Tiny monkey - Natural Order by Brian Francis

Natural Order (Random House, 2011)

by Brian Francis

 

Description (from the publisher)

Joyce Sparks has lived the whole of her 86 years in the small community of Balsden, Ontario. “There isn’t anything on earth you can’t find your own backyard,” her mother used to say, and Joyce has structured her life accordingly. Today, she occupies a bed in what she knows will be her final home, a shared room at Chestnut Park Nursing Home where she contemplates the bland streetscape through her window and tries not to be too gruff with the nurses.

This is not at all how Joyce expected her life to turn out. As a girl, she’d allowed herself to imagine a future of adventure in the arms of her friend Freddy Pender, whose chin bore a Kirk Douglas cleft and who danced the cha-cha divinely. Though troubled by the whispered assertions of her sister and friends that he was “fruity,” Joyce adored Freddy for all that was un-Balsden in his flamboyant ways. Years later, Joyce married Charlie, a kind and reserved man who could hardly be less like Freddy. They married with little fanfare and she bore one son, John. Though she did love Charlie, Joyce often caught herself thinking about Freddy, buying Hollywood gossip magazines in hopes of catching a glimpse of his face. Meanwhile, she was growing increasingly alarmed about John’s preference for dolls and kitchen sets.

Today, as her life ebbs away at Chestnut Park, Joyce ponders the terrible choices she made as a mother and wife and doubts that she can be forgiven, or that she deserves to be. 

Voiced by an unforgettable and heartbreakingly flawed narrator, Natural Order is a masterpiece of empathy, a wry and tender depiction of the end-of-life remembrances and reconciliations that one might undertake when there is nothing more to lose, and no time to waste.

What the Tiny Monkey thinks 

I usually approach novels set up as "remembrances of things past" with high caution. There's a certain sameness to the form I find off-putting, as the elderly protagonist looks back at the mistakes in life and either a) bemoans cruel fate, or b) comes to terms with the vagaries of existence. Perhaps it's because I was forced (yes, forced!) to read Margaret Laurence's The Stone Angel in school (twice!) well before I was primed to appreciate it that I dislike the subgenre so fervently. I've never gone back to Laurence's book, and despite its sterling reputation, I stand by my teenage opinion that it's about an old woman who was mean to everyone, and then died, and I was glad of it. (Next week; my issues with Pride and Prejudice: hidden feminist classic, or claptrap as boring as a sack of doilies?)

Nevertheless, I dive into the pages of Brian Francis' follow-up to his best-seller Fruit, and find myself quickly and completely under his spell. Natural Order is not a game-changer, but it is a subtle portrait of a woman who could not help herself but try to do what she thought was right even when the outcome was hurtful. Joyce is not a selfish person in most respects, but her selfish refusal to see what her son actually is leads to family dysfunction and eventual unhappiness. Francis may stumble occasionally with some plot contrivances, but his overall sense of the character is riveting, and his refusal to go maudlin is to be congratulated. I truly enjoyed Fruit, but Natural Order is of a new level altogether, far more layered and affecting, the blossoming of a truly fine author.

TINY MONKEY REALLY LIKES

Monkey droppings - Two for a Chilly September Morn

The shelf monkey has been very, very lax on blog updates and reviews of late.

The monkey apologizes.

The monkey has good reasons, however; some selfish, some not.

The monkey will remain mum on that for the time being.

But in the meantime, the monkey throws you a couple of quickies, to mask his abject shame.

Bad monkey. BAD MONKEY! BAD MONKEY!

Seven Good Reasons Not to be Good
John Gould (2010)

What if Zane isn't actually good at all? What if he's just clever - clever enough to give his compulsion a purpose? You got a big ugly sweater from your mother-in-law for Christmas. It's yellow, the yellow of a smoker's fingers, and festooned with quasi-floral patters in lime green and salmon. It's stippled like a plucked chicken. You wear the hideous thing to your mother-in-law's once and then you donate it to the Sally Ann. Sure, it'll keep some poor soul warm on a winter's night, but that isn't going to get you into heaven, is it? You're just ditching the damn thing.

