Walking the Boundaries by Christopher Scott

This book was a little-too-late nostalgic indulgence for me, as my dear friend and writing mentor passed away recently. He wrote and published these anecdotes of a bygone era before I even knew him. While I enjoyed Christopher Scott's fictional writings, I delighted even more in hearing, this time, about how he became and worked as a land agent, so long ago in England. It was as though we were immersed in a different chapter of Downton Abbey. Charming and oh-so-proper, for the most part.  I'm sorry I didn't read them in time to ask him about them, but the book, along with his novels, is a keepsake I will treasure. 

The Indigo Girl by Natasha Boyd

Eliza Lucas was a remarkable girl who ran her father’s South Carolina plantations while he was lieutenant governor far away on the island of Antigua. I’ve been intrigued to know more about her since my undergrad days at the College of Charleston, but even then I didn’t realize that my West Ashley townhouse was within a mile of her Wapoo Plantation home, possibly even on the Wapoo Plantation grounds themselves.  I’m thrilled to learn that now, as I’ve always admired her—and still do after listening to The Indigo Girl.

I do recommend this book, but note that I may return to adjust this review later, as I’m so curious about the real Eliza Lucas Pinckney that I plan to learn more.

First, kudos to Boyd for crediting Eliza’s father for his open-mindedness in allowing his brilliant daughter to take charge.  No matter how competent their daughters may have been, not all men of the 18^th century would have set this up to happen. So let me amend that:  kudos to Boyd and to George Lucas, both.

Maybe. But was it open-mindedness or sheer ruthless, pragmatic greed?  After all, he was running slave plantations for profit.  We’re not talking about someone committed to progressive social change, not that I know of, and some of the worst slave conditions meted out by the English were on those Barbados islands, from what I understand. Did he simply see in Eliza a competent manager?  Was it all simply $$$$ signs (or pound signs, I suppose I should say)?  I rather question him leaving his family in South Carolina like that. It was harsh to abandon his family for years—and I don’t believe he ever saw Eliza again. Nevertheless, no matter his human failures, I’ll give him at least a little credit for not restricting Eliza based on her gender or age. At the same time, though, I’m sympathetic to any more traditional men of the time who might have shaken their heads with concern and dismay.

Boyd makes slavery a central theme of the book. I understand why, as it’s a near-impossible subject to ignore (or should be), given the reality of Eliza’s situation.  She redeems Eliza fairly well, but I find her guesswork and premise suspect. I’d love to chat more with her about how she came up with her plot, but as much as we might wish that Eliza had such an open, fair mind, I’ve seen little to convince me that she considered the slaves the way Boyd’s Eliza did.  Again, I hope to read more and make my own determination about that, and I’m sympathetic to Boyd’s efforts on Eliza’s behalf, but I prefer my historical fiction to accurately reflect history—though again, I’ll have Boyd’s story in mind when I get to Eliza’s letterbook, and I might decide that Boyd was right, after all.

I’ll go ahead and reflect on one element now.  In the author’s notes, Boyd presents as evidence that Eliza signed an emancipation note for Quash, a mulatto slave.  This was when Eliza was older, maybe near the time of her husband’s death. Wouldn’t this most likely be her husband’s illegitimate brother or child?  My limited understanding has it that the blood-children of the slave owners were the most likely slaves to be emancipated—and someone gave Quash his European ancestry. It isn’t a random factoid here, though I don’t know for sure it had anything to do with his emancipation. Maybe it just opened doors for him with opportunity. Still—and this is just my guess—to assume that Quash’s emancipation reflects some overarching sympathy with abolitionist views seems to be wishful thinking. Again, I’m looking forward to reading Eliza’s letterbook and will be enthusiastic if I find evidence in support of Boyd’s interpretation of events. [Later edit: I didn't, not really, though I did see where Boyd seized her inspiration with a very between-the-lines interpretation. Her novel is fiction, after all.]

Despite these reservations, I warmed to the story quite well.  After getting over my surprise at Eliza’s relationship with Ben and her relative lack of assertiveness at the beginning of the story—she seemed to be such an ordinary girl, contrary to my expectations—I found myself pulled into the tale quite nicely, interested all the way through to the end, when I saw more of the strong Eliza I suspect was always there, raring to know more about her.

