Book Review: Sherwood Anderson, Winesburg, Ohio

If it's a feel-good novel you seek, I don't recommend Sherwood Anderson's collection of short stories. Despite the uniqueness of the work, I "left Winesburg feeling terribly sorry for just about every character who passed through its pages,.

As usual, I read up on the author and the history of the book. Widely regarded as the"first piece of truly 'modern' American fiction," Winesburg, Ohio was published in 1919 and, not surprisingly, was poorly received by inhabitants of the midwestern town on which the stories were based. I assumed Anderson wrote himself into the vignettes as the sympathetic observer, George Willard, whom several characters (or, perhaps more accurately, "grotesques" as Anderson calls them with) confide in--the remaining figures cobbled together from people whom he knew in his youth.

Whether this book is actually a novel, a series of sketches, or a short story cycle seems to still be a matter of dispute by literary critics; but, as far as influences go, Hemingway, Bradbury, Lovecraft, Oates, and others have been profoundly influenced by the symbolism, structure and striking subject matter of the book.

Winesburg seems like your typical small town where still waters run deep. To the outside world, the town's substantial segment of lonely-hearts appear as typical quiet folk, though only the reader is privy to their darkest secrets: unrequited love, jealousy, latent homosexuality, dreams unfulfilled and self-pity.

On a bit of a lighter note, I recommend checking out this Onion article.

"Yes, I'm a Closeted Dan Brown Reader."

I can't help but agree with Peter Scowen. The Da Vinci Code was really "the worst thriller that I ever read that I couldn't put down." I had read the book in one day, telephoning friends at work to scream into the mouthpiece, "JESUS CHRIST WAS MARRIED!?!?!?!" Certainly not my most dignified moment, but one that I will forever recall.

Like many others who had lined up at the theatres on opening day, I couldn't help but spend this long weekend with a large buttered popcorn and the miscast Robert Langdon in Angels & Demons. Frankly, the movie wasn't nearly as bad as I had expected; I had seen the two-and-a-half-star ratings and naturally assumed the worst. Thankfully, I was pleasantly surprised -- though anything had to be a step up from the bore fest that was The Da Vinci Code. Like the book, the film was better than its sequel.

Since this is a book blog and not a forum for me to comment on films, I am getting to the point of my posting. I was "window shopping" on amazon.ca and found myself rather tempted to buy an advanced copy of Dan Brown's latest novel, The Lost Symbol. Generally, I wait for the paperback copy, but I can't really help myself when it comes to trashy books that try desperately to squeak by as semi-high-brow. For me, Brown's unabashed potshots at the most venerated institutions and symbols of Christianity, though occasionally a bit difficult to stomach, still represent the most interesting potential plots out there. Despite the fact his novels are poorly written and even poorly woven, I can't help but be intrigued and I can't really explain why either. Perhaps it's the sensationalism and scandal associated with the subject matter his books tackle -- who knows? I can only imagine what a truly talented author could do with plots like Brown's and what convincing yarns they could spin. This said, I'm still likely to buy and consume the book like it's going out of style as covertly as possible, though I'll likely refrain from reviewing it with the same attention-to-detail as I do more meritorious novels.

How Well Read Are You? Quiz

While wasting valuable time that could better have been spent on some worthwhile pursuit like organizing my desk, or finding a better home for my prodigious knitting basket than my bedroom floor, I instead passed a blissful hour taking general-knowledge book quizzes online, the majority of which were pathetically easy. Of course, leave it to the Brits to stump you with their erudition. I had finally stumbled upon a quiz so challenging that I barely squeaked by with a passing grade.

Considering I had never heard of about 15% of the books listed, and have never read about 60% of them, I seem to have fared rather well. Of course, lucky guesses accounted for about 40% of my right answers. You wouldn't need to have read Moby Dick to know that "Call me Ishmael," is among the most famous opening lines in literature. Thankfully, I suffered through the first one hundred and fifty pages of The Fellowship of the Rings to remember some of the characters. (Apologies to all Tolkien fans out there, but I just couldn't seem to hang in there for the first, let alone entire, trilogy.) Loving Charles Dickens as much as I do, and recalling A Tale of Two Cities as the first of his works I ever read, I had no difficulty reciting the opening lines of the novel as they too I would argue, rank among the most well-known.

