I am salivating like a puppy waiting for a new bone: Next week I am on vacation. Actually, vacation is too strong of a word: Recuperative Time more accurately describes it.
Activities will consist mainly of reading, reorganizing bookshelves and installing my new computer (yup, I bit the techno bullet and got a PowerBook).
All of the above makes for some pretty grateful thanksgiving on behalf of yours truly, Miz Kitten.
Now, if, like me, you are gearing up for the excruciating—er, exciting Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanza/solstice celebrations, here are some of my old literary chestnuts that I’ve roasted by many an open fire. My gift to you, though I’m afraid the list is pretty traditional and well-worn, like a pair of old slippers. A pair of old Christian slippers. But guaranteed Holiday-Spirit-Inducing or your money back. I would only ask that you help me build my list by adding some favorites of your own.
Many thanks, dear bloggers, for your online companionship. May the Thanksgiving spirit envelop you and yours.
The Literate Kitten’s Unofficial Winter Holiday Reading Treasury
To be read liberally, with a dose of eggnog and a dash of merriment
A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. “If I could work my will,' said Scrooge indignantly, `every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas" on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!'” – You gotta love it! A book for young and old, not to be missed, no matter how many film versions Hollywood churns out.
Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris. In “The SantaLand Diaries,” Sedaris chronicles his stint as a Macy’s elf, from the interview process and training seminars to full blown elfdom. Hilarious, and a perfect antidote to the annual commercial OD.
‘Twas the Night Before Christmas by Clement Clark Moore. This takes me straight back to childhood. The less sentimental can choose The Grinch Who Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss. But (True Confession time) I myself am not a Grinch aficionado. (Or would that be a Grinchionado?)
A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote. A gorgeous, heartfelt story. And you can find the text here.
The Gingerbread Man. “You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!” – do you remember this old folktale? For very small children and their children-at-heart parental figures. For thorough enjoyment, find a properly aged, richly-illustrated edition with a Gingerbread Man who truly looks good enough to eat.
Heidi by Johanna Spyri. Possibly due to its snowy Alpine setting, I associate this book with the holidays. Of course, it could be the uplifting tale of friendship overcoming all obstacles and family traditions that invoke the true holiday spirit: selflessness, charity, generosity and—naaaaaaw. I’m pretty sure it’s the snow.
11.17.2006
11.16.2006
Thoughts for Thursday - Dharma Bums
From The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac (thanks, Jean!):
When I was a little kid in Oregon I didn't feel that I was an American at all, with all that suburban ideal and sex repression and general dreary newspaper gray censorship of all our real human values but and when I discovered Buddhism and all I suddenly felt that I had lived in a previous lifetime innumerable ages ago and now because of faults and sins in that lifetime I was being degraded to a more grievous domain of existence and my karma was to be born in America where nobody has any fun or believes in anything, especially freedom.
See the whole thing is a world full of rucksack wanderers, Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that crap they didn't really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume, I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures.
When I was a little kid in Oregon I didn't feel that I was an American at all, with all that suburban ideal and sex repression and general dreary newspaper gray censorship of all our real human values but and when I discovered Buddhism and all I suddenly felt that I had lived in a previous lifetime innumerable ages ago and now because of faults and sins in that lifetime I was being degraded to a more grievous domain of existence and my karma was to be born in America where nobody has any fun or believes in anything, especially freedom.
See the whole thing is a world full of rucksack wanderers, Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that crap they didn't really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume, I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures.
11.14.2006
A reading meme
This is a meme from Kate at Kate’s Book Blog:
1. How old were you when you learned to read and who taught you?
To tell you the truth, I don’t remember. I do know it was before kindergarten. My mother said she put “rag books” (books made of cloth) in our cribs. I don't recall my parents ever reading nighttime stories to us, though.
2. Did you own any books as a child? If so, what’s the first one that you remember owning? If not, do you recall any of the first titles that you borrowed from the library?
My mother bought me a copy of Little Women at Woolworth’s. It turned out to be abridged, but I loved it anyway. That was probably my first “very own” book.
My brothers and sister and I shared Dr. Seuss books: Green Eggs and Ham and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. We also owned a copy of Are you my mother? by P.D. Eastman, which I loved.
On Saturdays in the summer, my dad used to drive us to the library. While we prowled inside, he sat in the car listening to baseball games on the radio. I can’t remember exactly which was which anymore, but I’m sure back then I borrowed more than I owned. Some favorite titles that float to my head are Amelia Bedelia by Peggy Parish, Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White, Strawberry Girl by Lois Lenski, The Witch of Blackbird Pond by Elizabeth George Speare, the All-of-a-Kind Family series and the Betsy-Tacy books.
(By the way, here is an NY Times article that you might want to check out, Louisa May Alcott’s American Girls.)
3. What’s the first book that you bought with your own money?
Cannot remember, honestly. Quite possibly a Nancy Drew book, though.
4. Were you a re-reader as a child? If so, which book did you re-read most often?
Little Women, Gone with the Wind, All-of-a-Kind Family, A Little Princess, Witch of Blackbird Pond, Nancy Drew.
5. What’s the first adult book that captured your interest and how old were you when you read it?
Gone with the Wind. I was probably in the 10-12 range, and I read it in one weekend.
6. Are there children’s books that you passed by as a child that you have learned to love as an adult? Which ones?
I think as an adult I can better appreciate classics like Alice in Wonderland, a tale I never warmed up to, and the Chronicles of Narnia, though I loved The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe even as a child. I’d like to try L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz, a book I passed by simply because the film was so marvelous.
Bonus Question: Are there books you remember reading as a child that you either can’t find now or can’t remember the title?
I added this, because it is a question that’s been nagging at me lately. There are two books I can remember reading but can’t lay my hands on. Maybe one of you will remember reading it, too.
One was a book about a family that lived in a reconverted streetcar. The father was a streetcar driver, and I think streetcars were being replaced by autos. So, they drove the streetcar to the end of the line and lived in it. The book even had a layout of the interior of the streetcar.
The other book was about a Christmas tree that didn’t get bought for the holidays because it was so little. As I recall, the tree got tossed into a scrap heap and became all yellowed and dried out. But it never got over its desire to fulfill its destiny. Finally, someone pulled it out of the heap and used it as a laundry pole. And the tree was so happy, doing something useful and being able to stand on a hill in the breeze. That story made me cry, but I cannot find it. I thought it was called The Littlest Christmas Tree. There seems to be a rip-off book recently released under that title, where the tree wants to be a Christmas tree but actually starts appreciating just being in nature. Bah, humbug. Maybe the original story is too tough for kids today!
1. How old were you when you learned to read and who taught you?
To tell you the truth, I don’t remember. I do know it was before kindergarten. My mother said she put “rag books” (books made of cloth) in our cribs. I don't recall my parents ever reading nighttime stories to us, though.
