Girlfriend in a Coma

Girlfriend In A Coma by Douglas Coupland

Coupland is, truly, an incomparable author. Strange to be sure, his followers and fans range in opinion over what makes his works master-pieces, or failed attempts. Girlfriend In a Coma, titled after the song of the same name by the Smiths, this 1998 semi-futuristic novel strikes a fine balance between the minute realities of life, and the cosmic tragedy of apocalypse and has been widely referred to as one of his finer novels. It is masterful how Coupland can target the very essence of mundane life within the teenage characters who ground and narrate the majority of the novel - following them through the struggles of teen years, aging, and coming to terms with themselves, while weaving an eerily futuristic and socially critical world of comas, dreams, and end times.

The novel is split between three major points in time, and is told through 3 different narraters.

The first is narrated by a character well known to the other characters of the novel, and yet never fully known by the reader. Jared, introduced post-humulously, narrates in the voice of a deceased 17 year old 'ghost' for lack of a better word. The novel then switches to the point of view of main character Richard, as he narrates life after the coma, and everything that follows.
Following sections are told without the use of a narrator, only to return, in the final chapters, to the voice of 'spirit' Jared, again, to round of the novel.

It is in both the plot and the narrative itself, then, that Coupland plays with this balance between what is ordinary and real, and what is fantasy. As stated in an earlier review from the Times, it is "a disturbing, thought-provoking and moving novel. Girlfriend in a Coma has something of the quality of a fairytale, but it contains a sharp realism that makes the book scarily contemporary" (15 May 1999).

It is this focus on the individuals - the somewhat 'every-man' quality of Richard, kind caring and lost within himself - and the realism inherent in mundane life, that prevents the story from flying from the page in a whirlwind of disbelief as conceptual elements such as visions, ghost narrators and global doom hang over the plot.

Coupland's strength, of course, is in capturing the spirit of everyday people, his characters ever believable, relatable and -though flawed- thereby loveable. We want desperately for Richard to succeed, and yet we revel in his faults and failures, seeing in him the very same flaws we too possess. His devotion, too, to Karen - and indeed Coupland's devotion and attention to a character that is, essentially, off screen for the majority of the novel - is both endearing and intriguing, as it shows a measure of love and kindness we as readers both long for, and would like to think we too possess. It is a testament to Coupland's writing that he is able to make the reader continue to love and care for Karen despite no direct presence. Merely a background character, silent, she remains the fixture around which the story evolves and collapses.

For me it is the relationships, the honesty, and the simple realities, that make this story. Adding in the Canadiana so often found in Coupland's work - Girlfriend In a Coma takes place in his own city of Vancouver - the story became all the more real for me as I related to names and places. His detail with street names and landmarks foster a sense of familiarity that although specific to an actual location, allows the reader to feel as though they know the place - it is their own home town - whether or not they have been there. I, at least, found this to be true. For although I am Canadian, and take pleasure in the (often uncommon in popular literature) Canadian setting, I've never been to Vancouver. And yet, I felt I had. Simple detail, pulling you in to the story, allowed for a solid foundation upon which the reader could stand and therefore more readily accept the more fanciful concepts that are the hallmark of Coupland's dystopias and criticisms of the modern world.

A fast, quick read, Coupland with have you both connecting with his endearing characters, and questioning the very format of the world in which you live. At once acutely real and vastly fantastic, the pages will continue to turn as you follow the halting, tragic and - occasionally triumphant band of friends struggling their way from adolescence to adulthood only to find its really one and the same.

“there are three things we cry for in life: things that are lost, things that are found, and things that are magnificent.”

The Understudy

The Understudy, by David Nicholls (One Day, Starter For Ten) is a painfully realistic tale about one Steven C McQueen, a pained divorcee, struggling actor and hopelessly unlucky understudy to the increasingly famous and dreamy Josh Harper. Steven is an endearing character. Real, flawed, and often foolish, we follow his naively optimistic dreams of making it big in the world of theatre. The reality, of course, is that Steven is floundering along, too old to still be waiting for his big break, slowly sinking beneath the shadow of the stars.

But when Steven inadvertently mistakes Josh's job offer of catering services as a personal party invitation, Steven's life is shot into the twisted glamourous and yet oh so dark world of fame. It is Nora, Josh's wife, that really does it for Steven. One chance meeting and they fall quickly into a strange and loaded friendship as Steven becomes Josh's confidant. Caught between spouses, making friendships with those he envies, Steven struggles to navigate through a life continually riddled with ever increasing disappointment.

