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The House of Spirits - A Comparison to 100 Years of Solitude

After all of Angela's recommendations for Isabel Allende, it was great to be able to choose a book from this author for our book club with The House of the Spirits. We've already had the opportunity to read one book from the genre of magical realism, 100 Years of Solitude. Even though several months and pile of books separate my reading of these two books, I still noted some similarities between the two stories:

Touches of Magical Realism: The House of the Spirits seemed to have more muted elements of magical realism than 100 Years. If you missed one of these descriptive sentences, you may not catch on to the glimpse until later in The House of the Spirits. One of the more prominent cases that stood out to me was with Rosa the Beautiful and her white skin, yellow eyes and green hair. Clara's work with the paranormal was prominent throughout Spirits, but not as disruptive as other occurrences in the book.

Repetition of Names: For me, it was helpful to have the family tree printed out while reading 100 Years. Otherwise, it was nigh impossible to separate generations of Jose, Arcadio, Aureliano, Amaranta and Renata's. It was not nearly as complicated while reading The House of the Spirits. There was still the repetition of names, but using synonyms instead of repeating the names verbatim. Blanca and Alba are both terms for the color white, and I later found out that Nivea and Clara are synonyms as well. Clever, without being confusing!

Other Similarities:
Alchemy: much more prominent in 100 Years with Jose Arcadio and Melquiades, but still discussed in the first few chapters of Spirits.

Point of view: the narrator changes throughout the generations.

Latin American location

Political struggles: with ties to real world events and struggles the author embeds into the book.

Big homes: the families lived in rather large homes, often with multiple generations under one roof.

Magical visitors - Melquiades returns to the village of Macando to share fantastics stories, inventions and items for trade in 100 Years. Uncle Marco visits his family several times in Spirits, including the part of the story where he flies off into the mountains and returns several years later.

The House of the Spirits

Though not as circular as One Hundred Years of Solitude, The House of the Spirits does begin and end with almost the exact same sentence. It does however, reflect the cycle of social lives and how they repeat and occasionally change from generation to generation. Furthermore, I’ll repeat what I said about Marquez’s epic and apply it here: The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende is not for the faint of heart, nor the short on imagination.

Published in 1982, it is a fairy’s tale of love, ambition, the mysticism of humanity, and the course of history in one Latin American country told from the perspective of someone who truly lived it. Allende is a master when it comes to creating magical realism that stays true to itself: what she writes is both magical and real. In The House of the Spirits she has delivered us a tale of the fictional Trueba and del Valle families and allowed us to share in their lives as they live them alongside the political clashes that marred South America’s history in the 60s, 70s, and 80s, the divisive gulf that (still) exists between the indigenous and the criollos there, and the very real Poet and the Candidate/President.

In short, to understand social justice, liberation theology, or South America, one must have read this book. The clash that marks the beginning of the end of this text really happened, on September 11^th, 1973; a different kind of terrifying 9/11. The torture, the horror, the human rights violations are all true. A good follow-up to The House of the Spirits would be Allende’s Of Love and Shadows followed by My Invented Country.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I adore Allende’s books. I chose this book in April for our club to read because I want other people to read her and love her too. And if they don’t I can’t say I didn’t try. She opens up a world of literary possibility that is a bit more accessible than Marquez while giving the reader a glimpse of a culture, history, and people that we know so very little about in the United States, despite our government’s involvement there, despite our dependence on oil from there, despite our proximity, and despite our common history of invasion and colonization.

Alice Revisited

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through The Looking Glass may seem like a manic trip of a children's tale on first glance. Our book club tackled this tale as an earlier read, and I joking pulled some lessons out to share at that time. Still, I was surprised to see an image and a quote from Through the Looking Glass in recent business meeting.

In "Through the Looking Glass" Alice and the Queen are running faster and faster without seeming to go anywhere. Exhausted from this, Alice says "Well, in our country, you'd generally get to somewhere else - if you ran very fast for a long time, as we've been doing." The Queen replies, "Now, here you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!"

