I’m not a fan of reading books after having seen the screen adaptation, but somehow having Frances McDormand’s face loom up from the pages wasn’t all bad, as long as the writing moved along creamily and pulled me under. Plus there are many more stories and layers in the written work than what could be depicted even in an extended miniseries. Sturdy Olive Kitteridge, retired math teacher with a saint for a husband, speaks her mind and has no love lost from the small Maine town’s citizens. Henry has a stroke, hangs on for years in a nursing home. Her son Christopher leaves town with wife #1 for California, only to get divorced and remarry a woman with a few kids of her own before settling in NYC as a podiatrist. Elizabeth Strout has the gift of weaving a tale out of nothing, making you invested in the characters in this small community, eager for more.
Volume one of Lydia Davis’s essays is brimming with thoughts on writers and visual artists (Joan Mitchell, John Ashberry’s translation of Rimbaud’s Illuminations [which I read], Joseph Cornell, Hölderlin, Flaubert, Barthes, Stendhal, Jane Bowles), dissections of plots and writing and style, and writing advice. My favorite piece was the Thirty Recommendations for Good Writing Habits, a clickbait headline befitting the 2013 essay. The first 10 recommendations she recaps here, with major emphasis on taking notes, noting your own activity and feelings along with others’ behavior. I like the push to work from your own interest, which is what I do, pursuing odd investigations into the most random of topics. I definitely agree with being mostly self-taught, reading a lot. She recommends keeping books of writing exercises on hand to do something even when you’re not inspired. Take time in between stopping writing and picking up your next task to let your brain continue to feed you ideas. #17 says to learn as much as you can about the origin of words you’re using, #18 listen to the sound of the words, and #19 read poetry regularly. #20 be curious about as much as possible and #21 let your mind wonder about things without looking them up immediately.
#22 in full:
David Wojnarowicz wrote these “monologues” as he called them, and sent them to Amy Scholder to get published in 1989 along with a letter saying “I wrote this book over the last thirteen or fourteen years. It’s all true.” The monologues are stories from the perspective of the many people he encountered hitching or driving across the country (SF, Washington State, Albuquerque are all represented), or on the streets of the Lower East Side or 42nd Street at 3AM or in a coffee shop or diner. True tales of love and lust and dreams for what was or what could have been. His own stories seem peppered in with other tales, and you can tell which those are by the rich depth of description of interior thought. The final story is taken “From the Diaries of a Wolf Boy”, from David’s notebooks, so much more clearly his story and perspective. It’s a way of sinking conversations with strangers into amber, preserved for eternity.
Re-reading Jane Austen is always a treat, but I can’t add much to my review from a few years ago. The only thing that stuck in my craw this time was how it seemed to hurry and wrap up, loose ends wrenched into submission by pushing Mrs. Clay (ne’er do well friend of older sister Elizabeth) into Mr. Elliot’s arms (the cousin who stands to inherit the baronetcy). Their plot (witnessed by sisters Anne and Mary from a window in Bath who see Mrs. Clay shake hands with Mr. Elliot when he is supposed to be out of town already) isn’t fully explained, they’re just shoved off the page when Anne and Wentworth’s engagement becomes known.
Also this time I’m more attuned to the horrors of Sir Walter’s possible remarriage with all the nightmares of wicked stepmothers dancing in my own head. And the too-quick remarriage of a widowed friend of Wentworth who goes a’courting mere months after his wife’s death. When these things happen in real life, it’s soothing to have fictional characters to fall back on and see how their friends and family rant against these actions.
Recommended by the Yale class on The Science of Well-Being, Lyubomirsky helps us hack our way into adjusting the factors we control that influence 40% of what determines happiness (circumstances = 10%, genetic set point = 50%). She starts with a epigraph from William James: “To change one’s life, start immediately, do it flamboyantly, no exceptions.” (Sadly I can’t find a definitive citation, so I think it’s only rumored to be James.)
