Sunday, June 19, 2011
Starved for Something to Read: Remembering Bill: Why We Shouldn't Forget About th...
Starved for Something to Read: Remembering Bill: Why We Shouldn't Forget About th...: " First of all, let me just say that I have a thing for gay men. Perhaps it's because my brother Bill, who died of AIDS, was gay--..."
Remembering Bill: Why We Shouldn't Forget About the AIDS Era
First of all, let me just say that I have a thing for gay men. Perhaps it's because my brother Bill, who died of AIDS, was gay--although I'm sure that's not the only reason. Of course, to say that he was gay isn't saying much: he was witty, even disturbingly sarcastic at times, smart, fond of children, handsome in a wholesome Irish kind of way, and was deeply loved by and loved his seven siblings and parents. He became sick in his early twenties--before he had a chance to grow up or even grow gay--and had barely embarked upon a sexual career when the virus invaded his body. Coming out with AIDS to our family happened simultaneously with coming out as gay: a choice that was forced upon Bill by his failing body. Bill often joked that he couldn't be gay because he didn't enjoy Broadway musicals. He wanted to remind us that he was unique, like the rest of us, and didn't easily fit into stereotypes. While some of us embarked on careers as we aged, established committed relationships, or had children, Bill lived on the edge, fearing that the virus would finally put an end to any effort to make a viable life for himself. But, in the meantime, Bill read, traveled, and developed a marvelous romantic friendship with an older accomplished and wise gay male, who--like the rest of the Grant family--had both the Irish gift of gab and a remarkable capacity for friendship. In the end it was family and friends that defined his life.
Today the AIDS era seems distant, and it is easier to remember other wars, other disasters than it is to recall what has been termed by some the years of the "plague." There was a spate of books, movies, and plays about AIDS during the epidemic, but all that is passe' now. Remember the rampant homophobia, the indifference by the medical community, the sheer numbers of young men coming to an early death with no acknowledgment by the government. Put this in contrast to the hysteria over the swine flue which has now killed how many Americans?: zero And the AIDS epidemic is hardly over. Nearly 30 million have now died from the disease, and there are over 20 million alone living with the virus in Sub-Saharan Africa, along with more than 6 million orphans. Forgetting is not an option.
For the rest of us who lost loved ones or who care for those still living with AIDS, the era continues to linger in our memories and in the lives of those who harbor the virus. Yet people with AIDS still don't announce it at work or to their neighbors. The stigma lingers as a remnant from an even more hostile era, which is why it is still important to remember this history and the damage it wrought upon an entire generation of newly visible gay men. It was my brother Bill who recommended to me some of his favorite gay novels and memoirs, and it was Bill who suggested that I read the works of Paul Monette who is our best chronicler of the AIDS era. It is partly through reading and re-reading Monette that I remember Bill.
Perhaps one of the best indications of an influential book is that you remember the book at different points in your daily life; it's almost as if the book lives within you and--like the unconscious--it pops up into consciousness from time to time. I thought about Borrowed Times when I traveled to Greece and explored the ruins of the Parthenon and other Greek monuments. Roger and Paul, long-time lovers who have fulfilling lives in Los Angeles, find in Greece a sense of identity as men-loving men. Today's post-modernists want gays and lesbians to forget about finding an identity for themselves in the past. They want us to believe that sexual identities are constructed, and nothing like a twenty-first century gay male or lesbian existed in the past. But such academic posturing neglects the psychological need that all of us, and especially oppressed minorities, have to find some evidence that others like themselves have gone before them. We, too, have a past.
Perhaps it is Paul the narrator who is most intent on finding a usable past for himself as a gay man, after suffering through a protracted and painful process of coming out. He draws sustenance from the lovers depicted in Greek mythology and the philosophers who celebrated manly love. The symbolism of the trip to Greece is significant: it represents the pinnacle of the couple's life as gay men, unfettered by viruses, sickness and death, and also prefigures the losses that will follow, as when Monette says: "A gay man seeks his history in mythic fragments, random as blocks of stone in the ruins covered in Greek characters, gradually being erased in the summer rain." The erasure begins with the first signs of the virus in Paul's exuberant and lovable partner Roger. The trip to Greece is also a celebration of their great love affair, although it is not without its flaws, and represents the zenith of Paul's life, finally finding love and fulfillment. Perhaps he is overly romantic and apt to envision his life before AIDS through rose-colored lenses, but this is understandable in the context of what comes next. I won't say more, because I think you should read this book, and there's a lot more to ponder. This books reminds us that we should never forget about this era and its impact on a generation of gay men and those who loved them.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
A Five-Course Meal: My Love Affair with Long-Winded Novels
By now, it should be clear that I am about as obsessed with food as I am with books. Fast food, comfort food, gourmet food: somehow these metaphors creep into my discussions of books quite unconsciously. Now I feel compelled to go with another metaphor to describe my obsession with long novels, and I feel that the "five-course meal" is an apt description of how I think about the process of reading a mammoth, complicated, and brilliantly imagined novel.
