Book Review: Let Me Sing You Gentle Songs, by Linda Olsson

td Whittle

Posted on March 1, 2016

Let Me Sing You Gentle Songs by Linda Olsson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Come, sit by me, and I shall tell you all my sorrows; we shall talk to each other about secrets. p. 63 quote from Edith Sodergran’s Sorger (Sorrows), 1916.

As the title suggests, this is a gentle song of a book. It’s a quiet story about two women, one in her thirtieth year and the other decades older, helping each other through terrible losses merely by being present to one another. Veronika and Astrid meet as new neighbours who are situated on a hillside overlooking a mountain town in Sweden. Each is isolated in her own silent, aching grief, and together, they are isolated from the rest of the community. They soon begin sharing walks, picking berries, talking, eating, and narrating their lives for one another in short scenes that are understated but often trenchant. Ultimately, through the delicate art of companionship, they are able to rediscover life and beauty in the heart of their sorrows.

Perhaps this sounds cliche. There are moments when the characters do speak in philosophical platitudes (especially Astrid, towards the end) but then I am reminded that we do this in life too. We do, from time to time, turn over an old platitude and find truth hiding underneath. Some parts of the book were, I felt, a bit too neatly tied up (again towards the end) but, overall, I thought it very well done. Also, I preferred a clean finish with this particular book, because I felt the characters deserved it after all they’d been through. It was tremendously satisfying emotionally, even if in some part of my brain I was saying, “oh come on, really?”

Even if I did say that in part of my mind, I believe, still, that Linda Olsson had hit all the right notes by the time I closed the book. Her tale is neither overwrought nor austere in its telling. I liked especially the calmness of it all. There is no rending of clothes or gnashing of teeth to be found here, even when Veronika and Astrid are narrating traumatic events. Because of this emotional restraint, I was able to feel for them instead of them doing all the feeling and acting-out of big emotions.

The book is high drama, really, but so very low key. I admire this enormously, as I think it is not easy to pull off a novel that is essentially about two women doing ordinary things whilst healing from tragedy. Theirs are the the kind of losses that knock you clean out the window of life. Brahms is mentioned throughout, and Brahms suits to a T as its musical accompaniment (rather than, say, Beethoven or Wagner). The snippets of Swedish poetry, none of which I had ever read but which have been translated here, are so well chosen too and lovely to read in this context.

This is my favourite poem quote:

. . . for the day is you,
and the light is you,
the sun is you,
and all the beautiful, beautiful
awaiting life is you.
p. 252 quote from Helmer Grundstrom’s Ma — (May), 1954.

Let Me Sing You Gentle Songs moves its characters and its readers from one day and one season and one chapter to the next in a restrained but ever-changing fashion, much like the setting in which it is placed: the mountainous countryside of Sweden, with snow and ice and rain and then spring bursting forth with maypole dances and wild strawberries and birds chattering out the windows. This is one of those books that stirs the soul and which lingers, but softly softly.

Wishing You a Happy & Bookish New Year

Sandra Peterson Ramirez

Posted on December 31, 2015

empty road leading into sunset with 2016 written in the sky

xo,

Sandra & td

The Infinite Loop: a novella of spaceships, time warps, and free pie

td Whittle

Posted on December 26, 2015

Dear Readers,

We are excited to announce that our second book, The Infinite Loop: a novella of spaceships, time warps and free pie, is available in Kindle and paperback formats at Amazon.

Lenie and Rachel are two old friends sharing a road trip and a new vision of life, beyond marriage and children. Things begin to feel strange out in the West Texas desert: a buzzing, tingling kind of strange. An aircraft appears to be following them and distant lights shine from a town that doesn’t appear on their maps. What awaits them there is a tidy RV park boasting modern amenities and fresh all-you-can-eat pie.

Feeling lucky to have landed in this quiet oasis under a star-strewn desert sky, the women are reluctant to leave, even as they find themselves drawn into a series of increasingly disturbing events. Is it the town, the pie, or some kind of shared hallucination? One thing they know for sure is that they can’t leave without seeing the local attraction that has beckoned them ever since their arrival: the Infinite Loop.

This is the first book in our Pie Town series. Watch for our second, which we plan to release in February 2017.

Happy reading, everyone!

