My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh: A review

What a strange yet captivating novel. The unnamed narrator is a beautiful (as she frequently reminds us), privileged, blonde, skinny (size 2) woman living the life of many people's dreams in an apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. She is a recent graduate of Columbia and has an undemanding job at a hip art gallery, but she doesn't really need the job because all her needs are met by an inheritance from her recently deceased parents.

And about those parents: Our narrator was their only child but she was not close to either of them, and yet their deaths seem to have untethered her mooring to any sort of need to have a productive life or to be a part of a larger society. There has been a rip in the fabric of her soul and her essence seems to be leaking away in the year 2000. Both her parents were narcissists focused on their own needs and comforts and in this their daughter is very much like them. She sees herself as the focus of the world and everything that happens in it is a reaction to her.

"Everyone I knew at school hated me because I was so pretty."

As she faces the general unraveling of her life and an inability (or lack of desire and will) to cope with it, she makes a drastic decision: She will use the wonders of pharmacology and psychotropic drugs to sleep for an entire year, at the end of which she hopes she will be able to shed ennui and rebuild her life.

Her first step in fulfilling her plan is to find a compliant psychiatrist who will prescribe the necessary pills. She goes looking through the yellow pages of the phone book and comes up with Dr. Tuttle, who is possibly my favorite character in the narrative. She is a terrible psychiatrist! She is a bumbler who is all too easily led by her "patient" to provide the cocktail of drugs that she needs to achieve her plan to zonk out for a year.

This may sound like the premise of a grim and claustrophobic tale, but in fact it isn't. It is a bit of a page-turner. It is by turns disgusting and hilarious but never dull.

The writer, Ottessa Moshfegh, is of Croatian and Iranian descent and this is her second novel. She had previously written a novella and a short story collection. Her fiction typically features misfits and loners and, for that description, our narrator is a prime example. Her only sort-of friend is Reva, a young Jewish woman (size 4) who is envious of our narrator's thinness and blonde beauty, or at least that's what we are told. In the midst of the narrator's "year of sleep," Reva receives a promotion in her job and moves to her new office in the Twin Towers and, of course, we can see what is coming.

“On September 11, I went out and bought a new TV/VCR at Best Buy so I could record the news coverage of the planes crashing into the Twin Towers. Trevor was on a honeymoon in Barbados, I'd later learn, but Reva was lost. Reva was gone. I watched the videotape over and over to soothe myself that day. And I continue to watch it, usually on a lonely afternoon, or any other time I doubt that life is worth living, or when I need courage, or when I am bored. Each time I see the woman leap off the Seventy-eighth floor of the North Tower—one high-heeled shoe slipping off and hovering up over her, the other stuck on her foot as though it were too small, her blouse untucked, hair flailing, limbs stiff as she plummets down, one arm raised, like a dive into a summer lake—I am overcome by awe, not because she looks like Reva, and I think it's her, almost exactly her, and not because Reva and I had been friends, or because I'll never see her again, but because she is beautiful. There she is, a human being, diving into the unknown, and she is wide awake.”  

Finally, the narcissistic narrator is able to acknowledge that someone else is beautiful, even in dying. Now, perhaps, she, too, is wide awake.  

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

 

Poetry Sunday: The Facts of Art by Natalie Diaz

The MacArthur Grants, the so-called "genius grants," were announced last week. There, tucked away on the list of twenty-five recipients of the grants, all those scientists and activists, was the name of a poet, Natalie Diaz. I was intrigued.

Natalie Diaz was not a name that was known to me and so I had to learn about her. Her familial and cultural background is Mojave and Latina. She is an enrolled member of the Gila River Indian Tribe and an associate professor in the Department of English at Arizona State University. She uses her personal background as a source to create a personal mythology that conveys "the oppression and violence that continue to indigenous Americans in a variety of forms." 

I read several of her poems and was moved by them all. Violence, both societal and individual, is a continuing theme in her writing. This poem, "The Facts of Art," explores a clash of cultures on the mesas of Arizona and the violence through lack of understanding and respect that a dominant culture can do to another. 

The Facts of Art

by Natalie Diaz                                         

The Arizona highway sailed across the desert—

     a gray battleship drawing a black wake,

            halting at the foot of the orange mesa,

                  unwilling to go around.

Hopi men and women—brown, and small, and claylike

      —peered down from their tabletops at yellow tractors, water trucks,

            and white men blistered with sun—red as fire ants—towing

                  sunscreen-slathered wives in glinting Airstream trailers

                         in caravans behind them.

