A Certain Slant of Light

I went into John Le Carre’s A Legacy of Spies with a certain trepidation, as the book is a late-career novel that retreads the events of Le Carre’s first break-out hit, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. Years after the events in the earlier book, Smiley’s right-hand man Peter Guillam finds himself the focus of a legal investigation into what exactly went down during that mission.

Frankly, the premise struck me as a tired rehash of an earlier success. But this is not a fair assessment of A Legacy of Spies, in which Le Carre cheerfully twists a few knives that he had hitherto left untwisted in the general Smiley saga. As such, this review will feature ( spoilers for all the Smiley books )

Despite my doubts, a perfect end to the series, really. Brings the story full circle, updates us on all the most interesting characters, continues the exploration of Le Carre’s favorite themes. Were we the bad guys? - by “we” meaning not England, or Europe, or the West, but the international brotherhood of spies.

About a year ago, I realized that some of the older children’s books that I wanted were available in the archive of the university where I work. “If only I knew where the archives were and how to request books there,” I mused, without of course making the faintest effort to acquire this information.

But I have become incrementally better at turning ideas into reality, so it took only a year before I learned where the archives are (the top floor of my favorite library, which incidentally is the library closest to my office) and how to request an appointment to read a book there. Then I traipsed over to the archives for The Little Angel: A Story of Old Rio, illustrated by Katherine Milhous of The Egg Tree, which is the real reason I wanted to read it, although I was also nothing loath to renew the acquaintance with the author, our old friend Alice Dalgliesh of Newbery fame.

The archives are not quite as fancy as the Lilly Library Reading Room: no mural of Great Thinkers in History! But they make up for it with comfy rolling chairs, and the archivists do still bring you your book on a pillow, which is the most important thing.

The book itself is in that particularly mid-twentieth century style where we’re gently drifting through some time in the life of a family long ago and far away. (Sometimes it is just long ago or just faraway, but here it’s both.) We enjoy some street festivals, meet a cute kitten named Gatinho, cheer as the daughter of the house furiously refuses an arranged marriage with a man who just tossed Gatinho across the room (Gatinho is unhurt, except for his dignity), and accept that this is not the kind of book that is ever going to interrogate the fact that this upper-class Brazilian family in the 1820s has slaves. Milhous’s illustrations are charming but not as magical as the illustrations in The Egg Tree or Appolonia’s Valentine.

Nonetheless, pleased by my success, I went back to trawl the library catalog for more books to read in the archives… and discovered they have a copy of one of my remaining Newbery books, Valenti Angelo’s Nino! What a score! So I’ve got an appointment tomorrow at lunch to begin reading.

Recently littlerhymes reviewed Asako Yuzuki’s Butter, “a novel of food and murder,” to quote the cover. “Food AND murder?” I said. “Two of my favorite things in one book?” AND the book was translated by Polly Barton, who translated Aoko Matsuda’s Where the Wild Ladies Are, which absolutely clinched the deal.

This book is fantastic. It is a novel of food and murder, but also about the impossible demands of femininity, fat-shaming, the extent to which it is possible to be responsible for another person, the difficulty of truly embracing your own desires (starting with the surprisingly difficult task of figuring out what you even want), the brutal hours demanded by Japanese companies, the meaning of friendship, and also what the heck is UP with Manako Kajii.

Manako Kajii is in prison, convicted of murdering three men. The evidence is entirely circumstantial: she was dating all three men, having met them through a website for people looking for marriage, except instead of marrying them she got them to give her loads of cash in exchange for gourmet meals and, one presumes, sex. Unfortunately for her, three of her boyfriends died in quick succession, and although there’s no evidence she pushed one off the railway platform or snuck the other that lethal overdose of sleeping pills, people are so mad about her lifestyle that she’s convicted of the murders anyway.

They’re especially mad because Kajii managed all this while being (by Japanese standards) FAT. The siren who lured three men to their deaths is not even pretty. This terrifies everyone: men because they shudder over the humiliation of potentially being murdered by a girl who is not even a perfect 10, and women because this only strengthens their belief that what men really want is not an equal partner but a mommy-wife who feeds them, cleans up after them, and coos over their boring rants about work.

Although the book may sound like a murder mystery from the summary, it’s notably uninteresting in actual evidence about Kajii’s supposed killings. The details I mentioned above we learn almost incidentally, and our heroine Rika, a magazine reporter working on a profile of Kajii, makes no attempt to follow them up. Her interest is in the mystery of Kajii herself: what makes her tick?