I started the book in Savannah, Georgia, a city settled by Oglethorpe. Charles Pinckney refers to the ‘tyrannical government of Oglethorpe’ more than once, to my delight. It’s rather amusing to me that while in Georgia, I wasn’t as engaged in the story, but once I crossed state lines, traveling in South Carolina, I was fairly riveted.

Far more surprising is that when we arrived at a terribly sad time near the end of the book, Boyd almost randomly seems to insert a few of Eliza’s letters. Maybe 4 or 5.  I believe she wants us to hear Eliza’s philosophical tone there, which while not addressing the events in the story, do somewhat reflect how one might try to cope with the story’s events. So, I’m listening to Eliza talking about a comet she witnessed—which she goes on about it in two different letters. Moments later, I see a meteor with a tail in the sky—far larger than any meteor I’ve ever seen, for all that I’ve gone to watch the Perseids on a dark island (none of those even compared to this meteor’s size).

So, between the meteor and the discovery that I practically lived on the Wapoo Plantation site for two years, The Indigo Girl has been a rather magical experience for me. I like Eliza in the story, and I hope to learn more about the very-real and quite-remarkable Eliza Lucas Pinckney.

        

Kristin Lavransdotter by Sigrid Undset

I’ve just listened to a 40+ hour trilogy that I bought in a single volume: Kristin Lavransdatter, which is made up of Sigrid Undset’s trilogy: The Wreath, The Wife, and The Cross. I’d heard it recommended by someone online as her favorite book, and then shortly afterwards I was listening to an Anne Patchett audiobook (a CD one, not digital!) in which a teenager was reading Krisitin Lavransdatter, and when I looked it up, I saw that Undset had won the 1928 Nobel Prize in Literature. Needless to say, all this prompted my curiosity about the book(s).

It’s a massive work, a saga that goes on forever, but I can’t say I’m sorry to have listened to it.  There’s something grand about a work that spans someone’s life, from her girlhood to her death (while in her 50s, maybe?).  I enjoyed being immersed in the medieval time period, even if the author’s depiction might not be precisely how it was. Despite so much tragedy, the vastness of the novel(s) made the tragedies seem merely a drop in a wooden bucket—sort of like how my troubles seem miniscule when I visit the ocean and realize how insignificant I am (in a good way). There’s something oddly satisfying about that massiveness—and the fact that the story just meandered on and on and on, like you were witnessing Kristin’s very-realistic life.

Certain unnamed author-friends of mine might have a conniption about the lack of a story arc.

And some story elements were so sad that I wondered if the author had a mission to depict medieval life as brutish and hellish. When the plague came through, nobody, once afflicted, seemed to survive—but that’s just not accurate.  Some people did survive.  And while I appreciate stories that don’t have their characters engaging in all sorts of illicit, bawdy sex that would have generated serious consequences, Undset’s medieval society was as prim as Victorian society in the extreme—a concept which it seems should have fallen apart when presented in conjunction with her more relaxed attitude about nudity.

I’m curious how off she is on this. I rather think it’s a tendency so many have to kind of make that assumption that society is more uptight and prim the further we go back in history. After all, as we go back in our own minds through the more-strict 1950s and such, on back into the Victorian times, sexual mores become stricter and more severe. It’s natural to assume that they must grow even more severe as we continue to go back!  But in researching for my own novels, I’ve grown to understand that at least the 17^th and 18^th centuries were more lax than Victorian times—and while I know less about medieval society, I’ve thought it to be less uptight then, as well.  Undset was a product of Victorian times, however, and she has a point that Kristin would have worn wimples and veils. This reminds us of Muslim societies, which have a tendency to be quite conservative.  So perhaps I’m left more uncertain than I was before—even about the clothing. Wimples and veils but more relaxed nudity?  I’m just unsure.

This saga took an eternity to finish, but it feels like an accomplishment to finally get to the end. The protagonist, Kristin Lavransdatter, was generally cold and stand-offish, not emotional enough for my preferences, but then she was Scandinavian, as is the author, and reminded me of my blond, reserved mother quite a bit. So even as I was impatient with K.L., I resonated with her reserve, and it struck a deep chord of familiarity. Perhaps one of my favorite elements of the book is the author’s ability to present somewhat narrow-minded perspectives while still holding our respect for the characters—she includes a few tedious religious discussions, but those serve to remind us that the characters were not being flippant with their narrow-mindedness. They just hadn’t yet challenged other elements of their world view—and wouldn’t, of course. While I don’t believe we should assume that people can’t be open-minded, regardless of time period, obviously most aren’t, and the author’s purpose is valid. To be so invested in your protagonist and restrict yourself with blinders you’ve determined are in place is quite a feat—and I admire the world she’s constructed for us. I do feel more in touch with medieval Scandinavia than I ever have before, thanks to Sigrid Undset.

