"The Sun Also Rises" Revisited

A. Reasons that I resisted re-reading “The Sun Also Rises” (Scribner, 1926):
1. It is macho.
2. It is anti-semitic.
3. I don’t like to read about fishing (too boring).
4. I don’t like to read about bullfighting (too cruel and gory AND, somehow, simultaneously, too boring).
B. Reasons that I just re-read it anyway, for the first time since college:
1. I have been revisiting many books from those days.
2. I wanted to see how I felt about Hemingway’s style, and his short, declarative sentences, these many years later.
3. I still have a romanticized appreciation for depictions of the “Lost Generation” of Americans and their bohemian, literary life in Europe in the 1920s.
C. Reasons that I liked it again, despite myself:
1. The style is rather effective, after all.
2. I love the descriptions of the streets and cafes of Paris and of the landscapes and towns in Spain.
3. The character of Jake is intriguing, pathetic, honorable, and even endearing.
4. The doomed romance between Jake and Brett is moving.
5. Brett, despite her extreme carelessness with her various lovers’ feelings, is a woman who acts on her own desires at a time when not many women were able to do so. However, unfortunately, she never seems happy, and ends as a sad, forlorn character. (Although, come to think of it, most of the male characters end as sad, forlorn characters as well. Equal-opportunity anomie?)
D. Reservations I still have:
1. The expatriate literary generation seemed to spend a lot less time writing or working than I remembered the novel's portraying, and a lot more time drinking – drinking a LOT! Yes, they hung out in (practically lived in) the famous cafes and bars of Paris and Pamplona, but they weren’t having conversations about literature or other intellectual topics; they mainly drank (and drank and drank and drank) and spoke in short, declarative sentences that didn’t give away much.
2. The novel is still macho and anti-semitic, and I still don’t like to read about bullfighting.

"Cinderella Ate My Daughter"

"Cinderella Ate My Daughter" (Harper, 2011). Catchy title, isn't it? The subtitle is "Dispatches from the Front Lines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture." Peggy Orenstein previously (1994) wrote "Schoolgirls: Young Women, Self-Esteem, and the Confidence Gap," in which she described her close observation of girls in two middle schools; it was excellent research about an important topic. In this new book, Orenstein, who now has a young daughter of her own, describes the increasingly narrow focus of marketing to very young girls, at least partially fueled by the Disney films and by all the associated items sold to/for young girls. First, every little girl is a princess, and dressed in pink, with costumes, tiaras, and sparkles. Then as she gets older and follows the example of Miley Cyrus and other early teen celebrities, she dresses in a "hot," sexy version of the sparkling pink clothes. Orenstein ponders the paradox that girls and women now have so many more educational and career options, yet the emphasis on girls' looking and behaving a certain way seems ever more restrictive. This author has a talent for close observation and the telling anecdote, backed up with research. Her worries about raising her own daughter in this atmosphere are palpable, and provide a unifying thread throughout the book. She has no definitive answers, but does stimulate thought; she advocates more awareness, more communication with daughters, and hopes that parental awareness will start a movement for change, just as more awareness about nutrition has made some difference in policy, practice and even corporations. This book is short and very readable; I recommend it to all parents and others who care about the future of our children.

On "Middlemarch"

There's a very thoughtful essay by Rebecca Mead on George Eliot and "Middlemarch" in the Feb. 14 & 21, 2011 issue of The New Yorker. Titled "Middlemarch and Me," it speaks of Mead's lifelong relationship with the novel. From studying and passionately admiring it at 17 to her current analysis in her mid-forties, her view of the book has evolved as she has gotten older and experienced more of life. She reminds us that Virginia Woolf famously called it "one of the few English novels written for grown-up people." Mead believes that "Middlemarch" "is also a book about how to BE a grownup person -- about how to bear one's share of sorrow, failure, and loss, as well as to enjoy moments of hard-won happiness." Continuing with this idea, she believes that Eliot's work shows "that individuals must make their best efforts towards a worthy end, but it is the effort toward a goal, rather than the achievement of it, that makes us who we are." It is a sober, and sobering, attitude, one that comes with maturity. Yet it is in a way also hopeful, giving validation for effort, and for both the trials and small triumphs of everyday life. I have always believed that "Middlemarch" contains much wisdom, the wisdom of Eliot's maturity and deep intelligence, and this essay by Mead explores that idea in a most engaging and thought-provoking way.

