9.14.2006
Salon's literary guide to the world
If you're bored with the books you have and looking for a new title, check out Salon's Literary Guide to the World. I think I'll do my own version soon...
Thoughts for Thursday - why write and other silly ruminations
I figured it out! The answer to the central question of my existence: Why write? All my life people have told me, "You have a really unusual way of looking at things." A pretty cool trait, if you're a writer -- at the very least, it's quirky. If you don't write, however, this could be taken as a sign of psychosis. So, to preserve my mental standing in the community, I must write fiction. As this is Thursday and I am giddy with boardroom-battle fatigue, I find this highly clever reasoning. Well, it's as good of a motivator as "money," "fame," or that other worn-out chestnut, "to bring peace and love to the entire universe."
As you have probably deduced, I didn't really have a good blog subject. Then I thought I'd address a vital issue that has been perplexing me as of late: Whatever happened to Mexican jumping beans?
When I was in grammar school, the new school year couldn't begin without at least one classmate
bringing a spastic imitation-coffee bean in a small, clear plastic box because he didn't have seashells or a pair of moccasins to exhibit for show-and-tell. Maybe it's because I'm over 10 (way, way, way, way over 10) that I'm not privvy to the phenomenon of Mexican jumping beans, but then again, I don't recall my niece and nephew ever playing with them. Are they politically incorrect? Bad for the environment? Toxic? I guess the answer is more obvious: They simply are low-tech. You hold one in your palm and it rolls around a couple of times. Big deal. A little brown bean containing a moth larvae jouncing in its final birth throes. Ugh, kinda gross, too. Come to think of it, Mexican jumping beans didn't really hold my attention for more than five, six seconds when I was a kid. Maybe Mexican jumping beans were only a temporary rite of passage even then, a phase that passed faster than jawbreakers and Slinkys. They sure didn't hold a candle to Barbie dolls.
As you have probably deduced, I didn't really have a good blog subject. Then I thought I'd address a vital issue that has been perplexing me as of late: Whatever happened to Mexican jumping beans?
When I was in grammar school, the new school year couldn't begin without at least one classmate
bringing a spastic imitation-coffee bean in a small, clear plastic box because he didn't have seashells or a pair of moccasins to exhibit for show-and-tell. Maybe it's because I'm over 10 (way, way, way, way over 10) that I'm not privvy to the phenomenon of Mexican jumping beans, but then again, I don't recall my niece and nephew ever playing with them. Are they politically incorrect? Bad for the environment? Toxic? I guess the answer is more obvious: They simply are low-tech. You hold one in your palm and it rolls around a couple of times. Big deal. A little brown bean containing a moth larvae jouncing in its final birth throes. Ugh, kinda gross, too. Come to think of it, Mexican jumping beans didn't really hold my attention for more than five, six seconds when I was a kid. Maybe Mexican jumping beans were only a temporary rite of passage even then, a phase that passed faster than jawbreakers and Slinkys. They sure didn't hold a candle to Barbie dolls.
9.12.2006
RIP Challenge #2 – The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Washington Irving
Atmosphere: Hijinks in the airChill factor: Sufficiently toe-tingling
What a delightful tale to read. Not spooky (as it seemed when I was a child), but very atmospheric, as this early account of Sleepy Hollow demonstrates:
Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.
That’s a pretty tricky way to lull a reader into a gothic tale. Next, we meet our hapless hero, Ichabod Crane memorably described as:
…tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels…To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.
Irving really is a master at description. I especially enjoyed the way he captured the essence of the time and place:
Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted short-gowns, home-spun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside.
This story also has to take the prize for Most Memorably Named Characters: Ichabod Crane, Bram Bones, Katrina van Tassel. (Is Shirley Jackson’s Haunting of Hill House echoing Ichabod’s name with Hugh Crain, the owners of Hill House?)
I found it quite interesting how this story – considered one of the earliest examples of literary writing from the new world – deals with fundamental American traits that exist to this day: a can-do belief in the ability to improve one’s status; a naiveté about the larger world, combined with a rapacious sense of individual entitlement; and trust in westward expansion. And maybe Irving is poking a little fun at it, for, woeful as Ichabod is, with his not-very-appealing looks and less-than-appealing career prospects, he positively salivates over the prospect of marrying Katrina:
From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel.
Irving has been criticized by some as having stories with no morals and writing strictly for an audience (the first Dan Brown, perhaps?). But I believe Irving is mocking the superstitions of the townspeople who are “given to marvelous beliefs,” and Ichabod himself, who, though an educated man,
..was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow.
Couldn’t Ichabod serve as a metaphor of America itself, especially in the immediate post-Revolutionary period (and perhaps even now): Outsized and awkward, starry-eyed while ambitious, impoverished yet abundant, democratic but status-conscious?
At the story’s end, Ichabod pays for his overarching aspirations – and because of his superstitious beliefs. On a ride homeward one lonely autumn night, Ichabod falls prey to the local legend of the Headless Hessian and disappears under mysterious circumstances:
…The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.
What happened to the hapless Ichabod Crane? We never quite know, though there is much surmising on behalf of the townspeople. A smashed pumpkin near the scene of Ichabod’s disappearance would suggest a prankster in the order of Bram Bones was the true culprit. There is speculation that Ichabod found a new life elsewhere (a reflection of the American belief in the pioneering spirit and westward expansion), but true to their credulity, the townspeople finally are willing to lay blame on the headless horseman. Perhaps the real horror of the story is not that Ichabod Crane could have been carried off by an apparition; rather, it is his lack of bonds to the community and greater world, and the community’s ready dismissal of him (a form of alienation, also a trait peculiar to America):
…when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, (the townspeople) shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him.
9.11.2006
9/11 - five years later
At three a.m., the night after the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks, I woke up with a sensation of falling from a great height, suffocated in a cloud of dust. I couldn't sleep. So I took out my pen and notebook. This is what I wrote (unedited):
On Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, our landscape changed irrevocably. Not a single shot was fired. No protests were uttered. No cause was identified.
Yet we understand that we are now forced to acknowledge an ideology foreign to us: the power of the unknown.
The lack of overt purpose in the attacks leaves us cold. What is to be gained, we cry. We cannot help it: it is the capitalist in us. Surely, we cannot be appalled at a random act of violence when we live daily with violent crimes that are committed for less reason than pleasure or perversion. We understand and tacitly approve of criminal actions, however despicable and self-serving, if there is gain. Now we are confounded by criminals who, having perpetrated so spectacular a rampage, refuse to claim the spotlight.
What do we do with an unacknowledged enemy that acts on its own terms for no other reason than to satisfy its own set of privately held dogma, whether or not anyone else holds meaning in it? Unlike great revolutionaries of the past— Luther, Lenin, Marx--we are not clear about what action or stance, if any, these terrorists want us to take. Overthrow the government? Protest the war in the Middle East? Eliminate capitalism? Worship Allah? We ourselves are unsure who to hunt; there are no Huns, no Japs, no Blues, Greys, or Reds.
This is a new world order: nomadic ideology, not connected with a state power, a revolution, a civil war. Warriors take their show on the road, like a circus act, playing before a new audience every night. It is battle of happenstance, not fixed, but evolving around a morphing and murky set of conditions. Like foul weather, it appears in various guises, at various times, depending on a fickle mix of elements, such as geography and political climate.