2. Did you own any books as a child? If so, what’s the first one that you remember owning? If not, do you recall any of the first titles that you borrowed from the library?
My mother bought me a copy of Little Women at Woolworth’s. It turned out to be abridged, but I loved it anyway. That was probably my first “very own” book.
My brothers and sister and I shared Dr. Seuss books: Green Eggs and Ham and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. We also owned a copy of Are you my mother? by P.D. Eastman, which I loved.
On Saturdays in the summer, my dad used to drive us to the library. While we prowled inside, he sat in the car listening to baseball games on the radio. I can’t remember exactly which was which anymore, but I’m sure back then I borrowed more than I owned. Some favorite titles that float to my head are Amelia Bedelia by Peggy Parish, Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White, Strawberry Girl by Lois Lenski, The Witch of Blackbird Pond by Elizabeth George Speare, the All-of-a-Kind Family series and the Betsy-Tacy books.
(By the way, here is an NY Times article that you might want to check out, Louisa May Alcott’s American Girls.)
3. What’s the first book that you bought with your own money?
Cannot remember, honestly. Quite possibly a Nancy Drew book, though.
4. Were you a re-reader as a child? If so, which book did you re-read most often?
Little Women, Gone with the Wind, All-of-a-Kind Family, A Little Princess, Witch of Blackbird Pond, Nancy Drew.
5. What’s the first adult book that captured your interest and how old were you when you read it?
Gone with the Wind. I was probably in the 10-12 range, and I read it in one weekend.
6. Are there children’s books that you passed by as a child that you have learned to love as an adult? Which ones?
I think as an adult I can better appreciate classics like Alice in Wonderland, a tale I never warmed up to, and the Chronicles of Narnia, though I loved The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe even as a child. I’d like to try L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz, a book I passed by simply because the film was so marvelous.
Bonus Question: Are there books you remember reading as a child that you either can’t find now or can’t remember the title?
I added this, because it is a question that’s been nagging at me lately. There are two books I can remember reading but can’t lay my hands on. Maybe one of you will remember reading it, too.
One was a book about a family that lived in a reconverted streetcar. The father was a streetcar driver, and I think streetcars were being replaced by autos. So, they drove the streetcar to the end of the line and lived in it. The book even had a layout of the interior of the streetcar.
The other book was about a Christmas tree that didn’t get bought for the holidays because it was so little. As I recall, the tree got tossed into a scrap heap and became all yellowed and dried out. But it never got over its desire to fulfill its destiny. Finally, someone pulled it out of the heap and used it as a laundry pole. And the tree was so happy, doing something useful and being able to stand on a hill in the breeze. That story made me cry, but I cannot find it. I thought it was called The Littlest Christmas Tree. There seems to be a rip-off book recently released under that title, where the tree wants to be a Christmas tree but actually starts appreciating just being in nature. Bah, humbug. Maybe the original story is too tough for kids today!
11.13.2006
An aspirational meme
Litlove devised a new meme, which saves me from having to devise anything on this Monday, the beginning of the last week before a vacation. This was tough for me, but overall, a very good reflection as we near the end of 2006. Thanks, Litlove!
What part of the past would you bring back if you possibly could?
The second summer in graduate school. I had enough money to live on and enough time to write. Every morning I woke at 6 a.m. and got in a morning run before the desert grew too hot (I was living in Tucson), ate breakfast and got behind the desk of my apartment (with a palm tree outside the window) and wrote solidly until 4 or 5. Sometimes I’d get so absorbed in my writing, I’d forget to get up to eat or go to the bathroom. It was during this time I truly knew that this was what I was meant to do.
What character trait would you alter if you could?
Fear of commitment.
Which skill would you like to have the time and energy to really work on?
My writing. And being a better human being.
Are you money poor, love poor, time poor or freedom poor?
My pessimistic self wants to say “all of the above.” But I would say “love poor,” because I lack a soul mate in my life.
What element of your partner’s character would you alter if you could?
See above.
What three things are you going to do next year that you’ve been meaning to do for ages but never got around to?
Finish a first draft of a novel!!!!!!! Actually, this involves establishing good work habits, which I am struggling to do.
Date someone for more than three weeks. (This depends on the cooperation of a complete and total stranger, so I’ll be winging it.)
Reading at least two of the classics I listed in my 10/23 post.
If your fairy godmother gave you three wishes, what would you wish for?
Peace and contentment. Continued good health for me, my family and friends. Three more wishes.
What one thing would you change about your living conditions?
I’d like to get my own little place, something that feels permanent.
How could the quality of your free time be improved?
Get rid of cable TV. (Oh, god, no, anything but that!)
Truly I need to add some structure to my daily life and develop strong work habits. When you are single, it is so easy to slip into a nonroutine routine. And all of us can say we don’t have enough time or energy for things. One writer friend of mine (who is now a successfully published author) would literally hang up the telephone and say, “I’ve got to go now. It’s time for me to write.” She would stick to a schedule, no matter what.
I also have an artist friend who recently retired, and would have had much more difficulty adjusting if it weren’t for the fact that she’s developed daily drawing habits that she can now fall back on.
It’s finally gotten through my thick skull that I can’t wait until the time is perfect to write – I have to make the best of where I am. And even if you do happen to have time, you may not be able to use that time wisely, if you haven’t developed good work habits,
What change have you made to your life recently that you’re most proud of?
I actually joined a gym last year and now exercise regularly.
11.09.2006
Thoughts for Thursday - Kerouac speaks
From Jack Kerouac, Windblown World: The Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-1954:
Another thought that helps a writer as he works along--let him write his novel "the way he'd like to see a novel written." This helps a great deal freeing you from the fetters of self-doubt and the kind of self-mistrust that leads to over-revision, too much calculation, preoccupation with "what others would think." Look at your own work and say, "This is a novel after my own heart!" Because that's what it is anyway, and that's the point--it's worry that must be eliminated for the sake of individual force. In spite of all this insouciant advice, I myself advanced slowly today, but not poorly, working on the final draft of the chapter. I'm a little rusty. Oh and what a whole lot of bunk I could write this morning about my fear that I can't write, I'm ignorant and worst of all, I'm an idiot trying to achieve something I can't possibly do. It's in the will, in the heart! To hell with these rotten doubts. I defy them and spit on them. Merde!
Another thought that helps a writer as he works along--let him write his novel "the way he'd like to see a novel written." This helps a great deal freeing you from the fetters of self-doubt and the kind of self-mistrust that leads to over-revision, too much calculation, preoccupation with "what others would think." Look at your own work and say, "This is a novel after my own heart!" Because that's what it is anyway, and that's the point--it's worry that must be eliminated for the sake of individual force. In spite of all this insouciant advice, I myself advanced slowly today, but not poorly, working on the final draft of the chapter. I'm a little rusty. Oh and what a whole lot of bunk I could write this morning about my fear that I can't write, I'm ignorant and worst of all, I'm an idiot trying to achieve something I can't possibly do. It's in the will, in the heart! To hell with these rotten doubts. I defy them and spit on them. Merde!
