NO LONGER A TOM CLANCY VIRGIN BUT...

No, I didn't misspell the title. It's "but" with one "t." He had written bestsellers that were at the same time political thrillers. So, why not, even if I don't always go for the obvious choice. But I do enjoy a good thriller and a good political conflict as well. Clancy was a conservative; I lean toward the left. And by that I don't mean I am a Democrat, which is just the left wing of a political system that has bent way, way to the right and keeps going further from the center. This said, when it comes to creative writing, I don't care what party an author belongs to as long as he or she produces at the very least good prose, identifiable characters and a solid plot. Without Remorse, the Clancy novel I had in my hands, began with a strong narrative, so I carried on...for a while. But then it began to become macho fiction or, as one amazon.com reviewer pointed out, writing for "dudes," with an orgy of details about boat mechanics, drone and missile operations, and a simplistic view of women. If you want to see a guy fall in love with a prostitute in a jiffy, just watch Pretty Woman; don't read this absurd subplot. And the cartoon doesn't stop here: the pretty woman is fragile; the one with a doctorate in pharmacy had absolutely no sex appeal. So losing my virginity to Clancy hurt somewhat, but at least I am now ready to fall in love with someone else.

No More Black Fridays

I used to feel pre-weariness when came the Christmas season. Black Friday meant drowning myself into shopping and finding decent presents under a budget that is neither Donald Trump’s nor the Kardashian’s. In other words, Black Friday was just that —too annoyingly dark. But work would not stop there.  Getting the decorations ready inside and out, if fun, would subversively add to the fatigue. On Christmas Day, when others were relaxing, I, like many women, would be cooking. Hell, I thought, the Christmas of most women actually comes after Christmas.



So this year I have changed the formula. Pierre and I will be traveling, letting restaurants feed us and the sun give us comfort and joy. Key West, a combo of fun and culture (Hemingway’s home, after all), will be our destination. I’ll let you know later if this was the right choice.

SHATTERED PUZZLE --- A review of Laura Lippman's WHAT THE DEAD KNOW

    Two girls disappear in 1975 and, as expected, their parents never recover from the atrocious experience. One survives, however. Doesn’t live, but survives and does it rather well. Now, Laura Lippman builds a puzzle around events, time, and psychology. It is an ambitious project, often successful, frequently hanging on to dear life. Going back and forth between mom and dad, daughters Sunny and Heather, the cops, the investigation, the suspicions, the love affair that happened, the love affair that could have happened; doing all that is quite a juggling act.

    A juggling act filled with interruptions. And these interruptions kill pace and tension more often than not. I am tempted to give up on this novel. As soon as I am engaged in one aspect of the plot Lippman decides to take me elsewhere. Once, okay. Twice, mm. Beyond twice and thrice, grrr! There is no time to like or dislike the characters, or get properly involved in the investigation. What could be a fabulously interesting view becomes a broken window. Shattered glass glued together instead of stained glass re-creating a full picture.

    But I hang on. The reason: Lippman is definitely a writer. Her prose can be impeccably appropriate. And when pace finally picks up, the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle finally click. But that begins to happen in the second half of the novel, when What the Dead Know finally becomes a suspense novel.

    And that’s why I can only give three stars to this piece of fiction, because only half of it really works. And it doesn’t even work up to the end. There are two or three strong moments when Lippman could have concluded her novel. Instead, she lingers and dilutes her sauce, and does it in Mexico—which is not supposed to be a flavorless background. Double-injury here. Did her publisher or agent ask her to produce a certain number of pages? I have read so many genre novels with insipid conclusions that I believe it is a possibility. If this is the case, this demand is not only childish and absurd, it is criminal in the literary sense. It could easily kill a masterpiece. And some still wonder why some decide to become Indie authors.               

SHOULD GENRE FICTION BE PART OF LITERATURE?

Literary fiction and genre fiction have been seen as enemies by both writer and critic. Approach a literary reader with commercial fiction and she might look at you as if you were offering her arsenic. The same can be said about someone who only spends his time on horror. Mention literary lines and he might make a face. Dangerous stuff! Keep that away from me! But is genre really the enemy of literature with a major “L”?
    Voltaire “Micromégas” is considered a seminal work of science fiction while Voltaire himself is not really someone world literature can dismiss.  And how about Edgar Allan Poe, another central literary figure? Although he is classified as an American Romantic, isn’t it the inventor of the detective novel that makes him step beyond his century?
    So why today’s divide? Genre fiction is now seen as commercial (even if a majority of genre authors struggle) and there are those who claim that authors there spend less time in prose and more time in plot. Genre concentrates on action; literature on psychology. Is that really true? You can’t get more commercial or more successful than Stephen King. But examine his prose and you will see someone who loves to harmonize words—and does not neglect psychology, either. I am not a Stephen King fan; I don’t read his genre. Yet, when I came across his writing, I was struck by its caliber. That, reading mysteries that go beyond their duties as whodunits, plus the fact that we live in times where cultures and styles are meeting and melting, pushed me to write this and ask: should genre fiction be seen as separate from literature or as a branch of literature?
    What’s your take on this?