The only sure thing we can hold with certainty after this disaster is terror at the capriciousness of life. On some level, this act of terrorism must force us to acknowledge how out of control modern life is. We feel how fragile our complex infrastructures, how naïve our sophisticated lifestyles, how vulnerable the heart of our civilization is to arrest.
We are living as in a house of cards that can collapse as suddenly and surely as the proud World Trade Center towers.
It is a little like Alice in Wonderland, every time we look to outside forces to blame we end up staring at ourselves in the mirror. If there is any meaning to glean from disaster, it is how we ourselves our complicit in its happening and how we can change ourselves to prevent a recurrence. We cannot control our destinies but we can direct them.
The landscape is scarred; people are dead. These are the tangible indications of change. The soul is shaken; the enemy unseen. These are the elements of a future unforeseen.
Wake up, America. The world is edging in on us, from its many corners.
On Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, our landscape changed irrevocably. Not a single shot was fired. No protests were uttered. No cause was identified.
Yet we understand that we are now forced to acknowledge an ideology foreign to us: the power of the unknown.
The lack of overt purpose in the attacks leaves us cold. What is to be gained, we cry. We cannot help it: it is the capitalist in us. Surely, we cannot be appalled at a random act of violence when we live daily with violent crimes that are committed for less reason than pleasure or perversion. We understand and tacitly approve of criminal actions, however despicable and self-serving, if there is gain. Now we are confounded by criminals who, having perpetrated so spectacular a rampage, refuse to claim the spotlight.
What do we do with an unacknowledged enemy that acts on its own terms for no other reason than to satisfy its own set of privately held dogma, whether or not anyone else holds meaning in it? Unlike great revolutionaries of the past— Luther, Lenin, Marx--we are not clear about what action or stance, if any, these terrorists want us to take. Overthrow the government? Protest the war in the Middle East? Eliminate capitalism? Worship Allah? We ourselves are unsure who to hunt; there are no Huns, no Japs, no Blues, Greys, or Reds.
This is a new world order: nomadic ideology, not connected with a state power, a revolution, a civil war. Warriors take their show on the road, like a circus act, playing before a new audience every night. It is battle of happenstance, not fixed, but evolving around a morphing and murky set of conditions. Like foul weather, it appears in various guises, at various times, depending on a fickle mix of elements, such as geography and political climate.
The only sure thing we can hold with certainty after this disaster is terror at the capriciousness of life. On some level, this act of terrorism must force us to acknowledge how out of control modern life is. We feel how fragile our complex infrastructures, how naïve our sophisticated lifestyles, how vulnerable the heart of our civilization is to arrest.
We are living as in a house of cards that can collapse as suddenly and surely as the proud World Trade Center towers.
It is a little like Alice in Wonderland, every time we look to outside forces to blame we end up staring at ourselves in the mirror. If there is any meaning to glean from disaster, it is how we ourselves our complicit in its happening and how we can change ourselves to prevent a recurrence. We cannot control our destinies but we can direct them.
The landscape is scarred; people are dead. These are the tangible indications of change. The soul is shaken; the enemy unseen. These are the elements of a future unforeseen.
Wake up, America. The world is edging in on us, from its many corners.
9.08.2006
Note to self: Be blogworthy
It's Friday, the whole weekend is ahead, and well, I feel compelled to do a blog entry. And avoid a) rewriting a marketing blurb b) revising a short story. Blogs are soooooo satisfactory that way.
Yet, I feel a bit guilty for indulging in this spontaneous, fairly pointless piece when so many fellow bloggers are posting clever, well-crafted, thought-provoking entries. I feel I really must up my blogging game. Starting this weekend, I vow to become blogworthy!
Who cares if I'm a soul-sucked, barren-brained corporate corpse? Other bloggers post novellas with bronchitis, broken arms, new surgery stitches, and five children, two dogs and a hungry spouse waiting in the wings! Buck up, LK! What's a little job burnout?
I shall strive to join the ranks of SuperBloggers, calling on my heroic powers to type faster than a speeding bullet and leap tall thoughts in a single bound! Despite the overwhelming sensation of having cotton-batting perpetually wrapped 'round my brain. Despite the fact that I really love to write off-the-cuff, whereby I can feel smug if the result is felicitous, justified if the work is substandard.
And I vow to improve posts not in the spirit of competition but of comraderie. I want to give to the community the way they give to me! (I am sincere here, in spite of the patented LK flipness.)
And my apologies for not having a really cool blog site. I confess: I am Technically Challenged. In two key ways: First, I am not a programming whiz who lunches on HTML soup, followed by plenty of RSS feed at dinnertime. I am lucky if I can find my computer's ON switch. Someday soon I hope to burnish my blog, clean up the typeface, give the masthead a signature Literate Kitten look and throw in some fancy sidebar tricks for good measure. That is, if I can overcome my second technical challenge: Being hampered by an aging home computer. With my iMac's scant memory fading fast, I work on my blog in dribs and drabs, in between crashes or work breaks, and sometimes flying blind without fully-loaded graphics. Soon, perhaps next week even, a kindly Techno Geek clerk at my local computer store will supply me with the proper vitamins to restore brainpower to my poor, dementiaed iMac.
How I do run on. Happy weekend to all and to all a goodnight.
Yet, I feel a bit guilty for indulging in this spontaneous, fairly pointless piece when so many fellow bloggers are posting clever, well-crafted, thought-provoking entries. I feel I really must up my blogging game. Starting this weekend, I vow to become blogworthy!
Who cares if I'm a soul-sucked, barren-brained corporate corpse? Other bloggers post novellas with bronchitis, broken arms, new surgery stitches, and five children, two dogs and a hungry spouse waiting in the wings! Buck up, LK! What's a little job burnout?
I shall strive to join the ranks of SuperBloggers, calling on my heroic powers to type faster than a speeding bullet and leap tall thoughts in a single bound! Despite the overwhelming sensation of having cotton-batting perpetually wrapped 'round my brain. Despite the fact that I really love to write off-the-cuff, whereby I can feel smug if the result is felicitous, justified if the work is substandard.
And I vow to improve posts not in the spirit of competition but of comraderie. I want to give to the community the way they give to me! (I am sincere here, in spite of the patented LK flipness.)
And my apologies for not having a really cool blog site. I confess: I am Technically Challenged. In two key ways: First, I am not a programming whiz who lunches on HTML soup, followed by plenty of RSS feed at dinnertime. I am lucky if I can find my computer's ON switch. Someday soon I hope to burnish my blog, clean up the typeface, give the masthead a signature Literate Kitten look and throw in some fancy sidebar tricks for good measure. That is, if I can overcome my second technical challenge: Being hampered by an aging home computer. With my iMac's scant memory fading fast, I work on my blog in dribs and drabs, in between crashes or work breaks, and sometimes flying blind without fully-loaded graphics. Soon, perhaps next week even, a kindly Techno Geek clerk at my local computer store will supply me with the proper vitamins to restore brainpower to my poor, dementiaed iMac.
How I do run on. Happy weekend to all and to all a goodnight.
9.07.2006
Thoughts for Thursday - the book score
I love a good book score. That's when you're idly perusing bookstore shelves or rummaging through a free box someone left on the sidewalk and you find...well, a great find. The unexpected. The rarity. The affordable. The title you never dream existed, the book you've sought but never found, the obscure novel by the author whose oueuvre you were certain you'd read in entire. In short, the score.
