I (heart) Michael Ondaatje

Oddly, as I was reading this story, I actually thought, "Sounds like a character from Murakami's work." You know, since I read one single Murakami book, making me an expert.

Moving on from being totally pretentious.

I've had In the Skin of A Lion on my coffee table for at least two weeks now, waiting to be reviewed. Or whatever it is I do here, with the books.

Michael Ondaatje's writing is just so lyrical. Whimsical. The man is my new best friend -- if he, like, knew me. So I guess I mean to say we should really be friends. I'd be all, "Hey, Ondaatje, tell me a fairy tale!" And he'd say, "Trish, do you really need another fairy tale? Hasn't your collection of chick flicks on DVD fed you enough lies about unattainable romantic love?" And I'd whisper uncertainly, "No...."

Moving on.

"In books he had read, even those romances he swallowed during childhood, Patrick never believed that characters lived only on the page. They altered when the author's eye was somewhere else. Outside the plot there was a great darkness, but there would of course be daylight elsewhere on earth. Each character had his own time zone, his own lamp, otherwise they were just men from nowhere." p. 143

And,

"Official histories, news stories surround us daily, but the events of art reach us too late, travel languorously like messages in a bottle.

"Only the best art can order the chaotic tumble of events. Only the best can realign chaos to suggest both the chaos and order it will become." p. 146

I know these snippets tell you little about this book. I raced through the novel, sprinted through it in a single day at the airport (it was a long, long day, although I have nothing to complain about really).

The image that stayed with me, though, was that of a nun falling off a bridge, grabbed, then shedding her skin for another life. I don't want to ruin anything for you, but it's so, so good.

I fell a little bit in love with Patrick -- more so in his later, quieter days than his early eager ones. But there is this wistfulness in him, from childhood through fatherhood. And, at once, mourned him. I really have to re-read The English Patient at some point. (Thanks, S.)

In the meantime, however, I am finishing Happenstance, before starting a George Orwell book for book club. I am fascinated by the idea no two people can ever really know each other, can ever actually crawl into each other's minds and understand what's going on. And I can't get over the pent-up anger in Carol Shields's women. (Again, talking like an expert when this is only my second Shields novel. Sigh.)

I am also overwhelmed by the reality -- the absolute truth -- that a woman needs a room of her own. And that this was once a novel idea, an idea to hold your breath for or cross your fingers for or wish with your whole body that someone else would understand.

I've always been so curious about women my age who refuse to identify themselves as feminists. They shy away from seeming militant or scary. But I see that I, too, have just no idea.

women-children and men-protectors

I don’t get men.

This, I think, is a key reason I read so many books written by women -- being a woman, I understand women’s neuroses, interests, general attractions….

Men are a different story.

(Understatement of the year.)

Take, for example, Annie Hall. Some laud Diane Keaton’s character as this fantastic depiction of unique, difficult, unabashedly real women.

I grimace at her flighty, self-centred, crazed nature.

Now, there’s little about Woody Allen’s screenplays that compares to Haruki Murakami’s prose.

Except, of course, that I don’t get the main character’s attraction to both Naoko and Midori in Norwegian Wood.

Midori is all quirky mystery and unanswered questions; Naoko is a total basket case. In movie terms, Midori would be Kirstin Dunst’s super irritating heroine in Elizabethtown, while Naoko would be like…. Probably like any of Winona Ryder’s characters in any given movie. One specifically in particular, but if I tell you that I will ruin part of the book for you.

These two girls, both cast in the confusing light only 19-year-olds can create for themselves, could not come across as less attractive. And Toru’s infatuation and connection with both…. I just don’t know if I totally buy it as a love story.

Don’t get me wrong: I actually really liked this novel (thanks T&A!). I toted it all around with me over the last couple weeks, drinking in its total hotness -- Murakami has quite the imagination -- but still wondering, really, what drew Toru to the women in his life. Does he want to save them all? Fix them all?

Clearly, he is tied to Naoko because he wants to drag her back from the edge. He has a similar nurturing tendency with Midori, and ultimately -- to himself -- Toru comes up short in his inability to protect these women from the world.

In fairness to Murakami, he allows the reader to come to the conclusion on her own that Toru’s sense of powerlessness in connection to Naoko, particularly, is misplaced. Naoko has her own shit to deal with, and there is little Toru can do to sway her in any way.

But perhaps this is what bugs me about the way some men cast love stories: In Norwegian Wood, particularly, the hero gets the benefit of adulthood even in narration, while the quasi-heroines are women-children doomed from the start.

countdown!

(I realize this is the second time in about 10 days that I'm using the same graphic map. But, well, consider it a stand-in scene setter for now. Also, thanks a million to Sarah for sending links to info about the north -- much appreciated!!)

I can't decide whether I'm running away from summer or running toward the sun. But in a matter of days I will be in a place where the sun sets at 1 a.m. (and rises at 3 a.m.) and the temperature barely notches past 10C (if I'm lucky).

Such an adventure.

For inspiration, I've already packed The Sweet Edge and Late Nights on Air. The latter novel, funnily enough, comes up again and again as I make preparations to meet people up north. They keep mentioning the lure of the Territories, people's particular interest in the area at the moment, and the fact Elizabeth Hay won a Giller for her descriptions.

I'm also packing along Norwegian Wood, which I am still loving. Even if the author is making fun of the reader:

"'You've got this funny way of talking,' she said. 'Don't tell me you're trying to imitate that boy in Catcher in the Rye?'

'No way!' I said with a smile.

Reiko smiled too, cigarette in mouth. 'You are a good person, though. I can tell that much from looking at you. I can tell these things after seven years of watching people come and go here: there are people who can open their hearts and people who can't. You're one of the ones who can. Or, more precisely, you can if you want to.'" (p. 131)

I have to admit I don't think Haruki Murakami's work reads at all like J.D. Salinger's. But perhaps that is something in the translation....

I will admit there's a certain baffled naivete to Toru Watanabe as a main character that brings to mind Holden Caulfield. But I like Toru approximately 100 per cent more, even when he wanders into unusual circumstances I almost can't fathom.

Okay, friends. That's all from me for now. Take a look at this, though -- I think it'll make you smile on a totally unrelated note.

Also, I won't be here, but book club date's been set for Sunday. I look forward to reading and posting reviews of the book.... hint, hint....

meditations on love

Well, now this is exciting. I loved Sarah Dunn's The Big Love because it was, frankly, unlike most "chick lit" reads. At once a meditation on love (love love, not lust love or accident love or even fairy tale love) and religion, the author questioned whether the two can meet in the 21st century. It was startlingly honest, and so different from the over-the-top sex stories you might find in, I don't know, a Candace Bushnell novel....

In other news, I'm reading Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood, a birthday present from T and A. (I was going to write that it was a gift from T&A, but that made me giggle, and my concentration faltered.)

Deep thoughts:

".... my memory has grown increasingly dim, and I have already forgotten any number of things. Writing from memory like this, I often feel a pang of dread. What if I've forgotten the most important thing? What if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud?" (p. 10)