A Backward Glance

Some of the ones I've read this year...

I wanted to write a bit about the books I’ve read this year. By the way, A Backward Glance, dear reader, is the name of Edith Wharton’s autobiography. And I thought that would be a fitting title to this post, since I’ve read quite a bit of Edith Wharton this year—The Custom of the Country, The House of Mirth, The Age of Innocence, and "Madame de Treymes." This year, I finally finished The Portrait of a Lady and read Washington Square (I’d like to read the latter novel again), both by Edith Wharton’s buddy Henry James. I read some excellent non-fiction—The Warmth of Other Suns, A Hope in the Unseen, and Call the Midwife. I read some books that I wish I’d read when I was much younger—Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. And I read some novels that I probably won’t pick up again—Snobs and Bonjour Tristesse. But, of all the books I've read this year, I think the one I like best of all is Maud Martha. It’s a short little book, but it’s full of life and beautiful language. I’ll probably be reading it again, sometime soon!

The Man of My Dreams

Breakfast of my dreams: bacon, egg & cheese on ciabatta

Author: Curtis Sittenfeld

Category: I’ve read this book twice before.

My thoughts: This seems to be the book that I like but no one else does. I’ve read reviews on Amazon, and some people are irritated with the main character. And she can definitely be irritating. But I like this book, and parts of it really resonate with me.

The Man of My Dreams is a coming-of-age story about Hannah Gavener. The story begins when Hannah is fourteen and is dealing with the fallout of her parents’ separation, following a very tense marriage (which makes for a tense upbringing for Hannah and her sister, Allison). Their household was dictated by their father’s sometimes crazy moods and because of this, Hannah has issues with men for years. The novel follows Hannah throughout college and her twenties. Those years can be awkward, and they are awkward for Hannah. But the girl doesn’t do herself any favors. There is one scene where she is going to a party in college for the first time with some friends—as she’s waiting for them, Hannah gets the urge to ditch her friends, slink away and go to bed. Instead of advancing, she wants to retreat into her comfort zone. Poor thing!

Hannah is on the lookout for the right guy. And in the process, she falls for Henry, a seemingly perfect guy who she meets while he’s dating Fig, Hannah’s enigmatic but flaky cousin. Fig is one of those really popular girls who you really want to be friends with, but who is almost pathologically self-absorbed. Fig provides an interesting foil to Hannah. I suppose I should point out that I found Fig to be the truly irritating character in this book.

Like I said before, parts of the book really resonate with me. There are moments in the book where I really related to Hannah, or I have, at some point, gotten the urge to do something Hannah did in the book. Hannah certainly isn’t a cheerful, upbeat character. I thought of her as being more like Rhoda Morgenstern than Mary Richards (I love classic television, okay?) Hannah certainly has self-destructive tendencies, but in the end, you definitely get the sense that she’s learned a little something.

Great passage (which reflects how a lot of people feel—sometimes we forget about the inner lives of others…or that they have inner lives at all): Fig is regarding her with both curiosity and confusion. Perhaps, unprecedentedly, Fig is entertaining the thought that Hannah’s life contains its own dark corridors and mysterious doors.

Up next: I think I’m going to read The Newlyweds

Call the Midwife

Granola with a side of midwifery.

Author: Jennifer Worth

Category: I had never heard of this book until September, when the miniseries on which it is based came on PBS.

My thoughts: This book is wonderful! I really enjoyed the miniseries (almost to the point of obsession), and when it ended I thought, “I must read the book.” I have a great affinity for midwives, because my late maternal grandmother gave birth to thirteen healthy babies with the aid of a midwife (and, hopefully, some sort of painkiller). Call the Midwife is about the experiences of Jenny Lee (Worth’s maiden name), a young nurse trained in midwifery. She goes to live and work with the nuns at Nonnatus House, who are expert midwives, in the late 1950s. Nonnatus House was located in the East End of London, and is a gritty setting for our refined young nurse. I don’t ever remember reading a book with such a palpable sense of how everything smelled. Worth really makes it clear the odor of her environment, from the gross-smelling, filthy streets that house neighborhood brothels to the pungent ladyparts of her patients (who, bless their hearts, didn’t have access to daily baths). Worth is a great narrator—smart, funny, and compassionate. And she clearly knew what she was doing in regards to midwifery (lucky for all the East End mommies and babies she helped deliver). And she injects humor into a story that has its share of horrors—I shall not soon forget the story of Mary, a teenage Irish prostitute whose friend (and fellow prostitute) died after a horrible back-alley abortion.

