Changes in My Reading Life during this Pandemic

Among all the huge changes in our lives during this coronavirus crisis, there are some smaller but still important, to me, ways in which the virus has changed my reading life. First, I want to clearly acknowledge that these are small and insignificant in the larger picture. But here on my book blog, speaking to others who love to read, I want to share these changes. First, as I briefly mentioned in my 3/19/20 post, since libraries and bookstores are closed, if I want to read new books (beyond the ones already in my home), I need to order them. I have been ordering books from local independent bookstores (who are still “open” online), and this process makes me so happy. First, I feel good about supporting these wonderful bookstores, especially now when their businesses have been hit so badly. Second, it is such a treat, such a lift to my spirits, when these books are delivered to my door. These beautiful new novels (mostly 2020 books) are now forming a lovely stack on my “to read” shelf. Second, my husband and I are longtime subscribers to and readers of our local newspaper, the San Francisco Chronicle, and reading the paper with our morning coffee is a cherished ritual. But now we wonder if the physical newspaper, delivered to our door every morning, could be a carrier of the virus. We are wary. Should we spray it with alcohol? Leave it to sit for a while before opening it up? So far we have done each of these, at various times, inconsistently. We could decide to just read the paper online (as I already do with the New York Times and the Washington Post). But we love the physical newspaper on newsprint, and don’t want to give it up. We also want to support the press in general and the Chronicle in particular with our subscription dollars (which of course are more than the online price, but worth it…). A third change is that I am – more than ever – uninterested in reading anything even vaguely dystopian. It is not a favorite genre for me anyway, but occasionally I have liked (besides the classics such as “1984”) a novel such as Emily St. John Mandel’s excellent “Station Eleven” (about which I posted on 3/15/16, noting that the reason I liked it was that besides its description of life after a pandemic (!), it did what all good novels should do: focus on characters and relationships. Today, in a book of short stories, I encountered a semi-dystopian story, and felt an almost-physical revulsion; it is a little too close to home these days. Fourth, my reading of novels and other books has been strangely influenced by the current restrictions, in that when I read about a party, or friends meeting each other on the street and shaking hands or hugging, or kids playing on swings and slides in a park, or other actions that violate social distancing or rules of scrupulous virus-era cleanliness, my first instinct now is to say “NO, NO, don’t do that! That’s dangerous!” Of course these books were written in pre-virus times, back in the old days of a few months or a couple of years ago or earlier. But my immediate reaction of worry and fear is instinctive, not logical.

"Unfinished Business: Notes of a Chronic Re-Reader," by Vivian Gornick

The wonderful author, feminist, literary critic, and memoirist Vivian Gornick has a terrific new book out: “Unfinished Business: Notes of a Chronic Re-Reader” (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020). This is a small, short book that will appeal to most avid readers. I couldn’t resist it, not only because of the topic, but also because I know Gornick to be a compelling writer. Among her earlier books are the acclaimed, wonderful memoir “Fierce Attachments” (1987) and the more recent memoir, “The Odd Woman in the City” (2015), both of which I have read with pleasure, and the latter of which I posted about here on 10/15/15. Gornick writes with conviction and with an approachable, beguiling manner. In this new book, she writes about the joys of re-reading. As she is in her early 80s, she is able to write about reading certain books several times over the years, both rediscovering what she loves about them and often perceiving them quite differently each time, for better or for worse. Throughout, she weaves her experiences with these books into her other life experiences. Some books and topics that she focuses on here include D.H. Lawrence’s “Sons and Lovers”; Colette’s novels, especially “Cheri” and “The Last of Cheri”; Marguerite Duras’ “The Lover”; Jewish- American writing; the work of Natalia Ginzburg; and Thomas Hardy’s “Jude the Obscure.” Perhaps best of all, for me, was the chapter on the work of Elizabeth Bowen, of whom both Gornick and I are great admirers. (Note that I wrote quite recently – 1/25/20 --about Bowen’s book on “English Novelists.”) Gornick writes so well about the role of “receptivity,” in other words, whether or not one reads a novel at the right time, the time that one is ready to read it and connect to it. Most of all, though, I love this book because the author’s deep love of reading, thinking, and re-reading is so evident. I am a chronic re-reader myself (e.g., re-reading each of Jane Austen's novels many times, as well as the novels of Virginia Woolf, Edith Wharton, Barbara Pym, and E.M. Forster, among many others). Re-reading is truly celebrated in the 161 pages of "Unfinished Business," and I loved reading and celebrating along with the author!

