Posted on July 01, 2019 under Books
Well, halfway through the year already and I’m doing very well with my reading! I read 10 books in June, for a total of 60 in 2019. I’m still somewhat loftily aiming for 100 in 2019 – the next two months will really determine if that’s possible or not. Here’s what I’ve made space in my brain for lately…
Timequake by Kurt Vonnegut
In the spring of 2012, I read Slaughterhouse-Five as an independent study novel for my grade 12 English final essay. Timequake, Vonnegut’s last “novel”, was the final one I had to read after seven years. (I like the neat math of having read fourteen novels in seven years.) Timequake is Vonnegut’s retrospective on his literary career and his life, with a fictional edge treated in his usual absurdist way. The Timequake is an event that caused everyone to repeat ten years between 1991 to 2001; while everyone was aware that this was happening, they could not change a single thing they did the first time around, grand or mundane. Vonnegut blends past and present, fictional and real, in mind-bending ways. The Timequake in question occured in 2001, but the book was written in 1996 – so he is speaking in the past tense of something which happened in a future that he had not yet experienced. The “novel” is framed as the second version of a novel with the same premise, but Vonnegut mostly writes about his own life, while sprinkling in some ideas and passages from the original novel, which he scrapped. Yet the characters in this novel are treated as real people who he knows in the year 2001. (It’s funny to think about how 2001 used to sound impossibly futuristic, and now it just sounds like… this. And I guess also world events of long-lasting global consequence.) The theme of my 2012 essay was Slaughterhouse-Five‘s treatment of time, so I suppose this is a satisfying thematic end to my Vonnegut journey. For Vonnegut fans, this one is pitch-perfect: moving, sad, cynical but hopeful, and really funny. Because it’s not a novel in the sense of his other books, this makes sense to me almost as a nice way of wrapping up his body of work, alluding to many of his recurring themes and philosophies and giving us one more absurd Vonnegut situation to ponder.
The Second Life of Samuel Tyne by Esi Edugyan
Two-time Giller Prize winner Edugyan’s first novel is about a Ghanaian immigrant who uproots his Calgary-based family in the late 1960s after inheriting his uncle’s small-town home. The community struggles to accept a Black immigrant family, and here the novel shines. Edugyan beautifully articulates the chilling, subtle forms xenophobia frequently takes. The family dynamics are fascinating, too: Samuel’s marriage is ice cold, and his twin daughters Chloe and Yvette are creepy and possibly pure evil. The themes of second chances, the futility of trying to shed a dissatisfying past, and guilt over leaving behind a motherland were compelling, but not always fully explored. Unfortunately, I found the execution lacking generally. The characters were completely opaque, and while that may serve to underscore their hollowness, I just couldn’t find anything to fully sink my teeth into. The spooky twins were central to the story, but the climax of their sinister behaviour was rushed. The pacing was choppy, very slow at some points and then rushing past points of drama and interest too quickly to explore their pathos. I think it’s pretty clear that this was a first novel! However, I really enjoyed Edugyan’s most recent Giller-winner, Washington Black, and I’d still like to read more of her work.
All My Puny Sorrows by Miriam Toews
Two sisters, Elfrieda and Yolandi, grew up in a repressive Mennonite community in Manitoba. Now middle-aged women who have left their religious community behind, the sisters have maintained their closeness. Elf is a celebrated concert pianist; her younger sister Yoli is a twice-divorced novelist who makes a lot of bad decisions about her love life. Oh, and Elf really, really wants to die. This is the most convincing, compassionate exploration of suicide I have ever encountered. Elf is never presented as selfish for her many suicide attempts; instead, this novel confronts us with the question of whether it is cruel to force somebody to live, especially in a psychiatric facility in which their autonomy is completely undermined. Is life worth it when it can only be sustained under duress, locked up and denied basic agency and simple pleasures? Can every case of suicidal ideation be cured, or are there some untreatable cases? Is suicidal depression not a chronic, agonizing condition that can, sometimes, only be alleviated by death? Can assisted suicide in instances of severe psychological pain be the truly correct and compassionate option? These are difficult, scary questions, and Toews does not shy away from them. She constructs a set of beautiful, strong characters, an imperfect but ultimately fiercely loving family who must come together under impossible circumstances. I really don’t know how she has managed to make a book so sad and so funny and so real. I’d call this a must-read, with the obvious caveat that this is a book about a suicidal woman and that it will undoubtedly be triggering for many people.
