Although I learned a lot about the culture and politics of Ukraine from reading Sophie Pinkham’s memoir-expository piece, this is probably not the besAlthough I learned a lot about the culture and politics of Ukraine from reading Sophie Pinkham’s memoir-expository piece, this is probably not the best place to start if you want to learn about recent events in that nation. If now slightly dated, Tim Judah’s In Wartime: Stories from Ukraine is a far better introduction to the tensions in the eastern European country, providing a good discussion of events around the time of Euromaidan (the wave of demonstrations that began in November 2013), Russia’s annexation of Crimea in March 2014, and the early days of the war between pro-Ukrainian-government fighters and Russian-backed, anti-government troops in the Donbass region of eastern Ukraine.
Pinkham’s book is rather unfocused. It is so full of stories about the young people she meets through her work with NGOs dedicated to the epidemic of drug abuse and HIV in Ukraine that I could barely keep track of her seemingly innumerable, eccentric “friends” and acquaintances, many of whom are musicians, artists, hippies, and drug addicts themselves. In the first half of the book, Pinkham presents, in quick succession, her many “adventures” attending one festival after another in various regions of the country. The reader is given a smattering of details on Ukrainian culture—including language, customs, and food. Always, always, always there is alcohol flowing. (I looked it up: Ukraine ranks sixth in the world for alcohol consumption per capita, and the five nations that come before it on the list are all located in eastern Europe and associated with the former Soviet Union.)
Pinkham highlights the rampant corruption in the government, legal, education, and medical systems in Ukraine. At the time she visited, lived, and worked in the country, it was not uncommon for physicians to expect bribes from young, drug-addicted mothers. Many doctors and HIV-and-drug-addiction “harm reduction” outreach workers were themselves abusing drugs, which began flowing into Ukraine in the 1990s. Opioids were often cheaper than tobacco. The sex trade, sex tourism, and Ukrainian bride-buying businesses also flourished.
Later in her book, Pinkham turns to the political situation in Ukraine. She was not in the country at the time of the 2013-2014 demonstrations in Independence Square, but she was well informed by her many acquaintances who participated, and she’s evidently done a great deal of additional research—there’s an extensive “sources” section appended to the book. Her discussion of the major events of the time is nuanced, diverging from the simplified (good guys vs. bad guys) impression that the mainstream Western media has promoted.
It was interesting for me to have read this book right after finishing the second volume of Doris Lessing’s autobiography, which focuses on the writer’s time and activities as a Communist Party member. Lessing observes in her memoir that many people engage in political demonstrations for the drama and emotional intensity of the experience; political conviction may be incidental. Pinkham seems to intimate the same thing.
While I enjoyed this book, I was occasionally frustrated by its impressionistic nature. Among other things, Pinkham’s overview of Crimean history confused me, she never actually defines what she means by “harm reduction”, and—I’ll say it again—there are just too many names and anecdotes about eccentric acquaintances....more
Compared to the first volume of her autobiography, this second one, which concerns Lessing’s first 13 years in London (after leaving SoutheRating: 3.5
Compared to the first volume of her autobiography, this second one, which concerns Lessing’s first 13 years in London (after leaving Southern Rhodesia), is rambling and long-winded. The book’s main focus is the writer’s time in the Communist Party. She describes her activities, acquaintances, delusions, rationalization, and eventual “awakening” as to what was actually going on in the Soviet Union. In a nutshell: Hitler had nothing on Stalin. Lessing’s experiences as a communist left her wary of any political or religious mass movement. As a reader in 2019, I found many of her remarks about the United States— its tendency to extremes, for example—to be particularly astute and even prescient, given what we see unfolding in that country these days.
Lessing also very briefly discusses her writing routine, which apparently involved a good deal of wool-gathering and late-night walks through the city (which struck me as incredibly foolish and dangerous). Her son, Peter—the product of her second “political” marriage—was frequently sent off to the English countryside to stay with acquaintances who had a large family. This was so that Lessing could write. An aside: I recall reading a piece (in the London Review of Books) in which Jenny Diski (who, as a teenager, lived with Lessing) intimated that Peter was the unluckiest of Lessing’s three children. The two from the first marriage had more or less been abandoned, but that may have been a good thing for them. Peter, the one she (sort of) raised, did not fare well.
Lessing does go on and on about her many famous acquaintances, many of them writers who fled Hollywood during the McCarthy era or playwrights and theatre people. I found reading about them quite tiresome after a while.
Lessing’s great love, a married (expat) Czechoslovakian Jewish psychiatrist traumatized by World War II, figures prominently in the autobiography. “Jack” (a pseudonym) was a womanizer unwilling to commit to her. Their affair lasted several years, and they frequently travelled abroad together. Peter, of course, was being cared for by the country acquaintances.
