Quote"All my jokes are Indianapolis. All my attitudes are Indianapolis. My adenoids are Indianapolis. If I ever severed myself from Indianapolis, I would be out of business. What people like about me is Indianapolis." - Kurt Vonnegut
"Go through the motions, Adam."I really like the following exchange in East of Eden between Samuel Hamilton and Adam Trask. Adam, once so boldly ambitious in his dream of developing his land in the Salinas Valley, is morosely despondent after his wife Cathy shot him, and then abandoned him and their twin baby boys.
Samuel leaned over the basket and put his finger against the palm of one of the twins and the fingers closed and held on. "I guess the last bad habit a man will give up is advising."So plainly stated, yet so deep with meaning. It's lately become obvious that the twins will ultimately become the book's Cain and Abel analogs - previously I thought those analogs would be Adam and his brother Charles. And though the story's ending is still far off, and thus there's still plenty of time for change, it seems like I won't be getting as much of the Hamilton family - and especially the wonderful Samuel - that I had hoped for. Instead, right now the focus is fully on Adam and Cathy and their suddenly separate lives. Which is great, too - both are fascinating characters in their own right.
"I don't want advice."
"Nobody does. It's a giver's present. Go through the motions, Adam."
"Act out being alive, like a play. And after a while, a long while, it will be true."
"Why should I?" Adam asked.
Samuel was looking at the twins. "You're going to pass something down no matter what you do or if you do nothing. Even if you let yourself go fallow, the weeds will grow and the brambles. Something will grow."
Adam did not answer, and Samuel stood up. "I'll be back," he said. "I'll be back again and again. Go through the motions, Adam."
Yesterday was our first return to the annual Will County Book Recycling in several years. Last time, we were disappointed by the diminished number of books available (they explained that they get most of their books donated by libraries but, due to budget cutbacks, libraries were hanging on to their surplus books to sell at their own library sales) and later found other things to do that weekend. But yesterday afternoon it was rainy and thus a perfect time to browse for books, so we gave the recycling another chance.
And we were pleasantly surprised! It was crowded (a good sign, since more people being there meant more books being dropped off) and the tables were completely full. The photo above is my haul: John Steinbeck's The Pastures of Heaven (perfect for my Summer of Steinbeck), Kingsley Amis' Girl, 20, Richard Wright's story collection Eight Men, George Orwell's The Road to Wigan Pier, the second volume of Sigrid Undset's Kristin Lavransdatter trilogy, a collection of anecdotes ("hilarious and mostly true") by old-time ballplayer Rabbit Maranville, and an old history of Stoughton, Wisconsin (for a cousin of mine, who grew up there).
We mostly broke even - we donated a bunch of used textbooks from Maddie's homeschooling days and a few fiction books of hers that she didn't expect to ever re-read, and brought home about fifteen books, three of which I took specifically to give to other people. And the great thing is that any duds we picked up can be donated back next year.
The Steinbeck, Amis and Wright books are old mass market paperbacks with bold cover designs (which I'm always a sucker for). The Steinbeck and the Amis covers are typical of that era - each has a suggestive illustration and a teaser phrase to draw in the reluctant buyer. The former reads "MEN AND WOMEN...in a warm and seductive valley." The insinuation of that valley is blatantly (and comically) obvious, especially with the depicted man and woman (both earthily attractive) gazing coyly at each other. Though I'm sure the novel has sexual elements to it, since it's Steinbeck it's probably mostly about the brutal oppression of good working-class people, and not at all the trashy romance novel that the cover suggests.
The Amis cover illustration is more subtle, but is still somewhat suggestive - a partly obscured (but still obviously naked) and beautiful young woman. Again, from what I know of Amis, it's probably not a trashy romance novel but instead a comic skewering of social class differences, so the cover is likely deceiving. That cover seemed mildly outrageous until I went on Goodreads and found this priceless version:
Wow, just wow. There's no way I would ever dare to read that edition on the train.
"...a license to talk..."Gregarious Irishman Sam Hamilton, from East of Eden:
"They say it's a dangerous thing to question an Irishman because he'll tell you. I hope you know what you're doing when you issue me a license to talk. I've heard two ways of looking at it. One says the silent man is the wise man and the other that a man without words is a man without thought. Naturally I favor the second..."I really like Sam, and hope there's much more of him to come. So far (200 pages in) Steinbeck has focused almost entirely on the Trask family (where I'm assuming the Cain and Abel theme will stem from, and ending most likely with the demise of one of the Trask brothers), but now he seems to be bringing in the Hamiltons more.
The book is slow-paced and deliberate, but I'm being patient and giving it the time it needs. It's getting better and better as it plods along, and I've begun to think it's a top contender for the title of Great American Novel.