This week I scored at a local bookstore. I was passing time, waiting for a friend, and I decided to see if this particular bookseller had Volume 2 of Virginia Woolf's Diary. Then I saw it. Wedged in between The Waves and something by Irvine Welsh: The Eye of the Story by Eudora Welty. Two bucks. Yellowed and curled at the edges, with a slice of scotch-tape at the top of the spine. But mine, all mine!
It's one of those books that speak to the other books in your life. In it, for example, there's an essay on Chekhov, whose story Lady with a Dog we just read at A Curious Singularity. And a review of the Western Journals by Washington Irving, whose writings collection, by happenstance, I bought yesterday as part of the RIP reading challenge (Legend of Sleepy Hollow being one of my selections). And an essay on Jane Austen, whose Northanger Abbey is also part of my RIP reading (and which I bought yesterday with the Irving book). Odd, isn't it? I won't even mention the Woolf review included, because it seems any literary essay book worth its salt these days includes something on Woolf.
I've been wanting to respond to a wonderful post by Litlove on the Great American novel and character versus plot, but I've been too swamped. But what of it? My book score conveniently includes an essay on novels! And I quote:
It can be said at once, I should think, that we are all agreed upon the most important point: that morality as shown through human relationships is the whole heart of fiction, and the serious writer has never lived who dealt with anything else.
I'll second that!
This week I scored at a local bookstore. I was passing time, waiting for a friend, and I decided to see if this particular bookseller had Volume 2 of Virginia Woolf's Diary. Then I saw it. Wedged in between The Waves and something by Irvine Welsh: The Eye of the Story by Eudora Welty. Two bucks. Yellowed and curled at the edges, with a slice of scotch-tape at the top of the spine. But mine, all mine!
It's one of those books that speak to the other books in your life. In it, for example, there's an essay on Chekhov, whose story Lady with a Dog we just read at A Curious Singularity. And a review of the Western Journals by Washington Irving, whose writings collection, by happenstance, I bought yesterday as part of the RIP reading challenge (Legend of Sleepy Hollow being one of my selections). And an essay on Jane Austen, whose Northanger Abbey is also part of my RIP reading (and which I bought yesterday with the Irving book). Odd, isn't it? I won't even mention the Woolf review included, because it seems any literary essay book worth its salt these days includes something on Woolf.
I've been wanting to respond to a wonderful post by Litlove on the Great American novel and character versus plot, but I've been too swamped. But what of it? My book score conveniently includes an essay on novels! And I quote:
It can be said at once, I should think, that we are all agreed upon the most important point: that morality as shown through human relationships is the whole heart of fiction, and the serious writer has never lived who dealt with anything else.
I'll second that!
9.05.2006
Virginia's Haunted House
Apparently, Virginia Woolf based her short story A Haunted House on a real house, leased by herself and her husband, called Asham House (pictured here and unfortunately demolished in 1994). Here is what Leonard Woolf had to say about Asham:
Asham was a strange house. The country people on the farm were convinced that it was haunted, that there was treasure buried in the cellar, and no one would spend the night in it. It is true that at night one often heard extraordinary noises both in the cellars and in the attic. It sounded as if two people were walking from room, opening and shutting doors, sighing, whispering…I have never known a house which had such a strong character, personality of its own – romantic, gentle, melancholy, lovely. It was Asham and its ghostly footsteps and whisperings which gave Virginia the idea for A Haunted House and I can immediately see, hear, and smell the house when I read the opening words:
'whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure – a ghostly couple.'
RIP Challenge - week 1
Started my reading for the RIP Challenge with Virginia Woolf's A Haunted House. As this was only 3 pages (and my other selections had not yet arrived from Amazon) and a long holiday weekend, I culled my book stacks for other RIP candidates.
Turned out to be a grumpy weekend of reading. I guess I'll have to call myself the Persnickety Kitten this week. Anyway, here goes...
Murders in the Rue Morgue, Edgar Allen Poe. I assumed I've read this at some point, but couldn't recall so I dusted off a copy of Poe's short works and gave it a whirl. What a disappointment. A ridiculous ending, even accounting for the fact that it was the first of the detective genre. I'll be interested in what other readers have to say, see if I can muster some appreciation for it at that point. But for me, Cask of Amontillado is a better story by far.
We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Shirley Jackson. Though Jackson's writing is, as always, fine, I really disliked living with the crazy narrator, plus I figured out whodunit early on. Had to force myself through it. And the ending went way over the top. I revisited The Haunting of Hill House, which is at least spookier (though oddly dated).
That leaves us with: A Haunted House, Virginia Woolf. A mere 3 pages, but the clear winner for weekend number 1. Not sure it really qualifies as a short story (sketch? vignette? pastiche?), but this of all this weekend's RIP readings offered up genuine atmosphere, provocative thoughts and complex texture. The stream of consciousness writing gives an idea of why the living fear ghosts -- They embody our regret for, longing of and reconnection to the past:
Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs.
Here's hoping that James, Irving or Wharton arrive at my doorstep by Friday!
Turned out to be a grumpy weekend of reading. I guess I'll have to call myself the Persnickety Kitten this week. Anyway, here goes...
Murders in the Rue Morgue, Edgar Allen Poe. I assumed I've read this at some point, but couldn't recall so I dusted off a copy of Poe's short works and gave it a whirl. What a disappointment. A ridiculous ending, even accounting for the fact that it was the first of the detective genre. I'll be interested in what other readers have to say, see if I can muster some appreciation for it at that point. But for me, Cask of Amontillado is a better story by far.
We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Shirley Jackson. Though Jackson's writing is, as always, fine, I really disliked living with the crazy narrator, plus I figured out whodunit early on. Had to force myself through it. And the ending went way over the top. I revisited The Haunting of Hill House, which is at least spookier (though oddly dated).
That leaves us with: A Haunted House, Virginia Woolf. A mere 3 pages, but the clear winner for weekend number 1. Not sure it really qualifies as a short story (sketch? vignette? pastiche?), but this of all this weekend's RIP readings offered up genuine atmosphere, provocative thoughts and complex texture. The stream of consciousness writing gives an idea of why the living fear ghosts -- They embody our regret for, longing of and reconnection to the past:
Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs.
Here's hoping that James, Irving or Wharton arrive at my doorstep by Friday!
8.31.2006
RIP Challenge - life is now worth living
Remember that semi-awful Elton John song, Someone Saved My Life Tonight? Well, I feel that way about Carl V. over at Stainless Steel Droppings. Just when a stupid-ass work e-mail made me want to drink a bottle of Vitameatvegemin before ramming my head through my computer screen, Carl invented the RIP (Readers Imbibing Peril) challenge. Any daredevil readers willing to take up the gauntlet pick 5 books of chills and thrills to read from this weekend through Halloween. Irresistible!
My one dilemma is that I am committed already to Proust Vol 2 and three Middle East books, plus Henry James, before year's end. Still, I'm with Carl V. -- I never can pass up at least one spinetingler in autumn. I was going to make do with Virginia Woolf's The Haunted House, but this is too tempting. (Sorry, Marcel, I'm a fickle kitten.) So, I negelected my work e-mails temporarily, and drooled over countless titles before arriving at my selections: a little offbeat, very literary, with a smidgeon of humor. A lot like moi.
Now I can take up memos and brochures and PowerPoint slides for the rest of the day.
Thanks, Carl, for giving me something to live for.
