Cats and Friends and other stories

This long and somewhat discombobulating week has contained one unique highlight: fellow Blogengamot member and blog-commenter Arabella and her husband came to town! I have to say, getting to meet longtime internet friends is awesome.

Plus, they brought me books.

I am SO EXCITED. And my shelves are nearly full again.

Being sensitive to feline ideals, they also brought a new toy for Maia. Maia was much less generous and spent the whole time hiding. Naturally, she later discovered the toy and claimed it for her own without hesitation.

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Writers' link of the week: Randall Davidson's Crucial Proofreading Tips. Plain good sense.

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Music of the week: Les Mis is coming out as a movie again. It stars Anne Hathaway, Hugh Jackman, Russell Crowe... what do you think?

If you want to hear the whole song sung by a quality voice, here's an option.



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Random amusement of the week: Gender Genie. It'll tell you whether it thinks you write more like a man or like a woman. According to its secret divining algorithms, I blog like a man:

Female Score: 344
Male Score: 509

and write fiction like a woman, but only barely:

Female Score: 1562
Male Score: 1541

I'm not sure whether to be confused or offended or just thoroughly diverted, but there you have it. :)

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And now I'm going to try and scrape together the rest of my day into some sort of profitability. Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: The Giver

Now Jonas had a thought that he had never had before. This new thought was frightening. What if others—adults—had, upon becoming Twelves, received in their instructions the same terrifying sentence?

What if they had all been instructed: You may lie?

His mind reeled. Now, empowered to ask questions of utmost rudeness—and promised answers—he could, conceivably (though it was almost unimaginable), ask someone, some adult, his father perhaps: “Do you lie?”

But he would have no way of knowing if the answer he received were true.

Author: Lois Lowry

Synopsis: Jonas lives in a safe world, where people rarely suffer and inexorable order and politeness rule. But when he is assigned the vocation of Receiver of Memory, he learns that life has not always been so tidy, and that his community keeps some horrifying secrets to preserve the sense of safety. As his work gradually isolates him from his family and friends, Jonas plots escape, but his plans are thrown into chaos when one of the secret horrors threatens his foster brother's life.

Notes: The Giver is one of those books that regularly turns up on the challenged-book lists, primarily for material “not found suitable for children.” I suspect, though, that it's almost better to read it as a child, after you're old enough to handle things like the deaths of cute little animals on the Discovery channel, but before your mind and your comprehension of suffering have developed to maturity. If you wait till you’re in your thirties, you might find yourself in unexpected, explosive tears. Fair warning.

For the sake of concerned parents who have somehow missed this book (as I did), here's my best non-spoilerific attempt at advisory: there's a non-gory but very clearly described (and unbelievably appalling) death scene. Jonas also endures a brief but viscerally painful war memory.

The book is worth reading, however, worthy of its general status as a classic; it's thoroughly human, and the requisite grief is honest in its reinforcement of compassion and value for life. The writing style is deceptively simple, and the narrative short and readable. The apparent utopia and its horrific underpinnings are viewed through the eyes of a sensitive twelve-year-old boy, and Jonas naturally evokes sympathy. He’s so sympathetic, in fact, that it’s a surprise to realize, part way through the book, just how much of normative human experience he and his community are missing.

The tale has its faults, of course. The worldbuilding is so clearly science fiction in mood that the fantasy elements prove a bit startling. Memory transfer, which appears to be an innate magical power, comes out of nowhere; also, Lowry never explains the existence of a sky with no sun. These and other such were niggling details, but though they worked against the suspension of disbelief, they could not destroy it in light of the convincing characters and the all-too-believable inhumanity.

Thomas More's Utopia had an obvious influence on the structure of Jonas' community: family size regulations, carefully assigned work, schedules with little to no room for spontanaeity. As with More’s work, the society starts off sounding like a good idea; creepier, less human practices show up over time. Unlike its predecessor, however, The Giver portrays a couple of the resulting situations in unsoftened, stomach-turning horror, intimate and devastating. Its picture of affectionate compassion and pragmatic murder juxtaposed in the same person works as a fierce indictment of numerous attitudes and practices in modern society.

The ending is somewhat ambiguous, though the author has apparently made reference to the characters’ fate in other tales of Jonas' world. The book stands alone well enough, however, and offers hope despite its horrors and uncertainties—a hope centered in the redemptive character of Jonas. Like many a child protagonist, he sees the world with an innocent clarity, a striking purity of heart. The very hopefulness of his closing dreams and of his selfless bravery are the sort of thing that can stand between the human person and inhumanity.

Recommendation: Read it for its portrayal of courage and beauty against soul-destroying lovelessness.

Memorial Day

I tried to get a blogalectic post together for today. Honestly, I did. For excuse, I plead the Great Annual Memorial Day Street Hockey Game. And a weekend filled with family.

Masha, you get a week off. The blogalectic returns next Monday.

May the souls of all who have died in battle, particularly those who defended our freedom, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. And may all those who have lost loved ones to war find comfort and hope.

Gratuitous Cat Pictures and other stories

Last week, George reminded me that there's dubious justification for a Friday post with no gratuitous cat picture. On account of which, I went spelunking under the bed to make sure I got one for today's post. You're welcome.