In trying to figure out Kajii, Rika reads Kajii’s food blog (a lush wonderland of luxury brands and fancy restaurants), interviews Kajii, begins to learn to cook herself, falls in love with food and flavor and maybe also a little bit with Kajii, or at least what Kajii represents to her, which is the willingness to embrace one’s own desires, whether that means eating what one wants to eat or (in Kajii’s case) giving up on “employment” to be supported as essentially the mistress of a variety of rich old men.

The problem, as Rika repeatedly discovers, is that like Kajii’s old men, what Rika sees in Kajii is what she’s projecting onto Kajii. They saw her as a sweet traditional girl who just wants to please men; Rika sees her as an avatar of chasing your own desires, even if those desires are socially disruptive. Kajii herself is both those things, as well as an outspoken misogynist who longs for a daughter, a daddy’s girl who never went back to her hometown after she left at eighteen, a walking contradiction who revels in manipulation but also, perhaps, longs for the connection that has thus far eluded her.

Or maybe not. Maybe Rika is projecting that longing for connection onto a basically heartless sociopath. Yuzuki maintains all these tensions, juggling all these different facets of Kajii without ever simplifying her to one single Kajii.

This is a very Kajii-centric review, because it was Kajii who most blew me away, but I also loved Rika and her friendship with Reiko, both for their own sake and because they allow Yuzuki to develop her themes about societal expectations about femininity in so many directions that the theme becomes almost fractal. Here is a writer who has a lot to say and is saying all of it at the same time in a way that’s so engrossing that I barely resisted the desire to take a sick day just to keep reading.

And she does it all AND includes some great food descriptions, too. I was so carried away by her enthusiasm that I actually tried Kajii’s recipe for rice with butter. It didn’t have the same transformative effect on me that it had on Rika, but maybe if I used the very fancy butter that Kajii recommended…

What I’ve Just Finished Reading

Rebecca Romney’s Jane Austen’s Bookshelf: A Rare Book Collector’s Quest to Find the Women Writers Who Shaped a Legend, in which Romney tracks down many of the books Jane Austen admired (often as ebooks, which I must admit takes much of the romance out of the rare book hunt) and discovers many lost gems of literary excellence. (And also Hannah More, whom she did not take to.) An engrossing read.

D. E. Stevenson’s Mrs. Tim Gets a Job. Like all of D. E. Stevenson’s novels, this is cozy like sitting curled up in an armchair by the fire with a cup of cocoa while a thunderstorm beats against the window in the night. It’s not that she’s writing in a world where bad things don’t happen, or even where bad things don’t happen to our heroes, but by the end of the book it will all turn out right.

Amerika: Russian Writers View the United States, edited by Mikail Iossel and Jeff Parker. An essay collection published not long after 9/11, although only a few of the essays actually touch on that event. Many of them include potshots at American political correctness (hard to embrace the concept if you come from the country where you could literally be sent to a gulag for “political incorrectness”), as well as lists of American books the authors read at a formative age.

I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t read this before Honeytrap, as the book might have been delayed indefinitely while I tried to work my way through the works of Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury, Ursula K. Le Guin, Isaac Asimov, as well as some other authors I’ve never even heard of. With truth the author of this essay notes “the average Soviet person probably knew [American science fiction] better than the average American.”

What I’m Reading Now

Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. Sadly suspicious that none of these characters are ever going to make it to the lighthouse.

What I Plan to Read Next

Does my lightning zoom through Jane Austen’s Bookshelf mean that I will at last read an eighteenth century novel? MAYBE. The library boasts Fanny Burney’s Evelina, Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Romance of the Forest, Charlotte Lennox’s The Female Quixote, and Maria Edgeworth’s Belinda. Any recommendations among those works?

Recently sholio review Cal Newport’s Slow Productivity: The Lost Art of Accomplishment Without Burnout, and as I have long vaguely followed Newport’s career, and also am a choir who loves to be preached to about the problems of productivity culture, I picked it up.

Newport lays out a seeming contradiction I’ve vaguely noticed before but never formulated: the people who find productivity culture most enraging are often, in fact, very productive people, who yearn to achieve great things. But the contradiction is purely a matter of semantics: “productivity culture” enrages such people precisely because it often leads to a kind of distracted busy-ness that makes it hard to actually dig in and accomplish something meaningful.