Twenty-first century Americans typically avoid books that are "too long" and unwieldy. But then again, we also expect to be served our meals in an efficient fashion and rarely linger over our meals - tasting and absorbing several courses of delicious foods, as do many Europeans. We also have so many other competing demands on our entertainment time: movies, ipads, mobile phones, ipods, tv - the list goes on. As some experts have suggested, it may be that our attention span is shortened by the types of media we absorb, which provide in rapid-fire fashion news and other informational items for our consumption, as in the Facebook newsfeeds, which I also confess to relish. Nineteenth-century individuals had fewer forms of entertainment, so they - at least the literate - appear to have had more time to linger over a long and complicated narrative. Think of the novels they read by long-winded authors like Dickens, Eliot, and Trollope [more about these authors later]. Of course, there are class dimensions to this phenomenon as well. Many who had the time were also those whose time had been bought by earlier generations of nobility and merchants. We now have many more literate Americans, and books are still part of the culture, as the preponderance of book clubs and book stores testify. But the classics and other long-winded novels are not in vogue. Let me make a pitch, then, for the long-winded novel.
Good long-winded novels are typically intricately plotted and contain lots of characters and details about the environments in which the characters exist. Although it may take a bit more time to enter into the narrative of a long-winded novel, once you are embedded, you have a book that you can turn to again and again. Sometimes you become so caught up with the intrigue and characters of the novel that you can barely pay attention to daily life. The books constitute a universe in and of themselves, not only sketching in details about time and place, but inhabiting these places with characters whose lives and reflections shed light on the big social questions facing their communities. Typically, the best such books cause the reader to reflect on profound questions regarding social change, religion, science, money, love, and redemption.
One of the finest twentieth-century novels I have read is called A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry, and it is a masterpiece and compulsively readable. It is a hefty read, at 600 plus pages. You don't have to be into high culture to enjoy this book, as I have heard from folks from many walks of life about the profound effect this book has had on them. The novel is epochal in scope. Set in the context of India during the Indira Ghandi era [1970s], it illuminates on a very intimate scale how Ghandi's reforms, termed "the Emergency," aimed at "cleaning up the slums" affects several individuals who make their way to the city to find work only to endure the most painful of losses. We wander with these men as they move from their hometowns to Mumbai, start with high hopes and settle for an existence that is almost unimaginable. Along the way, there are many plot twists, reflections on the political situation facing the city through the lens of some of its poorest inhabitants, and many points of human connection. The three men, and the woman who employs them, find community among themselves. They learn to find a "fine balance between hope and despair." With artfulness and wisdom Mistry portrays the humanity of those who are living amidst the most dire of circumstances. The book is worthy of your time and, like a five-course meal, is to be savored. The ending, however, painful, is exquisitely wrought, leaving you with an image of humanity that you are unlikely to forget. Whether the novel takes you a week, a month, or even months to read, you will never regret the time that you have spent with it.
Twenty-first century Americans typically avoid books that are "too long" and unwieldy. But then again, we also expect to be served our meals in an efficient fashion and rarely linger over our meals - tasting and absorbing several courses of delicious foods, as do many Europeans. We also have so many other competing demands on our entertainment time: movies, ipads, mobile phones, ipods, tv - the list goes on. As some experts have suggested, it may be that our attention span is shortened by the types of media we absorb, which provide in rapid-fire fashion news and other informational items for our consumption, as in the Facebook newsfeeds, which I also confess to relish. Nineteenth-century individuals had fewer forms of entertainment, so they - at least the literate - appear to have had more time to linger over a long and complicated narrative. Think of the novels they read by long-winded authors like Dickens, Eliot, and Trollope [more about these authors later]. Of course, there are class dimensions to this phenomenon as well. Many who had the time were also those whose time had been bought by earlier generations of nobility and merchants. We now have many more literate Americans, and books are still part of the culture, as the preponderance of book clubs and book stores testify. But the classics and other long-winded novels are not in vogue. Let me make a pitch, then, for the long-winded novel.
