Books Keep Moving Around

Books keep moving around in my life. They come in to my house from the library, they return to the library. I buy some, then either give them to friends or the library for the library sale, only keeping a few. I move books from home to my office and back. I buy books for others, bring them home, then give them to family and friends. I lend books to friends. Recently when a colleague/friend whose office was across from mine retired, he put piles of books out for others to take if they wanted; I couldn’t resist taking a few, although I don’t have much more space in my office for more books. Other times I have been the one putting books out for others to take. When I have textbooks I no longer need, or don’t think I will use, I put them in our department resource room. Although I certainly have kept some books for a long time, and treasure having them in my home or office, I also feel happy when I return books to the library or to a friend, or pass books on to my mom or daughter or to the library or to a friend. I feel good about the idea of books circulating among many, rather than always retiring quietly to one person’s bookshelves.

"Unpacking My Library: Writers and Their Books"

Are you constantly curious about what other people are reading? When you go to people’s houses or offices, do you surreptitiously run your eyes over the books on their bookshelves? “Unpacking My Library: Writers and Their Books” (Yale, 2011), edited by Harvard English Professor Leah Price, offers a rare opportunity to exercise this curiosity. First, it is a lovely, horizontally rectangular hardback book, with thick, sturdy, coated pages, inviting you in. Second, it is full of gorgeous photos of writers’ bookshelves throughout their houses. The writers are (including three couples who share chapters) Alison Bechdel; Stephen Carter; Junot Diaz; Rebecca Goldstein and Stephen Pinker; Lev Grossman and Sophie Gee; Jonathan Lethem; Claire Messud and James Wood; Philip Pullman; Gary Shteyngart; and Edmund White. Each writer’s section starts with an overview photo of the shelves in her/his/their rooms. This is followed by several pages of up-close photos of shelves, close enough to easily read the titles and see the condition of the books: some old and grand, some in sets, some dog-eared and falling-apart paperbacks, some interspersed with other objects, some perfectly packed in, some crammed in every which way. Also in each writer’s chapter is a brief interview with the editor, on such questions as when the writers started acquiring books, whether they keep everything or regularly pass books on, what kind of shelves they use and why, their system of organizing their books, and where else in the house they have books (kitchen, bedroom, bathroom?). One interesting question asked of the couples was whether they kept their books separate or “interfiled.” (The answer was generally combined, but with a clear awareness of who had brought each book into the relationship.) One more delight in each chapter is the list of the writer’s “Top Ten Books” on one page, and a photo of those ten books on the facing page. I thoroughly enjoyed perusing the various bookshelves. I was pleased to note that many of the writers chose among their Top Ten some of my most-loved books: for example, several chose one of Virginia Woolf’s novels; a couple chose George Eliot’s “Middlemarch”; a couple more chose one or more of Jane Austen’s novels; and one chose an Alice Munro short story collection. This book is a delight. What an abundance of information, photos, and the sheer joy of books!

On Stopping Reading “The Vanishers,” by Heidi Julavits

I kept hearing about Heidi Julavits. She was a founding editor of The Believer magazine. Her novels are praised for their originality. But the reviews of her first three novels never quite drew me in. So when I read about her new novel, “The Vanishers” (Doubleday, 2012), I thought that this time I would try to read it. It sounded intriguing: It features a young protagonist named Julie who is studying at an institute for psychics. Her powers are increasing, which the proprietor of the institute, Madame Ackermann, finds threatening; she casts a sort of spell on Julie. Julie struggles with this problem at the same time she is reliving her mother’s long-ago suicide and looking for answers. The psychic part isn’t really up my alley, but the character and story sounded compelling. I got a few pages into the book, and realized it felt like uphill work. My interest was flagging. I pushed through a little bit longer. I got to about page 40; I am not sure which page exactly, because I kept falling asleep and losing my place. The next day I thought maybe I had just been too tired to read the night before, so I persisted a little longer. It didn’t work. Finally I gave up and gave in to my inclination to just stop reading it. Suddenly I felt liberated. Good, I didn’t have to read it! And just like that, it went onto the “return to the library” pile. A relief. I don’t mean to say it isn’t a good novel; the reviews I have read have been excellent. But for some reason it is not a novel I want to read, or at least I don’t want to read now. I long ago decided that I didn’t have to have a reason to stop reading a book I wasn’t enjoying; not enjoying it was enough of a reason.

