Review: Tea Time for the Traditionally Built

The 10th installment of the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series has finally arrived this side of the pond (U.S. version at the left; the Brits got theirs, at the right, six weeks ahead of us). The wonderfully titled Tea Time for the Traditionally Built continues the charming saga of Mma Precious Ramotswe; her husband, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni; and her irrepressible secretary and assistant detective, Grace Makutsi.

Will the lady detectives be able to solve a football crisis? Will Grace lose her fiancé to a scheming, lying rival? Will Mma Ramotswe have to give up her beloved little white van? Such predicaments keep the story rolling along, but they aren't why I come back to Botswana, book after book. I adore Mma Ramotswe: she is a good woman, in the best sense of the word, and a big part of her goodness is her respectful, no-nonsense concern for others. I also love her love for Botswana--its traditions, its people, its geography.

Now I've made the books sound saccharine, and that's just wrong. They couldn't be, or Mr Neff would not read them so avidly. Sweet, sometimes, but never artificial. Gentle, but funny. On a scale ranging from Patricia D. Cornwell to Jan Karon, they're somewhere in the middle. They are especially satisfying when you're exhausted or brain dead or grumpy (i.e., in the evening after work).

If you've read any of them, I need say no more. If you haven't, start with the first. The Wikipedia article gives more background and lists all ten titles. Alexander McCall Smith has written several other series too. They're all good.

Review: Evening

Here's another novel that crawls into the mind of someone whose life is quickly receding (for mention of two others, see this post). Like Samantha Harvey's The Wilderness, Susan Minot's Evening is a literary novel, which means that people who like to know exactly what is going on, and in what order, will find it a struggle (at times I wished I'd been taking notes). But then the dying protagonist, Ann Lord, is also struggling with memories and meaning, so the novel's difficulties are appropriate.

The setting is Cambridge, Massachusetts, where 65-year-old Ann is so near to dying of cancer that her children and friends are gathering around her bedside. Her entire life is not exactly passing before her, but she is reviewing a memorable weekend in Maine that happened 40 years earlier and how its events affected the rest of her life, especially her relationships with a series of men. That's enough of a review for now, except to mention that chapter 12, "The Wedding Night" (pages 189-201), is amazingly beautiful erotic writing with hardly a mention of body parts.

And I should probably also add that there is nothing redemptive in this novel.

I liked the original paperback cover (left) better than the current one (right)--but when a book has been turned into a star-studded movie starring Claire Danes, Glenn Close, Vanessa Redgrave (and her late daughter, Natasha Richardson), and Meryl Streep (and her daughter, Mamie Gummer)--to name only a few of its high-octane actors--your marketing department is going to want the world to know.

Unfortunately, the movie got terrible reviews (read more about it here). Manohla Dargis of the New York Times wrote, "Stuffed with actors of variable talent, burdened with false, labored dialogue and distinguished by a florid visual style better suited to fairy tales and greeting cards, this miscalculation underlines what can happen when certain literary works meet the bottom line of the movies."

The film isn't even a good shortcut: its stories and characters are so different from those in the novel that you might as well just start with the actual book. Except for one thing: Vanessa Redgrave is Ann Lord.

When does an individual human's life begin?

Yesterday the FDA approved Plan B—the morning-after pill—for over-the-counter sales to 17-year-olds (though not until certain labeling changes are made). Web information about Plan B stresses that the method "isn't effective if you're already pregnant, and it won't terminate an existing pregnancy." According to the prescribing information document, it works "principally by preventing ovulation or fertilization.... In addition, it may inhibit implantation."

Does this mean Plan B is an abortifacient? Can there be an abortion without a pregnancy? And when does an individual human's life begin?

Last August Tom Brokaw asked Nancy Pelosi when she believes life begins, and she has been widely criticized for her answer: "I would say that as an ardent, practicing Catholic, this is an issue that I have studied for a long time. And what I know is, over the centuries, the doctors of the church have not been able to make that definition."