After leading you through some diagnostic tests to figure out which activity best fits your personality, she explores 12 happiness activities:
- Express gratitude
- Cultivate optimism
- Avoid overthinking & social comparison
- Practice acts of kindness
- Nurture social relationships
- Develop coping strategies
- Learn to forgive
- Increase flow experiences
- Savor life’s joys
- Commit to your goals
- Practice religion/spirituality
- Take care of your body through meditation/exercise/acting happy
For cultivating optimism, she suggests writing about your best possible self; think about your best possible self now and during the next few weeks—imagine yourself in the future after everything has gone as well as it possibly could. You’ve worked hard and accomplished all your goals. This is the realization of your life dreams and your best potentials. Write for 20 minutes daily about what this is like, or think about this for 20 minutes then write your conclusions about what you imagine. Why does writing work? “Because writing is highly structured, systematic, and rule-bound, it prompts you to organize, integrate, and analyze your thoughts in a way that would be difficult, if not impossible, to do if you were just fantasizing.”
I begin the year with the taste of literary champagne on my tongue, re-reading Woolf’s first novel which came out in 1915. Swept away in her brilliant words, like listening to the notes from the choir echoing in a cathedral. The bar is set high for the year, I hope not to dip too low or chase too many scattered ideas.
Rachel dies in the end, but life goes on. Life continues for her fiancee Terence, who has only been engaged to her for a few weeks before a tropical illness overtakes her and pushes her through the veil of the living. Great strange descriptions of Rachel’s fever in the end chapters, and Terence’s own grappling with what matters. But at the finale, St. John stumbles back to the hotel and finds groups of people chatting, playing chess, knitting; in short, life continues even in the shadow of Rachel’s death in the villa on the hill.
Helen and Ridley kick off the book, leaving their children behind in London and joining Helen’s brother-in-law on his ship to Brazil, taking her 24-year-old niece Rachel under her wing on the long voyage. The Dalloways (Richard and Clarissa) are picked up at one port then deposited at another, but not before Richard kisses Rachel and awakens her realization that she knows nothing of life. The rest of the book takes place in a small fictional town near the Amazon, with a hotel full of Englishmen to add zest to the parade of characters and mirrored love stories/engagements.
“The vision of her own personality, of herself as a real everlasting thing, different from anything else, unmergeable, like the sea or the wind, flashed into Rachel’s mind, and she became profoundly excited at the thought of living.” (p 75)
“I don’t think you altogether as foolish as I used to… You don’t know what you mean but you try to say it.” (p 98)
The importance of a room: “Among the promises which Mrs. Ambrose had made her niece should she stay was a room cut off from the rest of the house, large, private—a room in which she could play, read, think, defy the world, a fortress as well as a sanctuary. Rooms, she knew, became more like worlds than rooms at the age of twenty-four. ” (p 112)
Terence, on what he wants to write: “‘I want to write a novel about Silence,’ he said; ‘the things people don’t say. But the difficulty is immense.'”
Lush descriptions of reading
“As he read he knocked the ash automatically, now and again, from his cigarette and turned the page, while a whole procession of splendid sentences entered his capacious brow and went marching through his brain in order. It seemed likely that this process might continue for an hour or more, until the entire regiment had shifted its quarters, had not the door opened…” (p 95)
“Far from looking bored or absent-minded, her eyes were concentrated almost sternly upon the page, and from her breathing, which was slow but repressed, it could be seen that her whole body was constrained by the working of her mind. At last she shut the book sharply, lay back, and drew a deep breath, expressive of the wonder which always marks the transition from the imaginary world to the real world. ” (p 112)
“Terence, meanwhile, read a novel which some one else had written, a process which he found essential to the composition of his own.” (p 278)
“‘God, Rachel, you do read trash!’ he exclaimed. ‘And you’re behind the times too, my dear. No one dreams of reading this kind of thing now—antiquated problem plays, harrowing descriptions of life in the east end—oh, no, we’ve exploded all that. Read poetry, Rachel, poetry, poetry, poetry!'” (p 276)
On the river, Terence quotes from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, a snippet added in 1860: “Whoever you are holding me now in your hand, Without one thing all will be useless.”
Rachel doesn’t like Gibbon’s history:
No, I don’t like it,” she replied. She had indeed been trying all the afternoon to read it, and for some reason the glory which she had perceived at first had faded, and, read as she would, she could not grasp the meaning with her mind.
“It goes round, round, round, like a roll of oil-cloth,” she hazarded. Evidently she meant Hewet alone to hear her words, but Hirst demanded, “What d’you mean?”