"Let me work."Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
- Carl Sandburg, "Grass"
"...amazing how many people and of what a rich variety belong to that indeterminate dawn time..."
The Neglected Books Page has an interesting profile of Australian writer Charmian Clift (1923-69), including this lovely example of her writing:
"I am becoming addicted to sunrises...I suspect I always was, only these days I get up for them instead of staying up for them. Staying up needs stamina I don’t have any more, although I remember with pleasure those more romantic and reckless days when it was usual for revelries to end at dawn in early morning markets, all-night cafes or railway refreshment rooms, with breakfasts of meat pies and hot dogs and big thick mugs of tea, or — in other countries — croissants and cafes au lait, bowls of tripe-and-onion soup, skewered bits of lamb wrapped in a pancake with herbs and yoghourt, in the company of truckers and gipsies and sailors and street-sweepers and wharf-labourers and crumpled ladies with smeary mascara: it is amazing how many people and of what a rich variety belong to that indeterminate dawn time. Real enjoyment of this sort of thing depends, probably, on a sense of drama, the resilience of youth, and whether you can get in a decent kip after."
I've always been an early-to-bedder, even in my younger days, so I've experienced only a few of the seeing-the-sunrise-after-being-out-all-night experiences she describes. Unfortunately for her, she had those experiences from being a heavy drinker for her entire adult life, which undoubtedly contributed to her suicide at age 45. I might have missed most of those "romantic and reckless days" that she remembers so fondly but, then again, I'm still alive.
Quote"Doing nothing, contrary to what people rather simplistically imagine, is a thing that requires method and discipline, concentration, an open mind." - Jean-Philippe Toussaint
"...a smiling helplessness was his best protection from work..."From John Steinbeck's East of Eden:
Joseph was the fourth son - a kind of mooning boy, greatly beloved and protected by the whole family. He early discovered that a smiling helplessness was his best protection from work. His brothers were tough workers, all of them. It was easier to do Joe's work than to make him do it. His mother and father thought him a poet because he wasn't good at anything else. And they so impressed him with this that he wrote glib verses to prove it. Joe was physically lazy, and probably mentally lazy too. He daydreamed out his life, and his mother loved him more than the others because she thought he was helpless. Actually he was least helpless, because he got exactly what he wanted with a minimum effort.Though I love character sketches like this, there are a few too many of them. I'm seventy pages into the book, and Steinbeck is still meandering his way through the introductions. He really needs to finally move the story forward. I sense that the Hamilton and Trask families will eventually converge into a major confrontation, but for now they're still on opposite coasts and Steinbeck seems in no hurry to bring them together.
Happy birthday, Mr. Trevor!
"People like me write because otherwise we are pretty inarticulate. Our articulation is our writing." - William Trevor
A happy 88th birthday to one of my favorite writers. I haven't seen any new writing from him for a while now. I hope he's still in good health.
Summer of SteinbeckThough it's still only late May, I've already started my annual Summer of Classics, which this year I'm calling Summer of Steinbeck - I'm reading nothing but John Steinbeck's fiction. (This is the second time in two years that I've devoted my summer reading to a single author. Though last year's Summer of Melville was underwhelming, it did give me a broad and rewarding overview of Melville's work - and also the realization that I'll probably never read Melville again, other than Bartleby the Scrivener.) The reason I started early is that the first book on my list is the epic, 778-page paperback doorstop East of Eden, and since I'm a fairly slow reader and don't want to spend most of the summer reading just one book, I figured that I can't afford to waste any precious time. I also had the perfect setting for diving into the book - on an airplane, flying home from a family wedding in Washington state, with a big block of downtime and the steady hum of the jet engines blocking out most of the ambient noise. I read forty pages throughout the flight, which is one of the longer page counts I've ever managed in one sitting.
Those 778 pages might go faster than I had anticipated - the writing flows easily, and isn't heavy at all - but the book will still take me well into July. After that, I'll move on to Steinbeck's short novels - Cannery Row, Of Mice and Men, Tortilla Flat, etc. - which might feel like a reprieve after East of Eden. And I'll be skipping The Grapes of Wrath - I read (and loved) that ten-plus years ago, but given my woefully limited reading of Steinbeck, I really can't see re-reading that this summer instead of something new.
Quote"Until the age of twenty-four, I was in all departments of writing abnormally unpromising." - Kingsley Amis
"I love thee, infamous city!"I've long been vaguely familiar with Charles Baudelaire's "Epilogue" (Nelson Algren used part of it as an epigraph for Chicago: City on the Make) but didn't finally read it until just now. And I really like it.
