Category: Fiction

Author: Lynn Coady

Format: Hardcover, 337 pages

Publisher: House of Anansi Books

ISBN: 978-0-88784-296-2

Pub Date: September 3, 2011

Giller Prize Short List Finalist

The Antagonist by Lynn Coady was a short listed book finalist for the prestigious Canadian Giller Prize for 2011. So, when I opened the book, I approached it as such and expected a literary eloquence in narrative, details of landscape in setting, and a myriad of complex characters in an elaborate plot that speaks to a high order of the privileged few about its philosophy on the potential downfall or evolution of society. (Insert breath, here.) Yeah, one of those books. A book that is heavier than my hand in writing this first paragraph. Because heavy-handed is not a place a writer wants to be, nor does a reader. I know. I’m both.

So, it was much to my relief that this book surprised me (but, only after the fact, because really, I don’t like it when an author initially says in his or her writing, “Ha! And you expected Northrop Frye!”). So much for what I know.

Northrop Frye. (c) Photo by Andrew Danson

From:  http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.com/articles/northrop-frye

It’s said you “shouldn’t judge a book by its cover,” but the lesson learned here, too, is you shouldn’t judge a book by its seal of award nominations – long-listed or short.

That’s not to say it was a poorly written novel, unworthy of its shortlist Giller acclaim. It’s not. It’s a deceptively simple narrative, a confessional collection of email written by the main character, Gord Rankin Jr., also known as Rank, in response to his best friend’s (Adam) book publication in which he discovers he is the star and central character.

But, star is too kind a word for the “antagonistic” email-writer who resents being fictionalized in a novel without first granting his explicit permission, if not disclosing the full “truth” behind its story – his story. Thus, an onslaught of daily conversational rants becomes the collective essence of the book, which through its dialogue reveals the true nature of its hulking giant and his overly scrutinized temperament.

Gord Rankin Jr., as Rank, a name he imposed on himself, has but, one main identity flaw: he is big. Big for his age, bigger than his friends, and feels the pressure associated with his bulk as a weight to act out a premature manhood that he has not yet emotionally identified with, and yet has unexpectedly manifested itself into his overgrown body.

Most pre-pubescent boys wish for such a growth spurt, rushing forward into their futures searching for elusive manhood explained to them as something innately measured by the size of their biceps, the abundance of their hair growth, their sexual promiscuity and prowess with women, and the bravado of adrenalin and aggression readily exhibited in sport. At least this is the stereotype.

And Rank is the victim of such stereotypical branding. Unfortunately, not only is he unprepared to fully understand the magnification of his own strength, this stereotype, which trapped him as a child has also led him to its full supplication. He was simply too big in his own mind and others around him that he succumbed to living out a lifestyle that pegged him as an uneducated, muscle-bound brute.

But, it wasn’t just size that he battled against in his upbringing. It was his own animosity towards his brash-mouthed, brazen father and the loss of his idyllic, “saintly” mother. This kind of burden coupled with a readily instilled, hot temper coupled with physical dominance is bound to erupt in some form of violence whether it be unintended or not. And the outcome can be traumatic.

And so, it is through this therapeutic email writing that Rank slowly discloses to the reader as well as to his friend, Adam, his version of the story that has been, according to Rank, superficially immortalized in a book.

Subordinate characters in the story include a quick-tempered father, a drug-pushing thug, a judgemental constable, a college fraternity of friends, an alcoholic bouncer, a Born-Again girlfriend, and an empathetic counsellor and hockey coach—all catalysts to a larger story to the bulk of Rank, himself.

It is an easy, quick read. At times the writing is self-absorbed, but then how can it not be, considering the email writing is one-sided and self-reflective? This book is as much an internal dialogue as it is long-winded. It has to be. It’s email—in all its technological-acronym-glory of OMGs and modern, street-dialogue including the word, fuck. But, there is brash wit and a hidden intelligence in Rank’s dialogue that lets you know that he’s no “dumb jock.”

Valentine’s Day has come and gone. It was a day for wearing red and your heart on your sleeve, plus a chance to enjoy some chocolate goodness, and perhaps receive a card or small token of love.

But, at the Bibliotaphe’s Closet, love for books never end.

If you’ve been following my blog or know me well, you’d know that I’m somewhat of a book giveaway contest junkie. I love winning books to add to my closet collection almost as much as I love reading them. And my lucky reading stars have been with me—but, I trust it has more to do with my tenacity and the kindness of the giveaway hosts.

It’s also February (well, almost the end of February) and in affirmation of this month as Black History Month and a time to provide an opportunity to learn more about and be inspired by the history of African Canadians and Americans, it can also be a time to recommit ourselves in continuing to build an inclusive place to live. I believe that’s something we should do everyday of every month!

In celebration of all this post-Valentine’s and book-giveaway love, as well as February as Black History Month, I’ve decided to host a book giveaway!

So, what does the lucky winner get?

The 1937 classic, Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. This is a brand new, unread copy!

Although race is a significant motif in the book, it is not, by any means, a central theme. It is also a book about the protagonist’s own personal journey to independence and emancipation, plus her acknowledgement of a full relationship as one that is based on reciprocal love and respect. My kind of book.

Some facts about the author:

1. Zora and I share almost the same name.
2. The author’s birthday on January 7, is a day after mine.
3. She is the fifth of eight children.
4.  Her university’s (Howard University) literary magazine published her first story in 1921.
5. In 1926, she collaborated with Langston Hughes and Wallace Thurman to organize the literary journal Fire!
6. Zora Neale Hurston was also criticized for refusing to bow to gender conventions during her time.
7. She fell into obscurity for a number of years in the 1940’s.
8. After she died on January 28, 1960, she was buried in an unmarked grave.