In the TV series Call the Midwife, I particularly loved the character of Chummy, an awkward but endearing aristocratic nurse. She isn’t as prominent in the book, though, unfortunately. Worth writes that she thought the very tall Chummy was “a bloke in drag” upon first meeting her (an aside—I love the word “bloke.” I strongly believe that it needs to find its way into American English.) The nuns of Nonnatus House made me think, honestly, of how I would imagine a sorority house to be (with some very chaste sorority sisters). The women live together in close quarters, and personalities clash. Worth realizes that even though the nuns have taken vows of poverty and chastity, they are still human. However, she realizes that they are more flexible and understanding than one would expect nuns to be (I really don’t have that much experience with nuns, but I’ve heard a few stories of terrifying nuns from people who went to Catholic schools. Call the Midwife humanizes nuns a little, in my opinion).

The book is set in an interesting time period for England—the late 1950s. It’s after World War II, but the specter of war is still present via the huge craters in the earth from where the Germans bombed the East End during the Blitz. The immigration of African and West Indian immigrants also exploded during this time. Birth control was introduced just a few years after the story is set, and this severely limited the number of babies the midwives were called upon to deliver (but I’m sure the mothers were happy). Like several of the books I’ve read this year, Call the Midwife is quite far removed from my life. I’ve never even been to London, much less the East End. However, not only did I love this book, but I’ve been recommending it a lot to people. I feel as though people who are far removed from the life and experiences of those depicted in the book can still find inspiration in the book and be moved by it. Perhaps it’s because we all had a woman in our lives who undertook the painful and extraordinary journey of bringing us into this world.

Great passage (which illustrates Worth’s humor): Her mother was in her element, and bursting with pride. She was also just about bursting out of her tight-fitting purple taffeta suit. (Why is it that women always dress so outrageously for weddings? Look around you, and you will see middle-aged women in things that should have left behind with their twenties, drawn tightly across expanding backsides, pulled in at the waist, emphasising folds of flesh that would be better covered; ridiculous hairdos; ludicrous hats; kamikaze shoes.) Bella’s mother and several of her aunts had fashionable veils to their hats, which made eating rather difficult, so they pushed their veils up, and pinned them to the tops of their heads, which made the hats look even more absurd.

Up next: I have no idea! Any suggestions?

Madame de Treymes

Hey there, Edith...

Author: Edith Wharton

Category: This is one of those stories I’d always seen referenced in the Edith Wharton canon, but this is the first time I’ve read it.

My thoughts: While I think Edith Wharton is the bee’s knees, I have no problem admitting that I have met works of hers that I will never read again. Ethan Frome is at the top of this list. I didn’t like it, and I’m certain I’ll never have any desire to pick it up again (an aside: Ethan Frome was the first Edith Wharton novel I ever read, and I’m so glad that I didn’t form my opinion of her based on that novel.) Having said all of this, “Madame de Treymes” is somewhere in the middle of my Edith-Wharton-like-o’meter (Ethan Frome is on the “Didn’t care for it” side, while the brilliant trifecta of The House of Mirth, The Custom of the Country, and The Age of Innocence are on the “I will sing Edith Wharton’s praises forever” side of the spectrum). I didn’t love it, but it was pretty good. First, a little summary.

“Madame de Treymes” is the story of an American man, John Durham, who wants to help his American-born lover, Fanny de Malrive, obtain a divorce from her French husband so that the two (Durham and Fanny de Malrive) can marry. Fanny, whose title is Madame de Malrive is one of those dollar princesses that crossed the Atlantic Ocean and married Europeans in the late nineteenth century. I get the feeling that, during Wharton’s time in France, she met a lot of American dollar princesses, because it’s a theme that she explores this story, in The Custom of the Country, and in her unfinished novel, The Buccaneers. But Fanny is a more innocent soul than Undine Spragg from The Custom of the Country. And she, Fanny, faces some serious opposition from her husband’s family, who is steeped in tradition and refuses to consent to a divorce, despite Monsieur Malrive’s horrible behavior (it’s never explicitly said what he is guilty of, just as in The Age of Innocence, Count Olenski’s behavior is never revealed). The Malrive family is like the Corleone family (in fact, reading this story reminded me of a Mario Puzo quote: “The strength of a family, like the strength of an army, lies in its loyalty to each other.”) And the Malrive family is quite strong.