11.08.2006
Times they are a-changin'
WASHINGTON Nov 2, 2006 (AP)— President Bush said Wednesday he wants Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld and Vice President Dick Cheney to remain with him until the end of his presidency, extending a job guarantee to two of the most-vilified members of his administration.
"Both those men are doing fantastic jobs and I strongly support them," Bush said in an interview with The Associated Press and others.
On the war in Iraq, Bush said the military has not asked for an increase in U.S. forces beyond the 144,000 already there. He said U.S. generals have told him "that the troop level they got right now is what they can live with."
WASHINGTON Nov 8, 2006 (AP)— Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, architect of an unpopular war in Iraq, intends to resign after six stormy years at the Pentagon, Republican officials said Wednesday.
Officials said Robert Gates, former head of the CIA, would replace Rumsfeld. The development occurred one day after midterm elections that cost Republicans control of the House, and possibly the Senate, as well. Surveys of voters at polling places said opposition to the war was a significant contributor to the Democratic victory.
Uh, would that be a flip-flop, Mr. President? Or a cut and run?
"Both those men are doing fantastic jobs and I strongly support them," Bush said in an interview with The Associated Press and others.
On the war in Iraq, Bush said the military has not asked for an increase in U.S. forces beyond the 144,000 already there. He said U.S. generals have told him "that the troop level they got right now is what they can live with."
WASHINGTON Nov 8, 2006 (AP)— Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, architect of an unpopular war in Iraq, intends to resign after six stormy years at the Pentagon, Republican officials said Wednesday.
Officials said Robert Gates, former head of the CIA, would replace Rumsfeld. The development occurred one day after midterm elections that cost Republicans control of the House, and possibly the Senate, as well. Surveys of voters at polling places said opposition to the war was a significant contributor to the Democratic victory.
Uh, would that be a flip-flop, Mr. President? Or a cut and run?
11.07.2006
If you're reading this...you're alive
I've been catching up a bit on my backlogged blog reading, and have discovered a disturbing trend: Lots of us seem to be sick or suffering financial/career setbacks, witnessing a loved one's illness, or otherwise getting trounced on by the fickle Fates.
I don't normally share much in the way of the Personal; I try to blog about books, literature and the writing life. But, given the general malaise out there and given how everyone rallied around me at my low point last week, I wanted to share something that might encourage others.
Old LK here has suffered from severe depression for many, many years. After lots of hard work (and expensive therapy, which is probably one reason I can't afford a house), I am managing it. (Though I do have my troughs, especially in the fall.) So, though I don't have much experience in much else, I do believe I can impart some lessons I've learned from dealing with the Big D: 1) whatever awfulness is happening will pass 2) whatever awfulness is happening, we're alive, and that beats the alternative. And, without getting too kooky-spooky here, I believe one of our jobs on earth is to find meaning in suffering. Even when it seems especially meaningless. Maybe especially then.
Anyway, let's all put our collective vibes to thank the Universe for being able to see the sun rise today and look forward to starting with a clean slate tomorrow. That's my first and last saccharine sermon. Amen.
Now, if you're an American: Go vote!
I don't normally share much in the way of the Personal; I try to blog about books, literature and the writing life. But, given the general malaise out there and given how everyone rallied around me at my low point last week, I wanted to share something that might encourage others.
Old LK here has suffered from severe depression for many, many years. After lots of hard work (and expensive therapy, which is probably one reason I can't afford a house), I am managing it. (Though I do have my troughs, especially in the fall.) So, though I don't have much experience in much else, I do believe I can impart some lessons I've learned from dealing with the Big D: 1) whatever awfulness is happening will pass 2) whatever awfulness is happening, we're alive, and that beats the alternative. And, without getting too kooky-spooky here, I believe one of our jobs on earth is to find meaning in suffering. Even when it seems especially meaningless. Maybe especially then.
Anyway, let's all put our collective vibes to thank the Universe for being able to see the sun rise today and look forward to starting with a clean slate tomorrow. That's my first and last saccharine sermon. Amen.
Now, if you're an American: Go vote!
11.06.2006
What I'm reading
Hello, and happy Monday. First off, I want to thank everyone for their comments to my last two posts. I intend to go through them very carefully. But they really helped...man, did I take a dive last week.
So, enough sniveling. Today, I'm happy to report, that I made progress this weekend Gearing up for Serious Writing. I moved my home computer and desk to the front living room windows and bought a soft, fuzzy carpet to rest my feet on when the winter chills come. I need to buy a new computer -- no way out of it. My original iMac, at the wee age of six years, is considered a dinosaur already.
And I found a great book to help me with Page Fright: The Courage to Write by Ralph Keyes. If you are like me (and just about any other writer) and would rather eat glass than sit in front of a blank page and type or submit work, this book is for you! It's rather comforting to know that writers like Margaret Atwood and E.B. White have battled anxiety. He even talked about how Herman Melville's name was misspelled (Meville) in the first few editions of his book! Ha, it happens even to the Great Ones!
Other books I'm reading:
Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss: You know how when you start a novel and you get that special tingle of anticipation, realizing that you are in store for a really wonderful read? Well, that's how I feel about this book. I am about 30 pages into this and loving it. I don't think I've felt this kind of pull of from a novel since I read Coetzee's Disgrace. The prose is fresh, and I wish I had a copy in front of me to quote some examples for you. However, I will do a future post on this one. This was the Man Booker Prize winner for 2006. If you don't have a copy, run out and get one.
Antonia White, Frost in May: Finished this, actually. Easy read, and I'm going to start the second book in this series of four. This book deals with a little girl's life in a convent school at turn-of-the-century in England. You can imagine what the nuns back then put children through. Everything was a sin, even not finishing your daily cabbage. My, times have changed.
Lawrence Rees, Auschwitz: Not an easy read. This book presents a detailed examination on how Auschwitz came to be. What made this book different from other ones dealing with this topic is how the author presents an argument at how the Nazis created the problem of dealing with its Jewish population, and their solutions (take their homes, put them in ghettos, etc.) created even more problems. These self-created problems escalated and turned into full-blown genocide. In other words, the Holocaust did not start as an ideological conviction; rather, it became a "practical" solution to a political problem. Chilling.
Irene Nemirovsky, Suite Francaise. I'm about halfway through this, and I enjoy the rather lyrical prose and find the subject -- foreign occupation of France during WW2 and how it affected the French citizens -- interesting and one I have not yet read about in other novels. From what I've read so far, I'd recommend it. I'm hoping to read the other half sometime in the not-too-distant future.
Off I go for now. Happy reading, everyone.