On Trying Not to Repeat Myself

I have been writing this blog long enough now (a little over two years) that I occasionally can’t remember if I have already written about a certain author or topic. I do have a “system” of keeping track; it is elementary and low-tech, but it works. I have a document on which I list all my post titles by date, and also by category (books, authors, reading, lists, etc.); whenever I do a new post, I immediately enter that information on those lists. However, now that I am up to almost 600 posts, if I have a question about a prior post, or a possible prior post, even looking up a specific topic is not absolutely simple or quick. The “find” function on Word is helpful but not infallible. I would be highly embarrassed if I repeated myself. Although probably very few readers would remember, I am guessing someone would. So I hope my memory, backed up by my recording system, keeps me from making that mistake!

"Eminent Outlaws: The Gay Writers Who Changed America"

The title of Christopher Bram’s new book, “Eminent Outlaws: The Gay Writers Who Changed America” (Twelve, 2012), says it all. Bram, himself a gay novelist, traces the lives and work and increasing visibility of gay writers in the U.S. and their books, plays, and poetry, as gay literature moved from being veiled and indirect when addressing gay themes and characters to being much more open. Progress was not linear, however; at times these writers suffered when they were "too" open, and sometimes some of them moved back into the publishing closet for a while. There are chapters on various writers through the years, in more or less chronological order. Only gay male writers are included; Bram states that “lesbian literature has its own dynamic and history. It needs its own historian.” Writers discussed include W. H. Auden, Tennessee Williams, Gore Vidal, Allen Ginsberg, James Baldwin, Christopher Isherwood, Truman Capote, Edward Albee, Armistead Maupin, Edmund White, Andrew Holleran, Larry Kramer, James Merrill, Mark Doty, David Leavitt, Tony Kushner, Michael Cunningham, and more. This very readable book weaves together gay history, politics, literature, and culture (along with some great stories about the lives and loves of these writers) and reminds us of the huge influence gay writers have had on American literature and life.

"Citizen," by Aaron Shurin

At a recent event at the University of San Francisco, I heard two fellow faculty members, Aaron Shurin and Micah Ballard, read their poetry. I have mentioned Shurin’s work before (e.g., on 3/18/11), and will focus on his reading here. (I also enjoyed hearing Ballard’s poetry.) Aaron read from his latest book, “Citizen” (City Lights, 2012), a collection of prose poems. As he read, I was mesmerized by the brilliant imagery, one image following another in a gorgeous cascade. I was in awe, and grateful for the chance to hear it read aloud, always the best way to experience poetry. And I felt again how fortunate I am, working at a university, to be around such creative and inspiring writers and artists.

"Dying for a Blue Plate Special," by Beth Kalikoff

My friend S. told me about enjoying a mystery novel by her colleague and friend Beth Kalikoff; it is titled “Dying for a Blue Plate Special” (Five Star, 2005). I like the occasional mystery, and I respect S.’s recommendations, so I found and read the book. It takes place in Tacoma, in Washington, a state I am partial to (I have had several relatives and friends there, and it is very close to one of my childhood homes, Vancouver, BC.) It is set mostly on and around a fictional campus there; campuses are also settings I -- as a long time college faculty member -- am familiar with and fond of. The portrayal of the campus and of the various faculty members is satirical and quite negative in some cases; this is part of a long tradition of the campus satire. The heroine, Jewel Feynman, is a descendant in another tradition: the tradition of feisty female detectives that began in the 1970s with such PIs as Marcia Muller’s Sharon McCone, Sara Paretsky’s V. I. Warshawski, and Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Milhone. Jewel is not actually a detective, but rather a caterer (thus the title); however, when a much-disliked and manipulative college dean dies at a meal Jewel has catered, she turns detective in order to rescue her catering business’ reputation and future. Like the earlier detectives mentioned above, Jewel presents a (mostly) confident, no-nonsense, snappy front, although she is actually often insecure and vulnerable. When she is angry, as she is now about the imputations that her food caused the dean’s death, she becomes fearless and a bit reckless in her pursuit of the truth. There is plenty of humor and even some romance in this book, along with the catering and the detecting. Although this mystery does not have the complexity of a Dorothy Sayers or P. D. James novel (and how many do, after all?), it can compete with books such as Sue Grafton’s, is very entertaining, and kept my attention throughout.