"Leaving Bayberry House"

"Leaving Bayberry House" (John Daniel, 2010) is a new novel by Ann L. McLaughlin, whose 2002 novel, "The House on Q Street," I wrote about on 2/5/11. This novel, like the earlier one, portrays the difficulties and psychological residue of World War II on families in the United States. In 1973, two sisters, Angie and Liz, are taking a week out of their lives to revisit and prepare their extended family's summer house in order to sell it. The book alternates between that week in 1973 and flashbacks to the wrenching events that happened to the family during the wartime years. There is a certain amount of suspense as we readers try to figure out what the main tragic event (although there are several family tragedies) for the family was, the one that has scarred Angie and Liz ever since. There is also discussion of current family problems that the sisters are struggling with regarding their own husbands and children. Matters come to a head at the end of the week when other family members unexpectedly visit and when the sisters are finally able to speak openly to each other about their memories of the family rifts and the sad events that changed their lives forever. The two sisters, and their ambivalent but ultimately loving relationship, are movingly portrayed. The other characters in the story -- including the parents of the two sisters -- tend to be less well developed. The most interesting aspect of this novel is the depiction of the long lasting psychological effects of the past on the present.

New York Magazine

New York is one of the magazines I read as soon as it arrives, and always enjoy. Although ostensibly a city magazine (and I enjoy articles, reviews, and listings about New York), it is actually a national magazine, in the way that The New Yorker is a national magazine. It publishes articles on politics, culture, art, literature, and people in the news. The "voice" of New York is quite different than that of The New Yorker: a bit more combative, "in-your-face," and sometimes snarky. I always learn something new about something different from every issue. And it is fun to read. Sometimes it borders on gossipy, and that's OK with me. I also honor the magazine for publishing the preview issue of Ms. Magazine as an insert to New York, in 1971.

On Getting Caught Up in "Just Kids"

Reading "Just Kids" (HarperCollins, 2010), by the great singer, performer, writer and artist Patti Smith, about her life and work during the 60s, 70s, and 80s, was mesmerizing for me. Why? Because I lived through that era. Because although I was a middle-class girl living a mostly conventional life, I tasted some of the adventures and pleasures of that era, and loved the music and art of the time. Because the milieu of art, jazz, rock, literature, and alternative cultures was something we all swam in at the time, if mostly vicariously. Because it all seemed impossibly romantic and creative. Because I listened to Patti Smith's music over and over again, and over the years have often heard the amazing lines from her "Horses" album in my head. Because I bought the "Horses" CD recently, although I have a very old copy of the album in a box in our garage. Because when I played the CD a couple of months ago, it brought so many memories back. Because it was fascinating although sometimes very sad to learn more about the exciting, scary, sometimes homeless and poverty-stricken, but always creative, early years of Smith and her soulmate and companion, the artist/photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. Because it was touching to learn more of all they were to each other, and of how loyal and inspiring they were to each other. Because she writes so tenderly about him. Because she writes so well. And again, because she evokes an amazing era.

Where Do Writers Write?

Most readers are curious about writers' writing habits, including where they write. In recent (2/4/11 and 2/6/11) Writer's Almanac entries, there were notes about two unusual writing location habits. First, Robert Coover once spent a month alone in a primitive cabin on a "remote Canadian island," just reading and writing. I think everyone who writes, and especially those who have been fortunate to go on writing retreats of various types, fantasizes about this kind of opportunity for complete, uninterrupted focus on one's writing. Whether most people could actually do something like Coover did is another question. Second, Eric Partridge went to and wrote at the same desk in the British Library every single day for 50 years. There is something admirable and appealing about such pure, focused, lifelong discipline.

