Milkweed

Milkweed.

I should have read a little Harry Potter in between Nectar in a Sieve and this. Unfortunately, I went strait from one devastating heartbreaker to another. Both were beautiful and powerful. I'm glad I read them both. I just wish I hadn't read them back to back. I was finishing Milkweed as I rode on the bus to Manti, and found myself crying. This was a restraint, as my heart was sobbing. Anybody seen Grave of the Fireflies and Nobody Knows? How about Schindler's List and Passion of the Christ? Yeah. It's like watching two of them back to back. I'm drained, to say the least.

Anyway, the book was well done. It took place in Warsaw, during WWII - the Nazi occupation of Poland. The narrator is an orphan gypsy kid who calls himself "Stopthief" until another street urchin christens him "Misha." He's a clever little thief who gets caught up with the Jewish people and is moved to the ghettos. He becomes a smuggler, breaking through the ghetto's brick wall at night to steal food from the other side of the city, which he calls, "heaven." He's got a tender heart, causing him to take other people under his wing, bringing them food, and an innocence which causes him to admire the Nazi's and want to grow up to be one, because of their shiny black boots. The story begins with him as a child, and follows him through to old age.

Milkweed was written by Jerry Spinelli, who also wrote Maniac Magee and Stargirl, both of which I enjoyed a great deal - though I recommend Maniac Magee strongly, and Stargirl with reservations. Both, however, were what I'd call young adult fiction. I was expecting the same here, and I guess if you're going to tell young adults about the horrors of the ghetto life in Warsaw during WWII, then you might do it this way - but it was far more heart-wrenching, depressing, and disturbing than I'd expected from a young adult book.

Surprising in its violence. Not only by way of the Nazi soldiers to the people in the Ghetto, but also between Misha and his peers. There was a violence to their life that they accepted as natural, though it felt so unnatural for children. I was reminded a little bit of Ender's Game and also Lord of the Flies. Where children become unnaturally world-wise and violent. And yet, we realize that we have set the example, and they are simply adapting, as all children do.

The combined effect of both books, however, was to make me feel horror at the atrocities in the world, which still exist, and to feel like I have to do more than I'm currently doing. I keep thinking about the fact that starvation and desperation are real, and they are the constant companion far too often for people in this world. It's sometimes hard to remember that - not just as an abstract concept - but as concretely as if you were facing it yourself.

I am haunted by the memory of all the people I haven't done more for. I know that I can't help everyone. I know that. And yet, I remember holding this baby in Panama. A baby who should have been walking by now, but who couldn't walk or crawl, due to malnutrition. I held her listless, frail body to my chest and I could feel her ragged breathing both in my hand which covered her tiny back, and echoing through my own chest, pressed to hers. I should have taken her to a doctor right then. I could have paid the bills. I'm sure that I could have afforded them. Why didn't I? I have no answer to that.

I know there's a God. And it isn't his failing that causes these tragedies...it's ours. Nevertheless, I ache at the unfairness of it all.

Intro to Nectar in a Sieve

It's about time I posted again here! I really have been reading, plus I still have lots of previously read books I want to write comments on that are piled up in my room. I just haven't taken the time, I guess. Other things have been more important, so I don't have regrets, really - but I'll try and get back here more frequently.

So, new book: I just finished a book about a woman's life in southeast India. Although I probably related because of spending a bit of time in those parts, I really think anyone will be able to feel with the character: the book is written with such humanity, through the eyes of a narrator so honest, and so compassionate, that she reaches into the very soul of what makes us human. I felt as though I struggled with her through joy and loss of innocence, disappointment and anger, poverty, starvation, love, triumph, and heartbreak. She is not a heroine in the sense of being something higher than human -- and her frankness about her own human frailty allows the reader to acknowledge his/her own. However, she things she endures! I found myself crying frequently and feeling such a rush of emotion. It was powerful, cathartic, healing, and also painful. It was a reminder that we really do have a responsibility to one another. I found myself remembering the times that I've failed to help someone when I could have. To me, living in health and relative wealth, it is difficult (even when I'm among the poor) to remember that for some, life really is that desperate. I forget that.

The book was written by a woman (Kamala Markandaya) from India during the 50's. Her writing is unassuming, frank, sympathetic, poetic, nostalgic, and at times, almost brutal - but through it runs a deep sense of compassion, quiet endurance, and hope. Replete with sensual imagery (meaning pertaining to the senses...not the sexual connotation) without being overly wordy or unnecessarily clever. There's a raw quality combined with a richness that reminds me of India --

I don't have the words to describe it, but I picture a vine with exotic flowers that are strangely delicate, with vibrant oranges and violent pinks. And the vine seems delicate until you try to remove its tiny fingers from their strongholds within the rocks, trees, and cement that it has cut through and find within its body a sinewy, leathery impossible strength that can't be torn. The flowers can easily be plucked and crushed, but they grow back rapidly, and the vine remains, inexplicably.

It captures the feeling of India. A land of stark contrasts where delicate sensual, beautiful, rich fabrics wrap around bodies with dusty feet that march through garbage, human filth, and monsoon rains, performing hard labor side by side with their lean, dark, half-naked male counterparts. I saw people with a hard life who endure with a patience beyond my Western comprehension, and who continue to love, dance, laugh, and decorate their harsh lives with vibrant color.

Quotes from Nectar in a Sieve

Anyway, here's a sample: (it doesn't do it justice, being taken out of context of the story).

"What do I remember? Every word, every detail. I remember walking along the wet deserted street by the wall of the temple; I remember looking up for the flare that had ever burnt on the top of the temple, and it was quenched; and the black demons of fear came shrieking at my ear and would not be silenced, for all that I repeated like a madwoman, 'Fire cannot burn in water.' I saw the faces of men who were not there and of children from whom the life had been filched, and yet it was black night, blacker than black since the stars were hidden."

And here's another:

"A dozen or more children were playing there, dodging in and out of the traffic with a skill and indifference which I could not help admiring. For all their play they looked as if they had never eaten a full meal in all their lives, with their ribs thrust out and bellies full-blown like drums with wind and emptiness; and they were also extremely dirty with the dust of the roadside and the filth deposited upon it; and the running sores many of them had upon their bodies were clogged with mud where blood or pus had exuded. But they themsleves were forgetful of their pains - or patient with them...and played naked and merry in the sun. Merry, that is, until a crust of bread fell on the road...when, all childishness lost, all play forgotten, they fought ferociously in the dust for the food...teeth bared, nails clawing, ready, predatory like animals. But when a man of wealth passed they were as tender and pitiful as fledglings, beseeching with soft open mouths and limpid eyes, their begging bowls meekly held before them and altogether changed...and however much they played and were children, still their faces were scored with the knowledge and cares that children should not have, their eyes were knowing and guileful beyond their years."

And last:

"His words pierced me, hardened though I was, realist as I wished to be.

'Do not say these things,' I said. 'I cannot bear to hear them.'

'They are true.'

'Whether they are true or not,' I cried, 'I will not have you saying them.'

'I would not distress you,' Nathan said quietly, 'yet must we not face the truth so that we can make our decisions? Have I told you anything you do not know yourself?'

No, I thought desolately, but I could not say it. Could not. I closed my eyes and felt his hands on my temples where the pulses beat, gently stroking, soothing me in the only way he could. He suffered for me, not so much for himself, and I likewise, so that although together there was more strength there was also more suffering, and if each had been alone the way might not have seemed so hard; yet I knew neither could have borne it alone. Thus confused, my mind turned this way and that, like a paper kite dipping to every current of air, unsure of its own meanings."