This story has elements of The Age of Innocence, The Custom of the Country, and The Portrait of a Lady. Madame de Treymes, the titular character and Madame de Malrive’s sister-in-law, reminded me of Madame Merle from The Portrait of a Lady (there are a lot of “Madams” in the Edith Wharton/Henry James world). Madame de Treymes cut from the same cloth as those intriguing French women one reads about in articles about how to achieve Gallic allure and mystery. She isn’t necessarily beautiful, but she has personality, and she definitely has an air of mystery and intrigue.

“Madame de Treymes” exposes the differences between European and American cultures. Namely, how the American can-do spirit clashes with strong European traditions. If I remember correctly, Henry James also did this in The Europeans, which I read in graduate school, and he definitely did it in The Portrait of a Lady. Also, I’m not sure if "Madame de Treymes" should be categorized as a really short novel, or a long short story. I liked it because it explores themes that Edith Wharton is good at writing about (complicated relationships; Americans moving in European society), but I’m not sure I’ll read it again.

Great passage: She had moved in surroundings through which one could hardly bounce and bang on the genial American plan without knocking the angles off a number of sacred institutions; and her acquired dexterity of movement seemed to Durham a crowning grace. It was a shock, now that he knew at what cost the dexterity had been acquired, to acknowledge this even to himself; he hated to think that she could owe anything to such conditions as she had been placed in.

Up next: Call the Midwife

Sense and Sensibility, Part 2

I thought of Marianne when I saw this tree. She loved imperfect trees!

As I observed when reading about Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen’s novels are relatable because the situations she writes about are timeless. The same is true with Sense and Sensibility. There’s the age-old “he likes her, but she likes someone else” scenario that we see with Colonel Brandon/Marianne/Willoughby. Haven’t we all liked someone who liked someone else? Also, Marianne’s heartbreak is universal—haven’t we all been crushed by someone we believed we were meant to be with? This evokes a feeling of empathy within the reader. When Marianne has her heart broken by Willoughby, you want to come visit her, armed with some cheesy DVDs and a bottle of wine to comfort her. And then proceed to egg Willoughby’s house, Combe Magna. Elinor’s situation is also relatable. After she discovers that Edward is secretly engaged, she must try to appear objective in front of both the calculating Lucy and Edward. She has to try to keep her feelings private when others try to tease them out of her, like Mrs. Jennings, who is a universal representation of the middle-aged lady who is always in everyone’s business.

Now, a word about the men that the Dashwood sisters end up with. I think I prefer Edward Ferrars. At first, he seems like he’s kind of dull. But he has that nerdy allure that I would no doubt be drawn to. And he has good taste in women—Elinor’s pretty cool. However, I’ve never completely warmed to Colonel Brandon. He seems…ever so slightly creepy in his attentions to Marianne. I think it’s the age difference between him and Marianne (when they meet, he’s thirty-five, and she’s barely seventeen). He’s always underfoot. But he’s stable and quietly devoted, and Marianne needs someone like that.

While rereading Sense and Sensibility, I had forgotten that Willoughby visits Elinor, when he thinks Marianne is dying. His conversation with Elinor humanizes him a little. But I still think he’s awful. My opinion of Lucy Steele remains the same as well. I’m tickled by the fact that Mrs. Jennings calls her a “worthless hussy” when everyone learns that Lucy has eloped with Robert Ferrars. Lucy’s elopement is pretty much a deus ex machina, but at least Edward, dear simple Edward, wasn’t tied down to such a horrid woman.

Great passage (Elinor is talking to Marianne about Willoughby, and in typical Elinor fashion, tells the absolute truth about his character): “The whole of his behaviour,” replied Elinor, “from the beginning to the end of the affair has been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or his own case, was in every particular his ruling principle.”

 Up next: Madame de Treymes (by my beloved Edith Wharton)

Sense and Sensibility, Part 1

I am tickled pink by the cover of this edition!

