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Diane Schirf's Profile
Customer Reviews: 121
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Reviews Written by
Diane Schirf "www.slywy.com"
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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful:
Bringing science down to earth, May 17, 2009
To me, the sciences are fascinating but elusive. The concepts are marvelous and compelling, but the details are difficult and tedious, especially if your grasp of mathematics is as tenuous as mine. I grew up with a love for what I knew of astronomy and the underlying physics, and an interest in such things as geology, paleontology, and meteorology. These subjects are taught badly, if taught at all, and I never understood them well enough for my curiosity to deepen into understanding.
That's where The Short History of Nearly Everything comes in. Bill Bryson explains much of what we know and how we came to know it through an abundance of examples and similes, not through formulas and theories. Not surprisingly, he's at his weakest in the most difficult areas. He tries to explain particle physics but is forced to fall back, fairly enough, on, "The fact is, there is a great deal, even at quite a fundamental level, that we don't know . . . The upshot of all this is that we live in a universe whose age we can't quite compute, surrounded by stars whose distances we don't altogether know, filled with matter we can't identify, operating in conformance with physical laws whose properties we don't truly understand." When it comes to string theory, he throws up his hands helplessly, which is understandable since most physicists seem to find it nearly impossible to articulate. Bryson is on firmer ground with Einstein's theories, which make more sense to me now--gravity is not a force, per se, but "a product of the bending of spacetime . . . no longer so much a thing as an outcome." Even here, though, he admits, "Our brains can take us only so far because it is nearly impossible to envision a dimension comprising three parts space to one part time, all interwoven like the threads in a plaid fabric."
Where Bryson shines brightest is on terra firma, geology and the earth as well as ocean sciences. As Bryson shows in numerous cases, once upon a time, science wasn't just for scientists. Charles Smithson of The French Lieutenant's Woman was not just a figment of author John Fowles' imagination, but representative of a Victorian spirit of scientific interest and discovery. Even Einstein, at the time he published his special theory of relativity, had attended only a four-year course "designed to churn out high school science teachers" and was working in the Swiss patent office--not exactly the type of credentials associated with today's Nobel Prize winners. The 1800s were an especially fruitful time for dedicated amateurs represented in literature by characters such as Smithson and Roger Hamley of Elizabeth Gaskell's Wives and Daughters. There was Roderick Murchison, who "became with rather astonishing swiftness a titan of geological thinking," or fossil collector and seller Mary Anning, who was the first to discover a plesiosaurus (not, as Bryson puts it, to "find the first plesiosaurus") and who "could extract [fossils] with the greatest delicacy and without damage." Lest we think the entrepreneurial spirit of science dead, however, Bryson introduces Reverend Robert Evans, who, from his home in Australia, had as of early 2003 discovered 36 supernovae. To help the reader comprehend the magnitude of this feat, Bryson provides ample context.
Science is often focused on the numbers, but it's difficult for the human mind to grasp the very large and the very small that are well outside our physical perception. If my teachers had used comparisons and analogies like Bryson's and his sources, I and my classmates might have understood the significance of all those swirling numbers and formulae. For example, most of us have seen the typical solar system chart neatly tucked into a textbook or displayed on a poster. But the planets don't come one after the other at "neighborly intervals." If Earth were the diameter of a pea, "Jupiter would be over a thousand feet away and Pluto would be a mile and a half distant (and about the size of a bacterium, so you wouldn't be able to see it anyway"). Bryson adds that the nearest star, Proxima Centauri, would be nearly 10,000 miles away at this scale. It's easier to appreciate the size and wonder of the universe when presented in a tangible way rather than as a bunch of 10s with superscripts.
Bryson covers a lot of territory--astronomy, earth science, oceanography, physics, chemistry, biology, evolution, origins of man, and even the microbes that keep us healthy and make us miserable. Earth and its life depend on delicately balanced systems and processes, with the potential for natural or man-made disaster ever present. The chapter on the Yellowstone supervolcano ("Dangerous Beauty") would keep any nervous soul up a few nights, while humbling chapters like "Lonely Planet" reveal how much of what we rely on is beyond our control--the molten nature of Earth's interior, our moon that is just the right size and orbit to keep our planet stabilized, the position of the Earth relative to the sun (five percent closer or 15 percent farther, and we would cease to exist as we know ourselves). Bryson reminds us that we are a hair's breadth from unpredictable and/or unpreventable disaster, whether from space or from within our own home.
As we live day to day, going to work, shopping, eating, sleeping, spending time with friends, even vacationing with the family at Yellowstone, it's easy to forget that we're part of more than a neighborhood, a city, or even a country. We're also part of the complex systems that sustain us, our planet Earth, and the universe around us. If you have, A Short HIstory of Nearly Everything may help you to recall the wonder and the fragility of it all.
