Feeding the literary monkey

Hitting the road, or the sky I guess, and going to Vancouver for the weekend. No, this is not my usual jetsetting lifestyle - a big trip for me is usually leaving the house, and walking down to the local coffeeshop. Back in the day, whenever the hell that was, I got out a lot more. Living in Toronto I was often going to meetings, taking lunch in Chinatown, going to galleries or just perusing the tons of great bookstores (then) in the city.

I am still a huge fan of the great bookstore. I say "then" because on a recent trip to Toronto (hmmm, maybe I do get out more than I think), I was sad to discover a few of the best had disappeared. Most notably was the fantastic - Pages - on Queen Street West. What the hell happened? Sadly, I know the answer to that. People, and I am one of them, buying more books online or the big box stores.

This is a conundrum for a artist/writer/teacher/designer guy like me. Having those different paths in my life doesn't mean I make a whack of dough - I am successful simply by surviving as a self-employed artist for 25 years. And I gotta feed my addictions.

1. Coffee. Not too bad, I ration myself the odd triple-tall Americano, but mostly just make a good strong brew with fresh fresh fresh beans at home.

2. Music. Um, do I admit that I download from time to time? Still, I have a studio full of CD's and even Cassette tapes (!) to prove my supporting of the music biz all these years. And if I hear something online that I love, I still go and buy the CD.

3. Books. Here's the rub. I love me the used book stores, and I love me (even more) the deals at Amazon, Chapters or Barnes and Noble. I have not got into the whole electronic reader thing (though if someone wanted to give me an ipad, I am not about to say no). I still buy a lot of books - more than your average Joe or Jane I think. But I also know that my buying at these places hurt the independent book stores. But again, going back to an earlier point - I don't make that much money!

So I guess all I am saying is those of you who are pulling in the big bucks - step away from that computer screen and head down to your local independent store. Damn, as I write this, I know I have to challenge myself to do the same. If I scale back on the other addiction, not mentioned here (okay it's good wine and decent scotch), maybe I can feed that literary monkey on my back a better quality of book. One served by a small, yet passionate bookseller, who got into the biz for the same reason I write - because we just love books so damn much.

Anyway - this was supposed to be about going to Vancouver and how I don't get out much. Oh well.

Go buy a f*&#ing book right now. You heard me!

The Golden Mean

This year's bookclub is providing me with some fantastic reads (Light in August and Bel Canto for example) - this month, another delight: The Golden Mean by Annable Lyon. I am tearing through this book (not crying, ripping) - the writing is tight, the characters beautifully drawn, and the content is just plain fascinating. The novel imagines the relationship between Aristotle and his young student Alexander (the Great).

It helps that I have been reading a lot about Aristotle lately, his views on science and astronomy, and how his philosophy differed from Plato's. At this point you might go, "really?" Why would you be reading that? Well, I just seem to get interested in these things.

Anyway, Lyon's book deservedly won a bunch of awards. I am amazed at how she gives just enough to put the reader in ancient Greece, and that she doesn't labour over long descriptive passages trying to nail the period. But when you read of some ancient medicine techniques like trepanning (yikes!), it's a bit blood curdling, the kind of stuff I need to read through splayed fingers.

What I am getting at is that Lyon obviously did the research, but uses Hemingway's iceberg theory well. You know she knows her stuff, and she doesn't have to prove it by giving long history lessons.

Fantastic book - highly recommended.

Reading in the Dark

 

Dark, dark, dark - that's the stuff I seem to be reading lately. Well, to clarify, it is not dark and depressive like say DeLillo or McCarthy can get... that is dark and brilliant. I am just reading some nasty gun play, violence, bad people doing bad things. For one, the sequel to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I am still not sure what made these books bestsellers, but I keep plowing to see if I learn anything.

More to the point is the George Pelecanos novel, The Night Gardener. The blurb on the front is Stephen King stating that Pelecanos is perhaps the best living crime writer in the entire known galaxy - or some sort of hyperbolic statement. (That's a different cover in the photo above). I've read Pelecanos before, after someone said, "If you like Joe R. Lansdale, then you will love..etc." They were wrong. I didn't love. Maybe there is something to King's "perhaps." As in perhaps he is, perhaps he is not.