Epilogue"Epilogue" appears to have been included in several Baudelaire translations. The version on Project Gutenberg is from Poems in Prose (1913), a twelve-piece volume translated by Arthur Symons, but it's originally from Le Spleen de Paris (1869), which has fifty-one prose poems, so it's not the same as the Symons volume. My interest in Baudelaire was piqued over the weekend at B&N where I saw the New Directions edition of his landmark work, The Flowers of Evil, which includes fantastic cover art by Alvin Lustig. Baudelaire is now definitely on my radar.
With heart at rest I climbed the citadel's
Steep height, and saw the city as from a tower,
Hospital, brothel, prison, and such hells,
Where evil comes up softly like a flower.
Thou knowest, O Satan, patron of my pain,
Not for vain tears I went up at that hour;
But, like an old sad faithful lecher, fain
To drink delight of that enormous trull
Whose hellish beauty makes me young again.
Whether thou sleep, with heavy vapours full,
Sodden with day, or, new apparelled, stand
In gold-laced veils of evening beautiful,
I love thee, infamous city! Harlots and
Hunted have pleasures of their own to give,
The vulgar herd can never understand.
"Why don't you write?"
Yesterday, at a garage sale, we bought a pile of issues of The Workbasket ("Home and Needlecraft for Pleasure and Profit") from the fifties and sixties. Alongside the usual ads for self-improvement (learning shorthand or the accordion) and get-rich-quick schemes (selling greeting cards - really?), there were a handful of shady appeals to aspiring writers.
The ad above, from the Newspaper Institute of America, offers something called the New York Copy Desk Method to teach housewives (note the specific reference to "newspaper women") how to write. Of course it involves a mailed-in aptitude test - which I'm sure resulted far more in applicants getting on marketers' mailing lists than actual writing gigs.
This ad, from the Palmer Institute of Authorship, is much more blunt about all the money the writer will supposedly make - the bold headline, the $240 that Ms. Wenderoth made for her first published story, the claim that writers can "cash in" on all of the lucrative opportunities out there. (The fact that "cash in" appears in quotes suggests the phrase was not yet common in 1956.) Incidentally, Googling "Harriet F. Wenderoth" brings up only five results, all of which are ancestry or death records, and none that reference a writing career.
This publisher promises to do all of the publishing dirty work (with italicized emphasis on "sell"), and even offers good royalties. Interestingly, the ad doesn't mention what all these wonderful services will cost the author. And not surprisingly, the fourth Google result for "Comet Press Books" involves a 1960 lawsuit in which a Sol Kantor was suing the publisher for fraud. On the other hand, it looks like Comet Press did publish quite a few books in its day, so maybe it didn't screw over every writer that signed on.
This ad is my favorite of the bunch, and not just because it's a Chicago guy. Benson Barrett will tell you what to write and where to sell your work, apparently without offering any writing instruction. (It's just as well he isn't teaching, given the fragmentary second sentence, the incorrect semicolon in the third sentence, and the redundancy of "in a hurry" and "adds up quickly" in the fourth sentence.) And all of that money will start rolling in from nothing more than short paragraphs! Because everyone loves to read short paragraphs, right?
Quote"Inspiration usually comes during work rather than before it." - Madeleine L’Engle
On this Mother's Day, you might consider hoisting a dark-colored libation with your mom - Tennessee Williams certainly did. He also shamelessly appropriated her life when creating the matriarch of The Glass Menagerie, but I'm sure he was good to her otherwise.
"...sent to sleep under a velvety cloak of words..."In Eudora Welty's The Optimist's Daughter, Laurel McKelva has returned to her childhood home in small-town Mississippi, after the sudden death of her father. Here, she rememembers laying in bed as a child and listening to her parents - now both deceased - as they read aloud to each other.
When Laurel was a child, in this room and in this bed where she lay now, she closed her eyes like this and the rhythmic, nightime sound of the two beloved reading voices came rising in turn up the stairs every night to reach her. She could hardly fall asleep, she tried to keep awake, for pleasure. She cared for her own books, but she cared more for theirs, which meant their voices. In the lateness of the night, their two voices reading to each other where she could hear them, never letting a silence divide or interrupt them, combined into one unceasing voice and wrapped her around as she listened, as still as if she were asleep. She was sent to sleep under a velvety cloak of words, richly patterned and stitched with gold, straight out of a fairy tale, while they went reading on into her dreams.Despite the sadness, Laurel seems to savor the night stillness of the house. As she should, since her father's funeral will be the next day and the house will teem with well-wishers. Listening to far-off voices in the night, straining to hear the wound-down mantel clock that her father is no longer around to tend - I can feel all of that, as if I'm right there. Simply lovely writing.
Fay slept farther away tonight than in the Hibiscus - they could not hear each other in this house - but nearer in a different way. She was sleeping in the bed where Laurel was born; and where her mother had died. What Laurel listened for tonight was the striking of the mantel clock downstairs in the parlor. It never came.
