GUEST POST: "The Song of Achilles" and "Circe," by Madeline Miller

I am very pleased that my colleague and friend Cathy Gabor has written a guest post on two books by Madeline Miller. Thank you, Cathy! Here it is: "I recently read two books by Madeline Miller, both retellings of—or, more accurately, elaborations on—Greek myths: The Song of Achilles (2011, winner of the Orange Prize) and Circe (2018). They are roughly analogous to Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey but with clear departures. If people know anything about Achilles, it is most likely that he was a hero in the Trojan War. And, indeed, a good part of Miller’s Song of Achilles takes place during that war. Despite the title, the book’s main character is Patroclus, not Achilles. Readers may remember Patroclus as a minor character in Homer’s Iliad, known as Achilles’ trusted friend. Miller’s telling of their lives starts when they are both young boys. Achilles is a demi-god, fated to become Aristos Achaion: the best of the Greeks. He is handsome, lithe, and as talented with the lyre as he is with the sword. Patroclus, conversely, is a pudgy youth, awkward, striving to find what he might be good at. In a word, Patroclus is unnoticeable. But Achilles notices him—and falls in love with him. Song of Achilles is a tale of war, yes, but it is mostly a poignant story of young lovers discovering themselves and each other. In the end, Miller’s book does not celebrate heroes; it celebrates the fumbling, fallible humanity of Patroclus, and all of us. Although Song of Achilles is markedly different from the Iliad, it does follow the same narrative arc. Circe, on the other hand, intersects with Homer’s Odyssey much less often and less neatly. If readers know anything about the minor goddess Circe, it is probably that Odysseus spent time on her island while traveling home from the Trojan war. Homer’s story is about him; Circe is but a chapter in his journey. For Miller, Circe is the main character: an immortal witch involved in many different stories from Greek mythology, some familiar and some created anew. When I had read roughly one-third of the book, I felt as if I were at the end of a narrative. Miller had successfully woven Circe into the myths of Daedalus and the Minotaur, and had seemingly concluded. I wondered what could possibly fill up the next 285 pages. In the middle of the book, Miller delivered another episode of Circe’s millennia-long life, this time paralleling Homer’s familiar tale, ending with Odysseus leaving her island. Now two-thirds of the way through the book, I feared a 100-page long denouement. Not so: Miller conjured up a creative sequel to the Odyssey, starring Circe and Odysseus’ wife Penelope. Circe’s greatest strength is its greatest weakness: it is three stories (more, really) in one. In the most interesting part of the book, Miller fabricates a female-centered myth, pitting mortal Penelope, magical Circe, and the Goddess Athena against one another. I recommend these books to readers who know Greek mythology well: you will nod at unexplained allusions, surely, and enjoy the backstories Miller paints for some of the most beloved myths. I recommend these books equally to those who could not name one Greek god or hero. These books stand on their own: they are tales of love, heartache, aging, parenthood, and pride. While the characters are fanciful and ancient, their stories are our stories. Read, and recognize yourself."

