Hooray for introverts! I loved Debbie Tung’s graphic novel about how she copes with the world, recharging with alone time even at her wedding, asking her boss if she can work from home the rest of the afternoon so she can actually get work done, eventually quitting her job and embracing her inner need to work alone and on projects that are meaningful for her. We introverts get exhausted from social contact and have to recharge, and she feels alone until she stumbles onto the world of introvert blogs and finds out she’s not crazy after all, that there are millions of others just like her. After this, she gives herself permission to be herself, to turn down more invitations she doesn’t want to do. I loved the pages of her social hangover cures: comfort food, good books, favorite music, quiet time alone, warm hugs from a loved one.
Thank god Mary Beard is out there doing the hard work of being a classical studies feminist so the rest of us don’t have to labor in the Latin & Greek trenches. This latest book encompasses two lectures she’s given in the last few years, born of her experience of being threatened/harassed/trolled on Twitter for committing the crime of being a woman with something to say. She also apparently gets mansplained about ancient Rome by these idiots.
She takes women’s silencing back all the way back to the first written tale—Homer’s Odyssey. Telemachus tells his mom Penelope to pipe down and head back to her weaving because speech is the “business of men, all men, and of me most of all.” From there we only have thousands of other years of examples of women being told to shut up.
Despite how it sounds, it’s a delightful romp. You’ve got Hilary Clinton & Angela Merkel alongside Medusa, Lysistrata, the Amazons, Herland from Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Lucretia, Sojourner Truth, Fulvia, Queen Elizabeth I, and Clytemnestra. And Beard’s sass sneaks in as well, how she bought a pair of blue tights for her first interview for an academic job: “If you interviewers are going to be thinking that I’m a right bluestocking, let me just show you that I know that’s what you’re thinking and that I got there first.”
As I sip delicately from pages of Proust in tiny increments, I indulge myself in reading books about Proust in larger bursts. I stumbled on this book whilst hunting another psuedo-guide to Proust (which was quickly abandoned). I love most of what Alain de Botton has written and this was a pleasure romp like the others. By interspersing Proust’s own words within a framework of a How-to guide, de Botton breathes new life into the heavy volumes of In Search of Lost Time. He breaks the advice down into nine tidy sections: How to love life today, how to read for yourself, how to take your time, how to suffer successfully, how to express your emotions, how to be a good friends, how to open your eyes, how to be happy in love, and how to put books down. It’s a prescription from the lit doctor that you won’t want to ignore.
As always, I find comfort in authors’ antisocial tendencies, and Proust is no exception. De Botton pulls out a Proust quote in the section on friendship that I particularly love: “Conversation, which is friendship’s mode of expression, is a superficial digression which gives us nothing worth acquiring. We may talk for a lifetime without doing more than indefinitely repeat the vacuity of a minute.”
Also, Proust once compared friendship to reading: “In reading, friendship is suddenly brought back to its original purity. There is no false amiability with books. If we spend the evening with these friends, it is because we genuinely want to.”
Lovely light intro to Proust for those afraid of dipping a toe in. Once you dip, you dive, submerge, and never return, so caveat lector!
Updated to include this snippet that I just quoted in a letter to my sister, imploring her to give up her attempt to read Ulysses in order to clear the decks for Proust, mentioning that Joyce met Proust at a friend’s dinner party in Paris in 1922 and wrote of the meeting: “Our talk consisted solely of the word ‘Non.’ Proust asked me if I knew the duc de so-and-so. I said ‘Non.’ Our hostess asked Proust if he had read such and such a piece of Ulysses. Proust said ‘Non.’ And so on.” They then shared a taxi away from the party and Joyce said nary a word while Proust chattered away to the Schiffs (Sydney & Violet), not speaking to Joyce at all. Fin!
Books reveal much more of their authors than they’d like. I find Bishop to be a tepid, boring sloppy scholar who lucked out into getting a professorship that grants sabbaticals and who turned his ride from Canada to Texas into this limp recap. The big surprise is supposed to be that he’s a professor AND a guy riding a motorcycle. Amazing. He admits to wanting to appear like the biggest bad ass when he rides into town, even if he’s just there to check out the Virginia and Leonard Woolf library at Washington State University. He feels completely comfortable stashing his bike rent-free into a widow’s garage in Austin while he goes on a trip to Europe to track down the essential James Joyce covers.
