Best reading for breastfeeding

Samuel Richardson, Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded (originally published c. 1741, available for free download at kobo.com)

I once read (modern-day) historical fiction described as that which painstakingly recreates the details of the historical era in question, then inserts a markedly anachronistic protagonist. This might explain the continued currency of a novel like Pride and Prejudice, whose heroine is strikingly modern in her independence of spirit. By contrast, Pamela could never be mistaken for historical fiction. It is a tale firmly rooted in the value system of the eighteenth century.

I tackled this book because I have a newborn and spend a lot of time nursing. It is possible but not ideal to flip pages while breastfeeding; so I've taken to reading free books on my iPhone, which thankfully glows in the dark during those late-night sessions. Pamela was free, and I've long wanted to read it due to its (perhaps dubious) reputation as the first proper romance novel. Really, it is a rigorous exposition of morality and manners couched in high melodrama. It is tedious, and beats every lesson stone dead.

But from an historical point of view it enlightens. Pamela, the teenage waiting-maid who becomes the object of her lord's attentions, is no less than a paragon of virtue. She repels "Mr. B"'s advances time and time again, even after he holds her prisoner and all hope for her chastity seems lost. However, her pristine character eventually wins him over, and her virtue is thus "rewarded" with marriage and entry into high society. But until then, Mr. B's uncontrollable lust makes a fool of him; he is forever lurking in closets and disguising himself in women's clothes in his attempts to surprise her in bed. These are the most entertaining bits of the book.

Richardson repeatedly reminds the reader of all of Pamela's virtues as a servant, a virgin, and eventually, a wife. But what I found most intriguing was Pamela's almost Christ-like demonstration of the one virtue that is never made explicit: grace. The unhappy virgin shows astonishing grace towards her master by ultimately accepting him, in spite of the fact that he has threatened her, kidnapped her, held her captive, and treated her with physical and verbal callousness. As soon as his intentions become honourable - when he wants to make her his wife instead of his harlot - she is all gratitude, accepting his past, present, and (it is once hinted) future indiscretions. This indiscretions are not trivial, as we learn he has a six-year-old "niece" who depends on him. The novel, indeed, is a testament to the eighteenth-century conviction that sexual innocence was at a premium for women only. I find it nonetheless amazing that this morality lecture has so little to say about Pamela's grace towards a man who is so clearly her moral inferior. She is pure, sweet-tempered, pious, clever, and courageous, while he is mercurial, arrogant, spoiled, and a libertine. Yet Mr. B's nobility alone is so compelling that it renders Pamela's act of grace nothing more than a matter of course. The novel's silence on this issue, more than anything else, makes it a fascinating window on history.

YA for OAs

Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay (Scholastic, 2008, 2009, 2010)

Paradoxically, while I enjoyed the Hunger Games and its sequels, they have ended my flirtation with YA (Young Adult) fiction. Over the past several years, I, like many other OAs (Old Adults), grew interested in YA after falling hard for the Harry Potter series. After Potter, I sampled only the most celebrated, or notorious, offerings of the genre, including an age-inappropriate foray into the Twilight saga, and a much more provocative and fascinating turn with His Dark Materials. I latched onto The Hunger Games, the next flavour of the month, after the trilogy consistently appeared on lists devoted to the best youth fiction for adults.

For the story's every strength, I found a corresponding weakness that kept me from truly embracing it. To wit: Collins happily refuses to glamourize war and its effects, resulting in a far more tentative "happy" ending than one would expect from the genre. This is good. Unfortunately, she does glamourize the exploitation of the protagonist, Katniss Everdeen, whose participation in the Hunger Games involves more fabulous makeovers and PR silliness than gritty hand-to-hand combat. And in theory, I appreciated the trilogy's central love triangle, which felt organic and showcased nice character arcs. Ultimately, though, I didn't care so much whether Katniss ended up with Gale or Peeta. Perhaps the film adaptations will perk up the romantic tension.

In short, this was capable YA fiction, and I burned through the three novels quick enough. But Rowling and Pullman have spoiled me with their transcendant storytelling, and ruined me for all the rest. It's back to the grown-up stuff for a while.

Back to posting

Kerry-Lynn's pick: Paula McLain, The Paris Wife (Bond Street Books, 2011).

Discussed: 9 June 2011 @ Ensemble (850 Thurlow Street, Vancouver)

I have decided to holler into the wilderness again, after a busy year during which I had no time or desire to spend my free time on a computer. But I miss cataloguing my reads - a year of fabulous reading has slipped from my brain. So without further ado, I'm back on track with The Paris Wife, though not necessarily with a bang. I applaud Kerry-Lynn for picking out new, untested fiction for book club while I gravitate toward literature with a pedigree, and in this case the literary premise was promising: a fictionalized account of the marriage of Ernest Hemingway to his first wife, Hadley, set largely in the Paris of the early 1920s. Their love was pure and intense, but sorely tested in a social world in which conventional marriage was an exoticism.

So why was the book so unfulfilling? Part of the problem was that I found the second half of the novel, in which Ernest and Hadley's marriage was failing, much more convincing than the happy first half. This is partly because it is made clear from the beginning that everything will end in tears. It is partly because Hadley's narrative voice seems fuzzy - the book is in the past tense, but is she recounting her story as an old lady? Or is narrator Hadley speaking from the perspective of now, from beyond the grave? I don't know, but McLain paints the historical backdrop in broad strokes, and the effect is impersonal and textbooky. (Would a contemporary American in Paris, especially a poor and unfashionable one, really cite Coco Chanel as the defining face of the age?)

All this is a fancy way of saying that I found the novel, or at least the first half, a little boring. I was, however, haunted by the account of open/hidden infidelity that cut Hadley so viciously. Her "good girl" persona becomes marginally more interesting when it survives the casual cruelties of Ernest and his lover Pauline. Even here, however, the story was all-too-familiar, and I found myself annoyed at having to rehash this perennial tale of woe.