"Pictures of You"

“Pictures of You” (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2011), by Caroline Leavitt, starts out with -- literally –- a bang. A car crash in the fog has one fleeing wife accidentally hitting and killing another. The surviving woman is devastated, as are the dead woman’s husband and son. Despite this dramatic start, the novel proceeds in fits and starts, and –- dare I say it –- drags for most of the book. It picks up a bit at the end, but never manages to be as compelling as its premise promises. There is a lot of mystery about things that turn out to be not all that mysterious. All the characters seem immobilized, and although the reader sympathizes with them, it is hard to feel very involved with them. The character of April, the woman who dies, is so contradictory, with no bridge between the two sides of her character, that she is almost unbelievable as a character. The most interesting and touching character is Sam, April’s nine year old son; Sam gradually grows to love Isabelle, the woman who survives, first as an “angel” and then as a sort of surrogate mother, but this does not work out. There is a lovely coda to the book, a sort of belated reward to the reader who has made it to the end of the novel, but by that time, it is a matter of too little, too late.

"In India"

On 1/17/11 I wrote about going to the Henri Cartier-Bresson exhibit at SFMOMA and how impressed and moved I was by the array of this artist's photographs representing so many years in so many places around the world. Before I left the museum, I bought one of the photographer's books, "In India" (Thames & Hudson, 1987), in the museum bookstore. Ever since, I have been poring over these amazing 105 black and white photographs taken in the 1940s, 50s, and 60s. They are both beautifully composed and carefully observant of people; almost always, the focus is people. Some are famous (e.g., Gandhi); some are maharajas; most are "ordinary" people on the streets, in shops, washing clothes in the river, studying classical dance, fishing, and much more. As some of you know, I spent much of my childhood in India, during the 1950s and 1960s, so these photographs are particularly evocative for me, especially those taken in the south of India, where we lived; the names Hyderabad and Madurai bring back specific memories of visits and events there. I know I will continue to look at these photographs again and again. The book includes a foreword by the famed film director Satyajit Ray, as well as an introduction by Yves Vequand. For anyone interested in India or simply in beautiful, perceptive photography of human beings in all their variety, I highly recommend this book.

"Villages"

I have been reading the late John Updike's books on and off for years, although more the books of his early and middle writing years than of his later years. However, I just finished listening to the CD of his 2004 novel, "Villages" (Random House; Books on Tape), read by Edward Herrmann, and I enjoyed it very much. Updike's prose is just so good! And listening to a novel on CD forces me to slow down and savor the language. (Sometimes I tend to read too fast). There is also something endearing about Updike, and his main characters (surrogates?), that is hard to resist. This novel is the life story of Owen Mackenzie, who is 70 at the end of the novel; the novel thus encompasses the period from the 1930s to the early 21st century. As Owen's career was in technology, we see the changes wrought during that time period, especially related to computers. But the more essential themes are twofold. First, as the title indicates, Owen organizes his life and world view through the lens of the three "villages" he has lived in: his childhood home in a small town in Pennsylvania; his adult life in Middle Falls, Connecticut, where most of his career took place, and where he raised a family; and his retirement locale with his second wife Julia in Haskells Crossing, Massachusetts. Owen enjoys the feeling of being part of a community; he feels connected, noticed, and cherished in each of these "villages." The second main theme is his lifelong fascination with, love for, and entanglements with women. He loves sex and is often unfaithful to his adored first wife; his sexual encounters and affairs are a major part of the story. But what comes across about this theme is Owen's intense and almost humble appreciation and even awe of women, their strengths, their individuality, and of course their bodies, which he describes in loving detail. These descriptions, curiously, do not come across as erotic as much as loving, amazed, and grateful. Again, this is rather endearing. I will say, though, that by the end of the novel, I was a little tired of the endless and minutely detailed descriptions of the women he was involved with, and of the particulars of their physical characteristics.

Problems Commenting on This Blog?

