“...we would do poetry a favor..."

During a long-ago panel discussion involving Robert Duncan, Philip Levine and an unnamed third poet, the latter bemoaned those who didn't embrace poetry, believing they lacked any sense of beauty or even a reason for being. Duncan disagreed, saying:

"Some people do not twig to poetry, they may be inspired by things others don't care for - the operas of Wagner, the novels of Proust, the ballets of Merce Cunningham, the stories of Katherine Mansfield, the philosophical writing of Schopenhauer, the paintings of Francis Bacon. Perhaps they love the beauty of design, of Tiffany vases or of machinery, V-8 engines or drop forges. I think we would do poetry a favor if we stopped trying to shove it down the throats of those for whom it has no connection or resonance. But don't forget, if absolutely nothing turns you on, stirs you body and soul, you are in trouble."

I appreciate Duncan's sentiment, and especially his inclusion of "V-8 engines or drop forges" as objects worthy of aesthetic admiration. And I respect the warning he delivered in that final sentence.

(Quoted from Levine's My Lost Poets: A Life in Poetry.)

June 10, 2019 in Art, Books | Permalink | Comments (2)

BBBB

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I made this really cool find yesterday: the 1964 Avon edition of Brendan Behan’s Borstal Boy. Check out those rounded corners! I’ve never seen those before. The book was already on my list, it was priced at a ridiculously cheap $2, and it came from Open Books so the money’s going to a good cause. Buying it was an easy decision.

June 8, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (1)

Summer of Moberg

In a few days (after finishing Ward Just's Echo House, which I started last week while on vacation), I'll be starting up my annual Summer of Classics. This year I'm tackling the four volumes of Wilhelm Moberg's "Emigrants" saga: The Emigrants, Unto a Good Land, The Settlers and The Last Letter Home. I read the first volume in a Scandinavian literature class in college, and kept the book though I never really expected to re-read it; I picked up the second volume in an antique shop (a nice hardcover for only a few dollars) about ten years ago but never got around to reading it; and I'll borrow volumes three and four from my mom, who has the full set. The epic follows the lives of the Nilsson family from their departure from Sweden in the 1850 to their settling in the Minnesota Territory, and on into the 1890s. Though I don't generally prefer longer, densely written novels, I've always wanted to read this entire cycle, and can't think of any better time than Summer of Classics to do so.

June 3, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (1)

Opening Lines

(A compendium of memorable opening lines of novels, updated occasionally as I come across new discoveries.)

“The snow is on everybody tonight—on upturned faces, reflected back in the irises of children in the window; on the hot back of your wife's neck as you know she's shoveling the snow at home; on the men chopping wood for the stove, warming themselves (as the Finnish proverb goes) twice.”
- Ander Monson, Other Electricities

“Billy Brennan overdid it again with the fast food.”
- Ethel Rohan, The Weight of Him

“When Jerome Lafirme died, his neighbors awaited the results of his sudden taking off with indolent watchfulness.”
- Kate Chopin, At Fault

“Obedient to the social law that makes the moot guest the early bird at a tea party, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Lockman were the first to arrive in Utopia.”
- Mary McCarthy, The Oasis

“It had never before been a problem which of them to visit first because they had been together every other time. Every other time he had got off the boat, hoisted up his rucksack, and walked with the straggle of travellers to where familiar faces were waiting beyond the barrier.”
- Val Mulkerns, Very Like a Whale

"I’m not here by choice."
- Giano Cromley, The Last Good Halloween

”Even standing still, finally, Ray Welter's body remained in motion and subject to inner tidal forces beyond his control."
- Andrew Ervin, Burning Down George Orwell's House

"No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water."
- H.G. Wells, The War of the Worlds

"We slept in what had once been the gymnasium."
- Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

"Marley was dead, to begin with."
- Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

"The first sound in the mornings was the clumping of the mill-girls' clogs down the cobbled street. Earlier than that, I suppose, there were factory whistles which I was never awake to hear."
- George Orwell, The Road to Wigan Pier

"Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream."
- John Steinbeck, Cannery Row

"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

May 31, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (5)

”...write like a son of a bitch.”

