It was not that long ago that The Piano Man's Daughter came out. I can remember it clearly because I wanted to read it so badly. Therefore, when I stumbled on it at the Public Library a couple of weeks ago, I knew my search for another book written by a Canadian author was over. I could hardly wait to get home.
But when I did get home, I felt as though bitter reality had slapped me right across the face. It turns out that Timothy Findley's The Piano Man's Daughter was published in 1995.
1995? What? That just cannot be true because it seems like it was just a couple of years ago that I read the first reviews of it. Not fifteen years ago! Ugh ... there's that slap of bitter reality again.
It is a great read if you enjoy stories that encompass two or three generations of the same family, or a journey to understand the true character of one individual.
Just as the title suggests, this book tells the story of Lily - the piano man's daughter - and her battle with mental illness as seen through the eyes of her son. It is engaging and interesting, and although it is primarily the story of Lily, it also tells the story of the whole Kilworth family.
There are several themes running through this novel. Mental illness. Fire as a symbol. A little bit of religion. Spirituality, for certain ... Lily believed that "to be born was to be made visible." And the colonies of ants that Lily loved so much ... I would need to research that a little further before speculating.
As I neared the end of this book, I completely forgot that I was reading. I was so engrossed, I felt like I was there, with the characters. It seemed so real, I just knew that it had to be. And, I was right. Findley has acknowledged that the character of Lily was based on his aunt, who was schizophrenic. Findley describes Lily as autistic; however, I would have to politely disagree. Lily is most definitely schizophrenic, as well as epileptic.
Epilepsy brings a really cool aspect to the story because of the meanings attached to it. In ancient times, epilepsy came to be known as a "Sacred Disease." People thought that the seizures were a form of attack by demons, or that the visions experienced by persons with epilepsy were sent by the gods. Could Lily be a vessel? You read it, and let me know what you think.
It is the epilepsy that makes Lily different as a child, and the illness causes her mother (and family) to feel ashamed of her for that reason. They work very hard to hide the illness because at that time, mental illness (of any kind) was something that could bring shame on a family. But once she grows up, it is the schizophrenia that comes to define her life. She is delusional and has hallucinations, which are the hallmarks of schizoprenia. And the changes in her personality begin around the time she is eighteen or nineteen years old ... another indication of a schizophrenic diagnosis.
But I won't be able to convince Findley of my diagnosis because he died in 2002.
The characters really come to life, and force the reader to consider what is right for them. I had to question whether Lily should have had custody of her son? How could a mother choose her husband over the welfare of her daughter and grandson? Yes, she slipped them some money when she could ... but does that make her decision to turn her back on them all right? When do you stop being responsible for your child?
It is unfortunate that it took me fifteen years to pick this book up. Don't make the same mistake I did ... go, get this one right now.
Romantic, as defined, means to be characterized by a preoccupation with love or by the idealizing of love or one's beloved. We have all felt romantic at one time or another in our lives, some times more than others. For instance, while changing diapers and breastfeeding eight to ten times each day, I did not feel particularly romantic. Tired, mesmerized (by my new little miracle), in love, scatter-brained, but never romantic. However, romance blossomed when Jonesy and I spent the weekend in Niagara-on-the-Lake several years ago, touring wineries and staying in a fancy hotel.
One day, earlier this summer, Jonesy and I took our three children to the Public Library. This was not romantic at all. However, it was fun watching as the kids selected a book to borrow, trying to decipher what it was that caught their attention. As fun as that was, I snuck off for a few moments because I, too, was in need of a new read. Usually, if I am going to borrow a book from the Library, I reserve it and then ask Jonesy to pick it up when he is out doing some other errand I have sent him on. He is my supplier - my book supplier, that is, which in many ways has become like a drug for me.
So, I wandered down the aisles, just waiting for something to grab my attention, for no particular reason. I wanted something written by a Canadian author, something contemporary. I chose a book I had never heard of, nor was I familiar with the author. But something about it drew me in - perhaps the title?- and I am so happy that I found it.
The book I chose is called, The Romantic by Barbara Gowdy. And guess what? When I researched her a bit, it just so happens that she was born in Windsor, but grew up in a suburb of Toronto. But more on Gowdy later...
Louise Kirk's mother leaves when she is nine years old. I mean, the woman just disappears, abandoning her husband and child. Louise will spend the rest of her days looking for a woman whom she can look up to and count on. She looks for a mother (figure) in their housekeeper, in Mrs. Richter, and finally, in the women she works for/with.
