Christine described Evanovich as people who would “have to live in a cave not to see her books.” Well, I am sure I must have noticed her books, but I have never read one or even looked at one before. This was quite an experience.
Evanovich’s long list of novels is quite impressive, especially in light of her main emphasis on plot. I can’t imagine coming up with that many plotlines! The book pulls in a reader and begins a fast and furious escapade. The fast pace of her story works well with her writing style since so much of the novel is over the top – in implausible characters and situations. While a reader of another novel might take time to protest an impossibility – shotgun-toting salesladies or spying devices better than anything in Get Smart – Evanovich keeps her readers flipping pages too quickly to stop and complain. At times, she seems to take a quick break in the narrative in order to set up a very comical scene. I had to laugh at the scene of the grandmother becoming part of the band, her son-in-law’s reactions, and Morelli’s designs on the cookies.
Novels with female narrators are rare; it is interesting that we have read four of them. All four authors employ narrators who appear to be honest enough that we see their flaws through their own descriptions. In all of the stories, this creates sympathy and pulls the reader to the character’s cause. I worried about all four as I read their stories. This one was the quickest read. Even though Stephanie shares a great deal about herself, I felt I knew less of her than the other narrators, but this could be because we shared a much shorter time with her. Readers of the rest of the series would probably feel as if they came with more clues as to her motivations.
One way I see Stephanie as different from Jemima is that Stephanie seems more self-confident and less likely to put emphasis on appearance. This might be because (and I have to admit I am jealous...) Stephanie seems to be able to eat anything she wants. Susie and Lily have a great deal of empathy for the suffering of others. In the same way, Stephanie forms an instant bond with Julie that ends up helping their rescue.
Obviously, Janet Evanovich has a huge audience. I am sure that Thirteen, Fourteen, and (my bet for the next – Foxy Fifteen) will all be best sellers if she sticks to her formula.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
The Role of Stories
The opening lines of The Secret Life of Bees signal a master storyteller at work. Lily, the first person narrator, describes the “way those bees flew, not even looking for a flower, just flying for the feel of the wind, split my heart down its seam,” giving hints of exciting times and sorrows to come (1). Within the opening paragraphs, Sue Monk Kidd also adds the religious undertones, “I want to say they showed up like the angel Gabriel appearing to the Virgin Mary, setting events in motion I could never have guessed” that will permeate the novel’s themes (2). Many twists and turns later, after May’s death calls for discussion of the rituals honoring the dead, the bees’ purpose in Lily's room becomes known: August explains “having bees around was supposed to ensure that the dead person would live again” (205). Those bees at the beginning of the novel begin a tale that ends by bringing Lily’s mother's memory to life for her; along the way, the bees send Rosaleen and Lily on a journey to find new lives. Throughout their journey, Kidd portrays the need for and sustenance provided by the power of stories.
Not all of Lily’s stories are true. In fact, she finds it difficult to keep her lies straight. That becomes even more difficult in a small town like Tiburon. When Neil first meets Lily and asks where she is from, Lily share with the reader, “This is the number one most-asked question in all of South Carolina. We want to know if you are one of us....We are looking for ways our stories fit together” (105). Lily’s truism relates to all of humanity, not just people in the southern states. Lily looks for her own story, for the way her mother felt about her, and for how her mother died. While she does not travel a long, physical journey, she does find a sisterhood, a master storyteller, and archetypal religious beliefs that shape her into a confident young woman.
Lily fits her story together with August’s in order to find a way out of her terrible life into a story with a hopeful future.
August Boatwright runs her business, leads her family, and mothers Lily through her stories. Whether she is telling the story of Beatrix the nun and Virgin Mary who stands in for her or if she tells the story of the origin of Our Lady of Chains, August teaches many of the characters through her parables. Lily acknowledges, “August loved to tell a good story” and then offers August’s explanation, “‘Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here’” (107). Kidd's entire novel points to the truth of August's words.
August’s wisdom shines throughout the novel. She patiently waits for Lily to come to her to tell the truth, and she tries to reveal Deborah's story in small pieces in order to spare Lily more pain than she has to give her. She begins with small but important truths like why her house is painted such an awful color in deference to May’s wishes: “‘You know, some things don’t matter that much, Lily. Like the color of a house. How big is that in the overall scheme of life? But lifting a person’s heart—now, that matters. The whole problem with people is .... they know what matters, but they don’t choose it....The hardest thing on earth is choosing what matters’” (147).