Jim Harrison’s advice for young writers:

Just start at page one and write like a son of a bitch. Be totally familiar with the entirety of the Western literary tradition, and if you have any extra time, throw in the Eastern. Because how can you write well unless you know what passes for the best in the last three or four hundred years? And don’t neglect music. I suspect that music can contribute to it as much as anything else. Tend to keep distant from religious, political, and social obligations. And I would think that you shouldn’t give up until it’s plainly and totally impossible.

May 30, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“One swallow doesn’t make a summer.”

“I welcome it, but I also distrust it because I think it can be quite fashionable to do this. Working-class writers in the north in the late 1950s like Alan Sillitoe and John Braine became, briefly, very very fashionable. And then it suddenly became old hat and it was almost completely dropped. So one swallow doesn’t make a summer.” - Pat Barker

May 27, 2019 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (0)

“Rank socialism was and is rampant.”

Shagpoke Whipple, former U.S. President, disgraced banker and ex-convict:

"When I left jail, it was my intention to run for office again. But I discovered to my great amazement and utter horror that my party, the Democratic Party, carried not a single plank in its platform that I could honestly endorse. Rank socialism was and is rampant. How could I, Shagpoke Whipple, ever bring myself to accept a program which promised to take from American citizens their inalienable birthright; the right to sell their labor and their children's labor without restrictions as to either price or hours?"

This passage, from Nathanael West's A Cool Million (1934), could easily have been spoken today (albeit with the vocabulary and grammar of the average fifth-grader) by a certain president who shall remain nameless.

And, wow, was West ever dark. He made Sinclair Lewis look like a giddy optimist.

May 14, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

"It comes in lumps..."

In a 1952 letter, Nelson Algren reflected on his writing, and re-writing, process.

No, it didn’t pour. It comes in lumps, and each lump has to be smoothed and grained down and then, when it’s just so shining and smooth that you read it over aloud to your self and love the sound of every perfect word, you find you can’t use it, it doesn’t tie in, it’s fine in itself but it diverts the whole story. So you gulp and put it away assuring yourself you’ll make use of it another day and sometimes you do, if you remember what drawer you put it away in. Sometimes it’s like a squirrel looking for the acorns he hid the fall before last - he knows he’s somewhere in the neighborhood, and digs up the whole plot and when he finds it, it’s gone to seed in those two years.

The letter is included in an appendix to the critical edition of The Man With the Golden Arm, which I just finished reading, for the fourth or fifth time (and was as astounding as ever). The letter is reproduced as an original facsimile, with typos, x-outs and handwritten edits. The editor’s decision to include this in its original form, instead of in pristine, typeset perfection, is curious but perfectly fitting. Algren was a brilliant but deeply flawed man whose writing never shied away from portraying the imperfect and often ugly side of human nature, and this letter (which he apparently mailed as-is, instead of drafting a clean copy) neatly encapsulates his essence.

May 6, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...rocking and drinking...”

Colin Asher applies the Page 99 Test to his new Algren biography, Never a Lovely So Real. I browsed the book at City Lit the other night, and am looking forward to reading the book, though I’ll wait for the paperback. 

April 27, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

The captain has bad dreams

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The opening paragraphs of Nelson Algren’s The Man With the Golden Arm. Merely presenting the first sentence wouldn’t have been anywhere near sufficient. 

April 15, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“One day, while reading in my room, I heard a shriek from the hairdressers directly across from our house. ‘The pope’s been shot!’ Soon there was a gabble of increasingly hysterical voices outside the window. I shrugged, The Fantastic Four were fighting Dragon Man. The pope and reality could wait.” - Padraig Kenny

April 14, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“Everyday People”

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I’ve been very tardy in passing this along, but Ben Tanzer and I recently had a great conversation about Where the Marshland Came To Flower, writing in general, and Chicago, and our talk can be heard on his venerated This Podcast Will Change Your Life. Enjoy.

April 1, 2019 in Books, Chicago Observations, Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (1)

“...yesterday is a wind gone down...”

The final lines from Carl Sandburg's "Prairie":

I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
  a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
  only an ocean of to-morrows,
  a sky of to-morrows.

I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say
  at sundown:
        To-morrow is a day.


I'm somewhat obsessed with the third and fourth lines ("I tell you yesterday..."), so much so that I repeat them, as a calming mantra, if I happen to wake up in the middle of the night.