My Cousin's Bookstore

Readers of this blog know how much I love and appreciate independent bookstores. Recently I suddenly thought about how there is actually a wonderful independent bookstore in my own extended family. I hadn’t thought before about writing about it here, because it is in Canada and I have only visited it once, some years ago. I wrote to my cousin Craig Carson, whom I rarely see because of geography, but with whom I recently connected on Facebook. Craig first worked with, and then took over this bookstore, Second Page, from his mother, my Aunt Mali Carson, some years ago when she was no longer able to continue running it. He has owned and managed it ever since; between them they have run it for 35 years. I asked him for background information about the bookstore, and he was kind enough to write up a brief history for me. Below is a slightly edited (with his permission) version of that history. It makes me happy to think of this bookstore and its family connection! And I so admire Aunt Mali and Craig for making this bookstore a community center and a beloved place for all booklovers as well as a successful business that contributes to the local economy and environment. I wish I lived nearer so I could visit it more often. Here is Craig’s story about Second Page. “In 1979, Mali Carson and her business partner Dorothy Carmichael purchased an existing used book store in Courtenay, British Columbia, on Vancouver Island. Second Page was the business name chosen by my mother to reflect the second unnumbered page in a book, which is often the title page. The store was housed in one room for fifteen years until it was expanded into the vacant shop next door. I purchased Dorothy's share of the business in 2000 and Mom and I worked together for the next three years. In 2003 she had to stop working as her physical health was failing. The next three years included phone calls to Mom at the end of each workday to discuss the day at the store. In 2006 the main room in the store was renovated; I was happy that the renovation was finished in time for my mother to be pleased with the final result before she died later that same year. Soon after, I was dealing with some personal difficulties, but was able to overcome them, and I found that my experiences enriched my connections with the bookstore and its customers. My ability to communicate understanding and compassion within the store has led to many in depth conversations that have been beneficial both to myself and the customers. As mother in her way bonded with her customers, so have I have been inspired to share life changing stories with many of my customers. This is what makes the store my favorite place. It is full of humanity and compassion, respect and love. It is a gathering and sharing place open to one and to all, a safe place for those who need it, with hugs on request and occasionally tears. The store has two cats, each 10 years old, brother and sister from the same litter. Boo the Magnificent weighs in at 22 pounds and his little sister Princess Teeka, the boss of us all, is a more normal 10 pounds. Fourteen years ago the store was situated on a quiet side street. That same street today is second in activity only to the main shopping street. Now in 2014, six years after the recession, our downtown core is finally recovering from that recession and the onslaught of big box stores and their like. Second Page is proud to be an active member in the renewal and transformation of Courtenay's downtown core, as well as to provide books and a gathering place for the community."

Guest Post: "Can't We Talk about Something More Pleasant?" by Roz Chast

My friend Mary emailed me about how much she liked the New Yorker cartoonist Roz Chast’s new graphic/cartoon book, “Can’t We Talk about Something More Pleasant?” (Bloomsbury, 2014). I have now read it and agree that it is wonderful. But Mary described the book, and her own reactions to it, so well that, with her kind permission, the rest of this post is a slightly edited version of her email. Mary says: “This book reads like a novel – or a gripping memoir, which it is. It’s a combination of funny and heartbreaking. It describes her parents during the last few years of their lives, when they are very old. Chast had a very unhappy childhood, and an especially difficult mother. Her parents are both now dead. But despite this, I laughed out loud, with tears of hilarity rolling down my face during much of the time I read it. Yet much of it was also very touching, brutally, unflatteringly honest, and very sad. Sometimes the sad parts and the hilarious parts were interwoven. The written and the visual combine in a powerful way, as they do in graphic novels. Since I read it, the theme of her story has been haunting me. Chast is unblinking in her description of the last, raggedy endings of her parents’ lives. This is a funny, sad, lovely and eloquent book throughout.”

Guest Post: On Annie Dillard

When I heard how much my colleague Dennis Bacigalupi admired Annie Dillard, I asked if he would write a guest post about his feelings about her work, and I am pleased and honored that he agreed to do so. You can read his thoughts below.

"When I first read her 1975 Pulitzer Prize winning non-fiction narrative “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,” Annie Dillard became a cornerstone of my worldview. Lunging at every new publication since, though few and far between, whether poetry (“Tickets for a Prayer Wheel”), essays (“Holy The Firm”), novels (“The Living," “The Maytrees”), biography (“An American Childhood”), travelogue (“Teaching a Stone to Talk”), or writer’s/reader’s guide/memoirs (“Living by Fiction," “The Writing Life”), Dillard has the ability to transport me to the micro-dimensions of inner-life and to the macro-fantastical nether-reaches of all that is beyond. Dillard uses words to illuminate the invisible and transform the obvious. With her inquisitiveness toward the scientific, awareness of the psychological, experience of human nature, and mastery of the function of words, she guides and pulls readers into a sense of soaring I have come to yearn for. Her seminal “a-ha” moment, famously described as “the tree with the lights in it,” suggests an enlightenment experience reflected in all her literary works. She can describe sailing down Puget Sound in a way that puts one in mind of Twain’s dexterity on the Mississippi (“The Living”), detail unfolding intricacies in a life-long marriage (“The Maytrees”), grippingly compare cultural connections of ancient and modern east/west wordsmiths (“Encounters with Chinese Writers”), or delight in the melange of vegetables used as medium in the portrait hanging on her motel wall (“Teaching a Stone to Talk”). Dillard points to the universe in a drop of water and creates a psychic connection to the Crab Nebula. She can blithely reference the Emperor of Bavaria in 840 C.E. and then the platinum blonde in the lobby: always uplifting, recharging, and leading, encouraging us to wake up and SEE."

