"The Prospectors" by Karen Russell

First Line: "The entire ride would take eleven minutes."

Last Line: "Clara opened her satchel and lifted the yellow bird onto her lap, and I heard it shrieking the whole way down the mountain."

Here are my thoughts that I posted to The Mookse and the Gripes about this story that appeared in the June 7,2015 issue of The New Yorker.
 
"I finished The Prospectors.  And I am glad I was forewarned.  It was so promising at the beginning... beautiful prose and interesting characters.  I loved these lines "pouring bright malice into the fruit punch in the form of a mentally deranging Portuguese run... Together, the Finisterre women smoothed arguments and linens."  And the description of the sweater - "a covering so thin could erase her bruises"...  Ahhh...  the visuals were great.

And then it happened - THE TURN.  It was as if Russell started a wonderful story, paused to get herself a drink and then was distracted by something on Netflix.  It was as if finished by a completely different author.  Like reading a manuscript newly discovered by a classic author and finished by a high school student for a writing assignment.

This is my first reading of Karen Russell.  I saw an interview with her and Junot Diaz (through the New Yorker on YouTube) and I found her quiet (compared to Junot Diaz - who isn't?) and reserved.  It seemed that she likes the magical, the superstitious, the slightly left of reality.  So maybe the idea isn't what threw me - I mean, spoken aloud it is an interesting plot line.  Two young Depression-era women stumble upon a lodge filled with dead CCC workers, and instead of stealing from the living, the dead almost take their lives...  It was the presentation and the sudden shift from promising to broken promise that left me cheated.

The ending was also sudden and without a sense of closure.  I know not all stories have closure, per se, but I put it down and said, "and...?"  It's tenor did not match the beginning or the middle.  Maybe it was time for another drink and another Netflix show... who knows...

So we request more variety of TNY and less "glamorous" writers?  If so, I agree.  But I still take each story as it comes.  For me, it isn't about the writer or even the magazine.  It's about a story."

photo from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/4e/Karen_Russell_6590.JPG/300px-Karen_Russell_6590.JPG

"The Republic of Bad Taste" by Jonathan Franzen

First Line: "The church on Siegfeldstrasse was open to anyone who embarrassed by the Republic, and Andreas Wolf was so much of an embarrassment that he actually resided there, in the basement of the rectory, but unlike the others - the true Christian believers, the friends of the Earth, the misfits who defended human rights or didn't want to fight in World War III - he was no less an embarrassment to himself." 

Last Line: "The she ran to her friend, and the two of them walked away briskly, without looking back."

On The Mookse and the Gripes we have been discussing the quality of fiction in The New Yorker.  This is what I had to say about that as well as my thoughts on "The Republic of Bad Taste" from the June 7, 2015 issue of The New Yorker.

"This thread has been fun to read.  I am a neophyte to contemporary fiction... I fell in love with 19th century literature and found that it affected my writing negatively (or so my writing group said - hmmmm....) So I am new to Franzen and Froer and Rushdie and Munro and Smith and even Carver- just read my first Carver this year. 

This has certainly made me rethink all I was taught about the short story (the rules a la Vonnegut and Poe).

If I like it - I like it.  I try to find the reasons why when I share whether or not I liked it.  Maybe there is a mathematical formula for the perfect story, like there is supposed to be in music... maybe there is a "right" way or an expectation.  Maybe there isn't. 

Art changes with time.  Chekhov?  Would The New Yorker publish him today?  Or Dickens?  Would they publish an excerpt from Virginia Woolf?  Who knows...  Do they have a "mission statement" for their fiction somewhere?  Are we privy to it? 

The New Yorker has afforded me a place to begin to explore contemporary shorter fiction.  So, for now, I am not disenchanted.  I am going along for the ride.  Give me time to become disgruntled.  I am sure it will happen...?  But do I HAVE to like art?  Or do I have to be affected by it?  Don't know yet.  Some things I like.  Some things expand me but anger me.  Some things I turn from never to return.  I like the opportunity to TALK about the stories - decide how I feel about them.  And I love to hear/read what others have to say...