The problem, Newport explains, is that current productivity culture privileges steady work, and moreover steady work that is pretty close to the outward edge of a worker’s capacity, whereas innovative artistic or academic work by its nature requires more slack. There are periods where you’ll work sixty hours a week (and be happy to do so! The ideas are flowing! Work is the thing you most want to do in the world!) but also periods where you’ll outwardly be doing nothing.

He illustrates the point with stories about artists and scientists from the past: Jane Austen, Isaac Newton, Marie Curie, New Yorker feature writer John McPhee. I love reading about people creating things, whether it be a novel or the theory of gravity, so very much enjoyed these interludes.

But my main takeaway from this book is that, although I enjoyed it, it’s not really the book I need right now. My problem in this moment is not “how to step away from meaningless busy-ness toward true accomplishment” but “how do I start writing fiction again?” (Obviously I’m still banging away at book reviews and letters to penpals etc. etc.)

The problem is twofold. One, I haven’t made time to write; and two, I don’t currently have a story I feel an urgent need to tell. I have written some short stories this year (eight currently in the caddy!), and when I’m excited about a story, suddenly it becomes easy to make time to write. But I think that if I were writing more regularly, I’d have more story ideas, perhaps even more long-form story ideas, which is really where my heart lies.

(Actually, the problem is not ideas per se, but ideas I’m so invested in that I’ll keep working through the frustrations inherent in writing a novel. You can scamper through a short story on inspiration alone, but a novel always has bits where you yell “This is the worst story ever written and I am the worst writer ever born!”)

However, if you make time to write and then sit down with nothing you want to write, you may just end up staring out the window at the Canada geese. There’s a bit of a chicken and an egg problem.

But the first step to fixing any problem is to define the problem, so at least I’ve done that?

A rare edition of What I Quit Reading. Last week I was struggling with Sebastian Smee’s The Art of Rivalry: Four Friendships, Betrayals, and Breakthroughs in Modern Art, but decided that might be because the first part was about two artists I’m not familiar with, Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon. So I went on to part two, which is about Degas (I love Degas!) and Manet (Smee’s other book Paris in Ruins made me interested in Manet!)... and unfortunately I didn’t particularly care for this section either. It lacks the firm grounding in the wider historical milieu and social world of the Impressionists that made Paris in Ruins so absorbing. So onward and upward to other books.

What I’ve Just Finished Reading

My break from the Newberies lasted about two seconds, and then I was back in the saddle with Lesa Cline-Ransome’s One Big Open Sky, which is written in verse (ever since Out of the Dust, Newbery books written in verse have frightened me), and printed in eight-point font, which is not the author’s fault but MY EYES.

However, despite these unpropitious first impressions, I enjoyed the book as a whole. Like Out of the Dust, it’s historical fiction about a family in a hard time. In this case, Lettie’s Black family is migrating from Mississippi to Nebraska in 1879, looking for a new start. A covered wagon story with all the covered wagon trials (is someone going to get cholera?) plus the extra concern that white men might attack their caravan, but overall more successful than Out of the Dust at portraying hardship without slipping into misery porn.

I also read Patrick Bringley’s All the Beauty in the World: The Metropolitan Museum of Art and Me, which is about Bringley’s decade as a security guard in the Met after his brother Tom’s death.

There is a very moving passage about going to a museum with his mother soon after Tom’s death, and finding his mother standing in front of a painting of a Pieta, Mary holding the body of her dead son. Throughout the book Bringley insists on the importance of an emotional connection to art, the primacy of the personal above learning facts by rote - primacy in the literal sense that this is what comes first: why would we care to learn facts about Degas if his ballerinas weren’t so beautiful?

But, as with Paris in Ruins, sometimes learning more about an artist’s life can make you want to revisit their art - to feel that there is more to be seen in it than you have seen heretofore…

Anyway he’s not in any sense arguing against learning facts, just arguing that to really experience a work of art you have to bring not just your intellect and your facts but your whole self, your emotions; to allow yourself to be moved.

