Another quiet day in Vacationland.

What did I do today? I started and finished George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London. The introduction to the text talks a bit about how Orwell (actually Eric Blair – he published under a different name so as not to scandalize his family) undertook the writing of the book as part of an investigative journalism project…more or less.

In Paris, he works as a plongeur – something of a scullion and dishwasher rolled up into one. It makes for some interesting reflections on life in hotel and restaurant kitchens, although after reading this, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to eat out again:

In the kitchen the dirt was worse. It is not a figure of speech, it is a mere statement of fact to say that a French cook will spit in the soup – that is, if he is not going to drink it himself. He is an artist, but his art is not cleanliness. To a certain extent he is even dirty because he is an artist, for food, to look smart, needs dirty treatment. When a steak, for instance, is brought up for the head cook’s inspection, he does not handle it with a fork. He picks it up in his fingers and slaps it down, runs his thumb round the dish and licks it to taste the gravy, runs it round and licks it again, then steps back and contemplates the piece of meat like an artist judging a picture, then presses it lovingly into place with his fat, pink fingers, every one of which he has licked a hundred times that morning. When he is satisfied, he takes a cloth and wipes his fingerprints from the dish, and hands it to the waiter. And the waiter, of course, dips his fingers into the gravy – his nasty, greasy fingers which he is for ever running through his brilliantined hair. Whenever one pays more than, say, ten francs for dish of meat in Paris, one may be certain that it has been fingered in this manner. In very cheap restaurants it is different; there, the same trouble is not taken over the food, and it is just forked out of the pan and flung onto a plate, without handling. Roughly speaking, the more one pays for food, the more sweat and spittle one is obliged to eat with it.

Ick.

In London, he writes about the tramp life, and the casual houses and relief lines. It’s, well, grim.

It’s still a good book, though – Orwell’s writing is always enjoyable, and it’s a good counter to Hemingway’s sometimes rosy descriptions of Paris in ’20s. A bit gloomy – especially when you get to the tramping days in London. But worth it.

Just don’t read it while you’re eating. And especially if you’re eating at a restaurant. And definitely if you paid more than ten francs for a dish of meat. And if you’re in Paris…well, don’t even bother.

Sunday.

All quiet here – enjoying my one day weekend and catching up on 24. Knitting more of @babybanff‘s sweater. A few edits on a story that will be published this summer. Catching up on 24 and wondering why they just didn’t drop the pressure in the hyperbaric chamber to knock out the terrorist out after he barricaded himself in there.

Last night, I finished reading Ninni Holmqvist’s The Unit. It was great – the translation is good, as far as I can tell. The story is about a voluntary program for single, older adults (who are ‘dispensable’ and have no productive role in the nation’s economy). They check themselves in, begin to donate organs and take part in research experiments, and eventually make their final donation of heart and lungs. I quite enjoyed it:

During those early days at the unit I would come across several people who just feel asleep anywhere, and who breathed in the same way, almost snoring. It would soon be explained to me that this was a side effect of one of a series of tranquilizing drugs being tested here. The people involved in this particular experiment found their ability to absorb oxygen was seriously impaired, and at the same time the yawn reflex was canceled out. A consequence of those two side effects was that they found it very easy to fall asleep. A few were also affected by minor but permanent brain damage, presumably as a result of the lack of oxygen, and in the worst cases had difficulty walking, talking, and knowing where they were or what day it was.

It’s sufficiently creepy. And enjoyable, although the ending threw me a bit. I also finished John Updike’s Terrorist – equally creepy, but for different reasons. I love the way Updike captures suburban life in all its track-lit splendour. That ending threw me, too – I’m not sure what to read next – I think I might finish Just After Sunset (Stephen King) first, and then…maybe Revolutionary Road? Or The Train to Lo Wu?

Oh, and writing up the term paper. Yeah. I’ll get right on that (actually, I’ll get on that at the end of the week…I’ve got some much-deserved time booked off).

Loving the Zane Grey.

I finished another book today – The Light of Western Stars by Zane Grey. I don’t think I ever would have pegged myself for a Zane Grey fan, but I think I might be…I read Wildfire earlier in the year, and I was enchanted. Seriously. Actually enchanted. And delighted.

This one was equally enchanting:

An exquisitely beautiful scene surprised and enthralled her gaze. She saw a level space, green with long grass, bright with flowers, dotted with groves of graceful firs and pines and spruces, reaching to superb crags, rosy and golden in the sunlight. Eager to get out where she could enjoy an unrestricted view, she searched for her pack, found it in a corner, and then hurriedly and quietly dressed.

Her favorite stag-hounds, Russ and Tartar, were asleep before the door, where they had been chained. She awakened them and loosened them, thinking the while that it must have been Stewart who had chained them near her. Close at hand also was a cowboy’s bed rolled up in a tarpaulin.

The cool air, fragrant with pine and spruce and some subtle nameless tang, sweet and tonic, made Madeline stand erect and breathe slowly and deeply. It was like drinking of a magic draught. She felt it in her blood, that it quickened its flow. Turning to look in the other direction, beyond the tent, she saw the remnants of last night’s temporary camp, and farther on a grove of beautiful pines from which came the sharp ring of the ax. Wider gaze took in a wonderful park, not only surrounded by lofty crags, but full of crags of lesser height, many lifting their heads from dark-green groves of trees. The morning sun, not yet above the eastern elevations, sent its rosy and golden shafts in between the towering rocks, to tip the pines.

Madeline, with the hounds beside her, walked through the nearest grove. The ground was soft and springy and brown with pine-needles. Then she saw that a clump of trees had prevented her from seeing the most striking part of this natural park. The cowboys had selected a campsite where they would have the morning sun and afternoon shade. Several tents and flies were already up; there was a huge lean-to made of spruce boughs; cowboys were busy round several camp-fires; piles of packs lay covered with tarpaulins, and beds were rolled up under the trees. This space was a kind of rolling meadow, with isolated trees here and there, and other trees in aisles and circles; and it mounted up in low, grassy banks to great towers of stone five hundred feet high. Other crags rose behind these. From under a mossy cliff, huge and green and cool, bubbled a full, clear spring. Wild flowers fringed its banks. Out in the meadow the horses were knee-deep in grass that waved in the morning breeze.

I mean, it’s pretty flowery. Maybe a little overdone. And the stories are kind of predictable, I guess, because you know the cowboys are pretty much always the good guys…or that there are good cowboys and bad cowboys, and the good ones win in the end. But I still love the stories. They’re reliable, comfortable stories.