Guest Post: "Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet," by James Ford

I am very pleased to introduce a guest post by my colleague, Sue Bae. Thank you, Sue, for this thoughtful review, below.

What started out as a consideration for some of my more advanced ESL students turned out to be a treat for me. James Ford’s debut novel, “Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet” (Ballantine, 2009), though it probably won’t win any literary awards, is a poignant story of two innocents: Henry, a young Chinese American boy, and Keiko, a Japanese American girl, who meet and develop a deep friendship in the midst of the turmoil of the WW II years. Unlike for those around them, including Henry’s parents, race, ethnicity, and politics mean nothing to them except that they are what keep the two apart. I found myself cheering for the two, and urging them on in their valiant efforts to overcome the obstacles laid before them, the worst of which was Keiko’s family’s forcible imprisonment in a Japanese internment camp with the rest of the residents of Seattle’s Japantown. What I initially appreciated about the story was that there are no harsh words about or condemnations of the national policies that brought on such tragedies. It is Ford’s ability to keep politics out of his story that makes it so sweet and tender. (Steinbeck’s “Of Mice and Men” comes to mind.) But I, and I’m sure other readers as well, could not help but taste the bitter, when reading that others merely looked on while guiltless people, innocents like Henry and Keiko, were stripped of their rights and homes, and other minority groups did nothing to help them in their common struggle for social justice. Henry’s father, one of many Chinese Americans trying to survive the times, has his son wear an “I am Chinese” button on his jacket to keep him from being mistaken for Japanese. He rages at Henry for hiding Keiko’s family treasures in his room for safekeeping, and does not speak to or acknowledge his son when he befriends a Japanese girl. Of course, this was all done out of fear. Through the bitter years of separation, Henry and Keiko live their lives as best they can, finding what happiness they can, just as countless people had to do in those times. Henry and Keiko’s story is, I believe, a testament to human resilience in times of struggle and the ability to find happiness even in wretched circumstances. Ford tells a very bittersweet tale of the history of his hometown and his heritage, and I believe Seattleites and those, like me, who hold the city in high regard, will enjoy reading about it. I have recently learned about another story about the internment of the Japanese, also told from a child’s perspective, “When the Emperor Was Divine,” by Julie Otsuka, which received very good reviews. [Editor’s note: This novel was the subject of a 1/15/12 post here.] One guess what my next bedtime reading will be.

Guest Post: Podcasts of Short Stories

In response to my noting with a bit of surprise how many short story collections were included on my list (8/1/11) of "Highly Recommended" recent books, my friend Sonja e-mailed me as follows (I post her e-mail here with her permission):

"Stephanie, thanks for your interesting reviews and blog. I do prefer novels to short stories, which is strange because I have written short stories (unpublished) myself and enjoy the form as a writer. I just wanted to say however that I have gotten a new appreciation for reading short stories through the New Yorker's podcasts of stories read by various writers. I have discovered some writers I want to read through listening to these fabulous stories (some of the writers are on your list). You can get the podcasts for free from itunes. I found the listening and the discussion afterwards to be excellent experiences."

(This is Stephanie writing again): You can also get the podcasts directly from The New Yorker, and either listen to them online or download them; either way they are free. Each month a contributor chooses a story from the New Yorker archives and reads it. For example, to tie these podcasts in with this blog's two recent posts on John Cheever: you can listen to one of my favorite contemporary writers, Anne Enright, reading Cheever's "The Swimmer." The Guardian UK has a similar collection of podcasts of short stories. The two web addresses are below. These are wonderful resources, and it is a pleasure to hear the stories read aloud. Thanks, Sonja, for drawing our attention to this great way of experiencing terrific fiction!)

http://www.newyorker.com/online/podcasts/fiction

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/series/short-stories-podcast

Guest Post: On Reading John Cheever as a Young Man

When my friend "Z" said he liked my recent (7/22/11) post on John Cheever, and had read a lot of Cheever at one time, I invited him to write a guest post on this author. What follows is his thought-provoking and vivid take on Cheever, in the context of "Z"'s own life, with some comments on what Cheever's work shows us on that so important but seldom openly discussed topic, social class. Thanks, Z!