Author: Jane Austen

Category: I first read this about two and a half years ago, when I was unemployed. I enjoyed it because it was actually funny, but it also had a sense of melancholy that I could relate to at the time.

My thoughts: I think that between the two Jane Austen novels I’ve read, I will always prefer Pride and Prejudice. However, Sense and Sensibility has its own charms, and I like it more than I did when I read it for the first time. I feel as if Jane Austen goes deeper here than in Pride and Prejudice on the subject of unrequited love and its emotional effects. As any preteen girl can tell you, crushes are hard! I’m not finished reading the book yet (I’ve got about 100 pages to go), and I’d like to write about the characters first, as I did with Pride and Prejudice.

I think when I was younger, I was like Marianne Dashwood in terms of personality. I felt passionately about my opinions, staunchly defended them, and freely spoke my mind. Then I got older, and discovered tact. Marianne doesn’t worry about the politeness that dominates this society and its conversations. If she doesn’t want to do something, she doesn’t make polite excuse. She just says that she’s not interested. Of course, this leaves her sister Elinor to smooth over any ruffled feathers. The fact that Marianne feels things very deeply is manifests itself in her swift infatuation with Willoughby and her shattered reaction to his cold treatment of her later. Marianne’s heartbreak is incredibly palpable. I suppose that the moment when you realize you are very wrong about ideas that you thought were unshakeable is always heartbreaking. However, Marianne brings my favorite moment in the novel, as seen in the Great Passages at the end of the post.

Now, Elinor. She is a rock, a steady presence in a novel full of mean girls (Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny Dashwood) and silly people (Mrs. Jennings, Sir John, and Mrs. Palmer). Elinor knows how to take care of business. She withholds her emotions, and keeps the secrets of herself and others, even though it causes inner turmoil. She reminds me a bit of Victoria Leonard from one of my favorite novels, Summer Sisters. Elinor can read people in a way that her mother and sister can’t. She’s suspicious, rightly, of Willoughby’s intentions. In discussing Elinor, her rival and foil, Lucy Steele must be mentioned. What a vile creature! She is cunning (and not in a good way) and calculating. There were passages when I frankly admired Elinor for not getting up and smacking Lucy Steele in the face. Elinor, instead of playing games like Lucy, is determined to be a grown-up about the love triangle between Elinor, Lucy, and Edward.

At first glance, Willoughby and Wickham seem almost interchangeable as Austen villains. But the undercurrent of danger is stronger with Willoughby. Wickham is a jerk, but Willoughby downright dangerous. He is seducer and ruiner of women. His attentions to Marianne and her family are almost bipolar: he’s familiar enough with the Dashwood family to practically order Mrs. Dashwood not to make any alterations to their cottage (at that point, he got on my nerves—who is he to tell a grown woman what she should or shouldn’t do to her own house?). But then, when he sees Marianne at a party, he is so so cold to her.

Earlier, I mentioned the novel’s mean girls, Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny Dashwood. Like mother, like daughter (they would probably get along well with Caroline Bingley from Pride and Prejudice). They are nice to Lucy Steele only because they don’t like Elinor. However, Marianne puts them in their place, as seen in the moment below, when the two ladies are praising Miss Morton, who they hope will marry Edward Ferrars, at the expense of our beloved Elinor.

Great passage: Marianne could not bear this. She was already greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another at Elinor’s expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth: “This is admiration of a very particular kind! What is Miss Morton to us? Who knows, or who cares, for her? It is Elinor of whom we think and speak.”

My Kind of Town!

Last week, I went to Chicago, home of Maud Martha and landing station to many Great Migrators, to visit my friend Alex. We had a blast! We visited the Art Institute, and stayed there for hours. We learned that your ticket is good until the museum closes, so we went to the museum in the morning, left to have lunch, and came back to see more art. It is a stupendous museum. We also went on a Chicago architecture tour. I loved seeing the old Montgomery Ward buildings (my family used to be big fans of the Montgomery Ward catalog; I have a Montgomery Ward blanket that’s probably older than me, and is in great condition!). We also stopped by the Chicago Children’s Museum, where I took the picture above, a replica of Willis Tower (that’s its proper name, but it will always be Sears Tower to me).

P.S. I decided to read Sense and Sensibility.