Crossman, who grew up in an English commune, looks back at 15 years of an abnormal childhood. For her mother, “the community” was a refuge, a place toCrossman, who grew up in an English commune, looks back at 15 years of an abnormal childhood. For her mother, “the community” was a refuge, a place to rebuild their family’s life after divorce and the death of her oldest daughter in a freak accident. For the three children, it initially was a place of freedom and apparent equality between “the Adults” and “the Kids” – who were swiftly indoctrinated into hippie opinions on the political matters of the day. “There is no difference between private and public conversations, between the inside and the outside. No euphemisms. Vaginas are discussed over breakfast alongside domestic violence and nuclear bombs.” Crossman’s present-tense recreation of her precocious eight-year-old perspective is canny, as when she describes watching Charles and Diana’s wedding on television:
It was beautiful, but I know marriage is a patriarchal institution, a capitalist trap, a snare. You can read about it in Spare Rib, or if you ask community members, someone will tell you marriage is legalized rape. It is a construction, and that means it’s not natural, and is part of the social reproduction of gender roles and women’s unpaid domestic labour.
Their mum, now known only as “Alison,” often seemed unaware of what the Kids got up as they flitted in and out of each other’s units. Crossman once electrocuted herself at a plug. Another time she asked if she could go to an adult man’s unit for an offered massage. Both times her mother was unfazed.
The author is now a clinical arts therapist, so her recreation is informed by her knowledge of healthy child development and the long-term effects of trauma. She knows the Kids suffered from a lack of routine and individually expressed love. Community rituals, such as opening Christmas presents in the middle of a circle of 40 onlookers, could be intimidating rather than welcoming. Her molestation and her sister’s rape (when she was nine years old, on a trip to India ‘supervised’ by two other adults from the community) were cloaked in silence.
Crossman weaves together memoir and psychological theory as she examines where the utopian impulse comes from and compares her own upbringing with how she tries to parent her three daughters differently at home in France. Through vignettes based on therapy sessions with patients, she shows how play and the arts can help. (I’d forgotten that I’ve encountered Crossman’s writing before, through her essay on clowning for the Trauma anthology.) I somewhat lost interest as the Kids grew into teenagers. It’s a vivid and at times rather horrifying book, but the author doesn’t resort to painting pantomime villains. Behind things were good intentions, she knows, and there is nuance and complexity to her account. It’s a great mix of being back in the moment and having the hindsight to see it all clearly.
(2.5) A historical novel about real-life 1850s Mexican circus “freak” Julia Pastrana, who had congenital conditions that caused her face and body to b(2.5) A historical novel about real-life 1850s Mexican circus “freak” Julia Pastrana, who had congenital conditions that caused her face and body to be covered in thick hair and her jaw and lips to protrude. Cruel contemporaries called her the world’s ugliest woman and warned that pregnant women should not be allowed to see her on tour lest the shock cause them to miscarry. Medical doctors posited, in all seriousness, that she was a link between humans and orangutans.
My copy of Birch’s novel was a remainder, and it is certainly a minor work compared to the Booker Prize-shortlisted Jamrach’s Menagerie. Facts about Julia’s travel itinerary and fellow oddballs quickly grow tedious, and while one of course sympathizes when children throw rocks at her, she never becomes a fully realized character rather than a curiosity.
There is also a bizarre secondary storyline set in 1983, in which Rose fills her London apartment with hoarded objects, including a doll she rescues from a skip and names Tattoo. She becomes obsessed with the idea of visiting a doll museum in Mexico. I thought that Tattoo would turn out to be Julia’s childhood doll Yatzi (similar to in A Council of Dolls by Mona Susan Power, where dolls have sentimental and magical power across the centuries), but the connection, though literal, was not as I expected. It’s more grotesque than that. And stranger than fiction, frankly.
Birch sticks to the known details of Julia’s life. She had various agents, the final one being Theo Lent, who (view spoiler)[married her. (In the novel, he can’t bring himself to kiss her, but he can, you know, impregnate her.) She died of a fever soon after childbirth. Her son, Theo Junior, who inherited her hypertrichosis, also died within days. Both bodies were embalmed, sold, and exhibited. Theo then married another hairy woman, Marie Bartel of Germany, who took the name “Zenora” and posed as Julia’s sister. Theo died, syphilitic (or so Birch implies) and insane, in a Russian asylum. Julia and Theo Junior’s remains were displayed and mislaid at various points over the years, with Julia’s finally repatriated to Mexico for a proper burial in 2013. In the novel, Tattoo is, in fact, Theo Junior’s mummy (hide spoiler)].