Nicholls' dark dry humour paints the scene for Steven's self deprecation and careful optimism, countered with the brash roughness of Nora's New York style which (not so delicately) highlights the rough side that is fame and fortune. One reaching for the dream, the other a grounding sense of reality, Nicholls expertly manoeuvres his way through the busy London streets, debaucherous start studded after parties, and rundown apartments engaging the reader with a sense of hoping and looming misfortunate. A real, human story, one cannot help but invest their own aspirations, disappointments and veiled selfish desires in Steven, and thus, connect wholeheartedly with his story.

And the Mountains Echoed

Khaled Hosseini is superb, and continues to wow in this, his third novel. An expert at weaving a multitude of stories and characters into one cross-continental tale, Hosseini grabs his readers immediately and doesn't let go. Raising hopes,and leaving the reader crushed under the weight of tragic life - a reality he carefully avoids glorifying - Hosseini once again opens a window into characters lives, bit by bit, and makes you, inevitably and despite their flaws, love them. As the reader watches the slow decay of life unfurl before their eyes they are gripped by the tale of familial bonds, and deep rooted kinship that is not defined by local - be it Afghanistan, America, Paris, or Tinos. Human frailty, its capacity for love, and inevitably, fail those we love runs deep within the pages of ANd the Mountains Echoed.

The story opens upon a simple scene of storytelling, a glimpse at the relationship between the father (the speaker) and son, (the listener) while widening the ideas of family relations and obligations in the very theme of the story told. From there we are given a window into the lives of two young children - brother and sister - and the solidifying of a central them throughout the novel to come: bonds and ties of family and friendship that endure despite time or place. It is a story about finding a piece of one's self in another, and the inexplicable connections of love that tie us together.

Through heartache, trial triumph and testing, Hosseini explores relationships between parents and their children - touching on the loved, the difficult, biological families and adopted ones, in order to explore the depth of affection and loyalty inherent in such relations. There is a sense, too, for the characters of And the Mountains Echoed, that it is never too late. Whether it is Pari the young girl removed from her family at such a very young age, who - unable to remember anything but her adopted mother - lives her life with a vague, uncertain, but ever present ache; a hole undefinable of the place where something is missing from her soul, or Markos - ever running from the confines of his life, so rigid and void of tenderness, on the secluded island of Tinos, Hosseini weaves them each in turn, and the generations of family members and friends they connect with, into realistically jumbled, but ever connected tapestry.

It is a testament, also, that Hosseini is able to create such a balance - such reality. Never one to wrap everything up all nice and neat in perfect triumph or resolution, he also manages to avoid the opposite mistae of over glorifying the hardships and tragedies of poverty and circumstances. Each character is flawed, and each is redeemable, but only within the realities and confines of their lives and character. It is a masterpiece of a could-be reality. Like the works of Hosseini that came before, And the Mountains Echoed will grip your heart, and leave its resonating sound within you well after the final page has been read.

The Book Thief

The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak appeared mysteriously on my bookshelf one day. I believe it's been sitting there for a while, sorted into the pile of 'novels that do not belong to me' (which primarily hosts books borrowed from my big sister). This, however, appeared on its own.

Rather fitting really, now having read the tale of book thievery, that it should have ended up in my procession as a gift I recently took it down off the shelf to read. I read The Book Thief without knowing anything at all about it. I enjoy reading books that way, it adds to the story without predetermined context or assumptions about the content, and the Book Thief was for me, then, a complete surprise.

A powerful, sorrowful tale of death, destruction, and inevitable dismay, the Book Thief is a curious tale of a unique young girl, and an even more intriguing speaker. Though the narrator is never literally named, it becomes quickly apparent to the reader that the speaker is indeed, the voice of Death - a personification that is both supernatural, but of seemingly human-like form, "You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue." Death is both expressly inhuman, and yet very much a part of who we are, in it's own perspective, becoming both beyond ourselves, beyond human, and inherently sympathetic as it feels and comprehends hope, sadness, defeat, and most often, fatigue. 

Set in Germany in the second World War, Death is not only a fitting, but a challenging narrator which provides not only insight into the depth of destruction obviously apparent at the time, but a level of individuality as the voice touches on single stories within the ever present context of death. 