Quote"It may be because of our unhinged and fractured times, but some modern fiction seems to lose its way because of a glut of language, a whole smorgasbord of it, as if words were not enough to convey the prevailing frenzy." - Edna O'Brien
"A nurse held the door open for them."
- Eudora Welty, The Optimist's Daughter
"The two grubby small boys with tow-colored hair who were digging among the ragweed in the front yard sat back on their heels and said, 'Hello,' when the tall bony man with straw-colored hair turned in at their gate."
- Katherine Anne Porter, Noon Wine
"Heraldic and unflagging it chugged up the mountain road, the sound, a new sound jarring in on the profoundly pensive landscape. A new sound and a new machine, its squat front the colour of baked brick, the ridges of the big wheels scummed in muck, wet muck and dry muck, leaving their maggoty trails."
- Edna O'Brien, Wild Decembers
"One January day, thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away."
- Willa Cather, O Pioneers!
"I am in Aranmor, sitting over a turf fire, listening to a murmur of Gaelic that is rising from a little public-house under my room."
- J.M. Synge, The Aran Islands
"On the morning the last Lisbon daughter took her turn at suicide - it was Mary this time, and sleeping pills, like Therese - the two paramedics arrived at the house knowing exactly where the knife drawer was, and the gas oven, and the beam in the basement from which it was possible to tie a rope."
- Jeffrey Eugenides, The Virgin Suicides
"A wise man once said that next to losing its mother, there is nothing more healthy for a child than to lose its father."
- Halldór Laxness, The Fish Can Sing
"Studs Lonigan, on the verge of fifteen, and wearing his first suit of long trousers, stood in the bathroom with a Sweet Caporal pasted in his mug."
- James T. Farrell, Young Lonigan
"Dennis awoke to the sound of the old man upstairs beating his wife."
- Tim Hall, Half Empty
"Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board."
- Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God
"We always fall asleep smoking one more cigarette in bed."
- Joseph G. Peterson, Beautiful Piece
"Tonight, a steady drizzle, streetlights smoldering in fog like funnels of light collecting rain."
- Stuart Dybek, The Coast of Chicago
"Beware thoughts that come in the night."
- William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways: A Journey Into America
"'There they are again,' the doctor said suddenly, and he stood up. Unexpectedly, like his words, the noise of the approaching airplane motors slipped into the silence of the death chamber."
- Hans Keilson, Comedy in a Minor Key
"Now that I'm dead I know everything."
- Margaret Atwood, The Penelopiad
"In the end Jack Burdette came back to Holt after all."
- Kent Haruf, Where You Once Belonged
"It seems increasingly likely that I really will undertake the expedition that has been preoccupying my imagination now for some days."
- Kazuo Ishiguro, The Remains of the Day
"I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids - and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me."
- Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
"I'd caught a slight cold when I changed trains at Chicago; and three days in New York - three days of babes and booze while I waited to see The Man - hadn't helped it any."
- Jim Thompson, Savage Night
"Since the end of the war, I have been on this line, as they say: a long, twisted line stretching from Naples to the cold north, a line of locals, trams, taxis and carriages."
- Aharon Appelfeld, The Iron Tracks
"The schoolmaster was leaving the village, and everybody seemed sorry."
- Thomas Hardy, Jude the Obscure
"Early November. It's nine o'clock. The titmice are banging against the window. Sometimes they fly dizzily off after the impact, other times they fall and lie struggling in the new snow until they can take off again. I don't know what they want that I have."
- Per Petterson, Out Stealing Horses
"Picture the room where you will be held captive."
- Stona Fitch, Senseless
"Elmer Gantry was drunk. He was eloquently drunk, lovingly and pugnaciously drunk."
- Sinclair Lewis, Elmer Gantry
"Bright, clear sky over a plain so wide that the rim of the heavens cut down on it around the entire horizon...Bright, clear sky, to-day, to-morrow, and for all time to come."
- O.E. Rölvaag, Giants in the Earth
"Click! ... Here it was again. He was walking along the cliff at Hunstanton and it had come again ... Click! ..."
- Patrick Hamilton, Hangover Square
"It is 1983. In Dorset the great house at Woodcombe Park bustles with life. In Ireland the more modest Kilneagh is as quiet as a grave."
- William Trevor, Fools of Fortune
"The cell door slammed behind Rubashov."
- Arthur Koestler, Darkness at Noon
(A compendium of memorable opening lines of novels, updated occasionally as I come across new discoveries.)