So, enough sniveling. Today, I'm happy to report, that I made progress this weekend Gearing up for Serious Writing. I moved my home computer and desk to the front living room windows and bought a soft, fuzzy carpet to rest my feet on when the winter chills come. I need to buy a new computer -- no way out of it. My original iMac, at the wee age of six years, is considered a dinosaur already.
And I found a great book to help me with Page Fright: The Courage to Write by Ralph Keyes. If you are like me (and just about any other writer) and would rather eat glass than sit in front of a blank page and type or submit work, this book is for you! It's rather comforting to know that writers like Margaret Atwood and E.B. White have battled anxiety. He even talked about how Herman Melville's name was misspelled (Meville) in the first few editions of his book! Ha, it happens even to the Great Ones!
Other books I'm reading:
Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss: You know how when you start a novel and you get that special tingle of anticipation, realizing that you are in store for a really wonderful read? Well, that's how I feel about this book. I am about 30 pages into this and loving it. I don't think I've felt this kind of pull of from a novel since I read Coetzee's Disgrace. The prose is fresh, and I wish I had a copy in front of me to quote some examples for you. However, I will do a future post on this one. This was the Man Booker Prize winner for 2006. If you don't have a copy, run out and get one.
Antonia White, Frost in May: Finished this, actually. Easy read, and I'm going to start the second book in this series of four. This book deals with a little girl's life in a convent school at turn-of-the-century in England. You can imagine what the nuns back then put children through. Everything was a sin, even not finishing your daily cabbage. My, times have changed.
Lawrence Rees, Auschwitz: Not an easy read. This book presents a detailed examination on how Auschwitz came to be. What made this book different from other ones dealing with this topic is how the author presents an argument at how the Nazis created the problem of dealing with its Jewish population, and their solutions (take their homes, put them in ghettos, etc.) created even more problems. These self-created problems escalated and turned into full-blown genocide. In other words, the Holocaust did not start as an ideological conviction; rather, it became a "practical" solution to a political problem. Chilling.
Irene Nemirovsky, Suite Francaise. I'm about halfway through this, and I enjoy the rather lyrical prose and find the subject -- foreign occupation of France during WW2 and how it affected the French citizens -- interesting and one I have not yet read about in other novels. From what I've read so far, I'd recommend it. I'm hoping to read the other half sometime in the not-too-distant future.
Off I go for now. Happy reading, everyone.
11.02.2006
Low
I got a letter today. This is what it said:
Dear Literate Kitten:
Fuck you.
Sincerely,
The Universe
Here's what happened: Regular readers know I'm being pummeled at my full-time job. (This has been a bad week. One example: I showed up at a meeting yesterday and found out -- surprise! -- that I was expected to give a presentation in front of 70 people. No notes, no preparation, no nothing. So, I pulled that one out of my ass.)
So, I've been waiting for a little pick-me-up, a nice boost at least in my fiction career. Last year, I was a winner in a nationwide contest for a short story. Great, right? Well, here it is a year later, and the story is finally published. So, I sludge through the first rain of the year to the bookstore this afternoon to get a copy and there it is, on the shelves. And on the cover is my name. Misspelled! Misspelled on the cover, inside the issue. Everywhere you look. To add insult to injury, said magazine is now folding and this will be the last issue.
In the greater scheme of things, this is small potatoes, compared to Darfur or cancer. But they're my small potatoes and they're piled into this stinking mass that is positively suffocating me. I suppose since life handed me small potatoes, I need to mash them....with a lot of butter and salt and cream.
Dear Literate Kitten:
Fuck you.
Sincerely,
The Universe
Here's what happened: Regular readers know I'm being pummeled at my full-time job. (This has been a bad week. One example: I showed up at a meeting yesterday and found out -- surprise! -- that I was expected to give a presentation in front of 70 people. No notes, no preparation, no nothing. So, I pulled that one out of my ass.)
So, I've been waiting for a little pick-me-up, a nice boost at least in my fiction career. Last year, I was a winner in a nationwide contest for a short story. Great, right? Well, here it is a year later, and the story is finally published. So, I sludge through the first rain of the year to the bookstore this afternoon to get a copy and there it is, on the shelves. And on the cover is my name. Misspelled! Misspelled on the cover, inside the issue. Everywhere you look. To add insult to injury, said magazine is now folding and this will be the last issue.
In the greater scheme of things, this is small potatoes, compared to Darfur or cancer. But they're my small potatoes and they're piled into this stinking mass that is positively suffocating me. I suppose since life handed me small potatoes, I need to mash them....with a lot of butter and salt and cream.
Thoughts for Thursday - How to earn a living
Help me out here.
Let's say: You want to write fiction.
You have won some awards, had publications, encouraging murmers from agents. But not Guggenheims or NEA awards or anything like that.
But even without being a Top Banana, you want to write.
And you gotta earn a living. No inheritance, no savings, no rich spouse in the wings.
What would you do?
Let's say: You want to write fiction.
You have won some awards, had publications, encouraging murmers from agents. But not Guggenheims or NEA awards or anything like that.
But even without being a Top Banana, you want to write.
And you gotta earn a living. No inheritance, no savings, no rich spouse in the wings.
What would you do?
10.31.2006
Happy All Hallow's Eve
Today I wore jeans to work. I tell people that I'm a Constitutional Amendment.
Have a fun one!
10.30.2006
RIP Challenge - #5, The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton
Yay, I made it. By the hair of my chinny-chin-chin. I admit I saved a few of these stories for next year, but I'm counting it toward this year's reading. I only wish I had more time to wax poetic over the book in this post.
I adore Edith Wharton's writing. As I mentioned in a previous post, I enjoy Wharton's precise and subtle observations. Although I can't say these stories were particularly spooky, they are interesting and full of her particular way of illustrating characters, as in this example from The Eyes:
His mind was like a forum, or some open meeting place for the exchange of ideas: somewhat cold and drafty, but light, spacious and orderly--a kind of academic grove from which all the leaves have fallen.
And here's an example that brilliantly captures the essence of characters (as well as instilling a sense of desolation) in a single sentence (from Afterward):
Dorsetshire had attracted them from the first by an air of remoteness out of all proportion to its geographical position.
My favorite tale is Pomengranate Seed, a true page-turner. This short passage captures the ever-shifting relationship changes between a husband and his new (second) wife:
She had meant to move her husband and had succeeded only in irritating him; and this error of reckoning seemed to change him into a stranger, a mysterious incomprehensible being whom no argument or entreaty of hers could reach. The curious thing was that she was aware in him of no hostility or even impatience, but only of a remoteness, an inaccessibility, far more difficult to overcome.
These are tales that create tension between specific places (typical of the gothic or horror tale) and those who dwell in these places. In the best of the stories, place cannot exist without character and vice versa; one reflects the other. I'm glad Edith Wharton was brave enough to overcome her fear of ghosts by writing such an interesting collection of ghostly tales. More intriguing than suspenseful, more revealing of the human condition than paranormal activity, these stories transcend Halloween--they can be enjoyed during any season.