A short time after her mother leaves, the Richter family moves into the house across the street. Abel Richter becomes the love of Louise's life, the one that she will do anything for and cannot be without. They are bound together by common circumstances - both having been abandoned by a mother, both social outcasts at school - and they play together as children, until Abel's family moves to Vancouver. In a meeting of chance, they reconnect as teenagers, and immediately fall back into their relationship, but on a much more mature level. The relationship becomes Louise's undoing. She loses herself in Abel, understanding his very soul yet not being able to understand his actions.
However, it is Abel that is of real interest for a girl like me. Because I could have saved him - I know I could have. Consider the following ...
"I had hoped to feel something more, to have a revelation, but the things that occur to me have occurred to me a hundred times before. His excruciating sensitivity to the physical world. His rapturous dreams. His guilt and anguish over the death of the baby bat. His dread of interfering and of choosing. But why did he have these feelings in the first place? Why was he who he was?" - excerpt from The Romantic
Abel was a musician and a poet. He was creative and sensitive to a fault. He never considered himself when making decisions, which ultimately cost him his life. He truly believed that the lives of those who love him most will be better without him in it. He honestly believes that; otherwise, he would not have drunk himself to death. Don't worry ... I'm not giving anything away. The reader becomes aware that Abel dies in the fourth sentence of the novel.
Some of his characteristics - the rapturous dreams, the sensitivity, the anguish over the death of the baby bat - are easily explained for me because Abel is a creative/artistic person. Artists experience the world through emotion, the emotion of the room, of the moment. It is what drives them, in my opinion.
"Why was he who he was?" Abel was the way he was because he was adopted, in my opinion. Now, this intrigues me. You see, I can relate to Abel because I, too, was adopted. I was adopted as a newborn infant, and I will write about it one day because I have many thoughts on the topic. The details of Abel's adoption are never explored and I was hungry for more information in that area. It does not matter how wonderful your adoptive parents are, a child that has been surrendered/abandoned is always left with unanswered questions.
Of course, there are the obvious ones, like why? But there are more things that one longs to know and understand. The circumstances. The choices. The father. Am I like my natural parents in any way?
And, I swear to you, I am not angry with her - the woman who gave birth to me. In fact, I feel sorry for her. I am sure that each year on June 30th, she has a terrible time. She suffers from migraines, or she just withdrawals, or she gets really, really drunk. I have read accounts written by women, who could never understand why their mother became so distant and emotional at the same time each year. Until they found out it was because she was mourning the child she never knew ... on the anniversary of the day they met and said goodbye. It is the only link she had to her child.
But when trying to understand Abel, we need to consider what adoption does to the child. By projecting my own feelings and thoughts on Abel, I would imagine that he questioned why the woman who gave him life did not fight for him. Was he not worth it? Was there something wrong with him? Maybe he just wasn't important.
As a parent, I cannot imagine looking at my newborn child and then signing the papers. I couldn't have ... I would have been one of those rebel girls who got all the stares from the disapproving eyes. But I would have had my child with me. Not with anyone else. Not raised by a stranger. No matter how wonderful that stranger was.
However, I also understand that Abel and I were born in a different time, when society was governed by a different set of rules. Unwed mothers were treated as though they were low-life social pariahs.
Anyhow, I think that Abel is haunted by his adoption. He grew up wondering if the world would be better off without him. Every chance I get, I tell my children how much they were wanted and planned for and anticipated (with love). They know that the moment each of them entered this world was the happiest time of my life. The same cannot be said for the day that I entered the world. Nobody wanted me, and I arrived under a cloud of guilt and shame. I imagine this is how Abel felt, and I expect it is how most adopted children feel.
In fact, I have this image in my mind ... it is of the Nursery. Because way back in 1969, the Nursery is where all the newborn babies stayed while their mothers were in the hospital "recovering" from their delivery. You can imagine it, too, I bet. All the little baby beds pushed toward the window, moved around like puzzle pieces, so the proud new Daddies could show off their greatest prize to all those who came to visit. Tears of joy, smiles, the inevitable comparisons of familial traits. None of which really make any sense, but seem to be a part of having a new baby.
Except that one little bed. Pushed into the back corner, out of the way. Nobody was interested in seeing her. No one smiled. There were no tears of joy. Just tears. Until one day when a stranger came to pick her up and take her away.
