Amanda Cross. Sweet Death, Kind Death (1984)

     

Amanda Cross. Sweet Death, Kind Death (1984) Another in Cross’s series about Kate Fansler, a well-married professor of English Literature at an unnamed New York university. This time Kate must discover whether the apparent suicide of Patrice Umphelby, a prominent history professor, was in fact a murder; which it was. The setting is Clare College, a small New England women’s college, so questions of women’s place, autonomy, scholarship, freedom and so on are central, as is the issue of “gender studies”; Kate’s cover will be membership on a “task force” struck to decide whether Clare should offer women’s studies courses. The impetus for investigation comes from a couple of charming young men who’ve been selected to write Patrice’s biography.
     The plot, such as it is, is rather thin. Academic rivalry motivates the murder, and progress to the solution is more of a ramble than a search. What makes these books a pleasure to read is the level of conversation. It’s intelligent, witty, allusive, discursive, and as often as not about matters only peripherally connected to the case, such as marriage, mother-daughter relationships, love, the writing of books, the effects of aging, and so on. The epigraphs add to these pleasures.
     The characters are too good to be true; the discreet references to Kate’s marriage to Reed, her lawyer husband; suggest a relationship satisfying in every way. Every character, even the bit player who helps Kate dig up some evidence in the dead of night, is intelligent and perspicacious, though not always as self-aware as they should be. But these paragons only increase the pleasures of reading.
      One effect on me: I read some Virginia Woolf many years ago, and thought her too fey, neurasthenic, and self-centred by half. Reading the passages Cross chose for epigraphs, and the conversations about Woolf, makes me think I misestimated her. It’s not often a book makes me want to read something else entirely. For this too, I’m grateful to Cross. ***

Jack Kapica. Shocked and Appalled (1985)

     Jack Kapica. Shocked and Appalled (1985) “A Century of Letters to The Globe and Mail”, and a fun collection it is. Kapica adds the occasional biographical note, but makes no editorial comments. We are left to form our own impression of the Globe’s readership and its worries and opinions.
     Canadians early on chafed at being colonials, but the British connection remained strong well into the second half of the 20th century. Veiled and not so veiled religious and racial intolerance shows up here and there. But what impressed me most was that the letter writers often wrote more in a spirit of fun and wit. Pedantry was a game, as was politics. It’s unclear how many of the writers on scientific topics knew they misunderstood the theories of their time; I prefer to think that most of them deliberately pretended to  confusion and ignorance for the sake of humour and satire. Or maybe it’s Kapica’s taste that creates the impression of generally friendly and genial, but occasionally caustic, and always well-read readers delighting in sharing good conversation via the Editor’s pages.
     I could have marked many passages, but I’ll quote just one: J. E H. MacDonald, responding to an unkind (and apparently obtuse) criticism of his The Tangled Garden quotes Goethe: a genuine work of art usually displeases at first sight, because it suggests a deficiency in the spectator. See an image of the painting here. ***

James Burke. The Day the Universe Changed (1985)

     James Burke. The Day the Universe Changed (1985) A companion book to the BBC/PBS series of Burke’s favourite style of documentary, one that ferrets out and demonstrates how apparently unrelated events changed everything. This one is more linear, showing how human beings have thought about and imagined the way the world works. It’s a history of ideas, and as such a pretty good introduction and overview.
     Burke shows for example how our theories of the universe, of astronomy, biology, matter and energy, changed over time, and which discoveries and inventions prompted the changes. The Greek notions of astronomy were supplanted and emended by theories based on interpretations of the Bible, and when these in turn were challenged by new discoveries, what we now think of as the inevitable conflict between science and religion began. It took a while for people to realise that Kepler’s heliocentric model and Galileo’s discovery of the moons of Jupiter challenged the more simplistic readings of biblical references to the heavens. But that’s what happens when an institution claims authority over every aspect of a person’s life. The smallest demonstration of autonomous thinking becomes a rebellion.
     In his last chapter Burke takes up this theme and expands it. He argues that in every age, ideas about the world and our place in it more or less adequately explained what facts were known. Further than that, he shows that what is accepted as fact, and therefore to be explained, changes as our theories change. (Sidebar: “Theory” derives from the same Greek root as “theatre”. It’s the way we look at the world. "Idea" is the Latin version of the same root.) But we resist changing our theories. A phenomenon that doesn’t fit is often ignored or denied. For example, educated opinion refused to accept meteorites until the newly improved methods of observing the sky demonstrated their reality; and then the first attempts at explanation classified them with atmospheric phenomena, hence their name.
      In short, our theories change because new methods and instruments of observation add to the store of facts and force a rearrangement, a reclassification, of what we believe constitutes the world. Our theories always explain what we happen to think is real, and therefore they are always limited. This stance may seem paradoxical, for of course what we are pleased to call scientifically established fact is merely another stage in the ongoing changes of our thinking. But it is in fact the most scientific stance of all. It takes for granted that what we think we know, and what we believe are adequate explanations of what we think we know, will continue to change, for every new discovery or idea will change what we think we know, and so entail changes in our explanations.
     A good book, nicely illustrated, but marred by far too many typos. It is an early example of computer typesetting, and people back then hadn’t yet realised that spell checkers did not make proof-reading obsolete. An example of how long it takes for people to adapt to new technologies, new ideas, new options. ***

Proofread and edited 2023-04-22

David Remnick & Henry Finder, eds. Fierce Pajamas (2001)