The poem is the first in the collection Cornhuskers, which won him the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry, in 1919.

March 28, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

Badass

In Orkney, Sally Walker is one seriously devoted - and obviously badass - librarian.

Today (the causeway to Burray is) open but as I approach in my van, the sea is crashing over the barrier. I stop at one end, watch the waves and try to time my drive to cross between them. It’s exciting and frightening all at once. Halfway across, I misjudge it and a wave covers the van.

March 27, 2019 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“Fiction and lies are the opposite of each other. Lies go out of the way to distort and turn you away from the truth. But fiction is one of our ways of telling the truth.” - Ali Smith

I think I might delve into Smith’s seasonal quartet. 

March 24, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“The practice of art isn't to make a living. It's to make your soul grow.” - Kurt Vonnegut

March 22, 2019 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (0)

Pity the nation...

Lawrence Ferlinghetti turns 100 this Sunday. Here, he reads his poem "Pity the Nation":

Pity the nation that raises not its voice
Except to praise conquerers
And acclaim the bully as hero...

I regret, during my only business trip to San Francisco in 2007, not having the time to visit City Lights Bookstore. I should have found the time; I certainly could have spared an hour or two away from fellow credit risk professionals. Maybe on my next visit.

(Via Jan Herman.)

March 20, 2019 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“I don’t think I’d like it if people liked me. I’d think something had gone wrong.” - James Purdy

March 12, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

"I know that you are not made of celestial ether, but he doesn't."

John Steinbeck's 1955 letter to Marilyn Monroe, requesting her autographed photo ("in a pensive girlish mood") for his lovestruck nephew. I love his tone.

March 8, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“We are each other’s harvest; we are each other’s freedom; we are each other’s magnitude and bond.” - Gwendolyn Brooks

March 8, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

Irish March

Irish March has come around again, and I thought I'd read something contemporary this year, but my public library had no books from the recently acclaimed Anna Burns, Eimear McBride or Sally Rooney. Fortunately, as I was scanning the shelves for Rooney, I stumbled across Ethel Rohan's The Weight of Him, which crossed my radar a while back (it was published in 2017) but I had since forgotten. Ireland-born writer, Irish setting, good critical response. Works for me. I think she's even a Facebook friend (or something) of mine, but we've never corresponded. The book is 336 pages so it should take me a few weeks to read, but I'm not sure what I'll read for the remainder of the month. Maybe scrounge up something cheap at Open Books.

February 28, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (4)

“...that gift of not discovering...”

In Artie: A Story of the Streets and of the Town, George Ade writes this memorable character sketch:

Bancroft Walters is the second son of LaGrange Walters, who manufactures a superior kind of roofing and has grown moderately rich at it.

Bancroft plays the banjo, appears at amateur entertainments, goes to great many parties, and probably belongs to that indefinite class known as "society young men." He has a desk in his father's office, but it cannot be said truly that he is held down to office hours or that his salary represents the value of his actual service. He attended an eastern college for two years, and then came home for some reason, which perhaps only his fond and trusting mother could satisfactorily explain.

She knows it was the fault of the college.

Bancroft is inclined to be dapper, talkative and wonderfully full of self-assurance. Then he has that gift of not discovering that most people regard him as a very ordinary sort of person.

Bancroft is a childhood friend of the book's protagonist Artie Blanchard, but has "taken on airs" as his (inherited) social standing has grown elevated, far above that of the office clerk Artie. But Artie (and Ade) quickly cut Bancroft down to size, in devastating manner.

February 27, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“... a group not to be matched elsewhere in the country...”

William Dean Howells, from Literature and Life (1902):

Could one say too much of the literary centre at Chicago? I fancy, yes; or too much, at least, for the taste of the notable people who constitute it. In Mr. Henry B. Fuller we have reason to hope, from what he has already done, an American novelist of such greatness that he may well leave being the great American novelist to any one who likes taking that role. Mr. Hamlin Garland is another writer of genuine and original gift who centres at Chicago; and Mrs. Mary Catherwood has made her name well known in romantic fiction. Miss Edith Wyatt is a talent, newly known, of the finest quality in minor fiction; Mr. Robert Herrick, Mr. Will Payne in their novels, and Mr. George Ade and Mr. Peter Dump in their satires form with those named a group not to be matched elsewhere in the country. It would be hard to match among our critical journals the ‘Dial’ of Chicago; and with a fair amount of publishing in a sort of books often as good within as they are uncommonly pretty without, Chicago has a claim to rank with our first literary centres.