As it turns out, yesterday was Independent Bookstore Day. Which is wonderfully fitting, since in the afternoon I happened to stop in at Book Market in Crest Hill, which is about as indie a store as you'll ever find. I was there specifically looking for a copy of T.S. Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats, which I saw there a few years ago but passed on buying. Last night, Maddie performed in a high school stage adaptation of the book, and I thought the book would be the perfect gift to commemorate her performance. Luckily for me, the store still had it, and I bought it. I gave it to her after the show, and she loved it.
Eliot's book is also the basis for the legendary Broadway musical Cats, though the adaptation we saw was more of a dramatic recitation of the poems, without music. Maddie played the character Skimbleshanks, and she was great, as was the entire cast. I'm amazed at how talented these kids are.
This edition is illustrated by Nicolas Bentley, but from browsing Goodreads, I see that there is another edition illustrated by Edward Gorey, one of my favorite artists. I'll keep an eye out for the Gorey edition - I would love to add it to our library.
Quote"When bankers get together for dinner, they discuss Art. When artists get together for dinner, they discuss Money." - Oscar Wilde
(I don't know what sort of boho bankers Wilde hung out with, but the next Art discussion heard at my bank will be the first.)
"We see our own efforts, dreams and imperfections in these honest or shady lawyers, these scammers and fixers struggling to keep from going under, seeking love and approval in obviously the wrong places."
Francine Prose on Better Call Saul, which is probably the best show on TV right now. It's almost as good as Breaking Bad, which I think is the best show ever.
"My Grandfather Frazee had spoken rather contemptuously of poets in my self-important infant presence. He said they were clever men, and we liked to memorize long passages from their works, and it was eminently desirable that we should do so. But almost all of them had a screw loose somewhere." - Vachel Lindsay
"...the barrier between the living and the dead is dissolved..."In Aharon Appelfeld's Laish, the titular protagonist is a fifteen-year-old orphan traveling with a ragtag group of Jewish pilgrims through eastern Europe, bound (or so they hope) for the Holy Land.
I love the evening prayers. During them, more so than during any of the other prayers, I sense the presence of my parents, who were cut off from me. For days on end I may not think of them or recall them, but sometimes during the evening prayers they rise from the dead and are pulled toward me, and the barrier between the living and the dead is dissolved. Not that this miracle occurs every evening. On the contrary; at times during the evening prayers a bitter mood descends upon me. It darkens my eyes, and I feel my orphanhood all the more keenly; it is as if my life is not rooted in the world and I want to disappear...
Quote"If you can't annoy somebody, there is little point in writing." - Kingsley Amis
Quote"I was never capable of writing. Writing is a miracle. A meaningful sentence, a meaningful chapter is a miracle. It was so when I began, and it is so now." - Aharon Appelfeld
Quote"Hollywood is where people go to both lose and find themselves. In that respect it's like college for subliterates." - Nathan Rabin
I was pleased to recently find a used copy of the 2008 collection Field-Tested Books at a local book store. Coudal Partners actually published a field-tested book essay of my own (about reading Nick Hornby's High Fidelity while on my honeymoon) online, but only after the book came out. My only regret is that they haven't published a second collection, which might have included my piece.
"...a lure to cheerfulness..."In Harry Mark Petrakis' Twilight of the Ice, recovering alcoholic Rafer Martin will soon start work as a dispatcher at a Chicago ice house. But first, he has to once again adjust to life after rehab.
He came out dry and shaken, not certain he'd been cured of his longing for a drink and afraid that he might falter once again. He'd been through these programs several times in the past and knew each lapse brought him closer to the legion of lost drunks. These men huddled in doorways or in alleys, clutching pints of wine the way a mother holds her child. What provided him a little hope was that once before, after a sobriety program, he'd remained dry for almost three months.I'm enjoying the book so far, though I'm not as enthralled as I was with A Petrakis Reader, which I read last year (and which also includes the short story that was the genesis for this novel). When Petrakis focuses on specific scenes and dialogue, he's marvelous, but many of his expository passages (not including the one above, which I really like) seem stiff in comparison.
Those first days after sobering were always the hardest. Every package liquor store was a lure to cheerfulness, every bar a threshold to euphoria.
"The summer came and went quickly which is the nature of summer for people who are not children, those lucky ones to whom clocks are of no consequence but who drift along on the true emotional content of time." - Jim Harrison, The Summer He Didn't Die
So much wisdom there. I remember those summers of my childhood that never seemed to end, a feeling that I'll soon experience again, albeit secondhand, as Maddie finishes her first year of high school. Previously, while she was home-schooled, summer was somewhat informal, but now it will surely be a more discreet period of time for her.
As I mentioned earlier, I intend to finally get around to reading Harrison. Fortunately for me, as I've discovered this week, he's well-represented at both the library and the book store.
“Germany is the only country that apologized.”
