"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.