February 14, 2019 in Books, Chicago Observations | Permalink | Comments (4)

Runaway nun...

...fakes her death, crafts a body double to act as her corpse, and pursues a life of carnal lust. Go, Joan, go!

“...having turned her back on decency and the good of religion, seduced by indecency, she involved herself irreverently and perverted her path of life arrogantly to the way of carnal lust and away from poverty and obedience, and, having broken her vows and discarded the religious habit, she now wanders at large to the notorious peril to her soul and to the scandal of all of her order.”

Alas, Joan’s fate is lost to history, which is actually fiction’s gain. I think it’s nearly impossible for her story to not end up as a novel, or even a Netflix series. Handmaid’s Tale meets Game of Thrones.

February 13, 2019 in Books, History | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“Porous borders are understood in some quarters to be areas of threat and certain chaos, and whether real or imagined, enforced separation is posited as the solution. It may be that the most defining characteristic of our times is that, again, walls and weapons feature as prominently now as they once did in medieval times.” - Toni Morrison

February 10, 2019 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“I don’t know what Rembrandt’s earlier practice portraits, which he destroyed, looked like. But for good reasons he destroyed them.” - Carl Sandburg

B.J. Hollars remembers being a fledgling writer at Galesburg College, where he walked in the footsteps of Sandburg, who himself once walked in the footsteps of Abraham Lincoln.

January 27, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“You are living with ghosts...”

Paul Auster, in conversation with Lou Reed, first published in Dazed & Confused, April 1996:

"So many people that we've loved and cared about are not here any more, but you carry them around inside you. The older you get, the more your life becomes a quiet conversation with the dead. I find that very sad and at the same time very comforting. You know, the older you get, the more of a spiritual being you become. You are living with ghosts and they have a lot to tell you. And if you listen carefully you can learn a lot."

The conversation is collected in Lou Reed: The Last Interview and Other Conversations (Melville House, 2015). The book is very good - the interviews show Reed in his many moods, from cranky to thoughtful, but his talk with Auster was the best of all. I've never read Auster, but I admire the sensibilities he displays throughout their talk, and should probably delve into his work.

January 24, 2019 in Books, Music | Permalink | Comments (4)

New Chicago-area bookstores

The American Booksellers Association has announced that 96 new member bookstores opened in 2018, of which six are in the Chicago area:

Barbara's Bookstore (Vernon Hills)
Booked (Evanston)
Bookie's (Homewood)
Harvey's Tales (Geneva)
Jake's Place Books (Oak Park)
*play Lincoln Park (Chicago)

The ABA's post also listed a new location for Prairie Path Books, whose original location is located inside of a Toms-Price furniture store (?) in Wheaton. But the company's website indicates the new Hale Street location as "closed." Curious. Also, *play appears to be more of a toy store, and Barbara's is a branch of the small local chain - but, in somewhat of a throwback, it's located within an indoor shopping mall. Shades of B. Dalton and Waldenbooks.

January 22, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“Northwood was to London as London was to Europe."

Julian Barnes writes of his childhood, and how the old Blackfriars train station taught him that London wasn't the center of the world, but merely a departure point.

January 9, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

Books given, books received

If my family ever decides (or finally tells me what they’ve felt all along) that they don’t like books, everyone will get cash for Christmas. But, for now...