There are two Bookshop Band songs about the novel: “Doll” and “Waggons and Wheels.” “Doll” is one of the few more lighthearted numbers on their new album Emerge, Return. It ended up being a surprise favourite track for me because of its jaunty music-hall tempo; the pattern of repeating most nouns three times; and the hand claps, “deedily” vocal fills, unhinged recorder playing, and springy sound effects. The lyrics are almost a riddle: “When’s a doll (doll doll) not a doll (doll doll)?” They somehow avoid all spoilers while conveying something of the mental instability of a couple of characters.
The gorgeous “Waggons and Wheels” picks up on the melancholy tone and parental worries of earlier tracks from the album. The chorus has a wistful air as Julia ponders the passage of time and her constant isolation: “old friends, new deals / Winter or spring, I am hiding … Winter or spring, I’ll be travelling.” Porter’s mellow soprano tempers Julia’s outrage at mistreatment: “who are you to shout / Indecency and shame? / Shocking, I shock, so lock me out / I’m locked into this face.” She fears, too, what will happen to her child, “a beast or a boy, a monster or joy”. Listening to the song, I feel that the band saw past the specifics to plumb the universal feelings that get readers empathizing with Julia as a protagonist. They’ve gotten to the essence of the story in a way that Birch perhaps never did. Mediocre book; lovely songs.
Originally published on my blog, Bookish Beck, with more about The Bookshop Band and my experience seeing them in concert....more
My husband and I both agreed with pretty much all the self-test statements in the Introduction. And I imagine it’s similar for many others in our geneMy husband and I both agreed with pretty much all the self-test statements in the Introduction. And I imagine it’s similar for many others in our generation. The main argument here, in opposition to Gretchen Rubin et al., is that happiness is not the right aim but, instead, flourishing, which is a sign of good mental health. To flourish, he says, you need to remain curious and learning, have warm and trusting relationships, have a spiritual practice, live with purpose, and have play activities.
An odd point: he denies that there is any evidence of chemical imbalance in mental illnesses. (But he’s a sociologist, not a medical doctor/researcher.)
Some good quotes:
“Some of us must face the fact that we made all the ‘right’ choices—we have everything we thought we wanted—yet we still feel unfulfilled.”
“If you follow your own instincts rather than someone else’s idea of what you should do, purpose can sometimes turn up when you least expect it. But you have to be open to it. If you put yourself into the right places, a time might come when something calls to you—this is why you’ve been placed here, on this earth, at this moment. Be ready when the call comes.”
“you will be lucky if work is the place where you find your cause, your most authentic expression of your purpose. Unfortunately for the vast majority of us, the scientific data suggests that it is rare for work and purpose in life to merge, to be on the same page.”...more
I was wary of reading this because I feared it would be all about food issues. I have a childhood friend whose parents nicknamed her Piglet, and my siI was wary of reading this because I feared it would be all about food issues. I have a childhood friend whose parents nicknamed her Piglet, and my sister suffered from eating disorders in high school, so it was kind of a case of worrying that I'd feel triggered on their behalf, or think that Hazell handled sensitive issues clumsily. In the end, it was okay because food is both literal and a metaphor here. The protagonist works for a cookbook publisher. Yes, she loves to cook and eat and yes, she has a history of overeating at times of psychological distress, BUT food is much more than that for her. It's a sign of her education and class pretensions: her Midlands family think Nando's is the perfect place for a celebration meal, whereas she cooks them a Middle Eastern feast from scratch and bakes croquembouches for her own wedding instead of a cake. Preparing food is a hobby as well as how she loves and cares for herself and other people. But when her fiance Kit blindsides her with a confession 13 days before their wedding, she returns to binge eating, dress fittings be damned. Most of the book is devoted to this final countdown.
Hazell has made the very interesting decision to not reveal exactly what Kit did wrong. All we know is that it was a betrayal and involved lies. The greatest clues come from others' reactions: (view spoiler)[his wealthy parents stand by him and don't seem to think it's a big deal, her father is embarrassed but not outraged on her behalf (though the fact that the groom's family are paying for everything but her dress does factor into his thinking), while Piglet's married lesbian friend Margot, who is about to give birth, thinks it's relationship-ending stuff and she can't respect her friend if she goes ahead with the marriage. Something the woke would find unforgiveable but older generations think deserves just a slap on the wrist ... so, I dunno, embezzlement? Or going with prostitutes? Simply cheating doesn't seem like enough. But readers can imagine their own wedding-endangering scenario. This, too, struck a little close to home for me (hide spoiler)].
Uncomfortable themes, then, but I kept reading in a kind of fascinated horror because Hazell writes absolutely incredible scenes: (view spoiler)[the burger restaurant, where Piglet orders one of everything and then abandons the table full of food when her colleagues walk in; Margot going into labour at the dress shop; assembling the croquembouche on the morning of the wedding; her family stuffing her into her too-small gown; and the wedding reception, where Piglet gets her revenge by eating all she wants, divulging Kit's secret to the whole room, and then smashing the croquembouches (hide spoiler)]. This final one reminded me of my all-time favourite short story, "Medusa's Ankles" by A.S. Byatt (from The Matisse Stories), in which an angry woman runs amok, yet everything is strangely okay at the end. The little asides from the waitstaff at the reception are hilarious, too.