As for Franzen's story: ick.  That's the first impression.  I put it down three different times before forcing myself to finish it.  It was gritty, explicit, sad, disturbing.  But folks were right - there was something compelling about it.  A story of redemption - of a nation, of a man, of a girl...  Redemption does not always mean bread or shorter lines or true felicity in freedom.   Or love.  It just means a release and a change of heart regardless of the externals. 

Did I like it?  No.  I didn't like his writing voice.  It seemed stuttered, choppy, robotic.  I didn't like the depth with which we inhabited Andreas' head.  It bothered me on a personal level even though it offered the strong contrast needed for the redemption to be believable.  It was indeed too long for my tastes, though came within the two hours or lest required by Poe's rules.  And I had a hard time following some of the identifying pronouns - like I lost a character for a second. 

Would I read it again.  Nope.  Did it make me think?  Yes.

Do I feel it belongs in this magazine?  I have no context yet only having been reading it for a few months. 

I do feel it is a cop-out to publish excerpts.  This is not a Reader's Digest Condensed Book... 

I am almost afraid to be disappointed now with Russell's story from reading the above, but we'll see.  I like to find the good where I can."

The story is enough.

photo from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/e6/Jonathan_Franzen_2011_Shankbone_2.JPG/220px-Jonathan_Franzen_2011_Shankbone_2.JPG

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

 

I know I am a little behind the times on this one: international bestseller and major motion picture...  But I was never really interested in this story.  Cancer, young love, international travel... Then - my kids wanted to read it.  So I had to read it first.  Would this be another Twilight? I knew there would be sex - two teenagers, close to death??  I read Romeo and Juliet.  I know what happens.

This was a surprisingly innocent book.  Yes, there is a sex scene, but beside stating the color of her underwear and mentioning fumbling with a condom, there was less to this scene than many kissing scenes in other books. I discussed my views on premarital sex, whether or not death is imminent, with my teens and then we talked about the book's quality.

All in all, it was a quick read and an easy plot to follow. We liked the conversations between the characters.  They spoke easily and true to who they were.  It was a redeeming feature of this tale.  But we were not fans of the predictability of the plot, nor did we like the ending - it just seemed like loose ends had to be cauterized quickly to prevent the story from bleeding out.

There were some quotes from the book I enjoyed, though. 
  Neither novels nor their readers benefit from attempts to divine whether any facts hide inside a story.  Such efforts attack the very idea that made-up stories can matter, which is sort of the fundamental assumption of our species.

 The weird thing about houses is that they almost alwsys look like nothing is happening inside of them, even though they contain most of our lives.

Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom.  And in freedom, most people find sin.

What happened to them?  They all ceased to exist the moment the novel ended.

Some infinities are larger than other infinities.

Grief does not change you... it reveals you.

I am glad I read this with my children.  It covered important topics to talk about with teenagers, things that rest heavy on their minds.

book cover image fromhttp://www.amazon.com/The-Fault-Stars-John-Green/dp/014242417X

Jonathan Safran Froer and Primo Levi

 

"Love is Blind and Deaf" by Jonathan Safran Froer can be read in the June 7, 2015 issue of The New Yorker.

First Line: "Adam and Even lived together happily for a few days.

Last Line: "They wouldn't be so restless if they weren't so close."
 
I was so excited to read a tale about Adam and Eve – some of my favorite folks! And what I found here was a false story. It wasn’t just false because the facts were not accurate, but also because there was no truth to the fantasy being shared. There are no Seven Dwarves or a poisoned apple but we BELIEVE. There ARE these dwarves, and we care whether or not Snow White eats the apple. Here? This Garden of Eden? I did not believe. Nor did I care to.
photo from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/14/Jonathan_Safran_Foer.jpg/220px-Jonathan_Safran_Foer.jpg


"Quaestio de Centauris" by Primo Levi (translated by Jenny McPhee) can be read in the June 7, 2015 issue of The New Yorker.

