I must confess

Stephenie Meyer, Eclipse (Little, Brown and Company, 2007) and Breaking Dawn (Little, Brown and Company, 2008)

(Okay, although I can count on the fingers of one hand the people who have read this blog , I feel obliged to include a spoiler alert here. I give everything away.)

I just read Nicole's rational response to my thoughts on the first two instalments of the Twilight saga. It was like my alter ego speaking. Everything she said seems correct, in particular her criticisms of Meyer's writing and her qualms about our young couple's enforced chastity. Thinking back over the last two books, which I also read with alacrity, I cringe at so many things, not least Edward's one point three million schmoopy remarks towards his lady love. The character development is shallow and the story as a whole lacks complexity. When I went to a local bookstore to purchase #3, the lady behind the counter said, "Let me guess - you were up all night reading the last one and you couldn't wait to see what happens." I wasn't up all night, thank you very much... but I might have been if I didn't have a husband who insisted on an 11 o'clock bedtime. It seemed appropriate that the cashier gave it to me in a brown paper bag. I am that ashamed of myself.

But whereas Nicole could hardly bear to finish Twilight, I ate it up. Same goes for the rest of the series. When Bella kissed Jacob, I thought, "No! No!" When at long last she consummated her relationship with Edward, I thought, "Yes! Yes!" Just like pressing a button. Why is this? Has it been too long since my last trashy novel? Perhaps. Did I see the Twilight movie and get swayed by Robert Pattinson's good looks? Possibly. But the bottom line: I am lowbrow. Not in a cool idiosyncratic way, just straight-up mass-market. My ability to suspend my disbelief outstrips my critical faculties. I also enjoy romantic comedies.

Acknowledging this will not deter me from arguing the merits of these books. I was especially impressed by the patched-together behemoth Breaking Dawn. I didn't think Meyer would make Bella a vampire, and she did. It was a gutsy move because it is not right, not PC, that our protagonist should have to alter herself so fundamentally in order to become "complete." It's creepy. And there is more fascinating creepiness: Bella loses her virginity only to wake up covered in bruises; then she endures a staggering birth/vampirization ordeal. Bloody, sick, riveting. I knew that Jacob would be provided for romantically, but I did not anticipate the object of his imprinting. His connection to Bella's offspring nicely tidies up that strand of the story line.

In the end, it's all cheap thrills... give me more.

Holding out for that teenage feeling

Stephenie Meyer, Twilight (Little, Brown and Company, 2005) and

New Moon (Little, Brown and Company, 2006)

After finishing the first two instalments of Stephenie Meyer's fabulously popular Twilight series, I have decided to give them a good review. It would be all too easy to pan them both, for the sometimes clunky prose and the repetitive melodrama

of the relationship between Bella Swan and Edward Cullen (living and undead, respectively). But that would be unfair; and if I was really concerned with such things I wouldn't have touched the series.

In fact, I devoured both books over the course of just a few days, and was, I'm ashamed to admit, just as enthralled with the teen romance as your typical pubescent girl. Bella and Edward are best compared to Romeo and Juliet in the immediacy and hyperbolic intensity of their mutual regard. While Bella spends much of her time wallowing in insecurity and comparing herself unfavourably to her chaste lover, Edward remains as faithful as a labrador retriever. Perhaps the series' biggest strength is Edward himself - even I got a crush on him. He contains within himself the recipe for a teenage girl's dream boyfriend: beautiful and devoted in equally impossible measure, thus assuaging any lingering insecurities; lusty yet gentlemanly. These amiable qualities outshine his disturbing traits: overprotectiveness, a penchant for stalking, melancholia, and unpredictable mood swings. (And I'm not counting the vampire-y things.)

What most fascinated me about the story was how well-suited it was to Meyer's vampire trope. Other than Bram Stoker's Dracula I have never read anything in the ever-popular vampire genre, and I couldn't really see the attraction. But it certainly works in Twilight, a romance novel with no sex (so far). Meyer is a Mormon, so she may have a vested interest in striking a delicate balance between keeping things clean and creating a convincing romance for her hormonal readers. Edward's vampire status allows her to do this. Bella and Edward are perpetually hot and bothered; not only does Edward also crave the taste of her blood, but as a vampire he is designed to attract Bella as well. Unfortunately, Edward cannot allow himself to "lose control" sexually because - and I realize how ridiculous this sounds - he might kill her. (Ah, sex and death.) All these intricacies can, of course, stand in for everyday adolescent shenanigans in the real world: hot-blooded girls and boys furiously making out but struggling to restrain themselves because they're afraid of pregnancy, disease, ridicule, shame, regret, and on and on. This must have been Meyer's intention. She makes it clear that Edward's unusual makeup (and advanced age) does not hamper his desire. (One of his funniest remarks goes something like, "I may be a vampire, Bella, but I'm still a man." Yes!)

