My father passed away on the 16th. Hope to resume the blog soon.
This summer (I’m writing this in mid-August), my reading took an expected turn when I discovered a podcast that might as well have been made to order for my interests: Backlisted, which is about old books. I don’t recall what put me on to it, but looking over their list of old episodes, I saw many writers I already liked, and sensed that whatever these folks picked out to discuss would be of interest to me one way or the other. Each episode was so full of enticing descriptions of books that even though I already had a to-read pile that was sufficient for summer, I wanted to read NOW.
A cock-eyed ramble among the seaside towns of Kent, taking in the weird, the violent, the homosexual, the gossipy, the scandalous, the atmospheric,the readerly and literary, the murderous, the psychologically-twisted, imporverished, the fascistic, mysterious, pathetic, minor celebrity adjacent, in a mélange of deep inquiries and rambling anecdote given out by the kind of slightly spooky great talker whom you both want to listen to forever and back away from slowly. I read the book again a day or two after finishing it, and then lent it to a friend.
Also read “Darkness Falls From the Air” by Nigel Balchin, a world war two story of London in the blitz, which again, I’d never have heard of, and which was compared, on the podcast, to Greene’s “The End of the Affair” much to the detriment of the latter (a book I’ve loved a time or two.) This one is about a government official in London who’s allowing his beloved wife to have an affair with a literary twep because it’s the war and who is he to preclude her from having a life while they wait for the big bombing to begin, except that of course while he’s being very polite and repressed and civilized about it, he hates it. It’s mostly dialogue of the kind that you long to hear coming from the black and white mouths of Bacall and Bogart, though they wouldn’t really do those clipped upperish English 1930s voices. I imagined them though, with maybe Leslie Howard as the squirrely lover. A perfect downer of a book, which I mean in the sense that it’s melancholy, the inevitability of its surprises, and its ending, worked completely, a perfect unit of hope and despair.
With no prompt from this podcast, but because of a Meet-up reading group I really wanted to get off my butt and attend (that is, the small part of my psyche that wants to get off and usually is squashed by the larger part that wants to stay recumbent), I read The Alexandria Quartet of Lawrence Durrell. I owned thse books, and had tried, off and on since the 1980s, to read “Justine“, always falling out in the first 30 pages with a sense that the characters and narration and apparent emotional situation of the story were overwhelmingly pretentious. This time, with the idea that I’d go meet other people and hear what they thought of it, I persisted, and pretty much a page or so after my old falling-off point, I was gripped, and realized that in fact this book was just the kind I like best, set in a strange location, slightly overwrought, vivid, difficult to track, and soaked in all five senses. And then as I read the rest of the quartet I was delighted to find it was one of those works that delves into point of view, into how inaccurate are our perceptions of one another, how unknowable everything is. As the subsequent books reveal the apparent ‘reality’ that’s concealed from the narrator of “Justine”, worlds open up. And ultimately the overwroughtness of it all was just the kind of overwroughtness that I eat up with a spoon.
What I’m reading right now: “The Year of Reading Dangerously” by Andy Miller, which makes me want to shout: “Comrade!” (I tweeted the author my compliments), “Maiden Voyage” by Denton Welch, and “Hotel Du Lac” by Anita Brookner.
Finding exciting books and a revival of my reading intensity is this year’s one bright spot, in the midst of freelance longueurs, the collapse of my aged parents’ independence, and our appalling political dilemmas. A cliche to say reading is a life-line, but for me it’s literally true; I don’t know if I’d have made it out of my childhood much less this far, without books. (I may write more about why this is, but not yet.)
Finally, I’m new to the book-and-reader-blogging world, and frankly don’t know where to begin there either. I suppose I’ll find like-minded bloggers (and readers) bit by bit. Meanwhile, comments welcome.