LK's RIP Selections
My one dilemma is that I am committed already to Proust Vol 2 and three Middle East books, plus Henry James, before year's end. Still, I'm with Carl V. -- I never can pass up at least one spinetingler in autumn. I was going to make do with Virginia Woolf's The Haunted House, but this is too tempting. (Sorry, Marcel, I'm a fickle kitten.) So, I negelected my work e-mails temporarily, and drooled over countless titles before arriving at my selections: a little offbeat, very literary, with a smidgeon of humor. A lot like moi.
Now I can take up memos and brochures and PowerPoint slides for the rest of the day.
Thanks, Carl, for giving me something to live for.
LK's RIP Selections
- The Turn of the Screw, Henry James (okay, it'll count for my James book at least)
- Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Washington Irving (this is totally revisiting my childhood)
- A Haunted House, Virginia Woolf (is it a horror story? the title counts doesn't it?)
- The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton (love Edith Wharton, love the fact that she couldn't sleep in a room with a ghost book even in it but managed to churn out some tales of her own)
THIS IS SORT OF LIKE THOSE BONUS TRACKS ON CDs, BUT MAYBE NOT SO MUCH, BUT JUST GO WITH ME--FINAL SELECTION WILL INCLUDE ONE OF THE FOLLOWING, BOTH IF I CAN MANAGE IT OR IF VIRGINIA TURNS OUT TO BE A RED HERRING:
- Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen (a spoof on gothics by Jane Austen? if I can't squeeze it in this year, this is one I will definitely get to at some point)
- Dragonwyck, Anya Seaton (the dark horse, and fairly lengthy given my crunched circumstances, but in the spirit of the event [bad pun intended], I wanted to branch out into new territory)
Thoughts for Thursday - ramblin'
This week I woke up in the middle of the night with a complete blog entry formed in my mind. First thing next morning, I fired up the computer and typed it all in. And then I read it and thought, The only thing to save this from sounding completely moronic would be for CNN's Anderson Cooper to read it live from Bourbon Street. So all I have is this rambling post, powered by the final caffeinated fumes from my brain....So, does anybody really believe GW read The Stranger--at least, the version without pictures? I, for one, don't believe he's ever finished My Pet Goat. He said he was reading about "the battle of New Orleans," which I Googled. Apparently, he's referring to a book by John McPhee, The Control of Nature. Read more here. If you're ever looking for an engrossing book about the Mississippi and how it affected New Orleans and other cities, read John M. Barry's Rising Tide. I learned about Eads and his Bridge (I'm from St. Louis originally, so that was a revelation) and dredging the River and all sorts of terribly interesting, arcane facts about the Old Miss....I am loving In the Eye of the Sun by Ahdad Soueif. The reader in me, who just wants to enjoy the story, is battling the critic in me, which keeps asking WHY I'm enjoying the story. Hell, the reader is winning. Maybe I'll get a post in here replete with in-depth analysis about the book, but right now, I eagerly anticipate my nightly before-bed pages....Okay, back to the grind.
8.30.2006
Naguib Mahfouz (1911-2006)
Naguib Mahfouz was not only one of the best Arab writers, certainly, but also one of the best writers of the 20th century.
I'm currently reading fiction of the Middle East, as a way of understanding what is happening there. In addition to 'In the Eye of the Sun' and 'Beirut Blues,' I am adding to the list Mahfouz's 'Children of Gebelawi,' in honor of his passing.
Rest in peace. Thank you for your wonderful books.
I'm currently reading fiction of the Middle East, as a way of understanding what is happening there. In addition to 'In the Eye of the Sun' and 'Beirut Blues,' I am adding to the list Mahfouz's 'Children of Gebelawi,' in honor of his passing.
Rest in peace. Thank you for your wonderful books.
8.29.2006
Hurricane Katrina
On this anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, I was wracking my brain for New Orleans or Gulf Coast literature to quote, and then I came across this in a book I’m reading. It seems mysteriously apropos.
Listen, my heart, and bewail the fortune of thy land. Weep, O Heart, alone; for there is none to comfort you. Look, my heart, at the sun which is neither rising nor setting but hidden by clouds. Look at Egypt’s Nile, its waters shrinking. Look at the cattle roaming without a shepherd, and the ships no longer speed to the Phoenician shore. The scales of justice have been thrown out on the road to be trodden under the heel of every passer-by. Nothing remains of justice but the name, and in that name crimes are committed. The ululations of weddings have died down and in their place are wails and screams to be heard.
Is this not the land of Ra? When will the Good Shepherd rise to its rescue? He whose heart knows no desolation, He who spends His day gathering His stray cattle and leading them to water? When will he come to tear out evil by the root? To annihilate the seed of evil even before it takes root? Where is He? Where is He today?
Ab-U-Or (2030 BC)
Listen, my heart, and bewail the fortune of thy land. Weep, O Heart, alone; for there is none to comfort you. Look, my heart, at the sun which is neither rising nor setting but hidden by clouds. Look at Egypt’s Nile, its waters shrinking. Look at the cattle roaming without a shepherd, and the ships no longer speed to the Phoenician shore. The scales of justice have been thrown out on the road to be trodden under the heel of every passer-by. Nothing remains of justice but the name, and in that name crimes are committed. The ululations of weddings have died down and in their place are wails and screams to be heard.
Is this not the land of Ra? When will the Good Shepherd rise to its rescue? He whose heart knows no desolation, He who spends His day gathering His stray cattle and leading them to water? When will he come to tear out evil by the root? To annihilate the seed of evil even before it takes root? Where is He? Where is He today?
Ab-U-Or (2030 BC)
8.28.2006
Books on writing
I used to be a sucker for books on writing. Every time I’d see one in a bookstore, free box or bargain bin, I snapped it up, hoping I would come across that magical nugget of advice that will make writing easier than it usually is. And maybe more enjoyable in the process.
Most writers must be tortured in this way; otherwise, there would be no market for “how-to” books on writing.
Francine Prose apparently has tossed her hat into the books-on-writing ring. She offers “Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them.” (What is it about books on writing that makes the authors choose lengthy titles? It’s as if they have to clarify what they are trying to write about. Funny.) Emily Barton reviewed this for the New York Times. (Do read Conversational Reading's perceptive skewer on this review, plus the recommendations for books on writing.)
Barton says: “At the start of her new book on writing, Francine Prose dispatches with The Question — the five words that inevitably confront writers who teach, writers who don’t teach, and possibly even nonwriters who do neither: “Can creative writing be taught?”
To me, that is not only an arrogant question for Prose to pose (how’s that for lousy alliteration?), but it misses the mark entirely. I really do not think anyone who is serious enough about writing to pick up the book believes for one second that it will teach the craft. Writers just want some reassurance that yes, writing is as horribly difficult for everyone else as it is for them, and that yes, the horrors can be overcome, even if only temporarily, by completing a silly exercise, practicing hypnosis, starting a journal, placing green apples on your desk, or downing a bottle of Scotch every morning.
Beyond the smug attitude Prose seemingly adopts in this book, carefully distancing herself from any suggestion that creative writing could possibly be a taught skill like forging anvils or building car chassis, she does have a point here, as Barton explains:
Prose also recommends savoring books rather than racing through them, a strategy that “may require some rewiring, unhooking the connection that makes you think you have to have an opinion about the book and reconnecting that wire to whatever terminal lets you see reading as something that might move or delight you.”
Reading for delight: This is ultimately the reason I gave up reading about writing, and moved to reading for reading’s sake and writing for the hope of connection. It’s a lesson struggling writers tend to forget. If you want to love to write, you must love to read.