10.28.2006
Author, author: Contemporary writers
A quick post to note that I did come up with a list of favorite living, working authors. Thank heavens!
1. Michael Chabon
2. Barbara Kingsolver
3. Kate Atkinson
4. T.C. Boyle
5. K Ishiguro
I'm sure there are more, and that readers may have some suggestions. Now, post before computer crashes a third time...
1. Michael Chabon
2. Barbara Kingsolver
3. Kate Atkinson
4. T.C. Boyle
5. K Ishiguro
I'm sure there are more, and that readers may have some suggestions. Now, post before computer crashes a third time...
10.26.2006
Thoughts for Thursday - Author, author
It's Thursday, I'm tired. I thought I'd go for a Thursday 13, featuring my favorite fiction authors, in no particular order (and without including Shakespeare, who is a given):
1. Virginia Woolf
2. Feodor Dostoevsky
3. Edith Wharton
4. Marcel Proust
5. Ernest Hemingway
6. William Faulkner
7. Jane Austen
8. F. Scott Fitzgerald
9. John Steinbeck
10. Charles Dickens
11. The Bronte sisters (sorry, couldn't pick just one)
12. Mark Twain
13. Anton Chekhov
Now, I'm not branding this list as an absolute -- I'm sure there are names I'm forgetting that will occur to me at some inconvenient time, like 3 in the morning, causing me much teeth-gnashing and hand-wringing. But "favorite authors" is a topic I've been mulling over lately. As a writer, I should pay attention to what I read and who I read. And it occurred to me that I don't have a favorite or much-loved contemporary author. Why is that?
Part of the reason is that there are so many voices dinning in the void, one or two emerging from the few seems quite unreasonable. Is the mega-publishing world actually a negative, flooding the market with too much for a reader to choose from? Is that a negative for readers, for writers--or both?
Another reason I'm not as enamored of contemporary fiction is that we seem to be undergoing a trend that favors form and style over substance and content. Two recent examples: 1) Mark Danielewski's House of Leaves, in which the author uses the physical book and text itself-- footnotes, appendices, upside-down text and backwards-type-- to tell the story. 2) Jonathan Safran Doer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which uses photographs, colored highlights and passages of illegibly overwritten text. Now, I have not read these books; I am not commenting on the writing or execution, and I applaud what seems to be a creative approach to writing. But this sort of thing feels gimicky to me.
When I review my list of favorite authors, what stands out is what I believe their writing has in common, clueing me in as to what appeals to me: language, nuance, depth, texture, humanity. I have a physical reaction--tremoring, excitement--when I read beautiful language. When that is combined with nuance of observation, such as I elicit from Woolf, Wharton and Proust, the result is a sublime reading experience. I also love authors who love their characters and who offer layers and layers to even the most minor of characters, and who never resort to stereotyping, glibness or cynicism.
Maybe I haven't read enough contemporary fiction writers to be able to say I've experienced that with one of their works (I'm thinking of Toni Morrison here), and I am not particularly enamored even of the usual suspects everyone cites as "the best literary writers" in America (Updike, Roth, Bellow). Of living, working authors, the ones I tend to enjoy most these days are the non-American writers, such as Chatterjee, Pamuk, Minstry, Coetzee. Though even of these writers, I have only read one book each. Not enough, I would think, to name them as a favorite. I keep thinking I must be overlooking someone. While I've read several Anne Tyler, Alice Hoffman and Stephen King books, I would not consider them "favorites."
Perhaps it merely takes a while for a book to emerge as a classic, the old saw of "only time will tell".
Other thoughts? Who are your favorite living, working authors and why?
1. Virginia Woolf
2. Feodor Dostoevsky
3. Edith Wharton
4. Marcel Proust
5. Ernest Hemingway
6. William Faulkner
7. Jane Austen
8. F. Scott Fitzgerald
9. John Steinbeck
10. Charles Dickens
11. The Bronte sisters (sorry, couldn't pick just one)
12. Mark Twain
13. Anton Chekhov
Now, I'm not branding this list as an absolute -- I'm sure there are names I'm forgetting that will occur to me at some inconvenient time, like 3 in the morning, causing me much teeth-gnashing and hand-wringing. But "favorite authors" is a topic I've been mulling over lately. As a writer, I should pay attention to what I read and who I read. And it occurred to me that I don't have a favorite or much-loved contemporary author. Why is that?
Part of the reason is that there are so many voices dinning in the void, one or two emerging from the few seems quite unreasonable. Is the mega-publishing world actually a negative, flooding the market with too much for a reader to choose from? Is that a negative for readers, for writers--or both?
Another reason I'm not as enamored of contemporary fiction is that we seem to be undergoing a trend that favors form and style over substance and content. Two recent examples: 1) Mark Danielewski's House of Leaves, in which the author uses the physical book and text itself-- footnotes, appendices, upside-down text and backwards-type-- to tell the story. 2) Jonathan Safran Doer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which uses photographs, colored highlights and passages of illegibly overwritten text. Now, I have not read these books; I am not commenting on the writing or execution, and I applaud what seems to be a creative approach to writing. But this sort of thing feels gimicky to me.
When I review my list of favorite authors, what stands out is what I believe their writing has in common, clueing me in as to what appeals to me: language, nuance, depth, texture, humanity. I have a physical reaction--tremoring, excitement--when I read beautiful language. When that is combined with nuance of observation, such as I elicit from Woolf, Wharton and Proust, the result is a sublime reading experience. I also love authors who love their characters and who offer layers and layers to even the most minor of characters, and who never resort to stereotyping, glibness or cynicism.
Maybe I haven't read enough contemporary fiction writers to be able to say I've experienced that with one of their works (I'm thinking of Toni Morrison here), and I am not particularly enamored even of the usual suspects everyone cites as "the best literary writers" in America (Updike, Roth, Bellow). Of living, working authors, the ones I tend to enjoy most these days are the non-American writers, such as Chatterjee, Pamuk, Minstry, Coetzee. Though even of these writers, I have only read one book each. Not enough, I would think, to name them as a favorite. I keep thinking I must be overlooking someone. While I've read several Anne Tyler, Alice Hoffman and Stephen King books, I would not consider them "favorites."
Perhaps it merely takes a while for a book to emerge as a classic, the old saw of "only time will tell".
Other thoughts? Who are your favorite living, working authors and why?
10.25.2006
Two gripes, plus a new read
Gripe 1) I hate Blogger. I had a really nice post and it crashed.
Gripe 2) My job sucks. The people I immediately work with are nice, which makes it bearable. For the most part, other people in the company used to be nice, but now that is changing. It's a finger-pointing fiesta lately.