But that is where things started to look up for that little baby girl ... I'll tell you about it some day. It's actually a very cool and unique story.
Abel avoided interfering because he feared making a mistake and he cleans his apartment all the time because it gives him a feeling of control. He feared not being chosen. And he would never choose because he would never want to hurt someone. There is no need to choose, in his mind.
Ask Jonesy ... I hate choosing.
"Okay, Jill, do you want good ol' fashioned Chinese food or spicy Thai?" Jonesy will ask me.
"Oh, whatever you want, as long as I don't have to cook it," is my reply.
"Honestly, just pick one," he'll insist. But I can't. Subconsciously, I have been afraid that I'll pick the one he wants the least, and then maybe he'll leave me for some girl who always knows just what type of food he really wants to eat. Because it doesn't really matter what I want ... I mean, I was so undervalued that the woman who gave me life left me behind. So, what makes me think that I should be allowed to pick the take-out we order? And in some really weird way, I don't what to offend the Thai food, but I totally feel like eating good ol' fashioned Chinese Food tonight. And so I find a way to keep everyone happy in my warped mind ...
"Okay, let's have Chinese this time, but we'll order Thai next time, okay? Don't even ask me, just bring home Thai ..." is how I respond. That way, Thai food won't be offended and Jonesy can look forward to a Thai dinner soon. Everyone is happy, right?
Okay, so maybe I need some therapy ... Honestly, the real point I wanted to make is that being adopted affects a person in ways that they may not really understand, certainly not as a young person. It shapes the way in which one sees the world, the way in which one experiences the world. And perhaps, you can only understand it if you, too, were adopted as an infant.
Abel deals with his demons by adding more demons until his life seems hopeless. And helpless. And Louise cannot move through her own life without him. She must see things through to the end.
It's a great read, and obviously invoked many thoughts in the life of me. Don't you just love when you stumble on a excellent book, like that? Or a good movie no one has told you about.
Barbara Gowdy is one interesting lady. She did not have her first novel published until she was thirty-eight years old. She has been married three times, once to an alcoholic who was killed in car accident (I suspect he was her Abel). She is a perfectionist. She studied piano for eight years, practicing five to eight hours per day but quit because she could not perfect the art. (source)
She has a HUGE imagination, writing on topics of gross disfigurement, necrophilia, exhibitionism, reincarnation, and homosexuality. And she is funny ... it always surprises me when something I am reading makes me laugh out loud. And Gowdy did, more than once.
And so, we are left with the question of who "the romantic" is. I could make an argument for Abel, and I can make a argument for Louise. However, if forced to choose (and you know how I hate to choose), it seems to me that Louise is The Romantic. Abel is beautiful and emotional and sensitive ... he writes poetry for God's sake. When he is with Louise, he loves her the best; but I'm not really certain how he feels when Louise is not in the room. It is Louise who is preoccupied with Abel, and idealizes their relationship. It blinds her, really. She thinks the best of him, she only sees the good in him and explains away what she does not want to believe.
She loves him with every ounce of her being. Isn't that romantic?
"My characters feel completely real to me, like old friends whose stories I know well and happen to have been the one who committed them to paper." Lori Lansens (source)
When I finish a book, I feel like I know the characters. Like they are friends of mine. And, often I miss them, because we have been a part of each other's lives for the last few days and by then it is difficult to let go. As I have written before, sometimes I slow my reading pace just so that I have a little more time with them.
I missed Addy Shadd when I was finished reading Rush Home Road, By Lori Lansens. A lot. And I missed little Sharla, hoping that she found some love and stability in her life. As I read, the characters seemed real, like people I might know. But that might be because the story takes place in the same area that I grew up. More on that later...
Rush Home Road begins as the story of little Sharla, who has a horrible excuse for a mother. Sharla is left with a stranger, because her mother wants to run off with her boyfriend. Seventy-year-old Addy Shadd is the stranger, and she opens her home to the little five-year-old girl, treating her as if she were her own child. But in doing so, Addy is forced to confront some unpleasant memories. And as Addy revisits her memories, we (the reader) re-live her life with her. And, that is how the story becomes one of Miss Adelaide Shadd.
A few friends suggested this book when I announced I was going to try and read one hundred books in a year. Lansens is from Chatham, Ontario ... the same town I grew up in. And, although I did not know her, I do know her cousins. So ... it's like I know her, too ... right? I can say that I know a famous author whose brain I can pick, to learn about the writing process - whenever I want. And she can invite me to her "author" parties, where she will happily introduce me to her publishing friends. What? That's not going to happen? Well, I do know her cousins ... that much is true. And I did grow up in the same town as she did.