What can we learn from this?

1. For one thing, it never hurts to publish in your university’s literary magazine. Be sure to support your school’s literary journals and events.
2. As an aspiring writer, it helps to surround yourself with friends and peers who share your passion for the craft. You never know where this might lead you.
3. Be yourself, even if it means society may frown upon your personal conventions or writing style. New, creative genius usually meets with hesitation and harsh judgement.
4. Though you may be “unknown” author now, well-crafted work can find itself becoming one of the most important works in a generation or an all-time classic.

To enter:

1. Leave a meaningful comment on this post by answering these questions: What book did you love that you have read recently that has helped you grow in understanding of a culture that is different from yours? How? AND When is my birthday? (You can find the answer to the second question by reading my post.) – Be sure to leave your email address so I can contact you.

2. Follow me on Twitter for an extra entry (+1). Click on my Twitter widget on the right-hand side of my blog. Let me know in your comments that you’ve done this.

3. Tweet about this giveaway on Twitter for three extra entries (+3). Copy & paste your link of the tweet in your comments. You may tweet once per day, everyday until the contest closes. Please be sure to include link to the giveaway. Your tweet can look something like this:

Enter to win a book #giveaway at The Bibliotaphe’s Closet!  Ends March 2. www.zaralexis.wordpress.com

4. Be my friend on Goodreads for an extra entry (+1). Click the Goodreads widget on the right-hand side of my blog. Let me know in your comments that you’ve done this.

5. Giveaway contest deadline: Friday, March 2, 2012 at 9:00 p.m. EST

Good luck! And happy reading!

There seems to be a trend with other book bloggers in sharing what kinds of books are in their mailboxes. I am 90% supportive of my fellow book-blogging friends and 10% jealous. Because really, I am a true advocate of literacy and genuinely happy for others when they are able to snatch up books for their collections.

My 10% green envy does, however, stem from my deep desire to nurture my own personal book collection into a full-blown, rich, and gargantuan library filled with literary fiction, beautiful cover designs, and trade paperback bliss.

My mailbox is far too small to fulfill this desire. And the post person who comes to visit me daily is both kind, but tardy. And I’m not one to enjoy this “wait-until-he-arrives” kind of relationship. I do not pace the span of my living room for anyone. Just ask my husband and he’ll tell you. I practically ran a marathon all the way to the altar, without so much as a rest stop, thank you very much.

I tend to take the initiative. And that tends to lead me to bookstores with my very empty, yet very open and willing tote bag.

(c) Zara D. Garcia-Alvarez

Yes, my tote bag is also a rice bag. I’m an Asian who happens to eat a lot of rice. It’s my daily staple. I also happen to be an Asian who buys a lot of books. Also, my daily staple. My logic is this: if a sack can carry 10 lbs. worth of rice, then it should also be sturdy enough to handle 10 lbs. worth of my book bound happiness. And it does.

Let’s open the bag and see what’s inside:

(c) Zara D. Garcia-Alvarez

Okay, so they didn’t actually come out of the bag like that, but that’s another thing I haven’t mentioned. I have an obsessive-compulsive personality who cares deeply about the condition of my newly bought books. A few clothes on the floor, toys under the table, or papers in piles around my desk, I can handle. My books, though, receive first class treatment. They have reserved spaces mentally marked out for them on my bookshelves. And they are dusted periodically with love and care.

Now, I do, however, understand the love of reading them as well, which means I am willing to tolerate well-seasoned copies because of it. Yellowing pages, a wrinkle here, even a coffee spilled mark there. These things I will record with nostalgia as a mother does in looking at her child’s healed scar: glad for survival and the testament to overcome.

The one thing I cannot tolerate though, is a folded corner at the top of a pristine page! This, to me, is an immortal book sin. It’s an abomination to the etiquette of reading! This is precisely what the bookmark was created for. Do what you have to. Stick a business card in there. A postcard. A photograph. A napkin. A sock. It does not matter—just, please; do not fold the corner of a page to mark where you have left off reading. *shudder*

But, I digress. Perhaps my next post shall cover the variety of bookmarks available to readers and the etiquette of reading other people’s treasured belongings.

But, for now, I’d like to share with you what’s in my tote bag:

Lisa See has vision indeed. I bought her two books, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan and Peony in Love, historical fiction books about young girls in the seventeenth and nineteenth-century China.

And stories about what it means to be a geisha in Japan with Geisha, A Life by Mineko Iwasaki and Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden.

Or what it means to be an empress in the great Tang Dynasty with Empress: A Novel by Shan Sa and Empress Orchid by Anchee Min.

And other Asian-inspired novels such as: The Year of Finding Memory by Judy Fong Bates, The Lotus Eaters by Tatjiana Soli, Translations of Beauty by Mia Yun, Saving Fish from Drowning, and The Concubine’s Daughter by Pai Kit Fai.

And so, as I make room on my bookshelf for these new books of Asian history, love, and conquest, I think about making myself a hot cup of green tea before I sit down and read.

What have you put in your tote bag lately?