First Line: "My father kept him in a stall, because he didn't know where else to keep him."

Last Line: "This odd apparition swam vigorously towards the east; the sailors shouted at it, at which point the man and the gray rump sank under the water, disappearing from view."

This one was a definite contrast to Froer’s story. I actually believed in centaurs and in their feelings and living circumstances. The long backstory gave history, characters, and set-up that were truthful. I did not question the existence of a centaur living in some young man’s barn. But I did not feel the sudden, bursting ending was congruent to the beginning. It felt jarring and out of place. Like two different stories within the one tale…
photo from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/7/7e/Primo_Levi.gif/200px-Primo_Levi.gif

"Escape from New York" by Zadie Smith

"Escape from New York" by Zadie Smith can be found in the June 7, 2015 issue of The New Yorker.

First Line: "It had been a very long time since he'd been responsible for another human."

Last Line: "I know."

Initial impression?

I think I tricked myself into some sort of word association at first – Instead of Escape from New York, it registered in my brain as something similar to Escape from Alcatraz.  It isn’t that.

It was a comedy set into motion by a tragedy.  This story examined the way we search ourselves, our companions, when terror strikes and there is a moment, many moments, to reflect.

I listened to it on the SoundCloud provided as I was unloading groceries.  I kept becoming upset with Zadie Smith for the ultra-feminine voice she used for the character of Michael.  It was quite distracting.  As a writer, a storyteller, couldn’t she fashion another voice for him?  And then I read the Page-Turner interview with her, and discovered that the high-pitched voice was intended to be the voice of Michael Jackson.  Marlon was Brandon and Elizabeth was Liz Taylor.

Then the story changed even more in my head!  It became more amusing, and yet more tragic. 

The constant fast-food trips – not coming to a unified plan and then eating and waiting for the next meal – sounded child-like, continuing the sensation I had after the first paragraph that the narrator was a man-child.  Someone who should be able to function normally, but didn’t… couldn’t.

I was unsure why I was listening to a story about the extremely wealthy and recognizable.   There was a part of me that did not care about their experience with 9/11.  But I was drawn in by the macabre humor that comes only when fear, grief, are too deep to bear. 

I enjoyed it.  It was a story – almost like “stories” we read when younger – fantastic, whimsical, true emotion, not cluttered with long scenery and weather…

It was light.  It was simple.  It was well-written.  An expansion on an urban myth that ended with a beautiful paragraph.  Ah, the wry pleasures in being "normal" and suffering in the exact way everyone else is….

I will read it once again - with images of Thriller, The Godfather, and National Velvet in my head…

 
This post can also be found at The Mookse and the Gripes.

photo from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/2e/Zadie_Smith_NBCC_2011_Shankbone.jpg/220px-Zadie_Smith_NBCC_2011_Shankbone.jpg

"The Freezer Chest" by Dorthe Nors

This story can be found in the May 25, 2015 issue of The New Yorker.

First Line: "When I think about it, the freezer chest, it's with a sensation of the ferry rocking and the North Sea beneath us, black because it is January, and then the artificial lighting of the lounge where they were sitting, Mark and the others-Starling, Henrietta, Poul, and Susanna-and where I was also sitting with our English teacher, Bo, who found me interesting to talk to, because, as he said, 'One would never know you were so young.'"

Last Line: "'Shame on you,' she said, and I'd like to know if she ever did anything about it, the incest."

I am delayed in posting my review of this story as life made other demands, but I did comment on it on The Mookse and the Gripes.

Here's a sampling of my thoughts:

My initial impression was: too much. So much symbolism and theme and long sentences and rambling-esque thoughts. Because it is a translation, and coming from another cultural perspective, it took me a few paragraphs to realize where they were and what they were doing. There was also a numbness, a passivity to the narrator that held me from seeing things clearly.
All of the story set-up seems at first to be clutter, but I feel it’s there to make the simple point clear and obvious. But I still haven’t cleaned up the clutter with enough readings to find the nugget, the gem, the simple point.  It is the puzzle of this story that entertains me. I want to understand it. I just need a bit more time.