Sandra and td

Thirteen Ways Press

Hell and High Water

Sandra Peterson Ramirez

Posted on October 31, 2015

drop of water on lightbulb with foggy trees in background

The water is again rising at an alarming rate in Houston, in Texas, in Louisiana, Mississippi, etc. And on a Halloween Saturday at that. Unfortunately, there’s no candy to be found in my house–trust me, I’ve searched–but there are always books and (as long as the electricity stays on) coffee. If you, like me, are planning to turn off the lights, stay in tonight, and maybe read a spooky story, I have a few suggestions:

Ghost Summer: Stories – Just a tip: don’t download this to your e-reader late at night and immediately start reading it. It’s not conducive to sleep and the stories will suck you into Tananarive Due’s fictional Gracetown where ghosts and monsters may be part of everyday life, but shouldn’t be mistaken for harmless.

Trigger Warning: Short Fictions and Disturbances – This is Neil Gaiman doing what he does best: telling creepy stories with an edge of dark humor. Highly recommend on audio, which is also read by Gaiman.

The Strange Library – This slim novella from Haruki Murakami takes a library, traditionally the reader’s refuge, and turns a fun house mirror on it, creating a world where a boy must try use his ability to absorb knowledge from books to literally keep his head.

The Little Stranger – If you’re looking to sink in for a longer read, this novel by Sarah Waters is an excellent choice. “There are a few dark-and-stormy and fog-enveloped nights, used to great effect and without apology. The overall impression is like watching a stain spread across your floor, as you pad about in the half-light looking for the leak, only to realise with dawning horror that it’s not water but blood seeping through your socks. Immersing and immensely fun read” is how Tina aptly described it.

The Hallowed Ones – Need a “guilty pleasure” read? Who knew there was a slew of Amish vampire books? Apparently it is a thing and I’ll admit that I’m reading this one. Don’t think that you’re going to find pretty, sparkly vampires here; these are the monster variety.

However you celebrate, here’s wishing you a Happy Halloween. Above the waterline.

Ice Cream Stories: Dark and Stormy Shake

Sandra Peterson Ramirez

Posted on September 11, 2015

The four of us stand together at the edge of the firelight. My little sister, Victoria, is the youngest. She’s twelve years younger than me; a happy accident for my parents and, once we’d grown up, my best friend. She’s also the creator of the smooth, intoxicating shakes we’ve just used to toast the night.

The other two are my friends Mallory and Callie. Standing here, the variations in height and shape and coloring—our skin and hair ranging from pale to dusky—that mark us in daylight fade away, and we are simply shadows. These women are my clan. They are the ones I call when life has been very good or very bad or just because. Today has not been a good day.

Like I said, Victoria made the drinks. She brought the rum, ginger beer, and good vanilla ice cream and blended them together. She said she’d sprinkled something special in them as well. Best not to question her when she says things like that. Mal and Callie “borrowed” their neighbor’s copper fire pit and picked up some lighter fluid and kindling. Victoria told them what to bring.

It’s funny. Mal, Callie, and I are all about the same age. We met in college years ago. We’re all outspoken, take-charge women; but Victoria, the quiet one, tends to control our flux and flow. Mostly, this is subtle, and while I can’t tell you how she does it, we all feel it. Now she raises her glass and says, unexpectedly, “To Ray,” and drinks deeply. Over the edge of her glass her eyes admonish us to do the same, so we do. Weakly we repeat, “Ray,” and drink.

I also met Ray in college and married him. Three weeks ago we celebrated our twenty-fifth anniversary; not in Cabo San Luca as planned, though. He’d claimed to have a last minute emergency at work, so we postponed the trip and indulged in a weekend “staycation” at a resort here in town.

“So tell us?” Victoria says, in a softer tone this time.

“He cancelled the Mexico trip because she, Olivia, the man-eating bitch, didn’t want him to go. She said that it was okay to spend one last weekend with me, but—” and I have to stop because of the hiccuping tears. Mal and Callie step in closer, on either side of me. It’s enough.

“She said it would be leading me on to take me on a big trip. And I really hate that she was right. The bitch.”

“And then he left?” Victoria asks.

“And then he left.” I can see the scene so clearly. Ray leaving. Saying he’d be back for his things. Saying it was for the best. The best for whom?

Victoria nods almost like she can see my thoughts.

“You’ve got everything on the list?”

“I do.”