Later, when Lily chooses to forgive her mother and to understand her mother’s complicated
choices, August teaches her the most important life lesson: “‘Our Lady is not some magical being out there somewhere, like a fairy godmother. She’s not the statue in the parlor. She’s something inside of you’” (288). Lily has looked for a relationship with Our Lady. Beginning with fainting at the thought of touching her and continuing with Lily heaving jars of honey at the sacred statue, she has tried to understand her own connection with Our Lady. August now explains the important truth that some even older than Lily have never understood: “‘You have to find a mother inside yourself. We all do. Even if we already have a mother, we still have to find this part of ourselves inside’” (288). August plays a mothering role to many women, a couple of men, and at least one young boy; ultimatle she hopes they all become strong humans who can forgive themselves and others as they find their strength within. August achieves this through her own life’s example and through the examples of her stories.
Like the bees, the characters in this novel understand the importance of sharing stories.
One epigraph explains this about the bees: “The whole fabric of honey bee society depends on communication—on an innate ability to send and receive messages, to encode and decode information” (165). The bee’s swarming at the beginning sends the young girl on a journey. The journey leads her to important truths. In her search for her mother, she finds many surrogates, but most importantly, Lily finds herself.
Not all of Lily’s stories are true. In fact, she finds it difficult to keep her lies straight. That becomes even more difficult in a small town like Tiburon. When Neil first meets Lily and asks where she is from, Lily share with the reader, “This is the number one most-asked question in all of South Carolina. We want to know if you are one of us....We are looking for ways our stories fit together” (105). Lily’s truism relates to all of humanity, not just people in the southern states. Lily looks for her own story, for the way her mother felt about her, and for how her mother died. While she does not travel a long, physical journey, she does find a sisterhood, a master storyteller, and archetypal religious beliefs that shape her into a confident young woman.
Lily fits her story together with August’s in order to find a way out of her terrible life into a story with a hopeful future.
August Boatwright runs her business, leads her family, and mothers Lily through her stories. Whether she is telling the story of Beatrix the nun and Virgin Mary who stands in for her or if she tells the story of the origin of Our Lady of Chains, August teaches many of the characters through her parables. Lily acknowledges, “August loved to tell a good story” and then offers August’s explanation, “‘Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here’” (107). Kidd's entire novel points to the truth of August's words.
August’s wisdom shines throughout the novel. She patiently waits for Lily to come to her to tell the truth, and she tries to reveal Deborah's story in small pieces in order to spare Lily more pain than she has to give her. She begins with small but important truths like why her house is painted such an awful color in deference to May’s wishes: “‘You know, some things don’t matter that much, Lily. Like the color of a house. How big is that in the overall scheme of life? But lifting a person’s heart—now, that matters. The whole problem with people is .... they know what matters, but they don’t choose it....The hardest thing on earth is choosing what matters’” (147).
Later, when Lily chooses to forgive her mother and to understand her mother’s complicated
choices, August teaches her the most important life lesson: “‘Our Lady is not some magical being out there somewhere, like a fairy godmother. She’s not the statue in the parlor. She’s something inside of you’” (288). Lily has looked for a relationship with Our Lady. Beginning with fainting at the thought of touching her and continuing with Lily heaving jars of honey at the sacred statue, she has tried to understand her own connection with Our Lady. August now explains the important truth that some even older than Lily have never understood: “‘You have to find a mother inside yourself. We all do. Even if we already have a mother, we still have to find this part of ourselves inside’” (288). August plays a mothering role to many women, a couple of men, and at least one young boy; ultimatle she hopes they all become strong humans who can forgive themselves and others as they find their strength within. August achieves this through her own life’s example and through the examples of her stories.
Like the bees, the characters in this novel understand the importance of sharing stories.