So, if we're going to get any satisfaction from these two, either Bella has to become a vampire or Edward has to become human. And then they have to get married. Good thing real life isn't so complicated.

The origin of annoying

Leanne's choice: Nino Ricci, The Origin of Species

(Doubleday Canada, 2008)

Discussed 6 June 2008 @ Latitude (Main Street, Vancouver)

None of us had yet read anything by acclaimed Canadian author Nino Ricci, and I believe this was part of Leanne's motivation for her selection: to see what all the fuss was about. (So far, The Origin of Species has won the Governor General's Literary Award and has been shortlisted for the Trillium Prize.) But it seems that Ricci won't be winning any prizes from my book club.

We were all agreed that Ricci's writing was masterful. I personally found his prose much more sophisticated than that found in The Outlander, but Nicole reminded me that Ricci's subject matter affords much more "scope for the imagination" (these are Anne of Green Gables's words, not Nicole's). We were also all agreed that this one is not an urgent page-turner, excepting Alex's visit to the Galapagos Islands - a riveting episode.

The fact that The Origin of Species didn't have me on the edge of my seat did not deter me in the least (although it apparently deterred Jennifer, who for the first time didn't even finish the book. Tsk tsk). I was increasingly engrossed as Alex's back story unfolded, and truly awed by the way Ricci was able to draw tantalizing, but subtle, connections between ideas as diverse as evolutionary theory, agnosticism, ethnic and cultural identity, and (yes) love. I wish I could explain with more precision, but Ricci never lays out the connections for you, which I think is a strength of the novel. It's the kind of book that could use a companion university lecture.

While I was very enthusiastic, my fellow readers were more... irritated. Their appreciation for the novel's technical merits was dampened by their annoyance with Alex Fratercangeli, the protagonist (it would be too generous to use the term "hero"). Alex is insecure, neurotic, self-deprecating, and self-absorbed, and in many ways the story is simply about him trying to deal with his personal baggage. Doesn't exactly make one drop everything and run to the bookstore.  Admittedly, Alex is... flawed. But I found him to be a soul struggling to do the right thing in a world where he is surrounded by assholes. While we view his decisions through the filter of his own self-loathing, most (if not all) of his actions are humane. This was not enough to keep everyone invested in the story; both Nicole and Leanne, apparently, finished it out of a sense of (noble) book-club obligation.

Incidentally, we very much enjoyed the new restaurant Latitude. I loved the chickpea fries (great for an empty stomach), and a few of us ordered the delicious paella in tribute to Alex's dinner date fiasco. 

Stars (out of five):

Kerry-Lynn: 3.5

Nicole: 3

Leanne: 3

Jennifer: 2

Amanda: 4

Slumming it

Nell Dunn, Up the Junction (UK, 1963)

A former professor, now advisor/colleague, gave me this to read; he's been using it in one of his undergraduate British history classes. Like much of the best urban-working-class work from England's postwar cultural revolution, Up the Junction can only be described as electrifying. I felt the same charge shoot up my spine (only perhaps more so) when I first read Look Back in Anger (1956). 

What makes it so devastating is the unapologetic way it recounts presumably "real-life" tales of lawbreaking, casual sex, verbal abuse, infidelity, abortion, and racism in the back streets of south London. At first blush, there is no romance in these pages. Work, family, love, childraising, death - nobody it seems, is precious about these things, and the resulting picture is sordid at times, like everyone is merely hustling their way through life.

But for all her show of impartial reportage, Dunn, a wealthly young woman consciously chose her slum lifestyle, is clearly partial to her subjects. They are heroes to her, precisely because they can brush off tragedy and setback, and push on. She is particularly taken with her female peers, and I can see why. In most of the working-class-realism canon (at least in the early sixties), women figure variously as cowering housewives, witless victims of philandering husbands or predatory boyfriends, or man-eating materialists. No such women in Dunn's world - Rube and Sylvie work their way through the pool of eligible sexual partners with abandon, despite the ever-present threat of pregnancy. In short, they are like Arthur in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning - only women. 

But through a series of short vignettes Up the Junction sets the scene with razor-sharp precision, right down to the American rock 'n' roll tunes blaring from local jukeboxes. Dunn is careful to include bits of the sentimental lyrics, while the setting and actions make a mockery of them. I loved her authentic choices: "Twistin' The Night Away," "Rambling Rose," "She Said Yes" (Ben E. King), "Sherry" (the Four Seasons) "He's Got The Power" (the Exciters), "(I Love Him) I Will Follow Him."