She was instantly ashamed of her figure of speech, for she could not explain it in words of sober criticism.
At a church service in the hotel basement, Hirst reads Sappho in Greek:
Early in the service Mrs. Flushing had discovered that she had taken up a Bible instead of a prayer-book, and, as she was sitting next to Hirst, she stole a glance over his shoulder. He was reading steadily in the thin pale-blue volume. Unable to understand, she peered closer, upon which Hirst politely laid the book before her, pointing to the first line of a Greek poem and then to the translation opposite.
“What’s that?” she whispered inquisitively.
“Sappho,” he replied. “The one Swinburne did—the best thing that’s ever been written.”
Mrs. Flushing could not resist such an opportunity. She gulped down the Ode to Aphrodite during the Litany, keeping herself with difficulty from asking when Sappho lived, and what else she wrote worth reading, and contriving to come in punctually at the end with “the forgiveness of sins, the Resurrection of the body, and the life everlastin’. Amen.”
There were plenty of duds I read this year but I’m getting better about ejecting from books I’m not enjoying. The list below contains only the highlights though it might appear to be a comprehensive list of books read. But first, some stats:
- Read 257 books; 62% women writers; 38% men. Non-fiction (66%) edged out fiction (34%) for the fourth year in a row.
- More tangents and rabbit holes: pneumatic tubes, finance in Victorian literature, noise pollution, soundscapes, the acoustic world of early modern England, dealing with grief, Diogenes of Sinope, and the underground film scene in SF. Plus the usual suspects: walking, nature, tourism, solitude.
- Most bizarre graphic images were in Fletcher Hanks’s amazing work. Most bizarre story might be Appius and Virginia.
- The Book of Delights: Essays by Ross Gay
- The Winter Sun: Essays by Fanny Howe
- The Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean
- The Happiness Myth by Jennifer Hecht
- The Silent Woman: Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes by Janet Malcolm.
- The New Me by Halle Butler
- The Family Fang by Kevin Wilson
- The Collected Stories of Amy Hempel
- Bunny: A Novel by Mona Awad
- The Cazalet Chronicles (5 volume series) by Elizabeth Jane Howard
- literally show me a healthy person by Darcie Wilder
- Gilgi by Irmgard Keun
- Breaking and Entering by Joy Williams
- Elizabeth Street by Laurie Fabiano
- Biloxi by Mary Miller
- How not to write a novel. Hilarious, great advice.
- Re-read Stephen King’s On Writing, always fantastic.
- A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver
- Beastie Boys Book – one of my favorite books of the year, a time machine back to the 1980s and 90s.
- Four Seasons in Rome by Anthony Doerr
- Sempre Susan by Sigrid Nunez
- Books about Oliver Sacks: Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me by Bill Hayes And How Are You, Dr. Sacks? by Lawrence Weschler
- Save Me the Plums and Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl
- Life in Code by Ellen Ullman
- The Invention of Solitude by Paul Auster
- Too Late to Die Young by Harriet Johnson
- The Wolves: A Play by Sarah DeLappe
- Letters to Wendy’s by Wenderoth; I consider this poetry, not fiction.
- Read everything by Tony Hoagland I could get my hands on.
- Other poets like Deborah Landau, Ada Limón, Mary Oliver, Sharon Olds, Dorianne Laux, Frank O’Hara, Whitman, Rimbaud, Billy Collins, Campbell McGrath.
- Everything about David Wojnarowicz: Close to the Knives, his diaries, his art, his tape journals.
- Anything and everything about artists that intrigued me, like Wim Wenders’ photos, Jess, David Ireland, David Hockney, Ruby Ray, Philippe Petit, Beth Moon.
Read Walt Whitman (1855 Leaves of Grass edition), Rimbaud’s Illuminations, the first volume of Coleridge’s letters, De Salvo’s Virginia Woolf book and the final collection of diaries VW read, Anthony Trollope’s Miss Mackenzie, Guy de Maupassant’s travel diary Afloat.
