear up the misunderstanding (what he assumes is a prank), and his condition is spelled out in short, muddled phrases that pull the reader into McGlue's confused immediacy. As he dries out and grasps for memories, we learn that McGlue has also suffered head injuries that not only make remembering difficult, but make him act like a bit of a madman:

The floor and ceiling switch places and the earth quakes. A moment later the guard comes down across my face fist-first: “Shut it!” he shouts into my ear. I quit screaming. I've been screaming.

McGlue is rich in historical detail – with stories from several exotic ports-of-call that McGlue and Johnson visited on the ship, to newspaper accounts of the anti-slavery movement, to a look at the 19th century American justice system – and for such a short work, it does a good job of filling in the background that led McGlue to become such a degraded character (raised in Salem, Massachusetts by an overworked single mother – a childhood steeped in poverty and tragedy – McGlue was six the first time he got drunk). McGlue was near freezing in a snowbank the first time the aristocratic Johnson spied the homeless teenager, and for reasons never quite adequately explained (but since we're always in the brain-damaged McGlue's head, maybe he doesn't know either), Johnson decides to become the boy's guardian and liquor supplier; eventually arranging for the two of them to set sail on a trading ship; Johnson always at the ready with a bottle in his pocket to bring McGlue back to life:

I wake up mornings with my head in a vice. The only solution is to drink again. That makes me almost jolly. It does wonders in the morning to take my mind off the pain and pressure. I can use my eyes after that first drink, I remember how to line up my feet and walk, loosen my jaw, tell someone to get out of my way.

The format of following along as McGlue sobers out in solitary confinement – first in the ship's hold and then in a Salem prison cell – allows for very organic character development; made more interesting by McGlue's brain damage that keeps vital information back from both the reader and himself. There are a few surprisingly tender moments that got to me, but more often, McGlue is recalling fleabitten flophouses, downmarket whorehouses, or trying to jam his fingers into the crack in his skull in order to pry out the memories. Having enjoyed her later novels, it was interesting to me to see where Moshfegh started, and I would imagine that McGlue would have the most interest to others familiar with her work. Four stars is a rounding up.

Also by Ottessa Moshfegh:

Eileen

My Year of Rest and Relaxation

Tunesday : Cuban Caddy

Cuban Caddy

Desi Arnaz and His Orchestra

My horse and carriage is for hire, senor

For just as long as you desire senorita 

You want to ride

Forget the manana and come to Havana with me

I'm the Cuban Cabby, I'm the Cuban Cabby 

The taxi drivers drive you frantic, you know

Oh, but my rig is more romantic and so 

You want to ride 

A night full of splendor and you can depend upon me 

I'm the Cuban Cabby and I need dinero (Money that is) 

The moon is peepin, the shadows creepin

A lovely night for lovers, the same as you two are 

If you like music, I'll give you music 

It's time for riding through the park 

As we go riding in the dark 

I'll sing a Spanish love song to the strings of my guitar 

Ese lunar que tienes

Cielito lindo, junto a la boca 

No se lo des a nadie 

Cielito lindo, que a mi me toca 

Ay ay ay ay, canta y no llores

 Porque cantando se alegran 

Cielito lindo los corazones (Olé) 

My horse and carriage is for hire, senor

For just as long as you desire senorita

You want to ride 

The sweet senoritas and gay caballeros know me 

I'm the Cuban Cabby and I know my business 

And I mind my business

You want to ride (The Cuban Cabby)

You want to ride (Will make you happy)

 You want to ride 

Dave and I found ourselves able to arrange a few days off, so we took a quick jaunt to Varadero for some sun and sand and relaxation. This was my fourth time in Cuba (Dave's third), and we know not to expect really great food like in other resort areas, but we decided to try to find a place with good enough reviews that we wouldn't be too disappointed. Turns out, Paradisus Princesa del Mar fit the bill nicely.

