Heart and Mind

Kuniyoshi Utagawa, Woman Reading

I subscribe to David Farland’s Daily Kick in the Pants, which means that I get regular, pants-kicking advice from Dave via email on all things writerly. Lately, Dave’s been talking a lot about why people read and why writers need to know why people read. His analyses have gotten me thinking about both why I read and why I write. Muse with me, won’t you?

For me, a book needs to engage both heart and mind. All fiction ranges on a continuum between these two oppositional yet complementary parts of the soul, and I don’t embrace either extreme to the exclusion of the other. If I want purely intellectual exercise, I won’t read a book; I’ll do some sudoku or contemplate the periodic table of elements. If I want purely emotional exercise, I’ll snuggle my baby or ride a rollercoaster. When I read, I want both intellect and emotion engaged to one degree or another. I want to be somewhere in the middle of the spectrum.

I love gorgeous, powerful language. But as a reader and as a writer, I am acquainted with the dangers of self-indulgent, distracting verbiage as well. I want to fall through the words into the story, but sometimes the words get in my way.

One of the things I dislike about a lot of what makes up the genre called “literary fiction” is this lack of transparency. Many otherwise skillful writers get caught up chasing the mirage of pretty language at the expense of the narrative. The result for the reader is like listening to The Allman Brothers play a live gig: you know the band is having a grand time showing off during the twenty-minute solo, but the (non-stoned part of the) audience starts yawning and looking around after awhile.

Another thing I don’t like about literary fiction is the snob factor. Lit fic usually takes more patience to read; that doesn’t necessarily mean that it is better, or that its readers are smarter. My opinion is not widely shared, I fear. Put any David Foster Wallace fan next to any Diana Gabaldon fan on a subway train and see which one gets a smug look on her face first. (Hint: it won’t be the Gabaldon fan; she is too busy cavorting with Jamie Fraser in eighteenth-century Scotland to notice anything that is going on around her.)

On the other hand, emotional, purely plot-driven novels (I call them “airport books”) tend not only to leave me cold, they tend to leave me entirely once I’ve finished them. I’m a Bear of Very Little Brain, and what little I have is sieve-like: only the rich stuff stays with me.

I remember going on a Robert Ludlum kick the summer I lived in BYU’s French House; I read about seventeen of his novels back-to-back. Even a month later, I doubt that I could have distinguished the plot of The Parsifal Mosaic from that of The Matarese Circle. Ludlum’s stories gave my adrenals a stiff kick, but left my brain right out of the narrative equation.

I am not disrespecting the plot-driven novel. It is an art form that serves a valuable purpose. I admire the craft that goes into them on every level and I think their creators are very good at what they do. I treasure many of them (see Gabaldon, above). They are a form of transport that is cheaper than a jaunt to Bermuda and (usually) less dangerous than recreational drug use.

And I love evoking emotion when I write. I like it when people praise my form and style, but I love it when readers tell me that I made them cry or laugh or shudder. If I've touched their hearts, I know I've done something right.

One of the reasons I love speculative fiction is that I find within the genre a higher-than-average ratio of successful marriages between story and idea. And it’s no secret that I give science fiction and fantasy preferential treatment; often a really cool premise can help me overlook underdeveloped characters or middling style.

But the best books have it all, don’t they? Round, ripe characters, suspenseful conflicts, and fascinating premises or thoughtful explorations of humanity’s great questions, all portrayed through graceful and clear prose—they coexist frequently enough to keep even the most voracious reader busy. Classic literature abounds with such blissful combinations of heart- and mind-appeal; you don’t need a list of those from me. The last century has produced many more, however. My tip-top favorites are among those listed here; other strong contenders for my hypothetical desert island library are:

Sharon Kay Penman’s Here Be Dragons
Neal Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon
Stephen King and Peter Straub’s The Talisman
Frank Herbert’s Dune
Sigrid Undset’s Kristin Lavransdatter
Marisha Pessl’s Special Topics in Calamity Physics
Charles Palliser’s The Quincunx
China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station
John Crowley’s Little, Big
Toni Morrison’s Beloved

(Just for fun, here are my ten least favorite books.)

What about you? What is your personal recipe for a great read? What books have stayed with you or have demanded re-reading from time to time? Where are you on the heart-mind continuum?  If you are a writer, what is your goal in this regard?

Caveat: some of the books listed here are not for those of delicate sensibility.  Please do not assume that just because I'm the bishop's wife, I read only rated 'G' material. 