Yes, Punctuation Can Be Controversial!

Readers of this blog may remember that I am fascinated by punctuation and how it is used. (You see what an exciting life I lead!). So recent mentions in New York Magazine and elsewhere that the writer Cormac McCarthy has declared a sort of war on what he deems excess punctuation – mainly semicolons, exclamation points, and quotation marks – caught my eye. Intriguingly, it turns out that he – out of love for science – has copyedited at least one book on science, and told the author from the beginning that he would excise as much punctuation as possible. His own work uses punctuation sparsely. Although I agree with McCarthy that too many exclamation points are a problem, I have a fondness for both commas and semicolons (see my post of 10/16/10 on semicolons). Of course fiction operates by different rules, but at least for nonfiction, I am in favor of whatever clarity can be added through judicious use of punctuation.

A Window into Canadian Literature

My cousin A., who like me is originally from Canada but who moved to the United States much more recently than I, was kind enough to pick up a copy of the Autumn 2011 issue of “BC Bookworld” for me the last time she was in Canada. (Our extended family is from the Vancouver area in British Columbia.) With the exception of books by established authors such as Margaret Atwood and Alice Munro, much of Canadian literature is not published or reviewed in the U.S. I treasure, and still feel connected to, Canadian literature, especially fiction (see, for example, my 3/19/10 post about Canadian writers, my 2/20/10 post on Carol Shields, and my 7/22/10 post on Alice Munro), and try to find and read it when I can, but it is not easy to do so. So it is a delight for me to have this small, very up-to-date window into Canadian literature. There are articles on writers I know about, such as Jane Rule, but many more on writers I have not heard of, let alone read. To name just a few of these mentioned in this issue: novelists Esi Edugyan and Bertrand Sinclair, poets Susan Musgrave and Clea Roberts, short story writer Jack Hodgins, and memoirist Willow Yamauchi (her “Adult Child of Hippies” sounds intriguing!). I hope to find and read work by at least some of these. Thank you, A.!

"The Man Within My Head," by Pico Iyer

In “The Man Within My Head” (Knopf, 2012), the writer Pico Iyer tells of his long obsession with, or perhaps haunting by, the writer Graham Greene. He looks at Greene’s life and work with a clear-eyed judgment; he by no means sees him as perfect. But there is something about Greene’s restlessness, his need to travel to faraway lands, and his shifting relationship with God, with religion, and with his fellow humans, that speaks to Iyer. The book describes Iyer’s own travels (to Bolivia, Vietnam, Ethiopia, Easter Island, among other destinations), many to places where Greene spent time; this book describes a sort of nonlinear pilgrimage. In a much smaller way, Iyer has been in turn, from time to time, a man within my own head. I have occasionally read his articles in various publications over the years, and my antennae have always gone up when I have seen his byline. This man of Indian origin who grew up in California and went to boarding school in England, who has traveled far and wide, and who now is based in a small town in Japan with his Japanese wife Hiroko, is just the sort of citizen of the world that I am fascinated by. I am drawn to writers with this sort of background, and I have myself written about “third culture kids” who have lived and studied in several countries. My own upbringing and life surely come into this: I was born in Canada, grew up in India, and have lived my adult life in the United States; my husband is from a different country, two of my three sisters-in-law are from still other countries, I have traveled fairly widely, and I teach mostly international students, here in one of the most international, multicultural cities in the world, San Francisco. But my fascination with Iyer’s writing, and with his restless quest for identification with Greene, goes beyond my own autobiographical facts. Despite my own current rootedness in one city, there is something mysteriously attractive to me in the unmoored life, the restless movement and wider perspective provided by travel, that both Greene and Iyer have sought out. The particular confluence in Iyer’s life of India, England, and California -- some of the places that have been important in my actual life and my intellectual/emotional life -- provides another connection, another factor in my being drawn to Iyer’s work. And -- I realize I have not yet said, but should -- Iyer is a wonderful writer, evocative, descriptive, and meditative.

Literature Asks Us to Pay Attention

My friend M.C.C. passed along the following quotation from the writer Frederick Buechner, and I was quite taken with his perspective on literature:

“From the simplest lyric to the most complex novel, literature is asking us to pay attention. Pay attention to the frog. Pay attention to the west wind. Pay attention to the boy on the raft, the lady on the tower, the old man on the train. In sum, pay attention to the world and all that dwells therein and thereby learn at last to pay attention to yourself and all that dwells therein.”