Though it could technically be categorize as War literature, or even historical fiction, the Book Thief was unlike any other wartime or holocaust themed novel I had previously read, the focus of the novel so very much on the girl, Leisel, rather than the war itself. Of course, the thoughts and consequences of war were ever present throughout the novel, but they arose as just that - consequences - which moved and shaped the daily activities and lives of the characters within. Leisel felt the sting of war every day, and the reign of Nazi Germany, the omnipresent ruling, was a foreboding darkness over the city and nation. It was through her story that the pain of the war years is made real to the reader, not as a statistic, or a horror story of holocaust victim, but rather through the tale of a loss of innocence and privilege, a loss of comfort and home, and eventually, the simple loss of life. Because Leisel's tale is such a simple one, such a basic one, in essence, it allows the reader to connect and latch their emotions to that of the young girl all the more strongly as she stumbles her way through life and onto Himmel St. 

Death, itself, takes care of the bigger picture. Through simple tales of mass murders and bombings, concentration camps and executions, told from the other side, Death is able to turn the stories from unfathomably horrific, to poignantly tragic - a subtle change which allows readers who have in all likelihood been bombarded with History texts books in school years, to view the deadly acts of world War Two in a new, more personal light. A calm, but sorrowful one. Death does not talk of the bloodlust in the killer's eyes, or the long nights of suffering, but of gently scooping up the souls of the dying humans, whether one by one and slowly, as the victims starve in their beds, mercifully and lightly, as escaping Jews fall to their death over rocky cliffs - dying mid fall, or  of collecting them all at once and in large batches, sifting the souls out of the deadly smoke that rose out of the killing showers of concentration camps. All horrific, all deaths, but all told from a caring, but calm voice who lifts them each out of their bodies, and carries them skyward.  

Using the voice of death provides a unique perspective not only on dying, but on loss and being left behind: "I witness the ones that are left behind, crumbled among the jigsaw puzzles of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs". For death, the dying brings relief, whether the dead realize it immediately or not, and it is those left that become the victims, broken by the incomprehension of separation.

The novel, then, centres around not only the inevitable sense of loss and destruction, but on friendship, and the bonds of those fated to live through such times. Introducing the childhood best friend connection with Rudy, Leisel is able to experience, in many ways, a normal relation with her neighbour and soon best friend. It is this bond, the ever growing friendship that exists both despite and because of the environment within which the characters live, that allows the reader a sense of hope and a connection to the story, as the reader invests in the child antics and relations. The friendship, like all those in the novel, is complicated by circumstance, and though street soccer games and playground fights are central, bonds are formed through the stealing of apples - a necessity for the near-starving children, rather than a game of fun - and bonds of mutual longing, as both children experience what it is to have their father figures sent to war. 

Likewise, Leisel's relationship with her Papa and Mama both mirrors that of a child with their parent, but is given further depth by the sheer fact that neither are Leisel's biological parent. Learning to form a connection of extreme love and devotion, the three characters quickly become a bonded family, their love extending past factual family and becoming one knit together by love, loss and circumstance, just as Max is integrated into their hearts in much the same way. 

Providing a window into the life of a Jew in Nazi Germany, Max becomes not only a friend but a liability. A constant balance between a fugitive and a brother, the threads of Max's friendship with Leisel are woven through not only a sense of family and justice, but over an attendance to Hitler Youth, around the loss of her own brother, and through the not only impractical but the forbidden nature of such a bond. It is not only love that holds these characters together, but the reoccurring theme throughout the novel of Words. 

Words, as any reader will know, are an extremely powerful tool. Both a weapon and a form of reconciliation, or comfort, words can connect and severe ties, and infiltrate minds. Words are the birthplace of so many actions, and so much of the movements of Nazi Germany. And Leisel herself writes after reflecting upon both her habit of book stealing and of writing, "I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right."

The Book Thief itself uses words in much the same way, highlighting and pushing them, contorting them to depict both the good and the bad, as well as highlighting the consequences of words, both said and unsaid, and their effect on those on which who's ears they fall. From simple spelling lessons, to a book which Death itself carries in its pocket, literature and language (spoken and written) is shown for what it truly is - a power and weapon beyond understanding which can shape the minds of followers, and a hope on which to cling to, when all else falls. 

It is with a unique voice and brilliantly executed perspective - that of the character and narrator of Death - that Zuszak sheds light on the dark times of Germany in war, and reawakens an emotional connection between reader and characters, refreshing what has become numb and desensitized in a violence-based society.