Frenchification by Immersion

In a little over a month, we are trading houses for three weeks with a family who lives near Versailles. We found our house exchange through HomeLink, and we are very excited about our long-overdue vacation. Patrick and I took a three-week trip to France and Switzerland sixteen years ago; it remains one of our fondest memories.  I anticipate that this trip will become a highlight of family lore for years to come.

As of last Friday, school is finally out.  It’s time to begin our preparations. Because I am paranoid and prideful, I find I must add “clean out and organize every closet, cupboard, and drawer” to my already lengthy To Do list. I know, I know; but the French family will be living here for three whole weeks, and what if it rains a lot, and the kids play Hide and Seek, and one of them gets lost not in Narnia, but in some unpleasant little purgatory like our linen closet or the arts and crafts cupboard?

Long time friends and Novembrance readers will remember that I homeschool our kids every summer. This year, except for working on Daniel’s reading and Tess’s math, we are setting aside our usual curriculum and focusing exclusively on France.

We’ll be reading or re-reading:

Linnea in Monet’s Garden
The King in the Window
A Company of Fools
The Red Keep
A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver
Katie Meets the Impressionists
Cathedral
The Annotated Mona Lisa
The Da Vinci Code*
The Eight*
The Count of Monte Cristo
Paris to the Moon
Tintin
Asterix

We’ll be watching or re-watching:
The 400 Blows
My Father’s Castle
My Mother's Glory
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Cyrano de Bergerac
An American in Paris
Charade
The Scarlet Pimpernel

And listening to:
Josquin
Dufay
Machaut
Berlioz
Saint-Saens
Debussy
Satie
Bizet
Ravel
Poulenc
Charles Trenet
Maurice Chevalier
Edith Piaf
Charles Aznavour
Yves Montand
Les Alchimistes
Saint Privat
Amélie-les-crayons
Plastic Bertrand

Each of the kids will be using the fantastic Rosetta Stone program every day, and I’ve pulled out my old Champs Elysées CDs. As I mentioned once long ago, I try not to think about how badly my French has eroded since my mission and those years of intensive study in college. I’ll set regret aside and focus on doing my best.

Food, of course, will not be neglected in our study. Croissants, cassoulet, escargots, steak frites, crepes Nutella, and chocolat chaud will all be consumed in anticipation of the culinary delights we will encounter in France.

Places we plan to visit while there:

Within Paris
La Cathédrale Notre Dame
La Sainte-Chapelle
Montmartre
Le Louvre
La Musée d’Orsay
L’Orangerie
Café Angelina
Berthillon
La Tour Eiffel
L’Arc de Triomphe
La Bastille

Outside Paris
Versailles
Normandy
Giverny
Chartres
Saint-Cloud
Fontainebleau
Saint-Denis
Parc Astérix

* Christian gets a couple of softballs due to his summer reading requirements for AP English. James is determined to finish the unabridged version of The Count of Monte Cristo (866 pages--he's about a third of the way through), and I am re-acquainting myself with my beloved yet long-neglected M. Proust.

We know we are beyond lucky to be having such a grand adventure, and we plan to make the most of it. It won't be a whirlwind tour; three weeks will afford us the luxury of taking our time to enjoy the riches that will surround us.  I can't wait!

Define "great."

"The real Brahms…is nothing more than a sentimental voluptuary…the most wanton of composers…his wantonness is that of a great baby…rather tiresomely addicted to dressing himself up as Handel or Beethoven and making a prolonged and intolerable noise.” —George Bernard Shaw, in The World, 21 June 1893

“The final business of art is not with ‘impressions’….The man who can convey an impression of what he has heard is listened to only until that other man comes who has both the impression and the knowledge. We want not ‘impressionists’ but ‘expressionists,’ men who can say what they mean because they know what they have heard. In art we want the same. We want…still more that the artist should be at pains to give us of his knowledge, and we want not always the scratches and blotches and misty suggestions of the ‘impressionist’ drawings…” —Unsigned Review: “The Impressionists and the ‘Values’ of Nature,” in Artist, 1 May 1883

“[In Moby Dick,] the idea of a connected and collected story has obviously visited and abandoned its writer again and again in the course of composition. The style of his tale is in places disfigured by mad (rather than bad) English; and its catastrophe is hastily, weakly, and obscurely managed. Our author must be henceforth numbered in the company of the incorrigibles who occasionally tantalize us with indications of genius, while they constantly summon us to endure monstrosities, carelessnesses, and other such harassing manifestations of bad taste as daring or disordered ingenuity can devise....” —Henry F. Chorley, in London Athenaeum, October 25 1851

Lately I’ve been reading a lot of conversations about the quest to write the Great Mormon Novel. Will there ever be one? If so, will it be literary fiction? Will it be speculative fiction, which, as I wrote here, is a genre in which LDS writers feel especially at home? Or will it defy categorization, as great art often does until the critics and marketers catch up?