Good long-winded novels are typically intricately plotted and contain lots of characters and details about the environments in which the characters exist. Although it may take a bit more time to enter into the narrative of a long-winded novel, once you are embedded, you have a book that you can turn to again and again. Sometimes you become so caught up with the intrigue and characters of the novel that you can barely pay attention to daily life. The books constitute a universe in and of themselves, not only sketching in details about time and place, but inhabiting these places with characters whose lives and reflections shed light on the big social questions facing their communities. Typically, the best such books cause the reader to reflect on profound questions regarding social change, religion, science, money, love, and redemption.
One of the finest twentieth-century novels I have read is called A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry, and it is a masterpiece and compulsively readable. It is a hefty read, at 600 plus pages. You don't have to be into high culture to enjoy this book, as I have heard from folks from many walks of life about the profound effect this book has had on them. The novel is epochal in scope. Set in the context of India during the Indira Ghandi era [1970s], it illuminates on a very intimate scale how Ghandi's reforms, termed "the Emergency," aimed at "cleaning up the slums" affects several individuals who make their way to the city to find work only to endure the most painful of losses. We wander with these men as they move from their hometowns to Mumbai, start with high hopes and settle for an existence that is almost unimaginable. Along the way, there are many plot twists, reflections on the political situation facing the city through the lens of some of its poorest inhabitants, and many points of human connection. The three men, and the woman who employs them, find community among themselves. They learn to find a "fine balance between hope and despair." With artfulness and wisdom Mistry portrays the humanity of those who are living amidst the most dire of circumstances. The book is worthy of your time and, like a five-course meal, is to be savored. The ending, however, painful, is exquisitely wrought, leaving you with an image of humanity that you are unlikely to forget. Whether the novel takes you a week, a month, or even months to read, you will never regret the time that you have spent with it.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Comfort Food? THE HELP by Kathryn Stockett
I realize that in my last post I forgot to mention an intermediary category of books - books that are better than fast food, which one might term "comfort food." Books that I might call "comfort food" are those into which one deliciously slides during the first three or four pages. There are characters we can ambiguously love and others we can recognize as villains. Yet, these books are not exactly fast food, either, because they have redemptive characteristics -- good writing, intriguing historical information, parts that make you think and raise questions. This is why these "comfort books" often work well for book groups. They are widely enjoyable but have enough in them to provoke a good conversation. I would place The Help by Kathryn Stockett into this category.
Many have read The Help and it is almost unanimously described as a good and captivating read. The premise of the book draws on a familiar subject - segregation in the South - but with an unfamiliar twist: segregation at its most intimate level, symbolized by the creation of separate bathrooms in upper-middle-class homes that employ black maids. The whole premise seems shocking - the idea that one would fear sharing a bathroom with the woman who diapered and bathed your own baby. Or is it just social pressure that causes them to do so? There is a courageous and noble African-American maid whose name is Aibileen, and she is easily recognizable as a figure who is both generous and open-hearted toward the white child she helps to raise, while angry at the segregation and humiliation she endures. Then there is an open-minded university graduate who becomes increasingly outraged at the inhumanity she witnesses. Of course, there is a really nasty villain of the upper-class society lady variety, who is determined that African-Americans are to be treated as no less than animals. But the part that draws us in the most is when the increasingly conscious white women bond with the plight of African Americans to try to alter the system. In other words, there is redemption for some of the white women who had previously complied with the racist establishment.
Okay - here's the deal. This book is a great read, no doubt about it. But I have questions about how comfortable a read it is. Recently, I saved up for a trip of a lifetime [had never done the whole European tour as a youngster], and a large group of extended family went with me and my family on a cruise on the Mediterranean. While there, I noticed a number of well-heeled women clutching their volumes of The Help as they lay on easy chairs in the solarium [something I also did]. But should a book like this be that relaxing? I also found out that there has been a law suit by an African-American maid who worked for the Stockett family by the name of Abilene, who sued Stockett for stealing her story. The case is ambiguous, and there is no clear fault to be determined, but it does raise questions about the responsibility of novelists who profit from telling the stories of the disenfranchised, particularly when the material is so close to home. [See Laura Miller's article on the case in Salon: http://www.salon.com/books/laura_miller/2011/02/22/the_help_lawsuit]. The book is a comfortable read, which assures it a wide readership, but I am still left with questions as to whether that is the right emotion we should be feeling as we read this book.
