The Anglo Files: a field guide to the British

I went through a stage during which I romanticized pretty much everything about England and the English--except the food, of course. Being French, I never had any illusions about the English food, but, oh, the jolly camaraderie of the boarding schools, the witty repartee, the distant colonies and their literature, the whole stiff upper lip during the London Blitz, and the accent of course. Some of my favorite authors are British and I could not get enough, even traveling there several times as a kid.
Then something happened. I don't know what exactly, or when, but I began to notice that they were just like us. They ate crappy food in front of the telly (soccer instead of football), and the accents didn't really mean they were smarter...Anyway, the scales fell and I got on with my life.

Sarah Lyall's book The Anglo Files: A Field Guide to the British completely destroyed ANY lingering illusion I had about the joy and pleasure of living among the British and I loved this book. Lyall is an American, a journalist, married to a British writer, and she takes it upon herself to add to the somewhat crowded field of study loosely titled "What is up with our wacky cousins across the pond?"
She takes on the self-deprecation, the dry humor, the bizarre institution that was the House of Lords, the government in general, the British obsession with bad food and bad dental hygiene (yes, apparently some of this is by choice), the love of small animals (badgers and hedgehogs, though that's more of a love/hate thing), the cruelty of the school system that is rapidly being replaced by an overly touchy/feely system of recompense; sex, manliness (or lack thereof, depending on your definition).
On that last note, (and I start with this mainly because last night I watched the latest James Bond), Lyall writes: It seems to me that Daniel Craig in his role as Agent 007 [perfectly combines English mystery with American sensitivity]. He looks good in a dinner jacket, affects humorous insouciance in the face of peril, and knows the proper technique for injecting oneself in the heart when going into cardiac arrest. But he also understands that when a woman is slumped, weeping, in the shower, her evening gown covered in blood, what she really wants is a man with well-defined pectoral muscles to get in there beside her and slowly kiss her fingers, one by one."
Lyall's point is this: That's not going to happen in Britain. Ever. Not even once. (Of course, I'm assuming it doesn't happen in most countries--the blood, the evening gown shower...but I see what she means).

One of the best chapters (besides the one on sex--always entertaining) is Lyall's presentation of the government, but the House of Lords specifically. Until a very few years ago, these seats (some 700) were held by landed gentry, and handed down through the generations. That's right. they weren't elected, they didn't have to care about politics or other people, or even show up. They did get free parking in London, though, Always a perk in an expensive, crowded city. Basically The House of Lords consisted of mostly old men ("Lord X is 92 years old, but acts like a man twice his age" as one reporter put it) debating strange and sometimes less strange things while (mostly) drunk. They quote in Latin and French, they evoke a lost and sometimes mythical past to make points that are meaningless. Probably their best debate (other than the one on the existence--yes or no--of extraterrestrials) was when they had to debate whether or not they should have to give up their seats. (They did)
I thoroughly enjoyed this book, though I skimmed a chapter or two. This makes my top 10 of 2008. I close with a sample of the humor the British use to counter anything they are supposed to care about (according to Lyall's research and observation). Apparently there is one paper which loves printing corrections. They are rather slapdash in their writing and editing so there is a lot of opportunity (including apologizing for misspelling the word "misspelled" in one correction column. Here is one example:

"A Caption in Guardian Weekend...read "Binch of crappy travel mags." This should, of course, have been "bunch." But more to the point it should not have been there at all. It was meant as a dummy which we failed to replace with the real caption. It was not meant to be a comment on perfectly good travel brochures."

So Brave, Young, and Handsome

I loved Leif Enger's first novel, Peace Like a River, though I don't remember much about it now, so I was excited that he had a new one out (finally). I really wanted to like So Brave, Young and Handsome, and fell in love with the first 9 words: "Not to disappoint you, but my troubles are nothing--". but the rest of the paragraph (and chapter, really) is pretty generic. It's not until chapter 7 when Enger goes on about a giant snapping turtle (trust me), cycling back to the turtle even, that I loved the writing. I felt he finally hit his stride (or maybe I just got into it).

I really didn't like Monte Becket, the narrator, for most of the story, which I always have a hard time with. He finally gets some backbone (which is the point, of course) and then I sort of like him. But the other characters are interesting and unusual. I especially like the enthusiastically doomed young Hood Roberts, bursting with the thrill of the outlaw life in the waning days of cowboys (1915). "Suppose we hear gunshots? What'll we do then?" He asks when the "evil" ex-Pinkerton detective is hot on their outlaw friend's tail. "Suppose Glendon overcomes him [the detective] by guile and brings him back hogtied and blindfolded..."

Serious Monte replies, "Untie him and let him go. What do you mean blindfolded? Why would he blindfold him?"

Monte only writes romances, doesn't really know how to live them and he's adrift in this new life he's chosen, away from his wife, helping a former outlaw escape the law. Unlike Hood Roberts, who takes to the life like a shot, Monte is not much of a cowboy, though he has written a book. He admits to an aversion to horses, calling them "sinister" and correctly understands that "the only thing a horse wants from you is your absence."

And so these men, in groups of two or three or even one, chase their way across the dying West, following along on Glendon's mission to apologize to his long-ago wife for his life of misdeeds. Along for the ride is a version of The Law and it's ugly and pathetic, but the men understand its necessity. There's something both sad and heroic about this journey, a lot like what I picture cowboy life to be like now, in this modern age of machines and cars and internet and TV. You still want to believe in the solitary "Marlboro Man", but we all know what happened to him. I suppose 1915 already seemed to signal the end to that kind of life.


The writing is nice and I suppose it's my sloppy reading that leaves me perplexed as to the meaning behind the title. I mean, yeah, I get it---America, cowboys, youth, blah blah blah...I don't put much stock in titles anyways and often find myself disappointed when I find the title of a book repeated within the story. Seems cheap or lazy.



Nice line: He did not seem to struggle against death, nor did he appear surprised. Death arrived easy as the train; [He] just climbed aboard, like the capable traveler he was.

Emmy and the Incredible Shrinking Rat

Yes, this is a kids' book. Emmy and the Incredible Shrinking Rat by Lynne Jonell came across my desk in a work-related incident and I was intrigued. It's on the Great Stone Face list which, for all you non-New Hampshire natives, is a list of books from which 4th-6th graders vote to choose the "best" book.
Emmy doesn't quite transcend kid lit to become a book for the ages, but it is appealingly packaged, including a wonderful "flip book" format in which we see a rat falling into the hands of a child. The names are Dickensian, which I'm not sure most 4th graders would get (or 6th graders, for that matter). The evil nanny (and aren't those always wonderful characters?) is named Miss Barmy and the rodent expert is Professor Capybara. Emmy is the good girl who longs to live her own life and then befriends a talking rat who has his own woes along with a secret power.
Mayhem ensues, the bad are punished, the good rewarded, people grow and shrink as needed for plot purposes, and a good time is had by all. Emmy and the Incredible Shrinking Rat is a fun little romp with an old-fashioned appeal and sometimes I like to dash through a middle school book because it's easy and fun. It's nice to have the excuse of work to read this sort of thing.