THANK YOU, ALICE WALKER

To appreciate this novel one has first to place it in its historical context: the 1930's, at the core of the Harlem Renaissance, known then as “The New Negro Movement.” Or does one?

    Nature speaks to Janie Crawford, Hurston’s heroine, nature and its open spaces; so when her grandmother forces her into an arranged marriage, Janie feels locked into a place that turns her dreams into ashes. Leaving her husband in order to widen her horizons and following her vision is indeed a revolutionary act in the Black America of the 1930's. What if I sliced off the adjective in the sentence? Would that make the act revolutionary? How about the country? Indeed any woman leaving her husband in the 1930's would commit an act of undeniable courage. But Janie assumes this dream is linked to another man, that she cannot dream alone. At the time, that may be true. Still, if her ambitious and authoritarian second husband uses her as the continuation of his dream, he also makes her a rich widow. What has been crushed and repressed in Janie has not necessarily died, however; there is a phoenix somewhere ready to fly out from these ashes.  At first, this phoenix looks like Tea Cake, a charming man younger than Janie as well as a gambler not keen on rational thinking. With him she will let her hair free, assume her womanhood. Although Tea Cake is the winner in this trio of husbands, he does hit her, if only once. Hurston could have chosen to have a completely gentle character here. Her lucid eye, albeit compassionate, compels her to honesty. There is a lot of progress to be made when it concerns respect toward women, be it in Black or White culture. Even the best men are prisoners of that culture. Although Janie discovers love with all the moments of joy that passion can convey, she never completely finds herself while living her adventurous epopee with Tea Cake. This said, during all these years of struggle that will culminate with the flood that eventually kills Tea Cake, Janie builds herself. And her return to her place in men overalls and amidst waves of female nasty gossip is a triumph of sorts. They can say what they want. She has finally found herself. Because she dared to take the journey.

    And so did Hurston. For the novel, with its subject, metaphors, and singular pacing, makes for a great act of valor. The author does not hesitate to portray a black racist among her bunch, a business owner who would rather serve white or light colored people than people her own color. A woman in constant need of bleaching out her own identity. This is a profoundly tragic character, brainwashed by the domineering culture and denying her own self.

    One can understand why the great Alice Walker played the phoenix here, that is brought Hurston back to life in the mid 1970's. With her flowing use of the vernacular, her compassionate yet perspicacious view of human nature, Walker is a brilliant Hurston inheritor. What Hurston brought to the literary scene can make the Harlem Renaissance proud, but like Janie herself who despises limits, her work goes beyond borders, as the universality of Watching God in undeniable. Women know Janie Crawford the minute they meet her. They understand the way she talks to nature, the way she dreams her space, the way her reality is beyond definition. Defining the undefinable and universalizing a theme while maintaining the identity of a culture, is a tour de force that only a central author could achieve. So thank you, Ms Walker, for kicking unjust oblivion you know where and placing Zora Neale Hurston right where she should be.

Channeling Diochet

For a long time I convinced myself that I chose to write in English ---instead of my native tongue, French--- because I needed to distance myself from my emotions in order to be able to express them more lucidly. In order also to survive these emotions. For when I crossed the Atlantic over thirty years ago it was under exceedingly painful circumstances. I had parted ways with my family. Little did I know, or perhaps little did I realize, that this was the beginning of the end. I had to start all over again. A new life, a new country. A new me.

And this new me would begin with awkward steps writing in a new language. Writing in French would, technically, have been so much easier. French was after all my best subject at the lycée. With few exceptions, my literary and philosophical essays always got the best grades. But tragic circumstances made the French language too heavily charged when the time came to write my story. For that's what fiction writers start with, something autobiographical. And writing an autobiographical novel in French would have crushed me. I would have felt the stabs of past happenings as if they were happening all over again. So I switched to English. And the telling became more bearable.

That's what I told myself until I looked at his picture the other night. On a golf course, dressed in white with sunglasses. Alluring.  A second cousin, more uncle than cousin. A functioning alcoholic. A swearing man. And completely blind.  He came to live with us and made my childhood not only livable, but magic. He loved to walk and so did I. He grabbed my shoulder; I was his eyes; he was my guide. And he was the first person to introduce me to the English language. If he loved to swear in his native Basque language, English must have meant to him new horizons with infinite golf courses, a sport he played without seeing for most of his life. Joseph, which, in Basque, is pronounced "Dioshet" and that our family lexicon translated into "Diochet." So looking at his picture, I am wondering now, as I am writing these lines to you, if I am not simply channeling Diochet. Making his spirit alive again in a country that fascinated him and needed eyes to see. A vision that he only could get in his imagination. So many times he would speak of "L'Amérique." Perhaps, somehow, I have become the continuation of that vision. I am still Diochet's eyes; he is still my guide.

Marie-Jo's Voice & Noise: Life and Lifers

Marie-Jo's Voice & Noise: Life and Lifers: I have spoken before about my epistolary friend Jason. He is an "insider." Not a political insider. But someone whose life will be...