Filed under: zara's tote bag ]]> https://zaraalexis.wordpress.com/2012/02/19/whats-in-zaras-tote-bag-day-1/feed/ 10 zaraalexis zara's tote bag zara's tote bag 1 snow flower cvr peony in love cvr geisha a life cvr memoirs of a geisha cvr empress cvr empress orchid cvr year of finding memory cvr lotus eaters cvr translations of beauty cvr saving fish from drowning cvr concubine's daughter cvr https://zaraalexis.wordpress.com/2012/02/14/zaras-ink-blot-on-writing/ https://zaraalexis.wordpress.com/2012/02/14/zaras-ink-blot-on-writing/#comments Wed, 15 Feb 2012 03:55:24 +0000 zaraalexis http://zaraalexis.wordpress.com/?p=408 Continue reading →]]>

“My grade five teacher made me jump on a trampoline when spelling words out from a thesaurus. She was responsible for my love of language—or jumping. Either way, I always knew where I needed to land. It was to writing.”

- Zara D. Garcia-Alvarez

I had left his apartment before he returned with breakfast. He had kissed my eyelids while I pretended to sleep, nervous of the delicacy that pervaded everything. We discovered our unnamed loneliness in each other’s mouths, our scars mapping out our pasts. The air was damp after the rain; foggy like tenderness. With my chin in my scarf, hands in my pocket, I made way to the subway line while David, with croissants in one hand and a tray of coffee in the other was on the other side of the street. He didn’t ask me where I was going, understanding that he, too, had his own injuries to protect. I could’ve called out to him, but went down the steps into the belly of the city, an apparition in the dark entering an underpass. We injured each other this way: incredibly, without precision.

On good days, he read poetry to me in his blue-striped robe and plaid pyjamas, his hair uncombed, his hands grey as dusk. The poetry wasn’t any good. I couldn’t listen to any of it. I only paid attention to his eyes, how they escaped detachment, how the ink off the page relieved him of an unspoken grudge. My own detachment was put down to the coldness of my nature. He read his work, nibbling at his fingernail, peeking at me every so often – habits that irked me as irritating. He interpreted my silence as a response to his language, that it had become tiresome. He required a reason that I like his poems. In essence, he wanted me to fall in love.

But, we were bound together from the weight of our private fears eventually replaced by the alternative: eating cheap, frozen dinners alone; plugging into online dates; or worse, being set up by our overly concerned mothers with homely people of latent perversions.

So, we ate together instead, at restaurants we’d pass by on Friday nights, risking bad service, loud music, and an inflated food bill because neither of us were compelled to cook nor refute each other’s religious arguments about the sinfulness of eating pork. We poured over menus, naming the trendiest, most expensive choices, if not the most safe or conservative. He enjoyed ordering the “Marinated duck confit with mandarin peel and seared foie gras,” while I frequented the “Butter-poached lobster with English pea and chantarelle risotto.” I suspected it was more than a matter of taste than it was a desire to say these items out loud.

We also spent hours tilting our heads to read the spines of eroding paperbacks at used book stores with names that had nothing to do with reading like Monkey’s Jaw or Helena’s Teacup. We cultivated ourselves through reverential silences at art galleries where the decorum required both seriousness and inquisitive worship.

Even our friends were ones we could agree on, or pretend to, for the sake of the other. They were mostly artists with peculiar opinions, but we dedicated ourselves to the theatrics of the city. They had exotic names, loud fashion, and even louder bravados that they used words like fabulous. 

“Does he love you?,” Emma asked me once before a double date.

“I keep telling you, it isn’t like that. We sleep together, we eat together, we borrow each other’s toothbrush from time to time, that’s it.”

Yes, the etiquette of dating where I washed my hair, shaved my legs, tried on dresses in front of a mirror, and had a girlfriend over to give me cheerful advice was misinterpreted as romance.

Sometimes I sat without reading, doing nothing, in a room whose one window looked straight into a one-way street. The tears came easily caused by the depressant effect of the pills I had to take. David never questioned this, but accepted it as some kind of female hormone running its wild tangent. He often observed his own behaviour for signs of contagion, but there was none.

Instead, he bought me perfume rather than flowers after I insisted they were a wasteful extravagance, too temporary to be taken seriously, and could only be tolerated in the spring. In return, I bought him postcards. We held hands from time to time: when it was easy, when the moon was out, when one of us felt sad, or agreed to go for a walk without talking, touching each other’s bodies as a recollection, a mapping of sorts, a digression of a long conversation we’ve had once before.

We needed assurances like watching the snow fall, like our names being called out in lovemaking. He often looked down at me and told me I was beautiful. During sex he was less self-conscious and overtly sentimental. We had become scavengers of each other’s bodies, salvaging one another’s flaws and absences.

Yet, we had gotten to that point where I was no longer disciplined, shattering breakable objects during interrogations, contemplating my own death by blade, pill, or hanging. I had become on edge, so wounded that I resigned myself to swear at him to announce my recklessness, cutting my fingertips with a knife to keep count of each offence.

It was pictures of ex-girlfriends with big teeth, curly hair. They were real to me as transient ghosts in alleyways. In one photo, one leaned into him with her head on his shoulder, both hands clawing his forearm, gleeful as a cheerleader. I had to work up to them, each photograph, a horrible treasure, which allowed me to compare facial features, bust sizes, potential IQ levels, and skin complexion.

It wasn’t difficult for me to imagine him overwhelmed with nostalgia over a love song or how many times they had had fantastic, pungent sex. So, I preferred to imagine these women 50 pounds heavier with slight moustaches and strong lisps. If these images failed to encourage me, I imagined them dead. Revealing these photographs to me was David’s way to say we were merely survivors of other people and their failings. The satisfaction of memorized names and petty facts were scarcely worth it for evidence.

