BLTN (Better Later Than Never): "Other" Books read in 2018

For the past few years, I've been tracking my reading, splitting it up into three categories:  Novels, Non-fiction, and Other.  The first two are relatively self-explanatory; the last one is more malleable, a hodge-podge categorization that allows me to dump whatever doesn't easily fit into the first two into it.  Books I've read under this heading include plays, collections of poetry or short stories, screenplays, novellas, even, this year, an illustrated children's story by a noted novelist.  It's a grab bag, and there's some great stuff to be found in "other."

As noted in previous posts, I've been trying to read works from authors who fall outside my personal demographic -- white, hetero, cis, male, American, in whatever order you choose -- and as I slide across my spreadsheet from left to right, I find myself veering farther away from this self-imposed mandate.  Which can definitely be seen as a failing on my part, but it is also an opportunity to do better this year.  Without having logged my reading, in this manner, I am certain that, anecdotally, I would believe I am doing very well with this aspiration; the data states otherwise.


Only 3 of the authors in this category are female.  Of the 15 men remaining, one is gay, that I know of, one is African-American, one is Japanese, and one is of Afghan descent.  Not stellar work on finding diverse voices, on my part.  But it gives me something to aspire to this year.


I read three plays in 2018 (one of them in two parts):

"All the Way" by Robert Schenkkan about LBJ's effort to push through civil rights legislation.  Having seen the film adaptation first, I was curious to understand how the playwright and director managed to switch between so many different settings.  It was a fascinating conundrum, and one they achieved through a minimum of set dressing, while utilizing a chorus section for the many players to go in and out of, utilizing the audience's imagination to fill in the details needed for the drama.  It's something I wish I could have experienced, myself.

"Angels in America" parts 1 & 2 by Tony Kushner.  The epic play about the AIDS epidemic in America, during the 80s and early 90s.  This was just an amazing piece of writing.  The dialogue, the characterizations, the settings and experiences of the characters.  A powerful play and something to aspire to.

"The Piano Lesson," by August Wilson.  This is the second play of Wilson's that I've read, and it was just as incredible as "Fences."  Set in early-20th century America, in the middle of the Depression, it follows an African-American family as they argue over their legacy.  What should they do with the piano that sits in the front room, unused.  A family heirloom, one member wants to sell in order to buy land, while another insists they must keep it.  The drama, and tension, surrounding this disagreement escalates until the threat of violence becomes all too real.  I won't spoil the end, but will only say:  seek out the work of August Wilson; you won't be disappointed.

Surprisingly, I did not get to any Shakespeare last year.  I need to remedy that, soon.

A couple of notable short story collections I read were Jhumpa Lahiri's "Unaccustomed Earth" and Mariana Enriquez's "Things We Lost in the Fire."  Both of these collections were incredibly satisfying.  Lahiri's deft use of language and ability to craft stories that, although steeped in her Indian heritage, are terribly relatable is, if not unmatched, at least unsurpassed.  Her writing is always engaging and enthralling.

Mariana Enriquez was an author I'd never heard of, but found in my search for female authors outside of the American/European mold.  An Argentine author, Enriquez's stories were affecting and engaging, infusing family dramas and teen rebellion with a spark of magical realism made popular by writers south of the American border.  This was a great collection.

Four Harlan Ellison books made it into this category, meaning I read six books from Ellison, last year.  Two of the books were short story collections, "Harlan 101," which also included a number of essays on writing, and "From the Land of Fear."  The other two included "None of the Above," an unfilmed screenplay and "Brain Movies v.6," a collection of his teleplays.  It may seem surprising, but, despite the fact that a teleplay or screenplay includes a basic description of the scene interspersed with dialogue, Ellison's screenplays are always enjoyable and have as much lyricism and verve as his finished prose.

My favorite from this selection of books read, in 2018, might be Richard Russo's "Interventions," a print-only collection of four chapbooks in a slipcase that reprinted two short stories and one essay of Russo's, along with a new novella, along with paintings for each chapbook from his daughter, Kate.  Russo's prose is precise and lyrical and insightful.  His Pulitzer for "Empire Falls" was no fluke.  The man can write, and the stellar heights of his writing is something I truly aspire to, even if I always find myself falling far short of the goal.


Other authors whose work I read last year, in this category, are Neil Gaiman, Gary Gerani (Topps Star Wars cards reminiscences), Haruki Murakami, Anna Akhmatova, and Khaled Hosseini.  Not a bad crop of writers.

-chris

The Hundred Secret Senses by Amy Tan

This was a great book.  Not as complex at Margaret Atwood's THE BLIND ASSASSIN, of which I am still terribly enamored, or the works of Toni Morrison, Amy Tan's THE HUNDRED SECRET SENSES is still deserving of being in discussion with those novels.  I thoroughly enjoyed the experience of reading this book. 