Books Given

For my Vonnegut-loving wife, who already owns all of his prose: Kurt Vonnegut, Drawings

For my religious, bibliophile mom: Scott Esplin: Return to the City of Joseph; Shaun Bythell: The Diary of a Bookseller

For my hipster-ish, Midwest-proud niece: Paul Dickson, Contraband Cocktails; Edward McClelland, Folktales and Legends of the Middle West

For my hipster-ish, eloquent niece-in-law: Mark Meyer and Meredith Meyer Grelli, The Whiskey Rebellion; Rosemarie Ostler, Splendiferous Speech

For my offbeat, outdoorsy nephew: Ryan Schnurr, In the Watershed; Christopher Boucher, How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive; H.P. Lovecraft, The Dunwich Horror

For my island-loving, outdoorsy niece-in-law: Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed Firs (#2 on my year-end list); Helene Glidden, The Light on the Island; Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca (#1 on my year-end list)

For my music-major sister: Andrew Talle, Beyond Bach

For my engineer brother-in-law: Dan Egan, Life and Death of the Great Lakes

For my feminist niece: Rebecca Solnit, The Mother of All Questions (#6 on my year-end list)

For my mom’s gentleman friend: Steve Lehto, Preston Tucker and His Battle to Build the Car of Tomorrow

For my sports-addicted sister: David Rapp, Tinker to Evers to Chance

Books Received

Wioletta Greg, Swallowing Mercury
Simon van Booy, The Illusion of Separateness
Benjamin Franklin, Fart Proudly: Writings of Benjamin Franklin You Never Read in School

January 7, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (1)

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“What have I in common with the Jews? I have hardly anything in common with myself.” - Franz Kafka

January 6, 2019 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

Good Reading 2018

Another interesting year of reading. Here's my list - as always, it's books that I read this year, not books that were published this year.

1. Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca
2. Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed Firs (Review)
3. Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl (Review)
4. Pearl Swiggum, Stump Ridge Farm/Barn Came First (Review)
5. Eudora Welty, The Golden Apples (Review)
6. Rebecca Solnit, The Mother of All Questions (Review)
7. Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem (Review)
8. Eudora Welty, A Curtain of Green and Other Stories
9. Katherine A. Solomonson, The Chicago Tribune Tower Competition (Review)
10. Megan Stielstra, Once I Was Cool (Review)

Honorable Mentions: Val Mulkerns, Very Like A Whale; Edna O'Brien, The Little Red Chairs; Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness; Ursula Le Guin, No Time to Spare: Thinking About What Matters; Margaret Atwood, Negotiating with the Dead; Maeve Brennan, The Springs of Affection; Kate Chopin, At Fault

Rereadings: Astrid Lindgren, Pippi Longstocking

Comments:
+ This year was devoted to reading nothing but female writers. (With a caveat: I didn't think of the concept until mid-January, after I had read two books, one written by a male, and another edited by a male. Though the latter, an essay collection, did include numerous female writers.) Which opened my eyes to a broader range of perspectives than I would otherwise experience.
+ The other big theme was my Summer of Welty - nothing but Eudora Welty short stories - that was greatly rewarding. In fact, this entire year could have been called The Year of Welty; besides the two books listed here, I also read the story collections The Bride of the Innisfallen and Thirteen Stories, the memoir One Writer's Beginnings, and the novella Delta Wedding.
+ Rebecca was one of the creepiest books I've read in a long time, which is all the more remarkable given that it wasn't really written as horror.
+ The Country of the Pointed Firs was an unexpected delight (thank you, Paul Lamble), sort of cross between Winesburg, Ohio and J.M. Synge's The Aran Islands, but set in coastal Maine. Also delightful were the Pearl Swiggum books (they're effectively one book, but in two slim volumes); Pearl was a small-town Wisconsin newspaper columnist who wrote plainspoken, touching and funny accounts of dairy farming, marriage and everyday life. I wish I had known her.
+ The Diary of a Young Girl was heartbreaking, even though I knew Anne's fate long before reading the book.
+ I read a lot of nonfiction this year, making a conscious effort to divide my reading between fiction (daytime) and nonfiction (right before bed). Swiggum, Solnit, Didion, Stielstra, Atwood and Le Guin were all winners.
+ Only one re-reading this year: Pippi Longstocking, which I borrowed from Maddie. I probably hadn't read the book since the third grade. I went on to read the other two Pippi books, which I might have also read back then, though I don't recall for sure.
+ Goodreads Reading Challenge: goal, 36 books; result, 33 books. I thought three books per month was achievable, but no.

2017 List
2016 List
2015 List
2014 List
2013 List
2012 List
2011 List
2010 List
2009 List
2008 List
2007 List
2006 List
2005 List
2004 List
2003 List

December 29, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (2)

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"Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder." - Rumi

Oh, and not governing via Twitter is a good idea, too.

