The Sense of an Ending

Novel by Julian Barnes. A slim, easy read. Focus of the story is on school days and young adulthood. Then it jumps to old age. Skips a good 40 years or more. But ripples of youth experience extend into old age. Not sure what to say about this book. Reminds me a bit of what it was like to be young -- full of pash and rash...the former being passion. I really liked this passage, in which the main character has lunch with his ex-wife, with whom he has a amicable relationship: "I looked across at her fondly. She knew me better than anyone else in the world. And still wanted to have lunch with me. And let me go on and on about myself." That's what our partners and best friends do, at least much of the time.

Habemus Papam, Bullfighting and Ethan Frome

Habemus Papam (movie)

Longshot is elected pope and decides he doesn't want or can't handle the job. Big crisis. Interesting flick, but too often lapses into cartoon mode: the cardinals are childlike buffoons, the upset pope-elect calls for his mummy and the shrink might as well have round glasses and a goatee.

Bullfighting

Short stories by Roddy Doyle. Has some wonderful moments. The middle-aged lads at the pub watch the news on TV and discuss the likelihood of their kids using drugs.
"They left it at that. They didn't talk about the wives. They drifted from cocaine to football, and on to the film that Gerry had seen at the weekend and the others wanted to see.
How was Denzel?
Brilliant.
And on to international affairs. Poor oul' Benazir.
What a place.
Mad. Would you have given her one?
Oh, yeah. Absolutely.
Too late now, an'anyway.
She was a fine thing. I liked her headscarf.
That's the thing though, said Donal. Women don't wear them anymore.
Not even at mass.
They'll make a comeback, said Ken. Wait and see. Abercrombie and Fitch or somebody will bring back the headscarf."

Brilliant indeed. There is another lovely story about a middle-aged guy driving his elderly parents to funerals. All the stories are pretty good.

Ethan Frome

A short Edith Wharton novel about a lonely marriage, the possibility of escape and the dashing of hope. An easy read about difficult lives.

Tyler, Jones, Robot

The Beginner's Goodbye, Anne Tyler: Anne is one of my all-time favorites, but this book didn't really grab me as much as her others. As always, it features a quirky family. A bit predictable.

Mister Pip, Lloyd Jones: Liked this one a lot. Man finds himself teaching kids on a South Pacific Island during political crisis. Reads Great Expectations to them, which they love. Invites parents to school to talk about whatever they know. Makes the best of every challenging situation. Very nice. Qualified for a big literary award or two.

Robot and Frank: Feelgood movie about elderly burgular and robot valet. Kinda fun. Kinda like made-for-TV.

A Goat's Song and a Paddle's Whirl

After reading very few novels over the last few years, I am getting back into the habit. Finishing A Goat's Song, by Dermot Healey, is proof that I am over the hump. Like the mournful call of goats separated from their mates, it's a relentlessly sad book that focuses on alcoholism and ugly breakups, one of a man and a woman, the other of Ireland. One of the blurbs promoting the book made the latter, somewhat obvious, link. Not me. At the same time, the book was compelling enough for me to hang in for 400 pages, even though I am in the early stages of my comeback. Nothing more to say.

I have discovered the joy of kayaking. My latest adventure on Friday afternoon too me to Lac La Peche, where I managed to knock my sunglasses into five feet of water while swatting a deerfly with my Mexican straw hat. I was watching the evening's action at a beaver dam at the time. I noted my position in terms of the dam, a stump and some floating flowers. But it was a shady spot, and I could not find them from the kayak or from the water. About an hour later, I came back for a final attempt. While I was paddling around, I heard a critter scampering along on shore. What I observed and later confirmed is that it was an animal I had never seen before...a fisher. A few minutes later, I spotted a flash of something silver as I peered over the edge of the kayak. I noted its position in relation to some weeds, in a lake full of weeds, abandoned the kayak near shore and swam out to look once more. When I reached the spot, I dove down, not easy to do while wearing a life jacket. I grasped...a handful of muck. I reached into a the cloud of dirt that rose and grasped...my sunglasses.

Lyle

It was just before 8 last Friday. I was rushing to get out the door for my son Chris' graduation from university. Bob Richardson called to tell me that his brother Lyle was dead.

I could not help but think of Lyle during the graduation ceremony. He was the son of our longtime next-door neighbours, Norm and Irene. Lyle was a talented artist and musician. Some of his paintings were shown in local galleries. He played piano for four or five hours a day. He scoured second-hand music shops, buying instruments and learning to play them. He listened to classical music and read the classics. He was an intellectual.

But schizophrenia got in the way of so many things, including graduation days.

As with all funerals, I heard some things I knew and some I didn't. Lyle had attended the Ontario College of Art in the late 70s. He liked to read the Old Testament. His devotion to family was more intense than I had realized.

His sister, Joanne, gave an eloquent eulogy. She spoke of daily phone calls from Lyle, which ranged in duration from a minute to an hour. She admitted they could sometimes be a burden. When she complained to a friend, the person said she never knew whether her sister was alive or dead.

You could always tell when Lyle was having a bad day. He spoke quickly through clenched teeth and looked away. That unease and those teeth are evident in many of his paintings:

http://www.lapetitemortgallery.com/lyle-richardson

In a brief blurb on this web site, Lyle suggests that his dark paintings not be taken too seriously. He refers to a spirit of fun behind them. "Maybe I just paint the weather," he said. To which a member of art community writes: " I take that to mean the weather in his head. Pure poetry…..the sunny days and the storms that sulk and rage inside each and every one."

It had been a couple of years since I had seen Lyle. His parents died, and the family home was sold. I did send him a Christmas card last year. And for months if not years, his name has been on a whiteboard in my home, as a reminder to me to invite him to join me for breakfast as my favorite diner. I never got around to it.

I am proud of befriending Lyle. And I'm sorry I didn't do a little more.

Every life is sacred, as is every little kindness to a lonely person. Goodbye Lyle.

Mini Review of Pigeon English

by Stephen Kelman

Good sad/funny novel by a man who grew up in projects about an 11-year-old African boy growing up in a project in London. It juxtaposes awful stuff with ordinary stuff that every boy lives. Here's the boy's extended version of a poem we all know:

He who first smelt it, dealt it.
He who denied it, supplied it.
He who first sensed it, dispensed it.
He who first knew it, blew it.
He who first noted it, floated it.
He who declared it, aired it.
He who spoke it, broke it.
He who exposed it, composed it.
He who blamed it, flamed it.

Great Quote

Novelist Anne Tyler quotes Greek philosopher in her novel Noah's Compass

“Epictetus say that everything has two handles, one by which it can be borne and one which it cannot. If your brother sins against you, he says, don't take hold of it by the wrong he did you but by the fact that he's your brother. That's how it can be borne.”

Mini Book |Review: The Giant's House

by Elizabeth McCracken

National Book Award Finalist, 1997

In a small Massachusetts town, a quirky "romance" blossoms very gradually between a cynical librarian and a giant boy, who grows up to be more than eight feet tall. It is the little things about this book that are the best things. Here's how the librarian narrator opens the book:

"I do not love mankind.


People think they are interesting. That's their first mistake. Every retiree you meet wants to tell you their life story."

And towards the end:

"Library books were, I suddenly realized, promiscuous, ready to ready to lie in the arms of anyone who asked. Not like bookstore books, which married their purchasers, or were brokered for marriages to others."

My copy of The Giant's House was a real tart, moving from bookstore to second-hand store to St. Vincent de Paul store to my arms. Lucky me.