At times, Lessing’s novelistic talents take centre stage. There are some wonderful vignettes in the book about people she bumped into along the way. One, a fellow hospital patient, the too-lavishly-loved British wife of an affluent Greek businessman, regaled Lessing with details of her amorous husband’s attentions. Another, an elderly neighbour, could’ve walked straight out of a Dickens novel.
Walking in the Shade was interesting enough for me to want to complete it, but I think the book could have (easily and beneficially) been trimmed by a good 100 pages or so. In the end, it lacks the intensity and emotional power of the first volume....more
“what i’ve realized is you never know what will happen next”
Thirteen-year-old Hartley Staples’ troubled brother, Jackson, disappeared nine months “what i’ve realized is you never know what will happen next”
Thirteen-year-old Hartley Staples’ troubled brother, Jackson, disappeared nine months ago. It isn’t the first time he’s run away. Jackson made previous escapes when he was eleven and fourteen, but those attempts, being of shorter duration, did not shake the family’s foundations the way this one has. Jackson’s twin sister, Heather, has withdrawn from the world. The youngest Staples child, George, is the least troubled. His quirky imagination helps him bob along, like a cork in a river. Hartley’s parents are so distraught over their eldest son’s disappearance, they barely notice Hartley exists.
To add to the pain and confusion, Hartley’s best friend, Zack, has withdrawn from him. Like many people, Ms. Mirani, Zack’s mother, thinks other people’s misfortune is contagious. The Miranis were initially supportive of Hartley’s family, but then abruptly distanced themselves. Hartley had phoned over for his friend one day and got Mrs. Marini instead. “Zack is a special boy,” she told Hartley, “he needs to surround himself with positive influences.” She’d gone on to say that for people to succeed in life, they sometimes had to ruthlessly cut out all the negative influences in their lives. Still, she really did wish Hartley’s family the best: the Staples would remain foremost in the Marinis’ “positive thoughts.”
The story proper opens one Saturday afternoon when Hartley slips unnoticed out of the family home. With nothing better to do, he goes to the Whirton Library, housed in a mobile home presented to the town by one of its many eccentrics. The Whirton Library, aka “the Place Where Books Go to Die,” has no budget. Its stacks are filled with cast-offs, donations direct from musty basements of family homes: lots of paperback romances, true crime, and an almost complete set of a magazine called Funeral Service Monthly. Looking for something in teen fiction that isn’t “about a kid whose mother was dying or father was dying or whose mother, father, or girlfriend had been turned into a zombie,” Hartley finds, sticking up from the pages of a book, the first of nine post-card sized artworks, each a small collage with enigmatic poetry formed of cut-out type and sighed “g.o.”. This one reads—all in lower case: “i hate all kinds of flags except pirate flags.” In the following weeks, the last few of the school year, Hartley finds more of these cards—stuck in trees, between bicycle wheel spokes, and in fences. He carefully stores them in a small tin box, with a view to presenting them to his missing brother, should he ever return. Hartley also does his best to discover the identity of the elusive artist poet who is placing them.
Another of Hartley’s challenges in these last days before he graduates from elementary school is to come up with and research a topic of his own choosing. Ms. Gorham, Hartley’s sensitive and sympathetic grade-eight teacher, is willing to allow him to forego this assignment. She is as aware as the next person in Whirton that it is hard for Hartley to feel passionate about anything given his brother’s disappearance. However, the boy will accept no special treatment. When pressed for the subject of his project, he is as surprised as his teacher to hear the word “tractors” escape from his mouth. What?! Where did that idea come from?
Hartley’s only real passion at this point is, of course, finding “g.o.” who, as the title of Fagan’s book announces, is actually Gretchen Oyster. Gretchen has a story of her own, which the reader gains real satisfaction in eventually coming to know.
I love Cary Fagan’s unconventional writing, the unique sensibility and sensitivity that informs it. I don’t quite know how he does it. His books for children are works of some depth, yet they are also characterized by humour and a remarkable lightness of touch. They are probably not for everybody, but they are special gifts to those of us who appreciate something different.
I loved this book and I’m very grateful to the publisher for providing me with a free copy of it to review....more
A delicate, spare, and very touching picture book that addresses the way that some social animals (and by extension, humans) care for their dying loveA delicate, spare, and very touching picture book that addresses the way that some social animals (and by extension, humans) care for their dying loved ones, Kelsey’s text grew out of an encounter with a school child whose dog had recently died. “You have to stay with them and comfort them if you can,” said the little girl to the author. “They are part of your family.”
Kelsey’s words and Soyeon Kim’s gentle art show elephants, chimpanzees, and orcas and other animals caring for family members whose lives are ending. Their bodies will return to the earth or the water, nourishing new life.