What I’m Reading Now

D. E. Stevenson’s Mrs. Tim Gets a Job, which is like a warm bath. Right after World War II, Mrs. Tim’s husband has been posted to Egypt and her children are both in boarding school. At loose ends, she takes a job helping to run a hotel in Scotland. On the train to the hotel, she meets a man who is baffled because his fiancee has just broken off their engagement after years of correspondence over the war. And then at the hotel, Mrs. Tim meets a girl who just broke up with her fiance, because she is simply so exhausted after years of looking after an invalid aunt that she feels she can never make a good wife…

What I Plan to Read Next

Eight Newberies left. The next one on deck is Ralph Hubbard’s Queer Person.

I’ve read Sarah Orne Jewett’s short story “A White Heron” before, but when I saw that Barbara Cooney had illustrated it, of course I had to pick it up. Sarah Orne Jewett was a writer of the “local color” school famous for her works set in Maine, while Barbara Cooney was an illustrator who spent her childhood summers in Maine and eventually settled there.

The pairing is propitious. Cooney draws out the twilight loveliness of Jewett’s story, Sylvia driving the cow home in the dusk, meeting a young man in the woods who is hunting birds for his collection, rising before dawn to climb the highest tree in the forest to seek out the home of the rare white heron for him… standing near the top of the tree, gazing out over the treetops to the vast sea “with the dawning sun making a golden dazzle over it,” and the birds flying below her. Hawks, sparrows, and the heron itself, which perches on a bough of Sylvia’s own pine tree.

But though the text describes the heron perching, in the pictures it is always shown in flight.

In the illustrator’s note at the back, Cooney notes that she wanted to capture “the superimposed layers of countryside and trees separated by rising mists or incoming fogs… something like an ethereal Japanese screen,” and YES, that is exactly the feeling that her landscape images often give. It’s especially present in this book in the last large picture, four shouting catbirds perched on a branch that spreads across the top of two pages, and in the misty distance below soft gray pines… and a few sharp black pines closer… and the white heron flying past.

I feel that this comment has unlocked something that I’ve responded to in Cooney’s illustrations without ever putting a name to it. I want to revisit some of my favorites now and trace this Japanese influence in her work.

troisoiseaux was reading Paris in Ruins: Love, War, and the Birth of Impressionism, which is about the effects of the 1871 Franco-Prussian War on the baby impressionist movement. Of course I had to read it, as I am tragically incapable of resisting anything about the impressionists, and in this case it worked in my favor, because this book is fantastic.

This book balances a lot of different strands. It situates the impressionists within the wider political and cultural milieu of France, while also touching on how France’s relationship with the rest of Europe shaped that milieu. Most dramatically in the form of the Franco-Prussian War, of course, but Smee’s description of Manet’s fascination with Spanish art, particularly Goya, is also illuminating. In the aftermath of the Franco-Prussian war, Manet tried to make Goya-style lithographs of the horrors he’d seen, but the misery was still too raw.

In fact, Smee notes, most of the impressionists never engaged artistically with the war at all, partly in reaction against the Academy’s elevation of heroic history paintings in general and its insistence on heroic history paintings of the Franco-Prussian War. Instead, they focused on the ephemeral, the evanescent, the shifting light of daily life as an antidote to a demoralizing political reality and a deeply disillusioning experience of war in which pretty much all the political forces in France came out looking bad.

Napoleon III? The idiot who started the war. (People tend to forget this, possibly because the Prussians trounced France so thoroughly, but France did start the war.) The Communards? Completely out of touch with the political reality outside of Paris*, also had the unfortunate habit of lynching people who looked maybe kind of spy-like. The monarchists? Bad on principle, also lost their chance at monarchy when their numbskull candidate for king tried to insist on a return to the white Bourbon flag. The forces of the republic? Lost the war, massacred the Communards, but somehow they’re here to stay.

(*The Communards complete failure to grasp that much of rural France remained a bastion of Catholic royalists started me on a train of thought about how so-called “popular revolutions” are often revolutions that are popular only in the capital city, which then imposes its will on the truculent countryside which is, numerically, often 70% or more of the population of the country, and often wants nothing to do with the revolution supposedly enacted “for the people.” Popular revolution as urban imperialism?)

The book also describes the social milieu of the impressionists, where political divisions are ferocious sometimes to the point of firing squads, and yet Berthe Morisot (daughter of moderate constitutional monarchists) can be courted both by reactionary Puvis de Chavannes and republican Eugene Manet, brother to painter Edouard Manet (who probably would have been courting Berthe herself except awkwardly he was already married). They all meet peaceably at the Morisots’ salons and chat about painting.