“Well let’s get this party started,” she says with a smile.

His sweaty gym clothes—including his Calvin’s—go in the fire first. The next item is one of his favorite ties, which I’d soaked in his cologne and then cut in half. I swear the smoke starts to smell like Ray. Then his Mont Blanc fountain pen. And, finally, his house key.

“That’s it,” I say, watching the fire.

“Almost.” Victoria tosses one last item into the flames; something that looks like a large gnarled rhizome and a wad of hair tied with a white ribbon.

“What was that?”

“A mandrake root, of course. With a little hair and blood.”

“Blood?” I ask, startled.

“My dear sister, these things always require blood.”

“But whose? How?”

“It’s not important. All you need to know is that no one was harmed. That makes a difference in the outcome, you know. Now, time for your wish. You’ve thought about what you want?”

I exhale.

“I have.”

She hands me a disturbingly large needle.

“Okay then. State it and then the blood goes into the fire. One drop for each wish.”

I could blame the rum shake, but really, my baby sister’s confidence in her own crazy suburban hoodoo is infectious, even stone-cold sober. I laugh as I poke my finger, like it’s some kind of joke and I might as well play along, right? But I’m not joking, and neither is Victoria. She grabs my hand and squeezes the pricked finger until my blood drips into the flames, while Mal and Callie lean in closer to count the drops. Then—to paraphrase Chekhov—an angel of silence flies over us. I sense nothing but the crackling of the fire and the heat on my face—the heat of the flames, the heat of the rum, the heat of my wild hope.

. . .

I had not wished for Ray to come back to me, so I have to say that his signing the bulk of our assets over to me, and our divorce going through without a hitch, made everything easier. Hearing that his business was not doing well didn’t make me feel as good as you might think. But opening the Sunday paper six months later and seeing that my cousin Olivia had married Ray’s now-former business partner and was honeymooning in Cabo? That was definitely an announcement worth toasting, with rum and fire and my three best friends.

*****

Photo by Sandra Peterson Ramirez.

Ice Cream Stories: Root Beer Float

Sandra Peterson Ramirez

Posted on September 3, 2015

ice cream cone with sprinkles in front of a carousel

They sat facing each other, the aqua formica table between them. She had her hands clasped together, index fingers pointing at him. Did she pick that up from me? he wondered. The obviousness of the power play and her serious gaze unnerved him. He would never admit to anyone that he was just a little afraid of her. Even when she leaned forward to sip she didn’t look away. Her eyes, the same deep brown and creamy white as her drink, were huge. They reminded him of that fairy tale; the one where the dog had eyes as big as saucers.

She cleared her throat and said “You wanted to talk?”

“Oh. Right. Yes, there are some things I need to tell you.”

Her mouth twisted up a little. “This sounds bad.”

“Well, not bad.” He was trying not to panic, to keep control of the situation. “No, it’s not a bad thing. We just need to clarify some things. I think there has been some disinformation spread.”

“Disinformation?” She repeated it slowly, stressing each syllable, trying on the new word.

“Sorry, I think maybe you’ve been told some things that aren’t exactly true.”

Her expression cleared. “Someone lied? Who?”

“I don’t want to say lied. We’ll just say they were…” He searched for a word. “Mistaken! They were probably mistaken.”

One eyebrow drifted up just a little. Again he thought did she get that from me?

“I know your grandmother has—”

“Gramma?” She asked, cutting him off.

“Uh. No, your other grandmother”

“Oh. Mimi.”

They sat for a moment not speaking, his words settling between them.

“Go on,” she said finally.

“It’s about school. I know she’s told you some things, made you some promises, about how school is going to be this year, what to expect. And I’m sure sure she had the best intentions. It’s just that…I mean the thing is…”

As he spoke she continued to stare at him with those enormous fathomless eyes. She had leaned all the way back in her chair and pulled knees up in front of her, resting her heels on the seat of the chair. He could see her black patent mary janes and white socks edged in lace.

“The thing is you have to go to kindergarten like everyone else. I know she told you that you could go straight to high school, but you just can’t. I’m really sorry, but I thought you should know before you got there tomorrow.” He said it all out in a rush before he lost his nerve. “And there’s more.”

“More?” She said it calmly, but she was stabbing at her melting ice cream with the long silver spoon and staring at him, eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“Yes, she also promised you that you would have a desk, right? But they don’t have desks in kindergarten. They sit in a circle. In chairs.”

