Monday, June 30, 2014

Author Reading: Tom Rachman and Emma Healey

One evening last week I battled gailforce winds and apocalyptic rain to get down to the Harbourfront Centre and hear three authors read from their new books. The event fell under the rubric of the International Festival of Authors which, though it ocurrs in the fall, hosts literary soirees of various kinds throughout the year in Toronto. I love author readings and would have wanted to attend in any case, but the real draw for me here was Tom Rachman, author of The Imperfectionists, which I read and loved and reviewed here last year. I knew he was reading in Toronto in late June, but my determination to attend was increased when I entered into a brief correspondence with him recently. I discovered that he had released a short story two years ago as an Amazon Single. Entitled The Bathtub Spy, it has received excellent reviews and I was keen to read it - but it is no longer available on Amazon. After a fruitless Google search, I emailed him directly, not particularly expecting a response. To my surprise, he wrote a very friendly email in reply, apologizing for the difficulty in locating a copy of his story, and suggesting that I should attend this IFOA event in June where he would be reading.

Well. As if I wasn't going to attend after that personal invitation!

It was a bit of a revelation to walk into the venue and discover that it had been set up like an intimate comedy club, with individual tables lit with votive candles, and a pop-up bar serving wine. So very civilized.

 
Our host for the evening was the charming Becky Toyne, a publishing industry personage who regularly appears on CBC Radio One to speak about books and writes a column about Toronto's literary scene for Openbooktoronto.com. 
 
Reading before Tom Rachman were Linda Holeman, a writer of historical fiction, and Emma Healey, whose debut novel, Elizabeth is Missing, has just shot her into literary super-stardom. The manuscript for Elizabeth is Missing was fought over at the London Book Fair last year by NINE different publishers, and so a real furor surrounds the book. It is so rare and therefore so exciting to hear stories about publishers fighting over a new author's work, and it was delicious to hear Healey speak about the lengths some of them went to in order to impress her. The book is about an elderly women who suffers from dementia, and who is fond of tinned peaches, so several of the publishers gifted Healey with boxes of tinned peaches (unfortunately, Healey said, her boyfriend is not fond of peaches, so these remain piled up at home), and one filled a boardroom with Forget-me-Nots.
 
As I sat there, by myself, listening to people speak about books and surrounded by others soaking up the atmosphere with the same intent pleasure as me, I felt filled with something akin to love. When Rachman got up to read, he noted how unusual it was for people in this day and age to gather for something that has nothing whatsoever to do with technology. As for me, being there reminded me how rarely these days I get to immerse myself in the literary scene. Books are what I am most passionate about in my life (other than family, of course), so it seems rather a pity that I am not able more often to engage with people who share my interest. But then, reading is by its very nature a solitary pursuit, as is writing. Any chance to turn these pursuits into something more social should, in my view, be seized upon with glee.
 




Rachman was as personable and energetic as I had hoped, and I can't wait to read his new book, which is receiving rave reviews. But the surprise of the evening was Emma Healey. She looks and sounds like Sophie Dahl (Roald Dahl's model daughter), with a sweet upper-crust English accent. She read from her book, a novel that shows great maturity and a deep understanding of the human condition, yet she looked just like a schoolgirl. She wore a long skirt and a modest full-sleeved blouse, and she made a habit as she stood at the lecturn of lifting her left heel so that only her toe remained fixed to the ground beside her right foot, an endearing trait that made her look about 12. I believe the hype around this book will prove to be justified, and I believe she may well go on to become one of the great writers of our time. I purchased her book at the event and asked her to sign it (I had pre-purchased Rachman's, of course, and very much enjoyed meeting him on the night).
 
Two more signed books to add to my collection, and a fond memory or two as well. 

Monday, June 23, 2014

Baileys Women's Prize for Fiction - Winner Announced!


It was a tough shortlist of brilliant writers, but Eimear McBride has taken them all out, winning the 2014 Baileys Women's Prize for Fiction with her debut book, A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing. I haven't read it, though it's on my TBR list, but from what I understand this was the most experimental book on the shortlist, and perhaps a surprising winner.

The website for the award cites Helen Fraser, chair of judges, saying of McBride’s startling debut:

“An amazing and ambitious first novel that impressed the judges with its inventiveness and energy. This is an extraordinary new voice – this novel will move and astonish the reader.”

I can't wait to read it, but I am still all aglow from the experience of reading Donna Tart's The Goldfinch and I can't help wishing she had won.

I spoke some time ago of trying to read every one of the shortlisted books this year. Embarassingly, The Goldfinch is the only one I have thus far managed to get to reading! I haven't given up though.

Friday, June 20, 2014

Did not Finish: Charlotte Grey's The Massey Murder


I started reading The Massey Murder: a Murder, a Maid and the Trial that Shocked a Country by Charlotte Grey at the beginning of May, thinking piously that I would finish it well before my bookclub meeting, which falls on the last Thursday of each month. But in the week before our meeting, not only had I not finished the book, I had made a conscious decision not to.

I've spoken before about books one does not finish, for whatever reason, but it has been so long since this happened to me I thought it was worth remarking on again. Grey's book should have been a perfectly good non-fiction history lesson. It is set in Toronto in 1915, and purports (as suggested by the title) to follow and elucidate upon the events of a murder, whereby Carrie Davies, a maid, shot and killed her master, Charles Massey, a member of one of Toronto's most esteemed families.