Although various impressionists bob in and out of the book, Berthe and Edouard are the focal points. (Smee refers to them by their first names, which gives the book an novelistic flair.) These are not my top impressionists, but I came out of the book with a greater appreciation of their work, because as well as being a good social and military historian with a fine eye for the subtle shifts in relationships between individuals, Smee is also a perceptive art critic who can help you see new depths in paintings you have previously not fully appreciated. I’ve struggled with Morisot’s work in particular, but I’d love to return to her work to view it through this new lens.

This brings me to the one flaw in the book: not enough art reproductions! Presumably the publisher’s fault rather than Smee’s, but I do wonder who thought it would be a good idea to put in, for instance, a photograph of the balloonist Nadar rather than another example of Morisot’s work. Not that I wasn’t fascinated by the use of hot air balloons to get mail out of Paris, and carrier pigeons to bring back replies in the form of film negatives containing tiny, tiny pictures of thousands of letters that then had to be blown up and transcribed! I just didn’t think a portrait of Nadar was the best use of the limited picture space.

Overall, though, loved it. Highly recommended if you’re interested in either the impressionists or French history. I’m going to read Smee’s The Art of Rivalry: Four Friendships, Betrayals, and Breakthroughs in Modern Art next. I’m really most interested in Manet and Degas, but I love a good feud so perhaps that will carry me through the 20th century artists too.

What I’ve Just Finished Reading

Miriam Mason’s Yours with Love, Kate, a biography of Kate Douglass Wiggin. I picked this up solely because Barbara Cooney did the illustrations, and lucked into a delightful mid-century biography of the kind that would definitely be published as a novel today, as Mason is 100% making up conversations.

Wiggins seems as boundlessly charming and enthusiastic as one of the heroines of her own novels, only even more extraordinary: a girl born under a lucky star. She meets Charles Dickens in a railway carriage, befriends famous actresses, is invited to act in the company of the famous Dion Boucicault, but decides to stay with the free kindergarten she’s building: this is a time when the kindergarten movement was new and exciting, Wiggins a pioneer in these children’s gardens where children learn through dance and story and song.

She marries Samuel Wiggin, who enthusiastically agrees that women can and should continue to work after marriage, and so continues to work in the kindergarten movement. She starts to write in order to raise money for the kindergartens and becomes one of the most successful children’s authors of her day with The Birds’ Christmas Carol.

I also read Rumer Godden’s Premlata and the Festival of Lights, a slim story about a little girl in India whose family has become so poor that they’ve had to sell the deepas they would usually light to celebrate Diwali. She comes into possession of some money and heads off to the fair to buy new lights, but the fair is full of merry-go-rounds and hot fresh samosas and bangle sellers where she might buy a present for her mother…

What I’m Reading Now

Sebastian Smee’s Paris in Ruins: Love, War, and the Birth of Impressionism, which is about the early years of the impressionist movement and the effect of the Franco-Prussian War on their lives and art when it came crashing into their world. Loving it so far. Especially loving in the bits about Berthe Morisot and her sister Edma (also a painter), but all the information about the social world of the impressionists is fascinating.

What I Plan to Read Next

As you can see, I’ve allowed myself to be distracted from my Newbery readings, but this week I’m hoping to buckle down with Lesa Cline-Ransome’s One Big Open Sky.

Continuing my Barbara Cooney theme, I read the picture book in which she illustrates ”I Am Cherry Alive,” the Little Girl Sang, a poem by Delmore Schwartz, a mid-century American poet of whom I had never heard. Sorry, Mr. Schwartz.

The little girl is not only cherry alive, she is apple, she is plum, she is pit of peach, (she is deeply opposed to articles), she is red and gold and green and blue. What does this mean? I teetered between finding the poem exhilarating and finding it maddening, in a way makes me think irresistibly of Billy Collins’ poem Introduction to Poetry, in which he encourages his students to experience a poem,

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Okay, Billy! I get it! I need to follow Barbara Cooney’s good example and just vibe with Delmore Schwartz’s little girl who is cherry alive and apple and plum and witch in a zoo, “I will always be me, I will always be new!”

(But also what does it mean to be cherry alive. What does it MEAN.)

Cooney’s illustrations are of course beautiful. I particularly like the ones illustrating the colors, the girl in her red coat and hat watching the red sunrise above the snow, and sitting beneath a golden tree, and crouched on a rock in a green bathing suit by a green pool in a deep green forest.