Thursday, June 6, 2024

Warlight

 

WarlightWarlight by Michael Ondaatje
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

The coming of age story of a young man whose mother was a spy during and after WWII, only he didn't really realize it at the time. His mother left him and his sister in the care of some unorthodox and unusual guardians who introduced them to some interesting lifestyles and philosophies. His mother returns when "the enemies" try to abduct him and sister, and she leaves the spy service. The second half of the book seems to be him trying to put the pieces of new knowledge with what happened back then--why his mother left, who the guardians were both during the war, and after, and what happened to everyone. It was an interesting and unusual book although I can't say I really liked any of the characters or sympathized much with them which is why it is a lower rating.

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The Moth was often away, but his absence, like his presence, rarely mattered.

Is this how we discover the truth, evolve? By gathering together such unconfirmed fragments?

When you attempt a memoir, I am told, you need to be in an orphan state. So what is missing in you, and the things you have grown cautious and hesitant about, will come almost casually towards you. “A memoir is the lost inheritance,” you realize, so that during this time you must learn how and where to look. In the resulting self-portrait everything will rhyme, because everything has been reflected. If a gesture was flung away in the past, you now see it in the possession of another. So I believed something in my mother must rhyme in me. She in her small hall of mirrors and I in mine.

I felt I too had disappeared. I had lost my youth.

Only a thin line of light under the door I had just closed behind me.

I retreated from arguments as if I had those epicanthic eyelids that birds and some fish have, that allow them to separate themselves silently, almost courteously, from present company.

speaking of the mystery of chalk hills, where “whole faunas come and go, while the layers of the chalk are built from the efforts of infinitesimal creatures working in almost limitless time.”

She was once more back in a small repeating universe that included few outsiders

We never know more than the surface of any relationship after a certain stage, just as those layers of chalk, built from the efforts of infinitesimal creatures, work in almost limitless time.


Without Children

Without Children: The Long History of Not Being a MotherWithout Children: The Long History of Not Being a Mother by Peggy O'Donnell Heffington
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I thought this was a thoughtful, well-researched inquiry into why women don't have children, by choice, and not. She points out that the desire not to have children for various reasons have always existed, there have always been means and ways women have tried to take control of their bodies, their roles, and their desires. What I thought was fascinating was the social policies that seem to support the traditional family but actually work against it, especially in regards to America. We have become increasingly isolated from each other, meaning there is less support for mothers, and fewer roles for women without children (including single and those unable to have their own children) to help in the nurture of children. Policies like affordable day care and long (or any) maternity leave have been discouraged in order to entice mothers to stay home and raise children but actually make it economically difficult to raise a family. I thought Heffington did a remarkable job of being sensitive to women on both sides of this issue, validating both choices to have or not have children and encouraging us all to be kinder to each other and more supportive of those with children.

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Heti suggests the term “not not a mother”: For women without children, it could be a rejection of the negative identity, “not ‘not a mother.’” For mothers, the double negative cancels itself out and they become, simply, a mother. This, Heti writes, is a “term we can share.”

We need an elaborated vocabulary for making kin and caring beyond the ‘pro-and anti-and non-natalist,’ and that does not use the binary-implying word ‘choice.’”

Women I got graduate degrees with, drank too much whiskey in bars with, ran marathons with, have been transformed, literally overnight, into Adults, with Real Responsibilities and Meaning in Their Lives. Meanwhile, I have remained a child, failing to feed myself properly on a regular basis, killing houseplants, and indulging in wild, hedonic pleasures like going for a run every morning and having a clean living room.

But a man who produces no children is not usually identified with that lack.

Today, we benefit from the wisdom of Black, queer, and Indigenous feminist thinkers who have taught us that “mother” is best used as a verb, not a noun: mother is something that you do, not something that you are.

New York Times survey in 2021 concluded that reproductive decisions were closely tied to jobs, money, and the desperate struggle many millennials have faced to gain even a tenuous foothold in the rapidly eroding middle class.

For the rest of us, the majority without kids, our non-motherhood was arrived at slowly, indirectly, through a series of decisions that sometimes had nothing, and yet everything, to do with reproduction:

there was far more space for motherhood to be a social role, not just a biological one, more space for women who did not birth children to fully participate in loving and raising them.