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
The Founding Father for the "middling class", March 15, 2009
As the Founding Father who spent most of the American Revolution in France, Benjamin Franklin often seems more caricature than patriot in today's American imagination. In children's cartoons, he's portrayed as an eccentric old man flying a kite in a thunderstorm. Adults think of him as a lusty old man charming the ladies of Paris. In Benjamin Franklin: An American Life, Walter Isaacson attempts to flesh out a man who defies description--a printer turned writer turned postmaster turned inventor turned Enlightenment scientist turned patriot turned diplomat. Franklin, a man of the "middling class," did as much to establish the American dream as to define American democracy.
If Thomas Jefferson bequeathed us with lofty philosophical prose, Franklin left us with his streamlined homilies and plans for personal improvement. Dale Carnegie and Stephen Covey would have felt at home with the practical and prudent Franklin, who, naturally did not always live up to his own standards. At times Franklin's business practices seemed questionable, his friendship with men many but shallow, and his marriage breezily detached. Strangest of all was his relationship with his son, William, who was firmly ensconced on the British side of the conflict. Each time William reached out to his father, the normally conciliatory Franklin rebuffed him, his loyalty to colonies and cause stronger than bonds of blood. Conscious of his place in history and eager to shape the future's opinion of him, Franklin intentionally distanced himself from William--yet positioned his autobiography as a letter to his son.
For the most part, the discoveries and inventions that established Franklin among his Enlightenment peers came in the prime of middle age, after his retirement from business. His accomplishments raised him in society, especially in France, above his middle-class roots. Compared to his fellow Founders, Franklin was well traveled and well connected. With his extroverted personality, pragmatic approach, and cachet as a scientist, Franklin was the natural choice to represent the rebellious colonies and to woo allies to their cause.
Franklin spent most of the war in France and did not have much face-to-face interaction with his fellow rebel leaders except those sent to Paris to assist him or to keep an eye on him. Isaacson cites numerous passages from his correspondence, describes his rocky relationship with the somewhat dubious John Paul Jones, and recounts highlights from his friendships with luminaries such as David Hume, Joseph Banks, Beaumarchais, Voltaire, and the duc de la Rouchefoucauld, yet Franklin and Franklin, both man and biography, seem distant from the action. As Isaacson notes, however, he was "instrumental in shaping the three great documents of the war: the Declaration of Independence, the alliance with France, and the treaty with England." Indeed, one of Franklin's small edits to the Declaration altered its tone; Jefferson's "We hold these truths to be sacred" became Franklin's "We hold these truths to be self-evident."
Benjamin Franklin illuminates much of what is fascinating about the birth of American-style democracy; a unique combination of personalities, backgrounds, beliefs, and temperaments came together to define and strive for freedom, with no consensus on what that meant. Washington brought natural leadership; Jefferson, an understanding of and appreciation for Enlightenment philosophy; Sam and John Adams, passion and fire; and Franklin the practical sensibilities of the middle class blended with worldly knowledge. They did not always get along (John Adams: "That I have no friendship for Franklin I avow. That I am incapable of having any with a man of his moral sentiments I avow.") Contrary to current popular belief, they did not agree on democracy. Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts declared, "The evils we experience flow from the excess of democracy," while Roger Sherman of Connecticut said the people "should have as little to do as may be possible about government." Franklin, according to Isaacson, "favored direct elections, trusted the average citizen, and resisted anything resembling elitism." His constitution for Pennsylvania "was the most democratic of the new states'." Years after Franklin's death, John Adams "even cast Franklin's lack of religious commitment, which he had once derided as verging on atheism, in a more favorable light: 'All sects considered him, and I believe justly, a friend to unlimited toleration.'"
Franklin, the middle-class espouser of middle-class virtues like prudence, frugality, and temperance, used his gifts to rise above his station, but didn't lose sight of it. When today's pundits talk about the intentions of the Founding Fathers (as though they were agreed on anything) and try to force an uncomfortable marriage between capitalist greed and religion, they might consider the real Benjamin Franklin, not the caricature: A self-made man who moved with ease among the ranks of the noble and the wealthy but never joined them and who believed in every man's right to practice his own religion in his own way.
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
Entertaining speculation for the Chaucer lover, December 29, 2008
Geoffrey Chaucer was justice of the peace, knight of the shire, friend of the king, and "greatest living poet." Abruptly, around 1400, this "public man of affairs" was never heard from again. Who Murdered Chaucer? stems from a coroner's inquest into Chaucer's disappearance staged at the Sorbonne in 1998 for the New Chaucer Society Congress. The resulting book is a smart, often irreverent layman's probe into the fate of the man who, through The Canterbury Tales and other works, helped to establish English as a literary language.