As well as alluding to the natural cycles of life and death, the book delicately acknowledges the pain of grief and loss, ending on a hopeful note about the joy of having known and shared time with another beloved being....more
This is a gorgeous, very worthwhile picture book about the great French Impressionist painter Claude Monet. It highlights the important people who infThis is a gorgeous, very worthwhile picture book about the great French Impressionist painter Claude Monet. It highlights the important people who influenced him—the artist Eugene Boudin (who encouraged Monet to paint landscapes rather than people); Camille Pissarro (his great Paris art-school friend); and his beloved wife, Camille Devereau. It also discusses, in accessible language, some of Monet’s painting techniques. A wonderful introduction to the artist, this picture-book biography concludes with a spread of thumbnail images of several of Monet’s most famous works. (Each is accompanied by a brief commentary.) Brownridge’s book accomplishes a great deal in a few short pages. I loved it, and I think kids will, too.
My only criticism concerns the very small size of the font—at least, in my e-book copy....more
This is a straightforward, nicely illustrated picture book that tells the story of Clarence Brazier. Born into a large family in Magnetawan in centralThis is a straightforward, nicely illustrated picture book that tells the story of Clarence Brazier. Born into a large family in Magnetawan in central Ontario in 1906, in childhood Clarence did attend school—for one day. Because he was so big for his age, his teacher mistakenly assumed he was in the third grade. He was asked to stand and spell his name, but he couldn’t do it. He didn’t even know the alphabet yet! The sniggering of his fellow students deeply humiliated him, leaving an indelible mark. He fled the school, refusing to return.
Even though he was illiterate for the greater part of his life, Clarence was remarkably accomplished. He worked in mines, in the woods, and on his own farm. The only person who knew his secret was his wife. She handled all the literacy tasks in their 65-year marriage. After she died, Clarence set about teaching himself to read—using quite an ingenious method. However, it was in sharing his secret with another family member (his daughter, Doris) that his education really took off. Doris was a teacher, and her dad became her eldest student. In time Clarence was reading for two hours each day. He shared his inspirational story with many elementary school students during the last years of his life.
The book includes a couple of photographs of Clarence as well as a short but valuable authors’ note about the importance of reading and literacy.
Arthur Kleinman is a psychiatrist and medical anthropologist. His book is mostly a memoir of the maturation of his soul and an encomium to his wife, JArthur Kleinman is a psychiatrist and medical anthropologist. His book is mostly a memoir of the maturation of his soul and an encomium to his wife, Joan. In her late fifties, Joan developed a rare form of early-onset dementia that began by attacking her occipital lobe, her brain’s visual processing centre. Kleinman looked after her for close to a decade, almost to the time of her death. The book also provides a sense of the research Kleinman engaged in during his career, a tribute to his intellectual mentors, and an overview of his professional accomplishments: the academic programs he created, some of the ideas he generated around caregiving in medicine, and the books and articles he authored. Really, it is only in the seventh chapter (of the eleven in the book) that Kleinman begins his account of his experience caring for his increasingly visually and cognitively impaired wife.
The Soul of Care more or less begins at the beginning—that is, with Kleinman’s childhood. He writes that he knows little about his biological father, Nathan Spier. His mother fled the man when Arthur was only a year old. Spier had been involved in a shameful real-estate-related court scandal, which apparently led to a judge’s suicide. Kleinman’s mother ended up returning (with her son in tow) to her parents’ comfortable Brooklyn home. In spite of his Jewish grandparents’ affluence, as a boy Kleinman preferred the company of the rough-and-tumble neighbourhood kids, many of them the sons of Irish and Italian immigrants. He was an aggressive kid, so much so that the local cops directed him to a police-sponsored boxing club, which would provide an outlet for his abundant, angry energy. Later, his mother remarried—to a “party animal” much like herself—and the family relocated elsewhere in the city, where Kleinman attended a different school which pushed academic achievement. He became a reader, an experience that opened up a new world for him. A son of privilege, Kleinman had few models for caregiving in childhood and youth. He notes that even now the moral, emotional, and caregiving qualities that are inculcated early in girls are slow to develop in boys.
Eager to escape the oppressive family expectation that he pursue the sort of professional career that would bring money and status, Kleinman left the East Coast for the West. He attended university and medical school in California, recognizing early on that he was interested in patients’ stories, their personal experiences of illness, and the way in which social and cultural factors affect how care is delivered and received. In his twenties, he met and married Joan Ryman, a linguistically and intellectually gifted young woman (from a middle-class Protestant Californian family), who was emotionally intelligent and socially adept. Both Kleinmans had an interest in the Far East; Joan eventually completed graduate studies in Chinese language and literature. They spent time conducting research in Taiwan and China, their children accompanying them. At one point, Arthur studied the ways in which China’s Cultural Revolution, a time of great political oppression when family and friends surveilled and reported on each other to the government, impacted mental health and the networks of caregiving in families. One of Kleinman’s observations about Chinese attitudes particularly interested me. In this culture, he writes, people hold the view “that we are not born fully human, that our humanity exists on a kind of spectrum or continuum. Thus, a baby is not a complete human being, and women occupy their own unique but inferior position on that spectrum.” To become fully human, people “need to cultivate their humanity over the course of a lifetime, an idea that fosters self-education and good habits.”
