Nom de Plume

Good writing. Evocative prose. Fabulous characters. Vivid imagination. And yet, and yet … this was an “almost” book to me, that is to say that it was a good book, but it just missed being a really good book.

Cedar Hole is a nothing little town in which people are comfortable in its mediocrity. The most unique thing is that grass grows really fast and people are always having to mow their lawns. So mowing lawns has been elevated into an art form; the annual fair features a lawnmowing contest and boys vie every year for the honor of winning.

Enter two boys. Francis Pinkham is the very soul of mediocrity. Afraid to assert himself as the result of being the only boy in a family of, frankly, insane sisters, he lumbers along with occasional flashes of grace. Then there’s Robert J. Cutler, a smarmy little kissass who is even more irritating because he’s sincere. Robert wins the contest several years in a row until he’s finally beaten by Francis, but Robert still gets the medal because he mowed in the shape of a star. So there we are: two boys pitted against each other in a race for the title of the greatest man in Cedar Hole.

Then time passes in a blur. Robert’s father leaves town, abandoning Robert and his mother. He never leaves. Eventually he marries and dies young, leaving a bitter wife and a yearning daughter. Francis, on the other hand, marries his high school sweetheart and continues down the path of mediocrity–that is until his sons discover well water and, with the help of a swindler, bottle it to make money. I found myself lost in the comparison between the two males and the time that passes all too quickly from boyhood to manhood. I kind of lost interest, but made myself finish. And I was glad that I did because the novel ends on a poignant note about Francis and his decisions about what honor means.

So what made this an “almost” book? I have to ask why the author insisted on the overt comparison between Robert and Francis. It dictates a structure that is never truly realized, one that would be better if it were inferred rather than stated. It’s a shame because Doyers has a vivid imagination and some of the more compelling characters that I’ve encountered between the pages of a novel. Indeed, it reminded me of John Irving in his early days before he started spiralling downard with the incomprehensible Son of the Circus (and yes, his latest is in my new pile).

So, yes, recommend, but not unconditionally. If it attacks you from the library shelves, go for it; there are worse ways to spend a few hours. But don’t actively seek it out.

Boy goes to the big city to make it as a writer. He ends up rooming with a guy with lung cancer. According to reviews, this was hysterically funny but we all know by now that my sense of humor is lacking. I found it dank and depressing and didn’t bother finishing it.

Steve left Thursday to go back to a family shindig in Rockford. I was looking forward to time alone. Strangely enough, I’ve missed him. He comes back tomorrow.

Arjun Mehta comes to the U.S. to work as a programmer. Hired out for a fraction of his salary by an unscrupulous placement agency, he finally gets work in an antivirus software company. Ultimately, he is laid off and, desperate to show his worth, releases a computer virus named after his favorite Bollywood star, Leela Zahir, which he plans to fix. Instead, his boss takes the credit and the virus replicates and evolves so quickly that Arjun can do nothing but run as the FBI pursues him.

At the same time, there’s the story of Leela Zahir, the muse behind the virus, who emerges as a young star completely at the mercy of her demanding mother. Another film star is under the thumb of goondas. And her PR agent is dating a man with a joke of a rebranding agency, which is a whole other plot line.

In the beginning chapters of this book, I thought to myself, “I am not an Indian. The only things that are Indian about me are my name and the way I look.” Where Kunzru sees warmth and redolent spices, I see overcrowding and smelly hallways. Where Kunzru sees close families, I see a lack of privacy. But that’s really neither here nor there. We are full of hope as we contemplate Arjun’s future in India.

In the middle, I was reminded of Wharton’s The House of Mirth. Both novels chronicle the inevitable downward spiral of its characters, to the growing horror of the audience. But in the case of Transmission, Lily Bart is no longer an American woman at the turn of the 20th century, but an Indian “wage slave” in the 21st.

At the end of the novel, I thought, “This, this is what Mukherjee was trying to do in her last novel.” Kunzru weaves his characters together with the lines of code.

And this is the novel’s genius. Just as variants of the Leela virus keep emerging, so does Kunzru lead us through a constant stream of metamorphosis of plot. Ultimately, we end at a surprising, completely unexpected ending: Happily ever after does exist after all. It’s like a Bollywood film in a novel form: a long story with lots of ups and downs and an unrealistic happy ending. Moreover, Kunzru has quite a bit to say about the society in which we live, this global economy where marketing has replaced culture.

Highly recommend.

I admire the spunk, courage, and humor over that That Old House, whose latest post begins, “Hi, my name is Nola, and I am a renovation addict.”

Best of luck to you folks.

The season changed, lickety-split. A couple weeks ago, we were swimming in the lake, and now it’s fall. The leaves are turning, the weather’s crisp, and the first thing you see at the grocery store are huge boxes of pumpkins.

“I had this terrible dream that I spent 50 dollars on bamboo poles,” said Steve, yawning and rumpling his hair.

“Mmm-hmmm,” I murmured as he opened the back door.

“Oh my God,” he said. “I did. I was hoping it was a just a nightmare.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“Why did you let me?” he accused. “It’s all your fault. What am I going to do with all that bamboo?”

“You said you were going to build a fence,” I reminded him.

“I don’t want to build a fence! What was I thinking?”

Imagine Steve’s delight at discovering bamboo poles at the Kubota Garden plant sale. He bought five huge bunches.

And I know I mentioned in my last post that it was pouring. But did I mention that the Jeep is still topless? So we bushwhacked our way home (thank heavens Kubota is only a half mile away), and then into the alley.

Kubota Garden is one of Seattle’s most hidden, underused treasures. A 20-acre Japanese garden, it boasts winding paths, waterfalls, bridges … and a twice-a-year plant sale that is to DIE for.

We went not once, but twice. All in all, we spent the entire morning there, and returned wet (it was pouring the entire time), but triumphant. What a haul.