He always wanted things to happen sooner than they were supposed to, appealing to the unfamiliar. One incision and he had cut himself loose: unallowable, erased, hung up to dry, sent out to the boon docks. His face would’ve been cut out of photographs and albums burned if we had them. Instead, he left me keys, a note on foolscap paper, a white Gardenia in April – humiliation that said nothing. Somewhere there was an apology. I didn’t know who to ask. I didn’t know who to tell.

As I flip over the last postcard I will ever receive from him of a beach in Yucatán, Mexico, headlights of a passing car show through the window, moving first along one wall, then along the next wall, fading away.

Dear Sara,

The heat here is incredible! If it weren’t for your “Spanglish,” I’d be lost. The locals are somewhat weary of me, but eager to please and bugger off with all my money! How are you? How’s work? I heard from Emma and Alex that they’ll soon be taking the plunge… 

His penmanship is skimpy, thin, exhilarated with small talk and exclamation marks. Slowly, I can feel him leave my body in waves, like a helpless gesture.

He had other things to do, other people to love. I did, too….

We had plans.

(c) Zara D. Garcia-Alvarez

Category: Fiction

Author: Johanna Skibsrud

Format: Hardcover, 170 pages

Publisher: Hamish Hamilton

ISBN: 978-067-0066-308

Pub Date: September 20, 2011

The title of Johanna Skibsrud’s collection of stories is how I felt in describing it for this review. She’s that good of a writer. You can’t just slap on a few pretty adjectives, assess the narrative, the characters, the plot, and be done with it. Which is probably why I’ve delayed writing anything down about the book even though I finished it days ago. You need to take a step back. A big step.

Because what you think her story may be about will make you do a 360-degree turn for being as confident and obnoxious a reader you may usually be with other books. This was obviously my error in reading her work. Though I was reminded and readily affirmed that yes, Ms. Skibsrud, did win The Giller Prize in 2010 for her first unknown novel, The Sentimentalists. The Giller Effect obviously did not hurt the author’s writing, nor did it leave her paralyzed by pressure in writing another good book.

Don’t be misled by the value of the short story. Most people under-value its worth simply because it’s short , rather than a 400-page novel. It would be wrong to do so. In many ways, a short story is more difficult to write, what with its word count restriction. The writer must be able to say something of significance in so little space. And Johanna Skibsrud does this.

Her stories are subtle and multi-layered and motivated by elusive characters who are flawed, thoughtful, and deeply affected by their circumstances. You may ask, “Well, aren’t all characters like that?”

Not really. Because these characters are unaware of it almost as much as the readers are. Stories will leave the reader questioning what really happened and what is the true meaning of what just occurred because once the story ends, what remains is merely a sense, a feeling.

This uncertainty allows for possibility, which also leaves characters open to some form of salvation or hope. Or not. Either way, the narrative becomes an intimate window in the character’s life. A moment, really, in a string of moments that are written in a clear and real way that the reader has no choice, but to empathize, appreciate, and care for the characters’ world.

Johanna Skribsrud is able to write her characters’ dialogue and thought process in such a way that makes them not only believable, but honest and true. But written with such inexplicable giftedness that the author’s writing prowess is not only creative, fresh, and new, but powerful enough that any writer (or reader) can only wish he or she had thought of it first. Or in my case, “How did she do that?”

This book of nine stories is written by a new author, but a mature one. She is subtle, but assured, and her craft is perfect.

Filed under: review Tagged: books, Hamish Hamilton, Johanna Skibsrud, review, Zara D. Garcia-Alvarez ]]> https://zaraalexis.wordpress.com/2012/02/14/this-will-be-difficult-to-explain-other-stories-it-is/feed/ 1 zaraalexis difficult to explain cvr sentimentalists cvr https://zaraalexis.wordpress.com/2012/02/12/the-random-house-blogger-fest-february-11-2012/ https://zaraalexis.wordpress.com/2012/02/12/the-random-house-blogger-fest-february-11-2012/#comments Sun, 12 Feb 2012 07:20:09 +0000 zaraalexis http://zaraalexis.wordpress.com/?p=355 Continue reading →]]> By Zara D. Garcia-Alvarez

I’m a writer. I’m an editor. I’m a book-crazy person. I have mine in every room of my house. I have them on bookshelves and on my floor. Even in my kitchen. I’m also a very opinionated person. I like my opinions. I agree with them. They are mine. They belong to me. And I read a lot. As often as I can. And I’m not afraid to type, nor am I afraid of technology or the super-boom of social media, which led me to begin my own blog.

Blogs are everywhere (okay, not everywhere, but spread out enough on the Web to get some hits of curiosity and sometimes some applause.) A comment or two might even make you smile. I don’t know. I don’t have a large “following.” I’m no Blog Leader in the Blogging World. But I love to read, to share my very opinionated opinions, and to type exceptionally fast on my computer. It feels a lot more productive than talking to myself or trying to evangelize non-readers to join a book club.

My blogging adventure began in December 2011 when I was still asking the question, “What the heck is a widget?” And what’s this about “picking up buttons?” Huh? Okay, so I’m not a professional. But I was willing to start from scratch, which is how I suspect most bloggers do it. Or did it. And are continuing to do it.

And then I became an online contest junkie. I won my first giveaway book. When it arrived in the mail and my book was beautifully wrapped in a Jiffy envelope with its publisher’s mailing address on the left-hand corner, I was smitten. Yes, smitten!

I read. I reviewed. I followed other bloggers to see “what was out there,” what the literary community might be buzzing about, and also to figure out blogging etiquette, and if I could finally find the answer to what a widget was. I didn’t even know what an “ARC” was. I had to Google that to find out:

 ARC: Advance reader copy.

