Richard Neely. Shadows of the Past (1987)

     Richard Neely. Shadows of the Past (1987) A “saga” involving teenage love, class conflict, friendship, loyalty, and sex. Trashy as can be, TV Movie written all over it. (For all I know, it was made into a mini-series -- it’s hard to tell, since they all seem to be the same story.) The book is a romance, unusual only in that it focuses on a man instead of a woman. Charles Dain, son of a poor immigrant, falls in love with schoolmate Sharon Fletcher, whose father throws him out. He enlists in the army (WWI), and she, pregnant, marries an old friend. He meets and marries Harriet Calder, rich, rich, rich heiress, who buys him a newspaper. Max, his and Sharon’s old friend (and supposed chaperone on their dates) becomes his managing editor, etc. Many years later, Charles and Sharon meet and resume their affair, which ends when Dain is shot by Max, who in a drunken rage realises he has never really given up hope of winning Sharon. Charles covers up the deed, and although several people now know Sharon’s daughter Kate is Charles’ child, everything will work out well. The “shadows of the past” will be deliberately forgotten.
     There are few wrinkles of plot I’ve left out, but that’s the essence. The characterisation is superficial, the dialogue is quite good, the narrative trick of shifting back and forth form past to present works well enough, but all in all, it’s fraud, a beach book designed to while away a few hours without too much imaginative or intellectual engagement. The book succeeds at this modest goal, but I can’t help feeling that Neely wanted to write a more serious book. However, like many romances, it’s full of anachronisms, most gratingly in speech and attitudes. *(2002)

Cynthia Freeman. Portraits (1979)

    Cynthia Freeman. Portraits (1979) A Family Saga Romance. A Jewish family emigrates to the USA in the early 1900s. The story follows their fortunes, etc to the present day, when one of the last survivors starts writing this story.
     A bad book, relying on incident (eg, a vicious beating of the hero) and plot (most of which is signalled well ahead of time, just in case your attention wanders), with cursory attempts at socio-economic description. Much telling, very little showing, stereotypical characters and incidents. The story is “realistic,” in that the characters are not saints by any means; but they have moments of insight which bring them round, so that their bad feelings and attitudes don’t last very long. The book has Hollywood and TV rights written all over it; in the right hands it would make a Serious Dramatic miniseries. In other words, light weight trash. I read about 1/4 of it, and had enough. Fay got this book at Books and Stuff, for light summer reading; which it is, but not the best example of its genre.
     Freeman started writing at age 55, and had some success. She explains a lot, which makes for easy reading. She aims at the middle, that kind of reader who doesn’t want to figure things out, doesn’t want to get too involved with the characters, doesn’t want too much intellectual or moral shock, in fact wants to have her prejudices and opinions confirmed, especially the progressive ones. In this, Freeman succeeds. But I don’t like it. * (2002)

Gordon R. Dickson. Mindspan (1986)

     Gordon R. Dickson. Mindspan (1986) Collection of stories about human-alien encounters. Several of the stories form short series, one about Harry Shallo, and one about Tim and Lucy Parent. In all the stories, human (i.e., American) orneriness, cunning, and sheer irrational savvy are shown to be a match for any mere alien. Which raises the question of whether we can imagine an alien of truly superior skill and intelligence. Apparently not. Entertaining, well plotted, nicely written, and swift moving, so that one doesn’t notice the holes in the logic or the thinness of the characters while enjoying these tales. Dickson wrote them for Galaxy and similar 1950s-60s pulps. The editors’ stinginess forced low word counts, which I’m sure contributed to the compressed and often elegant style of tale telling. ** to ***. (2002)

J. Thurber. and E. B. White. Is Sex Necessary? (1929, 1950)

     J. Thurber. and E. B. White. Is Sex Necessary? (1929, 1950) Somewhat dated in its coy humour, but stylish and amusing. Thurber’s analysis of “pedestalism” still stands. The fact that this book was considered screamingly funny when it first appeared tells us a lot about the American obsession with sex, and Americans’ false assumption that other, more sophisticated, societies (e.g. Europe) don’t have the same neuroses as they do. Thurber’s drawings are wonderful. He can put more expression in a single line than some more skillful draftsmen put into a whole picture. **-½ (2002)