Even at a 600-year-old crime scene, context is everything, and the authors explore the efforts that Henry IV and his allies may have made to obscure Chaucer's memory. Painstakingly sifting through the clues that remain, they develop a convincing case that Chaucer was murdered for his political loyalties, religious leanings, and advocacy of the written English language.
The authors set the stage on which Chaucer played a number of roles, describing the progressive court of his patron, Richard II, and the turmoil that conflicting values and change invariably bring. On one side were John Wyclif and his followers, trying to make the Bible and God accessible to the people and to shame the church into reforming itself. On the other were the conservative barons and church leaders who stood to lose money and power in a world in which art and discourse might take the place of conflict, and the common man might be empowered to question age-old beliefs and practices. With the usurpation by Henry IV and the return of Thomas Arundel as Archbishop of Canterbury, Geoffrey Chaucer became a prominent man who suddenly stood on the wrong side of the important questions.
Much of the initial focus here is not on Chaucer, but on the history surrounding Richard II and the nature of his court, the barons' rebellion, and the Peasants' Revolt, and Henry's usurpation. Later, the authors examine Chaucer's surviving works, including The Canterbury Tales and illustrations, as well as the writings of his contemporaries, for clues as to how he may have antagonized the new regime and how he may have met his end. For example, they speculate that Hoccleve's eulogy hints at an end that is both untimely and violent: "Death was too hasty to run at you and rob you of your life." Puzzled by the discrepancies between Chaucer's text and the Ellesmere manuscript illuminations, the authors examined the art microscopically and discovered that some of it had been clumsily altered, then speculate why.
Academics and historians may chafe at such conjectures, but generally they make sense. Occasionally, though, they do not. According to the authors, the Peasants' Revolt "presented the royal faction with a tempting opportunity to eliminate the baronial opposition," but they offer no feasible explanation for why Richard II turned on the rebels after he "signed their pardons and granted their requests." Without understanding what happened and why Richard acted so treacherously and brutally, it's hard for the authors to make a solid case, as they try to do, that Richard was not the unpopular monarch portrayed by Henry's chroniclers. Later, they mention the "persistent rumours that Richard was still alive . . . the kind of rumour that would only gather round a figure who enjoyed strong support and even affection." Yet the same type of rumours surrounded Hitler, as much from fear as from "support and even affection." The case for Richard's popularity is weaker than the one for Chaucer's murder.
Although not addressed directly, one implied issue stands out--the importance of separation of church and state. Thomas Arundel and Henry IV need each other to usurp their respective positions, and their combined power, with no checks or balances, emboldens them to repress political foes and "heretics" with terror and torture, including burning alive. The danger of such of a broad spectrum of power concentrated in such ruthless, self-serving hands is clear--as Chaucer must have observed.
Well researched, engaging, and passionately and wittily written, Who Murdered Chaucer? shines a spotlight at a different and revealing angle on a turbulent time in English history and a definitive one in English literature. Whatever your interest in this period, Who Murdered Chaucer? will make you look at The Canterbury Tales and Geoffrey Chaucer in a more appreciative light as part of a greater story.
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0 of 1 people found the following review helpful:
No sheep may leave the flock!, December 27, 2008
As flock animals who can be herded to their own deaths (see Thomas Hardy), sheep are easy to look down on--that is, until you meet the individuals who make up the flock in Leonie Swann's Three Bags Full. From the clever Miss Maple (a tip of the hat to Agatha Christie's demure spinster detective) to the enigmatic black Hebridean ram, Othello, with a mysterious past, Swann's crowd is full of unforgettable characters.
This fable begins with the murder of their shepherd, George Glenn, whom they find run through with a shovel. Although the flock can't quite forgive him his habit of wearing Norwegian wool sweaters, they agree that he was a good shepherd and that they would like to know who did him in and why. Miss Maple, reputed to be the cleverest sheep in Glennkill (and possibly the world), takes the lead in trying to nail the killer.
This is no easy feat for a flock whose contact with the outside world is restricted, whose primary human frame of reference is an outcast from his own herd, and whose humorous interpretations of abstractions don't lead them as far astray as might be expected--for example, their belief that the term "God" and all that humans associate with God refers to the village vicar.
As the story of George's complicated life unfolds, so do the inner lives of the sheep and the inner workings of the flock. Miss Maple is almost single minded in her pursuit of justice, which the sheep believe is something that can be found in George's caravan and that needs to be outed. She also asks pointed questions such as, "What does George have to do with drugs? What are drugs anyway?" Othello is haunted by his lonely, violent past and a voice that seems to taunt him with aphorisms like, "Sometimes being alone is an advantage." Zora daydreams of the depths and heights, of the abyss and the cloud sheep that sometimes fill the sky. Mopple the Whale, the fat "memory" sheep who forgets nothing and understands little, makes a lasting impression as "a plump young ram staring in bewilderment out of the car window and eating George's road map."