"Topics of Conversation," by Miranda Popkey

A small, intense novel titled “Topics of Conversation” (Knopf, 2020), by Miranda Popkey, is packed with stories of women, mostly single mothers, mostly somewhat precarious financially, who are often unsettled, in transit and in transition, unsure about where they are going. One main character is the through thread, and each chapter is set in a different city with different characters in literal conversations with this main character. At first I felt the structure of the novel was a bit disjointed, but then connections among the chapters and the conversations became clear, and the novel felt more consistent than it did initially. The stories themselves are important, and the framing of the stories being exchanged during the course of conversations provides important added context, depth, and layering. The stories are powerful; they address motherhood, marriage, divorce, sex, mobility, and other topics. Some of the stories are quite raw, gritty and even disturbing. The strengths of this novel are its realism; its up-close, you-are-there feeling; and its revelations about the lives of women. I can’t say I “enjoyed” this book, but I was caught up in it and learned from it, so I am glad that I read it. This is Popkey’s first novel; I feel quite sure we will be hearing more from her.

Reading in the Time of Coronavirus

I hope you are all doing well despite these unsettling times during the coronavirus crisis. I wish you all good health. I also note that one source of strength, comfort, and inspiration during difficult times is reading. I am now working from home and “sheltering in place” per our local directives, and libraries and bookstores are closed, but I always have books at home, and I just ordered quite a few books online from two of my favorite local independent bookstores: Green Apple and Books, Inc. This is of course for my own benefit, but I also want to support independent bookstores, now more than ever. So I will continue reading, probably even more now that I can’t leave home (except for essential tasks), and I will continue posting on this blog. I hope you will continue reading as well, perhaps ordering a book or two from your local independent bookstores, and will receive the sustenance that reading can bring even in times of crisis.

"Late Migrations: A Natural History of Love and Loss," by Margaret Renkl

Having recently lost my mother (and having lost my father sixteen years ago, as well as other relatives and friends along the way), I find myself drawn to accounts of loss and death and their effects on those left behind. The current corona virus pandemic adds to this forced preoccupation with illness and death. One beautifully written account is “Late Migrations: A Natural History of Love and Loss” (Milkwood, 2019), by the New York Times opinion writer Margaret Renkl. This powerful and evocative collection of short, interconnected, memoiristic chapters tells stories of the author’s family history, of the sustenance and joy she receives from family (alive and deceased), from gardening and close attention to birds and other elements of nature, and yes, of the losses she has experienced. There is a poetic quality to Renkl’s writing. Complementing the writing are the lovely illustrations, mostly of birds and other aspects of nature, by Renkl’s brother Billy Renkl. There is a unique balance of the delicate and the sturdy in the descriptions of the family and nature. I will end with a few lines from the book that especially spoke to me. “Dad had always been the one person who could make me feel both completely protected and certain of my own strength” (p. 154). Both of my parents made me feel that way too, and I know how fortunate I am to have had that foundation, which has sustained me my whole life. “I think of…my parents every single day. They are an absence made palpably present, as though their most vivid traits…had formed a thin membrane between me and the world: because they are gone, I see everything differently” (p. 191). I can only say “yes” to this description. And this one: “Here is what no one told me about grief: you inhabit it like a skin. Everywhere you go, you wear grief under your clothes. Everything you see, you see through it, like a film” (p. 218). Yes. Yet this book is not only about loss and pain; it is also about the consolations of life, of nature. Renkl ends with this: “There is nothing at all to fear. Walk out into the springtime, and look: the birds welcome you with a chorus. The flowers turn their faces to your face. The last of last year’s leaves, still damp in the shadows, smell ripe and faintly of fall” (p. 218), and “I learned the world would go on. An irreplaceable life had winked out in an instant, but outside my window, the world was flaring up in celebration” (p. 219). The strength of this book -- besides the impressively beautiful writing -- is the realistic weaving together of the feelings of grief and the feelings of consolation. This book speaks to me on both levels, as I am sure it does to many of its readers.