So what is the lesson I am to take from this? If the business thinks this is important enough to show in a planning presentation, I have to show my boss and my management that I am running twice as fast for the good of the business. As the economy recovers, we must not appear to stand still as other companies may surpass us.

True Grit

People do not give it credence that a fourteen-year-old girl could leave home and go off in the wintertime to avenger her father’s blood but it did not seem so strange then, although I will say it did not happen every day.

So begins Charles Portis’ epic novel, True Grit, the story of Mattie Ross and her presumptuous quest for justice. When her father’s killer is not pursued by any “law,” she takes it upon herself to dispense retribution for the cold-blooded killing, enlisting the help of federal marshal Reuben “Rooster” Cogburn, full of “true grit” she had heard; and inheriting a Texas Ranger who had been on the killer’s trail for four months, chasing him on charges of the murder of a senator.

I love a good Western and this one includes a woman (and adolescent!) of substance, something too often missing from great Westerns. Mattie’s fortitude, determination, and abundance of her own “grit” drive the heart of the story. She is impudent and pious and has no time for the vices of men, but she takes aim and makes herself the center of the story.

Ryan and I saw the movie at the Hopkins “dollar” theatre and thought it was fantastic. The Coen brothers, St. Louis Park natives and direction/production dynamos, brought the book to life beautifully. It was one of those films that make me understand why cinema is an art form. It doesn’t hurt that Jeff Bridges is brilliant and Matt Damon is brilliant and foxy, but the cinematic scope of the film both brought the story to life and gave it an authenticity often missing in films as producers seek to glamorize stories. The Coen brothers are not overly concerned with the characters’ beauty, but of their internal fiber and the beauty of human nature as it lies, flawed and filthy though it may be.

I haven’t yet seen the original version of the film but hope to soon. I highly recommend both the novel and the new film, though it is visually a bit graphic, but such was the nature of the West.

Emily Dickinson

My favorite poem is one by Emily Dickinson that begins “I dwell in Possibility-“ and having been given a lovely gilt-edged book calling itself The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson by my parents many years ago, last year I finally creaked open it’s spine intending to read it cover to cover to find the source of my favorite line. Alas, having (at last) come to the end this winter, I hadn’t found the gem and was beginning to fear that the verse I loved was a mirage, inauthentic, and quickly fading in its glory.

I had found the rest of the verse online but knew it didn’t count unless I saw it on a page in a book with Emily’s name by it. As I searched the shelves of Magers & Quinn one afternoon in January, I found it in a couple texts, which was a dear relief, but was still curious as to why it wasn’t to be found in my lovely edition. A helpful bookseller answered my query with a most logical response: “collected” isn’t a synonym for “complete.” Ah. Thank you.

Thusly, I am a dope. I printed the poem from the Almighty Internet and taped it to the inside cover of my pretty gilt-edged book, full of my handwriting in the margins:

I dwell in Possibility—

A fairer house than Prose—

More numerous of Windows—

Superior—for Doors—

Of Chambers as the Cedars—

Impregnable of Eye—

And for an Everlasting Roof

The Gambrels of the Sky—

Of Visitors—the fairest—

For Occupation—This—

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise—

Oh Emily, your love of simple verse is so cumbersome! For so long I’ve wanted to love you! To understand what on Earth you were feeling when you wrote. Mostly, I experience abrupt confusion. What are you talking about?! After months, (years!) of trying, I have resigned myself to allow room for growth and love what I can pick out, what I can glean meaning from. For instance: “There is no frigate like a book/to take us lands away,/Nor any coursers like a page/Of prancing poetry.” I know! I know this feeling.

As I revisit the text I find others, many, that I marked with made-in-Minnesota, 3M-issue flags and bookmarks of all kinds. I feel fondness for many of Emily’s poems, some of the longer ones even. I’m not so dense!

I have no life but this,

To lead it here;

Nor any death, but lest

Dispelled from there;

Nor tie to earths to come,

Nor action new,

Except through this extent,

The realm of you.

Oh dear! The passion! The desire! Did spinster Emily have a Love? Was it her quiet and cursing God? Was she a Protestant nun? Who on Earth is she talking about?