In the early sections of his book, Kleinman writes in a general way about Joan’s influence on his emotional development over the course of their marriage. He credits her for saving him many times— both physically and emotionally—with her care. For example, he returned from one research trip to China emaciated and debilitated by dysentery; Joan nursed him back to health. Other times, she provided him with the emotional support he required when his “overweening ambition” and professional responsibilities threatened to get the better of him psychologically. She ran the household, and for years Kleinman didn’t lift a finger to help out with the chores. From the sound of it, the Kleinmans’ was quite a traditional marriage. While he regarded his family life as “golden”, one can’t help but wonder if the talented Joan felt quite the same way.
Unfortunately, the author’s descriptions of his wife to this point in the book seem so idealized that Joan doesn’t seem quite real. He often writes about the emotional “learning” or “moral” understanding he gained from her, but he provides few specific examples of how this transpired. I really could not get a handle on who this woman was. However, the narrative changes when Kleinman begins discussing Joan’s diagnosis, decline, and the many years he spent caring for her. His descriptions become more concrete, richer in detail and anecdote.
Initially, Joan was a co-partner in her own care, in spite of her being visually impaired from the earliest stages of her disease. Formerly a competent, independent woman, she apologized often for the burden her illness placed on her husband. Soon after the diagnosis, she stated: “I will not linger. I will not die without dignity. You and Charlie [their primary care doctor at that time] will know how to bring it to an end. You must promise me. I need your promise.” Kleinman did not quite make that promise; he made another: to care for his wife. For better or for worse, Joan did linger—for many years. Eventually, she would become hostile and aggressive, and she would be particularly intractable when she developed Capgras syndrome (a disorder in which people perceive those closest to them as imposters.)
Kleinman’s determination to act as prime caregiver to his wife was perhaps influenced by the Chinese ideas he’d studied for so many years. To the Chinese, love isn’t a feeling so much as a commitment; it consists not of words but of actions intended to strengthen ties. Certainly Kleinman viewed caring for Joan as a natural part of the commitment between them, as well as an expression of his gratitude to her. But I found myself thinking that such a decision involves a fine balance. How far should a person, who is also aging, push himself to provide care to a person who is losing herself and in time no longer even knows who her caregiver is. Is it worth it? Is it right? Is it okay to stop?
Kleinman charts the stages in Joan’s decline and his many adaptations to them. Because he continued to teach and perform academic work at Harvard (for both financial reasons and psychological health), it was necessary for him to hire a caregiver. Eventually, though, even that kind of professional help wasn’t enough. Joan’s condition had so deteriorated that her husband could adapt no further. Worn down and incapable of managing her increasingly extreme behaviour and destructive acts, he (and his adult children) had her committed to a nursing home for the last nine months of her life.
Kleinman states that it was his love for his wife that allowed him to care for her for so many years. He believes that caregiving, though tremendously challenging, is an enriching and humanizing experience, and says he is a better man for it. I can’t say I am entirely convinced that caregiving always makes better people of us. The toll that it can take on the one who performs it (often an aging spouse) can be high—maybe too high. Dementia is relentless, and nothing the caregiver does can stop it. In the final stages, the patient doesn’t know herself or her family. Furthermore, she can be agitated, physically aggressive, and even violent—thrashing, striking out, delirious and screaming. This was increasingly the case with Joan. It is interesting to me that a much-loved nonhuman animal would not be allowed to continue in such a state. Veterinary medicine is responsive to signs that an animal is in inexorable decline with little quality of life, and euthanasia, heart-breaking as it is, is offered. Unfortunately, we do not widely extend this humane option to humans. Even raising the issue is thorny.
Kleinman does acknowledge that becoming a caregiver to a family member with whom one has had a fraught, dysfunctional relationship might not be feasible. He spends some time addressing the need for ethical, humane institutional care for patients with dementia and the foundational importance of care in society. He also laments, as many contemporary medical writers do, “the diminished place of caregiving in medicine”, the failure to see the whole person in the patient, not just the disease. For the physician, “Survival in the hospital and in whatever outside life you can manage depends on learning how to work the system by cutting corners, spending as little time as you can get away with in human interactions that can be emotionally and morally taxing.”