"Calling It Quits: Late-Life Divorce and Starting Over," by Deirdre Bair

Having very recently read and posted on (2/18/20) Deirdre Bair’s new book on her experiences researching and writing biographies of Samuel Beckett and Simone De Beauvoir, I picked up and read her earlier book on a completely different topic, late-life divorce, titled “Calling It Quits: Late-Life Divorce and Starting Over” (Random House, 2007), and found it almost (not quite, but only because the new book was exceptional) as engaging as the more recent book. In other words, she is a good writer and teller of stories, no matter what the topic. Before going further, I will note that yes, my husband and I have been married for a long time, but no, we are not considering a divorce! But I was fascinated by the many, many stories of those who did divorce, including consideration of why they divorced, how their lives changed afterward, the problems and rewards of divorce, and how the divorces affected the (mostly adult) children of those divorced couples. Bair did extensive research on the topic, but this was not surprising considering how much deep and far-reaching research she did on her biographies. The research for this book included interviews with 184 women, 126 men, and 84 adult children, as well as with many lawyers, mediators, judges, therapists, social workers, and others who work with those divorcing and divorced. The reasons for divorce were of course various, but without simplifying too much, almost all came down to “freedom.” Bair delves into the emotional, financial, and other consequences of divorce. She notes that when people really wanted to divorce, they did so despite often having drastically reduced financial security. Although not explicitly labeling her book feminist, she does in fact show that very often women are more harmed by divorce financially and logistically, not only because of sometimes vindictive husbands, but also because of outdated laws, conservative judges, and societal mindsets. These older women often did not work, or did not have real careers, because at the time they married, it was generally assumed that women would stay at home to take care of the children, houses, and all domestic matters. Or they had careers, but their husbands’ careers always came first, and some of these required many moves, making it hard for the wives to have any continuity in their own careers. Fortunately, these assumptions and related laws have changed somewhat over the past years, including after this book was published in 2007. But to go back to the stories themselves, those shared by these interviewees (and informed by the author’s research of the literature as well) are what make the book so compelling. As always, the stories of human lives, loves, problems, struggles, failures, and triumphs, in all their particularities as well as their universalities, are what I -- and most of us, I believe – find irresistable to read about. Bair’s presentation of her research in such a riveting way is impressive.

"Drawing Power," edited by Diane Noomin

I recently (2/10/20) wrote about the graphic book (text and drawings), “Good Talk: A Memoir in Conversations,” a meditation on race by Mira Jacob. I just finished another highly effective graphic book that focuses on social issues – in this case, violence against women. This substantial (in all senses of the word) book is labeled “A Comics Anthology,” and titled “Drawing Power: Women’s Stories of Sexual Violence, Harassment, and Survival” (Abrams, 2019), edited by Diane Noomin. (Note the dual meaning of the main title, “Drawing Power.”) The editor invited over five dozen women comics writers/artists to contribute their own stories about sexual violence and harassment in comics form. Individually and collectively, these personal stories are stunning, deeply sad, and very disturbing. They provide still more evidence to anyone who doubts that sexual abuse and gender-based mistreatment of women is found everywhere. The variety of situations is great, and yet the stories are essentially very similar. Despite the terribly difficult experiences and the longlasting consequences the contributors tell of, and that are so discouraging, there is also a note of hope: a sense that many of these women have learned to turn their experiences into at least partial healing, and into support of other women, through their art and their activism. Once again, we see the immense power of art. The words and drawings interact in a uniquely powerful way. The book is aptly dedicated to Anita Hill, and introduced by Roxane Gay.