Set in mid-90s San Francisco, the story is about Olivia, a Chinese-American woman, and her half-sister, Kwan, who came to America at the age of eighteen to live with Olivia's family, when Olivia was only four.  Their relationship is fraught by the fact that Olivia, as a child, felt embarrassed by her new sister, whose lack of understanding with regard to American customs and limited ability to speak the language made her the butt of jokes, which the younger Olivia took as a reflection on herself.  Kwan also shared with Olivia, secretly, that she could see ghosts and would share stories of these "yin people," many, if not all, of whom lived in the previous century.  Olivia eventually came to indulge her older sister, telling her she believed the stories, and even said, as a child, that she could occasionally see the ghost, as well. 

In the narrative's present, Olivia and Kwan, who calls her sister "Libby-ah," their relationship is still strained, though only from the perspective of Olivia, who finds her older sibling's continued adherence to an ability to see ghosts, troubling.  Kwan, on the other hand, has nothing but unconditional love for her younger sister.  This, due to Olivia's guilt at how she treats her sister, only exacerbates the frustration she feels with this relationship.  Add to this, her recent separation from her husband of seventeen years, Simon, and Olivia is having a bad time of things. 



Kwan plans a trip home, to China, and Olivia and Simon, who have an assignment to write an article about the native food scene of China, join her--though separated, they still have a joint business they run, are still friendly with one another, and are trying to figure out what their relationship should be and whether they will get back together or not; they are searching (or, more to the point, Olivia is searching) for something that went missing in their marriage long ago.  In the tiny village of Changmian, far off the beaten path, with no electricity and no modern conveniences anywhere, the village where Kwan grew up, Olivia and Kwan's common, family history feels very close.  Being here unlocks something, not only in the connection between siblings but also between husband and wife, and the stories that Kwan has told, over the years, about the yin people and their lives in the mid-1800s come to have new meaning.  It's a profound discovery for Olivia, one that changes the course of her life forever, and one that does not come without consequences. 

I cannot get more deeply into this change that occurs, because it would ruin the novel.  Suffice to say, a dramatic shift happens, in their and our understanding of these ghost stories, and though it's a surprise, it's also something that was laid out from the very beginning, by Ms. Tan.  As with any great story, the end is unexpected and predestined, all at once.  It's an emotional culmination that works, and that is no easy task to accomplish. 

Like Atwood's Assassin, and everything I've read by Ms. Morrison, Amy Tan writes with a confidence that is captivating.  She takes her readers by the hand, leads them where they need to go, parsing out information methodically, in a manner that, at times, is confusing, but which, in the end, allows one to look back at what came before and see how all the pieces fit neatly into the culmination of the story.  Tan feels no need to tip her hand too early or spoon feed her audience.  This is something I appreciate greatly.  It appears I will need to include more works from Tan, in my reading diet, going forward. 

-chris

Audre Lorde's ZAMI: A New Spelling of My Name

While a young child, Audre Lorde didn't like the way the "y" at the end of her first name fell below the line on the paper, so she changed how she spelled her name.  Unsurprisingly, Lorde grew to be a strong, intelligent woman who fought for what was right and refused to be pigeon-holed or disrespected.

Zami: A New Spelling of My Name is an amazing book.  A memoir covering Lorde's early childhood up through her early to mid-20s.  Her facility with language pulls you in, as a reader, to 1930s, 40s, and 50s New York (with a quick aside to Mexico), filling your senses with her words, allowing you to picture the place that birthed her.


Self-described as a "black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet," Lorde shares the heartache of growing up black in america through the Depression and WWII and into the nascent Civil Rights Movement, while also revealing what it meant to be a lesbian during this time, as well.  When asked how long she'd been "in the life," Lorde didn't know how to answer, because she only had one life and only knew one way to live:  honestly, but with an invisible wall erected around her, to try and protect her against the prejudices threatening her from all sides.

Lorde's prose is direct, harsh, and also poetic without being too flowery.  She propels you along, even as you wish to remain and linger in certain sections -- the discovery of a new lover, or the enjoyment of a gathering of friends.  I can't remember where I first heard Audre Lorde's name, probably from one of W. Kamau Bell's podcasts, but I'm sure glad I did.  Otherwise, I would not have had the opportunity to experience this powerful biomythography of Lorde's.  And that would have been a shame.