Not happy with the tone and voice of this — nor the title, which I keep shifting around. I’m working on making all this more exciting for my (theoretical for now) readers. I want to share my enthusiasm for the books I read, and these days I’ve (mostly) turned my back on new fiction in favor of novels whose pub date begins with 19–, and which have either been lining my home shelves for years, or brought to my attention by other bookish people.
That said, I’m currently reading two recently novels, The Ninth Hour by Alice McDermott, and All We Shall Know by Donal Ryan. Ha.
Finished “Look at Me” by Anita Brookner yesterday, and rolling it over in my mind. If I had to describe this book to someone, how would I do it? If I just said a few sentences about the story — it’s about a young woman living a prematurely staid solo life, who seizes an opportunity to join the entourage of a glamorous couple, even as she’s wary of giving up the freedom of the solitude in order to have a brimming social life. That really doesn’t convey much, because, a novel isn’t so much about what as about how.
I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, but “Look at Me” struck me as an especially good example because my experience of the main character kept shifting as I read. It’s the story, told in first-person, of a young Londoner named Frances; she works at a medical picture library, seems to be socially isolated, and lives in her childhood apartment where her mother has recently died and their old housekeeper still resides. The flat is in a building full of elderly people. Frances describes herself as an observer; she sees herself as polite and correct and other people as more or less out of control; most of them are unattractive, and those who are, like Nick and Alix, are almost supernaturally superior. Drawn into their orbit, Frances undergoes popularity and its sudden withdrawal. The wound she suffers swings her back to her earlier impulse to live in a solitary way.
I kept asking myself how I felt about Frances; was I taking her at her word, was I willing to be in general sympathy with her, was she deluded, or trying to delude the reader, and was I over-or-under estimating how much? In a way, was I reading this book as Brookner intended it to be read? Frances went in and out of focus as I went along. She also reminded me keenly of myself. The theme of loneliness and solitude, and how they push-pull against each other, two sides of the same state, something to suffer and then quickly to covet, depending on how one feels on any given day, is something I’ve endured (and welcomed, and hated, and loved and felt powerless against) all my life.
Some years back I stopped reading blurbs on fiction almost entirely. The standard question when someone recommends a book is often “What’s is about?” I’ve been guilty of this non-question all my life; when I was younger I often used the answer to make a snap judgment about whether I was interested in the book. On my frequent visits to the public library, it was almost entirely the blurb (after the image on the cover, and the title) that made me decide to borrow the book; I seldom opened it at random to sample the actual writing. Then, after reading some books that, based on their jacket copy, I would have rejected, I found my feelings about this changing. I finally started to see that the ‘aboutness’ of a novel is often irrelevant. It’s the ‘whoness’ and the ‘howness’, it’s the flow of the prose, it’s the ineffable, individual attraction or not to how a writer lays out her stall. More and more I wanted to go into a novel with no preconceptions, other than having heard that it was worthwhile. I wanted to meet the opening paragraphs, the writing and characterization, in an open state. I’m really glad I’ve made this swerve. Now I’ll read the blurb when I’m finished, to see how this marketing squib compares with my own reading experience.
Good blurb writing is an art — one or two paragraphs to hint at characters and their dilemmas, pique curiosity so a look turns into a purchase. I imagine the kind of mind — which seems not to be my kind of mind — that can digest a novel, pick out its key theme and intrigue, and set it out with the tight impact of an unrhymed sonnet.
*Rewatched all of BoJack Horseman on Netflix ahead of watching the new season, and was delighted again by the subplot in which, called out of his self-imposed exile to produce a TV show about anything he wants, JD Salinger pitches “Hollywoo Celebs and Stars! What Do They Know?! Do The Know Things?! Lets Find Out!”
I’m one of those compulsive, serious readers-for-pleasure, and always have been. So it surprises me how much I struggle when I’m confronted by the opportunity to write something about a book. At the sight even of something as casual as a Goodreads comment window, something in me squeezes up and says HELL TO THE NO, it’s too hard, and whatever I write will fail in any way to resemble what I actually think. Probably this traces back to one of the many banes of my childhood, the Book Report.
