May 17, 2005
Rock On, Anne Lamott
Last night my book group met and discussed Anne Lamott's newest offering, "Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith." We gave it two enthusiastic thumbs up. Here are some of the things we liked:
We liked the theme of forgiveness and reconciliation. Even though not all of us were thrilled with Lamott's constant harping on Bush (not that we like Bush--we just didn't always like the constant harping), we did appreciate the way she moved toward at least a good effort at loving and forgiving him by the end of the book, witness chapter seventeen, "loving your president, day 2" and even the last chapter, where Lamott writes that she "started to believe in George Bush" (even though she then concludes that "believing in George Bush was so ludicrous that believing in God seems almost rational"). Bush seemed to play the role of front man in the book--someone to take the fall for much of Lamott's frustration, but also someone who illustrates the need and capacity for forgiveness. That's not an entirely bad role to play. It is, in effect, very generous of Lamott, who clearly does not like the guy, to assign him this role.
We also liked the way that things are not always "all wrapped up" in Lamott's book. For example, when she wrote about her ski trip with her friend, Sue, who was dying of cancer, the effect was, "well, here is an account of the last time we spent together." It was not melodramatic; there was no frantic attempt to make things better than they were for Sue. The chapter ends simply, with Lamott eating the scones that sue baked the last morning of their trip. "They were gone by the time we arrived home." Well, OK, I guess there's some symbolism in that sentence. But the upshot of it is that Lamott doesn't beat a dead horse. She lets the bad stuff be bad, and she tries to find where God is in it. Sometimes she fails.
Previously in our book group, we'd read Lauren Winner's "Girl Meets God," Winner's memoir of her conversion from Judaism to Christianity. Since both Winner and Lamott deal with spiritual issues and have a somewhat confessional tone (in Winner's book, we hear all about her boyfriend troubles, her jealousy, and her sex life [ugh]), I asked the group how Winner compares to Lamott.
Basically, we felt that Lamott is not as self-concsious, in a navel-gazing way, as Winner. Also, whereas Winner seems to want us to know all about her, Lamott is always asking, "Where is God in this situation in which I happen to find myself?" The difference in emphasis between self and God is striking.
Along the same lines, Lamott tends to take her situation and universalize it so that it appeals to many people. How many readers are going to relate to Winner's torturous conversion tale and upscale, book-lined New York apartment? The themes in Lamott's stories come out more clearly, and they are ones that we all face: how to forgive, what to do in the face of death, trying to get by one day at a time.
One of the women in the book group, T., was even inspired by Lamott to make muffins for a prickly woman at her church. Lamott is always pleading that sometimes all we can do is to be kind to ourselves and others, and, well, T. just took her up on this. Lamott consistently moves from reflection or sometimes even whining to action--sending a card to the president, starting a Sunday School, taking a walk. Winner often never seems to move beyond the whining phase.
Of course, we all agreed that Lamott's ability to turn a phrase is without parallel. She describes things in such unusual ways that it makes you think about it differently, for example, her description of a Catholic church (in a previous book, I think) as a "religious bus station." Her essays are often brief because her descriptions are exactly on the mark; endless explanations are not necessary (unlike this entry, for example!).
And I have to tell you the end to yesterday evening. After this wonderful discussion, T. (she of the muffins) drove me home. On the way, it came out that both of us had had squabbles (well, OK, fights) with our husbands that day or the night before, and that both fights were about finances. After T. pulled in to my driveway, we continued talking for a minute and then she asked me if she could pray for both our families. Which she did, right there in the van.
It was a Lamott kind of moment. Sometimes you feel helpless in the face of it all, and all you can do is pray.
Posted by Lisa at 08:39 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 09, 2005
"All This Heavenly Glory"--A One-Sentence Review
OK, so I started this book by Elizabeth Crane (see title above), and I am so annoyed with it that I don't think I can even finish it (which is unfortunate, because putting a book down is a little like putting a dog down, unless a)your dog is rabid or b)you just don't really care for dogs, in which case you're just an evil person) because Crane has a penchant for writing in really, really long sentences, I mean long as in longer than any German sentence you've ever read, and we all know how long those sentences can be, and because of these sentences I even reached a point where I would get stressed out when beginning a new paragraph because I knew it would just never end (it was a little like holding your breath until you almost pass out), and yet I'm also a little afraid to put the book down because a)the fact that Crane writes these long sentences must mean that she's a really hot, happening author (she is called "a house on fire" and "diabolically addictive," for example), and what if I miss something by not reading her book and b)the title of the book makes me wonder if there might be some gem in there somewhere, and what if I miss something in not reading the book, and now I'm getting stressed because I don't know how to end this review, which isn't really a review, if you think about it, seeing as though I've only read about two chapters of the book, and if anyone ever did that to any book that I published, I'd be furious, and maybe this is in fact what is making me furious, that Crane has published a book and I have not, and if it's really as easy as writing this blog entry has been, why don't I just get up off my ass and DO IT?