Stealing the Show: How Women are Revolutionizing Television by Joy Press
TV critic Joy Press uses several TV shows from Murphy Brown to the present day as case studies to explore the rising influence of women in the television industry. Each of her case studies looks at a show created by a woman (or, in the case of Transparent, a nonbinary person) about a strong woman with significant presence of women writers. This is well-researched and I really enjoyed the exploration of the cultural period each show belongs to, although I could always do with deeper acknowledgment of mass culture as a reaction to social and political movements. I sincerely wish there had been more acknowledgment of the many other roles women play in the creation of a TV show; the focus on showrunners as auteurs doesn’t tell the whole story, and female editors (of whom there are many) and other crew members play a huge part in shaping the TV landscape, both onscreen and behind the scenes. However, my biggest issue with this book is Press’s ultimate defense of Lena Dunham. Please, feminist media critics, I am begging you, evacuate her butthole. Most frustrating is that there’s always an acknowledgment of the terrible things she’s said and done, all of which are immediately swept under the rug. It’s like, “YES Lena Dunham’s concept of New York includes only white people, YES Lena Dunham outed her sibling to their parents, YES Lena Dunham accused a young biracial woman of lying about being raped, but the real reason she is so hated is because she is BRAVE and TRANSGRESSIVE and NOT SKINNY.” Okay. No. Please do not try to tell me about Lena Dunham’s “disarming humour”. Lena Dunham traffics in shock value at the expense of pretty much every population that she doesn’t belong to, her “feminism” entirely self-serving. We NEED to move past this.
Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood
The first in a trilogy, Oryx and Crake imagines a world that has been reduced to a disease-ravaged wasteland. Its (apparent) only inhabitants are a group of genetically-modified superhumans who have the intellectual capacity of children, terrifying animal hybrids, and a human named Snowman, who is apparently the only person who remembers the world as it was. The narrative alternates between the past and present (a trademark of Atwood’s writing), and we get to see the segregated, capitalist world that existed before total collapse. There are a lot of interesting things to pick out here: the aggressive advertising of self-improvement products, the obsession with youth, the fact that corporations pretty much own everything. This is a very different dystopia to that of The Handmaid’s Tale, one that focuses less on regressive patriarchy and more on how bad capitalism is. Atwood’s writing and worldbuiling is always sensational, so no complaints there. And yet this was not really my cup of tea. First of all, there was only one female character who really matters, and she’s kind of an Orientalist fetish object who exists exclusively as the target of Snowman’s sexual obsessions. Like, if a man wrote this book I would probably be really mad. But Margaret Atwood can’t just get a pass for being Margaret Atwood! Don’t be racist, Peggy! I’m begging you! Anyway, the first book in a series can often feel a little bit incomplete, so I’ll continue on with it, first of all because I bought the second book at Value Village for $5, and second of all because I’m trying to read all of Atwood’s novels.
Before I Was a Critic I Was a Human Being by Amy Fung
Amy Fung, an immigrant from Hong Kong who has lived in several major Canadian cities, writes not only about the experience of being a first-generation Canadian and all that entails but also about her position as a settler on unceded and Treaty territory. Functioning as a long-form land acknowledgment, this collection of essays takes a confrontational and unflinching look at the tensions between the experiences of being a racialized immigrant and someone benefiting from the legacy of colonialism and exploitation of Indigenous territory and natural resources. The necessity of confronting complicity in the ongoing disenfranchisement of Indigenous people is made clear, often uncomfortably so. Fung writes about the Canadian art landscape and its marginalization of Indigenous artists, the way “diversity” in the art world panders to the “progressive” white gaze. There were moments where I found the writing a bit clunky, taking me out of the argument, but generally it was seamless. There are a lot of big, uneasy ideas packed into this slim volume, and all of them felt fully explored. This is a perspective that all people living in (formerly?) colonial states should consider.