One epigraph explains this about the bees: “The whole fabric of honey bee society depends on communication—on an innate ability to send and receive messages, to encode and decode information” (165). The bee’s swarming at the beginning sends the young girl on a journey. The journey leads her to important truths. In her search for her mother, she finds many surrogates, but most importantly, Lily finds herself.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The Lovely Bones
Alice Sebold’s novel depicts an unusual heaven, a hell on earth, and memorable characters in her story about connections – “sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent” – among people affected by Susie Salmon and her death (320). While Sebold does end her work fairly happily with interesting views on healing and heaven, the cruelty of the beginning and the stark suffering throughout can make this a very tough read.
Sebold plots her story well; many people devour the novel quickly to find out if the criminal is caught, if Abigail comes back, and if the family comes together. She also does a good job of weaving the parts of the story together. Places from the setting, in particular the sinkhole and the cornfield, are revisited in a way that builds suspense. For me, however, the pain of the family and their reactions seems too real. I have never been through a situation like that of the Salmons, but reading of their anguish was very difficult.
On the other hand, her depictions of heaven did not seem as probable as her descriptions of the brutal rape or the family’s reactions. While there were happy moments that seemed like heaven, when Holiday came and when Susie saw her grandfather for a short time, most of the time Susie seems to continue feeling pain. I wanted someone to kindly and gently show her how to heal. She had to endure watching the pain she had caused her family; it just seems extra cruelty on top of dying when she relates: “Almost everyone in heaven has someone they watch .... and when I wasn’t watching I could hear the others talking to those they loved on Earth just as fruitlessly as me .... one-sided cajoling and coaching of the young, a one-way loving and desiring of their mates, a single-sided card that could never be signed” (246). I really wanted her to be released from hurting; she had endured so much already.
When Susie leaves heaven to inhabit Ruth’s body and be with Ray, I lose faith with the story. I know she has watched both and this finally helps her to move on, but I did not think Sebold wrote this is a way to suspend any sense of disbelief. Throughout the novel, Sebold’s characterization believably brings the characters to life. Her details, like the dollhouses that George Harvey spends time on, make this creepy character more real. The grandmother is a bit over the top, but she does provide a sense of fun the family desperately needs. Lindsey, who defiantly refuses to accept the roles the principal and fellow students want her to take, seems true-to-life as she cries in the shower and wants to change her looks that remind everyone of Susie. After a novel that makes character and even heaven seem almost real, the situation of Susie and Ruth exchanging places seems completely wrong.
I read this book when it first came out, and I did not like it at all. Many of my good friends disagreed with me, and I could not really express why I felt such a strong dislike other than I thought the beginning was excruciatingly painful to read. My book club read it, but I did not re-read it. Most of them liked the novel. They thought my dislike might come from the fact that my daughter was about the same age as Susie when I read the book. This time through, I gave the author more credit for the aspects she did well, but I still have trouble with her book. As an English teacher often accused of only teaching depressing books, I am surprised that I have such a visceral reaction to the pain in the novel, but my dislike of it has not gone away. As I prepare to post this entry, I realize that I have always disliked the title itself and the underlying metaphor it adds to the novel. I have to admit, I am not part of the Sebold fan club.
One interesting comment that Susie makes near the end really does resonate with me, however. She said, “You don’t notice the dead leaving when they really choose to leave you. You’re not meant to.... I would compare it to a woman in the back of a lecture hall or theater whom no one notices until she slips out” (323). The excruciating pain people feel when a loved one dies eventually lessens. While the loss is always real, the sharp anguish felt at the beginning finally diminishes somewhat even as the importance and love for the person does not. Time does eventually help a heart to heal or at least to not be so painfully broken. I enjoy the image at the end of Susie making Buckley’s crazy garden bloom for her mother. I like the idea the Dr. Singh will be an empathetic doctor, one who will certainly ease a dying patient’s heart and mind. The justice of the icicle, foreshadowed earlier in the novel, finally ending George Harvey’s evil is an ironically good touch (although perhaps not too probable). But in the end, we are left with an innocent victim wishing all of us a long and happy life; it still does not seem fair.
Sebold plots her story well; many people devour the novel quickly to find out if the criminal is caught, if Abigail comes back, and if the family comes together. She also does a good job of weaving the parts of the story together. Places from the setting, in particular the sinkhole and the cornfield, are revisited in a way that builds suspense. For me, however, the pain of the family and their reactions seems too real. I have never been through a situation like that of the Salmons, but reading of their anguish was very difficult.