While this is about food and marriage, it is also about what women are allowed to want, and how they are expected to settle for less. It has a very satisfying ending and I like that friendship and family are presented as things that last. I was really impressed with Piglet as a debut novel, even while I wish it could have had a different, less confronting title and cover. It reminded me most of Supper Club by Lara Williams and Small Fires by Rebecca May Johnson. The way the main character's first name is not revealed until right towards the end is also reminiscent of Mrs. March by Virginia Feito....more
(3.5) Newman’s second novel for adults takes place during a week at Cape Cod, a popular Massachusetts beach resort. Rachel, nicknamed “Rocky,” is a fi(3.5) Newman’s second novel for adults takes place during a week at Cape Cod, a popular Massachusetts beach resort. Rachel, nicknamed “Rocky,” is a fiftysomething mother to two young adults, Jamie and Willa. She and her husband Nick have been renting the same cottage for their family’s summer vacations for 20 years. Although Rocky narrates most of the novel in the first person, in the Prologue she paints the scene for the reader in the third person: “They’ve been coming here for so many years that there’s a watercolor wash over all of it now … pleasant, pastel memories of taffy, clam strips, and beachcombing.”
Also present are Maya, Jamie’s girlfriend; Rocky’s ageing parents; and Chicken the cat (can you imagine taking your cat on holiday?!). With such close quarters, it’s impossible to keep secrets. Over the week of merry eating and drinking, much swimming, and plenty of no-holds-barred conversations, some major drama emerges via both the oldies and the youngsters. And it’s not just present crises; the past is always with Rocky. Cape Cod has developed layers of emotional memories for her. She’s simultaneously nostalgic for her kids’ babyhood and delighted with the confident, intelligent grown-ups they’ve become. She’s grateful for the family she has, but also haunted by inherited trauma and pregnancy loss.
There couldn’t be more ideal reading for women in the so-called “sandwich generation” who have children growing towards independence as well as parents starting to struggle with infirmity. (The contemporary storyline of Barbara Kingsolver’s Unsheltered, which coincidentally is about a character named Willa, is comparable in that respect.) Newman is frank about Willa’s lesbianism and Rocky’s bisexuality, and she doesn’t hold back about the difficulties of menopause, either. Rocky is challenged to rethink her responsibilities as a daughter, wife and mother when she’s surrounded by equally strong-willed people who won’t do what she wants them to. The novel is so quirky, funny and relatable that it’s impossible not to sympathize with Rocky even if, like me, you’re in a very different life situation.
One observation I would make is that Rocky is virtually identical to Ash in Newman’s debut, We All Want Impossible Things, and to the author in real life (as I know from subscribing to her Substack). If you read even the most basic information about her, it’s clear that it’s all autofiction. That’s not an issue for me as I don’t think inventing is inherently superior to drawing from experience; some authors write what they know in a literal sense and that’s okay. So, for her fans, more of the same will be no problem at all. But it is a very particular voice: intense, scatty, purposely outrageous. Rocky is a protagonist who says things like, “How am I a feminist, an advocate for reproductive rights, Our Bodies, Ourselves, hear me roar, blah blah, and I am only just now learning about vaginal atrophy?” (A companion nonfiction read would be Nina Stibbe’s Went to London, Took the Dog.)
In outlook Newman reminds me a lot of Anne Lamott, who is equally forthright and whose books similarly juxtapose life’s joy and sorrows, especially in this late passage: “this may be the only reason we were put on this earth. To say to each other, I know how you feel.”
This is a sweet, fun, chatty book that’s about a summer break – and would be perfect to read on a summer break.