Here are some of the many books on writing in my collection, in no particular order. I do like dipping into them now and again for inspiration, reminders, compassion and wit. Any favorites you would like to share?
Dorothea Brand, Becoming a Writer: A Book About Art, Independence and Spirit
Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write
Oakley Hall, The Art and Craft of Novel Writing
Gail Sher, One Continuous Mistake: Four Noble Truths for Writers
Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones
Anne Lamotte, Bird by Bird
Stephen King, On Writing
David Bayles, Ted Orland, Art and Fear (not strictly about writing, but the same principles apply)
John Gardner, Art of Fiction
E.M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel
Ursula LeGuin, Steering the Craft
Eudora Welty, On Writing and One Writer’s Beginnings
Most writers must be tortured in this way; otherwise, there would be no market for “how-to” books on writing.
Francine Prose apparently has tossed her hat into the books-on-writing ring. She offers “Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them.” (What is it about books on writing that makes the authors choose lengthy titles? It’s as if they have to clarify what they are trying to write about. Funny.) Emily Barton reviewed this for the New York Times. (Do read Conversational Reading's perceptive skewer on this review, plus the recommendations for books on writing.)
Barton says: “At the start of her new book on writing, Francine Prose dispatches with The Question — the five words that inevitably confront writers who teach, writers who don’t teach, and possibly even nonwriters who do neither: “Can creative writing be taught?”
To me, that is not only an arrogant question for Prose to pose (how’s that for lousy alliteration?), but it misses the mark entirely. I really do not think anyone who is serious enough about writing to pick up the book believes for one second that it will teach the craft. Writers just want some reassurance that yes, writing is as horribly difficult for everyone else as it is for them, and that yes, the horrors can be overcome, even if only temporarily, by completing a silly exercise, practicing hypnosis, starting a journal, placing green apples on your desk, or downing a bottle of Scotch every morning.
Beyond the smug attitude Prose seemingly adopts in this book, carefully distancing herself from any suggestion that creative writing could possibly be a taught skill like forging anvils or building car chassis, she does have a point here, as Barton explains:
Prose also recommends savoring books rather than racing through them, a strategy that “may require some rewiring, unhooking the connection that makes you think you have to have an opinion about the book and reconnecting that wire to whatever terminal lets you see reading as something that might move or delight you.”
Reading for delight: This is ultimately the reason I gave up reading about writing, and moved to reading for reading’s sake and writing for the hope of connection. It’s a lesson struggling writers tend to forget. If you want to love to write, you must love to read.
Here are some of the many books on writing in my collection, in no particular order. I do like dipping into them now and again for inspiration, reminders, compassion and wit. Any favorites you would like to share?
Dorothea Brand, Becoming a Writer: A Book About Art, Independence and Spirit
Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write
Oakley Hall, The Art and Craft of Novel Writing
Gail Sher, One Continuous Mistake: Four Noble Truths for Writers
Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones
Anne Lamotte, Bird by Bird
Stephen King, On Writing
David Bayles, Ted Orland, Art and Fear (not strictly about writing, but the same principles apply)
John Gardner, Art of Fiction
E.M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel
Ursula LeGuin, Steering the Craft
Eudora Welty, On Writing and One Writer’s Beginnings
8.25.2006
A link and a contest
Happy Friday, everyone! Just a few quick links for those interested....
Identity Theory started a new column about the publishing industry called "The Magic Bullet: Q&A for Writers." Send in a question that brings up anxiety about writing, and receive an answer from fiction editor, Jane Friedman (author of "The Beginning Writer's Answer Book). Go here: http://www.identitytheory.com/magicbullet/
The deadline for entering the Storyglossia Fiction Prize contest is October 1, 2006. First prize is $1000 and publication in Issue 16. All entries will be considered for publication. Click here for the complete guidelines. Not that we need competition (we think we can dust up something for an entry), but we like to support them.
Identity Theory started a new column about the publishing industry called "The Magic Bullet: Q&A for Writers." Send in a question that brings up anxiety about writing, and receive an answer from fiction editor, Jane Friedman (author of "The Beginning Writer's Answer Book). Go here: http://www.identitytheory.com/magicbullet/
The deadline for entering the Storyglossia Fiction Prize contest is October 1, 2006. First prize is $1000 and publication in Issue 16. All entries will be considered for publication. Click here for the complete guidelines. Not that we need competition (we think we can dust up something for an entry), but we like to support them.
8.24.2006
Thoughts for Thursday – one more for the TBR pile!
We’ve arrived, once more, at another Thursday, the day when the seemingly endless dark chasm of the Work Week opens to a tunnel ending in Light, offering a glimpse to a near future when time is again our own. Walk toward the Light! Walk toward the Light!
Today, we celebrate Thursday with an excerpt from a book review by Eric Ormsby over at the New York Sun. Now, we can’t vouch for Ormsby’s critiquing talents, but this particular book had LK’s whiskers standing at attention. It’s called: Edward Mendelson’s “The Things That Matter: What Seven Classic Novels Have to Say About the Stages of Life.”
According to the review, this book links seven stages of human life with seven classic 19th- and 20th-century novels, all by women: one each by Mary Shelley, Emily and Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot, and three by Virginia Woolf. If that wasn’t enough, the book delves into topics many litbloggers have been discussing recently: how novels enlarge our lives and how our experience influences our reading of them.
Intrigued? Read more from the Ormsby review:
…It's a truism that great novels have something to tell us not only about life but about our own lives. But for decades literary criticism has neglected or scorned this useful truth in favor of "theory" and its barbarous jargon. How refreshing then to read a study which dwells without apology, and with genuine insight, on the ways in which novels impinge upon our own experience.
Mr. Mendelson…shows not solely how these novels enlarge and illumine our own lives, but how our experience nuances and influences our reading of them. And though Mr. Mendelson is unflappably polite and even decorous in his discussions, his book is rather radical.
…The reason that women writers in the 19th and 20th centuries were more likely than men to write about the emotional depths of personal life is that they were more likely to be treated impersonally, to be stereotyped as predictable members of a category, rather than recognized as unique human beings—and a woman writer therefore had a greater motivation to defend the values of personal life against the generalizing effect of stereotypes, and defend those values by paying close attention to them in her writing, by insisting that those values matter to everyone and that everyone experiences them uniquely.
…I don't think I'll read "Frankenstein" or "Wuthering Heights" or "Middlemarch" or "Mrs. Dalloway" in quite the same way again, thanks to his astute discussions….Of "Frankenstein," which he links to "birth," he writes that it "is the story of childbirth as it would be if it had been invented by someone who wanted power more than love." Or of "Wuthering Heights," he notes aptly that "Childhood, in this novel, is a state of titanic intensity, adulthood a state of trivial weakness."
…He notes…that in "Middlemarch" marriage is "a condition in which one partner lives in ignorance of the other partner's most intense thoughts and crucial acts, and knowledge always comes too late to be of use." All married couples will have experienced this dislocating insight at one moment or another….
We don’t know about you, but we’ve already reserved our copy!
Today, we celebrate Thursday with an excerpt from a book review by Eric Ormsby over at the New York Sun. Now, we can’t vouch for Ormsby’s critiquing talents, but this particular book had LK’s whiskers standing at attention. It’s called: Edward Mendelson’s “The Things That Matter: What Seven Classic Novels Have to Say About the Stages of Life.”
According to the review, this book links seven stages of human life with seven classic 19th- and 20th-century novels, all by women: one each by Mary Shelley, Emily and Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot, and three by Virginia Woolf. If that wasn’t enough, the book delves into topics many litbloggers have been discussing recently: how novels enlarge our lives and how our experience influences our reading of them.