I expected to like Kleinman’s book more than I did. The blurb led me to anticipate a memoir more completely focused on his experience as his wife’s prime caregiver and a meditation on the moral and psychological aspects of that role. However, I first had to wade through quite a bit of dry, rambling, and sometimes jargon-filled material about the author’s intellectual education, or, as he describes it, the “nurtur[ing of] the more cerebral elements . . . [of his] being.” I did not find those sections interesting or particularly germane. Kleinman is a competent enough writer, but not a stellar one, and I sometimes found his prose dull, clunky, and confusing. I questioned his inclusion of some details pertaining to his professional life. My rating reflects these things. Even so, this book (which includes an excellent bibliography) offered me plenty of food for thought....more
A dull, blandly written, overly long, and overrated novel in which characters “talk . . . endlessly to each other, gnawing on the bones of . . . [theiA dull, blandly written, overly long, and overrated novel in which characters “talk . . . endlessly to each other, gnawing on the bones of . . . [their] collective history.”...more
In the preface to her book, Mary Cregan explains that it will provide the personal story of her mental illness (and suicidality) and a cultRating: 3.5
In the preface to her book, Mary Cregan explains that it will provide the personal story of her mental illness (and suicidality) and a cultural, literary, historical study of psychiatry that will include some scientific information as well. The book’s expository elements often outweigh the memoir component, and, although I did learn some things, I found parts of the text pretty dry. For example, I wasn’t particularly interested in the history of the New York Hospital—Westchester psychiatric branch, the asylum to which Cregan was confined for three months when she was 27 years old in the spring of 1984.
Cregan explains that there was a history of depression in her family. She recognizes that she experienced moments of inexplicable sadness in childhood and longer episodes of mood disturbance in her teenage years. However, the crisis—a major depressive episode with melancholia—did not strike until she was in her late twenties. In December 1983, a few months prior to entering the psychiatric institution, Cregan lost her daughter within 24 hours of the child’s birth. The baby had an inoperable heart defect. After this, the author fell into ever-deepening dejection and despair. The baby’s death was proof to Cregan of her essential defectiveness. She felt she had no right to exist. No longer able to control the impulses that seemed to be directing her to end her own life, she ultimately signed papers to admit herself to a psychiatric hospital. It was here that Cregan, whose compliance and cooperation possibly lulled medical personnel into the false sense that their patient was not at significant risk, almost succeeded in taking her own life. To this day, she bears a scar on her neck, a reminder of how she almost managed to self-destruct. “It’s the sign of an illness that has shaped my history, she writes. “It hasn’t allowed me to forget the most harrowing days of my life.” Over the years, it has been necessary for Cregan to stay attuned to her internal state, her moods and thoughts, and remain on antidepressant medication. She acknowledges: “I have no choice but to accept the presence of this disorder, and to remain wary of it.”
Among the many subjects Cregan considers in her book—all of them related to her own diagnosis, treatment, or experience—are the following: the (changing) labels/names for psychiatric disorders; endogenous depression (a biological illness) vs. psycho-reactive depression (a response to stressful life events); the history and use of electroshock therapy; the asylum experience (including the degrees of surveillance of suicidal patients); Freud’s perspective on mourning and melancholia; the role of religious upbringing in the author’s mental illness; loss and grief; the serendipitous, accidental, and profit-driven discoveries of certain psychoactive medications (including the revolutionary ’50s drugs, chlorpromazine and imipramine, which were derived from dyes) and the arrival of Prozac and other SSRIs in the ’80s and ’90s . . . and more. If these topics sound interesting, then this is your book. Having already encountered some of this material elsewhere over the years, I wasn’t always engaged by the expository sections of Cregan’s work. I was most interested in her discussion of her personal story of coming to terms with the fact that depressive illness would always be a part of her. The author’s discussion of her Catholic upbringing and the role of certain character traits in depressive illness was also valuable.
Early on, there are frequent allusions to literature and literary figures; Rainer Maria Rilke, Sir Robert Burton (author of The Anatomy of Melancholy), Sylvia Plath, and One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest author Ken Kesey are among those who make appearances. A number of poems, myths, and novels are alluded to or considered—perhaps not too surprising from an author with a doctorate In English literature. Film and popular culture are sometimes referred to as well.
Cregan’s book has a calm, detached, somewhat academic feel to it. The writing is cleaner and less dense than scholarly works, however, and it is unencumbered by footnotes. Instead, there is an excellent set of notes appended to the main text; I only wish these had been conveniently hyperlinked in the book edition I borrowed from my library. The author has clearly read widely and synthesized a vast amount of material to create an informative book, for which she deserves to be commended.