The Light of Western Stars was a pretty decent book, too. The heroine moves out west to see what things are like – a rich socialite. Loves the ranch her brother started, decides to stay on. Ends up buying the ranch (what with being a rich socialite and all). There are problems with Don Carlos and the Mexican revolutionaries, an attempted kidnapping, a camping trip, a lot of horses…and a somewhat surprising ending.

Even better? The book was a freebie from Manybooks. The title has passed into the public domain, so I was able to download a copy for my ebook.

I think I might start Riders of the Purple Sage next. I’m trying to think of other good western writers, too. There’s Zane Grey, Louis L’Amour, Max Brand…but are there more? Do people still write westerns at all?

The weekend: yup, still good.

I must admit that I didn’t turn out the lights and sit near a candle last night. Earth Hour…well, I get it, yes, but I don’t know that participating really has any impact beyond what I do already – recycling, using cloth napkins with my lunch (and a sandwich box thingee), taking transit…

So I put on a movie – Signs. Remember that one? With the crop circles and the alien invasion? Yeah. I turned out the lights in deference to Earth Hour, but I turned ‘em back on. That movie creeps me out something terrible. If I ever buy a farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere, I’ll be sure to install a concrete bunker in the basement, in which I’ll stock a lot of light bulbs and a television set. And steel shutters for the windows and doors…for keeping out the aliens that invade after leaving crop circles in my corn.

I also finished reading Anna Quon’s Migration Songs. It’s good – I read it quickly (and not just because Invisible Press started a reading challenge!). It’s the story of an unemployed sad sack…well, sort of sad sack. Joan gets jobs, but she quits them. A lot. She drops out of university. She eats a lot of cough drops. She’s unhappy most of the time. Also very nervous. And somewhat friendless.

There’s a redemptive moment, though, as you’d expect, and a surprising turn of events and so on…but the real charm of the novel is the story of Joan’s parents – Gillian and David.

My father met my mother in 1970 in Hyde Park. There was a crowd of students gathered around a young Chinese man with a bullhorn, who was shouting, “Long live Chairman Mao.” He also shouted some other things, but his accent was so thick it was hard to understand him, my father says. My mother was standing in the crowd a few feet away, with a bemused smile on her face. She was, says my father, as lovely as a lotus blossom, her black hair hanging limp and impenetrably dark, her cheeks flushed from the damp air. Her features were Chinese, he says, but instead of Socialist drab she wore an orange mini dress. When she thrust her arm out to salute Chairman Mao, my dad swears she was in fact mouthing the words “Long live the Queen!” She glanced over at him and he was transfixed.

The story of Joan’s parents is intriguing and so carefully told that I found myself wishing that the rest of the book had been more about them. It’s something of a shame that the story of her parents ends abruptly – I almost wondered if there was some hesitation on Quon’s part to write what would have been a more typical Canadian novel, set in a historical context. In her recounting of the story of Joan’s parents, there is a vague sense of Joyce Carol Oates and Carol Shields…but it doesn’t feel sustained as she shifts the narrative to Joan’s present story.

Still, though. It was a good read, and I found it satisfying enough to devour it quickly, and I do think it was worth it. The cover, by the way, is stunning – really nicely drawn. I believe the cover design has been nominated for an award.

What will be interesting to see is what Anna Quon’s next book will be…she mentions on her site that she’s trying to start a new novel, and I’m curious to see where she goes with her work.

Thursday.

Thursday done! I finished reading No New Land by M. G. Vassanji at lunch today – a good book. Truthfully, I only came to it because it’s on a required reading list for my comparative Canadian lit class…the course is about minority voices and representation in the so-called canon. Vassanji’s own feelings on the matter? If pressed, I describe myself as an IndoAfrican Canadian writer. Attempts to box me in I find abhorrent.

Also interesting is Vassanji’s notes on the book: Set in Toronto’s Don Mills, about an immigrant family from Dar es Salaam. Even the elevator is against you. Isn’t that the truth? I remember making the move from Toronto to Calgary, and it felt that way, too – I found myself identifying pretty strongly with the ‘alien’ aspects of a new home in the book.

It’s ostensibly about a man accused of assaulting a young woman, but the book spends most of its time filling in back story and explaining family relations. The actual accusation and the aftermath are dealt with in the first and last chapter, really. But I enjoyed that sense of storytelling – the idea that you had to understand the character and his family before you could really grasp what was happening to him.

Interesting. I’ve pulled an article to read for later – an editorial Vassanji wrote for Canadian Literature about whether or not he is a Canadian writer (the answer, at first blush, is yes):

This is what I am: I live on such and such a street, in Toronto or Winnipeg or wherever; I have lived before in other places that I could name for you; I have brought up two or three children, I pay my taxes, contribute to a few charities, try to mow my lawn regularly. I clear the snow, though I tend to wait a little in the hope that the sun will come out and do the job for me. This is what I can write about, this is what the inspiration was, where it took me: a street in Dar es Salaam, a village in Ghana, a tenement in Calcutta.

Hmm. Waiting for the sun to clear away the snow makes me think he’s living in Calgary. Or possibly Edmonton.

I like his idea of a shifting landscape for storytelling, too – it’s nifty.

If we are telling the stories of so many Canadians, aren’t we then telling the stories of Canada as well? What kind of Canada? This is not a Canada only of the Mounties and hockey, the north and Newfoundland, the beer commercials, into which newcomers assimilate; it is a Canada which constantly adjusts and redefines itself, though in degrees. It is a Canada that is as much urban as it is the north. If ten percent of a nation resides in one city, then a cityscape deserves to be recognized as being as essential, as essential as the Rockies, as the Prairies, the Atlantic. The Americans have done this; Canadians are embarrassed to do it.

I like that he’s breaking free of the grand wilderness narrative (or fishing village narrative) and acknowledging the significance of urban Canadian life.

Well worth it. I’m glad I had the chance to read this book. I’m moving on to Knife on the Table by Jacques Godbout – the course is giving a nod to Quebecois literature.

Review: ‘One Second After’ by William R. Fortschen.

I recently finished William R. Fortschen’s One Second After (complete with badly designed website filled with grammatical errors!). It’s a strange little tale of EMP (electromagnetic pulse) weapons and the resulting breakdown of TEH WHOLE WORLDS>. Oh, yes, precious. Take away our iPods and our juicers, and you’ll find that we’re all savages at heart.

Also, it has a forward written by Newt Gringich. That should tip you off to the fact that you’re dealing with something. Something…special.

To be honest, I’m not sure why I read it. The idea is somewhat plausible…detonate a nuclear bomb over a country and let the resulting electromagnetic pulse take out most civilian and military electronics and power grids. Chaos! Oh noes! No powers!

Fortschen does give a fairly believable account to begin with, but within a few weeks, the characters in the story are all but in The Stand (a la Stephen King, but without the mutant flu and psychic grannies). Much chaos ensues, and also much smoking of cigarettes. I’m not sure if Fortschen is a smoker or not, but I’m guessing yes.