Better than Life Support, Down’s record of being an ICU anaesthetist during Covid. He has some great stories to tell of momentous occasions for his LoBetter than Life Support, Down’s record of being an ICU anaesthetist during Covid. He has some great stories to tell of momentous occasions for his London hospital’s staff: a train crash, the 7 July 2005 terrorist bombings, and Alexander Litvinenko’s fatal polonium poisoning by Russia. There are also more personal accounts of having two of his friends as patients at his hospital: Sean with necrotic pancreatitis and Laura with Guillain–Barré syndrome. I was reminded of Henry Marsh’s memoirs (and, to a lesser extent, Stephen Westaby’s) for their combination of confession and self-deprecating humour. “My relationships with patients are usually short term,” Down quips. “If they’re not unconscious when I meet them, I often render them so within minutes.” One chapter describes ICU bed allocation as a complicated chess-like game of strategy. But he also chronicles ethical dilemmas and difficult decisions, including one case that wouldn’t stop haunting him and prompted him to get mental health support – under a counsellor’s care, he tried antidepressants, EMDR, and cold-water swimming....more
(2.5) Rothfeld, the Washington Post’s nonfiction book reviewer, is on hiatus from a philosophy PhD at Harvard. Her academic background is clear from h(2.5) Rothfeld, the Washington Post’s nonfiction book reviewer, is on hiatus from a philosophy PhD at Harvard. Her academic background is clear from her vocabulary. The more accessible essays tend to be ones that were previously published in periodicals. Although the topics range widely – decluttering, true crime, consent, binge eating, online stalking – she’s assembled them under a dichotomy of parsimony versus indulgence. And you know from the title that she errs on the side of the latter. Luxuriate in lust, wallow in words, stick two fingers up to minimalism and mindfulness and be your own messy self. You might boil the message down to: Love what you love, because that’s what makes you an individual. And happy individuals – well, ideally, in an equal society that gives everyone the same access to self-fulfillment and art – make for a thriving culture. That, with some Barthes and Kant quotes.
The writing has verve, from the alliterative word choice to the forcefulness of Rothfeld’s opinions. But in places her points of reference (from classic cinema, especially) are so obscure that I had no way in and the pieces felt like they would never end. My two favourites were “More Is More,” in which she’s as down on fragmentary autofiction (Jenny Offill et al.) as she is on Marie Kondo; and “Normal Novels,” about how she finds Sally Rooney’s self-deprecation and communism problematic. I knew the subject matter well enough to follow the arguments here, even if I ultimately disagreed with them.
Rothfeld is worth reading as a cultural critic, at least in small doses. She is clearly not interested in being a personal essayist, however, as the intimacy she keeps discussing in theory is almost completely absent. A piece on mental health, “Wherever You Go, You Could Leave,” opens with one tantalizing autobiographical line – “My first year of college, I attempted suicide and was promptly hastened home by an ominously smiling administrator” – then proceeds to poke fun at meditation for most of its 40 pages. It was interesting to see her fan-girl over her favourite novel, which I would even try if it wasn’t 480 pages: “I want to be reading Mating [by Norman Rush] constantly; I want to have been reading Mating forever, but always for the first time; I want everything in my life to be Mating and nothing but Mating”. Keep an eye out for the sequel: Actually, Moderation Is Cool: How I Learned to Temper My Expectations.
(The U.S. cover featuring a Bosch painting is so much better!)
(2.5) I’ve participated in Canadian bloggers Naomi of Consumed by Ink and Sarah Emsley’s readalongs of three Montgomery works now. The previous two we(2.5) I’ve participated in Canadian bloggers Naomi of Consumed by Ink and Sarah Emsley’s readalongs of three Montgomery works now. The previous two were Jane of Lantern Hill and The Story Girl. This sweet but rather outdated novella reminded me more of the latter (no surprise as it was published just a year before it) because of the overall sense of lightness and the male perspective, which isn’t what those familiar with the Anne and Emily books might expect from Montgomery.
Eric Marshall travels to Prince Edward Island one May to be the temporary schoolmaster in Lindsay, filling in for an ill friend. At his graduation from Queenslea College, his cousin David Baker had teased him about his apparent disinterest in girls. He arrives on the island to an early summer idyll and soon wanders into an orchard where a beautiful young woman is playing a violin.
This is, of course, Kilmeny Gordon, her first name from a Scottish ballad by James Hogg, and it’s clear she will be the love interest. However, there are a couple of impediments to the romance. One is resistance from Kilmeny’s guardians, the strict aunt and uncle who have cared for her since her wronged mother’s death. But the greater obstacle is Kilmeny’s background – illegitimacy plus a disability that everyone bar Eric views as insuperable: she is mute (or, as the book has it, “dumb”). She hears and understands perfectly well, but communicates via writing on a slate.
There is interesting speculation as to whether her condition is psychological or magically inherited from her late mother, who had taken a vow of silence. Conveniently, cousin David is a doctor specializing in throat and voice problems, so assures Eric and the Gordons that nothing is physically preventing Kilmeny from speech. But she refuses to marry Eric until she can speak. The scene in which she fears for his life and calls out to save him is laughably contrived. The language around disability is outmoded. It’s also uncomfortable that the story’s villain, an adopted Gordon cousin, is characterized only by his Italian heritage.
Like The Story Girl, I found this fairly twee, with an unfortunate focus on beauty (“‘Kilmeny’s mouth is like a love-song made incarnate in sweet flesh,’ said Eric enthusiastically”), and marriage as the goal of life. But it was still a pleasant read, especially for the descriptions of a Canadian spring.