Cregan says she comes from a family whose modus operandi was to keep silent about personal matters. It shows in this book, but that does not diminish the fact that it was an act of courage to write it....more
Initially, I admired this novel for older children and young adults because it dared to go places that few kids’ books do. The sympathetic protagonistInitially, I admired this novel for older children and young adults because it dared to go places that few kids’ books do. The sympathetic protagonist, Edgar, appears to be a child with fetal alcohol syndrome. His mother, Stephanie, is mess. She works unskilled jobs (bartending and waitressing), drinks too much, lies, sponges off others, and can’t manage very long without a man—sometimes any man will do. As the novel opens, she and Edgar are fleeing the Toronto home of her latest boyfriend, Roger. He’s not the worst of the guys she’s been with, but she will later have no scruples about telling horror stories about his treatment of her in order to cultivate the next man’s sympathy.
A friend of a friend has advised her of a house-sitting opportunity in Dawson City, Yukon. Stephanie declares to her young son that she’s eager to remake herself in an entirely new place. She tries to sell Edgar on the relocation by promising him that he will be caring for a dog, Benjamin—something that greatly excites the boy. Once they’ve arrived in the northern Canadian city, Edgar bonds immediately with the large elderly dog. He communicates easily (and sophisticatedly) with Benjamin and finds it increasingly difficult to communicate normally with other humans in their language. Instead, he produces barks and whines, and is only able to get more complex ideas across to people by writing on a notepad.
Before Edgar becomes an almost completely dog-identified-boy (for lack of a better way of putting it), he and his mother are befriended by their neighbour, Ceese, and his school-aged daughter, Caroline. Ceese has a lovely girlfriend, Victoria, whom Edgar loves almost immediately. Knowing his mother’s patterns well, Edgar anticipates that Stephanie will prove to be a destructive force in the couple’s relationship. Determined to do his best to prevent her ruining things yet again, one cold night he makes a rash and dangerous decision—one that involves the dog, Benjamin.
In my opinion, that part of the book, approximately the last quarter, is a total mess. Any warm feelings I may have had towards the rather peculiar narrative that is North to Benjamin went entirely south. I found the conclusion super weird—unsettling and unsatisfying. I had a wonderful experience with Cumyn’s Owen Skye series, and so did many children I know. However, as well disposed as I am towards quirky kids’ books that are not formulaic and even refuse to toe the line, I really cannot recommend this one....more
I was pretty skeptical about this book even before attempting it. Coming on the heels of Oliver Sacks’s death, it struck me as an opportunistic money I was pretty skeptical about this book even before attempting it. Coming on the heels of Oliver Sacks’s death, it struck me as an opportunistic money grab on the part of the publishing industry and perhaps on the part of Sacks’s late-in-life partner as well. About 70 pages in, I decided I really didn’t care to read about the author’s romantic relationship with Sacks and not about the heretofore-unknown-to-me memoirist, Hayes, either. A good part of the book is a sort of ode to New York City, not exactly a place whose praise I need or want to hear sung. I also found the fragmented and sometimes self-indulgent writing off putting. It does make me happy to know that Sacks found some personal happiness towards the end and that his lover adored him, but I found the appeal of the book very limited....more
“What is interesting to me is the question of whether a person can know one’s earlier self or if becoming a stranger to one’s own past experience is j“What is interesting to me is the question of whether a person can know one’s earlier self or if becoming a stranger to one’s own past experience is just a small, inevitable tragedy. We have memories, we think we know who we were, but do we really?”
This is a crisply written but slight novel about Miriam Moscowitz, a young female Jewish university student in 1957 Toronto, which also presents her 48 years later on the day of her gay son’s wedding at the family home. I appreciated this quiet, finely observed little novel focusing on the continuity of the self over time, and I enjoyed all the Toronto references, having received part of my own education in that city....more
I made it about third of the way through this book, and while there is certainly literary quality to the stories, they’re dark. They often felt voyeurI made it about third of the way through this book, and while there is certainly literary quality to the stories, they’re dark. They often felt voyeuristic, and I was frankly repelled by some of the content. (view spoiler)[Reading about an elderly woman apparently singing the Magnificat during a disturbed younger woman’s sexual assault in a park, for example, is not my idea of a good time. Based on my partial reading, there’s no end of depressing material here. (hide spoiler)] I don’t feel like going to the places K.D. Miller seems to want to take me. I’m not up for it.
I pushed myself to page 100, by which point the book had become utterly intolerable. Montgomery’s mental health memoir is a real downer. Not recommendI pushed myself to page 100, by which point the book had become utterly intolerable. Montgomery’s mental health memoir is a real downer. Not recommended....more
In her senior year at UC Berkeley, not quite a decade after the 911 terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers, Afghan-American anthropology student ParveenIn her senior year at UC Berkeley, not quite a decade after the 911 terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers, Afghan-American anthropology student Parveen Shams happens upon a memoir, the best-selling Mother Afghanistan. In it, Dr. Gideon Crane, the prodigal son of medical missionary parents, explains his transformation from a scheming, money-obsessed physician criminally charged with Medicare fraud to a philanthropist dedicated to building women’s medical clinics in Afghanistan. Vouched for and sponsored by an evangelical mega church, the disgraced Crane claims he found a new purpose in life when, in lieu of jail time or community service in the US, he was allowed to carry out charitable medical work in Afghanistan. Now he has become a celebrity, earning tens of thousands of dollars for each stop on the lecture circuit. Parveen makes a point of attending one of his appearances.