Again they sat in silence.

“Chairs like these?” She finally asked.

“Well maybe smaller.”

“Hmm.”

She dropped the spoon into the glass, stood up, went around the table, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Time to go. Mimi is waiting in the car. I’ll see you next week Daddy.”

“Oh. Okay, Baby. So you’re okay with what I said? About school I mean?”

She paused for a moment, gracing him with her sweetest smile. She was only five years old, but already a mystery to him.

“Oh, we’ll see about that.”

She disappeared with the tinkle of the shop door.

*****

Photo by Sandra Peterson Ramirez.

Book Review: Outline, by Rachel Cusk

td Whittle

Posted on August 2, 2015

Outline by Rachel Cusk
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Here is the book blurb from Goodreads, for those wondering what it’s about: “A woman writer goes to Athens in the height of summer to teach a writing course. Though her own circumstances remain indistinct, she becomes the audience to a chain of narratives, as the people she meets tell her one after another the stories of their lives … Outline is a novel about writing and talking, about self-effacement and self-expression, about the desire to create and the human art of self-portraiture in which that desire finds its universal form.”

It says something about Rachel Cusk’s extraordinary talent that despite most of her characters in Outline being, at best, tedious and vain, and at worst, rage-fueled and self-pitying, the book is still utterly engaging. These characters inhabit a world of extraordinary privilege which they are as blind to as fish are to the water in which they swim. As a reader, you have to sit with that through the entire book, as it is the foundation upon which it rests.

Nearly all of these people seem incapable of grasping the part they’ve played in their personal calamities, despite their astonishing clarity in describing their experiences. I did not find any of them especially warm or lovable, except for the times when their tenderness for their children shone through. Nor are they particularly interesting people, despite their intellectual and artistic endeavors; yet, Cusk’s attention to the details of their lives, and the delicacy with which she reveals them, a line at a time, is captivating.

It occurred to me about two-thirds of the way through that none of the characters have their own voice. Cusk did not create individual voices. In fact, though each of the life stories is told to our narrator in first person so that every character becomes an “I”, they all share our narrator’s calm, cool, somewhat detached style. They are not different enough in expression to be picked out, except by content. Stylistically, this worked well and created a coherence and unity that prevents the novel from reading as a series of separate pieces.

Although this is a feminist novel, I did not find the women any less obnoxious or more morally “in the right” than the men. In fact, they are no different from the men, in their self-obsession and their vanity. They are chronically unable to appreciate what they’ve got when they’ve got it. They exhibit an utter lack of consideration for what they might be like to live with themselves while harboring resentment towards their intimate partners whom they feel either wronged by or too good for. All seem to believe they deserve better and more. Always more.

(Having said that, I genuinely liked the honey-guzzling playwright who makes an appearance in the final few pages, and who had been brutalised. I wondered if Cusk added her in by way of contrast.) I am not sure if Cusk meant us to be left with these feelings of disgust for her characters, but no matter. I appreciate Outline because it’s beautifully written and utterly engaging.

Book Review: The Towers of Trebizond, by Rose Macaulay

td Whittle

Posted on June 8, 2015

The Towers of Trebizond by Rose Macaulay
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

“‘Take my camel, dear’, said my Aunt Dot, as she climbed down from this animal on her return from High Mass’.” This wins as my favourite first line of any book I’ve read (so far, at least). The Towers of Trebizond was not what I expected — though, now I think of it, I am not quite sure what it was I expected. Let me think … Well, for one thing, when I bought it, I thought it was nonfiction, which it is not; however, those who knew her say that much of Rose Macaulay’s own life is written into it, and that seems true. For another, the little I knew of the main character made me think that Aunt Dot would be like an Anglican high-church version of Auntie Mame: An Irreverent Escapade, (a book and film I love). In fact, that was a superficial and not-too-accurate impression. Both aunties are bold, adventurous, over-the-top, and hilarious, and both are opportunists in their own ways. However, unlike Mame, Aunt Dot is at heart a high-minded and committed person with serious intentions in the world. And while Trebizond is a comedy, like Mame, it is consistently philosophical and reflective, without being sentimental.