Walden by Thoreau Is Immature but Inspiring in a Way

I've been listening to Walden, by Henry David Thoreau, at long last.  It's one of those famous books that you hear about forever, with all the great quotes.  Since I'm a fan of Emerson's writing (see highly modified opinion in later blog here), and the two are associated, and because I like the quotes from Walden, I have at last decided to give it a shot.  I'm only a third of the way through, and I am both disappointed and inspired by it. 

I suppose I was expecting something in the vein of Emerson's enlightened thoughts, but Thoreau is certainly his own fellow.

He's a young man, only 30, and he seems even younger than that, in ways.  I envision a college student—one of those really idealistic ones who want to live in a tent and experience nature, full of zeal and rebellion.  Thoreau actually says something to the effect that he's never received any good advice from his elders.  So ungrateful, I thought!  So, yep, he seems a bit spoiled and bratty that way.  He later says that his constitution is not designed to be a philanthropist, which is sort of funny.  I think he had been frustrated with wanting to help people in the truest way he knew how—and had been rejected.  They wanted gifts, whereas he wanted to help them to be self-sufficient in the way he had accustomed himself to being.  In a way, I identified with him there, as I think of gifts like compost bins or other self or home-improvements.

So, the great Thoreau is an interesting and inspiring person, but he's immature in ways that reflect his place in life.  He's young and headstrong, with no dependents.  I wonder if he changed some of his views in the ensuing years?  I hope he at least changed his mind about the unimportance of proper nutrition, though his diet actually didn't sound too awful—but most certainly he cannot just eat nails and survive. Yes, he said something like that.

Anyhow, he delves deeply at times, resonating with me for a short while.  He's all about finding the least expensive way of living so that the vast majority of your time can be spent on what you are interested in.  He drones on and on, itemizing his expenses for us--in such a classic text!  But it does convey his passion for the reality of his beliefs—that he not only thinks he can do this, but he is doing it!

That was nice mostly as a sorta 'Me, too!  I see it that way!', but it's nothing that I didn't already kinda know.  And I'm not so sure about the complete validity of his itemizing as 'proof' that anyone can do this, as he's 'squatting' on someone else's land! 

He did comfort and inspire me a bit with his recommendation to spend less time 'do(ing) good' and more time trying to 'be good'. I like to fancy that I share this truly broad-minded perspective. He sees the pointlessness of so much cyclical charity.  In his time, the rich factory owners were impoverishing workers and then alleviating the poverty at times with charity.  It would have been better if they'd just 'been good' in the first place.  

In our own time, so many charities are designed to support the pharmaceutical industry.  As if they need our money!  We volunteer to pay for research to develop new drugs.  Sigh…  So many people put much of their best energy into this, donating to these rich conglomerates.  

If the kindly folks who are donating would put more energy into 'being good'—as in, don't harm others (including factory farm animals) or the environment and try to support family businesses—then they'd actually be doing a lot more for the health of the planet and their own communities.  

Not to dissuade people from donating to charity.  That does have its place. But even donations to some of the charities that do the best work can go awry—as when I simultaneously donated to an animal rights group and to an environmental group only to discover that one group was fighting legislation that would promote animal testing, while the other group was pushing for it, so as to more thoroughly test chemicals in household products.  

I figure that the best use of my limited income is to make sure that my own life is as ethical as I can make it. Meanwhile, I do see the value of group action, given our governmental concerns.  And I do still donate to charity, a little.  I just want to prioritize making ethical choices at home, as Thoreau encourages.  I could always do better, and I sometimes feel guilty about my choices, but we do at least have some good patterns established, such as shopping at the farmers market and prioritizing organic foods. 

Thoreau goes farther. I'm not willing to explore the 'freedom' of his lifestyle, as it sounds too uncomfortable and uncertain, but I share his perspective to a degree.  And, in contrasting the minimalist lifestyle that he leads with my own, I feel as though I am blessed with so much already.  I don't think it was his intention, but his book is making me appreciate what I have.  His warning, though, is one that I live with—he doesn't want us to indebt ourselves unnecessarily, making us slaves to possessions.  What's that quote that prompted me to get the book in the first place?  Something to do with 'the cost of something is how much of our lives we exchange for it'.  Yes, I think that's a valuable way to consider everything, including things that are 'free'. 