George Gissing’s classic work exposing the brutal reality of difficulty making a living as a writer in 1880s London, laying out all the facts, the pittance offered for a work that cost the author a year of his life or more. One writer, Reardon, ends up sick and dies nearly penniless, despite his wife having come into an inheritance. Another writer, Biffen, kills himself, although for flimsier reasons—not caring particularly that his book wasn’t a success but more because he can’t marry someone? (This after he rescues his manuscript for his book from a fire in his building, clinging to a chimney on the roof and having a neighbor rescue him with a ladder). Then there’s Jasper, the frivolous man who understands how to write the blather that the public wants, and not to burden himself with a wife unless she’s rich. The story of the two cousins, Amy and Marian Yule, comes into this, Jasper first promising to marry Marian but when her inheritance disappears he pulls away, eventually marrying Amy after Reardon dies.
Marian helps her father write his articles, and she sits in the Reading Room musing one foggy day: “A few days ago her startled eye had caught an advertisement in the newspaper, headed ‘Literary Machine’; had it then been invented at last, some automaton to supply the place of such poor creatures as herself, to turn out books and articles? Alas! the machine was only one for holding volumes conveniently, that the work of literary manufacture might be physically lightened. But surely before long some Edison would make the true automaton; the problem must be comparatively such a simple one. Only to throw in a given number of old books, and have them reduced, blended, modernised into a single one for today’s consumption.”
This great article from The Paris Review about reading in the age of constant distraction has me committing even more strongly to the idea of abandoning the skimming, attention-lite, “horizontal” reading of online bits in favor of immersion into a longer and deeper focus. Mairead Small Staid takes a look at how well Sven Birkerts’s The Gutenberg Elegies: The Fate of Reading in an Electronic Age holds up 25 years after it was published, and no surprise he sounds like a soothsayer: “Ten, fifteen years from now the world will be nothing like what we remember, nothing much like what we experience now,” Birkerts wrote in 1994. “We will be swimming in impulses and data—the microchip will make us offers that will be very hard to refuse.”
Staid writes: “When a work compels immersion, if often also has the power to haunt from a distance,” Birkerts says, and how I wish this haunting were the sole province of great work. It isn’t: ghosts seep through the words on the screen, ghosts of screeds and inanities, of hate and idiocy, of so much—so much!—bad writing.”
And the final word from Birkerts: “The beauty of the vertical engagement is that it does not have to argue for itself. It is self-contained, a fulfillment.”
This is not the type of book you breeze through in an afternoon. Recommended by a meditation class I took a few years ago, I finally got around to reading it in tiny bites each morning, a great way to start the day. Now that I’m through with one pass of the book, I’m going to keep it on my table and start again, a morning burst of wisdom to set the tone for the day.
While I suppose structure is a necessary component of explaining the Buddha’s teachings, I admit that it makes my head spin to try and keep track of all the things: the 7 factors of awakening, the eightfold path, the 5 techniques for getting rid of distracting thoughts, 5 themes of reflection, and on and on. Will I be quizzed on this? Instead, I tried to focus on the underlying concepts and let the numbers float away.
The personal stories inside are the ones that have the most staying power to stick in your brain, like his tales from meditation retreats or other monks’ experiences.
Terrific Los Angeles noir from Dorothy Hughes, a mystery writer my sister recommended. Dix is a grifter, an ex-pilot unleashed from WW2 onto the Santa Monica streets where he inhales the fog while looking around for women to strangle. He calls up an old military buddy who happens to be an LA cop, and ratchets up his own pleasure in committing the crimes that his friend is investigating. The writing is beyond great, “He put out his hand to the mossy fog as if he would capture it, but his hand went through the gauze and he smiled.” Ms. Hughes is now on my must read list whenever I get a hankering for fiction.
It’s highly likely that a curated selected of diary entries will leave everyone unsatisfied except the person making the choices of what to include. Amy Scholder admits as much, saying in the intro that anyone would make different selections from the thousands of pages, over 30 journals kept between 1971 and 1991, but she picks up a few threads and follows those to show his values, struggles, passion. He is a beautiful writer but I wish there were more in here about his creative process, how he worked, how he went about making the Rimbaud series. In a 1979 entry: “Possibly the way forward is for me to try to extend the range of creative acts to cover both images of beauty (silent disturbing beauty) and of intensity—in drawn images and in written images and in photographic images. In doing this—creating a range rather than keeping the beauty hidden as I have done within journals, head, etc.—then I can at least have the physical proof of that range, and thus no longer feel the need to explain it or prove it in conversations or apologize for not having shown the range in its entirety that I feel is contained within me.”