December 26, 2018 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (1)

Father Tolkien

This sounds delightful: Tolkien’s tales of Father Christmas, which he wrote as letters to his children.

“The number of children who keep up for me seems to be getting smaller. I expect it is because of this horrible war…” He concluded, “I shall have to say ‘goodbye,’ more or less…” but expresses a hope of returning when old friends have “grown up and have houses of their own and children.”

I’m very surprised I hadn’t heard of this until now. I might have to add this to my annual holiday reading list. 

December 24, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“To oppose vulgarity is inevitably to be vulgar.”

Ursula K. Le Guin, from The Left Hand of Darkness:

To oppose something is to maintain it. 

They say here "all roads lead to Mishnory." To be sure, if you turn your back on Mishnory and walk away from it, you are still on the Mishnory road. To oppose vulgarity is inevitably to be vulgar. You must go somewhere else; you must have another goal; then you walk a different road. 

Yegey in the Hall of the Thirty-Three today: "I unalterably oppose this blockade of grain-exports to Karhide, and the spirit of competition which motivates it." Right off, but he will not get off the Mishnory road going that way. He must offer an alternative. Orgoreyn and Karhide both must stop following the road they're on, in either direction; they must go somewhere else, and break the circle.

Reading this passage, I couldn't help thinking of the 2016 presidential election, and what I think was Hillary Clinton's greatest flaw: she talked endlessly about how terrible Donald Trump was, and how utterly she opposed him and his worldview, but not nearly enough about what she stood for. By opposing Trump, in Le Guin's conception, Hillary maintained him — legitimized him. Message to Democratic politicians, in 2020 and beyond: don't tell me what you're against; tell me what you're for.

December 14, 2018 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (1)

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“The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty: not knowing what comes next.” - Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness

December 3, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“The average magazine editor’s conception of good verse is verse that will fill out a page. No editor is looking for long poetry. He wants something light and convenient. Consequently, a Milton might be living in Chicago today and be unable to find an outlet for his verse… In other words, the modern English speaking world says ‘Shut up!’ to its poets, a condition so unnatural, so destructive to new inspiration, that I believe it can be only temporary and absurd.” - Harriet Monroe

I admire and agree with her opinion, while also admitting that, as much as I love the city and its writers, there obviously weren’t any unpublushed John Miltons in Chicago in 1911.

November 19, 2018 in Books, Chicago Observations | Permalink | Comments (0)

"...of a boy who died at nineteen..."

Joan Didion, on visiting the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific in 1966:

I would go up there quite a bit. If I walked to the rim of the crater I could see the city, look down over Waikiki and the harbor and the jammed arterials, but up there it was quiet, and high enough into the rain forest so that a soft mist falls most of the day. One afternoon a couple came and left three plumeria leis on the grave of a California boy who had been killed, at nineteen, in 1945. The leis were already wilting by the time the woman finally placed them on the grave, because for a long time she only stood there and twisted them in her hands. On the whole I am able to take a very long view of death, but I think a great deal about what there is to remember, twenty-one years later, of a boy who died at nineteen. I saw no one else there but the men who cut the grass and the men who dig new graves, for they are bringing in bodies now from Vietnam. The graves filled last week and the week before that and even last month do not yet have stones, only plastic identification cards, streaked by the mist and splattered with mud. The earth is raw and trampled in that part of the crater, but the grass grows fast, up there in the rain cloud.

(From "Letter from Paradise, 21° 19' N., 157° 52' W.", in Slouching Towards Bethlehem.)

November 12, 2018 in Books, Current Affairs, History | Permalink | Comments (0)

“A nowhere place that was easy to loathe.”

Guy Gunaratne, on the suburban London of his youth:

Neasden was never pretty – an unremarkable concrete outcrop between a dual carriageway and the North Circular. Somewhere on the way to Ikea. It’s the sort of place new immigrants land before moving to Kilburn, Cricklewood or Wembley. As a teenager, these neighbouring areas seemed far more compelling. Wembley had a Burger King. Cricklewood had a High Road and once, Doris Lessing. Kilburn had, for a time, Zadie Smith. What did Neasden have? It had a roundabout with a museum. A Tesco Express and a Tennessee Fried Chicken.