And while he was talking about real sweat-and-tears labor, I'd also like to point out that television counts here, too.  The cost of television is not just the cable bill and the TV set and little bit of electricity—it's the hours upon hours that we spend watching it instead of engaging ourselves in the activities that we're most interested in.  We can become passive and waste our lives in this way, if we're not careful.  Not to say that we might not sometimes be very interested in a particular show—and sometimes there are wonderfully informative shows that are right up the alley of what we want to learn.  My husband and I spend quite a bit of our free time watching documentaries, and I reserve action and fantasy entertainment mostly for my workouts on the elliptical—at which time I also like to employ the foreign language subtitles (or English subtitles while listening to Spanish or French).  I'm not sure if I learn much new from this, but I hope that it keeps me from forgetting some of what I already know.  Hah, I feel a bit like Thoreau, itemizing his expenses for us!  My point is just that I'm not throwing out the TV altogether; I may even overindulge and am guilty of devoting too much time to it, too. I try to excuse it with my workouts, some language practice, documentary information, and DVDs instead of cable, so as to eliminate most advertising (a waste of time as well as materialistic propaganda!).  Could I do better?  Perhaps.  I could be more extreme, like Thoreau.  And it might not be a bad idea.  But I am a product of this society and find myself unwilling to go to that extreme.

Even so, I appreciate Thoreau's ideas and enjoy listening to them.  Who knows?  Perhaps he's planted a seed for later.  At the very least, he has prompted me to appreciate what I already have and to feel that my life is actually pretty darn luxurious.

A Year In Provence by Peter Mayle

Peter Mayle's wry sense of humor charmed me. Here’s a paraphrased example:  I’d never met a more mendacious, vicious brute. I liked him more every day.

Despite his oft-delightful wit, I didn’t end up loving A Year in Provence as much as I thought I would at first. Mayle went on about the most mundane things, though granted, I’ve never really been much for travel reading. I didn’t connect with his level of sophistication, I suppose, as he talked about continually going to restaurants and dancing at cocktail parties and all such.  I would glaze over and have to go back to re-read sections to make any sense of it.  Here’s how un-memorable the content was: I finished the book and went back to it, forgetting I’d finished it.  Not much of a story.

I did come away from it with a little better sense of Provence, though.  Some things I do recall: 

·    The Mistral is a severe, cutting wind that blows through the region in the winter, especially. The climate is quite cold much of the year.

·      The French spoken by the locals has a hard ‘g’ added to so many words, especially those ending with ‘ien’ or ‘in’.  So, ‘bieng, vieng’ and the like.

·     Some of the restaurants don’t have menus.  They just serve your meal, and you eat whatever it is!  I personally wouldn’t care for this, since I have dietary restrictions, but if I didn’t, I might actually enjoy that… 

·         Lots of mushrooms can be found in the woods.

·         Documents are required all the time, for everything.

·     The area is rich in vineyards and has many wine producers. I knew this about France generally, but not particularly about Provence.

Mayle drew memorable characters—the brutish neighbor; Menicucci, a very competent and cultured furnace guy whom he called about all his home issues; another neighbor who farmed the vineyards, but whose wife did the vast bulk of all the hard work, including chimney-sweeping, mechanical repairs, planting grapevines, etc.

*Spoiler Alert!*

The poor author-couple started remodeling their new house in January, and much of it still wasn’t complete in December!  Honestly, it makes you wonder if it really was THAT bad to be worth it. What a nightmare for them.  The couple had been pestering the workers for months, and they were given endless reassurances, the latest being, “Don’t worry, we’ll be finished way before Christmas!”  Anyhow, the author’s wife solved the issue by arranging a party to celebrate the ‘finished house’, inviting the workers AND their wives.  Since the workers didn’t want their wives to see their work incomplete, they showed up right away after getting the invitations and actually finished the job.  Brilliant stroke on her part, hmm? Too useful a tip not to mention here.