Pelosi was half right: theologians have indeed differed widely as to the exact time of "ensoulment," that is, when the soul enters the body and the fetus becomes human. Nevertheless, as Michael J. Gorman has shown in Abortion and the Early Church: Christian, Jewish and Pagan Attitudes in the Greco-Roman World, from its earliest days the church has opposed abortion, even though abortion was frequent in the Greco-Roman world. And the Catholic catechism is clear about what the church teaches today: "Human life must be respected and protected absolutely from the moment of conception"-- which the church defines as the moment of fertilization.

Conception, however, can mean implantation rather than fertilization, and that is the meaning used by writers of Plan B's ad copy.

After the human egg is fertilized, from eight to eighteen days go by until it completely implants in the uterus and pregnancy begins. According to the definition used by many in the scientific community, until a fertilized egg has implanted in a woman's uterus, she has not conceived and is not pregnant, even if the fertilized egg is in her body. And if she is not pregnant, abortion is not possible. Therefore, it is reasoned, Plan B pills do not cause abortions.

The question remains, of course: does Plan B take human life? Is the fertilized egg a human person before pregnancy occurs? This is a question of faith, not science. For Christians who believe that human personhood begins with fertilization, Plan B is morally wrong. Other Christians, who also consider themselves pro-life and anti-abortion, argue that human personhood begins with implantation; for them, Plan B may be morally neutral.

As one who has favored the first group, let me give a few arguments on behalf of the second. In some ways, implantation may be a better model than fertilization of when embodied life--the union of dust and spirit--begins.

First, human beings are more than genetic codes: we require community and nourishment in order to live. Implantation brings the developing cells into community with their mother and provides them with food and hormones and everything else they need.

Second, each human being is a unique and unrepeatable individual. Until implantation is achieved, the developing cells may split into twins or triplets. Individuality is not assured until the cells attach to the uterus.

Third, fertilization can occur in a laboratory, but--so far, at least--no baby will result unless at some point implantation occurs.

And yet the fertilized egg has its very own DNA, and perhaps this is reason enough to consider it fully human. To some, though, that sounds rather disembodied. Does a cell with a DNA code have infinite value, the same as cells that have burrowed into their mother's womb and established a relationship with her that she feels in every part of her body? Is human nature based in a code or in a relationship?

These are important questions with implications not only for the morning-after pill, but also for assisted conception and embryonic stem-cell research. The answers to these questions are not as clear as some of us would like. They can't be found in the Bible or in scientific journals, though both sources contribute to our understanding of the issues involved. Christians of good faith disagree. As human beings who thrive in community, we need to keep our voices down and listen to others, as we would have others speak softly and listen to us.

Home: excerpts

Two paragraphs I liked from Marilynne Robinson's Home. Different approaches from mother and father:

How to announce the return of comfort and well-being except by cooking something fragrant. That is what her mother always did. After every calamity of any significance she would fill the atmosphere of the house with the smell of cinnamon rolls or brownies, or with chicken and dumplings, and it would mean, This house has a soul that loves us all, no matter what. (252)

All bread is the bread of heaven, her father used to say. It expresses the will of God to sustain us in this flesh, in this life. Weary or bitter or bewildered as we may be, God is faithful. He lets us wander so we will know what it means to come home. (102)

Home: a review

I confess: I did not especially enjoy Gilead, Marilynne Robinson's Pulitzer Prize-winning 2004 novel about the Ames and Boughton families. Maybe the build-up was too great: some of my friends thought it was life-changing, the best novel they'd ever read. I thought it dragged. I kept waiting for something to happen. And by the time it did, I had lost interest, though (because I was reading it for a book group) I plowed on to the very end.

So when, out of a sense of duty to Literature, I checked out Home, I waited until it was almost due to begin reading. And then, much to my surprise, I got hooked.