Melville House's Dennis Johnson writes a fine remembrance of Nobel laureate Imre Kertész, who passed away recently at age 93. Interesting that the author returned in his waning years to his native Hungary, despite the country's collaboration in the Holocaust, and also came to develop a respect for Germany and its official contrition for its past. I suspect that ethnic displacement is a theme of Kertész's work, along with, of course, the Holocaust itself. I've never read Kertész but am pleased to see that Melville has published four of his books, including two titles in its Art of the Novella series, of which I'm a big fan. I've added The Pathseeker to my list.
"...it is a harder belief to make articulate..."
Near the end of his 1961 biography of Carl Sandburg, Harry Golden gets at the essence of what made the poet so distinctive:
Sandburg has roamed America listening to people talk, watching them work, hoping they made the money they had to make or got the bushel yield per acre they had to get, or the shorter workday they agitated for. His instincts are with the people. He believes they have an infinite capacity for good.
Not only is this a hard belief for many people to hold, but if they do, it is a harder belief to make articulate. There are politicians who swear to it, ministers who preach it, orators who shout it over the gossiping audience, and television personalities who praise it. But none of them are able to say it as simply as Carl Sandburg said it: "The people, yes."
That last phrase is a reference to The People, Yes, Sandburg's book-length poetic ode to the American people. The book is tempting me, but I'm just as daunted by its 300 pages of free verse possibly becoming overly repetitive and monotonous. After all, I only got through a hundred pages of Leaves of Grass before the repetition drove me away. The one saving grace would be Sandburg talking about other people, rather than Whitman mostly talking about himself.
"The rebels wanted to storm the Bastille of the imagination since they did not have the numbers or the arms to storm the real one."As I wind down another Irish March, how fitting it is to read these reflections on the Easter Rising (which happened 100 years ago next month) by Irish writers Colm Toibin, Anne Enright, Roddy Doyle and others. Doyle's novel A Star Called Henry captures the doomed rebellion quite well, and is very much worth your time.
Quote"Sometimes God hands you a novel. You'd better write it." - Jim Harrison
And sometimes you never get around to reading a prolific, well-regarded author while he's still around.
“I am always full of apprehension and nerves.”
I was pleasantly surprised to read this profile of Edna O'Brien in the NYT this afternoon. I happen to be reading and enjoying her novel Wild Decembers right now, and for some reason I was under the impression that she passed away a few years ago. But not only is she still with us, but also still writing - her latest novel, The Little Red Chairs, has its U.S. release this week. Wild Decembers is the first book of hers that I've read, and I'm looking forward to reading many more - and with a writer I enjoy, there's always a special feeling knowing that they're out there, with unwritten books still in their imaginations, waiting to be written.
Quote“Men of my generation have had Spain in our hearts. It was there that they learned...that one can be right and yet be beaten, that force can vanquish spirit and that there are times when courage is not rewarded.” - Albert Camus
Quote"Most of us are heathens in the innermost recesses of our hearts." - H.P. Lovecraft
Quote"In contemporary novels, older people are almost always props whose significance is only the degree to which their existence affects younger characters." - Kevin Guilfoile
Kevin's thoughts dovetail neatly with my thoughts about Anne Enright's The Green Road, which I just finished yesterday. I wanted far more Rosaleen Madigan, and far less of her kids.
"A Different Darkness at Noon"New York Review of Books has the fascinating backstory on Arthur Koestler's great anti-totalitarian novel Darkness at Noon. The original manuscript (written in German) was lost during World War II; presciently, Koestler saw the need for an English translation, which was undertaken by his girlfriend Daphne Hardy while Koestler was still writing the original. Years later, with the German original having been lost, Koestler translated the book back into German from Hardy's English translation, which up until now has been the source document for translations into 30-plus other languages. As the writer of the article, Michael Scammell, notes, Darkness at Noon is a rare example of a work of literature known only in translation.
And now, remarkably, the original German manuscript has been found. Scammell has read the original and claims that Hardy's English translation is a fairly poor representation of the original (Hardy was apparently less than fully fluent in German) with the original being far superior. The funny thing is that I noticed hardly any shortcomings in the standard English translation that I read and loved - which makes me marvel at how the book could have been possibly have been so much stronger, as Scammell claims. ("...it is a tribute to the quality of Darkness at Noon that it has had such a strong impact on readers despite this [translation] handicap," Scammell writes.)
The original manuscript will soon be published in German, and I'm eager to someday read a new, more accomplished English translation.