In 2003, John Gould published kilter: 55 fictions, a lovely collection of micro-stories that went on to become a surprise nominee for the Giller Prize. It was a sterling set of tales, and I'm not saying that because I was the only reviewer in mainstream media to review it, for the Winnipeg Free Press. I liked the spasm of attention I garnered for such a selfless act (got my heartily sideburned mug on the teevee and everything), but the stories certainly stand up to closer scrutiny.

Now, seven years later, Gould finally resurfaces with his debut novel Seven Good Reasons Not to be Good. Does it fulfill the promise of kilter? Well, that depends. Anyone searching for a direct repeat of his incisively concise narratives will be sorely disappointed. Anyone who enjoys a good story well-told will be well-satisfied.

Seven Good Reasons concerns Matt, a film critic (or "kritik" - "way cooler, way kooler than your average hack") on the horns of several dilemmas. His wife is cuckolding him with a female barista. His father (the Dadinator) is on his merry way to dementia, obsessed with crop circles and alien visitations. And his best friend Zane, the one constant he could always depend on, has decided to stop fighting and let his AIDs-related death overtake him. Matt has decided, now that he's newly-fired (no spoilers here, but the reasons are delicious), to visit Zane and stop him from embracing death. So he hops a flight to Toronto, starts up a hotel affair with a comely elevator companion, and decidedly does his best not to confront his problems.

There is a lot going on in Seven Good Reasons; novels about the travails of the mid-life crisis often do. There is an abundance of the hopeful fool in Matt, a man not nearly as smart as he thinks he is, and a character firmly in the mold of the mid-life heroes of Saul Bellow and Philip Roth. Such novels are about the search for self, and possibly of meaning in a meaningless world, and Gould manoeuvres the oft-traversed paths with wit and grace. The humour is at once broad yet subtle, combined with a gentle depth of character that recalls Miriam Toews at her best.

Seven Good Reasons Not to be Good is not a game-changer; there are no elaborate flourishes of poetic license, none of that standard 'CanLit that is good for you' falderal. Rather, it is an insightful and humourous examination of human foibles, placed within a plot that always entertains and oftentimes zigs where a zag was expected.

VERDICT: MONKEY LIKES

The World More Full of Weeping
Robert J. Wiersema (2009)

For breakfast on the morning of the day he disappeared, Brian Page ate most of two scrambled eggs, three pieces of bacon, and almost two slices of multigrain toast. After he was gone, his father, Jeff Page, kept remembering the remaining triangle of hardening bread on its plate on the kitchen counter, the outline of Brian's bite sharp, a bright curve against the right angle.

I am not previously acquainted with Robert Wiersema's novel Before I Wake, despite suffering many people's admonishment for this oversight. After reading his sterling novella The World More Full of Weeping, I plan to rectify this horrific mistake posthaste.

Weeping is a tiny, almost perfect pearl of a story - a story of family loss tinged with elements of magic realism Stephen King might have written in his prime.

Brian Page has gone missing. The locals are not concerned, not at first; boys do have a habit of disappearing, especially when there is an inviting forest just adjunct to the backyard. But his father Jeff is not so sure; there are hints that he once disappeared himself, memories that refuse to surface, something to do with the woods and its mysteries. And if Brian has fallen prey to the same lure, he may never return.

I don't want to give too much away; the story is short, precise, and nary a word wasted with an economy of prose that should be taught in schools (I should take the course, definitely, oh yes indeedy do). Wiersema crafts an evocative yarn of tragedy and magic, very similiar in tone to the recent Tim Lebbon piece The Thief of Broken Toys (also great, and also a ChiZine release, my new favourite publisher). Wiersema also proves himself an expert creator of place, erecting a whole town from very few pieces (the process chronicled in the companion piece Places & Names).

