One of the best short story collections: Homeland

Barbara Kingsolver is a very good storyteller, with the gift of putting herself in the shoes of another to tell it from their unique point of view. In Homeland, a collection of 12 stories, the ‘it’ is often very ordinary, quite small, usually a routine part of the life of an ordinary person. It’s Kingsolver’s craft that turns the event or issue at the heart of each story into the extraordinary, bringing to the fore the impact of the small on people’s lives. In this book there is the tragic, the comic, the wise and the weak, the tough, the kind –all of us and all those we know.

Kingsolver has the ability to write deeply in the voice of another, and then another, and then to be the narrator who so accurately reports it on behalf of yet another that makes this such a rich collection. This won’t come as a surprise to anyone who had read The Poisonwood Bible –if you liked that then these stories will appeal.

Short stories are not as popular as they should be, especially in the UK –in fact this book was loaned to me by a friend who bought it thinking it was a novel and has yet to read it. Let’s raise the profile of the short story; they can be as satisfying as longer fiction, and in the case of Homeland, each one is a gem, and together they make a reading jewel.  

Intimacy by Hanif Kureishi

I might have mentioned in a previous blog that I enjoy a diversity in my reading –well, reading Kureishi’s very short novel (so is it a novella?) was like eating in a new restaurant, in another country, where its best not too think too much about the ingredients of each dish. You can probably tell that I’ve had that ‘gourmet’ experience with food and this book counts as much the same with words.

The unnamed narrator –or perhaps I missed his name? – delivers a monologue that’s set in the present but reaches back and forward in an attempt to reason, possibly justify, why he must leave his partner and two sons. It is at the same time self indulgent, insightful, and challenging, and there is the issue of the reliability of the narrator. I wondered what the bare dissection of his relationship with his family would look like from other perspectives. 

In the end I was pleased it was just 150 pages, I did skip at times but overall its a book worth reading to the end. Another fictional account of ‘being’ that raises questions and doesn’t pretend to have the answers –its good to digest something like that every so often. Now I need some plainer fare … perhaps the Graham Swift I found in the charity shop yesterday, or possibly The Kashmir Shawl. Nice to have a choice.

The Chemistry of Tears by Peter Carey

Its not often that I leave a book unfinished, especially if I've previously enjoyed the author's work and its my choice after reading reviews. But (you probably guessed that would be the next word) Peter Carey's the chemistry of tears -yes, the title is in lower case, and please would somone explain why - is back, unfinished, on the shelf and thus becomes a very rare book indeed.
I read about 2/3rds, really tried to engage with the modern day chararters, some success there but completely failed to understand the historic story that is the background to the unrealistic grief of those whose work is conservation of objects rare and strange. In this case the object is either a duck or maybe a swan built to act like the real thing ...at least that's what I gathered!!! The interweaving of the two stories was well done, they were just not well written stories!
So I have moved on, life is far too short to spend precious hours in the company of uninteresting and at times, very muddled writing. Now reading a Deborah Moggach from the charity shop, so far so good, and also 1-2 chapters of Nicholas Nickleby each day, my comments on this may be some time in the future.

The ways of a day

 

Its another time for waiting. Waiting to heal, for a second opinion about the spread of the cancer now removed, waiting to know the shape o the next few weeks. So my days are rather mild, full of small activities: the close reading of a poem, a short story and a chapter of Nicholas Nickleby –only one because Dickens is best in small doses, after all,that’s the readership he wrote for!  Its my first read on my Ipad and I've not quite got the hang of when to tap, where to tap etc. etc. so that the pages turn and my place is bookmarked. Plenty of time to practice though!!

And yesterday I finished the quilt I’ve been making this summer for Jen, whose love of primates is deep and not totally within my understanding. 

This is the best of the photos I managed, not sure if the detail is visible but the idea was sunlight through the jungle, and the difficult part was not slicing too many Gorilla faces in half, or quarters. if anyone needs Gorilla fabric, I have a few pieces left: somehow I don’t think I’ll be needing it again.

Post op blogging

I realise that the labelling of this post is a message about what I do to relax when times are a little tough and I need to look after myself: writing this journal entry with an overview of how I’ve spent my time in the past two post-hysterectomy weeks, some simple knitting (I’m going round and round on 10 stitches to create a stash buster blanket), gentle walking –this evening once this hot sun disappears – and, of course reading.

I read Cutting for Stone in hospital and it deserves more than my brief comment last time I wrote here.  Such courage to fill the pages with that fine level of clinical detail alongside the compelling geography and politics, all in an envelope of quiet and not so quiet love. A truly wonderful book –a saga that captured the power of family and equally the joy and perils of the bonds between us all.

Presently, I’m reading a collection of short stories by Barbara Kingsolver ‘Homeland’ and poems from Andrew Motion’s Public Property as well as a novel. A healthy diet  -variety, great writing talent and  not what I had planned to read. The short stories are on loan from a friend for company while I convalesce and the poems a birthday gift. How wonderful to have friends who bring just what is needed.

In my post birthday week I aim to return to some regular writing, to retrieve the habit of morning pages from where it’s hiding and to  meander with some words that will/might lead to some new poems. or maybe some prose, As long as I write it matters not at this stage.