It’s a strange book. Very paranoid in its scope, and – gasp, shockingly – preachy. It reminded me of those 80s era nuclear war films that used to air late at night on network tv. I felt a little guilty for enjoying the book…despite the platitudes, the rampant stereotypes, and the evil roving gangs, I enjoyed it only because I’m a sucker for end-of-the-world scenarios.

I truly think this book would be improved with the addition of zombies. Really and truly. Lots of zombies. William R. Fortschen: take note.

Book review: Shear Spirit by Joan Tapper

Here’s another yarnish book that came to me to be reviewed: Shear Spirit by Joan Tapper (with photography by Gale Zucker).

Unlike the Erika Knight book, this is an excellent book for serious knitters. It’s not so much a pattern book – there are patterns in it, though – as a series of interviews with the lifeblood of our knitting: farmers.

If you knit long enough, you start to get kind of crazy about it. You develop ‘stashes’ of yarn. You buy strange sheep accessories that other knitters covet, have preferences for the perfect needle, the perfect sock yarn, and the ultimate reference books (a la Barbara Walker). You can discuss the merits of slubby wool. You read blogs with names like Yarn Harlot and Dogs Steal Yarn, and you know what Ravelry is (and you probably have the beta test t-shirt to prove it). You usually have a half-knit sock poking out from under your lunch bag, and more knitting books than you know what to do with. You look at sweaters in stores and scoff that you could do better.

And then you secretly begin to fantasize about running away to the country, buying up a bunch of sheep, and making yarn the rest of your life.

See, that pretty much describes me. I secretly want a bunch of sheep, but there’s really no place for them in the condo. When I was a kid, I had a plan for keeping a llama in the garden shed all worked out (never came to fruition, though – darn zoning laws).

So this book will do until I figure out the master plan. It’s a fairly fast read – a bit like a series of magazine articles. The author, Joan Tapper, was founding editor of National Geographic Taveler, and she’s got the conversational style of writing down pat. There are sections on ten different fiber farms, and you can read one in a sitting.

The photographs are stunning, too. Gale Zucker places photographs in the New York Times Magazine. Have a look at her portfolio – there are some lovely sheep shots from the book there. The photgraphs are absolutely lucious.

I really enjoyed this one. The only complaint I have is that the books only showcase American fiber producers…I would have loved to see some Canadian producers. Oh, well. The book runs for about twenty dollars, and it’ll hold me until I can buy a bunch of sheep.

Book review: Classic Knits At Home

I received a copy of Classic Knits At Home by Erika Knight a little while ago.

It’s a really pretty book…the pictures are beautiful, and the book is so well constructed that it’s a pleasure to look at and hold. I know it sounds a little silly to say that about a book, but it’s nice to get one that’s not flimsy and cheap feeling.

The patterns tend to follow the whole ‘sumptuous’ theme. There are some…well, some impractical patterns. Yoga mats, plant pot covers, cushions, throws – made with things like cashmere and hemp, Rowan cottons, and the mother of all yarns, Kidsilk Haze. Nice, hey? If you can afford to use the yarns, that is, but I’d tend to save my stash for sweaters and scarves.

Mind you, there are a nifty pair of yoga slippers, knit on two needles. I tend to think the book’s highlights are the slippers and a nice lace shawl, as well as a lovely bulky, cabled throw. Three solid, good looking patterns. But the others are a bit hit and miss – like a washcloth, a doorstop shaped like a Hershey kiss, and the plant pot covers. There’s a nice afghan pattern – but there are a surfeit of cushions, too.

I liked the book, but it really seems like the kind of thing a lot of knitters will get as a present from the well-meaning muggles in their lives. You’ll enjoy the slippers – I’m planning on making myself a pair this summer with some Kureyon that’s in my stash.

Book review: Blackouts by Craig Boyko.

I’ve finished reading a collection of short stories by Craig Boyko called Blackouts. There’s no author blog that I can find, unfortunately, and very little on the ‘net about the the book. It’s disappointing – this is a first book, and I would have liked the opportunity to read a bit about the author, and his take on the work.

So. The book.

I tend to look for an over-arching theme when I read a book of short stories, or at least the one story that’s the capstone for the book…the one the title is from, usually. I have to admit that I wasn’t really sure which story was meant to be the story…which is also unfortunate, because it only seemed to add to my feeling that the book would have been better served with a better defined theme.

There are some good stories, though. ‘Assistance’ is interesting – a story about a man contemplating a ‘suicide’ purchase through a company. With a twist. ‘In the Dark’ is also interesting: about a love lorn man. With a twist. ‘The Black Gang’ is good, too – about a transatlantic ocean cruise. With…yes, with a twist. Boyko’s fiction tends to be twisty, and he’s apparently fond of throwing the direction of a story around, so you’re not quite sure of where it’s going. It’s an interesting technique, but it does get a bit wearisome.

I was also somewhat troubled by the language. In stories set in the past – fifty years or more – it can be a bit too casual; a bit too…well, nineties. There are points in stories where the metaphors and similes seem to be a bit unsophisticated. Take this passage: ‘So I waited until exactly one minute to seven before slamming down the remains of my beer and dashing out into the street like a drunk fleeing the onset of DTs.’ I’m pretty sure delirium tremens are a result of not drinking. I’m not a doctor (nor do I play on on tv), but I remember an episode or two of MASH…

It’s not a bad set of short stories; it’s often quite good. There are points that will leave you feeling thoughtful and intrigued, and I thought it was an excellent start to the author’s career. I do think – and I mean it in the nicest way possible – that his best writing is still ahead of him. I expect, though, that we’ll be able to see the progression and development of the work. I look forward to it (and to the arrival of an author blog!).

(disclaimer – the publisher sent me a copy of the book to review. No compensation was received, and they’re okay with me hotlinking the image!)

Book review: The Dirt on Clean by Katherine Ashenburg.

How many times, do you suppose, can you say the word ‘bath’ in a paragraph? I lost count after reading about cleanliness and hygiene in Roman times. Apparently, there was a whole lotta bath going on.

Katherine Ashenburg’s new book, The Dirt on Clean: An Unsanitized History describes, in painstaking detail, the bathing rituals of Romans, the unwashed linens of the middle ages, and the rise of the exaggerated standards of cleanliness hyped by corporate advertisements in the twentieth century.

There’s an excellent site for both the book and the author, who may or may not hold a Ph.D. (the biography isn’t really clear) on Dickens and Christmas.