On the other hand, her depictions of heaven did not seem as probable as her descriptions of the brutal rape or the family’s reactions. While there were happy moments that seemed like heaven, when Holiday came and when Susie saw her grandfather for a short time, most of the time Susie seems to continue feeling pain. I wanted someone to kindly and gently show her how to heal. She had to endure watching the pain she had caused her family; it just seems extra cruelty on top of dying when she relates: “Almost everyone in heaven has someone they watch .... and when I wasn’t watching I could hear the others talking to those they loved on Earth just as fruitlessly as me .... one-sided cajoling and coaching of the young, a one-way loving and desiring of their mates, a single-sided card that could never be signed” (246). I really wanted her to be released from hurting; she had endured so much already.
When Susie leaves heaven to inhabit Ruth’s body and be with Ray, I lose faith with the story. I know she has watched both and this finally helps her to move on, but I did not think Sebold wrote this is a way to suspend any sense of disbelief. Throughout the novel, Sebold’s characterization believably brings the characters to life. Her details, like the dollhouses that George Harvey spends time on, make this creepy character more real. The grandmother is a bit over the top, but she does provide a sense of fun the family desperately needs. Lindsey, who defiantly refuses to accept the roles the principal and fellow students want her to take, seems true-to-life as she cries in the shower and wants to change her looks that remind everyone of Susie. After a novel that makes character and even heaven seem almost real, the situation of Susie and Ruth exchanging places seems completely wrong.
I read this book when it first came out, and I did not like it at all. Many of my good friends disagreed with me, and I could not really express why I felt such a strong dislike other than I thought the beginning was excruciatingly painful to read. My book club read it, but I did not re-read it. Most of them liked the novel. They thought my dislike might come from the fact that my daughter was about the same age as Susie when I read the book. This time through, I gave the author more credit for the aspects she did well, but I still have trouble with her book. As an English teacher often accused of only teaching depressing books, I am surprised that I have such a visceral reaction to the pain in the novel, but my dislike of it has not gone away. As I prepare to post this entry, I realize that I have always disliked the title itself and the underlying metaphor it adds to the novel. I have to admit, I am not part of the Sebold fan club.
One interesting comment that Susie makes near the end really does resonate with me, however. She said, “You don’t notice the dead leaving when they really choose to leave you. You’re not meant to.... I would compare it to a woman in the back of a lecture hall or theater whom no one notices until she slips out” (323). The excruciating pain people feel when a loved one dies eventually lessens. While the loss is always real, the sharp anguish felt at the beginning finally diminishes somewhat even as the importance and love for the person does not. Time does eventually help a heart to heal or at least to not be so painfully broken. I enjoy the image at the end of Susie making Buckley’s crazy garden bloom for her mother. I like the idea the Dr. Singh will be an empathetic doctor, one who will certainly ease a dying patient’s heart and mind. The justice of the icicle, foreshadowed earlier in the novel, finally ending George Harvey’s evil is an ironically good touch (although perhaps not too probable). But in the end, we are left with an innocent victim wishing all of us a long and happy life; it still does not seem fair.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Jemima J by Jane Green
Green’s descriptions of Jemima’s world ring fairly true – at the beginning of the novel. Many young women feel trapped in a job and overlooked because they do not measure up to society’s impossibly perfect standards. What draws in the reader is Jemima’s voice; she could be a co-worker, family member, or the reader herself with her opening lines “God I wish I were thin. I wish I were thin, gorgeous, and could get any man I want.” She then goes on to refute any objections from the reader: “You probably think I’m crazy, I mean here I am, sitting at work on my own with a massive double-decker club sandwich in front of me, but I’m allowed to dream aren’t I?” (1). Like Jemima, I most often long to lose weight when I am shoving in the calories. Like Jemima, I demand my right to dream. Unlike, Jemima, however, I am old enough to realize that life – while it can offer unbelievable coincidence, good times, true love, and happy endings – is not a fairy tale. However, reading a good fairy tale and dreaming big dreams helps to offset the demands made by our real world existence.