This resort is really beautiful, with all of the amenities we were looking for: The beach is perfect, with fine white sand, plenty of palapa sun shelters and lounge chairs, a beach bar, and a gentle slope into crystal clear waters. (There is also a beautiful pool with a swim-up bar, but with a beach that nice, we didn't use the pool.) Downside: one day the beach bar was out of beer for Dave, another day, they were out of diet cola for me - how can one bar be out of anything for a whole day when the other bars/restaurants were still stocked? (This happened a few times throughout the week.) Also: a couple of days it got pretty windy and felt a bit cool (but compared to home, we were still plenty happy to be there).

Because Rudy and I have been going to a daily boot camp, I purposefully chose this resort because it has exercise classes...but only attended twice. The first class Dave and I went to was a kickboxing-type class, and it kicked my butt. The next day, I went back for an aerobics class while Dave went next door to the gym, and it started off lame and ended really hard (slamball squats and plankjacks, etc). After that, just walking in the shifting sand every day (and laying out on loungechairs where the crossbars never quite hit me right) felt like exercise enough. Bonus: there were several exercise opportunities at the beach and pool as well - better than I've seen anywhere else - but I was too pooped to join in. 

The food was good in the main buffet restaurant, and because I've been going to boot camp and following a nutrition plan, it was important for me to go to a place with plenty of healthy options. It was never a problem to get an egg white omelette for breakfast or fresh grilled chicken and fish for lunch; there was always plenty of fruit and veggies and nuts to round things out. (And for those who wanted it, there were plenty of more indulgent options, available 24 hours/day.) Note: I was surprised that the coffee (which was to be my main indulgence after recently giving it up) was so weak and tasteless at the resort, but delicious cappuccino soon filled the bill.

It felt like a bonus that we were given the option to prebook a la carte restaurants before we left (so much better than lining up every day at other resorts), but we found it funny that when we were checking in, we were given a piece of paper with our requests, and then a paper with what we were actually booked into. (It was later explained to us that two of the restaurants on the website have been closed, others opened, and the man in the booking office does his best to accommodate requests; it all worked out.)

After our first full day in Cuba, we ate at Sakura - a Tepanyaki-style Japanese restaurant - and it was a great show and fabulous eating.

We had a decent meal at their Mediterranean restaurant, Marseilles, another decent dinner at their open air Cuban restaurant, the Beach Grill, but our last dinner - at the Mirabar - was all around fabulous.

The following picture is of the menu from Marseilles - neither of us tried the "ingot of old chicken clothes":

We didn't go on any excursions, but Dave and I have been to Havana and on the catamaran tour before. While watching the evening entertainment one night - which was consistently fantastic - this British couple asked if they could join our table and we had a wonderful time chatting and laughing with them. Rob and Karen had been on the jeep tour that day (which involves driving your own jeep in a caravan through the jungle to a pool for snorkelling, and then a speed boat ride down the river, and then a horseback ride across a valley; all totally off the regular beaten tourist path for Cuba) and if we had been staying for longer than four full days, I would have definitely been interested in that. As I said, the evening shows were great - Dave particularly enjoyed the operatic evening; we both enjoyed the retro dance party the last night that saw us both drenched to the bone with sweat - and on more than one evening we ended up in the piano bar for more drinks and karaoke. I don't know if I would have really called this a five star resort, but with good food and entertainment and late nights with my honey under a warm and starry sky, who could ask for more?

As for the song: growing up with I Love Lucy, Desi Arnaz is everything Cuba to me and Dave, and he kept breaking out into My horse and carriage is for hire, senor. For just as long as you desire senorita. You want to riiiiiiide every time we walked down the beach together. How blessed I am to have had this break with this guy by my side.

The Old Man and the Sea

The clouds were building up now for the trade wind and he looked ahead and saw a flight of wild ducks etching themselves against the sky over the water, then blurring, then etching again and he knew no man was ever alone on the sea.

I read all of Hemingway – including biographies, his collected letters, etc. – back in my early twenties, and I went through his work more or less chronologically. Because of this, I marvelled at how his great fictional characters were obviously idealised versions of himself – the adolescent outdoorsmen of his early short stories, the wounded WWI ambulance driver in A Farewell to Arms, members of the Spanish Civil War resistance in For Whom the Bell Tolls – and as young as I was at the time, I recognised the aging Hemingway in the Santiago character from The Old Man and the Sea; an old but powerful man whom others have written off; a man of skill and wisdom, strength and scars, desiring to prove himself through private struggle. Rereading this recently on a Cuban beach, that same Gulf Stream, trade winds, flight of ducks that Hemingway wrote about at my back, I appreciate this story even more at my advancing age: Hemingway set out to prove something with this effort, and he left blood on the page. Spoilers ahead.