I like history. I even studied it at University. I really enjoy learning. But if I am reading a book, fiction or non-fiction, I require it to have a story or a thesis or something that ties together the bits of information I am being fed. This book is notable for the absence of any such thing.

Ms Grey seems to have done an awful lot of research into the social history of Toronto in the early 20th century, but she appears to be so wed to all of this research that she was loathe to leave a single fact out of the book - whether or not it was relevant. I'm not sure why her editor did not encourage her to exercise greater stringency, but it seems Ms Grey was free to throw in whatever trivia she damn well pleased. And I. Was. SO. BORED.

Example: "Bert's twenty-seven-year-old first cousin Vincent Massey, then a member of the University of Toronto's History Department, attended the service. (He noted in his diary, "Went to Bert Massey's funeral from Arthur Massey's house.)"

Why was it necessary here to mention Bert at all, let alone state in the text where the note of his attendance of the funeral was recorded? If Grey was going to write a history text, she should have left that kind of thing to footnotes.

It should have been interesting to read about the history of the city I'm currently living in. And it should have been interesting to learn about the practice of law, my given profession, two hundred years ago. Admittedly I never got to the trial, and various reviews have said things improve in the second half of the book, but I was so put off by this book that I really couldn't imagine things improving enough that I would actually enjoy finishing it. After slogging through a third of it, literally forcing myself to choose this book over others I had going at the same time, I finally admitted to myself that there was no point in continuing, and I stopped reading. I decided that my precious reading time, restrained as it is by work and kids and everything else life throws at one, was not worth squandering on a book I really detested.

Let me try to explain why I disliked this so very much. The book opens on the murder. Of course the interesting aspects of this immediately spring to mind - motive, personality - who is the maid who shot Charles Massey and why did she do it? Did he deserve to be killed? What fate will befall his poor son who was in the house when this happened and who was both close to his father and  attached to Carrie, the murderer?

Unfortunately very few of these questions are explored except in the driest possible language and in the briefest possible manner. It is almost as though Grey wished to convey the history of Toronto in a given age and seized upon this event as a vehicle to do so, knowing she would need a selling point (and re-read the title, above - go on. See? It's shamelessly sensational, in direct opposition to the actual contents of the book. Even the publisher knew they would need to really push to make this sound exciting). In fact, the first quarter of the book is largely taken up by facts about the buildings and people of Toronto in 1915. But instead of choosing to talk about one building or one person at a time, and divulge all of the interesting facts about that topic and make that description and historical detail relevant to the tale at hand, Grey goes on a meandering marathon of fact dropping, as though she is a senile great-aunt trying unsuccessfully to tell a story at a family gathering. She never gets to the point. It was like listening to Bibliohubby's stoner friend who we dined with recently, and who dominated the conversation with a story that never ended and had no discernible point. Only that was quite funny. Ms Grey is not funny at all.

Here, this is what it feels like to read this book:

"Charles Massey is shot and killed. Oh, who else was in the Massey family? Let me tell you. There is this Massey, he was a farmer, this is what he farmed. This is where his farm was. This is what happened to the farm. There were a lot of tractors, let me tell you a bit about the tractor industry in early twentieth century Toronto. Oh, there were immigrants! Let me tell you a bit about them - but not too much. Because also, what about this Massey? He lived here. Oh, you know Massey Hall? This is the history of that building in one uninteresting sentence. You would like to know more about the architecture or how it came to be built or what it was originally designed to be? Too bad - there is this other Massey here I want to talk about now, he was really rich and this is what he did and this is where his wife came from. Oh, now we're at the court house. There is a magistrate who runs almost all the cases - let me tell you all about him and his entire life history and - oh! There are lots of ladies who come to the courthouse for all of these reasons, let me tell you about them, but also they are engaged in a lot of reformative early feminist activities, let me very briefly tell you about those without going into detail or explaining how this was relevant to the development of feminism in Toronto or Canada broadly - oh. Wait? Why are we at the court house? That's right! Cassie Davies has been accused of murder! I almost forgot! Never mind, nothing really happened that day, she was refused bail."

And so on. Reading it was like listening to nails on a blackboard.

As I said, I do understand that it improves towards the latter half. However, even if the trial was riveting, my understanding is that Grey had very little to go on by way of court transcript. So, ironically, what forms the very centre of the book is actually fictional - or biased, taken from the newspapers of the day. If only she had then treated this as a fictionalized account of a true story, like Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace or a book I am just starting to read, Burial Rites by Hannah Kent. She might have succeeded in creating a story at the same time as she presented an interesting, realistic, historic portrait of life in Toronto at the time. Which, frankly, is what I was hoping for when our bookclub voted for this at the beginning of the year.

Overall assessment: Look, she did her work, there is no doubt about that. And I will say that it was interesting to learn about the women-only courthouse and to get a glimpse of life for women at that time in Canada. But generally speaking, as if you couldn't tell, I really did not like this. Giving it a 2 seems a stretch. I am going to give it 1.5 out of 5.

Addendum: I held off on posting this mean review for some time, because I felt badly after attending book club, where most people had better experiences with the book than I did. I should have kept reading, they told me. The trial at the end is more interesting. So I borrowed a hard copy from someone else and thought I might squeeze in a few more chapters, maybe reassess.

Sadly: no. I just can't bring myself to do it. Sorry all! Life is too short, there are too many other books in the world, and I just recently finished Donna Tart's The Goldfinch, which was so very brilliant, on so many levels, that even good books I have picked up since then pale in comparison... I really just can't bear to open this one up again. So I won't.