Novels read in 2018 (better later than never)

 

As stated in the prologue, I've been working to "read harder."  This translated into fewer novels read by me than probably any time since I turned five and is definitely the fewest novels I've read in the handful of years I've been keeping track.  8 novels, only two of which you might easily categorize as science fiction or fantasy, my go-to genre for so long.  (I've already read "God Emperor of Dune" in 2019, so the sci-fi could be rising in this new[ish] year)  Holding with my credo of branching out, I managed to split it right down the middle as far as male to female authors:

 

                                                     Male Authors     Female Authors

                                                    Harlan Ellison     Sayaka Murata

                                                     Stephen King     Charlotte Bronte

                                                      Neil Gaiman     Banana Yoshimoto

                                             Colson Whitehead     Margaret Atwood

Being a Maine resident (tried and true, from birth to now), it's an unofficial law that we must read and regale our favored son, Mr. Stephen King, so having him on the list is unsurprising.  Too bad I didn't enjoy this year's offering, "Elevation," as much as many of his other works, but, hey, they can't all be grand slams.  

Neil Gaiman has been a favorite author of mine ever since I discovered his comic series, "The Sandman," one of the all-time best long-form series in the medium, in my opinion.  This year, I finally pulled down his "Norse Mythology," after my 11-year-old son read it for a second time.  Certainly, one could argue it's not a novel, but each short story builds toward the climax of the book with Ragnarok, so I include it here.  It was pretty great, by the way.

Harlan Ellison is, perhaps, my favorite author, ever...full stop.  He passed away last year, after suffering a stroke a few years prior, but one of his long-delayed books was finally published, shortly after his death:  "Blood's A Rover."  A hybrid-novel, consisting of previously published (and newly polished) short stories and a novella that comprised the story of Vic & Blood, to that point, woven with revised and retrofitted bits from a teleplay Ellison wrote in the eighties for an aborted TV-movie of the adventures of Vic & Blood, and Spike.  It was a tour-de-force that only solidified Ellison as an all-time great writer, and it was a wonderful exclamation point to a storied career.  [note: Ellison will show up later, with four or five more entries in other categories]

Colson Whitehead . . . damn.  "The Underground Railroad" was a tour-de-force book.  Amazing.  It felt so real, was so full of emotion, and just hit you in the gut.  I am so happy I read this book.  Now I need to hunt down more of his work.  Just effing brilliant!

 

Sayaka Murata & Banana Yoshimoto are Japanese authors whose work I found in the main reading room of Fogler Library at the University of Maine, where I work (library work has its privileges, like walking around on break and discovering new books to read).  Both of the books I read of theirs, "Convenience Store Woman" and "Moshi Moshi," respectively, were engaging, layered stories that offered me a chance to walk in another's shoes.  Murata's novel was breezy, but not shallow, following the life of a woman who found it difficult to interact socially, leading to her becoming a long-time convenience store worker, while the other followed a protagonist coming to grips with her father's death, a suicide pact with another woman, while trying to comfort her mother as she searches for her own identity.  Both of these novels were touching and heartfelt, beautifully written with distinct premises that kept me wanting to turn the page.  Highly recommended.

"Jane Eyre" by Charlotte Bronte.  Damn . . .
I have an aversion to Victorian literature, a direct result of High-School-Literaryitis, an affliction caused by your high school reading (or literature) teacher overwhelming you with minutiae and insignificant assignments meant to illuminate the work of Dickens, which, in the end, only makes his long, ponderous prose even more lugubrious.  For thirty years, I've steered clear of most novels from this era (surprisingly, the one exception that comes to mind is Dickens's "A Christmas Carol," which is a wonderfully amazing story), but after hearing an episode of the BBC Radio's In Our Time examining the novel, I was compelled to read it.  And it was a great experience.  I will definitely be seeking out more of Bronte's work.  Hopefully, it will treat me better than Dickens (apologies to my youngest sister).

With all the praise heaped upon the above novels, I have to say the best novel I read this year was Margaret Atwood's "Blind Assassin."  This was an amazing bit of writing wizardry, with an elderly woman in the present, the late 1990s, relating the story of her family throughout the late 19th century up through the end of the 20th, with particular attention paid to her scandalous sister, who died at a young age, an apparent suicide, after publishing a shocking roman a clef, that left all of those in their hometown, where their father was once a wealthy manufacturer of buttons, wagging their tongues.  And, as an added bonus, Atwood includes chapters of the fictional novel in questions, interweaving the various narrative threads with an ease and agility that was wonderful to experience.  Not unlike the works of Toni Morrison, Atwood's command of her story, with "The Blind Assassin," was laudable and impressive.  She never worried about whether her readers understood what was happening or how it all connected, because she was steering the boat and knew exactly where she was heading.  This is a novel you have to read!  Check it out.

-chris