Any scholar who whinges about nearly falling asleep in the British Museum while being given the privilege of rooting through their archives deserves to be slapped silly. His claim to have caught the archivist bug only after nearly drooling on Virginia Woolf’s suicide note is disgusting. Ye gods, was this man actually entrusted in compiling an edition of Jacob’s Room?
This book is horrifyingly terrible and yet was recommended by my hitherto impeccable Virginia Woolf listserve. Avoid at all costs.
The structure of a book of essays is something like this: strongest essay first, followed by progressively weaker essays to the point of despair, at which point you shore up the reader’s confidence with another solid essay, then repeat the petering out of bland work like a can of silly string that’s reached its last hiccups.
After reading Hickey’s first essay in this, I shouted hooray! and closed the book, eager to savor it and come back to what I knew would be lesser essays. Indeed, excerpts of Baby Breakers are available on The Paris Review. He struck first sentence gold: “I went to first grade in Fort Worth with Lee Harvey Oswald.” then goes on to write the kind of essay you get lost in, wandering in his sandy footsteps as he’s learning to surf in Santa Monica in the 1950s.
The rest of the essays vary in quality but never achieve the perfection of the first.
I had drinks with a friend last week and mentioned that I’ve been having difficulty finding a book to sink my teeth into, frequently hurling rejects across the room into a return-to-library pile. My friend said that sounded like a scene from A Room of One’s Own, I disagreed, then we determined to investigate the source of the “woman throwing book across room” image without the help of modern search technologies. Anything for a excuse to reread this absolute gem.
I must get this on the calendar for a regular re-read. Along with exploding patriarchal myths, delighting the senses, filling you with wit and laughter, it’s an exhortation to get out and write write write what you know (“the truer the facts, the better the fiction—so we are told”).
But no, there are no scenes of throwing a book across the room. Perhaps my friend was remembering that Woolf mentions a girl who refused to marry the man of her father’s choosing was liable to be beaten and “flung about the room,” or that upon reading a poorly constructed novel that doesn’t reveal the human condition, Woolf “heaves a sigh of disappointment and says, Another failure.” My friend later emailed that she thought it might be Becky Sharp’s character in Vanity Fair who does the tossing, and Becky herself makes an appearance in Woolf’s list of women who don’t lack in personality or character.
Something else that jumped out at me on this nth reading was that this work is truly the origin of the Bechdel test. It’s in the section where her fictitious author Mary Carmichael creates two characters (Olivia and Chloe) that talk about something other than men. “I tried to remember any case in the course of my reading where two women are represented as friends…. almost without exception they are shown in their relation to men.”
I’m in the midst of luxuriating in a leisurely read of Proust and appreciate Woolf’s comments on him in this:
- “Even so it remains obvious, even in the writing of Proust, that a man is terribly hampered and partial in his knowledge of women, as a woman in her knowledge of men.”
- “In our time Proust was wholly androgynous, if not perhaps a little too much of a woman.”
- “For the reading of these books [La Recherche du Temps Perdu] seems to perform a curious couching operation on the senses; one sees more intensely afterwards; the world seems bared of its covering and given an intenser life.” (I agree with Woolf—I have only been able to read a few paragraphs of Proust at a time without my heart bursting)
I’d forgotten that she explodes the myth of the starving artist in here as well, at the end, reinstating her demand for £500/year for these women to have the financial security to write. Quoting Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, Woolf notes “It may seem a brutal thing to say, and it is a sad thing to say: but, as a matter of hard fact, the theory that poetical genius bloweth where it listeth, and equally in poor and rich, holds little truth… the poor poet has not in these days, nor has had for two hundred years, a dog’s chance… a poor child in England has little more hope than had the son of an Athenian slave to be emancipated into that intellectual freedom of which great writings are born.”
Reading this in year 2 of McDonald Tr*mp, I enjoyed Woolf’s musing that anger is “somehow, the familiar, the attendant sprite on power… Rich people, for example, are often angry because they suspect that the poor want to seize their wealth.”
*** UPDATE ***
Apparently it was Becky Sharp who flung books around. Let’s not forget that Thackeray was the father of Virginia’s father’s first wife, e.g. a step-grandfather of sorts.