My "Take a letter, Moneypenny" performance on the quiz led me to reflect on the meaning of the word "well read." Evidently, I'm not nearly as versed as accountants seem to be; they'd likely achieve the most-coveted "Number-crunching Bookworm" status. However, I had long thought of myself as being a little more "well read" than most, or, at the very least, well-informed. I tend to ace any book-and-author categories appearing on Jeopardy, and, if someone mentions David Sedaris, Ian McEwan, John Galsworthy, or V.S. Naipaul, I know who they're talking about and at least one or two of their works, despite never having read them.

Since nobody seems to acquire a "classical education" anymore (save perhaps Roland in A.S. Byatt's Possession, which I am currently reading), I imagine only a minority have intimate knowledge of the "greatest literary hits." But, who can even agree as to what those greatest literary hits are? You need only look at the competing lists out there on the internet to see that, though there is some agreement across the board, there is just as much disagreement and diversity in the titles that make the cut.

When, in the last days of December 2008 I began reflecting on my goals for the coming year, broadening my literary horizons became one of them. I specifically intended to become more "well read" in '09 than in '08, especially as I suddenly had the opportunity to choose all of my reading material without input from a graduate advisor. The feeling of freedom was unparalleled! Of course, I had never stopped to think about what body of work one would need to engage to merit the designation "well read" in the twenty-first century. Is it still about the canon of Western literary classics, or has the range of work and diversity of authors changed?

Ten years ago, the word "globalization" was being flung around like mashed potatoes at a frat-house food fight, but what about the "globalization" of our literary canons? Should we really study Shakespeare, Dickens, and some boring Canadian authors in Ontario high schools? (Here apologies are offered to Margaret Lawrence and Margaret Atwood fans) Or, should our curriculum reflect the diversity of Canada's citizenry as reading lists should reflect the diversity of literature now filling bookstore shelves?

This notion of multiculturalism, of disappearing borders, and the increasing accessibility to vast swaths of information made me reconsider my own personal reading material. Does anyone really read only the dead white guys (and some dead white women) anymore? Should reading lists, like the one that I'm relying on be heavily revised to include the voices of previously marginalized groups whose contributions to the canon of world literature have been as significant, informative, and perspective-altering as the Caucasian cronies who were crammed down our throats in high school and university? Moreover, what makes a book worthy of inclusion on a list singling out the "best novels," whether they are of the eighteenth, nineteenth, or twentieth centuries?

After another recent trip to BMV where I, naturally, walked out with eight paperbacks, I looked at what I plucked from their bountiful shelves and was surprised at how conventional my tastes seem to run. At the back of my mind I tend to say, "Oh, I should really read this," or "Everyone has probably read that," so I select books according to what I assume is part of the mainstream canon. However, even a cursory glance at the titles demonstrates that my notions of must-read books are decidedly Eurocentric. Though I'd go out on a limb to say that Jerome K. Jerome's Three Men in a Boat isn't exactly mainstream, it really is dead-white-guy enough to evince a lack of creative thinking. (In my defence, however, JM Coetzee's Disgrace was outside of my price point: $9.99 versus $2.99 for J.K.J.)

All this contemplation has led me to the conclusion that I need to do a little research. Rather than slog through a list with more than one James Joyce, William Faulkner, or D.H. Lawrence selection on it (and when it comes to the first two, one book is really enough as far as I'm concerned!), perhaps I need to create my own list of a hundred or so books, spanning the nineteenth, twentieth, and twenty-first centuries: a compilation of the best in classical and contemporary literature from across the globe. Thus, I could accommodate writers like Naipaul, Coetzee, Marquez, and others. What I did enjoy about Robert McCrum's list was the inclusion of such writers as Italo Calvino, Kazuo Ishiguro, and Milan Kundera, though the list still leaned towards the Anglo-American standards.

So, with all that thoughtful meandering I've decided to pick through the books that are tucked away in my bookshelves, still unread, in search of a list that draws together picks from around the globe. Of course I will need to supplement it with trips to my local library or to BMV, but ultimately I'd like to draw up something unique, stimulating, and rewarding, and that gets away from the greatest hits of Anglo-American literature and really broadens my literary horizons, as per my original goal for 2009.

(And, by the way, suggestions are always welcome.)

Diary of a Nobody Redux

Just stumbled on an article in the UK Guardian about Andrew Davies' adaptation of Grossmith's novel. Pertinent, though I have no opinion to venture, since I haven't yet seen it (and, evidently, have just now learned of its existence).