The book is charming. I mean, if you’re okay with reading about the unwashed masses, the overwashed masses, the masses that are trying to smell like mangoes and lemon…it’s not exactly what I’d categorize as after-dinner reading material. You know those scratch and sniff stickers we had when we were kids? Be glad – be very glad – that there are none in this book.

Ashenburg tackles the delicate subjects with grace and ease. I have a certain fascination in the bathing rituals of Romans – the idea of lounging around in a bath for a few hours isn’t all that bad. Except for sharing it with a bunch of other people, I guess. And I must admit that I read, with delicious horror, the habits of the seventeenth century lady: washing only the hands and feet. Ick. Or that only sixty-five percent of us actually wash our hands at a movie theatre restroom, and only half of those people are using soap, and only half of the soap-users even wash their hands long enough to make it worth it.

Um. I wash my hands. Just for the record. But haven’t you ever been out in public, used the bathroom, and watched – with horror – somebody do the Hollywood spritz (no soap, wet hands, wave them around, and leave)? Or leave without washing at all?

Egads!!

The book is delightful, though. I loved it…it was witty, nicely written, and actually pretty informative. It really is. And there are pictures. Lots of pictures! Interesting illustrations, small woodcuts, and little factoids…it’s a perfect book for reading on the bus.

Until you start thinking about how dirty the bus is.

I think I need a shower.

(ps – the publisher sent me a copy of the book to review. No other compensation received, except for a bar of Ivory soap that was cleverly tucked into the envelope!)

Book Review: The Gum Thief by Douglas Coupland.

I’ve just finished reading Douglas Coupland’s new book, The Gum Thief. RandomHouse sent me a copy, and I was eager to start it…I’ve enjoyed Coupland’s work in the past, and when I heard that he had something new coming out, I was intrigued. Coupland’s stories can be easy to read or inaccessible. I think it depends on who you are, but there’s always the sense that you’re reading something important, and that you ought to pay attention.

The book is essentially about Roger: middle-aged, heavy drinker, failed marriage, desperately sad. It’s also about Bethany: young, unsure, unhappy. Bethany’s mother makes an appearance (middle aged, drinker, failed marriage, unhappy). Roger’s writing a book about…middle-aged, unhappy, drinking couples. Do you think there might be something of a theme here?

I didn’t get a warm bubbly feeling from the book. But the story is somewhat comical, too – I’ve never read anything that took place in Staples (an office supply big box store), and I enjoyed it.

It’s a dark book, I think. Consider this:

Here’s an amusing anecdote from my youth. i used to like playing with green plastic soldiers, but my mom was anti-war (odd, considering what a battle-axe she was) and wouldn’t buy me soldiers. I was too young for a paper route to make my own money, and our house was miles away from a store My father brought me home a bag of soldiers one night, and I was out of my mind with happiness. I began to play with them, but then my mom came into the room, holding a phone with an extension cord, and she sat down and said, “Okay, you can play with your soldiers, fine. But I’m going to sit here, and every time one of them gets killed or injured, I’m going to telephone their mothers. Ready? One, two three, play…” Well, you can imagine how much fun that was.

Is this the reality of post-Iraq, post-Afghanistan, post-9/11 literature? Possibly. I think Coupland’s work has been getting slowly darker – his Hey, Nostradamus comes to mind. The Gum Thief appears, at first glance, to be two stories simultaneously being told. As I read, though, I got the sense that it might be three or four…it’s hard to count, but I suspect there’s at least three, and I think you could make the argument for more. Each storyline blends nicely with the other, but they’re all sharply satirical and edgy.

Still, it’s a good read, and a fast read. There is a online reading, narrated by the author, taking place on YouTube, and it’s pretty fun to watch.

Book Review: The Shock Doctrine

What if governments and corporations used the most frightening and horrible moments to advance their own economic and political agendas?

What if they had a “signature desire for unattainable purity, for a clean slate on which to build a re-engineered model society” driving their political and economic goals?”

What if those same groups are “convinced that only a great rupture – a flood, a war, a terrorist attack – can generate the kind of vast, clean canvases they crave” and plan for the action to take after those things happen?

What if it’s already happening?

Such is the premise of Naomi Klein’s new book, The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism. Klein, who is a cause-célèbre in Canada, rose to indie and cultural significance with No Logo, Fences and Windows and more recently, the documentary produced with husband Avi Lewis, The Take. Randomhouse sent me a copy of Shock Doctrine to review, and I’m intrigued.

In Shock Doctrine, she discusses the phenomenon of building policy immediately following cataclysmic events – natural disaster, for example, or wars and terrorist attacks. She traces the history of ‘shock doctrine,’ and provides examples that range from Tiananmen Square, Pinochet’s coup, the aftermath of 9/11 and the war in Iraq…it goes on and on.

The key to resisting this shock doctrine, she argues, is to understand it and be aware of it. Consider:

Any strategy based on exploiting the window of opportunity opened by a traumatic shock relies heavily on the element of surprise. A state of shock, by definition, is a moment when there is a gap between fast-moving events and the information that exists to explain them. The late French theorist Jean Baudrillard described terrorist events as an ‘excess of reality;’ in this sense, in North America, the September 11 attacks were, at first, pure event, raw reality, unprocessed by story, narrative or anything that could bridge the gap between reality and understanding. Without a story, we are, as many of us were after September 11, intensely vulnerable to those people who are ready to take advantage of the chaos for their own ends. As soon as we have a new narrative that offers a perspective on shocking events, we become reoriented and the world begins to make sense once again.

Let me be clear – this is not a book about post 9/11 politics. Klein not an economist or political scientist in the strictest academic sense. But the book is a survey of global events and policy, and a critical examination of the motives that may underpin the responses to them. It is also, resoundingly, a call to react to trauma with eyes wide open – even as we experience it – and not to allow our economies and policies to be moderated in ways we would never allow them to be, were we not in a state of shock.

This is not an easy book to read. A hefty five-hundred and sixty-one pages (not including notes and acknowledgments), it takes a while to read through and absorb. Whether you believe in Klein’s findings or not, the book is likely to shape dialogue for some time to come. The media coverage has been interesting to watch, and the publishers even commissioned a short film directed by Alfonso Cuarón (also director of Children of Men).

Decide for yourself. It won’t appeal to everybody, and the content can be disturbing. But it can’t be any worse than what’s happening out there.

Book Review: After Dark by Haruki Murakami.

I am an unabashed fan of Haruki Murakami, so I was really pleased to receive a copy of his newest book, After Dark.

Reading Murakami is always an experience. I think the best way to describe his writing is that it’s haunting, deliberate, and has the occasional tendency to make you shiver.

After Dark picks up the story of two sisters – one who is sitting in a restaurant, reading, and another who is home in bed. The story weaves in and out, and takes place over one evening.

