The Diving Bell and the Butterfly — Review by Chris

I never would have considered reading this book had I not seen the exquisite movie. I had never heard of Jean-Dominique Bauby before. I never read Elle, I didn't follow the life of fellow journalists — particularly my international jet-setting French counterparts; call it jealousy if you'd like, but I didn't really care.

Until now.

The story is horrifying yet intriguing: a 44-year-old man has what once was called a "massive stroke," but nowadays is given the moniker "cerebrovascular accident." Nowadays we can save people from death, but it's their lives that are the challenge.

Jean-Do, as his friends call him, survived this brain trauma and awoke from his weeks-long trauma with "locked-in syndrome." His brain functioned and he was fully aware and alert, but he was completely paralyzed. His right eye was sewn shut to protect the cornea. The only part of his body he could move was his left eye.

This intelligent man was trapped in a paralyzed body — until his ingenious speech therapist found a way to connect with his mind. Using an alphabet arrangement based on frequency of use in the French language, she recited the letters until he blinked on the letter. In this way he made "conversation" of entire words and sentences.

For most people, this would be a fete unto itself. For Bauby, it's the beginning. He has a contract with a publishing company to re-write The Count of Monte Cristo from a woman's perspective, but trades that idea for the writing of his memoir.

Okay, people, see if this boggles your mind as much as it does mine: he wrote his memoir one letter at a time. He memorized his passages the night before, polished them in his head before the publisher's assistant appeared every morning for dictation, reciting letters and staring into his eye.

Bauby admitted this was not as easy as it sounds. Some people recited the letters too quickly or didn't look at him. Such a mistake made the difference between "moon" (lune) and "eyeglasses" (lunette). For others, a string of letters were gobbledygook. Some people wouldn't even venture into his room and see his inert body, twisted mouth and single, keenly gazing eye.

The book is a lovely, touching story with the present and past mixed in a gorgeous palette. It's a thin volume, and for that I am grateful. I do not think I could bear more of his experiences than he shared in a two-month period. (He died within days of the French publication of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, a fact that makes the story to me even more poignant and touching.)

I watched the movie before I read the book (though I consumed both within a 24-hour period) and I enjoyed the mix of movie images and the printed word, only if the terrain of Bauby's mind was foreign territory I wanted help navigating.

I recommend both the movie and the book, both strong and poignant in their own rights — and, I think, can each stand on their own strengths. Let me know if you've experienced both, in what order, and what you thought.

When You Can't Go On, Again

I have been plowing through so many books that I am startled when I find a book I do not intend to finish. After all, I have some extra leisure time, so how else will I use it?

Now, some books just must be postponed — such as Ahab's Wife, which Carole reviewed. No matter how absorbing a tale, the voluminous tome was too much for me in my compromised state this summer. Stephanie Plum was more my speed, and I soared through four of those novels without as much as a hiccup.

Then, while waiting for a book from the library, I chose an earlier novel by the same writer to see if I might like her work.

And I had to put it down because it reminded me of the worst parts of my own job.

In Blind Submission: a novel, Angel takes a new job at a book agent's office. In the first paragraph she ponders leaving the office before she even sits down at her (very overburdened) desk, but by the end of the prologue, she accepts the challenge.

As the book progressed, all I could think of was when my job made me feel that way. I couldn't separate myself from the narrator.

Now, don't get me wrong — I love what I do. It's just that some days I wonder if I'm coming back in the morning. You know those days. You've had them, too.

Frankly, the book is good. Ginsberg quickly paints an intriguing picture, and I harbor a few suspicions about Angel's boss. Don't even get me started on Angel's co-workers, and if Angel as an administrative assistant should be working as an editor and reader — is she being properly compensated?

The more I write about Blind Submission, the more inclined I am to hobble upstairs and pick it up again. If I'm this passionate about a book when I'm a few dozen pages into it, then it has hooked me.

Well, I won't decide just yet. If I miss Angel, I know where to find her.

The Garden of Last Days — Review by Chris

When I discovered Andre Dubus III had a new novel, I was of two minds. House of Sand and Fog, the only other novel of his I had read, was one of the most beautiful books I have ever encountered, but it also was one of the most disturbing. Frankly, I don't think I've ever gotten over reading that exquisite book. (I also think Carole has never completely forgiven me for sharing the book with her.)

