Zeitoun by Dave Eggers (2009)

Zeitoun by Dave Eggers (2009)Dave Eggers’ Zeitoun is a harrowing true account of the experiences of the Zeitoun family, Abdulrahman, his wife Kathy and their four children, during Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans in 2005. Kathy and the children flee New Orleans as the storm approaches, and despite their protests Abdulrahman, or Zeitoun as he is known, remains in New Orleans. In the resulting devastation and chaos Zeitoun is arrested without a trial or a phone call and kept in a makeshift prison while his family in Phoenix are frantic with worry.

Eggers has crafted a narrative of immense pain and hope in delicate, simple prose. He introduces us to the Zeitouns, to their everyday familial routines, their business, the prejudices they face as Muslim-Americans, Abdulrahman’s childhood in Syria and his recollections of his family and Kathy’s conversion to Islam. It is impossible to not emotionally connect with them. Their story, both the banal and the extreme, is told in such a level-headed manner, Eggers lets the story unfold without enforcing his opinion or cramming the political implications of the events down the readers throat. Rather, the Zeitoun’s personal narrative is so strong and so emblematic of the culture of fear that there is no need to overstate it with elaborate prose styling.

He was conflicted about what he was seeing, a refracted version of his city, one where homes and trees were bisected and mirrored in this oddly calm body of water. The novelty of the new world brought forth the adventurer in him — he wanted to see it all, the whole city, what had become of it. But the builder in him thought of the damage, how long it would take to rebuild. Years, maybe a decade. He wondered if the world at large could already see what he was seeing, a disaster mythical in scale and severity.

Zeitoun’s experience in the aftermath of Katrina takes on a strange, apocalyptic, otherworldly tone. He paddles around in a canoe, feeding the neighbourhood dogs and rescuing trapped citizens. Perhaps it is just the dog-lover in me, but the passages of Zeitoun’s tender care for the abandoned dogs reduced me to tears. When Zeitoun found a litter of puppies shot multiple times by an unknown perpetrator, I was a sobbing mess.

“He tried to, at least. He lay there on Nademah’s bed, trying to relax. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the dogs. Who could shoot a dog? All those animals, needing, trusting. He tried, as always, to give the benefit of the doubt to whoever had done it. But if they could find their way to the dogs with guns and bullets, wouldn’t it be just as easy to feed them?”

The dog incident comes to parallel Zeitoun’s own experiences when he is arrested on suspicion of looting and theft. Brutality and violence when it would be just as easy to assist those in need. The efficiency of the National Guard in setting up these makeshifts prisons while residents were stranded and suffering without essentials is frightening. Where do their priorities lie? In rescuing people or protecting them from a largely imagined threat?

“This complex and exceedingly efficient government operation was completed while residents of New Orleans were trapped in attics and begging for rescue from rooftops and highway overpasses. The portable toilets were available and working at Camp Greyhound while there were no working bathrooms at the Convention Center and Superdome a few blocks away. Hundreds of cases of water and MREs were readily available for the guards and prisoners, while those stranded nearby were fighting for food and water.”

Kathy’s frantic panic when she can not get in contact with her husband is utterly devastating. I had to put the book down because I felt it all rather too intensely. Her worries, her concern for the children, the support (or not) of her family and close friends, and her resolute determination, courage and refusal to give up her search for her husband.

Zeitoun is a heart-wrenching and yet necessarily eye opening account of lives torn apart by the current climate of xenophobic fear and the fallibility of the government in a time of utter natural chaos. It is doubtful we will ever be able to fully comprehend what the Zeitoun’s went through during this traumatic upheaval of their lives, but Eggers provides a sincerely empathetic account of their ordeal.