"W;t," by Margaret Edson

The following post is (even) more personal than usual, but my experiences with the play “W;t” remind me of how intensely personal reading literature can be, especially when it intersects closely with one’s own life experiences.

In March, 1999, my dear longtime friend from graduate school, C., whom I have written about here before (most specifically on 4/29/11) and I went to see a new play titled “W;t.” C. had lived in New York for many years before she moved to another East Coast city, and when I was going to go there during my spring break, she met me there for a few days of museums, plays, restaurants, and good talk. She chose “W;t,” among other plays we attended during those few days, and although it was sad and hard to watch, it was also riveting and wonderful. It tells the story of Dr. Vivian Bearing (vividly portrayed by Kathleen Chalfant), a professor of English specializing in Donne, as she lies in a hospital bed enduring treatments for late-stage ovarian cancer, knowing that death is approaching. She has been a rigorous, acerbic teacher and scholar who has dedicated her life to her scholarship and teaching. Now she alternates between the painful present and memories of the past. She still turns to Donne for meaning and for a kind of austere comfort.

Twelve years later, in March, 2011, C. died of ovarian cancer after a three-year battle during which she lived with incredible grace. C. had also been (before she started another career) an educator, with degrees in English literature, and with a lifelong passionate love of literature.

Recently a copy of the book version of “W;t” (Faber and Faber, 1999), by Margaret Edson, came into my possession through a friend. I put off reading it for weeks, knowing it would be painful, and then read it very slowly, despite its brevity. The memories of C. elicited by the play were powerful, and as I approached the end of the book, I was overwhelmed with sadness. And yet in a way, reading “W;t” was cathartic for me, as literature can sometimes be.

This post is dedicated to the memory of C.

"Girls of Riyadh"

The novel "Girls of Riyadh" (Penguin, 2007), by Rajaa Alsanea, was banned in Saudi Arabia when it was published in Arabic in 2005, but apparently still managed to be read by many there. It was then translated (by the author and Marilyn Booth) into English, providing the English-speaking world with a window into the lives of young women in Saudi Arabia. It tells the story of four young women in Riyadh, their close friendship with each other, their educations and careers and families, their travels abroad, and -- most of all -- their love lives. Although these young women, along with most young women in S.A., are very limited in how much they are permitted to see and speak with young men, they find ways to do so, both in person and -- especially -- by telephone; long romances are sometimes conducted almost entirely by telephone. Of course this is fiction, but its author is a young Saudi woman herself, living in the United States at the time of publication, and I assume it is at least somewhat accurate in describing at least a certain subgroup of women and their lives. It reminds us of how young women in much of the world, even young women from the most affluent families, have far less freedom and far fewer opportunities than young men do. It also reminds us of all the ways young people find to connect and to love, despite society's restrictions. One thing I was glad to see was that at least some of these young women had access to higher education -- both in S.A. and abroad -- and good careers. I have taught Saudi women at my university, and have been very impressed with their motivation, hard work, maturity, and ambition. "The Girls of Riyadh" is not terribly well written, and perhaps sensationalizes young women's lives somewhat, but it was interesting for me to read, as it seemed to open the curtain a bit on the behind-the-scenes lives of at least some young women whose lives we in the West generally don't learn much about.

"The Rejection Collection"

If you want something hilarious to read, I recommend "The Best of the Rejection Collection: 293 Cartoons That Were Too Dumb, Too Dark, or Too Naughty for The New Yorker" (Workman, 2011), "rescued by" Matthew Diffee. The title says it all... Like many of you, I always enjoy the cartoons in The New Yorker. Those in this collection have the added appeal of the offbeat, the surprising, and the sometimes just slightly risque. The rejected cartoons are organized by cartoonist, and at the beginning of each section is an also very funny and unconventional interview with that artist. When I was shopping for Christmas gifts in one of my favorite bookstores, this book caught my eye and I had to buy it for myself; sure enough, I enjoyed it thoroughly, and now it sits on our coffee table, and I still occasionally leaf through it for a laugh. (P.S. I thought about trying to explain a couple of my favorite cartoons from this collection, but the impossibility of capturing a drawing in words defeated me. You just have to see them for yourself!)