Quote"The historian will tell you what happened. The novelist will tell you what it felt like." - E.L. Doctorow
"They deserved no better."I really like this passage from The Green Road, by Anne Enright:
Rosaleen was living in the wrong house, with the wrong colours on the walls, and no telling any more what the right colour might be, even though she had chosen them herself and liked them and lived with them for years. And where could you put yourself: if you could not feel at home in your own home? If the world turned into a series of lines and shapes, with nothing in the pattern to remind you what it was for.Rosaleen (Considine) Madigan is an old widow whose adult children (the "they" of that third paragraph) have scattered, leaving her alone in the family house (Ardeevin) which for her no longer feels like home. The children will undoubtedly feel betrayed by her decision, and at my current point in the book she has just begun to summon them to one final Christmas at the old homestead. My guess is that the reunion will be less than amiable.
It was time. She would doze in the chair by the range, tonight, she would not lie down. And in the morning she would walk down the town, over the bridge to the auctioneer's. She could get a price for it, apparently; the days when people were put off by the heating bills were gone. The auctioneer was a McGrath - of course - a brother of Dessie, who married her daughter. He had to wet his lips each time she passed; his mouth went dry at the sight of her. Well he could have it. Let the McGraths pick over the carcass of the Considines, they could have Ardeevin and the site at Boolavaun, she would move in with Constance, and die in her own time.
They had all left her. They deserved no better.
The gutters falling into the flowerbeds, the dripping taps, the shut-up room that she had abandoned, over the years. The pity of it - an old woman chased into a corner by her own house.
"...this precocious, grown-up boy of 74..."
Besides being a renowned poet and historian, Carl Sandburg was an avid, if not terribly refined, guitarist. Late in life, he turned to his friend, the great classical guitarist Andres Segovia, for help. Segovia later wrote:
His fingers labor heavily on the strings and he asked for my help in disciplining them. I found that this precocious, grown-up boy of 74 deserved to be taught. There has long existed a brotherly affection between us, thus I accepted him as my pupil. Just as in the case of every prodigy child, we must watch for the efficacy of my teaching to show up in the future - if he should master all the strenuous exercises I inflicted on him.
To play the guitar will devour his three-fold energy as a historian, a poet and a singer. One cause of Schopenhauer's pessimism was the fact that he failed to learn the guitar. I am certain that Carl Sandburg will not fall into the same sad philosophy. The heart of this great poet constantly bubbles forth a generous joy of life - with or without the guitar.
Schopenhauer, failed artist - quite an interesting take. This passage is borrowed from Harry Golden's biography of Sandburg, which I found at a library sale and have been thoroughly enjoying. Segovia's affection for Sandburg was undeniably shared by Golden, whose fondness for the poet bursts out of every page.
Quote"In families there are no crimes that cannot be forgiven." - Pat Conroy
As much as I love South Carolina's Lowcountry, I haven't read Conroy, who was pretty much the bard of the region. The sheer heft of his books is certainly steering me away.
Quote“Despite my personal failures there must be possible a fiction which, leaving sociology and case histories to the scientists, can arrive at the truth about the human condition, here and now, with all the bright magic of the fairy tale.” - Ralph Ellison
Invisible Man has been one of my favorite books since I first read it, nearly thirty years ago. Though it's been maybe five years since my last rereading, there are just so many scenes from the book that stay with me. The book is that vivid, and vital. In a way it's sad that Ellison never finished another novel (no, Juneteenth wasn't "finished" - even in its published form it was merely a rough draft), but then again, there's something special about publishing a single, perfect novel. Even had Ellison been prolific with fiction, he probably never would have surpassed his debut.
Quote“If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved, the inquisition might have let him alone.” - Thomas Hardy
Irish MarchI've gotten a one-day headstart on this year's Irish March, starting Anne Enright's The Green Road just this morning. (Technically, I started even earlier, with my most recent book being William Trevor's The Love Department - but like much of that great Irishman's early fiction, the setting is England and the characters English. So maybe that one doesn't really count as Irish fiction?) I've heard great things about Enright, and this (her latest novel) is the first I've read of hers. If the reading goes swiftly** (the book is 300 pages with an unusually large font, though there's no indication that this is a large-print edition*), I hope to have enough time in March to also read Edna O'Brien. I've had my eye on a very affordable used copy of Wild Decembers at Open Books, which is just a few blocks from my office.
As I mentioned earlier, one of my reading resolutions for this year is to read ten works of fiction by female writers. I also wanted to revive Irish March, which I let lapse last year. Reading Enright and O'Brien this March will help accomplish both goals.
(*Frugal as I am, most of the books I read are low-end paperbacks that I've picked up at used bookstores and library sales. But this edition is a hardcover from the Joliet Public Library, so maybe all good hardcovers these days have larger fonts, and this is just par for the course and not the large-print edition.)
(**No, the use of that adverb was not intended as an Irish literary pun. Though it might have turned out that way.)