It gives a story a unique perspective when you know the area you are reading about. In fact, just the other day - for reasons that are much too lengthy to get into now - I drove through Rushton Corners, near Buxton, which is the small town on which Rusholme is based. And there are familiar (last) names throughout the story, too. Plus Lansens has said that she based The Oakwood Bakery (found in all three of her novels) on a bakery/coffee shop that she worked at (in Chatham) as a teenager (source). Lansens and I also attended the same elementary school in Chatham, so we must have lived in the same side of town. Did I know her? She is a few years older than me, but our paths could have crossed. Maybe she brought me a hot chocolate when she was waitressing at that little coffee shop ... 'cause my Mom and I like to go out for hot chocolates.
But even if you are not familiar with the area, you will love this book. It is about being true to yourself and doing what you think/know is the right thing to do (even when it is really hard); it is about surviving the best way you know how. To bring some depth to the story, there is a running theme of feeling like an outsider. Haven't we all felt like an outsider at some time in our lives? I know I have ... several times, in fact. And just wait until I return to university in twenty-two days (but who's counting?) because amongst all the teenagers, I will most certainly be an outsider.
Lansens says this ...
I think that most writers are by nature outsiders, since as observers we live on the fringes and find the most intriguing company there. (source)
So, I am left with the hope I can be included in that company some day ...
As I have read over this past year, I have kept notes. Which might seem sort of weird to you, but when you want to write (about anything, really), it is important to remember the feelings that were invoked and what inspired them. Sometimes things I read bring a memory to mind, sometimes it is an opinion and other times it is a key moment in the plot. So, while I am reading, I keep one of those really cute little ecojot mini notebooks nearby ... to jot down key words, thoughts, feelings, memories and any page numbers that I might need for reference.
But sometimes, I am just entertained.
While I read Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen, I did not take one note. Nothing. Maybe it was because I read so quickly ... or maybe it was because I was distracted with images of Rob Pattinson in the lead role for the film adaptation (filming right now!). Whatever the reason, a pencil did not hit my cute little notebook once.
On the front cover of the book, a reviewer noted that Gruen has a voice to rival John Irving. Having just read (my new favourite book) A Prayer for Owen Meany, I almost find this offensive. However, it doesn't mean that Gruen is not a great story teller. She is ... in fact, this is a great summer read. It's uncomplicated, it's quick, and it's unique. But in no way is comparable to John Irving.
The year is 1931 and Jacob Jankowski is one week from writing his final exams in order to become a veternarian, when both his parents are killed in automobile accident. In a moment of confusion and desperation, he jumps on board a train to escape his life ... only to find himself surrounded by the greatest show on earth. That's right, he has inadvertantly jumped aboard the travelling circus, and he finds more than he ever bargained for.
The story moves between a ninety-three-year-old Jacob, who is now living in a nursing home, feeling alone and abandoned by his family; and a twenty-three-year-old Jacob, who is discovering who he is. Whenever I think of a nursing home, and the abandoned old men and ladies that live there, I always think of Gracie ... and I didn't even know her.
My Mom worked on the Geriatric Care floor toward the end of her career as a nurse. And she took care of Gracie. Gracie was probably in her nineties, she had no family that visited, she was blind and very, very hard of hearing. She was not ambulatory, and so her days were spent in her bed re-living her life. A brother with a broken arm after a fall from a silo, her marriage, a baby that was taken away from her, a true love that was unrealized ... these are the things she re-lived. And she often cried real tears, but no one (other than the nurses) was there to comfort her.
And, she hosted tea parties for her two besties ... although I cannot remember their names. Gracie would talk for all three ladies ...
"Well, good to see you, Ethel," Gracie would say.
"And you, Grace," Gracie would reply. "I just adore these shortbread cookies you make."
"Well, thank you, Ethel. I think Mabel should be here any time," says Gracie. "Did you hear about the fire down at the "Smith's" farm?"
"Well, yes I did, Grace," Gracie would answer. "I'm just glad no one was hurt. But lots of damage, I hear ... Oh good, here comes Mabel now."
"Sorry, I'm late ladies," Gracie would say. "I had a pie in the oven and couldn't leace 'til it was cooked. You know how Gerry is ... I couldn't rely on him to take it out of the oven!" And then Gracie would giggle ... because she could remember exactly how Gerry was.