Intrigued? Read more from the Ormsby review:
…It's a truism that great novels have something to tell us not only about life but about our own lives. But for decades literary criticism has neglected or scorned this useful truth in favor of "theory" and its barbarous jargon. How refreshing then to read a study which dwells without apology, and with genuine insight, on the ways in which novels impinge upon our own experience.
Mr. Mendelson…shows not solely how these novels enlarge and illumine our own lives, but how our experience nuances and influences our reading of them. And though Mr. Mendelson is unflappably polite and even decorous in his discussions, his book is rather radical.
…The reason that women writers in the 19th and 20th centuries were more likely than men to write about the emotional depths of personal life is that they were more likely to be treated impersonally, to be stereotyped as predictable members of a category, rather than recognized as unique human beings—and a woman writer therefore had a greater motivation to defend the values of personal life against the generalizing effect of stereotypes, and defend those values by paying close attention to them in her writing, by insisting that those values matter to everyone and that everyone experiences them uniquely.
…I don't think I'll read "Frankenstein" or "Wuthering Heights" or "Middlemarch" or "Mrs. Dalloway" in quite the same way again, thanks to his astute discussions….Of "Frankenstein," which he links to "birth," he writes that it "is the story of childbirth as it would be if it had been invented by someone who wanted power more than love." Or of "Wuthering Heights," he notes aptly that "Childhood, in this novel, is a state of titanic intensity, adulthood a state of trivial weakness."
…He notes…that in "Middlemarch" marriage is "a condition in which one partner lives in ignorance of the other partner's most intense thoughts and crucial acts, and knowledge always comes too late to be of use." All married couples will have experienced this dislocating insight at one moment or another….
We don’t know about you, but we’ve already reserved our copy!
8.22.2006
I never read it...have you?
I got this bright idea from Yogamum at Yoga Gumbo.
She gives a lovely list of the Brit’s 100 best-loved books (many of which she has admirably checked off). It all reminded Yogamum of a drinking game she used to play in grad school called “I Never Read It.”
In this game, apparently, each player would name a classic “all English majors must read this” novel that he or she hadn’t read, and then the others would ridicule him/her for not having read it. If players had read it, they’d take a drink. Wow. That is so much more interesting a drinking game than quarters! (You know, bounce a quarter off the table into a beer glass and chug ‘til you choke on the quarter or puke, whichever comes first.) I wanna party with those wordsmiths! However, there are so many books I can be ridiculed for having not read, I would probably be the only sober one at the table.
I must forego the alcoholic chugs; however, I am going to add a twist to the game. First of all, I will admit to not having read any works by a major novelist. (I blame the American school system.) The admission makes me blush and groan, but I must confess. This is to rectify my having paraded myself in the blogosphere as The Literate Kitten, when all along I was merely A Literate Kitten.
The major novelist is…Henry James!
Before you cast any aspersions, please let me hasten to add that I have read Moliere and Balzac...in French. So there.
Regretfully (I say without conviction), I’ve managed to avoid the fiction of the great Henry James, and he is arguably the most important American novelist—unless you prefer to think of him as one of the better English novelists. And if you don’t count Faulkner, who lived in the South, which is a very different country than America. No matter, I’ve read very little of James’s work. An unpleasant short story or two and about one-fourth of “The Golden Bowl.” Although I did see the movie.
But, wait, there’s more!
I ask my dear readers to name the novel by Henry James they believe is his best. Whichever title receives the most votes will be read by me over the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. Thus, having read at least one entire work by Henry James, I will be able to reclaim the mantle of The Literate Kitten, sans guilty chafing. And give myself indigestion on Turkey Day. All at the same time.
(No votes will automatically default to the shortest Henry James novel, “Turn of the Screw.” No person may enter more than once. Prizes are not transferable and must not be redeemed by cash. If there were prizes, that is. All entries become property of The Literate Kitten. You must be 21 or older to play.)
Oh, and while you're casting your vote, you might share a classic you've never read...just to make me feel a tiny bit less like a literary outcast.
She gives a lovely list of the Brit’s 100 best-loved books (many of which she has admirably checked off). It all reminded Yogamum of a drinking game she used to play in grad school called “I Never Read It.”
In this game, apparently, each player would name a classic “all English majors must read this” novel that he or she hadn’t read, and then the others would ridicule him/her for not having read it. If players had read it, they’d take a drink. Wow. That is so much more interesting a drinking game than quarters! (You know, bounce a quarter off the table into a beer glass and chug ‘til you choke on the quarter or puke, whichever comes first.) I wanna party with those wordsmiths! However, there are so many books I can be ridiculed for having not read, I would probably be the only sober one at the table.
I must forego the alcoholic chugs; however, I am going to add a twist to the game. First of all, I will admit to not having read any works by a major novelist. (I blame the American school system.) The admission makes me blush and groan, but I must confess. This is to rectify my having paraded myself in the blogosphere as The Literate Kitten, when all along I was merely A Literate Kitten.
The major novelist is…Henry James!
Before you cast any aspersions, please let me hasten to add that I have read Moliere and Balzac...in French. So there.
Regretfully (I say without conviction), I’ve managed to avoid the fiction of the great Henry James, and he is arguably the most important American novelist—unless you prefer to think of him as one of the better English novelists. And if you don’t count Faulkner, who lived in the South, which is a very different country than America. No matter, I’ve read very little of James’s work. An unpleasant short story or two and about one-fourth of “The Golden Bowl.” Although I did see the movie.
But, wait, there’s more!
I ask my dear readers to name the novel by Henry James they believe is his best. Whichever title receives the most votes will be read by me over the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. Thus, having read at least one entire work by Henry James, I will be able to reclaim the mantle of The Literate Kitten, sans guilty chafing. And give myself indigestion on Turkey Day. All at the same time.
(No votes will automatically default to the shortest Henry James novel, “Turn of the Screw.” No person may enter more than once. Prizes are not transferable and must not be redeemed by cash. If there were prizes, that is. All entries become property of The Literate Kitten. You must be 21 or older to play.)
Oh, and while you're casting your vote, you might share a classic you've never read...just to make me feel a tiny bit less like a literary outcast.
8.21.2006
The thrill of books
Some people say books will go the way of dinosaurs. Supposedly, we will enjoy reading “War and Peace” or “Moby-Dick” on a computer screen. But, as a reader, I recently experienced the visceral delight of book ownership that I realize no computer can possibly replace.
It started with the tight cardboard package on my porch, emblazoned with the Amazon logo, heralding the arrival of a new book. A mini Christmas-thrill electrified my stomach: Which book was it? (I had ordered three.) I ran upstairs, shedding my burdens of purse and jacket, procured the kitchen scissors and sliced open the package. The wrappings fell away, I brushed back the advertising fliers, and there it was.
The scent of new paper with a hint of binding glue, mingled with the cardboard packaging, perfumed the air. The cover, to my delight, read: “In the Eye of the Sun” by Ahdaf Soueif, which meant I could begin my fiction reading of the Middle East (my latest literary quest). I balanced the book between both palms, noting the heft, the silken smoothness of its new cover, the soft edges of the pages. The exotic beauty of the woman pictured on the cover promised a rich, textured story. I peeked inside, comforted by the fact that the text was large and airy and serif-faced. (I’ve actually foregone reading books because of sans serif text type.)