Okay, let's get back to the positive-ness. Not to be confused with truthiness, which, along with plain old truth, seems to be in short supply everywhere these days.
I accompanied a friend to Stacey's, a cool independent bookseller in San Francisco. And I saw this book. The description reads:
A brilliant portrait of a young girl's coming of age, "The Lost Traveller" tells of Clara, the beloved daughter of a devoted though authoritarian father and an imperious mother. In this devout Catholic family, father and daughter conduct an intense relationship that seems at odds with their faith and with the need for Clara to become a woman. Set against the backdrop of the First World War, Clara experiences the vagaries of adolescence and, faced with the first tragedy of her adult life, she realizes that neither parents nor faith can protect her from change.
Turns out there's a series of three related to Clara! So, I snapped up a copy. Turns out The Lost Traveller is volume 2 of the series. So I ran back and promptly bought the first volume, which is Frost in May:
Nanda Gray, daughter of a Catholic convert, is nine when in 1908 she goes to the Convent of the Five Wounds. Quick–witted, resilient, and enthusiastic, she eagerly adapts to this cloistered world, learning rigid conformity and subjection to authority. Passionate friendships are the only deviation from her total obedience. Convent life — the smell of beeswax and incense, the petty cruelty of the nuns, the glamour and eccentricity of Nanda's friends — is perfectly captured by Antonia White.
Now, one thing you didn't know about me (playing on yesterday's snarky post) is that I attended Catholic school. Ah, you say, one more piece of the puzzle falls into place.
So, this novel series is like manna from heaven. In Catholic-speak. Perfect reading for commute time!
I have never heard of this author or this series...has anyone else?
10.24.2006
5 things you didn't (want to) know about me
(Warning: gratuitous profanity and unwarranted snarkiness ahead. Kindly, goodhearted people should probably not read.)
I wasn't tagged on this meme, unsurprisingly, since my first reaction is: If I wanted you to know five things about me, I woulda told you. Besides, anyone with half a brain can read between the lines on this blog to find out something if they wanted to, from my smart regular readers to the teenager googling for porn ("Dude, I swear it said The Cliterate Kitten!").
So, pretend I'm on Oprah, giving an interview. This is what I would say:
5 things you didn't know about me
1. I don't plan to ever live in a trailer park. Not that there's anything wrong with that, if that's the lifestyle you choose. If people choose to live in homes with wheels that are frequent targets of tornadoes, that's cool and remarkably brave. It's not that I'm a snob--I can't afford to buy a home. But there's something about living in a remote area among acres of people who also can't afford to buy a home that does not appeal to me. Not to mention that, with my extensive personal library, I'd probably be mistaken for the local bookmobile.
2. I like blankets. Blankets are perhaps the most underrated of life's necessities. Personally, I can sleep without many things other people deem essential to bedtime activities, but I cannot sleep without a blanket. And blankets are assigned to those in even the most wretched of circumstances, from prison inmates to travellers flying coach on United. If I had one Miss America wish, it would be that everyone in the world had a blanket. And preferably an Egyptian cotton-flannel blend, not one of those stiff polyester horrors you find in a Motel 6 off of I-80 near Elko, Nevada.
3. I don't like being poor and hungry. Not that there's anything wrong with that, if that's the lifestyle you choose. People can live however they want to. This is America, dammit. However, poverty and hunger aren't for me.
4. I think butterflies are cool. They're pretty and quiet, and they fly away before you have time to get sick of them.
5. I have low-water pressure. I don't like low-water pressure. It makes for skimpy showers and having to hold the toilet handle down several seconds when you flush. People with high-water pressure don't know how lucky they have it. This is America, dammit. Everyone is entitled to good water pressure.
I wasn't tagged on this meme, unsurprisingly, since my first reaction is: If I wanted you to know five things about me, I woulda told you. Besides, anyone with half a brain can read between the lines on this blog to find out something if they wanted to, from my smart regular readers to the teenager googling for porn ("Dude, I swear it said The Cliterate Kitten!").
So, pretend I'm on Oprah, giving an interview. This is what I would say:
5 things you didn't know about me
1. I don't plan to ever live in a trailer park. Not that there's anything wrong with that, if that's the lifestyle you choose. If people choose to live in homes with wheels that are frequent targets of tornadoes, that's cool and remarkably brave. It's not that I'm a snob--I can't afford to buy a home. But there's something about living in a remote area among acres of people who also can't afford to buy a home that does not appeal to me. Not to mention that, with my extensive personal library, I'd probably be mistaken for the local bookmobile.
2. I like blankets. Blankets are perhaps the most underrated of life's necessities. Personally, I can sleep without many things other people deem essential to bedtime activities, but I cannot sleep without a blanket. And blankets are assigned to those in even the most wretched of circumstances, from prison inmates to travellers flying coach on United. If I had one Miss America wish, it would be that everyone in the world had a blanket. And preferably an Egyptian cotton-flannel blend, not one of those stiff polyester horrors you find in a Motel 6 off of I-80 near Elko, Nevada.
3. I don't like being poor and hungry. Not that there's anything wrong with that, if that's the lifestyle you choose. People can live however they want to. This is America, dammit. However, poverty and hunger aren't for me.
4. I think butterflies are cool. They're pretty and quiet, and they fly away before you have time to get sick of them.
5. I have low-water pressure. I don't like low-water pressure. It makes for skimpy showers and having to hold the toilet handle down several seconds when you flush. People with high-water pressure don't know how lucky they have it. This is America, dammit. Everyone is entitled to good water pressure.
10.23.2006
13 classics to read
I’m borrowing this idea (modified somewhat) from SFP over at Pages Turned. I’m committing to Proust in 2007, with Eliot and Melville the next highest priorities. My criteria: 1) I focused on world lit, not simply English lit, and a smattering of time periods 2) I excluded works by authors I seek out, such as Virginia Woolf 3) I included lit I would actually read. For example, I don't think I will ever read Ulysses or Finnegan's Wake, even if Moses had engraved it on a stone tablet along with the 10 Commandments.
13 fiction classics I’d like to read (someday)
1. In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower. Proust (part of Proust project)
2. Middlemarch. Eliot (silly me!)
3. Moby-Dick. Melville (started this year and dropped the ball)
4. The Sound and the Fury. Faulkner (I keep trying on this one…)
5. Robinson Crusoe. DeFoe (a classic that could actually be fun)
6. Tess of the D’ubervilles. Hardy (pretty much haven’t touched Hardy)
7. Portrait of a Lady. James (‘nuff said)
8. The Divine Comedy. Alighieri (a must, if you’re a member of the human race)
9. Tales from the 1001 Nights. Anonymous (ditto)
10. Don Quixote. Cervantes (double ditto)
11. The Iliad. Homer (triple ditto)
12. Fahrenheit 451. Bradbury (I avoid sci-fi, so wanted to include this genre)
13. The Stranger. Camus (if GW can read it, so can I!)
10.19.2006
Thoughts for Thursday – Rejection Revisited
Is it possible to be a sheepish kitten? If so, that would be....Me.