Another expectation I had was that I had thought the story belonged to Aunt Dot, but it is her niece, Laurie, whose tale this is, and we see and hear all through her. So, I had expected a very funny autobiography of a slightly mad middle-aged English woman romping across Turkey on a camel and getting into all manner of mischief (this happens, to be sure), while her niece tags along in the sidekick role; but what I got, in the end, was much stiller and deeper than that. The quieter voice and more introverted experiences of Laurie are a kind of anchor to Dot’s hi-jinx, and yet, the relationship between the two is more complicated than that simple description can capture. Aunt Dot has a certainty and a solidity about herself and her place in the world that young Laurie admires, but cannot achieve and which she believes may forever elude her. The heart of the book is Laurie’s narrative, played against the backdrop of a grand and romantic vision of the Turkish coast as she gallops along it, alone with Dot’s camel. (I won’t spoil the plot by telling you how and why the two become separated because it’s the best part of the tale.)

The book’s topic, tone, and humour remind me of Barbara Pym’s writing (which is high praise). In fact, I would recommend it to anyone who enjoys Barbara Pym. Trebizond is also sad, in that way that Pym can be sometimes too. I must have been looking the other way as the plot went trotting past because I failed to notice its heading towards a cliff until it had gone airborne. Still, everyone copes in the end, as one does when one is of a certain era and a certain class and a certain country. (I am still recovering myself.)

A side effect of having finished Macaulay’s book is that I find myself eager to travel around Turkey and Armenia, circa 1956, on a dashing and deranged camel. This is why I read, of course.

Dream Job

Sandra Peterson Ramirez

Posted on March 11, 2015

“Day and night I always dream with open eyes.”

~José Martí

Civilization has been destroyed by some catastrophe or other. Most all of mankind has been obliterated. In fact, there is only Sheldon and Leonard, still in their apartment, still arguing over the minutiae of their lives, Leonard trying to explain to Sheldon that no, they will not be having pizza delivered. Or any kind of takeout for that matter. Sheldon steadfastly ignoring that one wall of their apartment is missing, open onto a gray and jagged cityscape in which things occasionally drift by. Floating debris? Drones?

I wake up and ask my husband if he thinks I should consider writing fan fiction because of the dream. Maybe it’s a sign. He kisses me and says he doesn’t see a future in it and leaves for work.

I slip back into that space between waking and sleep while mulling over his attitude. After all, isn’t fan fiction about the love for characters and fictional worlds? About wanting to add your own twist to them? Not everything has to be about big mountains of cash. As I fall back fully into dreaming, I’m back in Leonard and Sheldon’s apartment. Sheldon is saying Sheldon-y things in a Sheldon-y tone about the end of the world not making it okay to revert to an uncivilized state. Social contracts must be honored.

Then I realize that there is a green girl drifting in and out of the apartment. Perhaps Gamora? Hard to say as she never stays long or interacts with the other two. But then she wouldn’t would she. I try to follow, but keep losing track of her. A light keeps shining in my eyes, obliterating my view of her.

Surfacing again out of the dream, I realize that the light is the morning sun filtering in. Did the green girl mean something? Green for money? Green for greed? Another possible sign?

Probably it’s just my mind clearing out its own debris. Probably doesn’t mean anything. Probably won’t lead me down some golden path.

Probably.

*****

Photo by Sandra Peterson Ramirez.

Some Days, by Billy Collins

td Whittle

Posted on February 3, 2015

Artist: Laurie Simmons, from the Disturbing Innocence group show at FLAG Art Foundation. Curated by Eric Fischl. Oct 25, 2014 - Jan 31, 2015.

Some days I put the people in their places at the table,
bend their legs at the knees,
if they come with that feature,
and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs.

All afternoon they face one another,
the man in the brown suit,
the woman in the blue dress,
perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved.

But other days, I am the one
who is lifted up by the ribs, 
then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouse
to sit with the others at the long table.

Very funny,
but how would you like it
if you never knew from one day to the next 
if you were going to spend it

striding around like a vivid god,
your shoulders in the clouds, 
or sitting down there amidst the wallpaper,
staring straight ahead with your little plastic face?

“Some Days” from Picnic, Lightning, by Billy Collins, © 1998, University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260. The image above is of a work by Laurie Simmons, from the Disturbing Innocence group show at FLAG Art Foundation. Curated by Eric Fischl. Oct 25, 2014 - Jan 31, 2015.