Oh my Great-God-of-Books-and-All-Things-Writing! My insatiable need to read was further enticed by the idea that I could get my hands on books before they hit the shelves at the bookstores. This is a special privilege and not just a financial one. It’s an honour really. It says, “I can see you’re an avid reader. What do you think about this book?”

Authors are the word scribes that commit themselves to writing from a place that compels them and provides for the rest of us with the stories, poems, and fictions (sometimes non-fictions) that we love.

The publishers work hard in editing, packaging, and distributing these beauties to our bookstores, schools, libraries, and the reading public.

Book bloggers, (and I speak for myself here) are the fanatical readers who are willing to stand in the rain in a two-hour lineup to meet a beloved author during a book signing because they love the printed word.

Justin Bieber? Who’s that?

You want inner-frenzy? Loud, excited chatter about new titles, cover design, and book launch dates? You want to know who rules The RaffleCopter in giveaways? Or who’s part of the Book Depository? Or do you want to know who owns the most “swag?” Ask a book blogger. That’s me—who is part of a very large “Us.”

Two months later, I “officially” christened myself as a book blogger when I received a special invitation from Random House of Canada to attend their Random House Blogger Fest Party.

That’s right. The Random House of Canada. The Big House. One of Canada’s leading publishing houses. The Publishing Honcho.

So, what did I do? I RSVP’d with a resounding yes (cartwheels not included in the email). And you thought the reading types weren’t a wild bunch. Pshh-shaw! It was a fest alright. I was so excited to attend, one of my morning tweets said,

“Being especially invited by @RandomHouseCA to attend The Blog Fest Party feels like being asked to the prom.”

But, it was better. It was not only held in downtown Toronto at the Random House of Canada head office, but the room was filled with book bloggers like myself, and the thing that we’re all mad about: books! It was like going to SWAG (Stuff We All Get) Heaven. (Believe me, I didn’t know what that meant either at one point in time!)

Look at Random House’s beautiful book and mug display.

(I was extremely self-controlled in not taking more than one mug! Those beauties are colossal. They are perfect for the caffeine-drinking-writer/editor type or for those who choose to eat clam chowder soup.)

Okay, okay. So, it wasn’t just the books. Aside from the Random House staff being so open and hospitable (let’s remember, they did come into “work” on a Saturday) and the chance to meet and greet people who share my same interests (who I might add, were an intelligent, kind, and enthusiastic bunch)—literary stars took time out of their busy, Saturday schedule to meet us, talk to us, and sign their books.

And when I say literary stars, I mean:

Ami McKay, author of The Birth House and The Virgin Cure

Ami spoke to us about her beginnings as a blogger, which was a great surprise to me personally, as well as an inspiration.

What do you say, book bloggers? It just might be you up there one day.

(Or me. I hope it’s me. It better be me. Okay, let’s stop talking about me…)

Ami was so personable, I actually didn’t faint when I sat down and talked to her. Ami, I appreciate both your books and now I can cross, “Meet Ami McKay in person!” off my Bucket List.

Erin Morgenstern, author of The Night Circus

Erin is as wonderful as her creative book. I apologize profusely, Erin, for antagonizing you with questions, gleeful outbursts, and fan worship.

This photo is also quite blurry due to my quivering hands and Erin’s animated introduction.

Giddiness is not good for taking photographs of famous authors.

Paula McLain, author of The Paris Wife 

Paula was graceful and composed (unlike myself) as she spoke to us about her writing process.

Thank you for sharing a little about The Book Lover’s Ball, Paula. I’m so jealous I wasn’t there!

 These authors were exceptionally lovely and patient especially with me considering I spoke loudly, gushed, blushed, and coerced them into taking photographs. Often.

From left to right: Paula McLain, Erin Morgenstern, and Ami McKay

(Okay, it’s official. I just fainted. Again.)

And I made a fool out of myself, too. I’m usually articulate, intelligent—even composed. I’ve been called, “the mature one.” Oh, but not so today. My usual “cool demeanor” was quickly removed as soon as I saw them sitting only a few chairs away from me. I’m glad I didn’t faint, cry, or sweat profusely. (Okay, so I sweated a little. And cried inside. It was more like a surprised, hidden shriek!) I had just finished reviewing The Virgin Cure by Ami McKay and The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern! This was my kind of party and definitely an early Valentine’s Day gift.

(This is what I did as soon as I met my husband after the Random House Blog Fest. Oh, yes, I did. Simply imagine SWAG, too, in the background.)

And then after the introductory speeches were made, who walks into the room? I don’t know, I was trying to pay attention to the slideshow. But then my neighbour-and-new-found-blogger-friend, Lindsay of Turning the Pages whispers to me, “That’s Erica Ehm!”

Oh. My. God.

Or in blogging language: OMG!!!!!!!!

Erica Ehm is much more than the Much Music queen.

She’s the CEO of  The Yummy Mummy Club.

I’m a YummyMummy member! Join if you haven’t already done so. It’s a great online community of intelligent, passionate, and independent women who also happen to be yummy mummies, too. I’ve got two little ones: a seven-year-old son and a two-year-old daughter, so this was a special treat for me.

Aside from hoarding books (this is A Bibliotaphe’s Closet, after all), I’m also a frequent Twitter bird. Through the Yummy Mummy Club, I’ve been following its book section: Bookalicious, by freelance writer and bloggette, Wanda Lynne Young. (I actually stalk her. Her page has great giveaways. No, on second thought, don’t go there. I want to win!!!) And all this time, she was sitting a few chairs beside me. I was beside myself, thank you very much, when I learned this. I also dragged her into a photo opportunity (as well as Jaclyn—because I was so excited, I interrupted their conversation. It’s obvious now, I have no manners).