I’m reluctant to really say much about the plot, because I feel like it would be giving away something crucial and critical. This seems to be a book that you want to read without knowing much about it, without a clear idea of what you’re about to experience.

This is a book to be enjoyed, savoured, and carefully considered:

Takahashi slings his instrument case and his tote bag over his shoulder and starts walking toward the Alphaville at a leisurely pace. As he walks, he rubs the whiskers that have begun to sprout on his cheeks. The final darkness of the nieght envelops the city like a thin skin. Garbage trucks begin to appear on the streets. As they collect their loads and move on, people who have spent the night in various parts of the city begin to take their place, walking toward subway stations, intent upon catching those first trains that will take them out to the suburbs, like schools of fish swimming upstream. People who have finally finished the work they must do all night, young people who are tired from playing all night: whatever the differences in their situations, both types are equally reticent. Even the young couple who stop at a drink vending machine, tightly pressed against each other, have no more words for each other. Instead, what they soundlessly share is the lingering warmth of their bodies.

The new day is almost here, but the old one is still dragging its heavy skirts. Just as ocean water and river water struggle against each other at a river mouth, the old time and the new time clash and blend. Takahashi is unable to tell for sure which side – which world – contains his center of gravity.

Book Review: Send: The Essential Guide to Email for Office and Home

RandomHouse sent me a copy of David Shipley and Will Schwalbe’s new book, Send. It’s a lovely little book – very well written, with a pleasing typeface, and remarkably straightforward.

How many times have you received an email and thought what were they thinking? How many times have you sent an email and wished you hadn’t? Or been accidentally cc’d on a message? I had a coworker who wrote an email to her mother but sent it to the entire division when her address book did that automatic fill-in thing. Luckily, it was an innoncuous note about travel plans, but still…not exactly what she’d planned to do. Even funnier was when her mother replied to the office and asked us not to laugh too much at her, because she was a good girl. Gotta love moms with well-developed humour.

This is a book that really ought to be handed out, en masse, to the cubicle dwellers of the world. There’s a lot of practical advice about when email should be used, how it should be used. There is also a fantastic chapter on emails that can land you in jail (really!) and another on how to read headers.

As a reference book, Send is invaluable. And there are enough examples of terrible emails to keep it interesting. There’s even a great site for it: Think Before You Send.

Blogger enters 3-Day Novel Writing Contest. "I think I can," she says.

Is anybody signing up for the 3-Day Novel Writing Contest? Fred? I’ve got that first week of September off this year, so I think I’m going to throw my hat into the ring.

The 3-Day is a bit of a masochistic exercise. You’re doomed to fail from the start, and if you do finish, the manuscript you turn out is like some kind of horribly deformed gremlin. You can’t quite love it, but you also feel like it’s yours, so you have to try. On the other hand, the elation you feel when you finish is fantastic, and it’s nice to know that there are other writers out there all feeling pretty much the same. At the very least, it’ll make for some interesting blogging.

So I’ll give it a go. You’re allowed to outline in advance, and I’m going to try to think of a story that can sustain me through the three days.

I finished reading A Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier on Friday. It was a great book – I had a hard time putting it down, and I finished reading it on a park bench on my way home from work. It was so good that I closed the book and looked around…if there’d been somebody walking by, I would have told them how good it was. You can read an excerpt on Brockmeier’s site (which is really nicely designed, even if there’s no blog).

I really recommend it. It was a fantastic read, and really well written. And, it was free – this is one of the books I bought when I won that gift certificate a few months ago. Whee!

Also – knitters, please read this. Annie Modesitt is an esteemed member of the knitting community – many of us, I think, have turned to her tutorials and exceptional instructions for help at some point in our knitting times. She needs our help now.

Book Review: The 100-Mile Diet

Book Review: The 100-Mile Diet: A Year of Local Eating by Alisa Smith & J.B. MacKinnon
Published by: RandomHouse (2007)
Notable: Blogosphere celebrities make good.

The 100-Mile Diet is, overall, an interesting book to read. The premise is fairly simple: a Vancouver couple decide to only eat local food from a 100-mile radius (following the imperial system, despite being Canadian – humph). The book chronicles their triumphs (like making jam) and failures (like wheat full of bugs…wheat-vils?).

Along the way, the authors muse on the environment and the state of agriculture and agribusiness today, and provide a historical perspective on various issues. The authors also alternate chapters, so you get varying perspectives on the experience.

It’s at times amusing, and at others, highly pedantic. There’s no question that they feel strongly about the issue – why else would you sacrifice orange juice? The concept of eating only local foods always sounds impossible – I live in Alberta, and immediately imagined a steady diet of turnips, beets, and potatoes. But the more I read, the more I started to look around at local growers, and quickly discovered that a local-only diet wouldn’t be all that bad. I worry about the safety of our food supplies…so much of what we do eat arrives from somewhere far away, and it’s often from countries where you know that food safety isn’t at the top priority.

It certainly isn’t always easy to eat locally. I found it very uncomfortable to read about the strain the diet placed on their marriage…a little like I was sitting in the room, listening to them fight. I also found that the tone of the book occasionally strayed to a ‘I researched this so you’re going to learn it’ kind of feel:

Late July was hot in the summer of 1859. On the other side of the continent, a slavery abolitionist named John Brown was holed up in a Maryland farmhouse, planning the guerrilla raid on the federal armory at Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, that would push the United States toward civil war.

Late July was hot in the summer? Really?

Granted, very little of the book takes on this kind of narrative – thank goodness – and I found that I especially enjoyed Alisa’s chapters:

The Fraser Valley had been hit hard by a potato blight, and the spuds we had planned to sock away for winter – we estimated fifty pounds between us – had suddenly been lost. When I got the news, I stared blankly into space as the dial tone brayed my defeat. First the salmon, then the potatoes. Now this empty feeling inside. It really was Little House on the freaking Prairie.

It’s an interesting and fairly enjoyable book. I’m just not sure if I was the target audience – I was intrigued, but I also felt kind of guilty for my diet. Was I supposed to? I’m not sure.

Also, I’m fairly certain that the book was mistaken for an honest-to-goodness diet book by people on the bus. Didn’t like that so much. Nor could I stomach reading about adventures in sauerkraut first thing in the morning.

The verdict? Interesting, and worth reading if you’re an aspiring foodie. If you’re already one, chances are that you’ve read it already…or that you’re planning to.

Note: the publisher sent me a free copy of the book for review purposes. No other compensation was received.

Book reviews: poetry in the eye of the beholder.

One of my goals this year is to read more poetry. I’ve tried before, but I never seem to know what to pick or where to start reading, and the thought of going back to an omnibus anthology reminds me of why I used to skip ENGL 365. Um, yeah. That’s me: big on the idea of poetry, but not so big on actually reading it.