So it would go on, giving small glimpses into her life. A life I did not know, but one I will never forget.
But it does lead me to another thought. It's a thought that one does not come to understand until they are a "true" grown up ... You can learn things from the elderly. Yes, things about your family, things about history. And you can hear about these things first hand. Unless it is too late. Would you believe that your Grama might have a secret? Something that she had never told anyone? Or that your Grandpa was involved in something truly extraordinary or life-changing?
There are so many things I wish I had asked my Grama and Grampa. My Grama died when I was only fifteen years old; and, although I had great times with her and have many wonderful memories, I did not take the time to learn about her. I was only fifteen years old, afterall - I was more concerned with my hair and who had a crush on who. Did she have regrets? What was it like when she was a child? What was her favourite flavour of ice cream? Did she have many boyfriends? Did she enjoy her job? Did she wish she could have gone to University? And, my Grampa had even more stories to share ... and he did so often. But I wish I would have taken the time to really listen to them and ask questions about the parts that interested me.
But these are the things we realize when it is too late sometimes. Probably because we are now getting old. Water for Elephants brings home the idea that inside that wrinkly skin, if you move past the difficulty that hearing loss presents, there is someone with a really cool story to tell you. And you should listen. It teaches us that you are never too old to follow your dream - don't forget that part.
This is the first in my quest to read all Canadian authors for the month of July. Sara Gruen was born in Vancouver, BC; she grew up in London, Ontario; and she studied literature at Carleton University in Ottawa, Ontario. She now resides in the US with her husband, her three children and her own menagerie of pets.
Image of Rob Pattinson as Jacob Jankowski found at RobPattzNews
The great thing about life is that it is always changing. And mine is certainly no exception.
The change in my life right now involves The List. My reading list, that is.
Sometimes it is difficult for me to make a decision. I agonize and think about it too much. Which is why I decided to use someone else's list for my reading challenge.
There are some great things about the list. Most of the books have been fabulous and I have been introduced to some new authors that I love. I have read books that I never would have selected for myself and really enjoyed them. And, as I finished one book, I just had to look to my list to see what was next. No decisions to be made.
But that is going to change a little.
It seems that when I come upon a book that just doesn't make me want to consume it within hours, I get stalled. And easily distracted. Should every book make you want to stop your life to read it? Well, yes ... when you are trying to read one hundred books in one year. I need to be drawn into the story or the characters within the first couple of chapters ... or I seem to dawdle along. And that is part that I need to change.
So, I will be jumping around on the list a little bit and I am going to be replacing some books with substitutions of my choosing. Because there are friends out there who have sent me some great suggestions. You should not be surprised to learn that I have started a new list. Do you have a favourite book? Leave me a comment, or send me an email.
This was a difficult decision to make because I am sure that each book on this list is worth reading. And if I had not forced myself to finish some books, I would have missed out, as in the case of Gilead, or And the Band Played On. But life is about choices and I'm sure that whatever I read, I will learn new things. The point is that I want to read things that open my mind, that interest me and that draw me in.
Having said all the things that I have said ... The Remains of the Day is out. Whew ... I feel better for just having said it. It is easy to read, and somewhat entertaining. However, the characters do not engage me in the way that I like. And the story is slow moving, in a way makes it okay to not read for a couple of days. A couple of days? I should be finishing a book every couple of days. I'm sure I will find out that it is a literary masterpiece and an example of the type of fine writing all inspiring writers should imitate. If it is, then I can read it any time, right?
But, in the meantime, I have replaced it with Marcia Clark's re-telling of the OJ Simpson trial. Cannot wait to tell you about it ....
Please ... do not tell my husband, but I have been a having an affair these last few days. And, to make things even worse, I don't want it to end.
There is a sure way to know whether I love a book or not. Take a look around my house and try to find me ... if you can. Am I in the corner of the kitchen, over by the refrigerator, hiding a little? Then you know I am engrossed. Am I stirring some concoction on the stove while reading? Are there piles of dirty clothes sitting in laundry baskets generally being ignored? What about the lunch plates - are they still on the table? Then I am in love with what I am reading.
I have just finished a love affair with The Solitude of Prime Numbers by Paolo Giordano. Honestly, run to your nearest bookstore and buy this story. My Mom has already asked to borrow my copy, but I don't know if I can part with it ... sometimes, I like to keep my true loves nearby at all times. Yes, I am aware that this is weird.