So many of these weekly Guardian pieces (all of which I love) tell of idyllic rural upbringings, with lonely moors, rushing streams and bucolic farmland, that reading this account of bland suburbia is actually quite refreshing. After all, more of us are from places like this than from the country.

And the funny thing is that, despite Gunaratne’s youthful envy, I would guess that people who grew up in Wembley, Cricklewood and Kilburn were probably just as disparaging about their own hometowns. They might have even envied Neasden for its Tennessee Fried Chicken. 

November 11, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

Even more Gorey

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This is quite wonderful - especially the cat episode. The Wickeys did a great job of capturing Gorey's drawing style.

Back in the mid-'90s, a student filmmaker named Christopher Seufert began to cast around for projects. A native of Cape Cod, Seufert kept hearing about Gorey, who lived a few miles away in the town of Yarmouth. After reading up on his work, Seufert arranged a meeting, gained Gorey’s trust, and began work on a film. Then, Gorey died.

Now, some 17 years later, Seufert’s documentary, tentatively titled “Gorey,” is close to completion. The animation seen here — animation that, like the rest of the series, is the work of son and father team Benjamin and Jim Wickey — was created from audio recordings of Gorey. These particular audio bits didn’t fit in Seufert’s film but we found them too delightful to just ignore.

I'm really looking forward to Seufert's documentary.

November 7, 2018 in Books, Film | Permalink | Comments (0)

Ben Hecht and Paul Dailing

Henry Justin Smith, on Ben Hecht, in the preface to A Thousand and One Afternoons in Chicago:

It was clear that he had sat up nights with those stories. He thumbed them over as though he hated to let them go. They were the first fruits of his Big Idea — the idea that just under the edge of the news as commonly understood, the news often flatly and unimaginatively told, lay life; that in this urban life there dwelt the stuff of literature, not hidden in remote places, either, but walking the downtown streets, peering from the windows of sky scrapers, sunning itself in parks and boulevards. He was going to be its interpreter.

Of course, that's hyperbole - nobody could ever be the interpreter of an entire city, especially one as vast and complex as Chicago. But Hecht did succeed in his inevitably narrowed focus - the book is wonderful.

I'm reminded of this quote from the penultimate post in Paul Dailing's blog 1,001 Chicago Afternoons, which chronicles (in 1,001 posts from April 2012 through last Friday) his encounters in seemingly every corner of the city, and hundreds of points in between. Dailing was heavily inspired by Hecht's premise, and in some sense took it further than Hecht (who gave up Chicago and journalism after only a few years, leaving for the bright lights of New York and Hollywood) ever did. I won't pretend that I intently read even a fraction of Dailing's posts - that's a ton of content, even spread over six and a half years - but those that I did read were never less than worthwhile. I'm tempted to read all the way through the blog, start to finish, or wait for what would be even better - the entire blog compiled into a single book.

November 5, 2018 in Books, Chicago Observations | Permalink | Comments (0)

”...nothing he could see, maybe only make-believe...”

So she took a paper napkin off the bar,
spit on it, and told him to hold still
while she carefully lifted his glasses,
leaving him half blind, and wiped
something off just above his left
cheekbone. "There," she said, handing
him back his glasses, "I got it," and even
with his glasses on, what she showed
him was nothing he could see, maybe
only make-believe. He thought, "Better
get out of here before it's too late," but
suspected too late was what he wanted.

- Philip Levine, from "Of Love and Other Disasters", collected in News of the World.

Interesting to note that The New Yorker published a slightly different version of this poem, which changed a handful of words here and there, most notably that "suspected" in the final line, for which the magazine version substituted "knew." The change of just one word leads to significantly different meanings. I prefer "suspected" - it suggests the man doesn't know exactly what he wants, but realizes that his worst impulses will probably lead him somewhere or with someone he shouldn't. And he's going there anyway.

Incidentally, while Barnes and Noble's selection usually leaves much to be desired, during a visit this weekend to the Bolingbrook store I was quite pleased to find and browse through both this Levine book and William Carlos Williams' Paterson.