Dear readers,
Some readers have told me that they are unable to comment on this blog. Mostly people who are "followers" (becoming a follower is easy!) have been able to comment, but not always. I am checking into this, as much as I can with my rather limited technological adeptness, but in the meanwhile, you are always very welcome to comment directly to me by email; I very much appreciate and enjoy hearing from you about the blog and its topics. My email address is: vandricks@usfca.edu. That address is also listed in my profile on the blog. Thanks for reading the blog!
Stephanie

"Yarn: Remembering the Way Home"

I read Kyoko Mori's memoir, "The Dream of Water," and her book of essays, "Polite Lies," some years ago. Mori has also published three novels; I have not read those. I have just finished reading her new memoir, "Yarn: Remembering the Way Home" (GemmaMedia, 2010). In this book, Mori recapitulates and continues the story of her mother's suicide in Japan, her own moving to the United States for college and eventually becoming a professor of English, and her unusual marriage that is amicable but wobbly, and eventually ends in divorce. While she lives and teaches in the smallish town of Green Bay, Wisconsin, she feels like an outsider, yet gradually finds connections through meeting fellow knitters, weavers, and spinners. Her deep engagement with learning about and practicing these crafts with ever-increasing skill and art (and no small investment of time and money in materials, classes, a studio, and more) provides her with a community, as well as a way of making sense of her life. She remembers her late mother's sewing, and feels connected to her through her own creations of sweaters, mittens, shawls, and more. Although her mother's depression and death, and her stepmother's cruelty, cast a long, deep shadow continuing into Mori's adult life, she is eventually able through sheer will to make a productive and even happy life for herself. What stands out to me in this memoir is, first, the constant tension between Mori's need for connection and her need for solitude, and, second, how hard she has had to work to achieve a reasonable portion of peace and happiness. I don't personally knit or sew or weave, but in this book, Mori makes me understand how those arts can be creative, satisfying, and even a lifeline at times.

Guest Blog: Another Twist on Lending Libraries

After I wrote on 2/6/11 about lending/rental libraries in Austen's day and now on Bookswim, my friend B. e-mailed with a memory from her childhood in Detroit. I thought it was a great follow-up to that post, and upon my request, she agreed for me to post her comments here, below. Thanks, B.!

"After reading your blog about rental libraries, I thought that you'd like to hear from one (not quite as old as Jane Austen) who remembers rental libraries. When I was a kid in the late 30's and early 40's, my local drugstore had a rack of paperbacks (they were the latest thing) as well as some hard-cover books that could be rented for a period of days -- not sure of the precise period -- and the cost was perhaps 5 cents a day. Ancient history! Something I hadn't thought of for ages. Publication of books was restricted because of the shortage of paper during the war years (don't know the cause of this shortage) and paper quality was poor, so perhaps this rental business at that time was the result of short supplies. Young readers loved the idea because it was cheaper than buying a book and faster than waiting on the library list for the latest hot item. Thanks for the jog to my memory...."

A Tribute to The Nation Magazine

I have written here about some (The New Yorker, Ms., Vanity Fair) of the magazines I read regularly, enjoy, and learn from. Today I would like to pay tribute to The Nation. I have been reading this magazine pretty steadily for most of my adult life. Founded in 1865, the weekly The Nation provides progressive perspectives, information we don’t find elsewhere, and questioning of the status quo. In addition, it offers thought-provoking columns by such writers as Katha Pollitt, Patricia Williams, and Eric Alterman, and excellent coverage of “Books & the Arts.” It also has a long tradition of publishing poetry, something too few magazines do. And then there are Calvin Trillin’s short, humorous-but-serious poems commenting on what is happening in the world, especially the world of politics, and skewering certain hypocritical politicians. The Nation’s articles and columns often make us uncomfortable, make us see matters from new perspectives, and make us realize how essential it is to supplement mainstream press coverage with other perspectives. I want to thank The Nation for its long tradition of journalism with a progressive perspective, and for fearlessly speaking out for all people and against prejudice and injustice.

From Mudie's Lending Library to Bookswim

A 1/31/11 New Yorker article, “The Borrowers,” by Patricia Marx, discusses the many things that can be rented these days, including designer clothes and bags, works of art, baby equipment, kayaks, robots, and even family members and friends (e.g., someone to act as one’s parent, spouse, or platonic friend, as needed; one resourceful, if less than ethical, student rented fake parents to meet with his college dean during his disciplinary proceedings). What caught my eye, however, was that books can be rented as well. I knew, working at a university, that textbooks could be rented. But in addition, according to Marx, anyone can subscribe to Bookswim, which operates something like Netflix, delivering your chosen books to your mailbox. Apparently we have come full circle from the days of Austen and, a little later, the Victorians, when subscription-based lending libraries, such as the famous Mudie’s Lending Library, were common, especially among the middle and upper middle classes. Many young women, especially, paid their guinea a year subscription fee to be able to borrow the latest novels, one at a time. Such membership-only libraries existed in Austen’s Meryton and Sanditon, among others of her settings. From Fanny Burney’s and Jane Austen’s subscription libraries to Bookswim: "what goes around comes around”? But the idea that only some people could afford to buy or rent books back then reminds me of one important and democratic difference (besides that nowadays the book rentals take place on the Internet!) in the present: nowadays we are fortunate to have free public libraries where everyone can afford to borrow books.