Made-for-film book

Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (Philadelphia: Quirk Books, 2009).

This zombified rehash turned out to be exactly what I expected. It was a great read primarily because Austen's original is a great read. The new jokes were amusing, but not particularly funny, and tiresome by the end. Seth Grahame-Smith's best contribution is his stomach-churning descriptions of attacks by the "unmentionables," Charlotte's bodily decay, and Elizabeth's slaughter of her unfortunate enemies: "The ninja dropped to the floor - his innards spilling from the slit faster than he could stuff them back in. Elizabeth sheathed her sword, knelt behind him, and strangled him to death with his own large bowel." At a few points the language was strong enough to make me squeamish about my lunch.

I imagine that Grahame-Smith took on the endeavour of writing this book in the hopes that a large studio would option the film rights. His creative interpretation of a novel that continues to be wildly popular just begs to be put on the silver screen. The zombie slayings, as well as Lizzie's duel with Lady Catherine de Bourgh, deliver all the action of a summer blockbuster. And what hardcore P&P fan would not want to see the Bennet sisters lifting their petticoats in order to violently take out their opponents, undead or alive? While the print adaptation has a mechanical, fill-in-the-blank quality, cinema would bring it to life.  

Scott is in the details

Bryan Lee O'Malley, Scott Pilgrim vs. the Universe (Vol. 5) (Oni Press, 2008)

Okay, I have to stop it with the corny post titles but this one was so apropos I couldn't resist. I love the Scott Pilgrim series (and not just because my old band wrote the song that inspired the guy who created the comic). What I really love about it is its ability to overcome its cultural profile. There are other art works that do this - those books or movies or songs that aren't pioneering, but are so strong that they win our hearts. 

Weezer was like this. Just a pop-rock band, four white guys from LA, no new stories to tell. But note-perfect (at least their first two albums). And Scott Pilgrim is like this. The story features an indie-rock-style protagonist, in his twenties, mediocre band, McJob, totally self-absorbed, meets cute girl. O'Malley's not blazing any trails here. But his execution is what sets the series apart. Everything  - from the story (a superhero/video game metaphor for emotional baggage), to the mannerisms of the characters, to the illustrations - are so sincerely and lovingly rendered. Examples: O' Malley's footnote stating that dollar amounts are Canadian currency. Scott's silent, knuckle-biting reaction to Ramona's off-hand remark that she doesn't like his band. And I have a crush on the producer of the Sex Bob-omb album, but he wouldn't like me because (1) he's gay, and (2) he's an asshole. But it's futile to describe what makes this comic lovely; its strong suits are better seen than explained.

The changing face of Booker

The dining room of the real Hotel du Lac

Anita Brookner, Hotel du Lac (Jonathan Cape, 1984)

This was a wonderful little book. Sad to say, I am one of those young ladies unreasonably devoted to period English romance. Persuasion and Howard's End are among my all-time favourite novels, and I share Bridget Jones's compulsion to rewind Colin Firth's dive into the pond in the BBC's definitive adaptation of P&P. So imagine my pleasure at discovering this throwback among my old books. Hotel du Lac was published in 1984, but it takes place in the 1950s or 60s, and reminds one most strongly of Forster's A Room with a View, both in setting and tone. No one writes serious fiction of this stamp anymore, or so it seems.

Edith Hope is a marvelous heroine. She hopelessly out of step, hopelessly independent, and hopelessly true to herself, choosing to be the mistress of a man she loves instead of the wife of a man she likes (twice). We cheer her on, partly because, unlike so many other romantic leads, she is neither pretty nor charming enough to be so bold. And she writes romance novels (!), proof that she is much more passionate than people (herself included) give her credit for. 

It is noteworthy that Brookner won the 1984 Booker Prize. The event says more about the prize than the book. Despite its obvious merits, I wager that Hotel du Lac would never receive such recognition if it was published today. Over the last twenty-five years, fiction's frontiers have moved far beyond Europe, and the winningest books now wrestle with issues of colonialism, identity, migration, poverty, violence. Their protagonists skitter along the peripheries of the bourgeois world, the world in which Edith Hope, notwithstanding her quirks, is entrenched. Yes, it is arguable that Brookner's novel is a feminist re-reading of postwar, middle-class spinsterhood, but from the perspective of today's Man Booker judges, second-wave feminism is passé, even quaint. The politics of publishing and promotion have changed, and perhaps for good reason: there are new, more urgent stories to be told. But I wonder how many talented Anita Brookners are out there today, trying in vain to get published.