Only I have no luck any more. But who knows? Maybe today. Every day is a new day. It is better to be lucky. But I would rather be exact. Then when luck comes you are ready.

Santiago has gone eighty-four days without catching a fish, and he is now considered so unlucky by his village that Manolin, the boy he had taught to fish, has been forced by his family to go out with more successful fishermen. Even so, the boy helps the old man with his nets, brings him food and coffee, and talks baseball into the night. The tension between luck and experience seems to me to be the main thrust of this book (and was probably the foremost concern of Hemingway at the time as he had been cast aside as a has-been writer by then; he must have been preoccupied with the luck involved in using his carefully honed skills to pen another bestseller): as for Santiago, he dismisses the role of luck in his work, but suggests the boy buy a lotto ticket for the number 85; what he feels will be his lucky day. The old man also calls himself a man of little faith, but more than once finds himself saying prayers and promising pilgrimages if some listening deity were to intervene in the arduous ordeal he endures over the ensuing days. For on the eighty-fifth day, Santiago hooks a massive marlin – the biggest he had ever seen, valuable enough to sustain a man throughout the entire winter – and it will take him three days and nights to tire out the great fish and finally land a killing blow. Throughout, there is a mix of luck and skill involved in this epic struggle, and for every time Santiago notes what hard-learned tricks he is employing against the marlin, he also bemoans his foolishness in being underprepared – what he needed most of all was the boy in the skiff with him. As soon as the old man has the marlin tied alongside his boat, blood in the water attracts a string of sharks; and after not being able to fend off them all, Santiago eventually returns to his village with nothing more than a skeleton affixed to his skiff. Unskilled or unlucky? To those who measure the marlin's massive length, Santiago is revered as the luckiest and the most skilled of them all – and when the boy sees his mentor's wracked body and ruined hands, he weeps and vows to fish with him again; knowing he has much still to learn from the old man. As for Hemingway: The Old Man and the Sea was a massive bestseller, restored his reputation, won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, and was cited by the Nobel Committee as contributing to Hemingway receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature the following year. Not bad for an old man's fish story.

“But man is not made for defeat,” he said. “A man can be destroyed, but not defeated.”

I enjoyed reading some expert analysis of this novella (much of it compiled in this article), and I was especially intrigued by Joseph Waldmeir's “Confiteor Hominem: Ernest Hemingway’s Religion of Man”, which details the Christian symbolism to be found in this book and explains how this serves as a capstone to the unique philosophy to be found in all of Hemingway's work. On the other hand, I love that the author himself had this to say:

There isn't any symbolism. The sea is the sea. The old man is an old man. The boy is a boy and the fish is a fish. The shark are all sharks no better and no worse. All the symbolism that people say is shit. What goes beyond is what you see beyond when you know.

I'll take him at his word, I guess, and I also love that Hemingway had this to say to his editor went he sent in the manuscript for this book:

I know that it is the best I can write ever for all of my life, I think, and that it destroys good and able work by being placed alongside of it.

And I love that famously rival author, William Faulkner, had this to say in his review of the book for the literary magazine Shenandoah:

His best. Time may show it to be the best single piece of any of us, I mean his and my contemporaries. This time, he discovered God, a Creator. Until now, his men and women had made themselves, shaped themselves out of their own clay; their victories and defeats were at the hands of each other, just to prove to themselves or one another how tough they could be. But this time, he wrote about pity: about something somewhere that made them all: the old man who had to catch the fish and then lose it, the fish that had to be caught and then lost, the sharks which had to rob the old man of his fish; made them all and loved them all and pitied them all. It’s all right. Praise God that whatever made and loves and pities Hemingway and me kept him from touching it any further.