"The House on Q Street"

"The House on Q Street" (John Daniel, 2002), by Ann L. McLaughlin, is the story of the family of an American atomic physicist during World War II. As the father works on a secret wartime project (you can guess which one) with very mixed feelings and increased anxiety and guilt, the mother and two daughters feel increasingly deserted by him, and have to continue their own lives mostly without his presence. The main character, Joey, is ten years old at the beginning of the story, in 1942, and we watch her and her older sister Maddie grow up as they adapt to living in a new house in a new city (Washington, DC) and going to a new school, with secrets and changes all around them. Their mother suffers, and drinks too much for a while, but does better when she takes a job at a center for soldiers; Maddie is angry at her father and acts out a bit as a young adolescent; and Joey becomes attached to some of the military men and women who rent rooms in the family house, finds fulfillment as an actress in school plays, especially "Antigone," and tries to bring everyone together, make everyone happy, and fix what sometimes seems to be a broken family. The novel shows, in a way not often seen in American literature, how hard the war was even for those safely in the United States mainland. The main draw of this book, however, is the character of Joey, whom the author portrays with such authenticity, such understanding, that she jumps off the pages and has readers pulling for her and for her family to regain a normal life and to find happiness and fulfillment.

Feminist, Activist, Writer and Heroine Dr. Nawal El Saadawi

My friend C.C. sent me a link (http://video.nytimes.com/video/2011/02/03/opinion/1248069611811/undaunted-in-tahrir-square.html) to a short New York Times video showing the now 80-year-old Dr. Nawal El Saadawi -- physician, writer, feminist, activist, and heroine -- at one of the protests in Egypt, celebrating and cheering on the protesters. I have read her publications over the past 25 years or so, and am a great admirer of her and her work. El Saadawi was one of the first women in the Middle East to speak out courageously about the situation of women, and she was often shunned and even imprisoned for her views. But she has kept writing and speaking up, apparently undaunted, and seeing her on the video with her obviously undimmed passion for freedom and equality is inspiring and moving. El Saadawi has written many books: novels, political/social nonfiction, autobiography/memoir, and more. One of her most famous books, her novel "Woman at Point Zero," had a major impact, with its brave and frank portrayal of how women's inequality often leads to abuse and desperation. I am in awe at the courage, strength, persistence, and passionate pursuit of freedom and equity personified by this great woman writer, Nawal El Saadawi, and I write about her here in order to honor and thank her.

We DO Judge a Book by its Cover

A 1/30/11 San Francisco Chronicle review by Seth Lerer of a book about J. D. Salinger noted with interest Salinger's "control over the cover design of his book ["Catcher in the Rye']...[He] 'instructed Bantam on what typeface to use, the precise size and kerning of its characters.'" Apparently Salinger "'even mailed a swatch of the exact color he wanted used for the book's cover....To this day, Salinger's design arguably remains the most beloved and cherished book presentation in American literary history.'" I find this fascinating. It is true that certain individual book covers are iconic. Certain trade paperback series covers are also evocative, to me, of classics read in college classes: the Penguin Classics, for example, or the Riverside Editions, or Vintage Books. I can still see in my mind's eye the piles of books bought for certain literature classes, with their crisp and familiar cover designs. Certainly book covers elicit certain emotions and visceral reactions, and publishers know that covers can make a difference in sales. To me the cover is part of the whole physical, tactile, visual, multi-sense experience of holding and reading a book. The design may be iconic, may be vivid, may be subdued, may be minimalist; whatever it is, it is a part of the character and identity of the book.