The Nanny Diaries by Nicola Kraus and Emma McLaughlin (2002)

The Nanny Diaries by Nicola Kraus and Emma McLaughlinIn The Nanny Diaries two former nannies, Nicola Kraus and Emma McLaughlin, have written a scathing attack on their chosen profession and those who employ them. Our heroine, twenty-one year old Nan, has been hired to look after the four year old son, Grayer, of a wealthy, successful couple, the Xes. The position is attractive, it fits in with her final year of college and she likes the child. The parents turn out to be dictatorial, increasing Nan’s responsibilities from part time child care to single handedly raising their child and running their personal errands. Blind to the needs of the young boy, the parents indulge in affairs and preoccupy themselves with work (Mr. X) or are simply negligent, refusing to accept the responsibilities of motherhood in favour of facials and shopping (Mrs. X). Nan attempts to balance her demanding workload with her personal life, including her eccentric (but comparably stable) family members and her romantic pursuit of the boy from upstairs burdened with the embarrassing moniker of Harvard Hottie.

At first Mrs. X’s demands are amusing, a little kooky, but quickly descend into madness. The excessive demands and lack of responsibility through Nan’s eyes, although written in a light tone, become really frustrating. Nan doesn’t want to leave because she doesn’t want to leave Grayer, who she has formed a real bond with, in the unloving family situation. After an unforgivably horrible holiday experience she does eventually leave, venting her frustrations to a secret nanny-cam Mrs. X has installed. She records over her initial vehement rant to leave a more careful message for the parents – doing this, while understandable, leaves a lot of necessary things unsaid. In all likelihood Mrs. X is going to treat the next nanny the same, and the next, and the next, and in doing so condemning Grayer to an unstable foundation. While Nanny is freed from the tyrannical reign of Mrs. X, what becomes of Grayer? A succession of nannies who leave without notice, a mother who refuses to take responsibility for him, a father who is emotionally and physically absent?

The story does leave a slightly bad taste, but for the most part it is a warm and amusing tale about the bonds between carer and child, however temporary. One just hopes that Grayer doesn’t turn out like those other Upper East Side children I’ve been reading about.

The Women in Black by Madeleine St John (1993)

The Women in Black by Madeleine St John (1993)Rather than attempting to escape the “oh my god working retail in December” frazzle through literature, I instead seem to be gravitating toward novels about women working in stores. First, Shopgirl, and now Madeleine St John’s The Women in Black. Fittingly, this novel is set in the weeks before Christmas in an upmarket department store, F.G. Goodes, in 1950s Sydney.

‘It is very beautiful here,’ said Magda to Stefan as the sun went down, ‘it really is.’
‘Are you happy?’ he asked her.
‘Of course not!’ said Magda. ‘What a very vulgar suggestion. Are you?’
‘Oh dear, I hope not,’ said Stefan.

Lesley Miles is a quiet schoolgirl who has just completed her high school Leaving Certificate, she takes a temporary job at Goodes in the Ladies’ Cocktail Frocks department while anxiously awaiting her results. Patty Williams is in an unhappy marriage with a drunk, Fay Baines is single and not happy about it. Magda is the head of the elite Model Gowns department who takes Lesley under her wing. The Women in Black manages to tease out the drama and tension in the everyday circumstances of the four sales assistants, without resorting to histrionics. There is a quiet tenderness and understanding at play in the interactions between the women and the people in their lives. A deceptively light read with moments of glittering humour and insight, and most importantly, real heart at its core.

Book Loot: Week Ending December 27th, 2009

The final loot of 2009!

The best Christmas gift of all is the hugely comfortable, Grimace coloured bean bag in which I plan to do much reading over the years. Or recovering from intense family dance offs on the Wii, I’m pretty sure we worked off more than what we ate for Christmas dinner! You ain’t seen nothing until you’ve seen me shake my ass to ‘Groove is in the Heart‘. Don’t worry, the youtube video is just the music video, I’m not trying to inflict my dance moves to an international audience.

Wait, Grimace is supposed to be an anthropomorphic tastebud? I always just assumed he was some sort of giant purple monster. Childhood under capitalism is so disturbing, no wonder so many of us are dysfunctional.

Inaki Escudero read 52 books in 52 weeks this year. It is that time of year where we should consider our reading goals and challenges. If you are so inclined, what goals are you thinking about setting for yourself for 2010?

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion (2005)

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion (2005)

Life changes fast.
Life changes in the instant.
You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.