Physically, this is an inviting book.
The presentation of a book has much to do with the reading experience. I found the Lydia Davis edition of “Swann’s Way” gratifyingly pleasant, with its rich foil-embossed cover (sturdy yet flexible) and coarse-edged, thick creamy paper which rather emulated Proust’s prose: elegant, dense yet rough about the edges. I started the second volume of Proust, “In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower,” but it’s not a friendly book that invites sinking into. Not only is the prose difficult, but also the book itself is unfriendly: Hard, heavy and awkward to hold, with a cover illustration that resembles a discontinued wallpaper pattern. I rather dread having to live with this monstrosity for weeks or months. I have the same reaction to hidebound library books stiff in their crackly plastic covers.
This is part of the reading experience, the physicality of books.
As a child, I enjoyed visiting libraries. I loved the church-like hush, silent sense of purpose and friendly, musty smell of many books on shelves. It’s the same reason I prowl bookstores now, especially the small local ones that mingle new books with used ones, integrating the importance of brand-new crisp books with the relaxed attitude of books already read and enjoyed (perhaps even marked) by a previous owner. My apartment is filled with books, six bookshelves and many piles atop dressers, end tables, bedside tables—even the coffee table. New books, old books, textbooks I saved from college, funky paperbacks with old-fashioned drawings, rare bound volumes fished out of a free box or bought for a dollar apiece at a garage sale. I feel protected and comforted when surrounded by books. They are like good friends, always there and full of secret knowledge of who you are.
Somehow, the cold blue glare of a computer screen doesn’t suffice.
It started with the tight cardboard package on my porch, emblazoned with the Amazon logo, heralding the arrival of a new book. A mini Christmas-thrill electrified my stomach: Which book was it? (I had ordered three.) I ran upstairs, shedding my burdens of purse and jacket, procured the kitchen scissors and sliced open the package. The wrappings fell away, I brushed back the advertising fliers, and there it was.
The scent of new paper with a hint of binding glue, mingled with the cardboard packaging, perfumed the air. The cover, to my delight, read: “In the Eye of the Sun” by Ahdaf Soueif, which meant I could begin my fiction reading of the Middle East (my latest literary quest). I balanced the book between both palms, noting the heft, the silken smoothness of its new cover, the soft edges of the pages. The exotic beauty of the woman pictured on the cover promised a rich, textured story. I peeked inside, comforted by the fact that the text was large and airy and serif-faced. (I’ve actually foregone reading books because of sans serif text type.)
Physically, this is an inviting book.
The presentation of a book has much to do with the reading experience. I found the Lydia Davis edition of “Swann’s Way” gratifyingly pleasant, with its rich foil-embossed cover (sturdy yet flexible) and coarse-edged, thick creamy paper which rather emulated Proust’s prose: elegant, dense yet rough about the edges. I started the second volume of Proust, “In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower,” but it’s not a friendly book that invites sinking into. Not only is the prose difficult, but also the book itself is unfriendly: Hard, heavy and awkward to hold, with a cover illustration that resembles a discontinued wallpaper pattern. I rather dread having to live with this monstrosity for weeks or months. I have the same reaction to hidebound library books stiff in their crackly plastic covers.
This is part of the reading experience, the physicality of books.
As a child, I enjoyed visiting libraries. I loved the church-like hush, silent sense of purpose and friendly, musty smell of many books on shelves. It’s the same reason I prowl bookstores now, especially the small local ones that mingle new books with used ones, integrating the importance of brand-new crisp books with the relaxed attitude of books already read and enjoyed (perhaps even marked) by a previous owner. My apartment is filled with books, six bookshelves and many piles atop dressers, end tables, bedside tables—even the coffee table. New books, old books, textbooks I saved from college, funky paperbacks with old-fashioned drawings, rare bound volumes fished out of a free box or bought for a dollar apiece at a garage sale. I feel protected and comforted when surrounded by books. They are like good friends, always there and full of secret knowledge of who you are.
Somehow, the cold blue glare of a computer screen doesn’t suffice.
8.17.2006
Thoughts for Thursday - wisdom from Cynthia Ozick
Cross-posted at A Curious Singularity
A bit of inspiration for a Thursday…here are two excerpts from Cynthia Ozick’s “Metaphor & Memory,” which helped further clarify the Chekhov reading on A Curious Singularity.
From A Short Note on “Chekhovian:”
...even when his characters strike us as unwholesome, or exasperating, or enervated, or only perverse (especially then), we feel Chekhov’s patience, his clarity—his meticulous humanity, lacking so much as a grain of malevolence or spite. At bottom Chekhov is a writer who has flung his soul to the side of pity, and sees into the holiness and immaculate fragility of the hidden striver below…He is an interpreter of the underneath life, even when his characters appear to be cut off from inwardness.
From A Translator’s Monologue (Kate at Kate’s Book Blog has been mulling over some fascinating translation questions, which, of course, got me thinking. I think Ozick's points apply to prose as well as poetry.):
Translation is not only feasible, but inescapable—good translation, exact translation, superb translation: the entire carrying over from one language to another, from one society to another. But in order to believe in the real possibility of translation, the translator must believe in certain impossible theses.
The first false idea is the most indispensable. It is simply that the poem is not “translated,” but uncovered…just as the poem already exists, so does the right, faithful, and true translation already exist, needing only to be uncovered. The translated poem is inherent in the new language. It was be hewn out of the new language as…a figure locked in the recalcitrant rock is hewn out and revealed.
...There is another purpose in believing in the false proposition that a translation of a poem pre-exists. It touches on the mutual obligations of translator and poem. Is the translator the poem's tenant or its landlord? If the translator is the poem's tenant, the translator is obligated to the poem for its heat. If the translator is the poet's landlord, the poem is obligated to the translator for its shape. Now at this point one must stop and think sympathetically of the poet...Does the poet want to share ownership of the poem with the translator?
A bit of inspiration for a Thursday…here are two excerpts from Cynthia Ozick’s “Metaphor & Memory,” which helped further clarify the Chekhov reading on A Curious Singularity.
From A Short Note on “Chekhovian:”
...even when his characters strike us as unwholesome, or exasperating, or enervated, or only perverse (especially then), we feel Chekhov’s patience, his clarity—his meticulous humanity, lacking so much as a grain of malevolence or spite. At bottom Chekhov is a writer who has flung his soul to the side of pity, and sees into the holiness and immaculate fragility of the hidden striver below…He is an interpreter of the underneath life, even when his characters appear to be cut off from inwardness.
From A Translator’s Monologue (Kate at Kate’s Book Blog has been mulling over some fascinating translation questions, which, of course, got me thinking. I think Ozick's points apply to prose as well as poetry.):
Translation is not only feasible, but inescapable—good translation, exact translation, superb translation: the entire carrying over from one language to another, from one society to another. But in order to believe in the real possibility of translation, the translator must believe in certain impossible theses.
The first false idea is the most indispensable. It is simply that the poem is not “translated,” but uncovered…just as the poem already exists, so does the right, faithful, and true translation already exist, needing only to be uncovered. The translated poem is inherent in the new language. It was be hewn out of the new language as…a figure locked in the recalcitrant rock is hewn out and revealed.
...There is another purpose in believing in the false proposition that a translation of a poem pre-exists. It touches on the mutual obligations of translator and poem. Is the translator the poem's tenant or its landlord? If the translator is the poem's tenant, the translator is obligated to the poem for its heat. If the translator is the poet's landlord, the poem is obligated to the translator for its shape. Now at this point one must stop and think sympathetically of the poet...Does the poet want to share ownership of the poem with the translator?
