Little Bee

Seattle Reads month again! Of course Seattle Reads coordinators have chosen another African immigration story. I really have decided that I don’t mind the single theme. I believe at least once a year I should read, with everyone else, a hard story of life on and off the African continent. But I wonder why it isn’t part of the title more, like, say, Seattle Reads About African Immigration month. That’s a longer title, but absolutely descriptive.

What I really like about this novel is that the immigration is to Europe. I think that is an important reality to consider as NATO bombs Libya at the behest of France and Britain. My blog isn’t about politics, so I won’t describe the lives of asylum seekers I’ve met in Europe. If you read this book you wouldn’t need me to. I’m curious about the importance in Seattle of African politics, as there really are a lot of African immigrants, yet not so many obvious asylum seekers. Perhaps I’m naïve or Seattle hides this issue considerably better than other cities.

Chris Cleave writes Little Bee with a two character first person narrative that I think is excellent. There’s nothing like reading two worlds collide from both perspectives. Of course both characters, Sarah and Ohno, are in a state of confusion and decisiveness, like many women. Maybe that is what makes them so completely compelling. Maybe their stories do. Maybe the storyteller does. Whoever holds the magic, obviously Cleave, the stories of terribly many Africans, and how it awakens compassion in the least likely, it is certain that this story carries power.

This story is about a young girl who suffers such trauma that her ability to even function is staggering. She is Nigerian, from a jungle village. She is about 14 years old. She has an older sister. Well, or so she was and had when she met Sarah. This story is about a professional woman whose life is so idyllic that she cannot imagine true difficulty. She is English, from Surrey. She is about 30. She has a husband. Well, or so she was and had when she met Ohno.

Little Bee is a haunting story and I believe that Cleave treated it beautifully. The fact that both characters are complex, have grave faults and absolute moments of heroism are truly important. Beyond that, the slight repetitions were what I found most calming and jarring, the way they returned to places and ideas – oh, the juxtapositions! – and I never could guess which one would act, or how. This is not a book to look forward to; it is a story not to dismiss.

Bel Canto

Rob Forman Dew of Washington Post Book World wrote, “Bel Canto is its own universe.” I agree completely. Ann Patchett created a world that is both surreal and plausible with Bel Canto.

A respected and uncommonly successful Japanese businessman celebrates his 50^th birthday. Against his better judgment he agrees to go to the developing world because the host country promises his favorite opera star will come sing for him. The unnamed country hopes in return that he will invest there. He knows he won’t. It’s just too big of a risk.

A rogue terrorist group of men and children break up the party. The guests all respond with proper shock. But before long there is deep love, impressive sacrifice, and unearthed talents.

Patchett’s novel makes one of the best cases for grace and the need to share knowledge I have read. Bravo! Encore!

Tinkers

Tinkers was full of tingles. The imagery of a man dying and reliving aspects of his life, while the reader learns about areas he never knew, was captivating. No sentimentality, no gore, just sweet endings to a sometimes bitter history. Renal failure, clocks, hallucinations, epilepsy, harsh winters, moonshine and excerpts from The Reasonable Horologist are all pretty new topics for the novels I’ve read. That Paul Harding intertwines them all so well that I look forward to each bit of the story, never knowing what will come next, is exceptional.

More about Harding’s writing style is that it was full of beautiful imagery. These were snippets of ideas and a day here or a day there in the lives of a father and son. Very little came in a straight line, allowing me to read as disjointedly as I did without feeling any loss of continuity. That I read this book for my new Montlake reading group (which is the biggest and oldest so far that I’ve attended in Seattle) means that I also got to be part of a great conversation about the book.

Overall, Tinkers received some extremely high praise in this circle. Those who’d attended the death of a parent were able to identify with the physical and mental changes described. Those who’d lived in cold weather or overcome adversity or experienced sufficient closure understood many of the novel’s themes. Only questions of all the unmentioned years still perplex. But this was not a memoir, and our principal character, George, was not interested, on his deathbed, in how his mother managed, and he did not dwell on how he got through school. No, George wanted to think about his father, and about all the money he’d stashed in his tool shed.

Each character of Harding’s novel has a particular set of impressions of life. Each is insightful. Each is limited. The novel felt true, and that is novel indeed.

Death Comes for the Archbishop

My parents’ library doesn’t carry Willa Cather’s Death Comes for the Archbishop. This is at once tragic and fortuitous. The fine city of Anacortes is not offering its public “a very rare piece of literature” (The New York Times). The lucky break is that, when I checked it out for them at the Seattle Public Library, I became intrigued and read it before passing it along.

Published in 1927, the story covers the life and ministry of Father Jean Marie Latour, the Apostolic Vicar to New Mexico from 1851 to his death.

The language that Cather uses is absolutely gorgeous. Her ability to tell a story is splendid, and her descriptions inspiring. I never really appreciated the beauty and mystery of the Southwest until I saw it through Cather’s writing. The most touching aspect is how Cather describes the lifelong friendship between Father Latour and Father Joseph Valliant, whom Latour brings to New Mexico with him.

At Father Joseph’s funeral, Cather writes, Father Latour “could see Joseph as clearly as he could see Bernard (who accompanied Latour), but always as he was when they first came to New Mexico. It was not sentiment; that was the picture of Father Joseph his memory produced for him, and it did not produce any other.”

This is not the only description of the way Father Latour viewed his best friend and each time Cather treats their relationship is heart-warming and strikingly familiar. I, too, see a person I love even after years of life have wrought unasked for changes in a way that resonates with Latour’s statement, “I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I see you through my affection for you.”