From "Z":
I began reading John Cheever’s work when I returned to New York after living in New Orleans for a short while. I was glad to be back in New York even though I was broke and a bit dispirited. I’d just gotten a job at a news-photo agency, and I was living with my parents at the time. Riding into the city on the Long Island Rail Road into Penn Station, I would fantasize I was one of Cheever’s characters who lived in the suburbs and rode the train into the city. However, I understood that I lived in the wrong kind of suburbs – the fairly typical ‘middle-class’ one that might be best characterized as Levittown Lite – not quite row after row of identical box homes filling up the landscape, but since my family lived in what was called a “model home”, it was close enough.

There was also the issue of arriving at and departing from Penn Station. As anyone who was alive at the time could tell you, it was a criminal travesty that the city demolished the original structure in 1963. It was an irreplaceable architectural and cultural loss. What I remember of the new Penn Station as a young man was seeing drunken New York Ranger fans after a hockey game finished at Madison Square Garden – which sat on top of the now subterranean Station like some hideous toad – running amok through the ghastly narrow corridors of the Station. Worse was when they boarded the same train as me, full of fan-fueled testosterone and shoving horrible hot dogs and other noxious substances passing for food into their gaping mouths, ready to vomit.

No, this was not the aptly-named Grand Central of Cheever-land, where, albeit similarly inebriated beings also lurched onto the trains – the Metro North (even the name bespoke of its connection to the city unlike the regionally distinct “Long Island Rail Road”) going to the suburbs of which he wrote: leafy green neighborhoods where none of the houses were identical, and many considerably older than the “model home” of my adolescence. These passengers might have been as drunk as those hockey fans, but they held their liquor.

And there it is – the inescapable, the big unsaid in American culture: the issue of class. Not ‘class’ as in ‘classy’, but the real issue of class – the kind which gives lie to the American narrative of equality and opportunity. It was as big a divide as I can remember, seeing those people – the kind Cheever wrote about in his magnificent short stories and the worthy “Wapshot Chronicle.” Those people. You know, them. WASPs. I forgot exactly when I learned of this word and what it meant, but I came to know what it really meant in college. I attended a small, private East Coast one (how and why I ended up there is another story for another time), where I first met people with names like “Prescott” and “Suzanne,” and who played squash but never looked particularly sweaty afterward. They had of course been going to private schools their whole lives, and so by this time, they had figured out the academic and social game a long time ago. I was the interloper, the kid from Long (hard ‘g’) Island (the South Shore of course), not from the City or its leafy green suburbs to the north.

What was it about them that fascinated me, and why did I find similar characters in Cheever’s novels equally fascinating at the time? Besides the quality of his writing and his careful observations of what actually lay beneath those well-worn exteriors, looking back, I can now perhaps attribute it to a perverse kind of longing to belong – a not altogether unexpected desire stemming from my status of being seen as a “stranger from a different shore” despite my having been born here, but also something else: a budding scorn for what I perceived to be their conducting their public lives with a certain style that has been named as displaying “class,” but which kept the rest of us looking in and left out.

I haven’t read Cheever since that time, but I recall an old joke from the Marx Brothers which seems to be a good summary of his work, and why I liked it so much:
“Say I used to know a fellow who looked exactly like you, by the name of Emanuel Ravelli.”
- - But I am Emanuel Ravelli!
“Well, no wonder you look like him!”

Guest Post: What My Nephew is Reading

After I posted on “Books In My Family” on 4/24/11, my nephew Eric, who is in his late 20s, responded with an interesting email, portions of which -- with his consent –- I am posting below as a guest blog. I love that he feels the same way about our family heritage of reading, and I am so appreciative that he is kind enough to give me credit for having a part in his being a lifelong reader. (Readers of this blog won’t be surprised to learn that I was the auntie that always read to the kids, took the kids to bookstores, and gave them books for every birthday and holiday and sometimes just for the fun of it.) I also always like hearing what people are reading, so I appreciate Eric’s eclectic list of what he has read this year, and what he is planning to read. You can see his interests in the environment and in religion, among his many areas of interest, both alternative and mainstream. I remember, for example, that when he was in college he once called me to tell me he was taking a course in Russian literature, was reading "The Brothers Karamazov," and wanted to discuss it; as you can imagine, that made me happy! So, without further ado, here is Eric’s email.