So instead of the omnibus anthology, this is the omnibus review. I have Killarnoe by Sonnet L’abbé, Quick by Anne Simpson, The Blue Hour of the Day by Lorna Crozier, Momentary Dark by Margaret Avison, Point No Point by Jane Munro, Inventory by Dionne Brand, and Strike/Slip by Don McKay.

Quite the list!

So the first question, I suppose, is why read poetry. I mean, it’s short, it doesn’t always seem to make sense, and poets have a habit of talking in…well, cryptic terms. I guess that goes back to the not making sense complaint.

I tend to think that poetry should be fairly understandable…readable. I don’t like poems that have me sitting in my chair and scratching my head. Nor am I terribly comfortable with explicit poetry – it doesn’t make for good public transit reading, where a steamy poem is about the last thing you want somebody reading over your shoulder.

I feel a bit weird about quoting poetry – most of the poems in these books were so short that quoting would be pretty close to posting the whole thing, and I’m sure the poets wouldn’t like that. And nobody wants to face the wrath of poets.

Killarnoe survived the transit trip, but just barely. It’s definitely political – there’s a poem about Zahra Kazemi, for example. The tone of L’Abbé’s work tends to be a bit more confrontational than I tend to like. I felt like I was being challenged to think, to have an opinion. That’s not a bad thing. Her work strikes me as being more powerful if read aloud, though, and I don’t really have that option on the bus. Well…I do, but I think everybody on board would disagree. She’s a fairly young writer – only a little older than me – and I wonder how her writing will change as she progresses in her career.

Quick by Anne Simpson was easily the most accessible of the books. I didn’t feel guilty for not having a strong political opinion, and I preferred her style. It’s a bit more earthy, and I thought that it was easier to read to myself…if that’s any kind of explanation at all.

The Blue Hour of the Day by Lorna Crozier has enough in it to keep you going for weeks. It’s the largest volume of the seven, and I loved it. I’m a fan of Lorna Crozier, though, so I think I came at the book with the notion that I’d like it…and because it’s a collection of her work, it’s easy enough to skip a poem and look for one you like. I especially appreciated the index of titles and of first lines. Excellent!

Momentary Dark by Margaret Avison – the heavyweight of Canadian poets. It’s a lovely volume, and I thought that her acknowledgements were especially gracious: “No poem would exist without the primary sensitive reader who sees its strength but can be candid about its blurry places and dogged until revisions make it come into focus.” What a lovely thing to say about somebody (Kate, if you’re reading – I have to say that you’re that to me).

Point No Point by Jane Munro is completely work, transit, and over the shoulder reader safe. Her work is wonderfully evocative. ‘Missing Person’ is my favourite poem in the book…perhaps because I relate to it, but also because she seems to capture the emotion of the moment so perfectly.

Inventory by Dionne Brand is another fairly political piece of work. The idea behind this volume is an accounting of the early days of 2000 and beyond…kind of a catalog. It moves in and out of what I thought was somebody talking about the way things were and what’s happening…so it seemed a bit like a conversation with a much older person who is telling a story. I liked it…but at the end of a long day, I found it to be a bit too hard to read. My fault, though. Not the poet’s.

Finally, there’s Strike/Slip by Don McKay. Is it silly of me to say that I really, really liked the cover? I did. The poems are fantastic, and I found that the male voice was a refreshing change after all the other books. McKay is a master poet, and it shows in his work. I also really like the definitions of the terms he uses. Reading his work was utterly satisfying.

So…poetry? Not so bad. I think that once I gave myself permission to skip poems I didn’t like, it was easier to read – easier to enjoy. As a final note, I must add that these books were given to me by the publisher. No other compensation was received.

Review: The Year of Magical Thinking

Book Review: The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion.
Published by: Vintage (2005)
Notable: National Book Award Winner, 2005

I just finished reading The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, and I’ve been sitting here, struggling to find the right words.

It’s unspeakably sad. It tears you open like an overripe lemon, and makes your eyes smart.

It’s also unspeakably beautiful, and while I was reading it, I has the sense that it was terribly important…that there was something to be learned, and observed. Her observations of her husband’s death are repeated throughout the book – carefully worded, over and over again, so much the voice of somebody trying to tell themselvs the story enough times to make it true.

There are points, too, where the narrative seems muddled. I suppose it’s because the narrator was muddled, too – trying to understand something that seemed, to her, essentially mysterious and impossible to fathom.

We could have been swimming into the cave with the swell of clear water and the entire point could have slumped, slipped into the sea around us. The entire point slipping into the sea around us was the kind of conclusion I anticipated. I did not anticipate cardiac arrest at the dinner table.

This is not a book that’s read lightly. I took it with me on the bus – most books I read these days are bus stop reads – but I found that I could only take a bit at a time, and leave the rest of the trip to contemplation.

Read it.

Book Review: The Reluctant Fundamentalist

Book Review: The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid
Published by: Harcourt (2007)
Notable: Adapted by the author from a short story he placed in the Paris Review.

You’d think that a novel consisting of a story told over one afternoon and evening would be rushed, and a bit perfunctory. You’d think so, and I think there are plenty of times when you’d be right. How can you fit a novel into an evening? Is it possible?

Yes. It is.

I was sent an advance reading copy for Mohsin Hamid’s new book, The Reluctant Fundamentalist a few weeks ago, and I was skeptical. But I started reading, and all of the sudden, I had a book I didn’t want to put down.

And how to characterize the book? It’s the antithesis to the United 93 movie…but not a ‘yay, let’s all be terrorists’ kind of thing. Rather, it is a well written exploration of the thought process behind fundamentalism, and what drives an individual towards it.

The book is not a how-to manual, nor is it a psychological thriller. Mr. Hamid presents one perspective: that of a young man, born and raised in Pakistan, but educated and employed in the United States. He is, as far as you can tell, Americanized. He’s the American dream – a newcomer doing well, and pursuing a productive life.

And then 9/11. And then…and then, you see the beginnings of change in the man – whose name, Changez, apparently is the Urdu form of Genghis (via Wikipedia). What follows is an examination of what the media has been calling the enemy – a point of view and a perspective that I don’t understand or have access to, except through work like this.

It’s never clear just what kind of fundamentalist Changez becomes, and it’s never explicit that he is involved in terrorism. The American he speaks with sounds suspiciously like a foreign operative from the start. I have my own theories, but I don’t want to spoil the story.

The tone of the book is quite interesting, too. The story is being told by Changez…we are reading a story of a man telling a story to another. His words are carefully chosen, and the language is precise – you get the sense of it being colonial English, and that Changez is a terribly polite man. And it works…other writers might try to capture this, but they likely wouldn’t have the same success in maintaining a comfortable, conversational voice.