Naturally, I'm happy to allow Faulkner to analyse the craft involved here, but I will finish by saying that everything about this story worked for me: the plot, the characters, the tempo, the words. As Hemingway's last major piece to be published in his lifetime, The Old Man and the Sea is an incredible finale to a remarkable career.

He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great occurrences, nor of great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor of his wife. He only dreamed of places now and the lions on the beach. They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy. He never dreamed about the boy. He simply woke, looked out the open door at the moon and unrolled his trousers and put them on.

The Price of Salt

Was it love or wasn't it that she felt for Carol? And how absurd it was that she didn't even know. She had heard about girls falling in love, and she knew what kind of people they were and what they looked like. Neither she nor Carol looked like that. Yet the way she felt about Carol passed all the tests for love and fitted all the descriptions.

In an author's afterword to The Price of Salt, which Patricia Highsmith added more than thirty years after its original publication – when she was finally willing to have the book republished under her own name – it is explained that a pivotal scene from the book (in which a young woman is working in a department store and is thunderstruck by the appearance of an older, sophisticated woman) was written on the heels of Highsmith's own encounter while working in just such a department store as a young woman. What I had to learn elsewhere, however, was that Highsmith had been working that job in order to afford therapy designed to cure her of homosexual desire, and that was really the key to unlocking this incredible read: every conversation, interaction – what is said and unsaid – has the absolute ring of truth because it was Highsmith's truth. Naturally, the author invented the plot that follows from that fated meeting, but the emotions, humanity, and longing for connection are recognisable to anyone. Having never read any of Highsmith before, I picked this book up more or less at random, and while I understand that this is unlike her more usual oeuvre, I'd be willing to delve back into her fine writing again any time.

Was life, were human relations like this always, Therese wondered. Never solid ground underfoot. Always like gravel, a little yielding, noisy so the whole world could hear, so one always listened, too, for the loud, harsh step of the intruder's foot.

Therese Belivet is a nineteen year old wannabe set designer, living independently in Manhattan, and seeing a man whose company she enjoys, but whose amourous advances she disdains. While working a temporary Christmas job in a department store, Therese is awestruck by a beautiful blonde in a mink coat, and after impulsively sending the woman a postcard, the two strike up a friendship. This woman, Carol, is going through a divorce, and while she seems amused by Therese's youth and devotion, it's unclear what her intentions are for this relationship. When the divorce reaches a nasty place, Carol proposes that the two women go on a road trip across the American Midwest – but while Therese and Carol believe that the open road provides them with the anonymity to be themselves, danger just might be following on their heels.

Told in Therese's first-person perspective, Highsmith does a really fine job of capturing the girl's initial naivete and confusion – she's a strong and independent person, perhaps ahead of her time for 1953, who is devoted to launching her career, and who has real affection for her boyfriend Richard (even if she doesn't understand why even his kisses leave her cold). Therese is often incapable of expressing herself and consistently decides to keep her thoughts to herself, and when she starts interacting with the more sophisticated Carol, the older woman's amused superiority leaves so much unsaid between them that it's aching to be inside Therese's whirling mind. As they proceed along the highway, however, there's a levelling out between the two women, and the Therese who returns to NYC has matured into a fully grown woman – it's a remarkable transformation to witness. 

I'd imagine it was Highsmith's own therapy that prompted her to include some Freudian insight to explain Therese's psychology, and it was interesting to later read of all the ways in which Therese was based on Highsmith herself (and to learn of the two women who inspired Carol). Many professional reviewers assert that the road trip these women took must have inspired Nabokov while writing Lolita (I thought the same when they got to the teepee motel); that it inspired Thelma and Louise; I reckon it inspired Hanya Yanagihara and A Little Life. And besides the plot itself, I simply enjoyed Highsmith's writing:

January. It was all things. And it was one thing, like a solid door. Its cold sealed the city in a gray capsule. January was moments, and January was a year. January rained the moments down, and froze them in her memory: the woman she saw peering anxiously by the light of a match at the names in a dark doorway, the man who scribbled a message and handed it to his friend before they parted on the sidewalk, the man who ran a block for a bus and caught it. Every human action seemed to yield a magic. January was a two-faced month, jangling like jester’s bells, crackling like snow crust, pure as any beginning, grim as an old man, mysteriously familiar yet unknown, like a word one can almost but not quite define. 