The humans, too, are vividly drawn, from the frightened "God" to the fearsome butcher, Ham. None, however, is more clearly portrayed and more enigmatic than the late George Glenn, the "Goblin-King" who read romance ("Pamela") novels to his herd and received mysterious visitors in quiet black cars. George, "who usually said things in a way that a sheep could understand," proves to be beyond the ken of sheep and humans alike.
Three Bags Full has the elements of a classic detective story--a gruesome death scene, an enigmatic victim, a village populated by likely suspects with secrets, a plot complete with red herrings, and a clever detective whose human understanding falls short. So does the ending, which introduces another ovine character who appears to be more clever than Miss Maple because he lives among the human herd that George left behind. Perhaps there's a lesson here about people, cleverness and intelligence, and herd mentality and individual reason. It's lost in the convolutions of the plot, the side tracking, and the contrived resolution. By the last page, with Othello contemplating mating season, the individuals who had captured my heart with their ruminations accompanied by mindless rumination seem to have been reduced to just another flock, doing what typical sheep typically do. In this case, the destination doesn't satisfy nearly as much as the journey.
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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful:
A tale of three families and a society at war, November 28, 2008
In Mansfield Park, "All the world's a stage/And all the men and women merely players." The cast of characters of both the novel and the play within it is drawn from three families and their social circles: the Bertrams of Mansfield Park, the Grants/Crawfords of the parsonage, and the Prices of Portsmouth. Even as she refuses to participate in her cousins' staging of Lovers' Vows, Fanny Price is at center stage as the observer we observe in Austen's social and familial drama.
As the poor relation of the Bertrams, Fanny is a natural outsider. Lacking social or financial aspirations, she is free to see the folly of those around her and bound by what seems to have become a quaint form of honor from warning Edmund about his. For all her acquiescence to fate, however, Fanny is not weak. Just as she takes a firm stand about not appearing in the ill-fated Lovers' Vows with its ill-fated cast, she stays on her moral high road even when it requires her to assert herself to Sir Thomas, to whom she is beholden and whose own daughters dare not defy him so directly.
Marriage is central to Mansfield Park. Maria Ward "had the good luck . . . to be thereby raised to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences of an handsome house and large income." Despite the narrator's cynicism, the Bertrams have what seems to be an effective marriage; Sir Thomas is the domineering household head, while his decorative lady provides the services of her busybody widowed sister and her niece Fanny. Lady Bertram's passivity complements Sir Thomas's active nature; she is "guided in everything important by Sir Thomas, and in smaller concerns by her sister." She can do without companionship, but only if Sir Thomas reassures her.
Motivated by his money and status and her good looks, the Bertrams have established a solid marriage, but its sons and daughters are not its pride. Restrained by and resentful of Sir Thomas's patriarchal hand, his elder son and daughter rebel against and eventually flout his authority and threaten the family's good name. His younger daughter seeks escape through the closest means possible, and even his younger son is spared from his poor judgment only by fate.
Unlike Lady Bertram, her youngest sister marries for love, or at least on impulse, and suffers the consequences of ignoring what matters most--money and social standing. Self-condemned to a life of poverty and negligence, Mrs. Price cannot depend on either husband or servants to manage day-to-day life so she can indulge in her natural laziness, as Lady Bertram does. Even as her family lives in filthy squalor, Mrs. Price, could, if she were capable of noticing, take pride in Fanny's personal growth and moral fortitude, William's accomplishments and career, and Susan's promise. Like the Bertrams on their extensive estate, she is trapped in the narrow drama she has written for herself. Those who exit--Fanny, William, Susan--are able, it seems, to craft a more positive narrative for themselves.
Like a proscenium arch, the trip to Sotherton and the use of Lovers' Vows frame Fanny's view of the relationships around her. Much of the action takes place out of her sight (to her dismay), but Fanny sees enough to disturb her sense of propriety and to bring to light her own desires. Fanny, and the reader, can only guess what is happening offstage and how it may affect her.
Relationships founded solely on money (Rushworths), rebellion or love (Prices, presumably), and lust (Henry/Maria) fare poorly, as does the Crawfords' sister's second marriage (to the admiral). Austen's narrator does not give up on the institution, however. "With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune or friends . . . happiness . . . must appear as secure as earthly happiness can be," the omnipotent stage director steps in to say after having dispensed justice and wisdom to those characters who require one or the other, just before before the curtain falls on Mansfield Park and environs. In the end and with a heavy hand, the narrator redeems marriage, at least for the deserving (Fanny) and the enduring (the Bertrams).
