Haroun and the Sea of Stories

The book I purchased yesterday, I read today – and enjoyed (but not on the same level as The Enchantress of Florence, Rushdie’s most recently published book). The short, amusing chapters were just right while I was waiting in a long line. In lieu of a review, I offer up the following list that Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie reminds me of, and if you can’t decide for yourself whether you’ll like it, then it isn’t my fault.

Books that Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie Reminds Me Of:

• Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll.
• The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster.
• Arabian Nights, or 1001 Nights.
• The Neverending Story by Michael Ende.
• The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and other books by Roald Dahl.
• The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle by Hugh Lofting.
• Half Magic and other books by Edward Eager.
• The Magic World by E. Nesbit.
• The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents by Terry Pratchett.
• Other books concerning storytelling, magical realism, and precocious children.

Two quotes I particularly liked:

[Haroun] knew what he knew: that the real world was full of magic, so magical words could easily be real.

And,

‘Ahem,’ the Walrus began. ‘Happy endings are much rarer in stories, and also in life, than most people think. You could almost say they are the exceptions, not the rule.’

The Word for World Is Forest

Sometimes I wonder, What are authors thinking? I know that often they are not responsible for the cover art of their novels, but let me at once assure you that there are no female protagonists, that they do not go around partially unclothed, and that the forest does not look like something someone hallucinated.

Next, what kind of a title is The Word for World Is Forest? In the story, the Ashtheans’ word for ‘world’ or, Ashthe, means forest in the same way that ‘terra’ means both ‘earth’ and ‘clay.’ No doubt, with such a title, Le Guin was trying to stress the importance that the Ashtheans placed upon the lovely and life-giving forests of their world…but this was conveyed by the fact that the peacable people committed their first violent act as a society in retaliation of a deliberately set forest fire. Wouldn’t Ashthe have implied the same meaning and been easier to say?

Lastly, the ‘aliens’ are three feet tall, covered in green fur, and can enter a sort of dreaming/waking state that separates ‘world-time’ from ‘dream-time.’ How bizarre is this! If someone asked you what your novel was about, wouldn’t you feel a little embarrassed to tell them, “Oh, it’s about short green furry dreaming aliens who struggle against Earthling colonizers”?

Nevertheless, the thematic thrust of the novel asks the question – as all good science-fiction must do – what is a human? The evil colonizers from earth (redeemed as a race only by the kind sensitivity of the anthropologist, Lyubov) fail to see the Ashtheans as human just like they are. The Ashtheans must persuade the Terrans that all are human together, and that they, the Terrans, should stop enslaving and persecuting them, the Ashtheans. Guess who prevails? [Hint: Forest was written during the Vietnam War.]

Okay, so it isn’t her best novel. But Le Guin fans will be delighted by the subtle way in which she sets it in her Hainish universe, and by the cameo of the ansible, and by the Ashthean culture, which is interesting and well-realized, if too-briefly touched upon.

Powell’s City of Books

While Philip and I were in Portland, Oregon, we made two (2) trips to spend our gift card at Powell’s Books. Powell’s is an enormous new and used bookstore, so large that it must color-code its rooms. Purple is history, Gold is mystery / horror / science fiction and fantasy, and Blue – my favorite – is fiction and literature.

The Blue Room

The aisle in the Blue Room extends twice as far as you can see, and the shelves reach the ceiling.

In the Gold Room, I geeked out when I discovered a column covered in science-fiction authors’ signatures. Evidently visiting authors are invited to autograph the building (!). Here is a sample of one side of the column, which included authors such as Terry Brooks, Robert Jordan, William Gibson, Brian Herbert, Connie Willis, Harry Turtledove, Neil Gaiman, and many spectacular others.

I apologize profusely for its being sideways. For the life of me, I cannot figure out how to rotate the photo. Anyway. The following, I think, will exonerate me from technical inadequacy.

My favorite authors Ursula K. Le Guin and Mary Doria Russell signed their names right next to each other!

*screams*

All right, I’m all right now. As they say, no one is a fan like a science fiction fan.

Some of the many books that Philip and I bought include Charlemagne by Derek Wilson, The Compass Rose by Ursula K. Le Guin, a prose translation of the Odyssey by T.E. Shaw (T.E. Lawrence), Liddel Hart’s biography of Lawrence, a VSI about Galaxies, And Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris, a history of Byzantium, About a Boy by Nick Hornby, something by Doris Lessing, etc. Most of them have now found places on the shelves in our new apartment (which is coming together beautifully – pictures soon).

I shall leave you with a view from our balcony at the Marriott Waterfront:

I’m Back.

I suppose I’m not so much ‘back,’ as finally here, the place I’ve been anticipating for so long.  My apartment in Texas with Philip, and it’s a very nice apartment indeed.  The books are mostly unpacked, which is most of the work, and we’ve already started putting things up on the walls.  We live on the third floor; therefore on move-in day, we decided, “Let’s live here forever.”

My honeymoon in Portland was lovely.  The hotel (Marriott Waterfront) was exceptional, and we had the concierge floor so it was exceptionally exceptional.  We had a view of the Willamette River, and we were in walking distance of Powell’s City of Books.  We went twice.  Also, the weather was amazing, a cool seventy.  Pictures forthcoming.  I also promise pictures of the apartment, when it is a little more assembled.

I went jogging for a very short while this morning.  There’s a public track that runs right by our apartment complex, and I followed it across the street to Serenity Park.  It was indeed serene: I was the only person in sight as I crossed the shaded wooden bridge over the gully with a trickle of water.  And then the path dead-ended and I turned around and did it all again.

Hello and Goodbye

Or rather, I suppose I ought to say, Goodbye and Hello. Goodbye, Kelly Brubaker: it was real, it was great, and it was really great, but this is goodbye. Not goodbye, but just…goodbye.