Elders knew these bia roads were bad medicine—knew too

     that young men listen less and less, and these young Hopi men

           needed work, hence set aside their tools, blocks of cottonwood root

                 and half-finished Koshari the clown katsinas, then

                        signed on with the Department of Transportation,

were hired to stab drills deep into the earth’s thick red flesh

     on First Mesa, drive giant sparking blades across the mesas’ faces,

           run the drill bits so deep they smoked, bearding all the Hopi men

                 in white—Bad spirits, said the Elders—

The blades caught fire, burned out—Ma’saw is angry, the Elders said.

     New blades were flown in by helicopter. While Elders dreamed

            their arms and legs had been cleaved off and their torsos were flung

                  over the edge of a dinner table, the young Hopi men went

                         back to work cutting the land into large chunks of rust.

Nobody noticed at first—not the white workers,

     not the Indian workers—but in the mounds of dismantled mesa,

           among the clods and piles of sand,

                 lay the small gray bowls of babies’ skulls.

Not until they climbed to the bottom did they see

     the silvered bones glinting from the freshly sliced dirt-and-rock wall—

           a mausoleum mosaic, a sick tapestry: the tiny remains

                 roused from death’s dusty cradle, cut in half, cracked,

                        wrapped in time-tattered scraps of blankets.

Let’s call it a day, the white foreman said.

     That night, all the Indian workers got sad-drunk—got sick

          —while Elders sank to their kivas in prayer. Next morning,

                as dawn festered on the horizon, state workers scaled the mesas,

                        knocked at the doors of pueblos that had them, hollered

                               into those without them,

demanding the Hopi men come back to work—then begging them—

     then buying them whiskey—begging again—finally sending their white

          wives up the dangerous trail etched into the steep sides

                to buy baskets from Hopi wives and grandmothers

                       as a sign of treaty.

When that didn’t work, the state workers called the Indians lazy,

      sent their sunhat-wearing wives back up to buy more baskets—

           katsinas too—then called the Hopis good-for-nothings, 

                 before begging them back once more.

We’ll try again in the morning, the foreman said.

     But the Indian workers never returned—

          The bias and dots calls to work went unanswered,

                as the fevered Hopis stayed huddled inside.

The small bones half-buried in the crevices of mesa—

     in the once-holy darkness of silent earth and always-night—

          smiled or sighed beneath the moonlight, while white women

                in Airstream trailers wrote letters home

praising their husbands’ patience, describing the lazy savages:

     such squalor in their stone and plaster homes—cobs of corn stacked

         floor to ceiling against crumbling walls—their devilish ceremonies

               and the barbaric way they buried their babies,

                      oh, and those beautiful, beautiful baskets.

This week in birds - #323

A roundup of the week's news of birds and the environment:

The ubiquitous wetlands bird, the American Coot, photographed at Brazos Bend State Park.

*~*~*~*

The Supreme Court opened its session this week and the first matter before the court was the Case of the Dusky Gopher Frog. The tiny frog is confined to a handful of ponds in Mississippi and is seriously in danger of extinction. Weyerhauser, the logging company, wants to drain the swamps - literally. The argument before the court is whether the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service exceeded its authority in designating more than 1500 acres in Louisiana as critical habitat for the species' future survival. The decision of the court could have broad implications for the future ability of the agency to designate "critical habitat" for other species. In questioning the attorneys in the case, the court seemed to be split 4-4.

*~*~*~*

Drunk birds are causing a stir in some places up north this season, particularly in Gilbert, Minnesota. Berry-eating birds like Cedar Waxwings and American Robins and other members of the thrush family eat a lot of berries at this time of year because they are available and the birds are getting ready for winter, but some of those berries are fermented and can intoxicate the birds just as fermented juice can intoxicate humans. This can be deadly for the bird because it can't fly properly and it may fly into hard objects or it may not be able to defend itself from predators. Luckily, the binge will likely be over soon and the flocks can continue their migration.

*~*~*~*

Score one for the environmentalists and the tribes. On Tuesday, a federal judge in Washington, D.C., handed a procedural victory to the coalition of indigenous nations, outdoor-activity companies, and environmental groups suing the U.S. government over the cuts to Bear Ears National Monument and Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument in Utah. This is only the beginning, of course. The legal battle will continue.

*~*~*~*

The soon to be released and much-awaited report from the U.N.'s top climate science panel will show an enormous gap between where we are and where we need to be to prevent dangerous levels of warming. Climate scientists are struggling to find the right words for the report to adequately convey the danger to the planet.