After her husband is pronounced dead, the social worker assigned to Joan Didion reassures the doctor that she is “a real cool customer.” This coolness translates into her recollection and attempt to understand her loss, which sadly prevents the reader from forming any lasting emotional connection to her story. After their daughters hospitalization with pneumonia, Joan Didion and her husband John Gregory Dunne return home and prepare for dinner. Mid-conversation, Dunne suffers a fatal cardiac arrest. The Year of Magical Thinking is written in the year after his death, and follows Didion’s grieving process while her daughter is readmitted to hospital after collapsing.

Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes.

Joan Didion, Quintana Roo Dunne and John Gregory Dunne

Didion attempts to understand her emotional reaction to her husbands death, an intensely personal and painful process. Throughout, however, she remains objectively detached, even in her description of her most intimate thoughts, fears and revelations. She remembers times spent together with Dunne, what that meant then and now, things that were said, the meaning of which have changed for her. At times Didion’s journalistic instincts take over the emotional impulse, she researches the psychological effects of grief, she buys impenetrable textbooks on neuroanatomy to try better understand her daughter’s condition. Information, she claims, is the key to control. She is continually seeking official documentation, learning the medical jargon to be able to locate some rational sense in her loss.

For a memoir which focuses solely on loss, death and mourning, Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking is life affirming, but distanced. At the same time, I think my failure to really deeply connect with this is due to my not having experienced such a profound loss. I enjoyed Didion’s map of human consciousness, the bizarre and seemingly irrational paths our minds take, and her honesty about her relationship.

Gossip Girl by Cecily von Ziegesar (2002)

Gossip Girl by Cecily von Ziegesar (2003)

“Sometimes a critic’s aesthetic judgment is impossible to extricate from what you might call her cinematic libido. There are movies that bring us a pleasure that’s neither definable nor defensible. These used to be called “guilty pleasures,” but that phrase seems too judgmental, too pre-Vatican II, for our postmodern era of omnivorous cultural consumption. The distinction between high and low culture, between what we’re allowed to enjoy publicly and what we must sneak off to savor in private, has effaced itself to the degree that “guilty pleasures” needs to be replaced by a more morally neutral term. For our purposes here, I’ll go with a term that a friend and I coined in college and that I still deploy on occasion: movies we couldn’t intellectually defend but still unapologetically loved we called “juicebombs.”"

In her recent review of The Twilight Saga: New Moon, Slate’s film reviewer Dana Stevens faces a conundrum which I found myself confronted with while I read, and wanted to read, the first book in the Gossip Girl series by Cecily von Ziegesar. “I don’t believe in guilty pleasures” I always asserted, I believed in unashamed, unabashed pleasure in anything I enjoyed. Whether it be an apparently crappy movie – Showgirls was a favourite for a very, very long time – or television show, or music, if I liked it and was entertained by it, then it was worthy of my attention. I never looked at things in terms of “taste” or kitsch value, value was determined by my personal relationship with it. So, why was I so embarrassed to buy (yes, really) and read these novels? Why did I seek reassurance that I wasn’t committing some booknerd crime? Why did I consider excuses and alternate reasons for my purchase choice?

Because, Gossip Girl is, as Stevens would call it, a juicebomb of a novel. I cannot defend it. I cannot claim any intellectual or moral value of the novel; the writing isn’t great, the characters are ridiculous and their trials and tribulations are completely alien to me. The novel is populated with rich, spoiled brat 17 year old characters who act like middle aged women, are preoccupied with labels and social standing and who speak in the flattest dialogue I have ever read.

Serena van der Woodsen returns to her privileged Upper East Side social set after a stint in boarding school, only to find herself shunned and plagued by rumours from her form circle of friends. With their social movements charted by the anonymous blogger known only as Gossip Girl – a narrative choice that functions only as a gimmick, it offers no real perspective or comment on the happenings, maybe I expect too much – the group of teenagers tread the ground of adolescence with the hyper-awareness of public scrutiny. Blair Waldorf, Serena’s former best friend, is horrified by her return because she believes she will be relegated to second best in favour of the “perfect” Serena. Blair’s boyfriend, Nate Archibald, has a long standing attraction to Serena, a relationship consummated without Blair’s knowledge. The plot is substandard fare, the usual soap operatic tropes. Yet, for some reason I am still unable to define, it is compulsively readable and I am determined not to feel guilty about it.