The Solitude of Prime Numbers is a study of people, so the plot line takes a back seat. Which I LOVE. But that is not to say that there is no action or story at all, however it is not what will draw you in. Oh ... and, it's not a feel good, happy ending sort of story, either. Sounds great, doesn't it? Oh, but it is. Perhaps I am drawn to it for my own personal reasons ... but I'll tell you about that soon enough.
The Solitude of Prime Numbers tells the story of two people, both feeling like they are on the outside (of life), looking in. One who is desperate to make a connection with someone else, and the other who is desperate to avoid emotional connections of any kind ... "he rejecting the world, and she feeling rejected by it ..."
When Alice was eight years old, she injured her leg in a skiing accident and is left to face life with one crippled leg. She is unhappy, and desperate to fit in. She wants to be one of the cool kids as a teenager, and she will do anything to be accepted. You'll see what I mean, when you read the book ... because I know you will. She fights for control over her life by controlling her body. Food and body image become central in Alice's life as she searches for her true self.
The novel begins when Mattia is an eight year old boy and he has a special gift for numbers ... are you beginning to see why this book speaks to me? He is brilliant, and his twin sister is not. In fact, she is mentally disabled, and Mattia finds her embarrassing - a normal feeling for an eight-year-old child. And so, when the twins are invited to a birthday party, Mattia leaves his sister playing in a park while he sneaks off to the party, with the intent of picking her up on his way home. But of course, she goes missing, presumed drowned in the nearby river, and Mattia can never forgive himself. And so he punishes himself by never allowing himself the privilege of companionship.
When Mattia and Alice meet as teenagers, they recognize in each other that common thread ... a damaged soul that seems destined to be alone. A friendship develops and yet, it is difficult to know whether they really help each other in any way.
Alice is desperate to make that connection, however, it seems that people are repelled by her, perhaps because of her physical deformity. But maybe they are not repelled at all; maybe Alice just assumes they are sickened by her appearance because she is. In any case, Alice has a difficult time forming any real relationships. On the other hand, it seems to me that people are naturally drawn to Mattia, and it is a conscious decision by him to push them away. He cannot afford to make any sort of emotional commitment.
"He removed from his desk everything that might distract his gaze, so as to feel truly alone with the page."
Although equally pathetic in their own ways, my heart belongs to Mattia ... and I know I could save him from a life of loneliness. Sometimes my own shit gets in the way, but I always want to help if I think someone is in trouble. I just want to give Mattia a big hug and tell him that it will be okay; and that his sister's death was not his fault. I want to protect him from the hurt he is feeling; and so I am left with this yearning to go and find Mattia; to make him feel better. But, he's not real, right? And so the only thing I can do for real is sit here and brood ... or pick up the next book, I guess. But I'm not ready to say goodbye to him just yet.
The parents in this story appear to be absent. Mattia's mother never seems to recover from the loss of her daughter, and in a very subtle way, it is indicated that she blames Mattia. Although perhaps it is just an assumption made by Mattia. Alice's father withdraws from her because she is no longer able to pursue his dream of becoming an accomplished skiier. And, he feels responsible for her injury. In either case, the children feel unsupported by their parents ... there is no emotional connection between them. Shouldn't you always feel accepted by your parents? No matter what? When everything is crumbling down around you, you should always be able to turn to your parent ... in my opinion, anyway.
Do you even know what a prime number is? Let me take you back to highschool math and remind you ... it is a number that is divisible only by one and itself.
“They are suspicious, solitary numbers, which is why Mattia thought they were wonderful … Mattia had learned that, among prime numbers there are some that are even more special. Mathematicians call them twin primes: pairs of prime numbers that are close to each other … but between them there is always an even number that prevents them from touching … Mattia thought that he and Alice were like that, twin primes, alone and lost, close but not close enough to really touch each other. He had never told her that.”
Maybe, if the even number that separates the twin primes became a common interest, the two could really connect. In some way. Perhaps not the way you want them to, but in some way.