While I didn’t win a recent fiction contest, the editor notified me that he accepted my story. I am considering graciously withdrawing, on the pretext of further work on the story. (Can I get prosecuted for pretexting in this case?) Is that just completely bad form? Need to really give this some thought.
Okay, maybe, just maybe, I overreacted yesterday (insert YOUR favorite understatement here). But, though rejection in its many guises is part and parcel of a writer’s life, it's hard not to take it hard.
As everyone’s comments on yesterday’s post show, we all experience the R word. It broke my heart that some folks won’t submit work because they fear Rejection. That's just not a good enough reason to deprive the world of your best creative self!
As writers, we all need to accept – nay, embrace – Rejection as part of A Writer’s Life. If we really want to write, rejection shouldn’t stop us. If we really aren’t writers, rejection shouldn’t matter. (Feel free to bookmark this and throw the words in my face next time I whine about a rejection.)
And, as you can see by my experience with this particular story (which lost a contest but was accepted for publication), Rejection doesn’t mean “You Suck.” (Okay, sometimes it does. But sometimes it does not.) Why should we let Rejection Of Our Writing stop us from writing or sending work out? We don’t stop looking for a job because one employer didn’t make us an offer, do we?
I’ll have more on this in future posts – next time, from the Editor’s viewpoint…
While I didn’t win a recent fiction contest, the editor notified me that he accepted my story. I am considering graciously withdrawing, on the pretext of further work on the story. (Can I get prosecuted for pretexting in this case?) Is that just completely bad form? Need to really give this some thought.
Okay, maybe, just maybe, I overreacted yesterday (insert YOUR favorite understatement here). But, though rejection in its many guises is part and parcel of a writer’s life, it's hard not to take it hard.
As everyone’s comments on yesterday’s post show, we all experience the R word. It broke my heart that some folks won’t submit work because they fear Rejection. That's just not a good enough reason to deprive the world of your best creative self!
As writers, we all need to accept – nay, embrace – Rejection as part of A Writer’s Life. If we really want to write, rejection shouldn’t stop us. If we really aren’t writers, rejection shouldn’t matter. (Feel free to bookmark this and throw the words in my face next time I whine about a rejection.)
And, as you can see by my experience with this particular story (which lost a contest but was accepted for publication), Rejection doesn’t mean “You Suck.” (Okay, sometimes it does. But sometimes it does not.) Why should we let Rejection Of Our Writing stop us from writing or sending work out? We don’t stop looking for a job because one employer didn’t make us an offer, do we?
I’ll have more on this in future posts – next time, from the Editor’s viewpoint…
10.18.2006
God said: Don't give up your day job!
Be it ever so humbling...there's nothing like a fiction rejection or a lost fiction contest to bring a kittenish writer to her knees.
It's as if a giant, muscle-bound Universe stood toe to toe with me and said, "Me, Tarzan! You--suck!"
I guess that's what I get for dissing Henry James and Virginia Woolf.
What is it about losing a fiction contest that makes you feel like you barely qualify for a job that involves a large fryer and hairnet, much less a job writing prose that large groups of serious people would actually spend time reading? What is it about receiving that bland brush-off from an anonymous editor, that "thanks-for-sending-but-your-work-is-more-fit-for-the-recycle-bin-than-our-esteemed-publication" letter which completely drains a writer of confidence, will and anything akin to moral integrity?
(Could it be that writers love to dramatize? Naaaawwww...)
Here is my take on writing and rejection:
One reason a recent fiction rejection hit me between the eyes is because I have not been prolific as of late. In 2004-2005, I wrote up a storm and had lots and lots of stories out. I sort of became inured to rejection. While I looked forward to hearing from editors, I churned out more stuff to keep the momentum going. And, hey, if one editor rejected me, another story had a shot. Hope sustained me. The thrill of the chase motivated me. And, eventually, all of the fiction did get published. Right now, I have few stories in the hopper, and the one I did send probably could use more work. Thus, one rejection pretty much stops the whole process cold.
Moral of story: Don't put all your literary eggs in one basket. Work on multiple projects at once, and something's bound to work. And the energy carries you from one work to the next. If one story or chapter isn't working out, something else might. And when that something else works, chances are you can return to the stalled prose and find that the energy has shifted, the wheel has unstuck from the mud.
I think it would also help to be able to tolerate great tumblersful of whiskey during this whole process or take up smoking unfiltered Gauloises, but that's another tip for another day. But first, I should order this book. And always, always keep the day job.
Fellow writers, hear my clarion call! How do you handle rejection?
(To end on an up-note, I just received an e-mail notifcation that my books One Good Turn by Kate Atkinson, Auschwitz by Laurence Rees and The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai have just shipped! Solace, courtesy of UPS.)
And another post-script tip on rejection: It hurts much worse to be rejected by a second-rate publication than a first-rate one. So, screw it, Fates, I'm going for the gold. Writer-buds, what publications do you deem worthy?
It's as if a giant, muscle-bound Universe stood toe to toe with me and said, "Me, Tarzan! You--suck!"
I guess that's what I get for dissing Henry James and Virginia Woolf.
What is it about losing a fiction contest that makes you feel like you barely qualify for a job that involves a large fryer and hairnet, much less a job writing prose that large groups of serious people would actually spend time reading? What is it about receiving that bland brush-off from an anonymous editor, that "thanks-for-sending-but-your-work-is-more-fit-for-the-recycle-bin-than-our-esteemed-publication" letter which completely drains a writer of confidence, will and anything akin to moral integrity?
(Could it be that writers love to dramatize? Naaaawwww...)
Here is my take on writing and rejection:
One reason a recent fiction rejection hit me between the eyes is because I have not been prolific as of late. In 2004-2005, I wrote up a storm and had lots and lots of stories out. I sort of became inured to rejection. While I looked forward to hearing from editors, I churned out more stuff to keep the momentum going. And, hey, if one editor rejected me, another story had a shot. Hope sustained me. The thrill of the chase motivated me. And, eventually, all of the fiction did get published. Right now, I have few stories in the hopper, and the one I did send probably could use more work. Thus, one rejection pretty much stops the whole process cold.
Moral of story: Don't put all your literary eggs in one basket. Work on multiple projects at once, and something's bound to work. And the energy carries you from one work to the next. If one story or chapter isn't working out, something else might. And when that something else works, chances are you can return to the stalled prose and find that the energy has shifted, the wheel has unstuck from the mud.
I think it would also help to be able to tolerate great tumblersful of whiskey during this whole process or take up smoking unfiltered Gauloises, but that's another tip for another day. But first, I should order this book. And always, always keep the day job.
Fellow writers, hear my clarion call! How do you handle rejection?