Book Loot: Week Ending 20th December, 2009

Bookstore by shelbychicago [flickr][photo credit: shelbychicago at flickr]

I bought a whole heap of books this week. Stacks. The injuries acquired lugging them home will possibly require chiropractic care. With my bookstore closing and everything heavily discounted, plus staff discount, the accumulated loot only cost me about $3 a book, but I feel awkward and a little embarrassed displaying them here. (Not just because I may have bought some Gossip Girl books.) Instead of talking about the books I bought, this week, I’m going to gift you all with a number of links to some equally fascinating reading.

Jeanette Winterson reviews The Talented Miss Highsmith: The Secret Life and Serious Art of Patricia Highsmith by Joan Schenkar at the New York Times. Highsmith is someone I have found myself increasingly drawn to, mainly due to her incredibly colourful personal history. I’m yet to read any of Highsmith’s fiction, but I imagine I will in the future, as well as a number of the biographies written about her. Winterson touches upon some of the intriguing aspects of Patricia Highsmith’s life in her review, so it is worth reading.

“Highsmith had a kind of archive-­attachment disorder; she adored lists. She chronicled, mapped, numbered and cross-referenced everything in her life, and even rated her lovers, but she wiped out what didn’t suit her and only vaguely acknowledged, when pressed by the more ferrety kind of interviewer, having conjured up a few story lines for Superman and Batman.”

Robert McCrum was invited to take a look at the Bodleian library collection of Kafka manuscripts – “What possible significance could a few boxes of manuscript have in the digital age? I was dead wrong.” – leading him to consider the many issues raised regarding the digitization of literature in general.

Margo Rabb surveys independent bookstores to find out which title is most often stolen from their stores. The answers and stories may surprise you.

“But this doesn’t mean that every reader is contributing to the bottom line. Only 40 percent of books that are read are paid for, and only 28 percent are purchased new, said Peter Hildick-Smith of the Codex Group, a consultant to the publishing industry. The rest are shared, borrowed, given away — or stolen.”

A bit of a David Foster Wallace love-fest in the online literary world this week with “All That“, an excerpt from his unfinished novel The Pale King to be released in 2010, published this week in the New YorkerGQ published an interview with Deborah Treisman, Wallace’s editor, discussing The Pale King and her working relationship with DFW.

Lauren Leto has written a funny-because-it-is-(mostly)-true list of how to stereotype readers by their favourite authors.You will laugh and nod and say “oh my God, I know someone just like that!” to at least one of her stinging barbs.

And, finally, in I could have told you this but I don’t have the science degree and research funding to back it up, whiskey hangovers are officially worse than vodka hangovers. Consider this your friendly festive and completely scientific warning to take it easy on the booze over the Christmas period.

Shopgirl by Steve Martin (2000)

Shopgirl by Steve Martin (2000)I zipped through Steve Martin’s – yes, that very same Steve Martin you’re thinking of – novella Shopgirl over the quiet afternoons of a weekend in December. A melancholic story set in Los Angeles of a lonely shopgirl in her late twenties, Mirabelle, and the two men who enter her life as romantic partners; Ray Porter, an older millionaire, and Jeremy, a younger slacker. Mirabelle works the glove counter at department store Neiman Marcus, and spends her evenings alone, chatting to her two cats and working on her art. Martin manages to capture the absolute tedium that often comes with working in retail. The style of third person omniscient narration used here can come across as condescendingly smug and often that creeps into Martin’s technique. For the most part, however, through his sparse writing, lack of significant dialogue and focus on the contradictions of internal thought processes Martin creates realistically flawed characters.

Weeks later, Mirabelle doesn’t know if she is feeling better naturally or because the Celexa is working. It feels like a natural lift, and she wonders if she needs the pills at all. But she isn’t stupid, and she recalls hearing that this is a common feeling, so she keeps taking the pills daily.

Mirabelle’s attempts to cope with her initial emotional isolation and her repeated bouts of significant depressive episodes are never overly exaggerated or stylized. Abstaining from the usual wailing histrionics in the description of Mirabelle’s depression elicits as much sympathy for her plight. These characters make mistakes, are ignorant to the motivations of others and yet not condemned for it. Such errors and flaws, and the subsequent lessons learned, give the characters more complexity than the slight narrative should allow. An unexpectedly affecting novella.