Such a Lonely, Lovely Road by Kagiso Lesego Molope
Kabelo Mosala wants nothing more than to impress his frigid parents by following in his doctor father’s footsteps. Growing up in a small South African township where everyone knows everyone else’s business, Kabelo is forced to deny his feelings for his neighbour, Sediba, for fear of disappointing his parents and community. But as Kabelo enters adulthood, it becomes impossible for him to deny to himself that he is gay. I fully expected to like this Canadian-South African novel, but I struggled through it. First of all, I have never read a novel this poorly-edited. There is an astounding amount of typos and other errors a copy editor should have caught; some of the prose is clunky, making the whole thing feel amateurish, sloppy, and like a first draft. I wanted more depth out of Kabelo’s narration; though it’s clear he’s going through a lot of inner turmoil, I found him lacking interiority. I wanted to know more about him. The blurb promises that this story is set against the backdrop of the AIDS crisis, but AIDS is barely mentioned until the last third of the novel. Ultimately, it feels predictable. The setting is different, and I thought that the South African sociopolitical dynamics were interesting and believable – the racial tensions as well as the disparity between townships and cities were rendered well. But at the end of the day, this is a pretty simple narrative of a gay man struggling to decide whether or not to stay closeted, and the South African context wasn’t enough to elevate it beyond that for me.
Dancer From the Dance by Andrew Holleran
The Great Gatsby meets the interesting period of the post-Stonewall, pre-AIDS New York gay scene. A group of pretentious, hedonistic gay men spend all their time partying, pining, and being emotionally hollow. The prose is lush and paints an evocative picture of this particular slice of gay cultural history. I have no doubt that at the time of its publication in 1978, this would have been a rather groundbreaking novel. However, I simply want more out of LGBTQ fiction than just… being about gay people. The characters are not likeable, there are a lot of racist and misogynistic sentiments that characters expressed (unchallenged by the narrative), and the whole thing feels excessively hedonistic to no real end. I get why people like this, and I get why it’s always included on lists of must-read gay literature, but if we’re going to get into stories about pretentious gay hedonists I want something with grit and texture like Alan Hollinghurst’s spectacularly self-indulgent and thoroughly enjoyable The Line of Beauty.
Silver Girl by Elin Hilderbrand
In Elin Hilderbrand’s world, everything that happened to you in high school is of the utmost importance when you’re 50; everyone is nominally “liberal” but it’s perfectly acceptable to struggle for years to accept that your child is gay, leading to a three-year rift between you; when your boyfriend of six months gets you pregnant and tells you, against your desires, that he’s “not okay with you killing one of God’s creations”, you have the baby and spend thirty years married to him until he dies of brain cancer; and there is not a single problem that cannot be solved by a summer on Nantucket. I’m not sure I want to live in this world. Well, I wouldn’t mind the last part, because I know my problems are easily solvable considering what our two protagonists, estranged best friends Meredith Delinn and Connie Flute, are enduring. Meredith’s husband has just been sentenced to 150 years in federal prison after being found guilty of the worst financial crime of all time. (Think Bernie Madoff, the obvious inspiration for this story.) Meredith and her oldest son are both under investigation as well, and, sick of the public scrutiny, she begs Connie to spend the summer at Connie’s summer home on Nantucket. Connie has her own problems: she’s still grieving over the loss of her husband, and she’s estranged from her only child.
Now, let me be clear. This is a fluffy beach read, and that’s how I’m evaluating it. A work of literary genius it is not. But a solid, engaging bit of light reading perfectly suited to a vacation? It is certainly that, despite its questionable politics. The story is juicy, the characters have more depth than the genre requires, and the descriptions of Nantucket are compelling. It’s overwritten in many places and generally nothing to write home about style-wise, but the story itself is fun and it’s compulsively readable. This is the third Hilderbrand novel I’ve read, and I can’t deny that she knows how to come up with an interesting premise and surprisingly well-developed characters. Sure, the endings are always predictable, tidy in the most unrealistic way; sure, it’s a stretch to feel sorry for a woman who falls from extreme wealth into the horrors of an upper middle-class life; sure, some of the social views displayed are questionable. But when you’re literally sitting on a beautiful beach looking out at the beautiful water, this is the kind of book you want to read. (Well, maybe you don’t. I do.)
Everything Here is Beautiful by Mira T. Lee
Sisters Miranda and Lucia Bok couldn’t be more different. Miranda, the older sister, has always been sensible and practical out of pure necessity, while Lucia is a free spirit. Following a sudden marriage, Lucia begins hearing voices, and is eventually hospitalized with schizoaffective disorder. The relationship between the sisters is troubled but loving and very believable. Lucia’s illness is treated compassionately; she is depicted as competent, passionate, intelligent, sensitive, capable of loving and being loved. The scope of the book is fairly wide in time, setting, and theme, but the pacing never felt rushed. There’s a lot of exploration of immigration, what it means to belong, the inescapability of family ties, what responsibility we have to those we love. I wasn’t a huge fan of the way the novel shifted between first and third person narration, which felt jarring and unnecessary. I also wanted to spend more time with Yonah, Lucia’s kindhearted, larger-than-life first husband. Generally, though, I think this is a tender, realistic, empathetic portrayal of an incredibly stigmatized mental illness. (Between this and All My Puny Sorrows, it’s been a good month for books about sisters navigating the devastating effects of mental illness.)