"...as a favor to you..."James Baldwin followed up his successful debut, Go Tell It On the Mountain, with Giovanni's Room which, to the consternation of his publisher Knopf, had nothing but white characters. The publisher wanted another "black novel."
"So they told me, 'You cannot afford to alienate that audience. This new book will ruin your career, because you’re not writing about the same things and in the same manner as you were before, and we won’t publish this book as a favor to you.'"What an astoundingly paternalistic, condescending thing for a publisher to say, especially to a young writer. Baldwin ultimately did quite for himself, writing what he wanted to write.
My Baldwin experience has been mixed. I loved Go Tell It On the Mountain, was underwhelmed by Notes of a Native Son and remember nothing about Another Country other than the sex scenes. But I do want to read Giovanni.
"...a ghostly cosiness..."In William Trevor's The Love Department, Edward Blakeston-Smith observes the urban renewal of southwest London.
All Jubilee Road was levelled, and Dunfarnham Avenue, and the corner of Crimea Road, and Fetty Crescent, and almost all of Gleethorpe Lane. Edward watched the work of destruction and building, and felt sad to see it all, although he knew, for he had read it in a newspaper, that new houses were necessary to keep pace with the increasing population. Occasionally, he saw a single wall, all that remained of some old house, with different wallpapers still adhering to the plaster, indicating the rooms that had once been lived in. High up on such a wall there was often a fire-grate with a mantelshelf still above it, seeming strange and surrealist without a floor or a ceiling. After a time, Edward used to look out for those fireplaces, and even developed a fantasy in which he came by night with a ladder and climbed up with kindling and coal. In his bed in Clapham he wandered in his fantasy all over the area of SW17, and Wandsworth and Putney, climbing up the ladders and lighting fires in the fire-grates in the sky, causing a mystery that interested the newspapers and the nation. Before he dropped off to sleep the fires were blazing heartily, throwing a light on to the wallpaper that surrounded them, creating a ghostly cosiness.With Edward having frequent, disabling flights of fancy such as this, it will come as no surprise that he's not terribly effective in his job as a private investigator - most of the time, he doesn't even know what his quarry looks like. Interesting early novel from Trevor, though admittedly not one of my favorites of his.
"A day in which I don’t read or write, I have trouble falling asleep."At The New Yorker, Karan Mahajan writes a fine profile of Michael Orthofer and his long-running (16 years!) literary site The Complete Review. Most of the literary sites I started following in the early- to mid-2000s have gone away (with the bloggers either becoming mainstream literary journalists, or abandoning blogging in favor of Twitter), which makes me appreciate the constancy of Orthofer and The Complete Review even more. His reviews are deeply thoughtful and plainspoken, and his knowledge of world literature highly enviable. (I won't even fault him for declining my offer of Wheatyard for him to review.) I'm looking forward to his upcoming book, The Complete Review Guide to Contemporary World Fiction.
Oh, and despite that quote above, I doubt he ever loses much sleep - with nearly 3,700 books under review (nearly 250 per year), there can't be very many days that he goes without reading.
Quote"There is a kind of corn whiskey bred in Florida which the natives declare is potent in the proportion of seven fights to a drink." - Stephen Crane
"It's a goddamn pączki!"Mike Czyzniejewski (a Chicago native who now teaches in Missouri) prefaces his review of the Stuart Dybek story "Tosca" with this anecdote about yesterday's holiday:
One Walmart in town — of the nine (not a typo) — carries them, but I have to get there a day or two before, because they sell out early (something I found out in the dark, dark February of 2014). Then, if a colleague says, “Thanks for the donuts, Mike!” I go completely apeshit, throwing whatever I have in my hands against the wall, exclaiming, “It’s not a fucking donut! It’s a goddamn pączki!” So far, I think I’m winning the battle, getting the word out, but every year, I spend the day after Pączki Day with my Human Resources rep, discussing better ways to channel the rage I feel in the workplace.Mike is doing great work with his new blog, Story366, in which he's reviewing a different story each day of this year. Writing that many reviews would already be enough of a challenge, but he takes it a step further - he only reviews a story that he's just read for the first time. The reviews have been great, and the personal asides even better.
"You never knew what books would come in the door..."Robert Archambeau shares his fond memories of Ron Ellingsen, co-owner of Chicago's old Aspidistra Bookshop, who recently passed away.
The Aspidistra is a plant, but not just any plant: it’s a plant you can abuse or ignore, but not kill. You can put your cigarette butts out in its soil and it will keep growing. You can put it in a coat closet for a month with no light and no water and it’ll laugh the experience off. For Ron, it was an apt symbol not just for his bookshop, but for literary culture as a whole.I passed the store many times - they always had sale shelves outside on the sidewalk - but never stopped in. And every time Robert reminisces about it on his blog, I really wish I had. Sounds like it was a unique place.