Me, Wendy, Jaclyn

Need I say more? Well, yes, but then we’d be here until tomorrow. And I have some Random House books to read and review.

A special thank you to the hospitality of Lindsey, Cass, and Kat (I really regret not being able to take pictures with you!) at Random House for opening their doors to little-‘ol-me. It was honour enough to step inside the Random House building (ahh…*sigh*). Really. It was. And I didn’t even have to go to the washroom!

Q: What do you get when you put 25+ passionate book bloggers into a room with three famous authors, one famous T.V. personality/CEO, hosted by one of the leading Canadian publishers?

A: A whole-lotta-book-loving-crazy.

(I kept saying, “Writers are introverts.” I didn’t see any introverts?!)

 And for the patient graciousness of Ami, Erin, and Paula who have been working hard on their book tours and also just attended The Book Lover’s Ball, two nights before, it was exceptionally wonderful to connect, and to find that all of them were so personable even given their literary success. So, in that, I’m even more humbled.

And to my fellow bloggettes: If I didn’t get to chat it up with you, it’s because I was overcome with the SWAG in the room, the literary stars by my side, and the mere realization that, yes, today, I really feel like an “official” blogger. I even got my own name tag:

          For those I did get to meet, I hope you have my “homemade” (chuckle) business card. I was glad to be able to match a face to a blog especially when it’s one that I follow. (Yes, you know who you are!) And for those I haven’t been following, you may now consider me your newest fan. I also hope to join the ever-growing fun of the Ontario Blog Squad sometime soon, but if uniforms are required, I must tell you, I will only agree to wear jeans. And the only weapon I’ll bring to the table is my sharp, red lipstick and a good book.

I met some great women today who love reading, reviewing, and blogging as much as I do. And everyone was so nice. I don’t usually like using that word since there are many other descriptive ones to use, but I can’t help myself. They were. I was truly impressed by everyone’s willingness to mingle, chat, and shriek in unison.

I was amused to meet the Mocha Latte Queen that I blurted out, “It’s me! It’s Cupcake! Cupcake Zara!” I’ve been following her blog and often look forward to her “Morning Cupcakes!” greeting on  Twitter as part of my daily regime. And I always identify myself as “Cupcake” when I comment on her blog. It only felt natural to introduce myself as such, though I’m not much of a cupcake. I’m more of the cheesecake variety.

Me and Wendy, Miss Mocha Latte Queen

And meeting Just a Lil’ Lost was a delight! She put up with my shenaningans even when I personally accused her of “Rafflecopter not working” because I have never won any of her giveaways! And she struck back with, “I don’t use Rafflecopter.” Uh-oh. My bad. Needless to say, I begged to be chosen sometime in the next millennium! Here’s to crossing my fingers and toes all over again. (But,  now that she’s met me in person, how can she say no?)

Me and Michele, of Just a Lil’ Lost.

She’s obviously not lost. I, on the other hand, did not smile as widely as I hoped and my hands were all a flutter.

Here’s a better picture of my fellow bloggettes:

Wendy, Christa (Hooked on Books), and Michele

And to the ladies from Brampton: Who would have thought we would be brought together in such a way? I happily discovered Lindsay of Turning the Pages used to attend the public school my son goes to now. The one I only live five minutes away from. We grew up in the same area, most likely reading books! Lindsay, please be my BFFFB (Best-Friend-Forever-from-Brampton)!

Lindsay and me

As kids, Lindsay and I were most likely neighbours since we attended schools right beside each other.

We were also wondering whether or not to pick up the “dropped winter glove” that was picked up and put on the table in front of us. We highly suspected it might belong to another Random House famous author!

(I was tempted to put the glove in my purse. But didn’t.)

I also  found myself a new book-shopping-partner: Giselle, of BookNerd. Yup, we’re gonna hit the bookstores together. In Brampton! (You know which one! The one on Bovaird and Main!)

Giselle and Jaclyn (Literary Treats)

Yes, only book bloggers will tweet like mad during an event.

I didn’t tweet. I was busy taking photos and swooning.

          It was a great day for marketing, book-loving, and for connecting with the book blogging community. How many times did I say “book” in this post? I don’t know. A lot.

Thanks to all for giving my Valentine’s weekend a great start.

Which book will you be reading this weekend? I’ve got to go through my new, beautiful pile from Random House and choose.

(Ah…*blissful sigh*)

My goody bag.

Until the next Blog Fest, happy reading!

Zara Alexis

You can follow me on Twitter: @ZaraAlexis

Email: zgarcia(dot)alvarez(at)gmail(dot)com

Author: Erin Morgenstern
Format: Hardcover, 400 pages
Publisher: Doubleday Canada
Pub Date: September 13, 2011

The Night Circus is an intricate tale of creativity with a rich cast of characters who, with their specific gifts and talents help showcase the magical realism that moves throughout the book.

It is about Le Cirque des Rêves aptly translated as The Circus of Dreams not only because of its hours of operation that only takes place nocturnally in the evening until dawn, but also because of its dreamlike and fantastical effect on its patrons.

A circus is usually attributed to magic and feats of wonder as a form of entertainment. This circus, rather than only a collection of good showmanship skills of deception and tricks that audiences can enjoy simply as voyeurs, instead becomes an organic house of multiple tents, pathways, and magic that invites and seduces its patrons to not only visit, but also participate in and experience.