My favourites this month were All My Puny Sorrows and Before I Was a Critic I Was a Human Being, if you couldn’t tell.
August will probably be fairly busy for me, so I’m trying to really focus on reading in July. I do have a few (very) hefty books in my to-read stack, so we’ll have to see just how much progress I make! Regardless, I’m doing really well and truly enjoying reading this year.
Posted on June 03, 2019 under Books
May was a good month for me – I read 11 books for an even 50, meaning I hit my yearly goal seven months early. I’m making good progress towards my stretch goal of 100 – I know my reading will slow in the last third of the year, so I’m trying to make the next few months count! Regardless, 2019 will shape up to be my biggest reading year since I made it to 100 back in 2012, so I’m already feeling pretty satisfied.
Here’s what I read this month…
The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman
A childhood favourite that is even better when revisited in adulthood – hard to believe! So many images from this book are indelible in my memory, and they are just as captivating all these years later. Philip Pullman’s writing has incredible emotional depth, from the soaring excitement of adventure to the profound sorrow he is unafraid to explore. Children can be difficult to write convincingly, but Lyra is very real: righteous, stubborn, brash, clever, ultimately innocent even in the face of atrocity. Much of this series is a fairly overt critique of organized religion (and the Catholic church especially), which went over my head as a child. The General Oblation Board’s experiments on children echoes the Holocaust, residential schools, and many other atrocities sanctioned by and committed in the name of the Church. This novel is my favourite in the series; it is complex, evocative, enduring, and affecting beyond words.
The Subtle Knife by Philip Pullman
In the second book in the trilogy, our heroine Lyra and the newly-introduced Will spend a lot of time in Cittàgazze, a parallel world that serves as the transition between all other worlds. This book itself feels like a transition, undeniably the middle book in a trilogy: slow to start, heavy on action in the second half which leaves a lot of loose threads for the final instalment. Yet the strength of Pullman’s writing and ideas keeps it interesting. There’s a particular moment in this novel that will reduce me to tears even if I read it a hundred more times. Because we are now building to a battle that implicates all of humanity, the focus broadens: it is not merely Lyra’s story, or even Lyra and Will’s. The perspectives of the other characters are interesting and help flesh out the world(s) of the novels, but sometimes I was a bit sorry to leave Lyra and Will. I still think it’s a fantastic book, but it’s not quite as good as The Golden Compass.
The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman
The final book in the series does feel a bit scattered; there’s a lot at stake and a lot of threads to tie up. This one gets mixed reviews, in general, and while I understand why some might not find it satisfying, ultimately I think it’s a great ending. There is a lot of devastation in this book, all of it underscoring the pain of growing up as Lyra and Will, on the verge of adolescence, are confronted with some terrible truths. This one isn’t as story-driven as The Golden Compass, so it won’t light imaginations on fire in that way, but the worldbuilding is still fantastic, and the robustness of the characters is second to none. The ending is both heartbreaking and satisfying, and it hit all the right notes for me. In general, I will always have time for the His Dark Materials trilogy. It’s exciting and adventurous enough to appeal to a younger set, but it’s so rich in ideas that it simply transcends its YA designation. (Honestly, with all the anti-Church sentiment I’m surprised it was ever marketed that way, since it seems designed for an older, more politically-conscious reader.)
La Belle Sauvage by Philip Pullman
Rain definitely leaked into my bag when I was bringing this home from the bookstore, but it’s still stunning.
The first book in a new trilogy set in the same world as His Dark Materials, here we’re taken back twelve years. Our main character is a twelve-year-old boy named Malcolm, who becomes enchanted with baby Lyra, who has been taken to live in safety in a convent. Secretly, Malcolm makes weekend visits to Oxford scholar Hannah Relf, who is one of a handful of people who can read the truth-telling alethiometer. The grip of the Church begins to tighten, to the dismay of many in Oxford, Dr. Relf chief amongst them. It’s hard not to feel that this novel served primarily as the setup for something greater (with a lot of tantalizing hints dropped, to be sure), and I did miss eleven-year-old Lyra and her insolence. Malcolm was a fantastic, believable character, and Hannah is just inherently likeable. Though I’m wary of the sudden cultural obsession with reboots (most of which turn out to be very underwhelming), I’m tentatively looking forward to the second book in this series, which will apparently be about twenty-year-old Oxford student Lyra. (So much potential for greatness, so much potential for… devastating disappointment.)