Two different reviews of this novel evoke fairy tale diction to discuss its merits. Nancy Pearl sums up Jemima’s story: “a sensible diet and regular exercise can turn any fat and ugly duckling into a slim, tanned, well-dressed, and exceedingly attractive swan.” Jean Reynolds discusses that “Green has entertainingly updated the Cinderella story, though Jemima finds that even in the vastness of cyberspace, a charming prince is hard to find.” Jane Green’s own website even echoes the language: “this ugly-duckling-turned-swan story.” The fairy tale aspects of the novel are what cause such a strong reaction in readers, as Green comments that people love or hate her book. Some people just are not ready for fairy tales – or perhaps feel they have moved beyond them.
This novel is one of transformation, a reinventing of self, which is a theme that runs throughout much of literature, particularly American, but whose roots can be found in fairy tales in all languages. Jemima begins as a Cinderella figure, minus a parent and living with two evil step-sisters. The story of Cinderella prepares the reader for Sophie’s and Lisa’s treachery with Ben’s phone number and his going away party. As Jemima becomes more thin and swan-like, the two evil sisters become more grotesque and pitiable culminating in the comic scene where Sophie pretends to be Ben’s girlfriend. As the two enter the party, Jemima describes them “like a bloody parody of themselves,” and she’s “pretty damn sure I’m doing about as perfect as impression of a Cheshire cat as I know how,” another literary allusion to a fairy tale novel. Through the eyes of Jemima and the narrator, the reader laughs at Sophie and Lisa’s defeat.
The next step for Jemima is a quest, one that completes her transformation and necessarily takes her to a different place to begin her new life. She travels to America and even lives up to the harsh standards of Hollywood where appearance trumps everything. Jemima delights in the attention she receives for her “new” body although she does have some disquieting moments as she wonders if this plastic paradise is really what she wants. Next, she discovers a false prince, finally sees through him with the help of her good friends, and reveals her Cinderella princess/beautiful swan self to her true prince, the one beloved by his kingdom. Finally, she returns home to a presumably wonderful life with Ben, and the final words echo another fairy tale, in their description of a place over the rainbow: “It’s wonderful, and vibrant, and real. And most of all, it’s home.” The epilogue even offers the moral of the fable: “But fairy tales can come true, and just like Jemima Jones... “if we trust in ourselves, embrace our faults, and brazen it out with courage, strength, bravery, and truth, fate may just smile upon us too” (373). What’s not to like about that?
Why does such a sweet story evoke such strong reactions? One of the reviewers I mentioned before sees the novel as “superficial” while the other finds it entertaining and witty. I believe that Jennifer Maher in her article “The Post-Feminist Mystique” addresses this love it or hate it reaction: “This notion of fantasy and escape fuels much of the audience for chick-lit, I would argue, and this is both its strength and its weakness....Whether a fall into fantasy as a response to inequality is a positive or a negative response depends on one’s critical alliances” (Maher 198). As long as we see a fall into fantasy as just that – a fairy tale – the novel becomes innocuous fun. So what if it is implausible? So what if too much importance is placed on appearance? Green does add disclaimers along the way. Jemima realizes “The weird thing is that people judge me by my looks as much as they did before, only now they just come up with a completely different conclusion, and yes, I have a boyfriend, but my life certainly isn’t the fairy tale I thought it would be” (313). Even Ben realizes “the longer [he] sits in this restaurant with this beautiful woman, the less she becomes a gorgeous blond, and the more she becomes Jemima Jones, for [he] looks past the legs, the dress, the hair, and he sees his old friend, a friend, he suddenly realizes, he never wants to walk out on again” (355). A good read, a good moral – why would people hate that? Because they can; that is what reading is all about.
I divide books into those I read before going to bed at night; those I need to be wide wake and thinking about while reading; and those I want to read in an academic setting that will provides tools, discussion, and lots of insight in order to sort out possible interpretations. I would classify Jemima J as part of the first group, which in no way belittles the book; I still consider it interesting and well-written, but I don’t grab for a highlighter while reading it. As Green’s website said of the book, it is one “you’ll gobble up in a single setting.” I did tear through it and would recommend it as a cute, fluffy read. I will never outgrow fairy tales!