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There's nothing like lettuce for gratifying the would-be gardener with speed and abundance. I've not been short on salad fixings this week.

We'll say less about the kale.
But I think the potatoes may try and strangle the blueberries
in the dark of some night. They're humongous, and it's not even June.

Also, the first of the peonies opened just a couple of days ago:

...and it's part of this scene:

Someday I should take a picture of the monster dandelions just off stage right in the above shot. And then take a scythe to them. Or perhaps a backhoe, since dandelions will regrow from the tiniest bit of taproot. We're slowly winning the garden back from the weeds, though, and I'm loving that.

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You can learn a lot from fiction, including how to protect yourself if you fall into a river. As a reader and writer, it's a delight to hear a kid saying he responded with the knowledge of a favorite protagonist (in this case, D.J. McHale's Bobby Pendragon) in terrifying circumstances and survived in small part because of that.

As a former whitewater rescue technician, I found the video of the rescue very moving. Water in motion gets very deadly very quickly—six inches can take you off your feet or stall your car, twelve inches can float some cars, and mild little rivers can pin the strongest swimmers to submerged branches or other obstacles, just like spaghetti to the bottom of a colander. Rescue, even with backup safety practices, can be extremely dangerous. I was an emotional disaster after just taking the rescue class, which is why I'm a former WRT and not a current one, but it's good to know what to do. Stay safe around rivers, canals, floods, and the ocean!

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Writers' link of the week: The Opinionator's "The Most Comma Mistakes." Completely awesome.

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Music of the week: I don't link enough opera. Here's Puccini's "Humming Chorus" from Madama Butterfly.



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Random amusement of the week: Thirteen simple steps to get you through a rough day, from Buzzfeed's Matt Stopera. OH MY GOODNESS I NEEDED THIS TODAY. I have cried over everything, including the Swiftwater Rescue video. But after the thirteen simple steps, and coffee, and playing Final Fantasy songs on the piano, and especially the good bawl-it-out chat with my mom, I do actually feel better.

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It also helps that after a very rainy week, the sun has come back. And my house is clean, and Lou should be home soon. And I got a phone chat with my almost-three-year-old niece, who greeted me as follows: "I love you, Aunt Jen! And I love my candy."

Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: Shadow Hunt

The wind hissed and the bracken rattled. Nothing pounced on him. Wolf sat up. He peered this way and that, first fearfully and then with rising hope. Where was the demon? Perhaps he’d lost it.

Two yards away, a gray puffball head with glittering eyes rose over the ferns. Half of the face was white, half dark red.

Author: Katherine Langrish

Synopsis: While attempting to escape the monastic life his family forced on him, young Wolf comes across an elf-child and captures her at the behest of a lord from over the mountains. Meanwhile, the lord’s daughter, Nest, would rather be in a convent than marry Lord Godfrey as has been arranged for her. When Wolf and Nest become friends, they must unite to protect the elf-child, free Nest’s father from his obsession with Elfland, and escape their enemies, which include an abusive monk, a self-centered lord, and a demon from hell.

Notes: Because I’m Catholic, and because the popular narrative about the Church—especially in the Middle Ages—is monstrous (and fraught with varying degrees of inaccuracy), and because I know some of my fellow readers will have similar feelings—let me say that on first read, I was very wary of where Langrish was going to take her tale. Let me also say, however, that by the end I felt at ease for the most part, even appreciative of the way she handled some things; and further, that I loved the story itself and wanted to re-read it and add it to my books-to-buy list.

Set in Wales in an undisclosed time, though clearly during the centuries when clerical celibacy was canonically mandated but largely not practiced, this little novel expertly builds a medieval world in which the supernatural is as much an accepted fact of life as the natural. The mythology of the elves is either an original creation or something drawn from a source I’ve never read, but the angels and demons are familiar enough. Both the windswept, stormy Welsh landscape and the otherworldly interactions are beautifully and, in context, believably portrayed.

Wolf and ‘Nest’ (the Welsh form of Agnes) are characters well situated in fairytale tradition: active, brave, curious, and just the right mixture of precocious and childlike. Their charge, silent little Elfgift, evokes sympathy as well; we never get her perspective, but we get to watch bits of her humanity creep out of her instinctive animal terror.

The enemies—but saying much about them would involve spoilers. They work, interestingly enough, as a twisted form of trinity: a priest who uses God’s laws to beat people down rather than build them up, a selfish and entirely human fool, and an evil spirit. Their effects on Lord Hugo (Nest’s father), Wolf, Nest, and the general state of peace are fully comprehensible. It’s a good setup for story conflict, and is well resolved.

The story carries a hefty thread of female bravery and independence. Nest prays for a good and important work to do before her marriage, a thought which perhaps fails to recognize the great goodness and importance of marriage and childbearing, but rightly recognizes a woman's need for worthwhile activity beyond that. Her feelings make sense, and her retorts to Sir Thomas and Godfrey in the chapel—invoking several saint stories—were overall rather enjoyable despite the stereotypical 'anti-woman churchman' routine that inspired them. Sir Thomas, after all, seemed to have forgotten how closely Adam was involved in Eve’s sin.