Wild nights! Wild nights!

Were I with thee,

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile the winds

To a heart in port—

Done with the compass,

Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!

Ah! the sea!

Might I but moor

Tonight in thee!

Yikes! She goes on, in praise of Nature, God, Time, & Eternity. We dance around the classics, never getting to know them intimately but rather, acknowledging that they are Classic and therefore Wonderful. I want to know them, want to say: I’ve read that, I get it. Or: Give me a break! It’s not that great. Or: What do you mean you’ve never read it? How can you understand anything at all without knowing the truths from this text?

So I started with Emily because she wrote short poems and they weren’t intimidating but I underestimated the weight of brevity and the depth of bumblebees and God. Perhaps the most important thing to remember about Emily is that her words weren’t meant to be read by others; she wrote as many of us breathe: feverishly, out of need, and with gusto. She existed in her little room in her white gown to leave behind the documentation of her personal musings for the validation of our similar thoughts. Thanks Em.

I will leave you with this active verse, that hearkens a bit to Lewis Carroll:

Could I but ride indefinite,

As doth the meadow-bee,

And visit only where I liked,

And no man visit me,

And flirt all day with buttercups,

And marry whom I may,

And dwell a little everywhere,

Or better, run away

With no police to follow,

Or chase me if I do,

Till I should jump peninsulas

To get away from you,--

I said, but just to be a bee

Upon a raft of air,

And row in nowhere all day long,

And anchor off the bar,--

What liberty! So captives deem

Who tight in dungeons are.

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

I am a big fan of the 90s. This desires some clarity though: I’m not talking about this 90s, I’m talking about this 90s. This is fun. How about some more? The 90s taught me that in this life there are nothing but possibilities. They also taught me that sometimes you have to get to know someone before you judge. And talk about great music, the 90s was the decade. I am unashamedly into 90s music. I’m waiting for the day all these damn hipsters give up the ghost and just admit they mourn the loss of the grunge scene, albeit with tighter clothes, beards, and terrible beer. Nirvana aside though, how about the Gin Blossoms, Tori Amos, Toad the Wet Sprocket, and the Indigo Girls? Thank you 1990s.

Having read Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius was a bit of a let-down though. In it, the author details in rambling, stream-of-consciousness the details of his family’s colossal loss when his parents die five months apart and he and his siblings move from suburban Chicago to Berkeley in 1993. He is tasked with raising his 6-year-old brother as a newly minted college grad and embarks on a journey into self-depreciating struggles with a magazine start-up with a motley group of friends. I can appreciate the themes and subject, but the writing style made this memoir painful to read.

What stood out for me in the text was the author’s struggle against conformity and the synthetic nature that the 90s sometimes collapsed into. The reason so much great music came out of the 90s was because people were searching for an escape from the falseness and cloying nature of the culture, also expressed in much 90s music. The 80s economy had revived when Clinton took office and everything was moving toward greatness again. Some folks fought against that sense of entitlement with rejection of their parent’s religion and lifestyles, choosing instead to build for themselves a new world concerned with sincerity of life purpose. I see this pursuit in Eggers’ memoir, I see his angst at the mindlessness of MTV and the culture of ignorance that some clung to. I can appreciate it.

The book was a Pulitzer Prize finalist and probably for good reason. It breaks boundaries with both its subject matter and style. I am glad that the generation of folks 10 years older than me is beginning to have their own voices heard in the media. I’m glad that they’re able to represent the 90s for what their experiences actually were and not what media interpreted at the time. I’m glad the likes of Cher in “Clueless” were just blips on the radar. I’m glad that out of the ashes of N’Sync we got Justin Timberlake even. Most of all, I’m glad the 90s didn’t just end with 9/11 and that there is still value to be found in the ethos and effort put into them. Eggers’ expresses this in a characteristically 90s way, through writing, angst, and fervor for life.

Lolita by Vladamir Nabokov

"Don't stand. Don't stand so. Don't stand so close to me." During Nabakov's first person novel from the perspective of a pedophile, those Police lyrics which eventually reference the story kept playing in my mind. Maybe it's because I didn't quite catch on to the style and humor of the author.