And thought that she handled the love scenes well; this is so much more interesting to me than explicit mechanics:

Then Carol slipped her arm under her neck, and all the length of their bodies touched fitting as if something had prearranged it. Happiness was like a green vine spreading through her, stretching fine tendrils, bearing flowers through her flesh. She had a vision of a pale white flower, shimmering as if seen in darkness, or through water. Why did people talk of heaven, she wondered.

Back to that author's afterword: Highsmith wrote that after this book's publication, she received many, many letters over the years, thanking her for writing a lesbian love story with a happy ending; apparently, this was the first of its kind:

Prior to this book, homosexuals male and female in American novels had had to pay for their deviation by cutting their wrists, drowning themselves in a swimming pool, or by switching to heterosexuality (so it was stated), or by collapsing – alone and miserable and shunned – into a depression equal to hell.

So, there's value in that, value in the writing, and value in the story itself. On every level, I'm pleased to have found this book.

The Stupidest Angel: A Heartwarming Tale of Christmas Terror

This was Raziel's first Christmas miracle. He'd been passed over for the task for two thousand years, but finally his turn had come up. Well, actually, the Archangel Michael's turn had come up, and Raziel ended up getting the job by losing in a card game. Michael had bet the planet Venus against his assigned task of performing the Christmas miracle this year. Venus! Although he wasn't really sure what he would have done with Venus had he won it, Raziel knew he needed the second planet, if for no other reason than that it was large and shiny.

Having read, and surprising myself by enjoying, Christopher Moore's Lamb some years ago, I was drawn to pick up The Stupidest Angel; which happens to also feature the titular Raziel. As a mindless beach read with Christmas approaching, this book suited my needs precisely and I winced and cringed and smirked my way through it in a few hours. As an author's warning levels at the reader, this wouldn't be an appropriate gift for grandmas or kids (too much cussing, violence, and middle aged sex), and I suspect that I'm not the ideal audience for Moore's absurdist sense of humour myself, but I went with the flow and mostly enjoyed the ride.

In another Christmas story, Dale Pearson, evil developer, self-absorbed woman hater, and seemingly unredeemable curmudgeon, might be visited in the night by a series of ghosts who, by showing him bleak visions of Christmas future, past, and present, would bring about in him a change to generosity, kindness, and a general warmth toward his fellow man. But this is not that kind of Christmas story, so here, in not too many pages, someone is going to dispatch the miserable son of a bitch with a shovel. That's the spirit of Christmas yet to come in these parts. Ho, ho, ho.

This Dale Pearson – who seems to have had it coming – happened to have been returning from a Christmas party at the Caribou Lodge when he took the blade of a shovel to the throat, and because Dale was wearing a Santa suit at the time, a seven year old boy who saw everything believed he had just witnessed the death of Santa Claus. In a heartfelt prayer to God, this Joshua asks for Santa to be brought back to life for the sake of all the good little boys and girls around the world, and it is to grant just such a prayer that Raziel had been sent to Earth. But because Raziel is the stupidest angel, the whole thing goes wrong.

I understand that this story sees the return of many of Moore's characters from earlier books, and in a way, that's exactly how it reads: there are a bunch of very particular people, with hinted at backstories (the retired B Movie Queen who has gone off her meds, the pot-smoking Constable that nobody listens to, the crusty old bar-owner/nympho who could kiss or kill you at the drop of a word, the stranger to town with his talking pet fruit bat), and although these characters do all interact together, most of the action follows them as individuals continuing their own storylines (which I guess is what I would want to see if I had met anyone other than Raziel before?) But I will add that, just as I enjoyed with Lamb, there's nothing really irreverent here: for an absurdist storyline with a lot of fratboy humour, Moore doesn't mock God and prayer and people of belief; even Joshua isn't sure about God, but Raziel is obviously real and acting as His emissary. As a Christmas story, I find that appropriate. The ending might be a little weak (even with the bonus chapter that was added later to address this weakness), and the reading experience might have little value beyond a few hours' entertainment, but I was in the mood for something like this and it worked for me.