Posted by Lisa at 06:10 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 19, 2005
Reading For My Life: The Redemptive Message of "Bel Canto"
Note: the following is a book review I wrote a couple years ago for my church newsletter. I think it bears repeating, not (just) because it's such a fabulous review, but because Ann Patchett's book is so wonderfully, fabulously redemptive. So, here goes.
Eight weeks after being released in paperback, Ann Patchett’s novel, "Bel Canto," jumped onto the New York Times best-seller list, where it remained for over sixteen weeks. The primary cause for its dramatic rise in popularity was, apparently, word of mouth. I myself came to read "Bel Canto" in just this way, when a friend recommended it to my book club. I got hold of a copy, read it, and quickly jumped on the "Bel Canto" bandwagon: it has become my personal campaign to get everyone to read this book.
Why are people telling each other about this novel? The short answer is, because it speaks to the deepest needs of every reader who picks it up. It is a story of the love and grace that bloom in the most unlikely of situations, a terrorist takeover in South America. Being overrun by terrorists may seem like one of your worst nightmares. But in his letter to the Romans, Paul tells us that we are all born as hostages. We are held captive to sin and death until the savior sets us free. I think this is why "Bel Canto" is on so many people’s lips: the whole world hungers for salvation, and Patchett spins a tale that carries distinct echoes of “the greatest story ever told.”
The seeds of redemption are planted early in "Bel Canto," and, appropriately for a work of literature, their nourishment takes the form of art. In fact, Patchett's book makes a compelling argument for the redemptive power of art—all kinds of art, certainly, but in this story particularly of music. The book opens seconds after Roxane Coss, a famous opera singer, has performed for the international guests of a birthday party at the Vice Presidential mansion. Her voice transfixes the audience, lingering in the air even as terrorists infiltrate the house and take the guests captive. The turning point in the ensuing ordeal comes some weeks later, when Roxane, now one of the hostages, begins to sing in captivity. The book’s title, “Bel Canto,” literally means “beautiful singing” and also refers to the rich and sensual vocal style achieved by the best Italian opera singers. Roxane’s voice is more than beautiful, however. It becomes an instrument of reconciliation, bringing together people who do not speak the same language, people of different nationality and class, and perhaps most importantly, the captives and those who hold them there. Their differences are not erased, but music provides a way for them to see one another’s humanity.
Perhaps Patchett intended her book to function like Roxane’s voice, as a way to bring reconciliation into readers’ lives. It certainly spoke to me on a very personal level. When I read "Bel Canto," I was in an exile of sorts. My husband and I were living in rural-ish Indiana, far (well, far enough) from our church home, our friends and support groups. I had recently quit my job and had no idea what the next semester, let alone the next day, held for me. In some ways, I felt like a hostage with a blindfold on. I needed a shot of redemption at about that time. My book club, consisting of friends and colleagues from the University community, was a step in the right direction. My friends in the group taught me to see literature in a new way. While before I read for pleasure, for plot, for the beauty of language (characteristics I still love), now I was reading for my life. The book that nearly saved my life was "Bel Canto." The members of our book club were not unanimous in their interpretation of this novel, although most of us liked it a great deal. Some of the interpretations surprised me, especially those that held that "Bel Canto" is about the disparities of race and class in South America, or about the Stockholm Syndrome, in which hostages bond to their captors as a survival mechanism. To me, the book was not about politics or human psychology. I thought it was about love.
One of the loveliest developments in "Bel Canto" is the way in which the hostages learn to put away the “worldly concerns” that had preoccupied them before their internment. In a way, they have no choice: for the four and a half months of their ordeal, they are confined to the Vice Presidential mansion with only each other for company. Held against their will, unsure of what the next day might bring, the hostages are stripped of everything that is unessential to the survival of their bodies and minds. As the unessential is pared away, hidden reserves of love and compassion float to the surface, like lily pads on a murky pond. This was an important lesson for me. For the first time in fourteen years, I could not rely on my familiar conception of myself as a university professor and scholar. I had that role down cold, but now it was gone. What I needed was to open myself to risk and above all to love—the love of friends, spouse, and the God who takes care of me whether I have a career or not. The surprising thing is that my lesson in love happened during my so-called captivity, as it did for Patchett's characters. Their literal internment became a metaphor for my own captivity and showed me that the struggle itself can be redemptive.