The World More Full of Weeping is a gem, a mood piece for a cold autumn's eve that will make you shiver even as you smile, and lament even as you wish it were true.

VERDICT: MONKEY LOVES

Critical Monkey, entry seven! Flowers in the Attic - There won't be any trips to the dentist until your grandfather dies.

So, here we are. My very last (thank the various imaginary deities) Critical Monkey challenge.

Number seven. Acceptance.

Wonderful.

Not so wonderful, actually. My choice as capper to this tournament of evil is a staple of WalMart bookshelves, Safeway impulse racks, and pre-teen girl bedside tables. The Twilight of its time. A novel of potentially limitless awfulness, especially given its refusal to die a natural death.

I give you, Flowers in the Attic!

WHY I MIGHT HATE IT: C'mon, seriously? You can't not be familiar with this book, at least in passing. Written in 1979, V.C. Andrew's debut opus - a lurid blend of budding sexuality, gothic psycho-religious overtones, abandonment issues, confinement, incest, etc. - was an instant bestseller. Andrews went on to write a new novel every year or so, all covering the same basic themes, until her death in 1986, whereupon her name was implemented as a brand, and the series continues to this day. The covers all look the same, and let's be honest, I am obviously not the target demographic.

WHY I MIGHT LIKE IT: Can't think of reason one. If I could think of a reason I might like it, it probably wouldn't make the cut for this contest.

THE VERDICT: Well, it's marginally better than Twilight, anyway, but that's more to do its propulsive narrative than its overall quality.

I've been trying to determine exactly why none of the dialogue in Flowers works. And I mean none of it. Certainly, realistic dialogue is not necessary to enjoyment, and all literature requires at least a minor suspension of disbelief. Most novels contain passages no one would ever say; the novel I'm currently reading, Tom Robbins' Another Roadside Attraction, is positively overflowing with brilliantly ridiculous dialogue impossible to accept as possible. Maybe it comes from desire; while no one would ever speak like a character in a Tom Robbins novel, I wish people could. The world would be a better place for it.

Contrast that with Flowers, with its pseudo-Victorian speech patterns that do nothing but annoy and never once approach believability. Here's a sample, a dialogue between the narrator Cathy (aged 14ish) and her brother Chris (17?):

"My God! You've made me look like a blond Prince Valiant! At first I didn't like it, but now I see you changed his style just a bit, so it isn't squared off. You've curved it, and layered it to flatter my face like a loving cup. Thank you, Catherine Doll. I had no idea you were so skilled at cutting hair."
"I have many skills you don't know about."
"I am beginning to suspect that."
"And Prince Valiant should be so lucky as to look like my handsome, manly, blond brother."

People don't talk like this, and I don't want people to talk like this. People who talk like a V.C. Andrews novel get beaten up an awful lot, I suspect. It's more entertaining than the deadly flat dialogue of Twilight, but equally bad all the same. Overwriting is Andrews' curse.

The plot, really a wonder of a soap opera, concerns the Dollanganger children. There's Cathy, the narrator; Christopher, the older brother; and Carrie and Cory, the twin babies. They exist in ridiculous happiness with their loving parents until ten pages in, when their father is killed in a car accident. High marks to Andrews for jumping right in to the action.

In a plot that challenges the definition of the word 'convoluted,' the mother must keep her children hidden from view of their grandfather. If he gets a whiff of their existence, she will be unable to claim any inheritance. She squirrels them away in an abandoned wing of his by all accounts massive mansion, where they spend years away from the outside world, tended to by a maniacal grandmother and an increasingly absent mother.

I'll give Flowers this; it does keep you reading. Andrews layers on so much ludicrous plot that, like an episode of One Life to Live, you can't help but wonder what could possibly happen next. This should not be read as a recommendation, but a warning; this is the worst sort of junk food for the mind, a soulless machine that keeps feeding you as much sugar as you crave. Oh, you'll eat, but you'll feel sick afterwards for stuffing your face. As the years (!) pass, and the children still haven't summoned up the courage to, I don't know, open the door and leave, Andrews piles on tragedy upon tragedy until the reader, along with the children, is left gasping for the pain to end.