Readers who prefer strong, attractive women may not appreciate Fanny, her apparently rigid morality, and her seeming weakness of will. As a perceptive outsider who understands what she observes, Fanny is a complex character. She knows and respects how Sir Thomas would feel about Lovers' Vows and participates to the extent she can so she can keep an eye on Edmund. She knows where his future unhappiness lies, yet does not deter him although it is in her power. She may be judgmental, as people are, but she asserts herself strongly only when she is herself affected, for example, when she is wanted for the play and when Henry pays his attentions. She is true to herself and allows others the same freedom, succeed or fail, with her real feelings hidden within her inner emotional life.
Set in a time of war and slave-supported prosperity that seems remote, Mansfield Park can still reach across the years. In spite of the antiquated social and moral codes that rule their lives, the out-of-touch adults, the rebellious children, and the lonely and unconventional heroine still hold interest today.
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35 of 57 people found the following review helpful:
A chore and a bore, August 29, 2008
Charla Muller's epigraph for 365 Nights: A Memoir of Intimacy is from dramatist Jean Anouilh: "To say yes, you have to sweat and roll up your sleeves and plunge both hands into life up to the elbows." Out of its context, Anouilh's quotation summarizes Charla Muller's attitude toward marital sex: It's a chore and a bore. That is why, on the occasion of her husband's 40th birthday, she, in the spirit of self-sacrifice, offers him what she calls "The Gift"--sex every day for the next year. After pages of overwrought mutual analysis about the implications, Brad Muller accepts. In one short chapter, the reader is introduced to what seems to be the most passionless marriage on the planet.
The rest of 365 Nights (give or take a few--mustn't have sex during menstruation, for example) rarely delves into sex or even intimacy, physical or emotional. Our most penetrating look into the Mullers' sex life comes when Charla says, "Wow, that was really nice" (or "yummy") and Brad says, "Could you pretend you're enjoying it?" to which Charla replies, "How 'bout you just close your eyes." Between these flashes of profound love, Charla tirelessly fills the reader in on her rather narrow view of relationships, marriage, parenting, being a working mother (she works two days a week), and how giving her husband what he wants ("The Gift") has somehow made them stronger as a couple. It's not the intimacy itself that seems to bring them closer together, but the sense of sacrifice and the willingness to work to overcome the obstacles--not only Charla's dislike of sex (which she seems to believe she shares with every married mother), but logistics such as work, children, activities, and the need for private time.
Perhaps married women with children who see their husbands as "sperm donors" and "providers," as Charla writes of some of her friends, will relate to her and her view of love, marriage, and life. Undoubtedly, many will find that she validates the sexual ennui that can set in during any long-term relationship. From my single, childless perspective, she offers no insights, not even as to the underlying reasons she makes every effort to avoid sex with the man she loves and why getting ready for sex means, "I just continue lying there" (prompting her husband to say, "Could you pretend you're interested in this?").
When the year of "The Gift" is over, Brad seems happy because he will continue to get sex more frequently (although not every day), and Charla is happy because her husband is more content and her marriage is more solid--and, to me, as free of passion as ever. Charla writes about some of the benefits of sex--it provides exercise and offers improved communication for example (she likes to talk to Brad about the mundane during the act, we learn). She mentions greater emotional intimacy, but she doesn't convey it or what it means. She touches on the surface of the issues, but is unable or is afraid to say anything meaningful beyond the obvious. While she lies back and gives "The Gift," she cannot bring herself to mention that she finds any physical pleasure or emotional joy in the act itself (other than that it's "nice"). She and Brad seem to be well suited to each other, but they could be brother and sister Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert from Anne of Green Gables for all the passion shown in their marriage--with or without sex.
Charla's perky style is annoying, and her values, which she assumes we all share, are painfully shallow. She disdains ugly mini-vans (and her beloved children's energy future) in favor of a "cool" SUV. A "polite feminist," she believes that it's a "rule" that women, and now men, must pluck their eyebrows (and any other hair that doesn't meet her concept of perfect grooming and appearance). She is surprised to learn she is pregnant after just a couple of months, calling herself "very fertile" (what does this make Brad?) and making one wonder if she never learned the reasons that contraception became such a hot topic for 19th century women. She abhors the idea of aging naturally and fantasizes about "slight tweaking" through plastic surgery until Brad says, "What will she [daughter] think if she sees her mother conforming to these bizarre societal standards?"--standards to which Charla would have us all make every effort to conform.
Charla presents herself as someone you should want to chat with over coffee about the vicissitudes of married suburban life; indeed, that's how this book came about. I couldn't. It's more than her overuse of words like "nice," "gal," and "girls" (this from a "polite feminist") or the wearisome banality of her endless reflections. She's one of those people--we all know at least one--who prattle nonstop without saying anything, leaving one feeling tired and empty--or energized, if that is your sort of thing.
