Panic on our Driveway!

On Sunday it was raining so hard that when I picked up the extra-big, supplement-filled Sunday San Francisco Chronicle from the driveway, it was -- despite being in a plastic bag -- totally soaked, a sodden unreadable mess. I had an immediate moment of irrational panic: What would I do without the Sunday paper? I would be missing essential -- yes, ESSENTIAL! -- information, articles, reviews that I couldn’t live without! Not to mention the comics and Parade magazine! Oh NO!!! What would I read with my morning coffee? I had to stop and talk myself out of my panic, reminding myself that I could go out and get another paper at a store, and even if I couldn’t, much of the content is online. This rather extreme reaction is embarrassing to recount, but I do so to show that -- despite reports of the imminent demise of newspapers -- those newspapers are still extremely important for at least some of us. I posted here on 8/5/10 about how important newspapers are, to me and to the world; today I add this postscript (do you like my pun?) to show how viscerally dependent some of us are on our daily newspapers.

"All is Forgotten, Nothing is Lost"

When I first started reading Lan Samantha Chang’s “All is Forgotten, Nothing is Lost” (W. W. Norton, 2010), I thought it would be the typical, somewhat self-referential and self-indulgent novel about writers and writing programs. Chang is the director of the famed Iowa Writer’s Workshop, and the first part of the novel is set in the fictional Bonneville School writer’s program. Despite this expectation, or – to be honest -- maybe partly because of it, I looked forward to reading this novel. Sure enough, there were some classic scenes of graduate student/writers’ reading their work around a seminar table and having it discussed and sometimes “bludgeoned” by their classmates and their revered professor, the mysterious Miranda. There were also classic scenes of angst, doubt, and dark nights full of self-examination about whether one had the talent to be a successful writer. In this first section, we get to know the main characters -- Roman, Bernard, Lucy, and Miranda – and their entanglements. Then the novel jumps forward to the future and follows the lives, careers, loves of, and intersections among, these characters for perhaps 25-30 years. Chang explores the nature of being a writer/poet/artist, and the delicate connections between one’s writing life and one’s personal life. She leads readers to imagine different ways for a writer to live. Roman, for example, takes a fairly traditional (for those few writers talented enough and fortunate enough) path to success as a poet and writing teacher. Lucy, intentionally or not, puts her writing mostly on hold while raising a child. Bernard is a sort of semi-recluse who chooses to devote his life to writing one long poem, at the cost of poverty and a rather restricted life, a price he is willing to pay. The character development is intriguing, and there are a couple of surprises near the end of the novel, but the surprises are –- fortunately –- fully in character for these writers we have come to know. So my initial concerns about predictability and tired scenes were –- mostly –- proven wrong, and I found the novel a rewarding exploration of the writing life, and enjoyable to read.

Oh, That English Accent!

Yesterday I wrote about listening to the audio version of “On Chesil Beach,” by Ian McEwan. Today I write about my first reaction to the first words pronounced in the recorded reading by the author himself. As soon as I heard that plummy, educated English accent, I melted and was completely drawn into the listening experience. At the same time, I had to laugh at myself for the almost knee-jerk positive reaction I have always had to that accent. Why do I always go a little gaga for it? Is it the somewhat common American feeling that somehow the British accent is more elegant, more educated, more intellectual, more mellifluous than the American accent(s)? Is it my frequent listening to Masterpiece Theater and other such British dramatic productions and films over the years? Is it my background as a person born in Canada to Canadian parents and raised in postcolonial India, with all the British-related aspects of each of those experiences? Is it simply part of my deep love of all things English, especially English literature? I have written directly or indirectly about my connection to England and English matters in various posts (e.g., on tea, 2/2/10; on my literary pilgrimage to Jane Austen sites, 2/18/10; on the colonial novels “Old Filth” and “The Man in the Wooden Hat,” 3/18/10; and on the Guardian UK, 9/19/10), as well as in my non-blog (academic) writing, but I haven’t written before about the visceral positive and a bit nostalgic (although I have never lived in England) feeling I get when I hear that lovely and – to me – evocative English accent. Of course I know that not all English, or British, people speak with that accent. And of course I understand intellectually that there is nothing inherently “better” about it; after all, I have studied linguistics and teach in a linguistics-informed field. My reaction is, I speculate, conditioned by my Canadian/Indian childhood and by my immersion in English literature for most of my life. It is personal, deeply embedded and, I suspect, ineradicable, even if I should want to eradicate it, which I do not.

"On Chesil Beach"

Ian McEwan is an amazing writer, but my own taste causes me to very much like some of his novels while feeling less enthusiastic about others. The ones I have most liked and admired have been "Atonement" and "Saturday." I didn't like "Amsterdam" or "Solar" (see my 4/17/10 post) as much. The ones I prefer focus on relationships and psychology. I have now just listened to the audio version of "On Chesil Beach" (Random House, 2007; Books on Tape, 2007) and was completely drawn into the small, tightly focused, precisely told, and emotionally intense world that McEwan has created in this short novel. The book tells the story of the wedding night of a very young (very early 20s), very sexually inexperienced newly-married couple in 1962 in England. Edward is enthusiastically if anxiously looking forward to the first consummation of their relationship, while Florence dreads it, finding the idea completely repulsive. Because sex was so seldom openly and explicitly talked about during these pre-sexual revolution days (as we know, the real "Sixties" of "sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll" started late in the decade and continued into the 70s), she has not been able to tell Edward beforehand of her revulsion. Although they truly love each other and are compatible in many ways (we learn about their backgrounds and the progress of their courtship in flashbacks), sexuality is an area where they completely misunderstand each other and are completely mismatched. The minute by minute recounting of their attempted sexual connection, and of their tense conversation afterward on the beach outside their honeymoon hotel, is excruciatingly painful, embarrassing, and heartbreaking. The novel demonstrates so much about lack of communication even between those who love each other. It also shows how one event, one word or lack of a word, can change a person's whole life. This is an absolutely compelling, beautifully distilled short novel; I highly recommend it. A bonus to the audio version is a thoughtful and informative interview with the author following the reading of the novel.

"Going Away Shoes"

"Going Away Shoes" (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2009), by Jill McCorkle, is a little book (literally little, about 5" by 7") full of short stories that pack a big emotional punch. I have read several of McCorkle's novels ("Tending to Virginia," Ferris Beach") and short story collections over the years and have always enjoyed them. I also feel a (tenuous, granted) connection to her because she used to teach at the university where my daughter went for her undergraduate degree, and because she is the friend of a friend of a friend. So I picked this new book up expecting to like it, and I was not disappointed. Her stories are generally about women and their relationships with their husbands, lovers, children, and extended families. Those relationships are often troubled, but always valued for their human connections. McCorkle's stories remind us that we are all human, all flawed, but that there is redemption because of the fact that we are all connected, all enmeshed in our worlds of family and close friends. These stories allow us to accept imperfection and know that life and relationships are not "all or nothing"; they are messy and unpredictable, but there is a deep vein of human connection that allows us to keep going, and even be happy, despite the messiness. McCorkle is especially good at describing marriages that have survived challenges and crises but continue because of a deep connection that overrides the problems. I don't mean that the stories all have happy endings; some of them are scary, sad and wrenching. But the overall message or feeling of the collection is life-affirming.

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."