The pain, that is, of reading it. Because Flowers is really, really bad. It gives the word 'loopy' a bad name. It's utterly stupid.

Which is why it sells, of course. It's a fantasy where children survive by their own wits against nefarious adults, set out in bleak tones readily identifiable to any morose teenage girl. And it never stops for breath, and never once does it appear that the phrase 'over-the-top' might have given Andrews pause.

But lord, is it bad. I read it, I can't unread it. The damage is done.

Still, again, better than Twilight.

VERDICT: MONKEY WEEPS AT THE THOUGHT OF 18 MORE SERIES LIKE THIS. SERIOUSLY. 18. ONE EIGHT.

And that's it. I complete my challenge. I'm, uh, going to go lie under the desk for awhile.

Monkey droppings - Away from Everywhere by Chad Pelley

Today, the monkey weirds out on lingering family resentments.




Away from Everywhere
by Chad Pelley (2009)

Families are funny things, sometimes. Sure, we all rhapsodize about the strengths of familial bonds and the importance of community to your proper upbringing, but deep down inside, in those areas of the brain we rarely explore, there is always that hint of doubt, that niggling of uncertainty best left unspoken; If I wasn't related to these people, would I be friends with them? Would I even like them?

This is only a rhetorical theory, by the way. I love my family. Whether they love me back, I leave that argument to the unfathomable depths of their souls. But we don't get a choice, so we're stuck with each other no matter what. That's the definition of family. And that is what puts the fun in dysfunctional.

Newfoundland author Chad Pelley understands the dynamics of families, the give and take, the love and the hate. It is the kindling of good drama, and in his debut novel Away from Everywhere, Pelley uses it to creating a roaring fire of familial angst.

Pelley starts his narrative in the middle, a tragic accident involving two of the principles, working back and forth from that point to fill the pieces of the puzzle. Alex and Owen are fraternal twins, born to a strong mother figure and a journalist father who, it is quickly revealed, suffers from schizophrenia. Pelley captures the deterioration of personality with grace and nuance; indeed, it is when Pelley confronts the darker elements that his story comes truly alive.

He went delusional, then catatonic: a raving lunatic and then a body in a rocking chair that wouldn't have the instinct to fell a burning room; a man seeing people to a man with no use for eyes.

The event serves as a wedge to send the brothers on alternate paths. Alex becomes determined to be a man he sees as 'successful,' driving himself to become a doctor. Owen, the more melancholy of the two, opts to pursue his romantic dream of becoming a writer. As the years pass, both men discover the costs of their choices, as Alex's drive leaves his marriage empty, and Owen's passion drives him to drink.

Pelley's tale does not travel down new roads, but he navigates the familiar path of his characters extremely well. Owen is the novel's main focus, and Pelley deftly captures the bottomless well of self-pity and loneliness that an alcoholic can dwell in.

Pelley also brings a good eye for description, with an almost poetic air to the physicality of his characters:

She had a mannish face no man could love - patches of wiry hair on her blotchy chin and cheeks that would grow a beard if left alone, a large droopy mole on her forehead that hung down like a cocooning insect, and a witch's crooked nose. Owen figured she held the world in contempt for the face she was born with.

Yet despite its plentiful strengths, Away from Everywhere suffers from a sometimes leaden ear for dialogue. Characters have a tendency to make speeches rather than talk, lending certain scenes a 'disease of the week' television movie quality. Pelley has some satisfactory twists to delay showing his hand, but a third-act development (no spoilers here) is the sort of surprise you either buy or you don't, and I'm afraid I fall into the former category.

Notwithstanding such criticisms, there is far too much good in Away from Everywhere to dismiss it. Pelley achieves some affecting moments of true transcendence in Everywhere's pages; his is a talent to watch for.

VERDICT: MONKEY LIKES