I think it's very brave of Nabokov to place himself in the shoes of a personality in which society finds not only immoral, but outright disgusting. He did an excellent job as well. The pedophile tries to justify his actions, calling it true love. Although at first glance you may think the author is on the side of the pedophile, he shows the abusive nature of the relationship; the pedophile becomes very possessive and even desperate at times when he feels he lost control.

I don't have anything else to say about that.

To a well-worn friend: Travels with Charley, John Steinbeck, and the US of A

I do like the feel of a book once I’ve finished savoring it: worn like a favorite shoe. One can feel slight creases in the cover, perhaps a curled page or minor tear in the spine. Woe is the book that, once having been read could be returned to a store without question, not showing any mark upon itself expressing how it was once treasured, tossed in a bag, fallen from a bed, maybe wedged under papers on a desk and retrieved with tea-stained edges.

Of course, it does cause grief to see harm done to a favored text. One must never throw a book. Such blatant disrespect is not to be tolerated. One doesn’t wish to see a page torn or a cover harshly creased or a spine broken so one page is the constant middle. Rather, one hopes that through gentle wear and afternoons spent in a favorite resting place that the tome will emerge as worn as we: a bit older, having discovered some new wisdom, but never beaten or broken. Just cared for, sought, and enjoyed.

I wrote these thoughts after I finished reading a much worn copy of John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley: In Search of America last week. I picked it up after finishing Bill Bryson’s The Lost Continent: Travels in Small-Town America which was an easy read but Bryson was so crabby the whole time that I needed something to clean my palette. I thought Steinbeck would cheer me up and I was right. I decided with Travels with Charley that I love John Steinbeck. I’ve always wanted to love a classic American author, someone who would make me feel like I’m really a part of the literary scene in our country because I understand his writing. I already love plenty of work by female authors so I was looking specifically for a male author. I tried loving Fitzgerald but nothing was as wonderful as The Great Gatsby and I tried loving Hemingway but I couldn’t figure out how.

I’ve found my old man in Steinbeck for his simple truths:

“…we do not take a trip; a trip takes us…”

“…in my own life I am not willing to trade quality for quantity.”

“A sad soul can kill you quicker, far quicker, than a germ.”

“There are as many worlds as there are kinds of days…”

Is that overkill? I don’t care. He chooses his words to exactly fit what he wants to say. He acknowledges his weaknesses and doesn’t apologize for them. He lays out his fears and his joys as equals. He is so genuine I feel as if I’ve met him just from reading this one book of his. (I’ve read others but Travels with Charley being something of a memoir is a bit more personal.)

Bryson, for his part, had some good things to say too when he wasn’t being such a grouch. He held me when he wrote: “I wanted to step outside my front door and be somewhere.” Isn’t that what we all strive for? Meaning in our lives? Can we find it in the spaces we inhabit? Can we make the spaces of our lives be somewhere? How?

Bryson, as I’ve mentioned in an earlier post, is quite funny. I particularly enjoyed his observation that “…American radio is designed for people who have already lost their minds” and I agree wholeheartedly but for one small detail: in Minnesota we are fortunate in that we have MPR and more specifically: The Current.

The Lost Continent (1989) and Travels with Charley (1969) share a common theme in that they are both about travels through the United States and even though neither of them had anything decent to say about Minnesota, they were neat paired together. I wonder had retrieved my copy of Kerouac’s On the Road (1951) from an old family friend if I could have had a travel trifecta. I read it many years ago and I think it might have been over my head. I love travel and the thrill of discovery and these three books allow for these joys when I don’t have the resources so thank you, gentlemen.

This is a particularly appropriate day for discussing discovery as it is the 25^th anniversary of the Challenger explosion and the death of seven NASA astronauts. There are many types of travel, many motivators and destinations, but none so heartbreaking as a journey that ends in violence and catastrophy. Some seek truth and others wonder; may our journeys always bring us safely home once more, wherever that may be.

Traveling mercies.