Image from:     http://matchbookclub.blogspot.com/2011/10/enchanted.html

So much so, there are those avid followers of the circus in the book who themselves become a cultist group of lifetime worshippers, a secret society that dubbed its name from the whisperings of rumour later known as the réveurs. The réveurs, a fanatical, creative group reveal themselves to each other by a colour coded uniform: black, white, grey, and a “splash of red” in honour of Le Cirque des Rêves’ own colour theme throughout its grounds: black, white, and black and white stripes.

Image from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/b-randy/6327494925/

But the story goes further than providing simple entertainment to its patrons or to its readers. The true premise of the night circus as a venue is its stage for a duel competition between two gifted adversaries, Celia Bowen, daughter of famous and renowned illusionist, Prospero the Enchanter, and Marco, orphan-turned-student to The Man in the Grey Suit, Alexander H.

Together, they simultaneously study under the tutelage of their magician masters, honing in on strengthening their natural gifts—Celia, who is able to move, dismantle, and return objects to their natural form, and Marco, who is able to create illusions within the minds of his chosen audience—until each in turn must learn to outdo the other in the competition of their lives.

Though I found the romantic dialogue and narrative to be somewhat exaggerated, I believe the author was attempting to showcase the lovers’ passion and strong connection to one another through their magic. It is highly unrealistic, but then what story of deep, passionate love ever is? The two lovers are intrinsically a different type of breed altogether.

Image from: http://manbehindthecurtain.ie/2012/01/22/carnival-of-fear/

As the gifts of the competitors strengthen and expand, so does the complication of the circus. The characters that belong to or are involved with the circus are:

•  Chandresh Christophe Lefèvre, a wealthy eccentric gifted in hosting elaborate parties called Midnight Dinners, who also has an inherent talent with knife-throwing.
• Mme. Ana Padva, a retired Romanian prima ballerina with an impeccable sense of style who is revered for her fashion design and seamstress skills.
• Mr. Ethan W. Barris, a gifted engineer and architect.
• The Burgess twins, Tara and Lainie, dancers, actresses, who provide consultation on various subjects due to their keen sense of observation.
• Alexander H., the man in the grey suit who is best known to wear a top hat and carry a cane.
• Tsukiko, the tattooed contortionist.
• Herr Friedrick Thiessen, a gifted artisan and clockmaker commissioned to create a showcase piece for the circus.
• Isobel Martin, tarot reader and fortuneteller.
• Bailey Alden Clarke, a young circus enthusiast.
• Winston Aiden Murray nicknamed Widget, a twin born on the opening night of Le Cirque des Rêves.
• Penelope Aislin Murray called Poppet, the second of the twins to be born on opening night.

As these characters become more deeply embedded in the circus’ magic and its danger, the effects on its members and its patrons, as well as its own magic, slowly becomes darker.

As fantastical and wondrous as magic can be, there is always an undercurrent of dark that runs within it because its mysteries are not readily understood, accepted, revealed, nor practiced. An array of magical practice is showcased in the book as homage to the art of the occult.

Image from: http://pinterest.com/wovendumpster/the-night-circus/

Yet, they far stretch the limits of what we normally understand as magic. Erin Morgenstern has moved beyond the boundaries of what we are familiar with and has created a new world of richly, imaginative ideas.

The beauty of this book is in the literal magic that takes place within its pages. Where our imagination has failed to carry us further than what we yearn to experience and understand, Morgenstern has supplied a richly imaginative story, plot, and magical realism that inspires us to believe not only in her authoritative writing powers, but also her fantastic and creative imagination.

Image from: http://pinterest.com/pin/18577417182599118/

Reprinned by Morgan Koch

If Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland is deemed a rich classic, Erin Morgenstern’s Night Circus is its modern and magical counterpart.

Image from: http://geoffarcher.wordpress.com/

The cover design is intelligently made to match the colour themes found in the book from its starlit front cover, to its black and white striped first pages, right down to its red stitched hardcover binding.

It’s a wondrous, intoxicating book that needs to be thoroughly read more than once, over and over. A naturally born skeptic myself, Erin Morgenstern has been able to magically convert me to becoming one of her night circus’ devoted rèveurs. The mysterious pages of the book continue to be turned in Friedrick Thiessen’s clock: tick, tock, tick, tock…and poof!

Image from: http://homeiswheretheboatis.wordpress.com/2012/01/20/the-night-circus/

For the addicted réveur, it will always become dawn too soon.

Where will you be when Le Cirque des Rêves comes to the outskirts of your town?

As for me, I’ll be in the black and white striped tent wearing my blood-red scarf, looking out for The Man in the Grey Suit in the shadows, Prospero the Enchanter amongst the stain-glass windows, and Celia and Marco in the Ice Garden, bound by magic and love. 

Image from: http://pinterest.com/pin/18577417182602219/

Pinned by Linda D.

A special thank you to Lindsey Reeder of Random House Canada for providing me with a signed copy of The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern for review.

(c) Zara D. Garcia-Alvarez

Author: Esi Edugyan
Format: Trade Paperback, 304 pages
Publisher: Thomas Allen Publishers
Pub Date: August 25, 2011

Winner of 2011 Soctiabank Giller Prize.

Author: Ami McKay
Format: Hardcover, 356 pages
Publisher: A. Knopf Canada
Pub Date: October 25, 2011

Ami McKay writes with storytelling ease of a young girl named “Moth” by a legendary pear tree on the crossroads of Pear Tree corner. As imaginative as this sounds, and though the novel is filled with a sort of Cirque du Soleil creativity in the trappings of the book’s characters from their costumes to their well-manufactured displays of propriety—the book is anything, but happy.