365 Nights: A Memoir of Intimacy could have been a compelling story, but it would take a more interesting and thoughtful person than Charla Muller to grasp the topic and its nuances and to do it the justice it deserves.
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0 of 1 people found the following review helpful:
An interesting if narrow collection, August 28, 2008
Susan Koppelman begins her introduction to The Other Woman with, "All the stories in this collection are about women--both wives and other women--who love adulterous men," setting the tone by squarely placing the blame on the male of the species. The women, whether wives or lovers, are only victims of male power, detachment, and appetite. Almost pointedly, Koppelman presents the reader with no adulterous women--that is, married women who are the "other woman" to married women. In earlier times, this may not have been as common because of the financial dependence of women, but of course it is a theme in literature; it plays a role in novels such as Wuthering Heights and Tenant of Wildfell Hall, for example. It is not to Koppelman's feminist point, however.
This leads to another limitation of this anthology; infidelity is restricted to men--and only American men. Forgoing the riches of world literature, which is replete with a diverse array of attitudes toward marriage and infidelity within various historical, social, cultural, and religious traditions, Koppelman limits her collection to the 19th and 20th centuries in the United States. The most exotic stories are: "The Quadroons" (Lydia Maria Child), in which marriage is a form of emotional slavery for the biracial wife; "Challah" (Martha Wolfenstein), set among urban Jewish immigrants; "A Captain Out of Etruria" (A. R. Leach), which tells of American expatriates in post-war Europe; "Gal Young Un" (Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings), which take place in cracker Florida; "Papago Wedding" (Mary Austin), which seems to try to capture an oral tradition; and "The Girl Who Was Plugged In" (James Tiptree, Jr.--real name: Alice Sheldon), a science fiction story more interesting for the veracity of its pop culture insights than for its sexual implications, although of course the two are linked. "The Last Rite" (Lee Yu-Hwa) is the only story set in a completely alien tradition--pre-communist China--and also the only one told, sympathetically, from the man's viewpoint. The protagonist is torn between the old China and the new, between his family and his duty and his wife and his duty.
Despite the feminist cant, which selectively minimizes the culpability of the other woman (for example, in "The Difference" (Ellen Glasgow), the other woman is no more an innocent than the thoughtless, uncaring husband) and the narrow focus, The Other Woman is a solid collection that, if nothing else, and perhaps intentionally, often seems to solidify the concept of woman's emotional and financial dependence on man. In "A Poet Though Married" (Helen Reimensnyder Martin), it is a man's money that allows Miss De Ford to carry out her mission. In "The Difference," as a friend observes when visiting Margaret in her lavish home, "For when George ceases to be desirable for sentimental reasons, he will still have his value as a good provider." The best story, "Turned" (Charlotte Perkins Gilman, author of the brilliant "The Yellow Wall-Paper"), is the most truly feminist as well, as betrayed love is eschewed for independence and self-respect. Even the victim has "a new intelligence upon her face."
Covering only 139 years of American literature written primarily by women (with the noted exception of Lee Yu-Hwa), The Other Woman misses greatness with its narrow focus. The true full story of the "other woman," whether she is victim or vixen (which, despite Koppelman's protestations, is possible) must be far more fascinating and far less predictable than what appears here. The Other Woman falls short of telling the complete, nuanced story of the other woman--or of anyone else.
Note: This edition is poorly printed, with many pages falling out and requiring multiple applications of glue. There are also numerous typographical errors.
Thursday, 28 August 2008.
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Priestess Of Avalon
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by Marion Zimmer Bradley
Edition: Paperback |
| Price: $10.85 |
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| Availability: In Stock |
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
Missing: Mysteries, magic, Marion Zimmer Bradley, July 23, 2008
Set mainly outside Britannia, Priestess of Avalon marks a departure from Bradley's Avalon series and the buildup to the Matter of Britain. Bradley and Paxson trace the acceptance and spread of Christianity to the goddess through the travels and actions of one of her Avalon priestesses--Flavia Helena Augusta.
For the first time that I remember, astrology plays a significant role in the series. When Helena is born, the Merlin consults the stars, but his words are strangely misinterpreted. ". . . the maid shall hide the moon she bears upon her brow" inexplicably leads the priestesses to murmur, "He prophesies greatness--she will be Lady of the Lake like her mother before her!" The Merlin's reading of the stars proves accurate in every detail, but Helena discovers that prophecies are problematic. Convinced that she is destined to bear the "Child of Prophecy," she remembers only years later what she as a priestess should have always known--that prophecy and its interpretation do not always take the expected path to the anticipated end.