8.16.2006
Hear poets read (redux)
Neat-o, look what I found! Includes Tennyson reading The Charge of the Light Brigade! Plus, Auden, Plath, Heaney. And it's FREE! I love BBC.
8.14.2006
Surprise -- a book meme
Note to our faithful readers: From the end of July through September, LK’s crushing workload temporarily (we hope) drains IQ points from her wee brain. So, while we will always strive to be literate, we may post a few entries during this time that are regrettably on the “lite” side. Our apologies and kudos to those fellow litbloggers who continue to transmit complex, well-crafted essays out into Etherland (you know who you are!). LK will be treasuring your tomes during our crunch time.
The "liter side" can officially begin with this book meme, which has been making the blog rounds:
1. First book to leave a lasting impression? Little Women. It’s the first “serious” book I remember reading (I was in first grade, possibly even kindergarten – really, how precocious of me!). I loved the March family so much, I even started collecting the Madame Alexander dolls (which I still have, in mint condition, in the original boxes).
2. Which author would you most like to be? Me. Although I would prefer to be the type of author who other people know about. I guess we’re talking A Well-Known Author here, and I really don’t know enough of many authors’ lives to make a cogent choice. Of my same gender: Tough call, since many women writers led extremely difficult lives (and, for the most part, without being able to drink heavily or have access to Pamprin) – Lillian Hellman, strictly because of her relationship with Dashiell Hammett. As a male: William Shakespeare. He must have had lyrical dreams.
3. Name the book that has most made you want to visit a place. I want to visit practically every place there is, especially any with literary associations, so this is really impossible to narrow down. Some memorable places I’ve already visited: Algonquin Hotel in New York, Pushkin’s favorite restaurant in St. Petersburg, Mark Twain’s boyhood home (and Injun Joe’s Cave) in Hannibal, Mo., Globe Theater in London, and the Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris (where some anonymous soul regularly places fresh flowers on Colette’s grave).
4. Which contemporary author will still be read in 100 years time? Toni Morrison.
5. Which book would you recommend to a teenager reluctant to try ‘literature’? J.D. Salinger, “Catcher in the Rye.”
6. Name your best recent literary discovery. There are two ways to approach this question—naming contemporary authors whose work you stumbled on or naming a prominent author you just discovered. So, for Approach #1: Tie between a Polish writer, Antoni Libera (I would like to write the female version of his book “Madame”), and Upamanyu Chatterjee, whose “English, August” is a delight. Both of these books are sharp and funny, and I hope to read more of these authors’ works. For Approach #2: Paul Bowles. I recently read his short stories, and with his beautiful prose, I look forward to reading “The Sheltering Sky.”
7. Which author’s fictional world would you most like to live in? Carolyn Keene and Nancy Drew’s world (me being Nancy, of course). Or Maud Hart Lovelace and the Betsy-Tacy world (I want to be Tacy, naturally, with her long ringlets).
8. Name your favorite poet. Oh, this is tough. All-time: Shakespeare. Of the moment: W.H. Auden.
9. What's the best nonfiction title you've read this year? David Maraniss, “They Marched into Sunlight.” This book intertwines two narratives, of events that occurred on Oct. 17, 1967: An ambush of American soldiers by the North Vietnamese and a protest by students at University of Wisconsin-Madison. An interesting take on the Vietnam War. (Also sheds more light on why the Iraq War is not winnable. And provides further proof that Dick Cheney’s heart was surgically removed, years ago, if you still need convincing.)
10. Which author do you think is much better than his/her reputation? What does that mean: literary critics who pan certain writers or top-notch authors without readership? To answer the former, I’m going out on a limb here with Stephen King. He is not lit-uh-rahry, true, but unlike, say, Michael Crichton, he does write well (if too much), and he does know how to spin a good tale, which I, as a reader, appreciate possibly more than many literary critics apparently do. To answer the latter, I’d like to see a John Dufresne novel hit the bestseller list. (Conversely, I think John Updike is waaaay overrated. Except for his short story “A&P.”)
The "liter side" can officially begin with this book meme, which has been making the blog rounds:
1. First book to leave a lasting impression? Little Women. It’s the first “serious” book I remember reading (I was in first grade, possibly even kindergarten – really, how precocious of me!). I loved the March family so much, I even started collecting the Madame Alexander dolls (which I still have, in mint condition, in the original boxes).
2. Which author would you most like to be? Me. Although I would prefer to be the type of author who other people know about. I guess we’re talking A Well-Known Author here, and I really don’t know enough of many authors’ lives to make a cogent choice. Of my same gender: Tough call, since many women writers led extremely difficult lives (and, for the most part, without being able to drink heavily or have access to Pamprin) – Lillian Hellman, strictly because of her relationship with Dashiell Hammett. As a male: William Shakespeare. He must have had lyrical dreams.
3. Name the book that has most made you want to visit a place. I want to visit practically every place there is, especially any with literary associations, so this is really impossible to narrow down. Some memorable places I’ve already visited: Algonquin Hotel in New York, Pushkin’s favorite restaurant in St. Petersburg, Mark Twain’s boyhood home (and Injun Joe’s Cave) in Hannibal, Mo., Globe Theater in London, and the Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris (where some anonymous soul regularly places fresh flowers on Colette’s grave).
4. Which contemporary author will still be read in 100 years time? Toni Morrison.
5. Which book would you recommend to a teenager reluctant to try ‘literature’? J.D. Salinger, “Catcher in the Rye.”
6. Name your best recent literary discovery. There are two ways to approach this question—naming contemporary authors whose work you stumbled on or naming a prominent author you just discovered. So, for Approach #1: Tie between a Polish writer, Antoni Libera (I would like to write the female version of his book “Madame”), and Upamanyu Chatterjee, whose “English, August” is a delight. Both of these books are sharp and funny, and I hope to read more of these authors’ works. For Approach #2: Paul Bowles. I recently read his short stories, and with his beautiful prose, I look forward to reading “The Sheltering Sky.”
7. Which author’s fictional world would you most like to live in? Carolyn Keene and Nancy Drew’s world (me being Nancy, of course). Or Maud Hart Lovelace and the Betsy-Tacy world (I want to be Tacy, naturally, with her long ringlets).
8. Name your favorite poet. Oh, this is tough. All-time: Shakespeare. Of the moment: W.H. Auden.
9. What's the best nonfiction title you've read this year? David Maraniss, “They Marched into Sunlight.” This book intertwines two narratives, of events that occurred on Oct. 17, 1967: An ambush of American soldiers by the North Vietnamese and a protest by students at University of Wisconsin-Madison. An interesting take on the Vietnam War. (Also sheds more light on why the Iraq War is not winnable. And provides further proof that Dick Cheney’s heart was surgically removed, years ago, if you still need convincing.)
10. Which author do you think is much better than his/her reputation? What does that mean: literary critics who pan certain writers or top-notch authors without readership? To answer the former, I’m going out on a limb here with Stephen King. He is not lit-uh-rahry, true, but unlike, say, Michael Crichton, he does write well (if too much), and he does know how to spin a good tale, which I, as a reader, appreciate possibly more than many literary critics apparently do. To answer the latter, I’d like to see a John Dufresne novel hit the bestseller list. (Conversely, I think John Updike is waaaay overrated. Except for his short story “A&P.”)
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