     David Remnick & Henry Finder, eds. Fierce Pajamas (2001) As the subtitle describes it, this is an anthology of humour writing from The New Yorker ca 1929 to 2000. The net effect is oddly banal: so much of what may have seemed funny at the time has since become merely commonplace experience. Most of the pieces are satirical: humour is laughing with not at, and The New Yorker laughs with those who are laughing at those who lack the sophistication to be one of those that laugh at them. It occurs to me that satire is a species of science fiction, not only because so much science fiction is a form of satire, but because what annoys the satirist is almost always a development that he thinks has gone far enough. So he attacks it before it goes too far, attempting to stem the flow of history if not to reverse it. But things always go further than the satirist imagines. We can imagine how far things could go, but underestimate how far people will actually take them.
     Like all anthologies, this one exhibits the inevitable mismatch between the compilers’ and the readers’ tastes. Not that it matters: this mismatch encourages the reader to try another piece, in the hope (occasionally met) that the next piece will satisfy. **½ (2008)

Earl W. Buxton et. al. Points of View (1967)

     Earl W. Buxton et. al. Points of View (1967) A survey collection of essays for use in senior high school or junior college English courses. The selection ranges widely in time and theme, providing samples of the writing of acknowledged past masters of the form, as well as mid-20th century contemporaries, about half of whom are still relevant 50 years later. The standard is high, the biographical notes and critical hints compact but adequate. The editors’ introduction expresses high expectations of both teacher and student, assuming not only close reading, but active and personal engagement in the topics and themes. I’ve read most of these at one time or another, a few of them over the past few days. Good reading, despite the didactic purpose of the book, but it will go into the discard pile nevertheless. We can’t keep everything. *** (2008)

Howard O’Hagan. The Woman Who Got on at Jasper Station (1977)

     Howard O’Hagan. The Woman Who Got on at Jasper Station (1977) Talonbooks reissued this collection, and it seems to have had a moderate success. This copy was originally shelved in the Mount St Joseph Separate School library, and contains many pencilled notes. These are of the “what you need to know for the exam” variety, unfortunately: there’s no indication of what the note taker actually thought of the tales.
     I don’t think much of them. O’Hagan is a good craftsman, and clearly wrote for a market. I read three stories thoroughly, and skimmed the others more or less carefully. The older tales have a serious, portentous tone, and deal with unsophisticated people living in times and places far removed from the city dweller or academic who presumably bought the magazines in which the stories appeared. Such tales were popular in the less pulpy fiction magazines of the 1930s, since they grant the illusion that one is hearing stories of “real life”. And of course they attract the high school English teacher, since they give occasion for discussion of themes. What would a high school English class do without themes!
     In the very first story, The Teepee, a white narrator sleeps with a Native woman; but her husband, when he comes to visit the narrator’s camp, all but invites the narrator to service his wife when he’s away. “Heavy!” as 1960s student might say. The most recent stories are clearly aimed at more modern tastes. The Love Story of Mr Alfred Wimple is a satirical glance at what drives the moneyed classes, the same lust for status and women as what drives the less dollar-obsessed ones, it seems. The title story, last in the book, describes a doctor’s wife returning home to a village in the bush near Jasper, and briefly thinking about a casual affair with a sailor on his way to Victoria.
     O’Hagan writes obliquely, suggesting rather than telling or showing. This is his strength. Even his first-person narratives display a reticence at odds with that mode. This method of storytelling works quite well, because it engages the reader’s curiosity. What is really going on here? is the question that keeps us reading. Again, such tales are attractive to the high school English teacher, since they afford opportunities for “close reading”. But in the end, the answers to that question are at best merely satisfying. I don’t get the sense of insight into a character or way of life, despite O’Hagan’s choice of material. That choice implies that the stories will be minor revelations at least, but they aren’t. The stories claim more meaning than they have. ** (2008)

P. Turner Bone. When the Steel Went Through (1947)

     P. Turner Bone. When the Steel Went Through (1947) Bone’s indeed written his book in “plain unvarnished prose”, as D’Alton C. Coleman notes in his introduction. Published posthumously, the narrative deals mostly with Bone’s career with the CPR and its subsidiaries. He designed and supervised the construction of the bridges on the line through the Rockies and into the Selkirks. He also participated in the surveys and construction of the International Railway (a US subsidiary of the CPR), and the Calgary and Edmonton Railway.
     The story begins with reminiscences of his childhood and schooling in Scotland, and ends with a brief Epilogue in which he tells that his elder son died in the 1914-18 war, and his wife in 1929. The plain prose in which he records these few details of his later life is moving. He went into private practice as a consulting engineer. The Glenbow Museum was fortunate to receive a large quantity of his papers when his house was torn down in 1962. Bone is remembered as a Calgary pioneer.
     In his book Bone comes across as a disciplined worker. His writing is about as factual as an autobiography can be; names and dates and places constitute the bulk of his reminiscences. He says little about his fortune, but we gather that he saved his money, invested it wisely, and put his talents to good use. His house was one of the first to be built in Calgary; pictures of it show it to be a substantial one. Bone indulges in no flights of fancy, and rarely attempts to express his feelings. Yet he has a sense of fun, and repeatedly says how delighted he was to meet old acquaintances again. He alludes to mountains he climbed with his camp mates, and clearly developed a passion for the outdoors. Many pictures in his archive show members of the Alpine club and their camps in the Rockies. Coleman calls him a kindly and lovable man, a judgment that the book supports. Somehow, despite the plainness of the language, we get to know Bone. I was pleased to read this book. *** (2008)