After defying her hated aunt, the High Priestess Ganeda, so that she may bear the "Child of Prophecy," Helena drifts through life just as she and her lover Constantius drift through the Empire. She carefully describes her son's innate leadership talent and his developing personality, but she does little to shape or understand either. Even before he is taken from her, she is oddly passive toward the boy she is sure will change the world--he is born at the end of one chapter of her narrative and is 10 years old at the beginning of the next. When requested, she foretells the future for Constantius and his friends, and later she takes the place of the sybil at a shrine. She makes no effort, however, to see what lies ahead for her "Child of Prophecy." She says, "'All the gods are one God, and all the goddesses are one Goddess, and there is one Initiator' . . . Somehow I must get its meaning across to Constantine," but she refuses to reveal the mysteries to him. It should be no surprise that Constantine fails to follow an example never set for him, yet Helena finds him and his choices strange and disturbing.
In the acknowledgments, Paxson sets Helena up as a mythological figure associated with Christianity and relics such as the True Cross. In the novel, Helena's life and opportunities are remarkable, but Helena herself is surprisingly ordinary. Helena tries to reconcile paganism and Christianity, but each new epiphany contradicts those that came before. While the spiritual ideas underlying Priestess of Avalon are intriguing, they are wasted in a rambling, undisciplined story that needs a firmer hand to keep it tight, free of unnecessary detail, and consistent.
Set in the expanse of the declining Roman Empire, Priestess of Avalon is interesting and compelling at times, but ultimately it's unsatisfying. More Paxson's work than Bradley's, the novel never connects the parts of its premise, including Helena's belief in Constantine and her emotional distance from him. It also fails to bridge the gap between the fall of paganism and the rise of Christianity.
Avalon is missing here, and so are the mysteries, the magic, and Marion Zimmer Bradley.
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Lady of Avalon
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by Marion Zimmer Bradley
Edition: Paperback |
| Price: $7.99 |
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Squanders rich material, potential; a disappointment, June 29, 2008
Lady of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley picks up where The Forest House ended. Avalon has been established under the leadership of high priestess Caillean in the shadow of the holy Tor and close to the Christian brotherhood at Inis Witrin. The first book follows Eilan's son Gawen and his contribution to Avalon, the second establishes Avalon's active role in the politics and future of Britannia, and the third focuses on characters familiar to Arthurians--Vortigern, Vortimer, Viviane, and Taliesin and the Merlin of Britain.
Although the mythology and history are rich, the material is squandered in these nearly plotless, barely connected stories. While Avalon tries to preserve the degenerated wisdom that remained when Atlantis sank into the ocean, the world is being torn apart by the oppression and instability of empire and waves of barbarian invasions. Caillean, Gawen, and the daughter of the fairy queen, Sianna, save Avalon, then their successors extend its influence outward to manipulate kings, princes, and military leaders. In spite of the sacrifices and losses, Britannia seems no better off; Rome clings to it, and the barbarians keep coming. There are important victories, but they seem contrived when the goddess is called on to frighten off the Saxons, and they do little more than provide a break in the onslaught. The plots are so minimal and the useless details so many that it's not clear to what extent Britannia's rebelliousness and vulnerability contributed to Rome's decline and fall.
The goddess religion of Avalon is murky at best. Unlike in The Mists of Avalon and The Forest House, the magic here is unquestionably real; the visions are not drug-induced hallucinations, and priestesses invoke the goddess to deter the enemy. The "ancient wisdom" seems to be centered on the power of the earth (focused along leys), the seasons, and reincarnated souls like Gawen, Sianna, Dierna, and Carausius. Practice of the religion is as ordered and artificial as the rule of Rome, with strict rules and elaborate rituals that owe more to the human predilection for control than to the concept of nature and the earth. Even the most natural of emotions and acts, love and non-ritual sex, are forbidden. Young men and women are drawn to Avalon, but their passion is poorly articulated, especially when they cannot know the mysteries revealed during training and initiation. There is nothing special about the character or intelligence of the many of the Druids and priestesses called to Avalon; why are they singled out to preserve the ancient wisdom and mysteries?