Many have read The Help and it is almost unanimously described as a good and captivating read. The premise of the book draws on a familiar subject - segregation in the South - but with an unfamiliar twist: segregation at its most intimate level, symbolized by the creation of separate bathrooms in upper-middle-class homes that employ black maids. The whole premise seems shocking - the idea that one would fear sharing a bathroom with the woman who diapered and bathed your own baby. Or is it just social pressure that causes them to do so? There is a courageous and noble African-American maid whose name is Aibileen, and she is easily recognizable as a figure who is both generous and open-hearted toward the white child she helps to raise, while angry at the segregation and humiliation she endures. Then there is an open-minded university graduate who becomes increasingly outraged at the inhumanity she witnesses. Of course, there is a really nasty villain of the upper-class society lady variety, who is determined that African-Americans are to be treated as no less than animals. But the part that draws us in the most is when the increasingly conscious white women bond with the plight of African Americans to try to alter the system. In other words, there is redemption for some of the white women who had previously complied with the racist establishment.
Okay - here's the deal. This book is a great read, no doubt about it. But I have questions about how comfortable a read it is. Recently, I saved up for a trip of a lifetime [had never done the whole European tour as a youngster], and a large group of extended family went with me and my family on a cruise on the Mediterranean. While there, I noticed a number of well-heeled women clutching their volumes of The Help as they lay on easy chairs in the solarium [something I also did]. But should a book like this be that relaxing? I also found out that there has been a law suit by an African-American maid who worked for the Stockett family by the name of Abilene, who sued Stockett for stealing her story. The case is ambiguous, and there is no clear fault to be determined, but it does raise questions about the responsibility of novelists who profit from telling the stories of the disenfranchised, particularly when the material is so close to home. [See Laura Miller's article on the case in Salon: http://www.salon.com/books/laura_miller/2011/02/22/the_help_lawsuit]. The book is a comfortable read, which assures it a wide readership, but I am still left with questions as to whether that is the right emotion we should be feeling as we read this book.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Taste, Pleasure, and Reading
I realize that not all will share my book choices, which may seem by some to be a bit obscure. A bit of context might help here. I was an inveterate reader as a child, demolishing whole series of "The Bobbsy Twins," "Nancy Drew," and other fast food reading for the younger set. No doubt, part of what made me such an avid consumer of books was the fact that I was a socially maladjusted child, not only somewhat precocious but super sensitive and lacking in basic social skills. Books were my junk food - they filled me up and whisked me away from taunts, teasing, and my parents' arguments. At one point when I was sick and bored, I was so starved to read something that I picked up the dictionary, meandering through the meanings and etymologies of obscure words.
As I aged, I was a promiscuous reader. I gobbled up mysteries, fantasies, and, on occasion, books that were somewhat akin to the "book club books" that play such a prominent place on today's bookstore shelves. I also had a few favorite authors of a more serious vein, especially as a young adult--books about women that I felt to be somewhat exotic, yet also possessed of the kind of navel-gazing that so many of us engage upon as young people: for instance, D. H. Lawrence, Anais Nin, Doris Lessing [especially The Golden Notebook]. Escape was still prominent in my reading, as was pleasure. In fact, pleasure and escape will always be a part of the reason that I read - that is, when reading is meant for entertainment rather than work.
Something has happened to my taste, though, since I have become beyond middle-aged and caught up with the competing demands of parenting and work. Pleasure will always come first, but I'm a bit more particular about the nature of my pleasure reading. You see, junk food will always fill you up if you're in a fix. And who has time to cook on a regular basis the kind of wonderful, exquisite dishes that you only get on occasion? I've become addicted to really good coffee and pay for it. For the rest, I would love to fill my cupboards with excellent cheeses, the best cuts of meat, fabulous breads, and the finest herbs, but it's hard to get these ingredients in Lansing and I can hardly afford to eat like that on a regular basis. Books, however, are an exception to this rule. The best books are not the most expensive ones - in fact, they're often the cheapest [the classics are free online]! I can dine on the most exquisitely crafted and meaningful books for the same price as a filling but less than memorable book. BUT, and this is a big but, I still always seek pleasure in reading. It has first of all to be a good yarn, one that can transport me out of my daily reality. I'm willing to wait a few pages or even a chapter for the book to draw me in, but, after that, if the book has not enticed me I'm unwilling to move on. I'm not particularly fond of post-modernist fiction as pleasure reading, because I have to work too hard to read it, but, for instance, there are many 19th century British novelists who can tell a story with the best of them with beautiful prose that I can enjoy for nights on end.
So, like a good wine, or good cheese, the taste for good reading can be cultivated. But, we still all need that filling fast food once in awhile. I am always on a quest to find just the right read that is captivating, pleasurable, and nourishing all at once.