*~*~*~*

The removal of two dams from Washington's Elwha River has not only helped to preserve habitat for salmon (the stated goal of the project) but it has also reinvigorated the watershed and had other positive impacts on the ecosystem of the area. The project is a model for future dam removals in other areas.

*~*~*~*

Male House Sparrow in my backyard.

The House Sparrow is today found in most parts of the world where there are humans; the little birds enjoy living in close proximity to our species. Now a DNA study has revealed the grounds for that relationship. The House Sparrow diverged from other Middle Eastern sparrows in its evolution at the time that humans developed agriculture around 11,000 years ago. The birds learned to eat and digest the starch-rich foods produced by agriculture and the bond was formed.

*~*~*~*

The current administration in Washington has released an environmental impact statement that assumes an inevitable 7-degree Fahrenheit rise in global temperatures by 2100. Their argument is that, since this is inevitable, there is nothing that we can do about it. No changes in our habits are required. Apparently, there is also no need to plan for the disaster that a seven degree rise would bring. 

*~*~*~*

Monk Parakeet image courtesy of Audubon.org.

There are now thriving colonies of Monk Parakeets in Houston and, in fact, in most of the larger cities of Texas. It is not known how the first of the birds came here from their South American home, although the pet trade seems the likely source, but they have been in the Houston area now for at least thirty years, plenty of time to make it feel like home.

*~*~*~*

The southeastern United States is home to a dizzying diversity of aquatic wildlife, but all of that is threatened by the environmental disasters posed by mountaintop mining and the excrement filled lagoons of pig farms.

*~*~*~*

Here's some good news for the environment from the Supreme Court: They have refused to hear a challenge to a lower court decision that the ban on new uranium mining near the Grand Canyon is legal. The ban will now stay in place.

*~*~*~*

Veeries, a member of the thrush family, seem to have an uncanny ability to predict the severity of and upcoming hurricane season. With this ability, they can adjust their schedules accordingly and potentially avoid the worst of the season when migrating south to tropical wintering grounds.

*~*~*~*

A new study predicts high costs for global warming in the United States and India. This includes both financial costs and societal costs.

*~*~*~*

The Clean Water Rule, which clarifies that the Clean Water Act also protects seasonal streams, lakes, and wetlands, became the law of the land last month when a federal district judge found that the current administration had overstepped its authority by suspending the rule without public comment. 

*~*~*~*

And now the administration wants to dramatically weaken a major environmental regulation regarding mercury, a toxic chemical emitted from coal-burning power plants. The proposal they have made is designed to weaken the current rule, as well as several other pollution rules, and setting the stage for a possible full repeal of it.

*~*~*~*

In attempting to limit the kinds of scientific studies that can be used to protect public health, the EPA left out its own Office of the Science Advisor. These people really, really hate science. 

*~*~*~*

Scientists are urging more and better protections for secondary tropical forests to allow them time to grow and to recover the carbon as well as the wildlife diversity that such forests can house.

Halloween is coming...or maybe it's already here.

Hat tip to Daily Kos.

Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew'd by Alan Bradley: A review

It wasn't actually a "brinded" cat that mew'd; it was a calico. But literary license is allowed, I suppose, since the writer seems to base all of his titles on nursery rhymes. 

Flavia de Luce is Alan Bradley's charming heroine and I have enjoyed reading his tales about her from the beginning. When he published his first book in the series, he came through Houston on a book tour and my daughter, who was then a librarian with the Houston Public Library, met him and she recommended his book to me. I've looked forward to reading each entry in the series since then, but I had last visited with Flavia more than three years ago, in January 2015, when I read As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust. She was brought to mind again recently when I needed a less than serious distraction from the news of the day.

In Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew'd, Flavia is now twelve years old and she has been sent home from the school in Canada to which her family had sent her, perhaps in hopes of teaching her some decorum. If so, their hopes were dashed. Now Flavia has been sent home to England once again to the family's country estate of Buckshaw in the little village of Bishop's Lacey. Flavia is delighted. But when the ship docks in England, instead of the joyous welcome home that she had anticipated, she is met by her father's factotum, Dogger, who informs her that her father is in hospital and is gravely ill with pneumonia. He is not being allowed visitors.

Even so, Flavia is happy to be home and distracts herself from worry about her only parent with squabbles with her two older sisters and her insufferable cousin, Undine, who now lives with the family. When her friend, the vicar's wife, asks her run an errand and deliver a message to a wood-carver who is needed to do some work at the church, Flavia jumps on her trusty bicycle, Gladys, and heads out, regardless of snow and wind and cold winter weather. It's the middle of December after all and cold weather is good for you.