The twenty-two-year-old student is particularly struck by Crane’s account of his attempt to save the life of a poor Afghan mother, Fereshta, who experienced serious complications during labour and delivery. According to Crane, the village mullah prohibited the American doctor (a foreigner, a male, and an infidel) from intervening when the unborn child became lodged in the birth canal; the woman died as a result. Haunted by her tragic death and the grief of her family, the story goes, Crane vowed to build a medical clinic in the woman’s small village to ensure that the lives of other mothers would not be lost. Since that time, Crane has built not one but several such facilities.
Like many of her fellow Americans, Parveen is inspired by the memoir. Restless and directionless, she has no real plans for life after graduation. Consequently, she decides to travel to the very village in Afghanistan where Fereshta died. Like Crane, Parveen is intoxicated by the drama of making a trip to the dangerous, war-torn country. Yes, there is a certain degree of naïve idealism in her project to assist at the clinic and perform medical anthropology fieldwork, but there are also signs of the attention-seeking and self-aggrandizement exhibited by Gideon Crane (who is obviously based on the real-life, mountain-climbing fraudster Greg Mortenson, the Three Cups of Tea author, who gained fame as a builder of Pakistani and Afghan girls’ schools and notoriety for using the “institute” he founded as his personal ATM.)
Through her protagonist, Parveen, Waldman rather heavy-handedly exposes the harm caused by bumbling and egoistic American do-gooders who are almost entirely ignorant of Afghan culture. Her novel is a send-up of both humanitarian and military interventions in post-911 Afghanistan. On arrival in the remote northern village, Parveen finds out almost immediately that the pristine, state-of-the art medical clinic has barely been used. There was briefly a male doctor on the premises, but Afghan cultural practice prohibited his providing medical care to females. There are few female physicians in the province, never mind the anesthetist who’d be needed for surgeries to occur; however, a generous female doctor and her medical-student son volunteer to drive in one day a week to care for this needy group of women, many of whom are endlessly pregnant.
Many chapters of the novel are dedicated to Parveen’s gradual uncovering of Gideon Crane’s multitudinous lies. Dr. Yasmeen is the first to fill her in on the fact that the OR, the several-bed hospital ward, and the incubators have never been used—contrary to Crane’s claims in his book that many female lives have been saved by emergency Caesarean-sections and other procedures. However, it is when Parveen undertakes translating and reading sections of Gideon Crane’s memoir to the female members of Fereshta’s family and the other village women that the extent of his distortion of the truth becomes clear. Parveen’s central dilemma revolves around what to do with this information.
The second and third sections of the three-part novel revolve around the arrival of the American military, in whom Dr. Gideon’s book has inspired the idea of blasting a proper road into the village. An evenly paved surface into the community will improve its economic prospects and make it easier for medical personnel to access the place. The village council is silently opposed to the project, and, it turns out, for good reason. The American presence in this corner of the country attracts insurgents who begin placing IEDs, killing or maiming local labourers and military personnel.
Waldman’s is a fairly incident-rich novel. The details provided reflect the author’s considerable knowledge of Afghan culture. There are several subplots, and the author weighs in on many aspects of American attitudes to and presence in Afghanistan. It is necessary for the reader to suspend a certain amount of disbelief regarding Parveen’s situation in the village. First of all, it is hard to believe a person who grew up in America would be as fluent in Dari as Parveen is. Furthermore, the young woman has far more access to and interaction with male characters, both Afghan and American, than would likely be the case in real life. Finally, Parveen’s initial cluelessness about Afghanistan, the country she was born in, is pretty over-the-top. Bringing cosmetics, a hair dryer, an exercise ball, and a yoga mat to a remote Afghan village and demanding one’s own bedroom while staying with a poor Afghan family? Come on. The author didn’t need to go that far.
I enjoyed this novel but I think a more nuanced, economical approach would have improved the work significantly....more
As the subtitle of her book suggests, consultant neurologist Jules Montague is interested in “memory, identity and who we become when we’reRating: 2.5
As the subtitle of her book suggests, consultant neurologist Jules Montague is interested in “memory, identity and who we become when we’re no longer ourselves”. She states up front that the concept of “identity” encompasses not just how we see ourselves but also how others see us. “Self”, on the other hand, “refers primarily to the experience of the individual, (a sense of one’s own being).”