November 5, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“Literature is news that stays news.” - Ezra Pound

To answer Coe’s question: no. Fiction isn’t journalism. Fiction is about the long view, as he mentions. If a fiction writer succeeds in being timely and up-to-the-minute, many if not all of the references will be hopelessly dated by the time the book comes out, unless one happens to write about someone who ultimately turns out to be timeless, like Churchill or FDR. In just a few years, I doubt many people will remember or care who Nigel Farage or Michael Gove were. 

November 4, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

Gorey

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In honor of Halloween, Cooper Hewitt features The Gorey Alphabet, by the delightfully macabre Edward Gorey. I’m a huge fan of Gorey. 

October 31, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“I only know that I will never again trust my life, my future, to the whims of men, in companies or out. Never again will their judgment have anything to do with what I think I can do. That was the wonderful liberation of being divorced and having children. I did not mind failure, ever, but I minded thinking that someone male knew better.” - Toni Morrison

October 4, 2018 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (0)

Rebecca Solnit, on breaking the silence.

From "A Short History of Silence," in The Mother of All Questions

Speech, words, voice sometimes change things in themselves when they bring about inclusion, recognition, the rehumanization that undoes dehumanization. Sometimes they are the only preconditions to changing rules, laws, regimes to bring about justice and liberty. Sometimes just being able to speak, to be heard, to be believed are crucial parts of membership in a family, a community, a society. Sometimes our voices break those things apart; sometimes those things are prisons. And then when words break through unspeakability, what was tolerated by society sometimes becomes intolerable. Those not impacted can fail to see or feel the impact of segregation or police brutality or domestic violence: stories bring home the trouble and make it unavoidable.

Solnit also has stirring words of praise for Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, in The Guardian. "What was tolerated by society sometimes becomes intolerable." We can hope.

October 2, 2018 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (0)

“…the country breathed a timeless life…”

The opening paragraphs of Isak Dinesen's short story "Sorrow-Acre" (from Winter's Tales):

The low, undulating Danish landscape was silent and serene, mysteriously wide-awake, in the hour before sunrise. There was not a cloud in the pale sky, not a shadow along the dim, pearly fields, hills and woods. The mist was lifting from the valleys and hollows, the air was cool, the grass and the foliage dripping wet with the morning dew. Unwatched by the eyes of man, and undisturbed by his activity, the country breathed a timeless life, to which language was inadequate.

All the same a human race had lived on this land for a thousand years, had been formed by it soil and weathers, and had marked it with its thoughts, so that now no one could tell where the existence of the one ceased and that of the other began. The thin grey line of a road, winding across the plain and up and down hills, was the fixed materialization of human longing, and of the human notion that it were better to in one place than another.

Lovely beginning, but unfortunately Dinesen goes on like this for more than two pages, taking forever to narrow the focus and actually start telling the story. And I'm not expecting the story itself to move much more quickly than this.

October 1, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“Religion, teachers, women, drugs, the road, fame, money… nothing gets me high and offers relief from the suffering like blackening pages, writing.” - Leonard Cohen

September 29, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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"There’s a very particular charm and friendliness that permeates the entire region: I find myself saying 'Excuse me' when someone bumps into me, and I think that’s emblematic of the Midwestern experience. The flip side: that outward friendliness remains, even when the inward thoughts are not so friendly, resulting in a weird, tense, passive aggression, where you’ll tell someone 'We really need to hang out sometime,' even though you’d be happy never seeing them again, except you know you’ll see them in the same grocery store every week for the rest of your natural, God-given lives." - John LaPine

September 26, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (1)

“...a poise between subjectivity and objectivity.”

Nuala O'Faolain, writing in Are You Somebody?: The Accidental Memoir of a Dublin Woman, about teaching at University College Dublin in the early 1960s:

I was a contented product of the old system. And I was too young to respect students so young. They were right to complain that they had no more input into the way things were done than they'd had at secondary school. But they weren't very different, themselves, to my eyes, from secondary school pupils. I had a messianic belief in the capacity of the academic study of English literature to change a person utterly. But all but a few of the students thought "doing English" was grinding out essays on the three stages of Wordsworth's relationship with nature or the role of the Fool in King Lear. I knew myself that "doing English" was easy on one level. But I wanted my students to do something hard, to learn to hold on to the self while going out of the self to enter into the literature that someone else had made - to find a poise between subjectivity and objectivity.

September 24, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)