As I aged, I was a promiscuous reader. I gobbled up mysteries, fantasies, and, on occasion, books that were somewhat akin to the "book club books" that play such a prominent place on today's bookstore shelves. I also had a few favorite authors of a more serious vein, especially as a young adult--books about women that I felt to be somewhat exotic, yet also possessed of the kind of navel-gazing that so many of us engage upon as young people: for instance, D. H. Lawrence, Anais Nin, Doris Lessing [especially The Golden Notebook]. Escape was still prominent in my reading, as was pleasure. In fact, pleasure and escape will always be a part of the reason that I read - that is, when reading is meant for entertainment rather than work.
Something has happened to my taste, though, since I have become beyond middle-aged and caught up with the competing demands of parenting and work. Pleasure will always come first, but I'm a bit more particular about the nature of my pleasure reading. You see, junk food will always fill you up if you're in a fix. And who has time to cook on a regular basis the kind of wonderful, exquisite dishes that you only get on occasion? I've become addicted to really good coffee and pay for it. For the rest, I would love to fill my cupboards with excellent cheeses, the best cuts of meat, fabulous breads, and the finest herbs, but it's hard to get these ingredients in Lansing and I can hardly afford to eat like that on a regular basis. Books, however, are an exception to this rule. The best books are not the most expensive ones - in fact, they're often the cheapest [the classics are free online]! I can dine on the most exquisitely crafted and meaningful books for the same price as a filling but less than memorable book. BUT, and this is a big but, I still always seek pleasure in reading. It has first of all to be a good yarn, one that can transport me out of my daily reality. I'm willing to wait a few pages or even a chapter for the book to draw me in, but, after that, if the book has not enticed me I'm unwilling to move on. I'm not particularly fond of post-modernist fiction as pleasure reading, because I have to work too hard to read it, but, for instance, there are many 19th century British novelists who can tell a story with the best of them with beautiful prose that I can enjoy for nights on end.
So, like a good wine, or good cheese, the taste for good reading can be cultivated. But, we still all need that filling fast food once in awhile. I am always on a quest to find just the right read that is captivating, pleasurable, and nourishing all at once.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Amsterdam Book Life
I read three books while traveling to Amsterdam - on the plane and in my drab and industrial hotel room. While I was traveling by myself and the hotel room lacked charm, I loved Amsterdam and enjoyed immensely the exuberant loveliness of the city with its canals, fantastically intricate and playful architecture, and cafes.
Being hard-pressed to find books I want to read these days, I'm excited that I found all of these three books all to be memorable and evocative.
First, I had ordered The Assault by Harry Mulisch from Amazon before I left, because it was an important Dutch novel. Apparently, this novel is a classic in the Netherlands, and I can see why. Set during the World War II era, the story is told through the lens of a growing boy who lost his parents, brother, and home because of the murder of a Dutch Nazi outside the door of his home in Haarlem. The boy is raised by his aunt and uncle and tries to tamper down the horrific memories of that time in his life, moving in and out of awareness, rendering well how many individuals deal with trauma as they age. I won't say more and be a spoiler, but there are many issues that come to the surface as he seeks to discover the truth about his parents' deaths and the degree of guilt or innocence that the various individuals involved possessed.
I also read An Equal Music by Vikram Sheth, which I chose because I had enjoyed Sheth's A Suitable Boy and found this one at a English used bookstore teeming with intriguing reads run by a delightful expat former football player from the states. This book is a smaller and quieter read than A Suitable Boy [which I highly recommend]. It's about an English musician who plays the violin in string quartets and suffers from a temperament which is not quite up to the demands of the job or ordinary love and life. Although a bit precious and overly romantic at times, it kept me busy reading throughout the entire flight back to the states and made me want to check out when the next string quartet will be coming to my university town of East Lansing. It should be a great read for musicians and those for whom music is a major influence in their lives.
Finally, while recuperating from jet lag, I read the short and moving novel, An Artist of the Floating World, which is by the renowned Kazuo Ishiguro, who is well known for The Remains of the Day and the more recent Never Let Me Go. I also chanced upon this first of Ishiguro's novel at my new favorite used book store in Amsterdam. Ishiguro has never disappointed me, and this particular narrative had a delightful symmetry that left me feeling very satisfied at the ending. The story is set in post-war Japan and tells the story of an aging artist who is at times living in the past--when he was an influential artist within Imperialist Japan--and the present, where what he perceives to have been his glorious past is denigrated by the young Japanese, including his own daughters, who find it necessary to turn upon that which had turned much of their country into rubble. The ending brings the man full circle, but, again, I won't be a spoiler. Let me just say that you could easily spend a few hours with this book, a cup of tea, and a hot bath, and you won't be disappointed.
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