Montague proceeds to look at a number of neurological (and some psychiatric) disorders, among them: Alzheimer’s Disease; Korsakoff syndrome (a chronic memory disorder caused by severe Vitamin B-1 deficiency, most commonly seen in longtime abusers of alcohol); dissociative amnesia/fugue states (in which patients’ autobiographical information is out of reach, often as the result of traumatic events); frontotemporal dementia (which has an earlier onset and a more significant inherited component than Alzheimer’s and is initially characterized not by memory loss but by dramatic, inappropriate behavioural change—think: kissing complete strangers or urinating in public); multiple personality disorder, now known as dissociative identity disorder; Parkinson’s Disease; and ALS.
The author doesn’t entirely restrict her discussion to those with brain disease. She also considers the unreliability of memory in neurologically normal people. Memories are not stable in any of us, Montague reminds the reader. A memory is rebuilt each time it is accessed, with new details added each time—based on what a person has experienced and learned since last calling up the memory. False memories can be implanted in anyone, and a person doesn’t have to be cognitively impaired to embellish, distort, or transpose details that are recollected.
In reading Montague’s book—a synthesis of philosophical, psychological, and neurological material—I was reminded of things I already knew about the way in which memory does and doesn’t work. I was also glad to encounter some new information. A few times, Montague makes pertinent observations about identity in patients with disordered brains, but sometimes the matter of identity takes a back seat to other details about the conditions. The author does note that family members are most likely to perceive a neurologically impaired loved one as essentially himself if his core moral faculties are preserved—that is, if he still shows empathy, gratitude, a sense of fairness, and a willingness to cooperate, etc. (The loss of other mental faculties does not seem to matter as much for a patient to continue to be seen as himself.) Montague also refers to interesting research on patients with semantic dementia, a kind of frontotemporal dementia which causes the loss of language abilities. The study revealed that some brain lesions can actually make a patient even “more himself”. When semantic dementia affects a patient’s dominant anterior temporal lobe (usually the left one in a right-handed subject), he is likely to experience a heightening of the philosophical, spiritual, or religious attitudes he experienced in his former life. His behaviour remains consistent with his pre-morbid identity. (For instance, he may be even more committed to attending church.) However, if the non-dominant frontal lobe (the right one in most people) is affected, there can be diminishment, even reversal, of the patient’s previous core values and self-concept. A normal, intact non-dominant frontal lobe, the study’s authors suggest, ensures the maintenance of the self—from political and religious affiliation to career choice.
Some of the conditions Montague explores in her book quite naturally raise questions about identity. However, a number of them do not. It’s a bit of a stretch to examine sleep disorders (including sleep walking and nighttime out-of-body experiences) through the lens of identity. Comas, vegetative, and minimally conscious states also seem to have less to do with identity per se than with the matter of consciousness. A section on multiple personality disorder, which focuses almost exclusively on criminals’ opportunistic use of the diagnosis to get away with having committed murder, really has no place in a book that purports to deal with “who we become when we are no longer ourselves”. All this is to say that Montague frequently strays from her stated purpose. Her book often reads more like a ragbag of interesting neurological tidbits than a serious consideration of how diseases that strike the brain alter self-concept and others’ perception of who the patient is (or who he has become). The title is misleading. The selves of many of the patients Montague reports on are lost and never found again. Patients move further and further away from the people they were thought to be.
As interesting as I found some of the material, I was frustrated by the poor quality of the writing in the book. There are several pages on which grammatically correct sentences are outnumbered by sloppy fragments. Rules regarding punctuation are regularly ignored. Clarity is sacrificed to a loose, rambling, conversational style. Words are often used carelessly and imprecisely.
To provide an example, consider the term “Personality”—an important one in a book like this. The problem is that Montague can’t seem to use it in a clear and consistent way. In one section (without explaining what she means) she mentions that personality “shapes” us—which surprised me. I’m used to thinking about the things that shape personality: nature (genetic inheritance), nurture (environment, including parenting), and experience. A few pages later, the author changes tack: Now, “Personality” is described as “not just a bundle of traits [in a person], but the very notion of ‘who he is’.” Things then get even more muddled when Montague wonders if a “shift in personality” might change the essence of who he [a patient] is”. Hmmm. . . Didn’t she just imply that personality was a person’s essence? She said it was “the very notion of ‘who he is’”.
On another page, the author instructs the reader: “Plot the essence of you over time—do you see yourself disrupted and dissociated from one day to the next, or instead a character perpetually continuous and connected?” (“The essence of you”? . . . sounds like a perfume. How do you “plot” it? And what about the phrase ”perpetually continuous and connected”? What’s that about? If Montague is asking the reader whether he perceives his “self” or identity to be fairly consistent over time, why doesn’t she just say so?) Where was the editor? How could this kind of writing have passed muster?
Montague’s book had the potential to be a fine one, but it needed to be rigorously edited and revised. I did pick up new information, but that learning demanded more work and annoyance than it should have....more
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