 The grand ending was really just the end of the year, on Christmas day. Aside from having the renovations completed (nearly), their electricity went out. The restaurant was already booked, but Peter explained their problem, and the restaurant set up a tiny extra table next to the kitchen for them. Mayle remarks on all sorts of extreme conditions that wouldn’t garner the sympathies of the natives of Provence, but he claims that any gastronomic suffering will in full.

A Year In Provence was amusing and occasionally engaging. I guess it should be easy in general to forget you’ve finished a travel book, so I won’t hold it against him—and few have, it seems. Apparently, the book was something of a sensation when it came out and was made into a TV miniseries.  I wouldn’t mind watching that…

Fawkes by Nadine Brandes

**Spoiler Alert**

Brandes draws us into a vivid alternative-history/magical version of the political and religious realities of early-17^th century London.  With a stroke of brilliance reminiscent of C.S. Lewis, she renames Catholics as ‘Keepers’ and Protestants as ‘Igniters’, both of whom have respect for White Light (i.e., God) but have a different understanding of how they should interact with it.  Igniters speak directly with White Light, using all the different colors of the spectrum in their magic. This enhances their power, generally speaking.  The Keepers view this direct interaction and broad scope of power as dangerous, and the magic folk among them apply their own personal powers to a single color, which they choose when young and adhere to for life. The correlations are fun and well-conceived, though I did take issue with the obvious conclusion that Protestants were magically ‘stronger’, as there didn’t seem to be any redeeming qualities to concentrating powers on a single color.

Thomas Fawkes, son of the infamous Guy Fawkes, is a Keeper—at first.  His father has neglected to provide Thomas with the mask he should have received in order to harness his color power, so Thomas makes his way to London to find him. Of course he lands in the thick of the Gunpowder Plot as a co-conspirator, though his lady-love, Emma, just so happens to be an Igniter.

To spice it up, Brandes throws in a stone-plague and African skin and John Dee, who was once court astrologer to Queen Elizabeth I. I’m loving this alternative history of masks, cloaks, and magic and am appreciating Thomas’ struggle with the madness that surrounds him.  Though he wants to be a loyal Keeper, he fervently respects Emma and is somewhat troubled by the mass murder he’s helping to plan (these Keepers intend to blow up Parliament and the King, of course—which is what the Gunpowder Plot was about).

Half-way through, and I’m enchanted, right?  I adore Thomas’ insight as to the futility of their struggles against one another, especially since both sides claim to respect White Light.  His mind opens to Emma’s perspective, and he’s rightly troubled by what he’s helping to plan.  At this point, I’m feeling that Nadine Brandes has that C.S. Lewis’ grasp on Christianity, that she’s in touch with White Light herself, that if the world would just see things as she does, all would be well.

And then the story turns.  Thomas’ mind isn’t ‘opened’, it’s more that he converts.  And suddenly, somehow, the Keepers are lost, in his mind.  And when, in the end, Guy Fawkes is tortured and headed towards death, all Thomas can think of is how desperately he wants to convert his father, too.  I’m just horrified that while Brandes vividly describes how awful the father’s treatment has been, that Thomas doesn’t empathize with his father, nor does he seem to feel the slightest remorse (his father would likely not have been caught if not for Thomas, after all).  The son only pressures the father to convert, to talk to White Light directly. Brandes seems to view the division between Protestantism and Catholicism to be as profound as they did in those times—and I truly wonder if she doesn’t view Catholics as sufficiently ‘saved’!  For modern Christian circles, I believe this view is unusually narrow-minded, though I doubt she was continuing her correlation by this point.

The last third of the story loses me, as well, in that Thomas Fawkes seems to feel obliged to burden everyone with his confessions.  In reality, he would have been offed immediately. Foolishly, selfishly, he repeatedly opens that maw of his to tell everyone how he betrayed them.  I’m not just upset for his sake—he still has plans to try to save people, and if he’s killed, he won’t be able to do it. But he insists on having a clear conscience at all times, and he repeatedly speaks up with his confessions, displaying not a wit of reserve or savviness or guilt for ruining the lives of his Keeper-friends. When King James asks him what boon he desires, instead of doing good or even benefitting himself or Emma, Thomas ends up asking only to see his father, whom he pesters to convert as the poor man is in agony.  Thomas attends his father’s execution with Emma, and it’s such a happy day for him as he sees his father dying—because his father shows White Light in his blood, as Igniters do.  What a joyous thing, hmm?  [This is irony, btw.]