It tells of the polarity between decadence and poverty in the streets of New York in 1871, the age of mysterious outbreaks of disease that would come to be known later as typhoid, diphtheria, smallpox, tuberculosis, gonorrhea, and syphilis.

It is, in simple terms, a story of survival, of not only the city’s poverty and disease, but the ramifications of its poor choices, or lack thereof, which leads or continues the culture’s socially accepted, yet somewhat masked moral decline.

Poor and impoverished families sell their young daughters away into prostitution where they are not only valued for their youth, their potential profitable income, but also for their “certified” virginity and innocence. But the value tied to a girl’s virginity is not entirely driven by a desire toward her innocence and purity, but rather driven by a rumoured myth of a virgin cure – the belief that a man with disease could cure himself by deflowering a virgin, of which the novel is aptly titled.

The tale is of a 12-year-old girl named Ada “Moth” Fenwick who is left behind by her “gypsy” mother in poverty by a man whose wandering eye and lustful appetite found a much younger companion by the name of Katie Adams. Though this part in the plot is small, it is the catalyst that propels Moth into an enslaved life of first: servitude, theft, and then prostitution. It can also be said that her father’s actions were, but a mere microcosm of the male psyche at large in the tenements of lower Manhattan in 1871; a foreshadowing of men’s dismissive view of marriage and their wives.

What is left is an array of women who react to their station in life, their personal ambitions for survival in prosperity, security, and if fitting, love.

Ada’s mother, a gypsy fortune teller is frugal with her love toward her daughter, perhaps as a result of the severity of her abandonment by her husband and the severity of being poor with a child to raise on her own, single-handedly. It would be better to think she did this as an effort to strengthen Ada in tactics of survival, but it’s too hopeful an assumption. As a reader, I suspect her coolness toward her daughter is due to the hardship of their impoverished life together and her personal heartache.

“The Fortune Teller.” Painting by George Elgar Hicks, oil canvas, 1824-1914.

As ambition goes, Ada’s mother maximizes her exotic origin by exaggerating her prophetic, supernatural abilities and by doing so, increases whatever profit she is able to make. An interesting trait about Ada’s gypsy mother is her partiality to collecting charred trinkets from the wreckage of house fires. It is as if, perhaps, her willingness to settle for charred, token items, speaks to her submission finally to the horror of her environment, her poverty, and her inability to overcome it.

Miss Emma Everett, the madam in charge of raising young girls in prostitution on “No. 73 East Houston Street,” is surprisingly fair to the girls, understanding always their crucial role in her tenacious ambition toward financial success. She is clear about her expectations, preying in on their youth, their beauty, and their willingness to succeed in raising their status from “almost whore” to “whore” in order to avoid a life on the streets. Miss Emma is able to tantalize the girls with material extravagance and special treatment when she feels a girl is able to seduce clients into securing her and her household a fortune. She is neither cruel to the girls in the house, but strict in their tutelage in beauty and etiquette. They are, to her, neither daughters, nor friends, but commodities to her social status and her business. Miss Emma reflects the materialistic woman who will erase moral boundaries in order to survive and flourish amongst her peers, perpetuating men’s stereotypes of girls and women and satisfying their sexual appetites while filling her purse.

Mrs. Wentworth, though endowed with a high station and riches, is inflicted with sorrow, anguish, and rage, desiring power and vengeance on the youth, beauty, and innocent victims who beguile and surpass her in arousing desire. The plot of Mrs. Wentworth’s cruelty was so difficult to read, I had to, during numerous times in my reading, put the book down. It is enough to say, Mrs. Wentworth’s worst enemy is herself in her own torment that she feels compelled as a coping mechanism or an act of survival to inflict the same kind of torment on others. Though she is cruel, she is, in fact, not the most degenerate of the characters in the book.

Though Dr. Sadie is a woman of heritage and rich origin, her family also ostracizes her because of her choice in pursuing an education and a career that equals that of a man’s (at that time), rather than marriage. She boards and works in the New York Infirmary for Indigent Women and Children, provides medical care for the young girls who live on East Houston Street, and pays regular visits to those who are too ill to leave their homes for medical care. Dr. Sadie, the polar opposite of Miss Emma Everett in moral attitude, is similar to her in that she works within the rules of a social system to further her goals, namely, to care for those who are in need. Her financial compensation is most likely small compared to her previous lifestyle, but provides an outlet where she feels she is doing some good especially toward the young victims that fall prey to the “virgin cure” mythology.

Ada “Moth” Fenwick is the child at the centre of the story whose lowly station in life has left her with few choices in acts of survival within the streets of Manhattan. She is an embodiment of “child-woman,” young as 12-years-old, innocent in the ways of sexuality, yet hardened by the harsh environment she finds herself in: from abandonment of her father; an unrequited love from her mother; cruelty and humiliation in the service of Mrs. Wentworth; manipulation by a butler whom she trusts; dishonesty in the craft of begging and stealing on the streets south of East Houston; the betrayal of friends in competition for being the most valuable asset and commodity to Miss Emma Everett; to the eventual knowledge and misuse of her own sexuality.

            The stories of these girls and women work together to showcase a hungry, desperate, and diseased New York City in the 1870’s beneath the decadence of mansion and estate, dress trains, and social elitism.

           ”Moth” is not a butterfly, but an active mistress of the night, able to hover much like a hummingbird, above  her circumstances.

***

I read “The Virgin Cure” by Ami McKay as my choice under the theme “Historical Fiction” for the 2012 Random Reading Challenge from January 1 to February 29.