Arriving at the wood-carver's home and getting no response to her knocks, she tries the door and finds it unlocked, so, of course, she enters...and finds the wood-carver hanging upside down from a contraption strapped to a door. He is quite dead. 

Was it murder? There are no obvious signs of violence; nevertheless, it is in Flavia's nature to be suspicious. She seems to have an uncanny ability for finding dead bodies and there is nothing that fascinates her more. She does love a nice juicy murder. Soon, she's off and investigating and finding a much more complicated story than that which appeared on the surface.

Flavia de Luce is sort of a female Harry Potter, not exactly a wizard but definitely a prodigy with a natural talent for chemistry and an insatiable curiosity. Bradley's books are not really marketed as YA, but I can definitely see how they would appeal to that age group. She is an engaging and winsome character whose antics can be enjoyed by any reader regardless of age.

This story has a shadow hanging over it, cast by Flavia's father's serious illness, but in the end, we know that the de Luces will maintain their best British stiff upper lips and carry on.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars  

Wordless Wednesday: Gulf Fritillary on Mexican sunflower

Lethal White by Robert Galbraith: A review

This a big, sprawling tale, fourth in the Cormoran Strike/Robin Ellacott mystery series. Each one has been better than the last.

This one starts where the last one ended - at Robin's wedding to Matthew, an absolute jerk who everyone except her can see is wrong for her. Actually, even she sees it, but she has several years of her life invested in the relationship plus a lot of her parents' hard-earned money spent on the wedding and she just can't find it within herself to pull the plug.

Moreover, she has been fired from her job by Cormoran Strike and now her relationship with Matthew seems like the only thing she has going for her. The only bright spot of the day is when Cormoran shows up at the wedding and gives her a hug and they reconcile.

Fast forward a year. Robin is back at work as a detective, now a partner in the agency which is doing quite well. They've solved some big cases and gotten a lot of public notice as a result.

A young man named Billy Knight comes to their office to ask for Cormoran's help. He is obviously in mental distress and confused but he tells the detective a story about witnessing the murder of a child - a girl or perhaps a boy who looked like a girl - when he himself was a small child. He cannot remember all of the details but he seems quite sincere and convinced. Before Cormoran can really question him, he panics and runs out of the office.

Cormoran is intrigued and commits himself to getting to the bottom of the strange story.

Meanwhile, the agency is hired by Britain's culture minister, Jasper Chiswell (pronounced chizzel), to investigate an attempt to blackmail him over something that happened a few years back. Except he won't reveal exactly what that something is, so the detectives are working in the dark. In order to unravel the mystery, Robin goes undercover in the minister's office and thus we get a glimpse of the workings of the House of Commons.

Chiswell is from a well-connected, once-rich family that has now devolved into a group of entitled, power-abusing, greedy, backstabbing, thoroughly dysfunctional bunch of snobs. Thus, it is not too surprising when Chiswell is found dead in his office at home. At first the death looks like a suicide, but we just know that isn't the case; there are too many people who would have been glad to see the end of him. Suddenly, Robin and Cormoran have another high-profile murder to investigate.

While pursuing this case, Cormoran continues searching for Billy and trying to resolve that mystery. Robin, meantime, has another chance to go undercover to get more information about a provocateurs' group called the Real Socialist Party whose leader, Jimmy Knight, may be Chiswell's blackmailer and, it turns out, is Billy's brother. In the end, all the mysteries are connected and we see how everything fits together.    

This is an old-fashioned novel in many ways. It is 656 pages long and it offers thorough exposition of all the protagonists' feelings, motivations, and activities. Moreover, the major action of the novel takes place during the London Olympics and we get descriptions of the bad traffic which snarls the city as well as Londoners' feelings of pride about the success of the Olympics. We feel the pain of Cormoran as he hobbles around the city - he always seems to be walking somewhere - on his one-and-a-half legs, his prosthesis rubbing his leg stump raw. We suffer through the miserable year of marriage with Robin as she finally acknowledges that it just isn't going to work. We endure Comoran's angst over his various girlfriends and a family emergency that occurs in the midst of all this. It is all exhaustively described and while it may sound like exhausting reading, it really isn't. Even at 650+ pages, I was sorry to see it end.

That Robert Galbraith is quite a writer and I foresee a great future for him. He reminds me in some ways of another writer, the one who wrote all those exhaustively described Harry Potter books. What was her name?

My rating: 5 of 5 stars