I’m drawn in by Thomas’ earnestness, and I appreciate his shift, but then I’m left baffled by his suddenly-narrow adherence to his newfound perspective.  Again, I suspect Brandes loses her correlations and isn’t intending to imply that Catholics aren’t ‘saved’ (though maybe she is?).  In the end, Thomas’ entreaties to his father remind one of a overzealous missionary, desirous of saving souls while being unmoved by human suffering. 

I was so inspired by the first half of this book that I’m not sorry to have devoted time to this novel. Brandes is a fine writer with a wonderful imagination, but I was quite disappointed with our protagonist in the end. Guy Fawkes, however, acted with unwavering humility, savviness, and loyalty, however misguided his plans were. He seems a hero, and I’ll likely never feel as dubious about the holiday called ‘Guy Fawkes’ Day’ again, thanks to this fictional account by Nadine Brandes—who, again, is a fantastic writer.

Admission by Jean Hanff Korelitz

Admission by Jean Hanff Korelitz is not a book I necessarily recommend.  I honestly didn’t much like the protagonist, Portia, and yet I’ve read it all the way through; it certainly retained my interest.

What kept my interest in this quite-dense book?  Well, I actually enjoyed the ongoing discussions of the admissions processes for the Ivy Leagues.  The author herself was a part-time reader for the admissions office at Princeton for a couple of years, so she has given it all such thorough consideration that I was impressed at Portia’s integrity about the process.  She’d lean a little too much one way—but only for a few pages, and then she’d draw back and be more balanced. She dealt with my reservations and questions, on a philosophical and moral level, about the whole admissions process. Occasionally Portia would lose her temper over reasonable concerns and laments by those who were disappointed in the results of the process, and I was impatient with Portia for this—because when it wasn’t application season, she was out there encouraging those kids to apply, getting their hopes up.  So for her to turn around and have no patience for the complaints of families of the brilliant, near-perfect students getting turned away…well, nope, again not sympathetic.

As a sidenote, I partly enjoyed reading this book because it was validation for me as a writer!  I am told again and again not to include history in my novel because it takes away from the story-arc. Yet the reason I choose to read historical fiction at all is to have history brought to life. Throwing in historical details adds value and reality to the writing. Conversations about political situations bring us into the period authentically.  I find a similar situation with this book.  My favorite passages of Admission are actually when Portia goes on her diatribes about the admissions process, which take up much of the book, most often in conversation form.  It’s nice to see it from her perspective and to appreciate the balance the admissions officers try to maintain. As my daughter and I are looking at colleges for her right now, it’s somewhat fascinating to contemplate.

My son actually was interviewed to go to Princeton.  Only in reading this book did I realize he might not have gotten so far without his national-level award, which was a little extraneous to his main efforts and who he is, perhaps why he didn’t get in. I’d never have guessed it to be a critical factor in his being invited for an interview, in his obtaining admission.    

I leave feeling disquieted at the broad encouragement for normal, excellent students to apply for the Ivy Leagues. It’s clear that unless the students have extremely disadvantaged backgrounds or have achieved national honors at some level, most have little hope of being admitted.  Since the book begins with Portia delivering her, “Apply to Princeton!” sales pitches to high school students, with no mention of how incredibly unlikely it is for those who don’t have unusual qualifications (even 4.0s and perfect SATs don’t cut it, apparently) to get in, I was dismayed to learn this only well into the book, when she was assigning scores based on these factors—numerical scores that generally precluded exceptional students with otherwise unremarkable achievements from getting in.  Only the exotic, eccentric, and massively-achieved-outside-of-sheer-academics-alone need apply!  (It doesn’t count to be service-oriented or to volunteer regularly, etc.)  But then, I get why they’d want a variety of applicants.  After all, aside from trying for diversity and wanting to keep their ranking high (they’re ranked #1 for undergrad universities), which is largely dependent on how many rejection letters they get to hand out, they do want a certain variety of students on campus—like singers and rugby players and the like.  I don’t pay much attention to sports, but Portia and the admissions officers want a vibrant, wholistic campus life.  And…I sorta get that.  So someone with a noted talent, like singing, might get in with a solid SAT and excellent grades.  To find the best of those folks, they want a broad applicant pool. It’s in the school’s best interests for all students to apply, to broaden the base for their Office of Admission to pick and choose.