Book Review: George Grossmith, Diary of a Nobody

I really do possess the extraordinary knack for finding what I consider to be unusual literary gems. George Grossmith's Diary of a Nobody merits my enthusiastic recommendation to lovers of lower-brow Victorian literature for its subtle charm, remarkable accessibility, and innocent humour. Written in the form of a diary, the work, first serialized in Punch, details fifteen months in the life of a lowly office clerk struggling to cultivate an air of gentility in 1880s suburban London.

Grossmith (1847-1912) might well have been Victorian Britain's Tina Fey. In addition to acting, writing, and composing (often with his musical father), Grossmith is known for his close collaboration with W.S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan, for whom he devised and developed such memorable characters as Sir Joseph S. Porter in H.M.S. Pinafore and the ("very model of a modern") Major-General in The Pirates of Penzance. Touring England with his father for several years, Grossmith performed comedic sketches to sold-out audiences and later, with his brother Weedon, contributed columns to Punch, the basis of which would form the Diary of a Nobody.

Charles Pooter is the balding, middle-aged, plain-faced, "nobody" whose diary we have the privilege of reading. Rather overtly, his work takes satirical aim at issues of class and "society" in late Victorian Britain. At the outset, Pooter justifies the publication of his journal with a prefatory note anticipating any questions the reader may pose as regards why his life is particularly worthy of chronicle. "Why should I not publish my diary?" he questions rhetorically. "I have often seen reminiscences of people I have never even heard of, and I fail to see -- because I do not happen to be a 'Somebody' -- why my diary should not be interesting." (What's good for the Pepys, is good for the Pooter, n'est-ce pas?)

Pooter undertakes the record of his daily life with great solemnity -- sometimes regarding himself a little too seriously -- in spite of the apparent indifference of those around him. On October 30, he is shocked to learn that someone has, "willfully torn the last five or six weeks out of [his] diary." "It is perfectly monstrous!" he declares. "It was evident someone had torn my diary to light a fire" (70). We suspect a prickly charwoman of this transgression, though it cannot be proven, despite allegations that she had wrapped fat in the pages of poor Mr. Pooter's journal.

His wife, Carrie and son, Lupin (né William Lupin Pooter, and formerly called 'Willie'), are equally disinterested in his diary. In conversation with the two, Pooter suggests that, should he pass away, the journal might be "an endless source of pleasure...to say nothing of the chance of remuneration which may accrue from its being published" (109-110). Both Carrie and Lupin find the suggestion wildly entertaining, ridiculing Charles for his fanciful notion. "I do not think your diary would sufficiently interest the public to be taken up by a publisher," his wife declares, clearly undervaluing the endeavour as callously as the household staff.

The recurring characters of the novel read like pastiches of Thackary, Trollope, and Dickens -- Lupin, in particular, stands out as a lower-class Sir Felix Carbury, fickle, flippant, and insensitive to parental entreaties for self-control -- and the myriad events that punctuate the year-long diary seem to represent the most popular "themes" of Victorian literature, from the vicissitudes of speculation to the channelling of the supernatural. Mr. Pooter's two closest friends, Gowing (likely pronounced "Go-ing") and Cummings, in addition to being ridiculous men (the latter obsessed with bicycles), serve the basis for Pooter's greatest pun: "...doesn't it seem odd that Gowing's always coming and Cummings' always going?" (25).

Pooter's best efforts at comporting himself as a self-respecting gentleman of property inevitably go awry. His dependence on "public transportation," his tendency to imbibe too much champagne at social functions, and his insecurities surrounding his own station (as well as appropriate social etiquette to conceal that station) lead the reader to almost pity the stodgy impostor that he is. Impertinent coworkers, insolent tradespeople, and procacious servants all send Pooter into frequent dithers, challenging his own ideas about rank and his degree of self-importance.The further we read, the more we come to feel sorry for him. Particularly entertaining scenes include an overenthusiastic home renovation project involving red enamel paint, the ongoing battle with the incompetent laundress, and unusual meetings between Lupin's 'comedy troupe' friends and Mr. Pooter where generational differences are readily apparent.

The brevity of the work (142 pages without the pictures contributed by his brother Weedon) notwithstanding, Grossmith's Diary apparently made its impact on the English language; the adjective "Pooterish" can be found in the OED to mean someone insipid, self-important, unimaginative, a little dim, but basically well-meaning. Pooter is all those, but, perhaps most importantly, he is an endearing fop upon whom you look kindly at the close of his narrative.

Anyone in search of a quick afternoon read will delight in this caricature of a day in the life of a veritable nobody.

☆☆☆/5