“I particularly enjoyed your post about 'Books in the Family.' I felt the same way the last time I visited, and really enjoyed browsing through Granddad's books. In a way I felt like it brought him into the present, being surrounded by the books that informed and inspired his life. I thought it would be fun to share with you what I have read/been reading so far this year:

PrairyErth (A Deep Map): An Epic History of the Tallgrass Prairie Country - William Least-Heat Moon
Zeitoun - Dave Eggers
Prayer and Modern Man - Jacques Ellul
Technopoly: The Surrender of Culture to Technology - Neil Postman
All Creatures Great and Small - James Herriot
Topophilia: A Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes, and Values - Yi-Fu Tuan
The Naked Anabaptist - Stuart Murray
Walden - H. D. Thoreau
Watership Down - Richard Adams
The Power and the Glory - Graham Greene

My plans for Spring/Summer reading are Flannery O'Connor's Complete Short Stories, her Habit of Being (letters), a theology book about the role of Catholicism in her life and writing, and finally a book on Church history.

Thanks again, Aunt Stephanie, for encouraging me since childhood to be a life long reader; it certainly has enriched my life.”

Guest Blog: On "Freedom"

My friend Mary wrote me the following comments about the long novel "Freedom," which I struggled with some time ago (see my posts of 11/8/10, 11/11/10, and 11/13/10); I am happy to publish her thoughtful response as a guest blog entry.

Mary's comments:

As I read your recent posts about the subject of marriage in novels, I thought about Jonathan Franzen's book "Freedom." The marriage of Walter and Patty, two of the main characters, looked far different from the outside than the inside. Interestingly, as their seemingly happy marriage began to unravel, their mutual friend Katz (although himself part of their trouble) felt disoriented by the loss of what had felt like his home base.

I've been curious about this book since I read a practically worshipful review of it in the New York Times and then your own rather negative one. My reaction was in between, but closer to yours. I too found myself having to push through parts of it. It was part zingy satire, part saga, part family history, part current events -- with way too much stuffed in between. I found the descriptions of such things as the coal mining scheme and the endangered birds particularly tedious. It took me a long time to care much about the characters. They seemed to be intentionally "types," used for the purposes of satire, so it was hard to really feel for them. If I am going to have to live with characters for as long as this long book required, I'd like to feel a little more connected to them.

Toward the end of the book I began to like it more. Those last pages had the momentum that I didn't feel earlier in the book, and the writing itself just seemed better. There were parts where I found myself nodding at certain dead-on observations, beautifully phrased. It felt like finally genuine feeling had broken through the thick air of smirky satire that permeated most of the book. It just took too long to get there.

Guest Blog: Movie Versions of Books

My friend Mary and I were emailing about the new movie version of "Jane Eyre" that has just come out. We were thinking about why we do or don't like movie versions of books. In my case, even though I know I may well be disappointed, I usually can't resist a movie based on one of my favorite books. So, for example, you will find me watching every single movie or TV version of Austen's novels. I liked Mary's comments on the topic, so I persuaded her to let me publish them here as a guest blog post. Thanks, Mary!

Mary's comments:
I find that in general, if I have read the book I am less likely to like a movie made from it than if I have not read the book. There is usually just so much in a book that a movie can't possibly include it all. Especially hard I think is translating the "voice" of the narrator or the inner thoughts of characters. It can be irritating to have nuanced characters (of whom I have formed pictures in my mind) come clunkily to life in a movie. Occasionally the movie maker will change the plot or at least ending of a popular book--maybe so moviegoers who've read the book will be motivated to see it if it might offer something new? Having said that, there are a few movies that capture the book so perfectly--somehow getting in enough of the essence of the movie--that the book and movie become almost seamless in my memory. One that always comes to mind is To Kill a Mockingbird. I read and loved the book before I saw the movie, yet in my mind Atticus Finch looks and sounds exactly like Gregory Peck! And sometimes a very good movie can be made out of a not great book--The Godfather comes to mind.

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...."

Guest Blog: Romance, Regret, and Book Gifts

On 7/8/10, I wrote about how my friend "Z" connected a certain author ("A") with a certain time in his life and a certain romantic relationship (with "Y"), because he and "Y" had read "A"'s work together and even met her at an author event. After splitting up with "Y," "Z" no longer read "A"'s work, because of the association. "Z" has now kindly written a guest post with further thoughts and experiences related to connections between certain books and certain romantic relationships (see below). I think you will find the post as intriguing as I do; the intersections of literature, romance, regret, and memory are most evocative. Thanks, "Z"!