Many of us have mourned the passage of what Cheryl Strayed has called “the ghost ship that didn’t carry us,” the shadowy, silent version of the life we did not choose that glides parallel to us, barely visible through the mist.

The activist and writer Jenny Brown has argued that we should understand falling births in America as a work slowdown or a strike: the people who do the labor of birthing and raising children are increasingly refusing to do it under the poor conditions they’ve been provided.

the reasons women aren’t having children look and feel less like a strike than like individual decisions to opt out, less like a shared experience and more like a personal failure to overcome modern-day stresses, real and imagined.

That the isolation of the American family would correspond to its shrinking makes sense.

“grandmother hypothesis”: the idea that older women might stop reproducing because they can do more good by caring for their communities and extended families than by having additional children of their own.

The modern nuclear family was not just a biological unit, but also, in the public imagination, a social unit bonded by a kind of love and loyalty that was both natural and unique. 55

“Assimilation” to white American culture and society demanded nothing less than the destruction of communal support networks and the isolation of nuclear families from each other.

As long as work remained in the home, it was more or less genderless; and as long as work remained genderless, women maintained a partial hold on equal household power.

The family, he writes, “was roughly torn apart each morning by the factory bell.” 42 Dad went to work, leaving Mom behind to oversee a family whose importance had been hollowed out. No longer the site of economic productivity or industrious familial labor, the family was reduced to just two functions: raising children and creating a soft, loving, comfortable environment to do it in, a “haven in a heartless world.” 43 Along the way, women lost the ability to contribute economically to their families, and the household power that comes with that contribution. 44

If a woman’s highest calling was to be a mother, then carrying out motherhood’s attendant duties should be anything but work. 47

In the context of a history that features mothers making economic contributions to their families far more often than it does not, the problem isn’t that motherhood is incompatible with work. The problem is that the way we work today is increasingly incompatible with motherhood.

Two decades later, fertility exploded during the baby boom, which also happened to coincide with the most generous social welfare programs in American history. 63

“The birth rate,” he writes, “is a barometer of despair.”

Infertility, then, may be the only medical condition that is a medical condition only if the person who has it thinks it is.

The sociologist Sally Macintyre has pointed out that there are “two visions of reality” for women. For unmarried women, “pregnancy and childbearing are abnormal and undesirable and conversely the desire to have a baby is aberrant, selfish, and in need of explanation.” For married women, the opposite has long been true: “Pregnancy and childbearing are normal and desirable, and conversely a desire not to have children”—and, I would add, the simple fact of not having them—“ is aberrant and in need of explanation.”

Though both procedures can involve the destruction of fertilized human embryos, in a 2013 Pew survey about half of Americans said they believed abortion to be morally wrong, and only 12 percent believed the same of IVF. 71

motherhood was the source of their power. “The woman’s body, which receives, hosts, and gives forth the future of the species, is inherently powerful,” they wrote.

The problem is not the children. The problem is the society parents have to parent in.

Tuesday, June 4, 2024

The Paying Guest

 

The Paying GuestsThe Paying Guests by Sarah Waters
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This was a well-written emotional thriller set in the 1930's in England. Frances and her mother have had to let out some of their rooms to make ends meet in a high-class end of town. A couple moves in and immediately impacts their day to day life. I loved how the descriptions of the noises were given throughout the book as we follow the actions as Frances would. Frances falls in love, and then there is a discovery, and a fall out that may seem rather mundane but Waters puts a new twist to it, and it changes everything. Waters lets us experience all the lust of a new paramour, the deepening love, the compromises, then the horror and endless waiting and tension. I didn't know what to expect going into it, and some people may not appreciate the twist, but I thought it was an interesting way to look at how always looking at things conventionally makes us miss things.

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How to Say Babylon

 

How to Say BabylonHow to Say Babylon by Safiya Sinclair
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

An interesting viewpoint into the Rastafarian culture in Jamaica. It was interesting that there were so many rules without a guiding goal--each Rastafarian seemed to have different ideas of what those rules should be, and was only reinforced by the leader of each individual clan made primarily of individual families. Dreadlocks, and a general dislike for colonization seems to be the main tenets, yet her father also laid down some pretty clear gendered roles, vegetarian diet, and a (selective) isolation from Babylon (colonial dogmas and people). Interestingly, the seeds her father planted of her being a princess when she was a child came to overrule him when he tried to subdue her later in her life. It's a unique tale, interesting. She explains that she was criticized when she writes poetry as being too dramatic and I think that is a weakness here as well. There are a lot of dramatic flairs and big emotions but I suppose that is who she is.