Tentacle by Rita Indiana
Nominally about a Dominican maid who is prophesied to go back in time and save the planet from environmental disaster, this dense little book is actually less about a cliché time travel plot and more about ideas. In 130 pages, Rita Indiana explores gender, sexuality, colonialism, art, environmentalism, Santería, folklore, capitalism, and more. As someone with little knowledge of the cyperpunk genre Indiana is drawing on or of the intricacies of Dominican politics, I’m sure I missed a lot of the finer points of the novel. I found it a bit stomach-turning in places; there’s a lot of sexual violence and a real disgusting misogynist whose thoughts we are privy to. I don’t necessarily think that was gratuitous, but my tolerance for those types of things is growing thinner. The time travel plot was executed in a fresh and interesting way, and the writing was vibrant and exciting. It’s not always easy to follow, which is fine; I don’t mind a novel that makes me work or that leaves me with a lot to think about. I really liked the tone of the ending (and it certainly surprised me), I just wasn’t completely satisfied with this book. I often feel this way about shorter novels and novellas; perhaps it’s a function of the fact that I read them so quickly that I don’t feel I have enough time to truly get into the story and world and characters. I like a fast pace, especially in a book that’s straddling the thriller genre, but there was so little breathing room that I was left feeling like I didn’t quite get the characters’ motivations. This is a well-written (and well-translated) book with an interesting premise and promising execution, but this felt like another book that was primarily about ideas. That’s all well and good, but it’s hard to engage fully with such a variety of big ideas in only 130 pages. I just wanted more, and I was especially frustrated because the potential is so clearly there.
The Water Cure by Sophie Mackintosh
The premise of this so-called “feminist dystopia” is interesting: three sisters are raised on an island by their highly abusive parents, separated from society due to the fact that men are literally toxic to women. Now, this is obviously a heavy-handed metaphor, but it becomes more interesting when we are led to question whether or not this is actually true or simply the parents’ excuse for controlling and abusing their daughters. I also liked the unhealthy, codependent, hostile relationship between the sisters – the dynamics between them were incredibly disturbing.
However, this is not a feminist dystopia. First of all, the world outside of the island is very poorly-developed, and dystopia surely requires intellectual engagement with some sort of wider society – its history, its social structures, its linkage to the real world. Secondly, this is by no means a feminist text. The differences between men and women are treated as inborn, an essentialist take that actually undermines feminist work. Men are portrayed as naturally strong and violent, while women are flimsy and not very self-sufficient. Of course, part of this is the line fed to the sisters by their parents, not necessarily a stance the book takes, but ultimately I didn’t find it did much to critique this. A lot is left deliberately vague or explained poorly, which I couldn’t help but feel was an attempt to make this book seem deeper or more intellectually strenuous than it really was. (My coworker, who recently read it too, had the same thought.) I also didn’t love the writing itself; though it was evocative and eerie, the prose simply feels labourious and a bit repetitive.
This book simply lacks clarity both in terms of narrative and message. Try as I might, I can’t wring anything particularly feminist from it, other than the very basic message that men as a social class are harmful to women as a social class. (So, patriarchy exists? Did I need to read a 266-page novel to tell me this?) Or, what, that the essence of womanhood is victimhood? Maybe this book is really about the effects of long-term isolation and abuse, in which case billing it as some sort of feminist narrative is just silly. Whatever it is, I found a few sparks of interesting ideas in an ultimately unsatisfying narrative.