Fantastic book that exposes the negative effects of our current economic system and how we got there, along with steps to resist and change. The text comes from Tim Kasser’s lectures in a class taught at Knox College on alternatives to consumerism, made accessible to all attention spans by Larry Gonick’s drawings.
So much is packed in here, like the Schwartz circumplex that shows the ten human values in relation to each other—”universalism” diametrically opposed to “power” and “achievement” for example.
It includes a strangely muddled portrait of Thoreau as someone who valued life because he had tuberculosis, but the other examples of people who have thrown off the torments of modern life were new to me—Helen and Scott Nearing and Colin Beavan. Loved the idea of timebanks as a place to give and receive help/work without money, everyone sharing their expertise. And a great reminder about responsible investing, e.g. Parnassus Endeavor fund that avoids oil and tobacco stocks.
Manguso specializes in these tiny books. This was by far my favorite of the 3 I’ve read so far, a “short book composed entirely of what [she] hoped would be a long book’s quotable passages.”
The snippets appeal to minuscule attention spans like the one I’ve developed that keeps me tossing book after book into the reject pile. Somehow I made it through this unscathed.
A smattering of samples:
- “For a little attention, complain a little. For a lot of attention, stop complaining.”
- “The greatest commitments are to experiences with no known end points: friendship, marriage, parenthood, one’s own life.”
- “Bad art is from no one to no one. “
- “The difference between writers under thirty and writers over forty is that the former, like everyone their age, already know how to act like famous people: people whose job it is to be photographed.”
What do you get when you pair an amazing subject with a mediocre writer? This book. I suppose I should be grateful that Finkel fleshes out the story of Chris Knight, the Maine hermit that lived in the woods, surviving on junk food he foraged from nearby cabins for 28 years. Knight is an excellent subject, someone who took one look at civilization and immediately headed for isolation after he left high school. But the author smarms his way into the story and ruins it—once Knight is out of jail, he tells Finkel not to visit him, but of course Finkel ignores that. Knight admits that he’s not adjusting well and that his plan is to walk out on a winter night and die of hypothermia, so Finkel immediately starts dialing up therapists to get advice on what to do about this 6-month-in-the-future suicide plan. Finkel also dreams up some scheme to buy Knight his own cabin so he won’t have to live with his mom, but abandons it. Unfortunately, all of this spools off at the end, so I’m left with a terrible taste in my mouth after enjoying most of the book.
I guess another early clue that this was not a worthy read was when Finkel drops some Virginia Woolf references in, claiming that she might have had Asperger’s because she “killed herself.” (This in the section where people are trying to categorize what disorder Knight has.)
I did enjoy reading about Knight’s literary preferences, how he wished he had more Edna St. Vincent Millay around (a fellow Mainer), and his comments about Joyce’s Ulysses “What’s the point of it? I suspect it was a bit of a joke by Joyce…. Pseudo-intellectuals love to drop the name Ulysses as their favorite book. I refused to be intellectually bullied into finishing it.” Knight had a disdain for Thoreau (“he had no deep insight into nature”) but Emerson was ok. John Grisham novels were used as toilet paper. And “I don’t like people who like Jack Kerouac.” Amen, brother.
Best were descriptions of how Knight spent his time in the woods. “Mostly what he did was nothing. He sat on his bucket or in his lawn chair in quiet contemplation… ‘Daydreaming,’ he termed it. ‘Meditation. Thinking about things. Thinking about whatever I wanted to think about.'”
And this might be my favorite line in the book: “His closest companion may have been a mushroom.” Apparently he watched a shelf mushroom grow from the size of a watch face to a dinner plate over many years, which sounds simply dreamy.
I was pleasantly surprised by how readable this was. Early indications were that it was filled with typos and poorly written, but I found it entertaining and worth reading. It brings moments of guffaws as you relive the horror of the past 18 months, now with color commentary by the major players (Bannon, Spicer, etc.). The book will remind you of things you’d long forgotten, like the utterly disastrous attempt on Day 1 to placate the intelligence community by giving a weird speech at Langley that bragged about his own intelligence (“Trust me, I’m like a smart person”) and inflated the inauguration crowd size along with strange riffs about Iraq (“keep the oil”). It’s extremely gratifying to read the blow-by-blow account of the unraveling, even as we’re still stuck in this nightmare. I didn’t realize that nine of the top law firms turned down the chance to represent Tr*mp in the Russia investigation. Even scarier is the epilogue that Bannon is gearing up for his own 2020 run for the presidency.