So I approached The Garden of Last Days with some caution. And while I was not completely disappointed, I also was not completely satisfied.

Dubus has a gift of capturing the inner voice of his characters — but in this book, I found one of his main characters, Bassam, absolutely superfluous to the storyline. Every moment spent inside Bassam's head took away from the "real" story, which was suspenseful and heartbreaking. I understand why the character was introduced and threaded through the story, but his thoughts were not central to the story.

On September 6, 2001, April has a dilemma: her landlady/babysitter cannot watch her young daughter, Franny. Rather than call in sick to work, she decides to bring Franny with her to work that night.

What makes April different than the other women who have done that in a pinch is her occupation: April is a dancer at Puma, a "gentlemen's club" in southern Florida. Franny is young enough to not understand what's going on around her, April rationalizes, plus she'll be kept in the "house mother's" office and away from the rest of the club.

Lonnie is a bouncer who's good at his job, and a little sweet on April. He sees "pockets," problems on the floor, and he is quick to handle them. Without this, he would have to use his aggressive tendencies in less, er, wholesome ways. Lonnie is instrumental in setting the wheels in motion for the tragedy of the evening.

Jean is the lonesome landlady who loves Franny as her own. She has no one else, especially after the death of her beloved husband, and Franny is easy to love. April, not so much, but April has had a life of people not loving her enough, so she's not investing in anyone else at the moment. If April comes with Franny, Jean can cope — if only April will accept the generosity Jean has to offer.

Bassam calls himself "Mike" in the Champagne Room with April. He has a wad of $100 bills he's looking to give away, which will prove to him that he is master of his emotions and desires.

AJ is a conflicted man. He wants to be in his former life as husband and father to Deena and Cole, respectively, if only that pesky restraining order hadn't sent him to his mother's fold-out couch. Yet he finds himself in love with one of the dancers whom he thinks has given him the green light for a relationship. Whether he didn't let go of Marianne's hand soon enough may be in doubt, but not his wounded wrist. He's angry and he is in pain — and someone is going to pay.

There are a few other smaller players whose minds we encounter — Deena and Virginia, for example — and they are fabulous additions to the story. They help flesh out the characters and increase the suspense.

In contrast, Bassam as a major character felt forced. His inner workings were not essential to the main storyline. Frankly, I feel as though Dubus was hellbent on working the future terrorist attacks into this story, no matter the cost. While his interaction with April compels the action of the story, we didn't need to be in his head. Ever.

Bassam's language rhythms were awkward and interruptive to the narrative. I would like to credit this to Dubus' uncharacteristic inability to capture the spirit of translation, but I can't. It's a disconnect and it feels artificial and forced. (So does the brief experience of being Franny, but at least I could understand that interjection.)

What makes Dubus' characters so attractive is their familiarity. Reader are drawn to a particular quality in Dubus' characters, even if they are unfamiliar to the reader. In House of Sand and Fog, Massoud's desire for property and all it brought with it was tangible, familiar and beautifully expressed. It's the same for many characters in this novel: AJ is exquisitely downtrodden, Jean is echoingly lonely, Lonnie is adrift, April is not as clever as she thinks she is. Bassam never has a quality that attracts the reader; his inner self is not interesting to me and his connection to the other characters of the story is tenuous at best — not to mention that if I had to read just one more time about "nuhood" or a "qus," I was going to put down the book.

Let's talk a moment about my "favorite" character, AJ — who was spot-on, transparent. His mind was all over the place, but I could follow him wherever he went. He made sense even when he didn't. Every thought, every action, every rationalization was pure and crystal clear. AJ's desperation and pathetic justifications are perfectly woven into a tapestry of tragedy. His character was consistent and true, and a pleasure to read.

Had Dubus made Bassam a minor character — a chance encounter that affected April in multiple ways and lapped at the edges of one or two other characters in coincidental ways — this would have been a much more successful novel. Instead, Dubus offers a novel that, despite its strengths, is fractured by its weakness.