(To end on an up-note, I just received an e-mail notifcation that my books One Good Turn by Kate Atkinson, Auschwitz by Laurence Rees and The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai have just shipped! Solace, courtesy of UPS.)
And another post-script tip on rejection: It hurts much worse to be rejected by a second-rate publication than a first-rate one. So, screw it, Fates, I'm going for the gold. Writer-buds, what publications do you deem worthy?
10.17.2006
A few on Kew: Virginia Woolf's Kew Gardens
Cross-posted at A Curious Singularity
This story opens in an omniscient view -- from the eye of God, the merciless glare of the universe -- upon the microcosm world of the Kew Gardens. Woolf particularizes this world, of flower and fauna, very precisely. It is unique, seething with life, wonder and surprise:
The light fell either upon the smooth, grey back of a pebble, or, the shell of a snail with its brown, circular veins, or falling into a rain-drop, it expanded with such intensity of red, blue, and yellow the thin walls of water that one expected them to burst and disappear. Instead, the drop was left in a second silver grey once more, and the light now settled upon the flesh of a leaf, revealing the branching thread of fibre beneach the surface, and again it moved an and spread its illumination in the vast green spaces beneath the dome of the heart-shaped and tongue-shaped leaves.
With this precise observation comes the anthropomorphisis of nature. (I hope I am using that term correctly.) Nature is given human characteristics, such as the heart-shaped and tongue-shaped leaves. When humans enter the story, they ascribe nature's characteristics to humans, such as the first man's desire being in the dragonfly, or are ascribed natural characteristics themselves (as when the elder man walks in the manner of an impatient carriage horse tired of waiting outside a house). This is consistent throughout the story, suggesting, I think, the interrelation of nature and humans; mankind is part and parcel of the natural world, and vice versa.
But, as the reactions of the various people demonstrate, mankind is oblivious to the miracles of nature around them. They are preoccupied with specific human concerns: the passage of time, love, class, wages. These are not the concerns of the natural world. Witness the struggle of the snail (one of the finest passages, in my opinion):
The snail had now considered every possible method of reaching his goal without going round the dead leaf or climbing over it. Let alone the effort needed for climbing a leaf, he was doubtful whether the thin texture which vibrated with such an alarming crackle when touched even by the tip of his horns would bear his weight; and this determined him finally to creep beneath it, for there was a point where the leaf curved high enough from the ground to admit him.
The irony here is that the snail's journey mirrors man's struggles. Furthermore, from our knowledge of science, we know the load-bearing leaf is a non-issue; thus, much of the snail's struggle is rendered pointless. Is the omniscient God/narrator able to see, where we do not, the fruitlessness of our own struggles?
Despite the interrelation of man to nature, mankind is encroaching upon the natural world, with their words, their objects, and customs and, finally, their machines. We get a mere hint of the war the world is engulfed in at that moment, one which history has proven to be incredibly destructive.
But what am I to take from my reading, or the other views that others offer on this site? I react to this story much as I did to Henry James's Turn of the Screw: the sums of its parts are greater than the whole. I don't think Woolf went far enough in establishing her themes and characters. The two elderly women, for example, don't seem multi-dimensional or have much point in the story as maybe the others do.
I found the Julia Briggs genesis, posted on A Curious Singularity by Kate S., to be very compelling and interesting. It reminds me of the anecdote I posted on Sept. 5 about the origin of Woolf's story A Haunted House.
(Note: Woolf uses "myriad of" at the very end of the story. I had ripped Dianne Day for using this phraseology in Fire and Fog, believing myriad was an adjective. However, Merriam-Webster says that the noun is an older form and therefore, can serve as the noun modified by the prepositional phrase. I stand corrected!)
This story opens in an omniscient view -- from the eye of God, the merciless glare of the universe -- upon the microcosm world of the Kew Gardens. Woolf particularizes this world, of flower and fauna, very precisely. It is unique, seething with life, wonder and surprise:
The light fell either upon the smooth, grey back of a pebble, or, the shell of a snail with its brown, circular veins, or falling into a rain-drop, it expanded with such intensity of red, blue, and yellow the thin walls of water that one expected them to burst and disappear. Instead, the drop was left in a second silver grey once more, and the light now settled upon the flesh of a leaf, revealing the branching thread of fibre beneach the surface, and again it moved an and spread its illumination in the vast green spaces beneath the dome of the heart-shaped and tongue-shaped leaves.
With this precise observation comes the anthropomorphisis of nature. (I hope I am using that term correctly.) Nature is given human characteristics, such as the heart-shaped and tongue-shaped leaves. When humans enter the story, they ascribe nature's characteristics to humans, such as the first man's desire being in the dragonfly, or are ascribed natural characteristics themselves (as when the elder man walks in the manner of an impatient carriage horse tired of waiting outside a house). This is consistent throughout the story, suggesting, I think, the interrelation of nature and humans; mankind is part and parcel of the natural world, and vice versa.
But, as the reactions of the various people demonstrate, mankind is oblivious to the miracles of nature around them. They are preoccupied with specific human concerns: the passage of time, love, class, wages. These are not the concerns of the natural world. Witness the struggle of the snail (one of the finest passages, in my opinion):
The snail had now considered every possible method of reaching his goal without going round the dead leaf or climbing over it. Let alone the effort needed for climbing a leaf, he was doubtful whether the thin texture which vibrated with such an alarming crackle when touched even by the tip of his horns would bear his weight; and this determined him finally to creep beneath it, for there was a point where the leaf curved high enough from the ground to admit him.
The irony here is that the snail's journey mirrors man's struggles. Furthermore, from our knowledge of science, we know the load-bearing leaf is a non-issue; thus, much of the snail's struggle is rendered pointless. Is the omniscient God/narrator able to see, where we do not, the fruitlessness of our own struggles?
Despite the interrelation of man to nature, mankind is encroaching upon the natural world, with their words, their objects, and customs and, finally, their machines. We get a mere hint of the war the world is engulfed in at that moment, one which history has proven to be incredibly destructive.
But what am I to take from my reading, or the other views that others offer on this site? I react to this story much as I did to Henry James's Turn of the Screw: the sums of its parts are greater than the whole. I don't think Woolf went far enough in establishing her themes and characters. The two elderly women, for example, don't seem multi-dimensional or have much point in the story as maybe the others do.
I found the Julia Briggs genesis, posted on A Curious Singularity by Kate S., to be very compelling and interesting. It reminds me of the anecdote I posted on Sept. 5 about the origin of Woolf's story A Haunted House.
(Note: Woolf uses "myriad of" at the very end of the story. I had ripped Dianne Day for using this phraseology in Fire and Fog, believing myriad was an adjective. However, Merriam-Webster says that the noun is an older form and therefore, can serve as the noun modified by the prepositional phrase. I stand corrected!)
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