Hocus Pocus by Kurt Vonnegut
Vonnegut’s penultimate novel tells the story of Eugene Debs Hartke, a Vietnam vet and former professor at a college for people with learning disabilities who is now dying of tuberculosis in prison after being accused of inciting a prison break that decimated a small town. My favourite Vonnegut novels are invariably the more realistic ones, and especially those about war. Hocus Pocus is quite ideologically dense, taking an obvious anti-war stance and creating clear linkages between the mutually-reinforcing systems of the military, prison, and higher education. This novel works through ideas of hereditariness and inevitability, with particular focus on various hereditary conditions as well as the idea that certain combinations of social class, race, and education predispose people to certain experiences. A deliberately essentialist take on complex sociological concepts, sure, but there’s a lot of truth in this. The theme that connects the entire novel is the Vietnam War – its futility and devastation, its ability to create successful, prolific killing machines, the way it has impacted life in the USA of the early 1990s. Eugene, a prominent soldier in Vietnam, is persistently haunted by one particular image of a severed head. Although he himself killed countless people, it is this particular horror that he cannot shake. Similarly, the book personalizes the idea of injustice – war, the prison industrial system – using Eugene as a stand-in for devastation that is on too large a scale to adequately comprehend. This is a bit harder to get through than a lot of Vonnegut’s work, but the (par-for-the-course) scathing critique of modern American capitalism is worth every page.
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
A young girl named Liesel Meminger arrives in a suburb of Munich in 1939 when her mother is unable to care for her. Soon after, her foster family takes in someone else – a young Jewish man named Max, who spends several years hiding in their basement. I first read this book almost ten years ago, in the summer of 2009, when I was fifteen. I had never before had such an intense emotional reaction to a book; I locked myself in the bathroom and cried for a good half hour after finishing it. I’ve been meaning to re-read it for years and years now, and I think the primary reason I’ve put it off is that I wasn’t sure if I could possibly enjoy it as much as I did then. Well, I didn’t. The narrative framing was not quite as seamless, and I couldn’t help but feel that some of the emotion comes simply out of obligation. Who wouldn’t cry at a book about the Holocaust, the devastation of war, the traumas children must bear? It’s not that the emotion isn’t real, it’s that it felt, at times, forced out of me.
There is lots to enjoy here, though. The tenderness of the relationships between Liesel and those around her is genuinely touching. Liesel herself is a great character: damaged and vulnerable but with such a delightful spark. Part of me wished that this novel had been slightly less apolitical (for example, the Hubermanns taking in Max is framed as simply an accident rather than a decision borne of a developed political consciousness), but I guess it’s not that sort of story. I just have a fierce desire for literature with a strong political stance, especially in this nightmarish day and age. I still like this book, but at nearly twenty-five I’m more clearly able to see its pretensions and considerable triteness even while enjoying certain aspects of it. I wouldn’t say this is a must-read, but if the premise interests you then give it a go.
The Public Image by Muriel Spark
A fiery novella about the failing marriage of a famous English actress living in Italy. Fame and unhappy marriages are two of my favourite literary themes, and the context of the Italian film industry makes me like this even more. The dark irony in actress Annabel’s obsession with her public image is rendered in a detached, precise way – even in the face of personal tragedy, Annabel’s first thought is how to control the narrative. Her relationships are either superficial or dysfunctional. Her marriage has been terrible for years, she detests her husband’s best friend, her own close friend is never actually present in the narrative, and her baby exists only as an excuse for her to get out of unpleasant social situations. There is quite a lot to unpack regarding gender roles, especially how integral an apparently loving marriage is to Annabel’s image and star power. Her less-successful husband is resentful of her recent accomplishments; it is suggested that he may feel emasculated by the fact that Annabel pays all the bills while he sits around occasionally producing a mediocre screenplay. At the beginning of the book, Annabel’s husband accuses her of faking her way through her career: she is not actually that talented, he alleges, she has simply fooled people into thinking she’s a good actress. Such is the case of her squeaky-clean, much-adored public image, which begins to unravel over the course of a few eventful days in Rome. A short book packed with interesting ideas about fame, the distinction between the public and private, authenticity, and married life in the 1960s.
The Fire Dwellers by Margaret Laurence
Another painfully-detailed novel about the minutiae about midcentury housewifery – one of my favourite literary interests that many others are sure to find tedious. Here we meet Stacey MacAindra, a thirty-nine-year-old mother of four living in the suburbs of Vancouver. Her husband is a salesman (and, delightfully, he seems to exclusively sell products that you’d only find in modern-day MLMs), and she is bored and unsatisfied with the tedium of her domestic life. Not much actually happens here; it’s very internally-focused book that picks apart Stacey’s intolerable suburban ennui. This is done impeccably, with remarkable precision and sharpness. I love this kind of thing, and I thought this was great. If the concept of reading an entire book about a bored housewife does not appeal to you, then I’m sure you will not enjoy this.
Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell by Susanna Clarke
In the early 1800s, only two men practice magic in England: the elusive, paranoid Mr. Norell and his bold student Jonathan Strange. As Strange’s talents grow and their interests diverge, a great rift forms between them. Strange is particularly enchanted by the figure of the Raven King, said to have brought magic to England originally, while Norell fears and despises him. The worldbuilding in this novel is incredibly thorough (and, at 782 pages, it really ought to be), the story is interesting, and the characters are well-developed. The research into high society Georgian London and the Napoleonic Wars is apparent. However, this book definitely did not to be this long, and this is coming from someone who did not find The Goldfinch‘s length excessive. There are a lot of footnotes sprinkled into the book which feel, at times, gratuitous: some are extremely long, and some impart information that simply could have been integrated into the main text. All in all I got a feeling of self-congratulatory wittiness from some of the structure and tone, which I wasn’t crazy about. I think it’s a fun story and anyone who’s interested in urban fantasy or tales of magic would enjoy this – as long as you can commit to almost 800 pages!
I generally enjoyed my reading in May! This month I have quite a lot going on, including a vacation, so I’m not sure how much I’ll read. I’ve already purchased a few fluffy beach reads for my Kindle as well as a stack of CanLit from the thrift store, so I have a lot on deck for June!
Posted on May 13, 2019 under Reviews
I take a laissez-faire approach to shaving my legs. I don’t feel all that much social pressure to remove my relatively sparse hair, which I acknowledge is largely a privilege born of whiteness. Particularly during the winter, I can happily go weeks without shaving. However, due to my keratosis pilaris I do enjoy the feeling of smoothness, or as close to smoothness as I can get. There is nothing more satisfying when you have KP than taking the time to shave, exfoliate, and moisturize and just sitting there rubbing your legs together. This must be how normal people feel all the time!!!
However, the mainstream shaving industry is pretty underwhelming. Nothing is made to last, the prices are ridiculous, and the pink tax makes me see red. If you don’t want to be stuck using cheap disposable razors forever (bad quality! terrible for the environment!), you are looking at spending $35 or more on a pack of replacement blades, at least here in Canada. That is just not cost-effective and not something I want to spend the rest of my life doing. That’s not even mentioning the fact that most readily-available razors, even the non-disposable ones, are made of plastic and in my experience still feel relatively flimsy.
So I started looking into alternatives, and after doing extensive research (read: watching a lot of comparison videos on YouTube), I settled on Dollar Shave Club as the best-quality and most cost-effective solution.
I went for Dollar Shave Club’s “Executive” package, which includes a metal handle and and four six-blade (!) cartridges for $9.50 Canadian. Oh, and did I mention shipping is free? I mean… considering how much cartridges cost at the drugstore, I really felt like I was getting away with murder.
Dollar Shave Club operates on a subscription box model, meaning they ship you four new cartridges a month. You get the handle for free your first month – so, my cartridges, which are the most expensive, cost $10 a month. (Looks like the price just went up by $0.50, but for what you get compared to other brands I’m hardly complaining…) You could be paying as little as $4 monthly for a pack of five twin-blade cartridges. You can also have the replacement cartridges shipped every other month and skip shipments whenever you want, with no penalty. I like this, because I’m not a daily shaver and I don’t have that much to remove, so I don’t need to switch out my cartridges every week. (I mean, does anyone actually do that? I feel like this is another “rule” like throwing your mascara out every three months that no real humans are actually sticking to.)
As for the razor itself, I absolutely love it. The handle is solid and heavy and makes guiding the blade a piece of cake. I’m not totally sure if a six-blade razor is a gimmick or if it actually makes a difference, but I definitely get the smoothest, closest shave I’ve ever had with this razor. It glides over my skin absolutely effortlessly, even when I have several weeks of regrowth. Plus, I’ve yet to experience any of the knicks that are practically unavoidable with cheap disposable razors. I actually get a tiny thrill when I shave my legs and feel how smoothly the razor slides across my skin – it’s the little things, you know?
The fancy razor market seems to be expanding lately, with brands like Harry’s and Billie offering similar products. I obviously can’t speak to how the quality of Dollar Shave Club compares to them, but in the two months I’ve been using my Executive razor I’ve been really impressed with the quality of the product and the price point. I’m more than happy to remain a Dollar Shave Club customer and I’m really happy with this change.