An entertaining and witty memoir from Charleston lawyer and disability activist Harriet Johnson. Born with a congenital neuromuscular disease, she’s never been able to walk or bathe or get dressed without help from the form of paid caregivers. She tells stories that she’s honed over the years as payment in return for countless rides and assistance she’s received. From an early protest against Ronnie Reagan’s appearance on campus (not consenting to having her rooms searched without being present and hanging protest signs from her windows directly behind the podium), more protests at the DNC Chicago in 1996 when she felt endangered by the thousands of butts in her face, visiting Cuba for a conference and feeling like she was treated like a normal person, and debating philosopher Peter Singer about her right to exist. She’s hilarious, heartwarming, sassy, and fierce. Easy to read and leaves you with a much needed perspective from someone who lived her life in a wheelchair.
I used to abhor anthologies but now I find them perfectly suited to my taste, my mood, my attention span(?). These are the best poems of the year, according to Major Jackson this year’s guest editor, a bold statement that invites raised eyebrows. And of course leads to all sorts of squabbles in the comments/rating system of the book online, people who are pissed not to see more straight white men represented, as if we haven’t had enough of their droning. My own beef is with the ordering system, listing the poems by author’s last name, alphabetical. As someone with a name at the end of the alphabet, I hate this default ordering system. Why not zetabetical, mix it up a bit?
I loved poems from my continued favorite, Ada Limón (Cannibal Woman), along with David Lehman’s It Could Happen to You (I like the idea of taking the anniversary of an event and exploring what else was happening on that day, oh so long ago).
Ilya Kaminsky’s Last Will and Testament, Amy Gerstler’s haunting Update (what life is like after a death), Chen Chen’s I Invite My Parents to a Dinner Party wherein they are advised yet again that he is gay and his boyfriend will be attending and to please be interested in him. Victoria Chang’s Six Obits also great (I’m seeing my trend of loving death as a topic)—for friendships, optimism, affection, clothes, the ocean, and the clock. Margaret Atwood has a delightful Update on Werewolves which allows women to get wild and hairy. Jeffrey McDaniel’s Bio from a Parallel World: “Jeffrey McDaniel runs his hands along the two f’s in his name like elephant tusks and shakes his head like a bucket full of soggy trademarks.” The powerful Head Crack Head Crack from Willie Perdomo. Philip Schultz’s The Women’s March zapped me back in time to 2017 at my own march. And I like the idea of David Wojahn’s Still Life: Stevens’s Wallet on a Key West Hotel Dresser, where he describes the contents of Wallace Stevens’s wallet as he’s at a conference away from his wife.
Tom Kromer wrote about his life tramping during the Depression, the tricks he used to try and rustle up a free cup of coffee, to get people to give him enough money to flop somewhere warm for the night. He made it out to Santa Rosa by 1931, harvesting grapes and by 1932 was working the fields in Napa. The book was written in 1933 while he was enrolled in the California branch of the Civilian Conservation Corps at Camp Murphys in Calaveras County (north of Angel’s Camp).
One great story in here about a trick he learns from another tramp—to buy a donut, drop it on a corner where women wait for a streetcar, wait for a different group of ladies to arrive, walk up to the donut and stare at it, then scurry away to eat it behind a telephone pole. Women would come up and give money to him after seeing that act. Tales of bums huffing the gas that runs the heating system, gas hounds who soak a handkerchief full of gas and drip it into a glass mixed with water, called “derail.” Bums hunkered down in an abandoned building to sleep in the rain, hustled out by cops. Taking pennies and trying to barter for half loaves of stale bread hoping that the baker would just give you the loaf. Walking into fancy restaurants and loudly asking the manager for a meal so he’d make a big deal of being generous in front of customers. Riding the rails out west where it’s at least warm and hiding money in his bandaged arm. And the mysterious chapter 4—which disappeared from some versions of the book—where a he accepts hospitality from a “fairy” dressed up in women’s clothes who offers him a meal and a warm bed.