I reread and I even read another by Ms. Nors: https://www.guernicamag.com/fiction/mother-grandmother-and-aunt-ellen/ … and I was feeling the same thing – where’s the action. It reminded me of “My Life’s a Joke” in that it felt more vignette-like. But this tale was more “cluttered”. Either the tension and resolution, the emotional arc, was lost to me in all the action and sentences, or it was a “puzzle” (Nors) that just didn’t work.

Still not a favorite of mine. Wouldn’t even say I liked it. I can appreciate it more now – especially as I am beginning to understand the “why” behind some of the crafting…

With some time I may go back and give it another try, but I am willing to just let it go, unloved by me, for now.

 image source: https://i.vimeocdn.com/video/470901339_640.jpg

"The Duniazat" by Salman Rushdie

This story can be found here in the June 1, 2015 issue of The New Yorker Magazine. 


First Line: "In the year 1195, the great philosopher Ibn Rushd, once the qadi, or judge, of Seville and most recently the personal physician to the Caliph Abu Yusuf Yaqub in his home town of Cordoba, was formally discredited and disgraced on account of his liberal ideas, which were unacceptable to the increasingly powerful Berber fanatics who were spreading like a pestilence across the Arab Spain, and was sent to live in internal exile in the small village of Lucena, a village full of Jews who could no longer say they were Jews because they has been forced to convert to Islam."

Last Line: "Ibn Rushd was dead, but he and his adversary continue their dispute beyond the grave, for to the arguments of great thinkers there is no end, argument itself being a tool to improve the mind, the sharpest of all tools, born of the love of knowledge, which is to say, philosophy."


This is the first story by Salman Rushdie I have read, and I was quite enchanted by it.  Combining fantasy and historical fiction in this tale about the 12th Century philosopher, Ibn Rushd, entertains as well as encourages us to think.  

Ibn Rushd, is forced into exile for his thoughts, his writings, and must use his fortitude and resources to continue to survive.  He becomes a horse trader, a financier, a gardener.  He falls in love with a young woman who calls herself Dunia, meaning "the world".  She becomes his lover and his housekeeper.  They have many children, for she is quite insatiable.  Only the stories he tells, the philosophies he had to abandon, calm her desire.  He tells her tales based on former ideas of "reason, logic, and science" - "the inevitability of cause and effect".

What Ibn Rushd does not know is that Dunia is really a jinni, "pursuing her fascination with human men in general and brilliant ones in particular".  Her most distinctive feature is her lack of earlobes, and all of their children inherit this quality.  While she is magic, she, too, is bound by the natural consequences of her choice. Their lives trickle into common, human patterns.  Physical intimacy fades, money problems wax, and time and energy for thought is overrun by the presence and clamor of children.  Even magic, even miracles, even God must follow natural laws.  Reason and religion must be reconciled.

Then Ibn Rushd is called back to court suddenly.  His exile is ended.  He does not take his children with him, nor Dunia/the jinni. But "she went on loving him, even though he had so casually abandoned her".  Their bastard children, the children of a jinni and a philosopher, wander the earth, "ignorant of their supernatural origins", adopting every kind of thought out there - some of faith, some of reason, never reconciling the two as Ibn Rushd, their father, had done.  Secularism arose.

Using magic to tell the story of the history of thought is fascinating.  It is a fairy tale that leaves so much room for thought and reader participation.  "The Duniazats" is microcosm, "stories within stories".  Ibn Rushd's experience mirrors the grander story of all of us: reconciliation between the polarities of thought that compete for our belief, and the love affair between fantasy and rational thought.  We are the Duniazats, their children.  What beliefs will we choose?  Can we live by faith and also by reason?  We are limited if we chose just one as the basis of all our thoughts.
 
I know I will keep pondering this story throughout the week.  There are so many layers, so many ideas to unravel…

This review can also be read on The Mookse and the Gripes.