Both novels are set in the fictional small town of Gilead, Iowa, in the mid 1950s. Gilead's narrator is the Reverend John Ames, a semi-retired Congregational minister; Home's narrator is Glory Boughton, the youngest child of the Reverend Robert Boughton, a retired Presbyterian minister and Ames's best friend. Both books focus on Jack Boughton, Robert's ne'er-do-well son, though Gilead takes care of a lot of Ames family business before finally getting around to Jack.

I liked Home because in some ways it reminded me of my parents' home: Like Rev. Boughton, my father was a dignified, kindly, and reasonable man who spoke in stately cadences and shared Boughton's moderate--but oh, so wrong--views on the nascent civil rights movement. My home, like the Boughton household, was a

scene of utter and endless probity, where earnest striving so predictably yielded success, … the kind amenable to being half-concealed by the rigors of yet more earnest striving.

Like Jack, I broke my father's heart. Like Jack's father, my dad struggled to be gracious while disapproving of my religious choices. Like Glory, I dutifully cared for my parents in their final illness; like Glory, I dreamed of escape.

I'm not trying to turn this review into a memoir; I'm just warning you that if you didn't care for Gilead and don't have a history something like Jack's or Glory's or mine, you may not like Home either. On the other hand, there are many good non-biographical reasons to like this book. Robinson's writing style is wonderful: spare, never fussy or pretentious, never calling attention to itself; but sharp-eyed, deeply aware of human foibles, often wryly humorous. Her characters, no matter how flawed, are sympathetic. These are people we know and love.

Here is Glory describing her behavior toward her wayward brother:

Dear Lord. She had tried to take care of him, to help him, and from time to time he had let her believe she did. That old habit of hers, of making a kind of happiness for herself out of the thought that she could be his rescuer, when there was seldom much reason to believe that rescue would have any particular attraction for him.

Indeed Jack does not want to be rescued, at least not on the terms the good citizens of Gilead would prefer--or if, on some level, he does wish to come home (he often plays "Softly and Tenderly" on the piano), he believes he is unable to do so.

If you decide to read this book and are not immediately smitten, keep going for at least 30 pages; 50 or 80 would be better. The book starts slowly, and there's a lot of rumination where I wouldn't have minded some action (I am so shallow). Eventually you'll find yourself in the kitchen or the back garden with Glory and Jack, absorbed in their conversations, involved with the two old gentlemen, wondering what Jack will do next.

And then, if you happen to be reading this with a friend or for a book club, you can talk about any of the book's big ideas: Grace. Depravity. Predestination. Forgiveness. And, especially, Home.

The Lenten Experiment: analysis

Years ago I started keeping a list of every book I read, because when people ask me what I've been reading, I can never remember. Now I can at least say, "I'll get back to you."

When people ask me what we eat, I draw a similar blank. "Uh... let me look in the refrigerator and see if I can find any clues..." But now, thanks to the Lenten Experiment, I know what we've been eating recently.

I just went through nearly 50 Lenten posts and listed the meals I'd recorded. Subtracting meals out and our week off, I ended up with 31 meals to consider.

Here's what I found out.

About 2/3 of our meals were vegetarian (not vegan). The other 1/3 included small amounts of fish (salmon, tilapia, fish sticks), turkey sausage (in soup or stew), or--once--chicken. We followed St. Benedict's advice to eat no quadrupeds.

We ate a lot of Italian-inspired meals: risotto (twice), gnocchi (twice), whole wheat pizza, whole wheat spaghetti (twice with ratatouille, twice with vegetarian meatballs), lasagna (twice), and beer-flavored pasta & cheese that no self-respecting Italian would get near even though the pasta were gemelli.

We had cheese tamales once and variations on the tostada four times (once with beans, once with potatoes, twice with fish). Once we had omelets, with ratatouille.

Despite our daughter's claim that we eat nothing but lentil soup, we had lentil soup only once--but we did have black bean stew three times.

I baked lots of bread.

We ate lots of vegetables and fruit: artichokes, arugula, asparagus, avocado, beans (black, green, and white), beets, berries (blackberries at least seven times!), brussels sprouts, cabbage, garlic, lettuce, onions, oranges, peas, peppers, ratatouille (eggplant, zucchini, onion, tomatoes), spinach, sweet potatoes, and tomatoes.