Two different reviews of this novel evoke fairy tale diction to discuss its merits. Nancy Pearl sums up Jemima’s story: “a sensible diet and regular exercise can turn any fat and ugly duckling into a slim, tanned, well-dressed, and exceedingly attractive swan.” Jean Reynolds discusses that “Green has entertainingly updated the Cinderella story, though Jemima finds that even in the vastness of cyberspace, a charming prince is hard to find.” Jane Green’s own website even echoes the language: “this ugly-duckling-turned-swan story.” The fairy tale aspects of the novel are what cause such a strong reaction in readers, as Green comments that people love or hate her book. Some people just are not ready for fairy tales – or perhaps feel they have moved beyond them.
This novel is one of transformation, a reinventing of self, which is a theme that runs throughout much of literature, particularly American, but whose roots can be found in fairy tales in all languages. Jemima begins as a Cinderella figure, minus a parent and living with two evil step-sisters. The story of Cinderella prepares the reader for Sophie’s and Lisa’s treachery with Ben’s phone number and his going away party. As Jemima becomes more thin and swan-like, the two evil sisters become more grotesque and pitiable culminating in the comic scene where Sophie pretends to be Ben’s girlfriend. As the two enter the party, Jemima describes them “like a bloody parody of themselves,” and she’s “pretty damn sure I’m doing about as perfect as impression of a Cheshire cat as I know how,” another literary allusion to a fairy tale novel. Through the eyes of Jemima and the narrator, the reader laughs at Sophie and Lisa’s defeat.
The next step for Jemima is a quest, one that completes her transformation and necessarily takes her to a different place to begin her new life. She travels to America and even lives up to the harsh standards of Hollywood where appearance trumps everything. Jemima delights in the attention she receives for her “new” body although she does have some disquieting moments as she wonders if this plastic paradise is really what she wants. Next, she discovers a false prince, finally sees through him with the help of her good friends, and reveals her Cinderella princess/beautiful swan self to her true prince, the one beloved by his kingdom. Finally, she returns home to a presumably wonderful life with Ben, and the final words echo another fairy tale, in their description of a place over the rainbow: “It’s wonderful, and vibrant, and real. And most of all, it’s home.” The epilogue even offers the moral of the fable: “But fairy tales can come true, and just like Jemima Jones... “if we trust in ourselves, embrace our faults, and brazen it out with courage, strength, bravery, and truth, fate may just smile upon us too” (373). What’s not to like about that?
Why does such a sweet story evoke such strong reactions? One of the reviewers I mentioned before sees the novel as “superficial” while the other finds it entertaining and witty. I believe that Jennifer Maher in her article “The Post-Feminist Mystique” addresses this love it or hate it reaction: “This notion of fantasy and escape fuels much of the audience for chick-lit, I would argue, and this is both its strength and its weakness....Whether a fall into fantasy as a response to inequality is a positive or a negative response depends on one’s critical alliances” (Maher 198). As long as we see a fall into fantasy as just that – a fairy tale – the novel becomes innocuous fun. So what if it is implausible? So what if too much importance is placed on appearance? Green does add disclaimers along the way. Jemima realizes “The weird thing is that people judge me by my looks as much as they did before, only now they just come up with a completely different conclusion, and yes, I have a boyfriend, but my life certainly isn’t the fairy tale I thought it would be” (313). Even Ben realizes “the longer [he] sits in this restaurant with this beautiful woman, the less she becomes a gorgeous blond, and the more she becomes Jemima Jones, for [he] looks past the legs, the dress, the hair, and he sees his old friend, a friend, he suddenly realizes, he never wants to walk out on again” (355). A good read, a good moral – why would people hate that? Because they can; that is what reading is all about.
I divide books into those I read before going to bed at night; those I need to be wide wake and thinking about while reading; and those I want to read in an academic setting that will provides tools, discussion, and lots of insight in order to sort out possible interpretations. I would classify Jemima J as part of the first group, which in no way belittles the book; I still consider it interesting and well-written, but I don’t grab for a highlighter while reading it. As Green’s website said of the book, it is one “you’ll gobble up in a single setting.” I did tear through it and would recommend it as a cute, fluffy read. I will never outgrow fairy tales!
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