Mattia uses math as an escape from feeling and as a way to shape his world. When given a phone number he immediately makes a mental note that all the numbers are odd numbers; when in an uncomfortable situation he distracts himself from the reality of what is happening by calculating the angle of two things or the volume of the room; while driving to school as a teenager, he estimates distance by counting rooftops. This fascinates me because his brain works so much like my Caiden's does. In some respects, Caiden and Mattia were not alike at all, because Caiden actively seeks out emotional friendships. And it is important to him that you are "happy at him," as he would say when he was younger. However, when it comes to numbers, I think their brains are very succinct. From a very early age, Caiden broke things down into a number ... what time, how big, how long, how many, the most, the age. Numbers are the way in which he understands and reconciles the world. And it seems a little odd to people sometimes, but I find it fascinating. But it is a burden to be smart. It is not easy ... for so many reasons. Mattia says it best ... "Mattia thought there was nothing good about having his mind. That he would happily have unscrewed it and replaced it with a different one ... provided it was empty and light. He opened his mouth to reply that feeling special is the worst kind of cage that a person can build for himself, but he didn't say anything."
When Caiden was about three years old, he could count. In fact, he counted all the time, and even now, sometimes when he is trying to calm down or centre his thoughts, I will find pieces of paper with numbers beginning at one and carrying on until he feels the need to move on to the next thing. When Caiden was three years old, he could count in increments of any number ... he counted by 2's and 4's and 9's and 16's and 23's. Any number. It was incredible to hear this little tiny voice rhyme off numbers in sequential orders. And we would encourage him to count for our friends ... because we were amazed. And the more we did so, the more people wanted to hear him ... as he stood with his little calculator and that smile, it was difficult to resist him. But he learned very quickly that he was different ... because his mother insisted that he count for people. Eventually, he refused to do it, and I am certain it was because it made him feel bad inside ... because he understood he was different. It is a mistake I made as a parent; one that I deeply regret and wish I could change. And sometimes I wonder if the reason he hides his intelligence now is because he never wants to feel like that again ... feel different, like an outsider. And so, I am drawn to Mattia and his story of self-discovery. And I wish that I could teach him a set of rules that would make everything okay for him. Because that is how his brain works ... in sequence. This I know from experience. The Solitude of Prime Numbers was a memorable read for me. But it doesn't have to be a solitary experience ... read it and then let me know what you think ... because I am pretty sure I will still be thinking about my Mattia and Alice for a long time to come.
With blogging every day for the entire month of April, my reading has really suffered. I have just finished my nineteenth book, and will be moving on to number twenty. However, this is not the pace I should be keeping in order to meet my goal. Ugh.
You know, I take things too seriously. I treat this blog like it is my job. Like it is important to anyone other than me. It is not ... as much as I would like it to be, it is still just a hobby. And I put too much effort into it. I read a bunch of stuff on the Internet ... sometimes for enjoyment, sometimes for inspiration, sometimes for research, sometimes for substantiation (...is that a word?). And then, I agonize over wording, flow, interest, should I or shouldn't I include something, too long or too short. I take things too seriously, but it is who I am.
I think my family is beginning to wish my self-imposed challenge would just go away. Or, that it was something they could benefit (directly) from ... like baking one hundred different things in a year would suit them just fine or having a challenge to actually iron the clothes that accumulate each week. But those things would not help me to grow as a person, would they? Plus, who wants to read (or write) about the pants or shirts or little pink dresses I ironed?
But April is just one month and there are many more months before the end of my challenge. Perhaps May can be "Read-as- Much-as-You-Can" month. One thing is for certain ... when summer vacation begins, and I have to entertain three children all day long, I cannot imagine that they will find watching me read to be very fulfilling. Although them playing at the beach while I read might be do-able.
The next book on my list is Backlash (The Undeclared War Against American Women) by Susan Faludi. Which leads me to my next problem. Jonesy picked it up for me at the Library ... which is a very funny story for another day. Backlash is (basically) a textbook. It is more than four hundred fifty pages ... of reporting on "the insidious war against women's rights, probing the dimensions of a cultural phenomenon that has changed shape and resurfaced in Hollywood films and TV, in the fashion and beauty industries, in New Right rhetoric and presidential speeches, and in office harrassment and clinic bombings." (Taken from the book jacket.)
Susan Faludi is an award-winning writer, and Backlash won the 1992 National Book Critics Circle Award for General Non-Fiction. I am sure that it is a very enlightening look at the women's movement. However, at this time of my life, I just cannot read another textbook. It would take me a really long time, and set me behind even further ... this is the lesson I learned from reading And the Band Played On.
But isn't this challenge about learning new things and expanding my knowledge of the world?
Well, in the words of Leslie Gore ... "it's my challenge and I'll do what I want to." You would cry too, if this happened to you ...
I am off to find a substitution ... I'll keep you posted.