And all that good food was only for main meals: we had more fruit with breakfast and lunch, and yogurt and flax seed and cereal and bread and peanut butter ...

It would have been difficult to eat meat or to buy fresh (instead of frozen) fish and maintain the thrifty budget. There was little room in the budget for junk food: most desserts were fruit, and snacks were usually peanuts or cashews.

I knew that a thrifty diet would be likely to increase carbs and decrease protein--not necessary a bad thing in a country where most people eat more protein than they need. I used whole grains whenever possible. Most of the bread I baked was whole wheat, sometimes mixed with oat flour and corn meal. Most of the pastas I used were whole wheat. The arborio rice for the risotto was white, as was the flour in the quiche crusts. I imagine masa harina--the tortilla ingredient--is also processed.

Fish. Cheese. Yogurt. Nuts. Beans. Vegetables. Fruit. Whole grains. If we keep this up, we can save enough money to go live in Azerbaijan, where people live to be 120. Though apparently their longevity requires more than a spartan but healthy diet--it also requires years of back-breaking labor. Not sure I'm ready for that.

Scarpetta and the God's-eye view

I have now listened to 12 of Patricia D. Cornwell's 16 Scarpetta mysteries. Though my two worst high-school classes were home ec and driver ed, I spend much of my life in the kitchen or behind the wheel. Keeping a long series going is a great way to keep myself going as well. But I'm done with Scarpetta for now.

I had been warned that the Scarpetta series is graphic and gruesome. "Oh well," I thought, "I'm a big girl. I can deal with it." And it really wasn't all that hard to deal with--the bloodiness was mostly in the forensics lab where Scarpetta, chief medical examiner of Virginia, explored the body cavities of the dead. Not lunchtime material, maybe, but technically interesting. Besides, the plots moved right along, and the characters--feisty Scarpetta; her conflicted niece, Lucy; bigoted, vulgar, but good-hearted Pete Marino; enigmatic Benton Wesley--quickly became my friends.

In The Last Precinct (book 11), however, Cornwell made a big change: she switched from the previous books' past-tense narration to a breathless present tense. Essentially a retrospective on Black Notice (book 10), The Last Precinct deals more with Scarpetta's inner turmoil than with outside events, and present-tense narration can be an effective way to get into a character's mind. Still, I thought, the story suffered--but maybe Cornwell would find her footing in the next book.

And then in Blow Fly (book 12), the tone changed entirely. Still using present tense, Cornwell began writing in the third person with an omniscient narrator. For me, that was the coup de grâce. This book, though dealing with the same characters as the two previous books, had become almost unlistenable. I listened anyway, feeling sick. Why, I wondered, should the narrative shift make such a difference?

And then I understood: from the God's-eye view, everything is visible and everything is present. I could see Scarpetta (though not as often as I wished), but I could also see murder, kidnapping, torture, and dismemberment taking place on stage, from the viewpoints of the people committing these acts. I could enter into the minds of several sociopathic, narcissistic, thoroughly evil characters as they plotted new crimes. I did not feel terror--I knew Scarpetta would emerge relatively unscathed to star in the next books--but I felt extreme revulsion.

Nevertheless, I went to the library and checked out book 13, Trace. It too uses present tense and an omniscient narrator. Soon I was in the mind of yet another psychotic criminal, one described by a reviewer as "one of the creepiest villains to come along since Silence of the Lambs." Enough! I said, and pulled the cassette out of the player (our car is very old).

The God's-eye view is not for the faint of heart. Even God got tired when he looked down and "saw that the wickedness of humankind was great in the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts was only evil continually" (Gen 6.5). According to the biblical tale, that's when he decided to drown nearly the whole lot of us.

I'm going to return Trace to the library in a few minutes. I'm thinking I'll trade it in on an audiobook by Lisa Scottoline. I'm hoping her point of view is restricted. Sometimes one should avert one's eyes.