I’ve just finished Not Wanted on the Voyage by Timothy Findlay, which was a Christmas gift from Jen. I always thought it a bit odd that in the US we never really did much with Canadian lit, so I was extremely curious to see what this man, who is a towering icon, had done.

Long story short, it was great. Now, to make it long again!

I didn’t expect anything in particular—I knew it was about Noah’s Ark (one of the many stories from the Bible that are just ripe for picking, aren’t they?) and that was it. I didn’t expect the fantastic spin, the crazy genre-as-metaphor issues, or the violent attachment I would form to some characters. Not to mention literally stomach-sinking aversion to others. I think this last point was my absolute favorite though. When certain characters came into the PoV spotlight, I literally felt ill. Findlay is quick to show the humanity in everyone—even Crazy!Noah gets his moments of beauty and affection—but they’re all such catalysts for violent reader-reaction by the first few chapters.

And that’s hard when you’re building a world like this. It bears so much similarity to our world, but at the same time none at all. The plants and (most of) the animals are the same, but their existence isn’t what you expect—the birds talk, the sheep sing. At first it seems like a turn of phrase, an expression, “The sheep sang…” but slowly you realize that it’s no joke. The birds are talking. The sheep are singing.

Not to mention that God stops by for tea. And Noah’s son is blue because of a run-in with some baddies. And Lucifer is a tranny geisha who talks like Krishna. (Not sure if the Krishna thing was intentional, but whoa Bhagavad Gita references!)

This world is pulled off effortlessly, and in seamless integration with the reality of its inhabitants. It’s so eye-opening for an aspiring writer to read something by a true master of world-building—specifically an aspiring writer who tends toward fantasy. The things I learned were subtle and small, but things I wonder now that I didn’t know before. I’ll never be one to have a real meaning behind my stories. I’m not a politician or, god forbid, a preacher. I have absolutely nothing of consequence to society to say (that hasn’t been said a million times already.) But that doesn’t mean I can’t learn from someone who did, right?

My only complaint was that the metaphors were overtaxed, and I felt like someone had smacked me upside the head with a bloody unicorn horn by the time the thing was over. That does tend to ruin the subtle appreciation of the art. There were scenes that felt repetitive in that way, but they were few and far between, and frankly, well-earned. It’s rare that something so heavy is such an easy read—and I think the combination of effortless, realist style combined with a vein of humor that runs even through the harshest times is to thank for that.

That was a great Christmas present. Gee, February and I’m still reading my holiday books. I’m sure making this last.

In a similar vein, how is it that some authors are so capable of making animals into real, believable, lovable (or hateful) characters? Animal Farm is literally one of my favorite books ever, Watership Down still stands out in my mind as an early love, and I really feel like Findlay’s Mottyl the Cat in this book is a triumph. She’s less humanized, more animal, but still the most sympathetic character in the book. I’m not talking about Redwall-like animals, who are just people with fur and tails. I mean animal-animals, dammit.

That’s brilliant, but I can’t even imagine how one would accomplish it.

-Katey

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I had a lot of odd English teachers in high school—but I think we all did. It’s just a profession for the odd, and therefore interesting. One of them acted out The Odyssey for us rather than having us read it. She was amazing. Another made us color in little circles she called “Thought Dots” and tried to steal credit for my West Virginia Young Writer’s story (Which would’ve been fine, but the credit totally belonged to my mother). She was pretty lame. My AP English teacher used to make fun of us when we didn’t get something, and when I told her I’d written my test essay on Hesse’s Siddhartha, she just said, “You would!” This was not a compliment. She was hilarious.

But there was this one teacher…

In WV, at least when I was in school many moons ago, American Lit was tenth grade. My tenth grade teacher was therefore entrusted with Stephen Crane, Washington Irving, Thomas Paine, etc.—some of my favorite stuff today. But there was one author she really made me hate. Nathaniel Hawthorne.

We never read The Scarlet Letter, precisely. She gave us a page full of summaries of each chapter, and she had us summarize the summaries. When my brother had her class four years later, she was still employing this beastly tactic, and I’ve no doubt that she had done for countless generations preceding me. She’d been there forever. How many generations of Brooke High students now hate Hawthorne because of this torture?

Still, I love a nice Gothic Romance, so when my mother offered me The House of the Seven Gables and assured me it was brilliant, I thought, okay, I’ll have it. A month later it was still untouched, but watching the History Channel (I love it. Way too much.) one night I found a documentary on the Salem Witch Trials. I saw that Hawthorne’s great great grandfather was the presiding judge at these “trials”, and Hawthorne (who changed his name from Hathorne, to disassociate himself with said judge) wrote the book to exorcise what he saw as a curse on his family.

That was all I needed. I picked it up the next day and started reading. Miss K, tenth grade English, you did us a disservice by not having us read this book. It’s wonderful!

There’s an afterward in my addition by Henry James, which plays the part of an apology in a way. Hawthorne’s characters are very 2-D, they’re types more than people. But his setting is anything but flat. The man’s powers of description, while they’re extremely over-used to our modern eyes, to the point of being Dickens-like tirades on the qualities of a single chair, are truly brilliant. The book is like a painting; one of those portraits by Hals where every single stroke that went into it is evident and awe-inspiring, which makes the whole that much more interesting. (Hm, I can’t stop being an art historian, apparently. Imagine that.)

In retrospect, I suppose it might be a little laborious for a high school kid to read that kind of thing. It takes a definite appreciation for imagery and craft, in a way, and I’m not sure I would’ve been bothered. But on the other, some high school kids enjoy the act of reading more than others. She could’ve at least given us a chance, right?

It’s okay, Miss K. I loved you anyhow.

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