My second Dodie Bellamy book was a much less ecstatic experience than reading The Buddhist a few years ago. Maybe the magic has worn off and I’m annoyed by all the insider gossip/name-dropping/self-reverential stuff. Yes, yes, you’re pals with Eileen Myles and knew Kathy Acker, how lovely.
This is a ragtag collection of essays of varying quality. I enjoyed Whistle While You Dixie briefly, her rants against the old adage that whistling women bring no good (“why is whistling a male thing?”) and pointing out the oddity of the sound itself (“Whistling is freakish, like a wheeze that has been unnaturally domesticated.”)
There are parts of other essays that are worthwhile, like Digging Through Kathy Acker’s Stuff wherein she badgers Matias for some jewelry he promised that she could have of Acker’s. In the essay, she mentions Acker responding to a talk Bellamy gave praising Acker and citing a passage that Acker later stated she stole from Juan Goytisolo. Bellamy admits that she was inspired by Acker’s thievery and pumped her novel Letters of Mina Harker full of “anything and everything that crossed my path.” But when the Bay Guardian reviewed the book and quoted a passage, it was a passage she’d ripped off from Gail Scott’s Heroine. Also learned that Acker used to hold her classes at Edinburgh Castle instead of at the Art Institute.
The excruciatingly long essay, In the Shadow of Twitter Towers, closes out the book. Lots of beefs with this one despite us sharing common sentiment about gentrification and tech killing the city. No one calls NEMA a Twitter Tower, for one thing. I did like her characterization of the Google buses: “slugs with dark eyeless windows – giant white slugs of capitalism clogging traffic with their slime.” She apparently lives on Minna St. a block away from the Uber HQ where cab drivers were protesting. “San Francisco won’t stop screeching as if its heart were being ripped out. A bad place doesn’t spring up on its own. Something creates it. Atrocity births ghosts; soulless gentrification herds the desperate into ghettos away from moneyed eyes of tourists… I say hi to a young guy at a bus stop and he turns his head away. I share a table in a cafe with a woman and she stares at her phone the entire meal, never acknowledging my presence. All these clean, clean people – I stare at them trying to crack the mystery of how they do it, walk down the street impeccable as a doll wrapped in plastic.” Bellamy even co-opts some text from Daphne Gottlieb to express her frustration: “Were you in another city, state, place, neighborhood that changed drastically because of a seizure by people with money? What did you do? Where did you go? I was just thinking that I haven’t been evicted (yet), but my culture has. I have been in San Francisco 24 years. San Francisco raised me. I don’t know if I could survive in the wild. Where do I go? What do I do?”
I got whiplash from reading this. Gordon’s tactic of alternating chapters about Mary Wollstonecraft with chapters about Mary Shelley was too much to bear. I couldn’t keep track of which Mary I was reading about, and which baby had just died, and which husband was off philandering and messing things up in general. After sucking it up and suffering all the way through to the end, I can appreciate the twinned structure in two areas—where she does back-to-back chapters of Shelley’s death by drowning against Mary Wollstonecraft’s death in childbirth pushing Mary Shelley into the world; also in the similar mangling that took place posthumously– Godwin forever ruining Wollestonecraft’s reputation by publishing bits she had excised from her own writing and Mary Shelley tightening up Shelley’s posthumous recollections to be acceptable to the greater world.
I’m happy to have learned a bit about both women, and extraneous bits picked up along the way, such as the utter solitude that the Shelleys experienced in Rome at the Baths of Caracalla where Shelley proclaimed “Never was any desolation more sublime and lovely.” I cannot imagine this spot not overrun by tourists, but life in 1819 was much different. Then again, there have been some improvements over the last 200 years, such as in birth control methods. It was appalling to read page after page of devastation and drama brought on by the ladies being yet again pregnant. Also appalling was Godwin’s pecuniary motives in writing to his daughter, always wheedling for money out of Shelley even after Godwin had shunned her for the impropriety of her relationship.