Still, there’s something wrong with Portia taking offense to the upset applicants and their families.  When one mother says, “It’s a disaster!” or something of that nature, Portia makes an intelligent, well-thought-out response about how higher education is better than it’s ever been, how excellent the state universities so often are, how many good choices students have nowadays.  I liked her reply, but I didn’t like her contempt.  Because it is rather a disaster to get so many near-perfect students’ hopes up—and waste their time—only to dash them because those students really have little-to-no chance of getting in.  Not if they come from an unremarkable family and haven’t achieved something extraordinary (these factors are not specified in the recruitment speeches).  Minorities might have a slightly greater chance, and they are looking to round out things, as I said, so I do see why they’re reaching out so broadly, but it’s still a disaster for the incredibly intelligent, hard-working kids who don’t stand out.  Oh, and she made it clear that Princeton could easily fill its halls only with legacy kids, but that 2/3 of the legacy applicants are still rejected. Granted, they have a greater chance of getting in than the other applicants, but with nature-and-nurture from parents with Ivy-League educations and the very best primary and secondary educations their money can buy, shouldn’t they naturally stand a somewhat better chance, even if the Office of Admission were blind to their legacies?    

Okay, so I’ve gone on about the admissions process, but there is an underlying life story for Portia.  Stop reading now if you don’t want a spoiler!

**

SPOILER ALERT!

**

I am captivated at the moment by the fact that Portia’s offspring, who was adopted out seventeen years earlier, is an eccentric who reads like mad.  When we finally hear of Portia’s pregnancy, how she took a break from school, got a tiny apartment, and spent almost all her time alone reading classics, it makes a mother’s heart ache with joy and sympathy and the beauty of that connection between them.  Portia hasn’t made much of it, but you do wonder how much of what the mother does during her pregnancy rubs off on her children.  I don’t know too much about what my own mother was up to when she had me except that she was caring for a two-year-old boy and that she went into labor a month early while trying to cut our huge yard with a push mower!  She was only two days out from her scheduled Cesarean, and she didn’t want it to be overgrown when she returned—when she did get back, she was furious that nobody had bothered to cut the small patch she hadn’t been able to finish.  I’ve always found that story entertaining, and it’s fun to think how this might have influenced me. Pregnant women often get that tidying urge just before labor, and I also went into labor with my son after cleaning and carrying boards out to the shed (he was just a week early).  Since my mother was a stay-at-home mom, I can’t isolate any of her influences to the period of pregnancy.  I rather think they’re from later, mostly.  But still, it’s nice to see this charming correlation at the end of the novel between Portia and her son. The rest of the book is almost exceptionally uninspired.  Just nuts-and-bolts reality. 

Another reviewer found the book’s romance unrealistic, and I do have to agree.  The way she comes across her adopted son is unrealistic, too, perhaps—though there’s something to be said for that magical draw between mother and child.  I can go for that, from a romantic’s point of view.  The romance with her lover, though, bothered me from a number of perspectives.  One, she slept with him without a moment’s thought to cheating on her 15-year partner.  You might believe this if she were a serial cheater (she wasn’t—she hadn’t been with anyone else in 15 yrs, and only two men before that).  You might believe this if she were drunk—possibly.  You might even believe this if there were an intense romance in their past, and she were caught up in the moment.  But honestly, when she slept with him, it didn’t even sound very romantic.  Almost sordid, it definitely rang of ‘serial cheater’.  I think the author was trying for the shock-factor, for the reader to be stunned when she revealed that Portia had a partner already.  And then, later, when we find out he’s having an affair and the woman’s pregnant, maybe we’re supposed to conclude that Portia somehow intuited this affair.

Portia is a strange, cold woman, though.  She falls into depression, but you’re never even sure exactly what she’s depressed about.  You can guess. There’s a myriad of possibilities. She’s surprised about the affair, and then she just sort of shuts down, and it’s so extreme that it doesn’t make sense that this new guy would be later attracted to her when she must reek.  Portia has him over to her disaster-of-a-house, where nothing has been cleaned for months, and there’s this romantic interlude that I’m completely disbelieving about.  The place is disgusting.  And then!  When Portia’s going to go out with the new lover, she takes a shower, can find no clean clothes of her own that aren’t fancy (put on that cocktail dress, for God’s sake! Or go shopping. Or use your washer!), and so wears her ex’s clothes.  Just no, no, no!  I was appalled.  What in the world?