I observe, sir, that there continues to be something about our waiter that puts you ill at ease. I will admit that he is an intimidating chap, larger even that you are. But the hardness of his weathered face can readily be accounted for: he hails from our mountainous northwest, where life is far from easy. And I you should sense that he has taken a disliking to you, I would ask that you be so kind as to ignore it; his tribe merely spans both sides of our border with neighboring Afghanistan, and has suffered during offensives conducted by your countrymen.

Is he praying, you ask? No, sir, not at all! His recitation – rhythmic, formulaic, from memory, and so, I will concede, not unlike a prayer – is in actuality an attempt to transmit orally our menu, much as in your country one is told the specials. Here, of course, there are no specials; the excellent establishment of which tonight we are patrons has in all likelihood prepared precisely the same dishes for many years. I could translate for you but perhaps it would be better if I selected a number of delicacies for us to share. you will grant me that honor? Thank you. There, it is done, and off he goes.

The book is terribly good, and it’s one I recommend. I think it’s likely to pick up awards. Mr. Hamid’s first novel, Moth Smoke won the Betty Trask Award, and was a finalist for the Pen/Hemingway Award. I think we can expect great things from Mr. Hamid.

Note: the publisher sent me a free copy of the book for review purposes. No other compensation was received.

Book Review: The Cubicle Survival Guide

Book Review: The Cubicle Survival Guide: Keeping Your Cool in the Least Hospitable Environment on Earth by James F. Thompson.
Published by: Villard (2007)
Notable: It’s hard not to enjoy a book that has a section called ‘Don’t Pimp My Cubicle.’

I spend a lot of time in my cubicle. A lot of time. My chair is molded to my, um, posterior, and it feels a bit like a pair of comfortable jeans. I have a collection of coffee cups, a stash of granola bars and fruit cups, and notes taped to every conceivable surface. And binders. Many, many binders. There are times when I enjoy my cubicle, but many more times when I look around and wonder – briefly, before getting back to work – just what I’ve gotten myself into.

Cubicles. The least hospitable environment on earth (except for the Sahara, Antarctica, and Mosul).

James Thompson’s book is a light-hearted and humourous look at cubicle life. For the most part, it’s pretty funny. I’ll admit that it had me giggling! There’s chapters on cubicle decoration…how to choose an appropriate screensaver, and a section on cubicle plants:

Small low-maintenance plants add a welcome splash of life and color to any cubicle…[s]how your team-player mentality by compromising your aesthetic sense with vapid corporate communalism: strategically place a nice plant that doesn’t smell, give people rashes, or eat flies in a safe place, where it won’t get knocked over.

I especially appreciate the chapter on all things food – aptly titled ‘eating, drinking, and digesting.’ Take this little nugget:

Popcorn. The classic annoyance. If you want the smell, sound, and taste of popcorn in the cubicle community, then you’d better bring the entire movie experience to your colleagues and have Hilary Swank and Ethan Hawke show up, too.

Or this:

The ocean is magical, but the beach has breezes for a reason. Mackerel, sardines, microwaved fish sticks, and tuna fish sandwiches are all malodorous and therefore inappropriate choices for cubicle dining.

Weren’t we all, at some point, new to the cubicle world, and woefully ignorant of the cubicle rules? Don’t we all wish that we’d had some cleverly worded advice about not discussing rashes, bunions, and what happened on the weekend after you hit the hot tub? Seriously. This book ought to be handed out to new graduates as soon as they cross the stage. Interns should receive it with their orientation manual. It should be slipped into the bags at those stores where they sell cheap suits and ‘business casual.’

That’s not to say that seasoned veterans of the cubicle won’t have fun with the book, too. I wasn’t terrible enamoured with the quizzes and the vignettes – it got to be a bit much after a while. But there are enough clever quips and funny descriptions to keep you engaged and enjoying the text. I’m planning on leaving it in my office’s lunch room…I suspect it’ll be well thumbed through in no time (plus our lunch room magazines are from 2004).

And I must confess – I’m pleased to discover the author’s blog, even if it is devoted solely to his book. It’s nice to see a writer making points with the blogging community. There’s even a nice picture of him (but, dude…best to resize that sucker. I can kinda make out the logo of the company you work for on your mug).

So. The verdict? Cute, light, and not terribly taxing to read. I can’t recommend it for public transit reading, though. Giggling to myself aside, I don’t really like to think about work while I’m on my way to work. But I had fun reading the book, and I suspect it’ll do well as a graduation present this summer.

RandomHouse is running a ‘funniest cubicle life contest’, although it’s not clear if it’s open to contestants outside of the United States.

Note: the publisher sent me a free copy of the book for review purposes. No other compensation was received.

Book Review: Cockeyed

Book Review: Cockeyed by Ryan Knighton
Published by: Penguin (2006)
Notable: Nice to read a memoir where disability is the focus, but not in the nicey-nice airy-fairy way.

I think I missed the buzz about this book last year…I saw an interview with the author on our national arts channel, and thought I’d pick the book up. Cockeyed is billed as an ‘irreverent, tragicomic, astounding articulate memoir about going blind – and growing up.’

I’m finding myself really at odds on how to describe the book. It is funny, and tragic, and it’s disturbing to read a personal account of slowly going blind (it was also interesting to see that he comments on the ‘revelatory horror of Jose Saramago’ in his acknowledgements). I’m not sure how to characterize this books. It’s not key on the issues of disability rights or advocacy, but I didn’t really get the sense that it should be. It’s a memoir, but not politicized, with no blatant agenda, and, at times, a slightly apologetic tone.

I was talking about it with a friend, and she commented that it must be hard to edit a memoir, because how can you ask somebody to improve a telling of their experiences or memories? And I think this might have been the dilemma the editors faced, because some of the more intense scenes felt…well, not quite as polished as others. I felt uncomfortable thinking that – I feel uncomfortable saying it. Maybe I was meant to be…it’s hard to know.

While I enjoyed reading the book, I found that it jumped around a bit. Each chapter reads more like an essay that’s meant to stand on its own, instead of an overall story.

But the essays are well-written, and there’s no denying that Ryan Knighton has something to say and an opinion to give. I especially appreciated that there was no grand message or life lesson to be learned from his disability – that whole ‘illness/disability is meaningful because you learn something grand and important’ thing makes me angry. You don’t get that with Knighton. His story is more matter of fact, and casual. The book is well suited to reading on public transit: an inoffensive cover, interesting stories, and fairly short chapters lends well to picking it up and putting it down.

I especially liked the story about teaching English in Korea – it was really well done. There’s also a really interesting discussion about the language of sight…very, very well written.