The tale is a good read from start to finish, but the end is much of what made the book for this reader. There’s a bit of very clear redemption imagery, and Sir Thomas presents himself in a way evocative of Caiaphas before the crucifixion of Christ. The supernatural aspects come off with beauty and strength, and the final little down-to-earth scene is sweetness itself.

Recommendation: Read it for a likable, liminal little tale of heroism and the search for freedom and peace.

Top Ten Tuesday Fail

The hint of a cold I mentioned last night involves a headache today, so I'm going to take a sick day and try to catch up on some other stuff, like email and finishing tomorrow's book review. I may also just slack off between laundry loads. We'll see. Either way, back soon...

A Ramble on Time, Culture and Reading

“He never chooses an opinion; he just wears whatever happens to be in style.” 
~Tolstoy

So, what effect does our time and culture have on the books we write, or read, or love?
~Masha

Our blogalectic began a year ago Wednesday, and though Mr. Pond has fallen prey to deadlines and hosting an academic conference on Harry Potter, Masha and I are going strong. Happy Birthday to the blogalectic, my fellow blogalecticians, and all our friends!

Masha hit us this week with a question that could fill books, at least if answered generally. We could discuss thousands of implications of cultural perception, political issues, popular spiritual ideas and the expansion of media influence (which Masha mentioned) upon literature and our ideas of it.

I don't have time to research and write any of those books tonight. A little secret: most weeks, I write this post on Friday or Saturday and review it the following day to make sure it makes some degree of sense. With Lou away and other family in town, this weekend was not conducive to blogging. Therefore, tonight I'm blogging on the fly, and I'm sleepy and a touch cranky thanks to having a hint of a cold. So I'm breaking with form, just for the fun of it, and will answer Masha's questions according to whim. Read at your own risk.

First, she says something I should probably leave alone, but can't:

"...the general effect of the spirit of our times on what we read is that the overwhelming presence of media in our lives encourages our natural tendency to absorb the opinions of others. We swallow what is sold to us, without thinking and convince ourselves that Oprah’s picks really are good, that the bestseller list is the place to look for quality fiction, just as the top-rated t.v. shows are the best of television. That's not to say that popularity is always an indication of bad-quality, but sadly, in "these our times" I think it often is."

Never having paid enough attention to Oprah's picks to knowingly read one, I can't answer for the quality thereof. The Times bestseller list, at least as regards adult novels (as opposed to children's or YA) has mostly given me indifferent experiences: interesting stories, more or less prettily told, usually capable of calling up a few tears, but not life-changing.

But I take issue with the idea that popularity and bad quality are linked, particularly as it relates to our time as opposed to any other. We members of the American proletariat have on average probably more education than any set of average countrymen in history, at least prior to the mid-1900s, and our books reflect that; there's more of everything being published, be it genius or be it crap, than ever before. The past has been sorted for us. The present is still mid-inundation. Stuff will get popular, based on speaking to some need or desire (or if nothing else, shocking the pants off the reading public), and time will sort it down somewhat for next century's readers.

Popularity and accessibility are certainly linked, however, and this poses problems for the carefully-cultivated connoisseur. Tolkien? Great artist. Not accessible in the least. Tolstoy? Great artist; maybe accessible in Russia, but not so much in America. Rowling? Very, very accessible. Not a great prosist at all, though she can absolutely be defended as an artist and a genius on other levels. There are a few authors, a comparative few, who manage both prose artistry and accessibility. C.S. Lewis was one. Neil Gaiman is another. I'm striving for that, myself, but we have yet to see whether I succeed.

But Masha also answered her question personally:

"The effect [of our marketing-driven age] on my reading is often to encourage retreat. I’m not interested in shallow romances, wandering prose, or undisciplined imaginations. I’m not interested in weak images or book versions of country songs, so I sometimes fall back into isolation - reading authors I love, or authors loved my favorites. But I’m also not going to abandon my own age - there is beautiful writing being done all around us, and I can forgive an author a good deal if he can form his words well..."

I have struggled all week with how to respond to this. Masha's difficulty finding readable work doesn't exist for me to the same extreme, but I have problems of my own.

Or rather, problem. Singular. The difficulty lies in the significant amount of tension and distance present between me and "our time and culture." It exists for numerous reasons, ranging from my being an introvert to my being the sort of person who can't usually be bothered with television and radio because they interfere with thought process; from my having been homeschooled to my finding key platform points of both major political parties utterly appalling. All told, it makes me a little weird and "out of it", and the trials inherent in being weird tend to encourage my natural uncertainties.

Therefore, in searching for books to read, I apply the very inexact science of choosing works that look interesting, in the hope that I'll learn something or at least enjoy myself without feeling belittled or attacked or imposed upon by authorial agenda. I approach writing in hopes of creating that experience for others who have any feelings similar to mine, while hopefully not belittling or attacking or imposing upon anyone. And I love the books that speak to my own needs and desires and encourage me to better things, regardless of their relevancy to this day and age.

And now I need to water my hanging basket, re-check two library books, and go to bed. Sleep calls, and I cannot refuse. Good night.