Robert Campbell. Plugged Nickel (1988)

     Robert Campbell. Plugged Nickel (1988) Bought at Value Village because it’s set on a train, and obviously a remaindered copy, never read. Jake Hatch is the P.I., he’s a railroad cop working for the Burlington Northern. A severed body is found on the tracks, but the two parts turn out to be from different bodies. And so what might be a gruesome accident turns out to be murder. The puzzle is competently handled, although the denouement is somewhat perfunctory. The characters and atmosphere are pleasant, and we learn a little bit about gypsies. Not the best such entertainment, and not the worst either. Campbell doesn’t get the railroady bits quite right, which may be the reason this didn’t turn into a series as planned. Or maybe it did. The next book was to be titled Red Cent. I haven’t seen it, but I will look for it. ** (2002)

Barton J. Bernstein. Towards a New Past (1969)

     Barton J. Bernstein. Towards a New Past (1969) A collection of “dissenting essays in American History,” and as such containing interesting points of view based in some cases on new data. Many of these points of view would be considered subversive right now. The trouble is, it’s an academic book, put together for undergraduate history courses. I pity the people who had to read this book for credit. The style for the most part is clotted and obscurantist, often written to an audience that presumably has the same knowledge base as the writer. The most readable essay is Christopher Lasch’s, in which he lambastes the “liberals” that allied themselves with right-wing anti-communist paranoia.
      The date of the book suggests reasons for its publication: the 60s were a brief resurgence of the liberal tradition in American society, a tradition that is once again under attack, since it represents what used to be called conservative attitudes: respect for the individual; the view that the state exists to protect the weak from the powerful (which entails redistribution of wealth); a belief that government should promote the general good and not arbitrate between competing interests (for such arbitration inevitably results in co-option by one or another of those interests); and so on.
     Much of its material is, as the academics say, “valuable,” but the academic tone and attitudes put off the people who most need a corrective to their myths of the American past: the ordinary Jane and Joe who believe what is mostly a rickety structure of lies and conscience-salving myths. The heirs of the dissenting tradition, the ultra-sensitive would-be reformers of racist, sexist, classist attitudes, are themselves as guilty of misreading the past as those whom they attack. Since their misreadings for the most part have no political or economic consequences, they are happily included in current TV and movies. The real issues, which are misunderstanding of money and power, and hence mistaken analysis of how they work in our society, are ignored in favour of attempts to avoid affronting those who feel they have a historical grievance of one kind or another.
     Clearly a book that provokes responses. But, oh, how tedious to read! ** (2002)

E. J. West Shaw on Theatre (1958)

     E. J. West Shaw on Theatre (1958) Collection of essays, and public and private letters, therefore somewhat repetitive. The last few pieces, written when Shaw had outlived everybody who ever mattered to him, could have been left out, but in fact are the best summaries of his views and knowledge, and should be first reading for any student of GBS. His claim that he went back to earlier modes of drama is one I can’t check, but from what I know of Shakespeare and the Greeks, I think it’s exaggerated. His claim that the declamatory style of acting is the main tradition, and that he wrote for it, is easier to check: one simply goes to a modern production. And guess what: his plays work just as well done in the low-key naturalistic style that is now once again in vogue. Which means that his scripts are largely director- and actor-proof, just as Shakespeare’s are.
     GBS's contempt for what he calls police magazine stories and petty adulteries as the stuff of theatre gets shriller as he ages. From what we now know about his sex life, it appears he protests too much. As some other cynic said, as sexual capability and interest diminish with age, sexual disgust increases. I read this book as much for the style as for the information. Pretty good, and quotable. *** (2002)

Norman Thelwell. Penelope Rides Again (1991)