Poems by Alice Jones that seem dashed off on scraps of paper without being agonizingly edited; this could be good, fluid, etc. but instead they come off as thudding duds in love with their own rhyme and word play without wit. A blurb on the back notes their “blithe fluency”, the “blithe” nails it, the carelessness and thoughtlessness bothered me. It seems like a good idea at first, take a word and then hammer home its sound in line after line but somehow it fails. There is a lack of craft in these that reminds me of my own meager bits. Here are two of the least tedious examples.
Taking a word and forcing the rhyme:
A day with no more purpose than any other, perched and looking, the curlew’s calls, a fever waning: waht’s in purview now? After ginger and curcuma, parched and reaching for anything to satisfy a thirst that’s larger than this lake. What do you propose? After the cat-fight, fur flew around the yard for days until someone procured it to line a nest, only the best for her new eggs. The winning cat, now on curfew, bathes on her blue sill with a purr, viewing the courtyard, a few daffodils, also with no purpose, blooming.
Taking a word and referring to it without using it throughout (I’ve noted each use in [brackets]:
your stomach falls [sink] as the rapid transit zooms downhill [sink] going under [sink] the bay for seven minutes and you race along thinking how many feet of rock and mud and bay lie over your head, the weight of water there, unseen. The pot hole [sink] swallowed two lanes of traffic. We’d throw bottle caps into the deep end and they’d flutter as they descended [sink]. Oblivious to time, we dove to retrieve them over and over, until the sun would get low [sink] and our mother would call us home to dinner, then she’d stand there with the dishes she’d wash and wash [sink].
It doesn’t feel like Sandra Allen is using her uncle by exploiting his story. Not really. But kind of?
The author receives her uncle Bob’s manuscript as she’s on the cusp of discovering her own writerly chops, in grad school for writing. At first, she’s horrified by the racist, sexist screed, but she warms up to it and peels away the parts that can be used to tell the story of a boy (Bob) who grew up in Berkeley in the 1960s & 70s to a wealthy father divorced from his mother and who was first placed in a mental hospital at age 16, garnering the treatment we see on display in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – enforced drug treatments, syringes planted into his butt, drooling on himself, roughed up by guards.
In addition to editing Bob’s story, Sandra researches schizophrenia and her family’s reaction to Bob way back when. After many years of being bailed out of various situations by the wealthy dad, Bob’s stepmom eventually buys him some property 3 hours north of the Bay Area where he lives in a trailer then a small house for the rest of his life, on medication, on disability, but also getting checks from his dad (without which, his stepmom says he’d be on the street like all the other homeless schitzos).
If you’re looking for a gossipy, approachable, Page Six version of the lead up to WWI, this is the jackpot. Franz Ferdinand previously only existed for me as a name in a paragraph in a textbook (and later, as the band) until he was fleshed out in more detail here. Boiling with rage about the treatment of his un-royal wife (snubbed), trying desperately to keep Austria out of war with the Serbs, rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of early 20th century Vienna, Ferdinand was the leader we never got.
Vienna in 1913 has been well documented as the location of many unlikely bedfellows: Freud, Stalin, Lenin (nearby), Trotsky, and Hitler—who was outed as a trust funder by this book, that wily old dictator who by the way was deemed unfit for service by the Austrian army “too weak, incapable of bearing arms.” (Morton also describes him “doodling his way toward destiny” back in Munich as he tries to make a living as an artist.)
I love being reminded that there are historical precedents to the nightmare we’re currently enduring with McDonald Tr*mp—he seems like a reincarnation of Germany’s Kaiser Wilhelm, the inept idiot “who loved to wallow in borrowed glory” and whose ministers tried to keep him in the dark as long as possible about the impending war. His ministers “knew that the Kaiser was much better at attitudinizing gorgeously than at thinking cogently or feeling deeply… [with emotions that] were unsteady, unsure, manipulable.” They knew too well his “impulsiveness, unevenness, hollowness—the thunder of his tongue, the shaking of his knees.” They’d delay transmission of telegrams until he’s gone to bed so that he’d have a good night’s rest. Wilhelm also relied on stupid nicknames for people, like “Wrinkled Gypsy” and “Lanky Theo.”
Fun fact: WW1 was the first war where a telegram opened hostilities. Will WW3 be opened by a tweet?