The first quote at the top of this post comes from the book The Lexicon of Musical Invective, by Nicholas Slonimsky, which presents scathing reviews of every significant classical music composer from Beethoven onward—all written by prominent reviewers who were the composers’ contemporaries. Chopin, Debussy, Gershwin, and many others whom we now revere as geniuses were often held in utter contempt by arbiters of taste of their day (note: this makes for highly entertaining reading).

As all three quotes above show (and the emphases are mine), this critical short-sightedness is not limited to reviews of music. Often the consuming public needs the perspective that the passage of time affords to recognize artistic genius, whatever the medium.

When Orson Whitney called upon the shades of Milton and Shakespeare to spur his people on to greatness, those worthies had already been dead for 200 years. He wielded their names with authority.  History had already given them the stamp of ultimate approval: greatness.

Today, more writers than ever are creating the best stories they possibly can and getting published in one form or another. Is it possible to identify true artistic genius when a work is comparatively new, or do we need to let it age for a while? What are we to do in the meantime? How do you define “great” when it comes to art that is being produced in our lifetime?

Personally, I’m not sure I’m worried about “great” right now. As far as books go, what I want is a thumping good read with characters who feel true and complex, plots that that arc in satisfying fashion, and stories that are imbued with what I call “surprising inevitability.” By this I mean that I can’t necessarily predict what will happen (or, more importantly, how it will happen). But when I reach the last page, I’ll know that the story had to turn out in just this way and no other. (As it happens, this is precisely the kind of books I’m trying to write.)

I’ve read two books recently that exactly fit these criteria. Bound on Earth, by Angela Hallstrom, caught my attention when it won the Whitney Award for Best Novel by a New Author this year. Judges, I concur. Bound on Earth is a series of interconnected narratives told by characters who feel real and familiar. Hallstrom’s writing is graceful and spare, and her expositional judgment is keen.  Highly recommended.

I gather as I scan the reviews that the press has not been kind to Shannon Hale’s The Actor and the Housewife. I, however, liked this book very much. Pregnant LDS mother Becky Jack meets her favorite movie star under highly unlikely circumstances. Said star finds himself drawn to Becky and her quirky charm, and the two become best friends. Yes, the premise is a fantastic one, but story feels true and believable.  I easily identified and sympathized with the main character and her family. The book's chatty, confessional style served as a skillful counterpoint to what is ultimately a tale of heartbreak.  I literally laughed (many, many times) and cried (at least twice, with more wellings here and there) while reading it—and Ms. Hale, that doesn’t happen very often.

Another plug for both Hallstrom and Hale: they have written mainstream books with well-drawn and three-dimensional LDS protagonists. It’s one of my dearest dreams to see interesting and complex Mormon characters become as familiar to the general public as those of other faiths and cultures. These writers have made a great beginning toward realizing this dream; I hope to follow in their footsteps someday very soon.

Technical Difficulties

I am frustrated to report that there seems to be a problem with the recipe titles in some copies of Comfortably Yum. The proof copy that I initially received was fine, but when I ordered a big box full of copies for Leonora to sell at The Country Goose, one copy out of the twenty had illegible titles. Since then, I've gotten reports from five friends whose copies have similar problems.

I am so sorry about this. If you have received an imperfect copy, please let me know so that I can complain (further and even more vociferously than I already have). If you ordered it through CreateSpace, here's a link that will let you order a replacement copy. If you ordered it through Amazon, click here to get a new copy sent to you.

Joyous Easter!

He Is Not Here, by Walter Rane

THE DAWNING 

by George Herbert

Awake, sad heart, whom sorrow ever drowns;

Take up thine eyes, which feed on earth;

Unfold thy forehead gathered into frowns:

Thy Savior comes, and with him mirth:

Awake, awake:

And with a thankful heart his comforts take.

But thou dost still lament, and pine and cry;

And feel his death, but not his victory.
Arise sad heart, if thou dost not withstand,

Christ’s resurrection thine may be:

Do not by hanging down break from the hand

Which as it riseth, raiseth thee:

Arise, arise: 
And with his burial-linen dry thine eyes:

Christ left his grave-clothes, that we might, when grief

Draws tears, or blood, not want an handkerchief.