     Norman Thelwell. Penelope Rides Again (1991) Cartoons of Penelope and her friends and their ponies. Bought at a yard sale for possible gift to one of our nieces. Like all cartoon books, hard to take in one gulp. Thelwell’s girl and pony cartoons were first published in Punch and some  British kids’ comics. The Telegraph picked him up as a regular, and this book (and many others, according to the flyleaf list) is the result. Thelwell's fat little ponies and the little girls that bounce around on them have a certain charm, but I suspect it’s a specialised taste. **

Robert Weaver. The Anthology Anthology (1984)

     Robert Weaver. The Anthology Anthology (1984) Collection of stories, poems, etc first broadcast on CBC’s Anthology, which Weaver produced for a long, long time. I vaguely remember hearing it from time to time. Anyhow, I can’t remember where I got this book. Maybe Jon gave it to me, or Cassandra, or maybe I found it on a remainder table. If so, it must have been some years ago, because I there’s no date in the front (I write the month/year in every book I buy now). The pieces vary, of course, but they do share a common tone or cast of mind or colour of the imagination. There’s a kind of melancholy, a kind of acceptance of the inevitable, of the uncontrollable encounters in one’s life, that seems to me peculiarly Canadian. When Americans try the same tone, they write stories of defeat. The Canadian stories don’t feel defeatist.
     For example, in “A Private Place” by Joyce Marshall, Lars, a newly separated Norwegian moves into a recently dead older man’s apartment, and reads the letters from the older man’s Canadian mistress. He doesn’t answer them, and she finally asks to have confirmed what she suspects and dreads, that her lover is dead, and her letters are being tossed out. By this time Lars’s wife is asking Lars to let their daughter spend more time with him, he has met a possible future mate, he knows that soon his wife will file for divorce, and he can form a family again. None of this has come about by any action on his part, he has merely drifted from one situation to another. His inability to write to the dead man’s mistress is just another symptom of his passivity. This inability to act, this drifting, occurs in most of the other stories, too. But one doesn’t feel that the protagonists are losers; one feels instead that they are survivors. Which, according to Peggy Atwood, is the essential mark of Canadian fiction.
     Perhaps instead of essential Canadianness we see merely Robert Weaver’s taste. But more recent work, by people who had barely begun their writing when Weaver published this anthology, continues the strain. Timothy Findley died yesterday (June 20, 2002). I have read very little of his work – I find him a glib trickster rather than a writer – but he, too, catches that Canadian ability to accept whatever life dumps on you. Canadians don’t think of themselves as fighting to stay alive, I guess. Just staying alive is all there is. And while you are alive, things happen. It’s the mark of a true person to accept this, not complain, and not triumph either.  A better book than I expected. *** (2002)

Keith Waterhouse. Billy Liar (1959)

     Keith Waterhouse. Billy Liar (1959) The blurbs claim this is funny, light-hearted, etc. I find it sad. Billy Fisher is the only son of a dysfunctional working class family somewhere in Yorkshire. He fantasises constantly about an alternative family, or a country called Ambrosia. In both, he is skilled, intelligent, successful, universally admired, etc. In real life he acts with only one thought, How To Get Out Of This Mess, and in the end fails to act even on his one major decision, to go to London and seek his fortune as a script writer for a stand-up comic. He has engaged himself to three young women, only one of whom is in any way his match, but she sees through his gormlessness, and decides to dump him. He has failed to mail 200 promotional calendars for his employer, an undertaker, and has been disposing of them surreptitiously at the rate of two or three per day ever since. He does a stand-up routine at a tavern, but does it badly. And so on.
     I’ve read many occasional pieces by Waterhouse in Punch, and this novel somehow seems uncharacteristic. If it’s auto-biographical, as it seems to be, then it was written to purge some demons. I read this book hoping for some redeeming action. The only insight Billy achieves is that he doesn’t have the guts to go to London, but even that is suppressed as soon as he has it. The book had some fame in its day, probably because its scenes of lower-class idiocies encouraged the readers to feel superior to the characters. ** (2002)
     Update 2013: Waterhouse died in 2009. An obituary can be found here: Waterhouse Obituary in the Telegraph