From "Z":
"Over the years, amid my growing library are books given to me by past loves and lovers. They all share one thing in common: a note from them on the front-piece or the first page. Some signed off "with all my love," or "love you." Others referred to a shared intimacy or moment. A confession is in order though. Depending on the memories of how these relationships ended, I have done several things to these books. I left several alone because I enjoy reading their sentiments from time to time and recall the exact circumstances of receiving the book. Other books fared less well. The most extreme are the one or two (or three??) I tossed out or sold because I couldn't stand to look at even the book's spine sitting there on one of my shelves, reminding me of love's failures, or rather love's disappointments and regrets. The compromise I reached with the other books was to tear out the page on which the sentiment was written. It wasn't because they were less emotionally connected, but it was simply because I like the book and wanted to keep it, minus the reminder of who had given it to me. However, I remember all gifted books, so the missing page with its sentiments in some ways is all the more present by its absence."

Guest Blog Two: Reading Still Opens New Worlds

Yesterday I posted my friend C.’s first guest blog entry, on “The Pleasures of Re-reading”; today I am very pleased to post, below, her second guest entry, “Reading Still Opens New Worlds.” Thank you, C., for these two illuminating entries!

C.:
"Thanks to an extraordinary teacher, I first went to Japan almost forty years ago. Since then, the land, the history, the people, and the culture of Japan have enriched my life immeasurably. My bookcases bulge with books about Dai Nippon. But with all these years and all those books, there are some things Japanese that I never really "got." Until four years ago haiku was a good example. I suppose I thought about haiku the way Emily Dickinson used to be thought of -- precious (horrors!). So when I was invited to a talk at the Japanese Embassy's Culture and Information Center by Abigail Friedman, the author of "The Haiku Apprentice" (Stone Bridge Press, 2006), I decided to go so I could hear what she had to say and get a copy of the book for my English-speaking friend in Japan who is a haiku devotee. At the lecture I encountered another extraordinary teacher. Ms. Friedman's talk and her book lifted the top off my head and opened my heart to the many pleasures of haiku. Since then I've been swimming happily in Basho, Buson, Issa, Shiki, Richard Wright, and other American haiku poets. I've also been exploring translations and anthologies of Japanese poetry -- haiku and other forms -- such as "The Manyoshu" (Ten Thousand Leaves) and "Hyakunin Isshu" (One Hundred Poets, One Poem Each). One extraordinary book has yielded years of beauty already and assured more such pleasures in the future."

Guest Blog: The Pleasures of Re-reading

Readers of this blog may remember my 2/16/10 post about “reading friends,” in which I particularly focused on my longtime, extremely well-read, dear friend C., with whom I have had my “best, longest running, most continuous book conversation” over a period of 39 years. In honor of that long conversation, and because I value her opinions so much, I invited C. to write a guest blog entry or two, and she kindly agreed, contributing two posts under the joint title of “Still Reading After All These Years.” Today, I am honored and pleased to post her first entry, on “The Pleasures of Re-reading,” below; her second guest post will follow tomorrow.

C.:
"I started out thinking I'd write about re-reading books I read forty years ago. But time is ever the trickster; it's actually more than forty years ago. Among the books I've re-read recently are books I read in college -- in 1968, that year of exhilarating and tragic turmoil. Three, in particular. First, Emily Dickinson. I don't know what was more radical: the teacher, who at that point was the only English Department faculty member who showed up to teach in a suit and tie, or his statement to the lounging crowd of bored students that he intended to prove to us that Emily Dickinson was the greatest American poet of all time. Unheard of, and indeed, ridiculous at that time. But that is also exactly what he proceeded to do. I am still grateful every time I find myself leafing through my Emily. Second, Joseph Conrad, and "Heart of Darkness" in particular. The overwhelming richness of the language, the lush pairings of adjectives and nouns. As I re-read, I kept dropping the book so I could jot down those wonderful phrases in my haiku notebook. And finally, Herman Melville. "Moby Dick." Reading it was a thrill -- again. I walked through beautiful woods, I swam through beautiful corals, the pathways still familiar, beauty re-revealed and renewed. With a thrill, I remembered individual sentences, while also remembering the thrill I felt reading them the first time. In a world where we're often overwhelmed and so much seems to slip away from us, it is pure pleasure to realize the power of literature and memory."