Okay, I’ve given away so much of the book here, and I suppose I’m being too idealistic, perhaps.  What happens in reality often doesn’t conform to what we imagine things should be like.  It’s only that the author hardly acknowledges the strangeness of so much of what Portia does.

The book does bring up a few questions for me.  As in, when Portia finds out she’s pregnant, the man she loves has already dumped her for another woman.  So Portia doesn’t tell him about the pregnancy.  Not to be mean.  She just doesn’t.  And later, she says he had a right to know about the child.  Yet…he went on with his life, married the new girlfriend, and didn’t have to suffer like Portia did.  He didn’t follow up with Portia, either.  So…did he really have a right to know?  Maybe?  It is a little sad that he didn’t know, especially after the baby was born.  But then, he brought that on himself.  If he had a right to know in that instance (seriously, when she let the baby go for adoption, she could have given the child into the hands of his wealthy family), then what if knowing that would have led her to choose an abortion?  Does he have a right to know, given a pro-choice sentiment here?  The book provoked this question for me.

While I was appalled at how he broke up with her, I also thought that although she was madly in love with him that she didn’t quite deserve him.  She was contemptuous of his belief that there was no-such-thing as class, still contemptuous that he had gone back to marry a Bostonian blond young woman and all.  But given her contempt, I don’t blame him. It must have shown at the time (at least, it sounded as though it would have). He’d likely found someone more aligned with his views, who didn’t scoff at his attempts to be color-blind and race-blind.  Portia, by the way, was of Jewish heritage, though it wasn’t a belief system so much as simply an ethnicity. He loved all of her ‘exotic’ qualities and appreciated her disapproving mother. Sheesh, I’m not sure how much harder he could have tried there—and I wasn’t convinced he would actually find her so exotic as she seemed to believe he did.  She felt different and strange, and she projected her beliefs onto him.  Perhaps.  But my sympathies were with her when he so lightly broke up with her.  Maybe he wasn’t really serious about her.  But after several months together, it was awful of him to dump her in Europe like that.  Again, since it would be rather humiliating for a dumped woman to ‘chase’ after a man, does he really have a right to know she’s pregnant after treating her that way?  And what if she’s pregnant but decides she really doesn’t want to be with him, doesn’t want to be pregnant, etc.?   I have to go with it being her choice, but I did balk a little at the thought of her adopting out without letting him know.  While he may have preferred not to have the disruption, it seems just unfair that he wouldn’t have the chance to be the parent of his own child before a stranger would. Then again, he’d dumped her, and she’d have had to face the scorn of his family; she just wanted something quiet, so that she could go back to her own life without having to face the public with it. Honestly, she might not have chosen to have the child if she had to face all that.  So there’s a consideration…

So, the author brought up this difficult question for me unintentionally, I believe.  She wasn’t really exploring these ideas, but we all get something different out of what we read.

This book called to me just as I was looking at college rankings. I knew it was on my shelves, but so are hundreds of other books that will never be read...  It’s taken a while to read, and it’s not exactly inspirational, but it is fascinating for those of us who have considered the Ivy Leagues for ourselves or for our children.  Portia repeatedly claims that there are a slew of excellent non-fiction books on the subject, also by former admission officers, but I’ve never bothered to find them.  This one just came into my hands, maybe at a library sale—and it is fiction, and it does pick up at the end, surprisingly so.

If you prefer novels and think you might enjoy considering long discussions about how Ivy League students should be selected, this may be the book for you.  Portia answers dozens of questions on this topic with insight and depth.  I am finishing the novel with more respect for the struggle that their Office of Admission is going through—and more insight as to what they’re looking for.  That said, unless my daughter publishes a book or does something else truly remarkable, I doubt I will encourage her to apply to the Ivy Leagues.

Beyond all that, Portia pushed people away and walled herself off from her very loving mother, rejecting anything that hinted of ‘natural’ and ‘organic’ and even ‘vegetarian’. It was a bit strange, since she was raised by a mother highly aware of these issues. Even though Portia remained determinedly clueless as to how those benefit our health and society, she seemed to believe that she is ‘a force for good in this world’. As far as her profession as a Princeton admissions officer went, perhaps she was fine (though I worry that she’d have been biased against some of the very best people). But to reject all that her mother taught her?  I understand sometimes when folks raised conventionally have trouble seeing differently, but for this narrow-minded woman, I have little sympathy.