My verdict? Worth reading, but a little too hyped. Best to make up your own opinion.

Book review: Enter the Babylon System.

Book Review: Enter the Babylon System: Unpacking Gun Culture From Samuel Colt to 50 Cent by Rodrigo Bascuñán and Christian Pearce.
Published by Random House Canada (2007).
Notable: quite possibly the only book known to contain quotes from Noam Chomsky, 50 Cent, and Mikhail Kalashnikov.

I don’t know much about guns; I don’t know much about rap. Quite frankly, I’m more than a little mystified by the lyrics and the names rap artists choose for themselves…and the gun culture that is spreading so rapidly through our society scares me. I don’t agree with the right to bear arms, unless you’re a cop, a soldier, or a farmer with livestock to protect from coyotes. Nobody else needs to have a gun.

I remember driving to Jane and Finch with my parents to visit my grandmother and my uncle’s family. It was a relief when we stopped going. Even then, it was a scary neighbourhood. That kind of fear, though, does little to help in the understanding of how to neutralize and combat gun culture, much less how to keep our children safe. You hear about shootings in the big cities, and you hear about how popular music is glorifying ‘thug’ culture and a violent life that seems to spit in the face of any kind of peaceful and productive life. This is not a book, I think, that disputes that gun culture and hip hop culture is contributing to that. This is a book, however, that tries to trace where it’s coming from, and how it is affecting communities.

As you read the book, though, you begin to understand the bigger picture: just how entrenched gun culture is within a North American context, and just how much money goes into the industry. Not the hip-hop industry. The arms industry. It’s horrifying.

I had a hard time deciding how to characterize the book. It’s incredibly well-written, with a conversational tone that keeps pace with the reader. I liked it. The writers struck me as friendly, thoughtful people, and it shows as they discuss issues like guns in media and the movies, and how children are exposed to gun violence at an early age, and how films carrying a PG rating depict guns, but not the consequences of their use.

It’s hard to tell, at times, whether the book is a defense of hip-hop culture’s seeming glorification of gun violence, or a condemnation of it. The more I read, the more I thought I was being invited to draw my own conclusion. Bascuñán and Pearce are co-owners of a magazine dedicated to hip-hop music, though, and their interest, I think, is in promoting it.

The book’s language can, at times, be disturbing and graphic. I didn’t enjoy it, nor was I terribly thrilled with the rap lyrics that sprinkle the text. But…I don’t like rap to begin with.

It is, I suppose, something of an oddity. I don’t know who the book is targeted towards…because there are aspects of it that appeal to somebody like me, but there are sections that I know would be appealing to others. The context is very Canadian, but includes a great deal of American content. I can see how a book like this would be very useful to social workers and youth workers…really anybody who is involved in advocacy and social justice work.

I admit: I put off writing the review, because I couldn’t decide how I felt about the book. I did learn a lot. I enjoyed some of it, but not all of it. It’s well written, but it’s not a subject I would tend to seek out. One of the best ways to sum up the book, I think, is a quote from the final chapter, ‘Unloading.’

When some of the world’s most powerful people are so absolutely corrupt, so ready to go wild with their guns in order to fatten their pockets, it’s really hard to convince intelligent youth that hip-hop is a serious threat to our collective safety. The effect of drive-by shootings is worrisome, but what about the effect of drive-by headlines: CORRUPTION, MILITARIZATION, DECEPTION, INVASION? When we speak of Babylon, we are not referring to a skin colour, nor are we pointing to any place on a map; we speak instead of a blinding and destructive greed as visible in the grimiest street as it is in the squeakiest-clean office.

My advice? Pick it up and try it, because chances are you’ll learn something. Also, the cover scares people away from the empty seat next to you on the bus. There’s an excerpt available here. I’d be interested to hear other people’s thoughts on the book. There’s a contest to win a free copy this week, too.

Note: the publisher sent me a free copy of the book for review purposes. No other compensation was received.

Book Review: Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures

Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures by Vincent Lam
Published by Anchor Canada (2006)
Notable: Winner of the 2006 Scotiabank Giller Prize

It would seem that the medical profession, these days, is romanticized and glorified beyond all measure. I’m not sure if it has more to do with the chronic shortages of doctors, nurses, and medical staff (now characterized as a precious resource; a commodity to be hoarded and protected) or because of characters on television shows. Admit it: there’s been a time when you secretly wished Carter was your physician (preferably not during his fentanyl days) or that McDreamy visited your beside. Or that House might figure out that weird thing you’ve got. Doctors are mysterious. The med student across the hall comes and goes at all hours of the day – we only know he’s alive because the shoes left by the door change once in a while. We think it’s intriguing.

Doctors are mysterious, and there’s just something about them. You want to know more about it, even if the idea of what they’re doing gives you the heebie jeebies. They’re also portrayed as being a kind of modern hero in popular culture, I think.

When I started reading Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures, I was ready for some hero worship. I really like medical dramas, despite my ongoing, documented fear of actual real doctors in white coats. But the book doesn’t indulge that happy image of the self-sacrificing medical profession. The doctors in the book…well, some of them are shitty people. You don’t like them all that much, and you’re a little disgusted with their behaviour.

Take the doctor that drinks on the job. Not so sexy, definitely reprehensible and disagreeable. Or the medical student that stalks his ex-girlfriend. Um, not really very nice. A doctor implies that a nurse didn’t notice that her patient dies. Another is miserable to a patient. Vincent Lam has created some truly believable characters – because when they’re unpleasant, they’re very unpleasant, and they’re not the idealized stereotypes you’ve come to expect. The redeeming qualities are there – in one case, though, there are none – but you see the characters as very human, very normal, and full of the same faults and flaws as the rest of us.

It’s a bit disconcerting…but in a good way.

The stories in the book are compelling, and there are excerpts available on the web, and on Lam’s website. Two of the stories are particularly powerful – ‘An Insistent Tide,’ (a labour and delivery story that is downright chilling, and ought not to be read by anybody who happens to be pregnant) and ‘ Contact Tracing.’

‘Contact Tracing’ is especially fascinating, as it concerns the SARS outbreak. Lam is, after all, a practicing physician in the ER, and worked through the outbreaks. His experiences colour this story – it has an authentic tone, and a very matter of fact one.

The verdict? Worth reading. It’s a lovely book: well-written, interesting, and engaging. There are a few, um, gory bits, and I must say that reading the book while in the dentist’s waiting room was the wrong thing to do. It does make for excellent public transit reading, too – portable, lightweight, and it’s possible to get through a story in under fifteen stops. I definitely enjoyed reading it…and now the book will be passed on to M at work, who has been awaiting it.