I zipped through Steve Martin’s – yes, that very same Steve Martin you’re thinking of – novella Shopgirl over the quiet afternoons of a weekend in December. A melancholic story set in Los Angeles of a lonely shopgirl in her late twenties, Mirabelle Butterfield, and the two men who enter her life as romantic partners; Ray Porter, an older millionaire, and Jeremy, a younger slacker. Mirabelle works the glove counter at department store Neiman Marcus, and spends her evenings alone, chatting to her two cats and working on her art. I generally have an issue with third person omniscient narration, it tends to cast everything with a condescending shadow, and often that aspect creeps into Martin’s narrative technique; for the most part, however, through his sparse writing, lack of significant dialogue and focus on the contradictions of internal thought processes Martin creates realistically flawed characters.

Mirabelle’s attempts to cope with her initial emotional isolation and her repeated bouts of significant depressive episodes are never overly exaggerated or stylized. Abstaining from the usual wailing histrionics in the description of Mirabelle’s depression elicits as much sympathy for her plight. These characters make mistakes, are ignorant to the motivations of others and yet not condemned for it. Such mistakes and flaws give them more complexity than the slight narrative should allow. An affecting novella,

Book Loot: Week Ending December 13th, 2009

Welcome to the Penguin parade. Some of the more eagle eyed among you may have noticed that a lot of the books I have been buying as of late are from the Modern Library 100 Best Novels list, which I think will be featuring heavily in my reading in the new year. Not entirely sure how I am going to approach that one, but hopefully it will expose me to a number of authors and writing styles I’ve previously been too intimidated to try.

The White Album by Joan Didion (1979)

The White Album by Joan Didion (1979)As we hurtle toward the end of this decade, every media outlet in the world is attempting to pinpoint the defining moments, events, cultural and consumer products, celebrities, etc., of the past ten years. Though I understand that such lists and articles are always subjective and written in order to be contentious and to foster discussion, I feel that they don’t always adequately capture the increasing disorder and complexity of the milieu. We still haven’t decided on what the last decade was called – the noughties, aughts, whatever – let alone to be able to describe the lasting cultural impact it will have. The increasing amount of choice in regards to what we read, watch or listen to, to how we inform ourselves via aggregated feeds, the proliferation of distinct niches means that the idea of cultural zeitgeist is almost obsolete. So, what better way to round out the decade with Joan Didion’s eloquent record of her own confusion over the meaning of the 1960s in The White Album.

Written in the late 1960s and early to mid 1970s, Didion reflects upon an American culture in turmoil, its understanding of itself torn apart by an unpopular war, mass murders, social discord, and a culture in upheaval. Though Didion herself manages to maintain her productivity, she is unable to reconcile this personal cohesion with the disruption of the era. This collection is strongest as Didion explores the complicated narratives of the time, the Manson murders, the civil rights movement and the music of the age.

We tell ourselves stories in order to live. […] We interpret what we see, select the most workable of the multiple choices. We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the “ideas” with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience.

Didion also takes the time to investigate lesser known yet equally important aspects of culture and society – her ability to make the intricacies of the highway traffic system and water infrastructure engaging and enlightening way is astounding. She manages to impose on them a narrative of utter import to the structure of life. Her essay on Hollywood cinema is eye-opening, if I had read it while I was studying film theory at university I’m sure I would have dropped out or changed courses almost immediately. She logically undoes all of the prestige and glamour associated with the art:

Making judgments on films is in many ways so peculiarly vaporous an occupation that the only question is why, beyond the obvious opportunities for a few lecture fees and a little careerism at a dispiritingly self-limiting level, anyone does it in the first place. A finished picture defies all attempts to analyze what makes it work or not work: the responsibility for its every frame is clouded not only in the accidents and compromises of production but in the clauses of its financing.

Didion’s understanding of the uncertainty and vagueness of a rapidly changing socio-cultural world is a timely reflection which offers a stark, though not entirely disheartening, way of looking upon our contemporary era as we too approach the close of a tumultuous decade.