These probably started in 3rd grade or so–you’d be assigned to read a particular book, or else allowed to choose one for yourself–and then you had to write a Book Report when you’d finished, and hand it in for a grade. Now, this always seemed to me like a huge punishment for reading. A minority, a very small one, sometimes it seemed, just me, in my school liked to read. Not just to read in school, for school, but to read all the time, to constantly bring books back from the library, to attempt books that were too hard for me, and so on. In this was joy and wonder, excitement and curiosity. In a required Book Report, there was Topic Sentences, Plot Synopses, and Themes (pause to shudder). Having to come up with these, in paragraphs, seemed to snatch away all the richness and pride and secret accomplishment inherent in having read a book, in owning its story and characters inside my own mind, and replace it with a heap of dry Wheatena. It took the book away from me and made me belong to someone else–the teacher, and his expectations. It confiscated the marvelous story and gave me back a list of ways in which I was doing it wrong. All I wanted to do in this scenario was squirm; get it done as quickly as possible so I could back to what was really interesting: my pile of library books.
Hence, though I went on to become a college English major, a writer of fiction, and a professional copywriter, I’ve always baulked at how to “write up” my reading experiences. I’ll long to reach out to the world — even if only in the form of one or two randos on the internet — and share the real depths of my unique enthusiasm and appreciation for a novel, only to find myself throwing out a few dry sticks of stilted colorless description. (This doesn’t happen when I can talk about a book–a conversation with someone who has recently read the same book, or loves the same
Henry Jameswriters that I do, which doesn’t happen to me as often as I’d wish, is usually lively and wide-ranging and bubbling over with information, opinions, delight.)
It was with the idea of somehow overcoming this that I began this blog.
It’s giving me a lot of unease, this blog, because it’s just bringing up all these blockages and bad Book Report memories. There’s a tone and energy I’d like this blog to have that so far it completely lacks. My energies feel too po-faced, and vague. I keep changing the title of the blog, all of which strike as pretentious, and that’s a good sign that I’m still not sure what I want it to be, or how I can get it to be that way.
Maybe the title ought to just be Bad Book Report. Hmmm.
But I intend to persist.
… I didn’t finish reading my favorite chapter books. Not because I wasn’t a good reader, or lacked stick-to-it-iveness. (I did lack that, according to certain adults in my life, who didn’t seem to notice it wasn’t the case when it came to things I cared about.) They were my favorites because I liked their set-ups, settings, characters, illustrations, dialogues and set-pieces, but I did not like when their plots kicked in and their climaxes loomed. I wanted to be it with the characters, not find out how it would end. Why must it end at all? I borrowed them from the library over and over: “Harriet the Spy” and “The Long Secret”, “From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs Basil E Frankweiler”, “The Egypt Game”, “A Wrinkle in Time”. Most of them — including others not listed here, I never read all the way through. The exception is the Harriet books — as an adult I wanted to know what those were about and to understand the things in them that, as a kid, had gone right over my head, especially what all those adults out in Water Mill were really up to.
“I am such a fanatic myself on the subject of form, style, the evidence of intention and meditation, of chiseling and hammering out in literary things that I am afraid I am rather a cold-blooded judge, rather likely to be offensive to a young story-teller on the question of quality. I am not sure that yours strikes me as quite so ferociously literary as my ideal.”
God, I love Henry James.
(Not frequently depicted as the bicycling type.)
“I suppose that is why I write, in order to recompose events, to make them sharper, funnier, than they really were. Above all, funnier. I write to be hard. I do not intend to spare any feelings, except, of course, my own.”
The narrator of Anita Brookner’s 1983 novel, “Look At Me”, who I suspect is riding for a major fall.
Trying to spare my own feelings has taken me up many writing no-thoroughfares, so I recognized myself in this.