Tomorrow it will be hello to Kelly Ledbetter, whoever she is. My new self.

Tomorrow.

I don’t feel able to communicate what I want to say, so I’m going to go pack my suitcase for my honeymoon in Oregon. (Never thought I would be writing anything like that.)

When I return, I will be someone else, only complete this time.

Today

My maid of honor and I drove to my parents’ house in Arcadia for me to try on my finished wedding dress. My aunt did a positively stellar job making it, and I can’t wait to wear it at my wedding in four (4) days.

On the way home, Chera and I had picaresque adventures driving on Route 66. First we stopped by Pops in Arcadia for Dublin Dr. Pepper from the fountain. We resisted the temptation to buy a hamburger for only $3.50, as well as many Pops paraphernalia, including coasters, t-shirts, and lunch boxes. Just down the road, we stopped by the Round Barn, a ‘non-smoking historical site.’ We climbed the wooden stairs to the impressive loft, which was indeed round. It was acoustically aesthetic, but the main thing was that we could say we saw it. In the gift shop downstairs, we were told, “Sign saysno pop.” Apparently Pops and the Round Barn are not friends.

Catching a sign which promised us watermelons, we took a U-turn down a tree-lined side street. Another sign directed us to the left, but as we continued down that road, we became fearful of the apparent lack of watermelon – and lack of bridge. Both in the sense that a sign warned, “BRIDGE OUT,” and in the fact that there was no bridge. We did, however, see a sign suggesting a pumpkin patch (with a realistically rendered watermelon pasted to it). Although the gate was locked, the sign declared it was open, and so in a fit of type-A personality, we called the number recommended and asked to be let in.

And so we viewed watermelons growing. They weren’t growing very fast, at least, we did not discern any changes while we watched; but we did purchase the last nice watermelon from the farmer lady’s refrigerator for $7.00. We put Watermelon in the back seat and drove on, anticipating the Big Blue Whale, but we were laughing too hard about the shaking of the corn and passed it.

At the mall at home, we found a smashing deal at Vanity – three solid colored shirts for $9.00, which is pretty hard to beat. And then we made an excellent dinner. Behold:

Red Wine Chicken

Brown some garlic and basil in olive oil in a pan. Add four chicken breasts and cook until no longer pink in the middle. Add 1/3 c. brown sugar and 1/3 c. red wine. Simmer for 15-20 mins. Serve with pasta and steamed broccoli.

To top off the brilliant day, we watched Elizabethtown, in which the Round Barn (and 2 Brothers Pizza) features briefly during Drew Baylor’s road trip. This was accompanied by additional wine and

Chili's Molten Chocolate Cake

It was a good day.

Divisadero

This extremely complex (that is, nonlinear, lyrical, circular) novel is the most recent by Man Booker Prize-winning author Michael Ondaatje. Divisadero is a story sprawling anywhere and anywhen it wants to, drifting lazily (but, we must feel, not purposelessly) into the minds of any of the many main characters. A cast of characters is necessarily difficult to compile. There is

• Anna, who is, perhaps, the protagonist of the story. The daughter of a California farmer, she is involved in a tragedy that causes her to change her identity and eventually move to France to become a historical archivist. She is connected to
• Claire, Anna’s adoptive sister. Claire and Anna share the burden of the tragedy and of confused identity, events which also involved
• Coop, the farmhand. He becomes a ‘mechanic,’ or a cardsharp in the Southwest, traveling restlessly and gambling for a living during the 1980s. A chance meeting and more tragedy brings him back into the life of one of the sisters.

The other arm of the story includes

• Anna again, this time living and working in the vacant house of the writer
• Lucien Segura, who lived and worked during the second World War in the south of France. His acute loneliness and a tragedy of his own draws him to
• [Marie-Neige, a neighbor who haunts his childhood]
• Rafael, the musical son of a Gypsy couple who comes into the writer’s later life for a while. Many years after that, while she is living in Lucien’s house, Rafael meets
• Anna, who is, perhaps, the protagonist of the story.

The writer’s perspective is entirely elusive. He barely comments upon the strange and sad events of the tales, told by characters who do not know the meaning of themselves. At least two of the storylines are deliberately abandoned without conclusion, but the free-fall structure of the book manages to sustain some of these apparent lacks; but the book ends without any general resolution. Another lack is quotation marks and dialogue tags, but confusion about who is speaking remains surprisingly minimal. Also, as one might expect from a so-called ‘artistic’ piece of literature, there is a great deal of sexuality – most of it implied, true, but good authors imply well, and Ondaatjie is undeniably good.

For example, savor this paragraph about Lucien walking through a meadow of tall grass:

He wished he had worn a hat. And the shirt he was wearing was wrong for this labour. He’d simply begun walking into the field as part of a brief reconnaissance of a property he might purchase. The house had come with a formal driveway of plane trees and several hectares of abandoned land. He began moving forward again and, unable to see what was below him, stumbled across a wooden object. A bench or a pump. He got to his knees, cleared the grass away, and discovered it was a wooden boat. The sound of insects thickened around him, and he felt even more alone.

If you prefer not to admire the poetry of this paragraph, appreciate its technical skill. The simple dipping in and out of Lucien’s thoughts (“He wished he had worn a hat… A bench or a pump.”), the directly delivered information (“The house had come with…”), the clean-cut action verbs (“He’d simply begun walking… He began moving forward… He got to his knees…”), and especially the suspense of the last two sentences. What was a wooden boat doing in the middle of an abandoned field? What is the significance of the boat as a symbol, and the fact that Lucien bumped into it because he could not see it? What had the insects (suggestive of death and decay?) to do with his increased loneliness? At the end of such a paragraph, illustrative of the style of Divisadero, there is no question of putting the book away.