While the plots and the secondary characters are weak, the real problem is that so many of the primary characters are selfish and unlikable. Gawen, the "Pendragon" and "Son of a Hundred Kings," from beginning to end is unremarkable, displaying predictable rebelliousness and nobility at the expected moments. He is so susceptible to suggestion that "the priest's words had tainted the Druid ways as well." Dramatically and childishly, he exclaims, "You both want to possess me, but my soul is my own! . . . I am leaving to seek my kin of Rome!" His soul mate, Sianna, has no more personality than Waterwalker, whose role is to pole the Avalon barge. High priestess Dierna does not seek the obvious path, proving the fairy queen's point: "But I do not know what the purpose is, exactly, and if I did, I would not be allowed to speak of it; for it is often in working for or in avoiding a prophecy that people do the very things they should not." We are told that Teleri, who is weak, pliant, and passive, is destined to become high priestess of Avalon; why would the goddess, the Druids, and the priestesses choose someone so unsuitable for such a position? At her worst, high priestess Ana is egotistical and petty, especially with regard to her daughter, Viviane. Is it Ana or the goddess who says, "I would gain nothing. I already have everything."? For reasons that are never explained, the enigmatic fairy queen insists that her daughter become a priestess of Avalon, and it is her line whose members impose their will on events rather than that of the goddess, proving their human side stronger than their role as conductor of magic. Of all the major characters, only Caillean, Taliesin, and perhaps Carausius are likable, revealing both human weaknesses and a greater wisdom. Although it is strongly hinted that Carausius is a reincarnation of Gawen's soul, they are different enough that it raises the question of what these souls are and why only certain ones return again and again, while others are "once born." The whims of the god and goddess, as channeled through these souls and through the Druids and priestesses, appear to be as illogical as those of any human.
Without a solid plot driven by strong, sympathetic characters, Lady of Avalon lacks the touches of historical and magical drama that made The Forest House at least interesting. Although the novel reveals some of the reasons for the decline of Avalon and the goddess religion, Lady of Avalon adds little essential to The Mists of Avalon.
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Comme toujours, May 25, 2008
For an unexplained reason, Peter Mayle and his unnamed wife (presumably the "Jennie" of the dedication) left paradise in Provence for Long Island. In Encore Provence, he returns to the south of France, where the food, wine, and slow pace of life again absorb his attention.
Even less structured than Toujours Provence, Encore Provence covers familiar territory from new angles. "The Unsolved Murder of the Handsome Butcher" and "Recipe for a Village" address both the insularity and charms of village life ("Recipe" much less successfully), while "How to Be a Nose," "Discovering Oil," and "Friday Morning in Carpentras" provide insights into the perfume, olive oil, and truffle industries, respectively. In one of the best chapters, "Restaurant Critic Makes Astonishing Discovery," Mayle effectively and humorously discredits Ruth Reichl's flippant dismissal of Provence. How could a serious critic, after only a month's visit, write, "I had been dreaming of a Provence that never existed"? To help the reader find ripe tomatoes--which Reichl could not manage to do--and other products of Provence, Mayle provides the names and places for markets, vineyards, restaurants, bakeries, and producers of goods like olive oil and honey. It becomes clear that Reichl could not find Provence because she actively avoided it; perhaps she thought that deflating the expectations that Mayle helped to create was a better story than simply reinforcing them.
Several chapters, like "Curious Reasons for Liking Provence" and "Eight Ways to Spend a Summer's Afternoon," reveal one of the problems with Encore Provence--the lack of significant new material. More filler than substance, they are more like random personal essays than integral parts of a cohesive work, as though Mayle could not think of a better way to frame his random observations. These chapters are forced, splintered, and almost unnecessary.
Surprisingly, there is a less of a sense of place. In the previous Provence books, Mayle's stone house, with its location abutting public forest, its isolation from traffic, its drawn-out renovations, its pool that attracts thirsty sangliers, and its quirky neighbors like Faustin and Massot, gives the reader a strong sense of a place with personality. The house is at the heart of A Year in Provence. In Encore Provence, it is not clear that Mayle and his wife return to the same house or what their neighbors are like. Even the dogs are mostly absent. Without structure and intimacy, Encore Provence is nothing more than a series of disconnected travelogue stories. Perhaps weary of intrusions into his privacy, or perhaps unclear about the reasons for the first book's success, Mayle distances himself from his reader.
There may not be much left for Mayle to say about Provence. He writes that, due to building restrictions, not much has changed. Yet he notes that "the garage and the geese are gone, and the farmhouse has sprouted wings and annexes . . . the vines have been groomed" and "the refugees' urge for rapid [gardening] results has spawned an industry: instant gardens, shipped in and set up with astonishing speed." These are only a couple of small changes, to be sure, but in time there will be more, and Provence will alter slowly and subtly. Mayle should know that that is the nature of change in the countryside and that, with enough demand, pressure, and money, change can accelerate, transforming a village into a resort town or farmland into suburbia.
Even if you cannot visit Provence, much of the lifestyle that Mayle describes--with food and drink of varying type and quality--is still available in many places outside France. The slow pace, the fatalistic viewpoint, the elderly gossips and moralists, the close-knit relationships, the helpfulness, and the beauty and quirks of the countryside are found in many regions. If you are as observant and open as Mayle, you may be able to find your version of Provence closer to home.
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