"Bel Canto" picks up emotional speed toward the end, as the hostages and terrorists increasingly open themselves to one another. This is what Ann Patchett does best—she puts her characters in unusual situations—forcing them together, almost—and lets them break free of their hard, outer shells. I read and re-read certain passages, certain that I was discovering myself in the characters’ thoughts and experiences. My favorite passage comes in the last fourteen pages of the book. It begins with Gen, a Japanese translator, reflecting on the changes captivity has wrought in him. Gen was a perennial student of languages, a man “born to learn.” However, “these last months had turned him around and now Gen saw there could be as much virtue in letting go of what you knew as there had ever been in gathering new information (p. 304).” As a perennial student myself, this twist was all but guaranteed to grab my attention. Like concerns offered up in a prayer, the passage goes on to detail all the worries and preconceptions the hostages and terrorists learn to release during the internment. “It was too much work to remember things you might not have again, and so one by one they opened their hands and let them go (p. 305).” I particularly like the image of opening the hands; to me, it is reminiscent of the celebrant’s gesture at communion or the worshipper’s hands raised in adoration.
Opening your hands and letting go allows a new creation to begin. One of the characters that speaks the most to this transformation is Ruben Iglesias, Vice President of the (un-named) country and owner of the estate in which the internment takes place. Ruben is a wealthy, ambitious and rather lustful man at the beginning of the story. At first, he tries to maintain some modicum of order during the ordeal, with the goal of protecting his valuable house and possessions. Surprisingly, these selfish efforts turn into a new vocation:
"With a dishtowel knotted around his waist, [Ruben] took on the qualities of a charming hotel concierge. He would ask, would you like some tea? He would ask, would it be too much of an imposition to vacuum beneath the chair in which you were sitting? Everyone was very fond of Ruben. Everyone had completely forgotten that he was the Vice President of the country" (p. 132).
Beneath his charm, Ruben lives up to his last name, “Iglesias,” the Spanish word for “church.” With his towel wrapped around his waist, he is the rich man who becomes a servant, the distinguished host who kneels to wash the feet of his humble guests. One of those he stoops to serve is a young terrorist boy, Ishmael. In perhaps the most tender scene in the novel, Ruben and Ishmael garden together, and Ruben dreams of adopting the boy. What a beautiful moment in these broken lives. Only later did I pick up on the rich allusions of this passage. This little story echoes that of the Biblical Ishmael, son of Abraham and Hagar, who is born an outcast yet who nevertheless receives God’s faithful provision (Gen. 16-25). Of course, it also reminds us of who we are, misguided and undeserving children miraculously given the status of sons and daughters. After identifying so strongly with the hostages, I was surprised to see myself in a little terrorist boy. The fact that we are able to care about and identify with the “bad guys” in "Bel Canto" speaks volumes about the kind of reconciliation that Christ’s love makes possible.
A few months later, in January, I read another recent novel, Alice Sebold’s "The Lovely Bones," which spent over thirty-five weeks on the New York Times best-seller list. It tells the story of a fourteen-year-old girl, Susie Salmon, who looks down from heaven and watches her family and friends cope with the aftermath of her rape and murder. Like Patchett's book, "The Lovely Bones" presents us with a situation that cries out for redemption. And many readers, including myself, have found in this story a memorable account of enormous hurt and healing. In the end, however, I was disappointed to find Sebold’s conception of grace so narrow. Towards the end of the book, Susie finally learns to let her family go on with their lives. Looking down on them from heaven, she says, “I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it” (p. 320). The problem is, no one is holding Susie or teaching her to see even greater vistas. Her healing—and that of her family—takes place largely by virtue of her own efforts. I want to introduce Susie, who even in death has to hold it all together, to the hostages in "Bel Canto," who learn to open their hands and let go. Ultimately, "Bel Canto" is a more fulfilling story because its characters are able to give and receive grace in their difficult situation. They don’t have to save themselves, and ultimately they realize that they cannot. Likewise, I don’t want to have to hold everything together, like Susie does. I want to learn to open my hands and give what I hold to God—and to let him hold me.
I don’t know whether or not you’d call the ending to "Bel Canto" a happy one; you’ll have to read it and decide for yourself. I do know that the story isn’t over for me. Redemption is a lifelong process, Paul tells us; we’re in it for the long haul. "Bel Canto" helped to reacquaint me with the journey, but it also raised troubling questions. How necessary is captivity to our redemptive journey? Do we have to struggle and suffer in order to shed what is unnecessary in our lives? I don’t know the answer to these questions. I do know that in my struggle and yours, the love of Christ Jesus will bring us the salvation we crave. One of Patchett's characters sums it up nicely: “At the moment one is sure that all is lost, look at what is gained! (p. 154)”
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