The power of walking

Catching up with news eight days after my hysterectomy, just back from a gentle 3-4 mile walk along summer paths of nettles, butterflies & bumble bees. Warm sunshine here today although the softness underfoot tells of last nights heavy rain. It's a pity I have to wear these long elastic stockings but after such a good recovery I certainly don't want a DVT. Now enjoying a rest while Beverley cooks one more great meal. Looking forward to another chapter of Peter Cary's Chemistry of Tears tonight ... Will catch up on reviewing next week, meanwhile many thanks to Cutting for Stone for seeing me though the immediate post surgery days and to so many family and friends who wrapped me in their love and good wishes.

A different sort of July this year

July 2012 started as a very ordinary month: a quiet Sunday, travel to Dundee for Best Evidence Medical Education work, the gym, an evening playing bridge. It ended with confirmation that I have cancer of the uterus so I’m having surgery on Monday. In between the normality of those first few days and the unreality of today I’ve seen my GP, the gynaecologist, had an ultrasound, a hysteroscopy under general anaesthetic and finally an MRI.

My writing muscles were paralysed from that first discovery until now. Almost as if writing about anything other than what was happening to me was impossible but writing about the diagnostic journey I was on was equally impossible. I used the back of my notebook to jot down appointment times, scrawl questions I needed to remember to ask, instead of noting small moments that might lead to a poem. I tucked away the notes I’d made on the Damian Hirst exhibition at Tate Modern, ignored the monthly reminder to send some poems to magazines, possibly enter a competition. To my surprise I stopped reading poetry, finding instead a deep need for engaging stories, and became thankful for Skippy Dies, The Patrick Melrose Novels and a cop-crime thriller by Karin Slaughter. In between, there was sewing, knitting, some sorting out of one or two pieces of work and a few games of bridge. And in this last week the Olympics –good dipping in and out of tv. But no writing.

I’ve had quiet writing times before, I’ve learnt to set them gently aside, to allow the muscles that link words into sentences, redraft and edit to rest, to have confidence that something that is very important to me has only slipped behind a curtain, is just waiting for the right time to resume its place in my life. That time is now.

I am writing again, prose that I think will remain as prose, rather than the narrative that might become a poem. Prose that I’ve now decided to post as a blog entry. My decision to blog about having cancer took some time. After all, who wants to read about my health problems and do I really want to go so very public with my gynaecological history? It was also about what happens in the act of telling.

Each time I tell a family member or a friend my news its confirmation to me of what the reality is. That I have cancer. Powerful words, setting in concrete what started as a thought, a thought that I hoped might float away taking with it all the possibilities of its reality. So at first I told only those who needed to know. A colleague who could run my workshop at the conference I was supposed to attend, my neighbour who was expecting to use my driveway while I was away, my dearest friend because as independent as I am, I know it’s not possible to drive yourself home after a general anaesthetic. Then James & Paul, trying to find the best words over the telephone, saying, this is not the best way to let you know this, and hearing but how else could you tell me, knowing that they understood and thinking of John –husband and dad- with similar news 12 years ago.

And it feels good to be writing again. Writing seems to take some of the sting out of the words, shows that cancer can be just a sequence of six letters, written, black on white, out in the open. That’s what I’ve said to people today, I have cancer, its very early, its treatable, women everywhere need to be alert for the signs of this disease. I’m thinking of starting a campaign to use white toilet paper and to watch that blot, because I could have so easily missed that tinge of pink. Indeed, the first time I thought, mmm, imagination, don’t be silly, you’re not likely to have cancer.

After all, I had spent the past few months preparing to donate a kidney, I was fit, all the tests had been for the donation has shown good health, well, except for some rather usual signs of aging not unsurprising given that I’m in my early sixties. That was the surgery I was planning for, just a small abdominal keyhole to remove a kidney, not a hysterectomy. In place of a verdict of good enough health so I can help someone have a normal life I’m told that some of my cells have changed for the worse and action is needed very quickly.

At this time on Monday I’ll probably be saying yes please to some painkillers, trying to sleep in a hospital bed, and I’ll be waiting once more for the pathology results that will enable accurate staging of my tumour –the best evidence on which to base treatment decisions. All the signs are that I will only need surgery but that wait will be like the others I’ve experienced this week.

I prefer to go alone when I’m getting the results, to keep myself to myself with my dry mouth, hands around a good book, and mantra of the waiting will soon be over, soon I’ll know more. Knowing is settling, it means that probabilities of what to do next become decisions, for me it’s a better place to be.

But I certainly don’t want to be alone as I start my recovery so its wonderful accept offers of to come and care for me from Beverley and Viv, to know that James will be there Monday afternoon once I’m awake and to look forward to seeing Paul later in the week. Offers of help from friends have made me feel very blessed and I’m going to try to heed the words of a friend who says she’s no good at guessing games so please will I ask for help if I need it.

Closing now as my writing muscles are starting to ache, I’m ready for a few more chapters of John Le Carre’s absorbing novel Single & Single. He is a man who can tell a good story page after page and a good story is one of the very best mind relaxers I know. Not sure when I’ll post the next blog ... hopefully it won’t be too long.