But I bought two Pelecanos books, so I am finally getting around to reading the second. But I am not sure I will finish. I will say that again slowly, I, might, NOT ... finish. This is a huge statement for people that know me and my obsessive personality. I was telling this to someone the other day, and my wife, also in the conversation, stopped me,

"You're not going to what?"

"Finish."

"But you always finish everything you read." She said this like I was this sort of freak that collects african stink bugs.

"Yeah, but I dunno if I want to subject myself to cops and bad guys doing bad things to each other while they drink and swear."

She was definitely amazed (and probably wondering if I was finally maturing - ha, fat chance!.)

But I do get tired of darkness for darkness sake. That is why I hardly ever read horror. McCarthy's dystopian book The Road, or even No Country for Old Men, was full of darkness. But it is different, in a way I have a hard time articulating.

Maybe in the end, and sorry George, I just don't like shitty writing.

Lyrical Fiction

When I think about lyrical fiction I often think of flowing prose, but not flowery, that moves effortlessly through in and around characters - sort of like Huck Finn going down the Mississip'. And come to think of it, Twain was a pretty lyrical writer himself. I guess thoughts of whimsy, or even long frilly dresses might also pop into an explanation of lyrical - but those are really not required, and the writing might drip into something more insipid and purple, rather than fluid and beautiful.

I'm kind of sneaking up, trying to be lyrical (but feeling more bumpy than anything) on my latest read. Bel Canto has been on the bedside stack for a few years now. I finally picked it up, as my bookclub read of the month (a sure way to get something read). I have been floating along with this book for a few weeks now, lost in the, yes, lyrical prose and storytelling. I've also had an odd feeling of claustrophobia, wanting the book to end, but not really wanting it to end. Bel Canto is about an international group of executives and politicos held hostage by a terrorist group somewhere in South America. It deserves the many awards and accolades that it has won. What I am most amazed with is the range of voices that Patchett creates - and how she breaks rules of POV (point of view) all over the place - dancing between the inner thoughts of each character. There are times where I am swirling, but not with confusion, it's more with admiration with how she keeps it all floating.

I'll be sad to finish the book I have about 20 pages to go. I have a feeling that things will not end well (shhh, no spoilers). The book has held me hostage for a few weeks - but like the hostages in the book, I didn't really want to leave.

True Coen

No surprise that I am big film guy. I have loved movies since I was old enough to crawl up and touch the TV screen, speaking in baby-talk, "mmm, long narrative form." (Or something like that.) I had a favorite station coming out of Yorkton, Sask. that must have had a very limited selection of movies - it seemed like there was a Spaghetti western on every other week, or sometimes once a week. I loved Clint a lot - but early on I was much more interested in this Sergio Leone guy. Once Upon a Time in the West (sans Clint) was brilliantly quirky, as was Duck You Sucker starring another childhood hero, James Coburn.

I guess where I am going is that I have always loved directors over actors (and Clint has been shining in that area over the last decade or so) - and the form I love best will probably still be the Western. There is certainly a huge chunk of nostalgia at work here, many Sat. afternoon matinees with Trinity movies, or that other guy I didn't like so much, John Wayne. He was too clean, too good, too classic cowboy. Give me a good smoking and spitting anti-hero anytime. That is except for one movie: True Grit. It was epic, and Wayne playing against the type. (To digress, there is one other: The Searchers - but I only discovered Ford's classic much later in my viewing life.)

Flash forward to now and my favorite directors: The Coen Brothers. By far the most interesting film makers out there. When I first saw Blood Simple I knew this was the birth of something else. I am huge Hitchcock fan, so I noted the homage at work, but guessed there was something else going on. Then movie after movie they blew me away - the laugh out loud Raising Arizona, the dark Miller's Crossing, the even darker Barton Fink... and Fargo, probably the best of them all for sheer movie making. Then Brother Where Art Thou - a musical greek epic! Even the lesser ones like Intolerable Cruelty or the Man Who Wasn't There. The cult of the dude and the Big Lebowski, and the sharp Burn After Reading (way too underrated IMO). And of course, No Country for Old Men - I barely have words, even gushy ones, to describe this brilliance.

Okay, so I am a fan boy. Guilty as charged.

But now, wait for it. The dude is back. The Bros. are back. True Grit is back.

Oh my. I cannot wait.