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It was never the hope of building Zion that called out most to him, but the fire, the fight against Babylon, and now he was ready to decimate any heathen who stood in his way.

While he warned us of Babylon, she showed us Zion.

I could keep pulling the thread, spend years unraveling all that unraveled me, or I could pull it all through the needles eye, and stitch.

Wednesday, May 22, 2024

Remains of the Day

 

The Remains of the DayThe Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

What a beautiful and tragic example of an unreliable narrator. What graceful examples of things shown and not told, of trusting the reader to understand through hints and glances and not shouting at him. It is depressing and hopeful at the same time. It is that tension and the ambiguity that makes this novel one of the best.

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Mrs. Dalloway

 

Mrs. DallowayMrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I love Woolf's observations, her ability to pick at the psyche of random people and imagine what is going on in their heads. I love her imagery and willingness to use new ways of experiencing a story. I love how the hours toll ceaselessly throughout the book, reminding us of the relentlessness of time. I love how the inner dialogue of people are picked up and dropped as if a small fly has an x-ray tape recorder and we hear peoples thoughts as it flies from one victim to the next. It requires a bit from the reader to piece together everything that is going on, and how they all relate to each other, but this is one of the joys of reading Woolf that I love as well.

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How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen;

She could not sit beside him when he stared so and did not see her and made everything terrible;

To love makes one solitary, she thought. She could tell nobody,

Nothing could make her happy without him! Nothing! He was selfish. So men are. For he was not ill. Dr. Holmes said there was nothing the matter with him. She spread her hand before her. Look! Her wedding ring slipped—she had grown so thin. It was she who suffered—but she had nobody to tell.

Her words faded. So a rocket fades. Its sparks, having grazed their way into the night, surrender to it, dark descends, pours over the outlines of houses and towers; bleak hillsides soften and fall in. But though they are gone, the night is full of them; robbed of colour, blank of windows, they exist more ponderously, give out what the frank daylight fails to transmit—the trouble and suspense of things conglomerated there in the darkness; huddled together in the darkness; reft of the relief which dawn brings when, washing the walls white and grey, spotting each window-pane, lifting the mist from the fields, showing the red-brown cows peacefully grazing, all is once more decked out to the eye; exists again.

Dr. Holmes had told her to make him notice real things,

“Oh look,” she implored him. But what was there to look at? A few sheep. That was all.

she could not dispel a virginity preserved through childbirth which clung to her like a sheet.

as if the random uproar of the traffic had whispered through hollowed hands his name, not Peter, but his private name which he called himself in his own thoughts. “You,” she said, only “you,” saying it with her white gloves and her shoulders.

Sir William said he never spoke of “madness”; he called it not having a sense of proportion.

Shredding and slicing, dividing and subdividing, the clocks of Harley Street nibbled at the June day, counselled submission, upheld authority, and pointed out in chorus the supreme advantages of a sense of proportion, until the mound of time was so far diminished that a commercial clock, suspended above a shop in Oxford Street, announced, genially and fraternally, as if it were a pleasure to Messrs. Rigby and Lowndes to give the information gratis, that it was half-past one.

she felt herself everywhere; not “here, here, here”; and she tapped the back of the seat; but everywhere.

Every time she gave a party she had this feeling of being something not herself,


Breasts and Eggs

 

Breasts and EggsBreasts and Eggs by Mieko Kawakami
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This was such an interesting exploration of what it is to be a woman/mother. The afterword explains that the novel was written in two parts, the first part being published first and the second added after for the international printing. It does feel like two separate stories, although the main character remains the same. The first part ruminates about being a woman--her sister is obsessed with breast implants, her niece is grappling with puberty, and an incident at the bathhouse has the author wondering what gender even is. It's has several whimsical/ dreamlike incidents which creates interest and underscores the surreal nature of trying to distinguish what female is. The second half of the book is more concrete and discusses the idea of becoming a mother, especially a single mother and looks at the idea through several different view-points. For a novel about ideas, I found it very interesting and thought provoking and not without some emotion.

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Those summer days felt worlds away, as if they happened in another life.  But they happened to me, and to my body.