Talk by Linda Rosenkrantz (1968)

A "reality novel," purportedly transcribed from taped conversations of three friends over the summer of 1965 in the Hamptons.

Book Review:  The introduction to Talk by Linda Rosenkrantz adamantly states that none "of the dialogue in this book was invented." The dialogue, however, was edited, so one may wonder where the editing started and stopped; we'll never know. Originally published in 1968, this books consists of the conversations of three wealthy 30-somethings who are no more deep or intelligent than anyone you might accidentally overhear at the next table at Starbucks while pretending to look at your phone: all three of them have a "need" to be famous; one of them wants to be rich "so I can have whatever I want." Not real deep or original. An ex-lover is described as "not a particularly good or exceptional or even interesting person." Neither are the trio of friends who don't even seem that much like friends. The first really interesting thing I read showed up three quarters of the way through Talk. Supposedly it's a funny book, and there were a few good lines, not all intentional. The most striking characteristic was their constant (I do mean constant) discussion of and reliance on psychotherapy. As someone who can't afford a shrink, it was somewhat disturbing, but apparently normal for the time and social class; Woody Allen spoke a lot about it. Enough slagging. What did I like about Talk? The concept. This book raises a host of ideas, such as in my first sentence above. And why aren't there dozens of books like this, or is that what reality shows are? And we do know how "real," deep, and meaningful reality shows are, don't we? Paraphrasing Mark Twain, fiction must be more believable than reality, because fiction has to make sense. Not that there's anything unbelievable here, but that's the kind of idea this book got me thinking about. A worthwhile experiment, as in a lab or focus group, but it was really kind of tiring, tho admittedly voyeuristic, to work through the conversations. An interesting curio of the '60s, thought-provoking more for the experiment than for the substance. [Re-released in 2015 as part of the New York Review Books Classics series][3 Stars]

National Poetry Month #3 - Two Good Anthologies

There were several more posts I wanted to make for National Poetry Month: non-English language poets (hello Neruda & Lorca!), modern poetry, my favorite poets, contemporary poetry, etc. And I can make those at some point, don't have to wait for National Poetry Month. Instead, since I mentioned the importance of poetry anthologies as a means to introduce yourself to poetry in my two previous Poetry Month posts, I decided to suggest two anthologies, among the many I could recommend. The first is Poems That Make Grown Women Cry (2016). It's currently rated 3.60 on Goodreads, and includes poems recommended by 100 well-known women, including Judi Dench, Elena Ferrante, Annie Lennox, Nikki Giovanni, and others. While I've only dipped and skimmed, it looks like a good collection, and you may be curious what poems the various celebrities (not to worry, they're cool celebrities, not a Kardashian in sight), have chosen. Currently it's only available in hardback, but there's always the library. My other suggestion is the companion volume, Poems that Make Grown Men Cry (2014), now available in trade paperback, and rated 3.82 on Goodreads. Again, 100 well known men, such as Colin Firth, Jonathan Franzen, Nick Cave, J.J. Abrams, and more, selected poems for the book. Both volumes include women and men of many nationalities and ages. The books benefit Amnesty International so your money is going to a good cause. So dip into one or both of these books and see what might catch your fancy. And just to round it all out, the poem that makes me cry, literally, is "Death of a Son" by the English poet Jon Silkin. I was disappointed that no one chose it for either volume.

The Millionaire and the Bard by Andrea Mays (2015)

The story of the creation of Shakespeare's First Folio, and the American millionaire who tried to obtain every copy of it.

Book Review:  The Millionaire and the Bard is a treasure trove for Shakespeare fans. Andrea Mays has done a brilliant job here. The first half starts slow, but the story picks up as it goes along and then sadly ends all too soon. The story of a man simultaneously growing wealthy and becoming possessed by the Bard, becoming a collectors' collector, devoting his life to his single-minded mission. Henry Folger (related to the coffee family, but gained his fortune elsewhere) spends untold dollars accumulating the world's greatest collection of Shakespeare's First Folio (the first collection of Shakespeare's complete works) and obsessively preserves it all for posterity. In The Millionaire and the Bard I learned as much about Shakespeare (Mays tells us much more than these bare bones) as I did about the millionaire, and enjoyed the tale of the hunt immensely. Shakespeare fans, I promise you will not be disappointed in The Millionaire and the Bard -- my only disappointment was that I couldn't afford to go on a quest for lost copies of the folio. Warning, if you have the collector gene, this book will bring it rabidly to life. [5 Stars]

Pulp by Charles Bukowski (1994)

A Hollywood detective encounters aliens, Lady Death, tough guys, and gorgeous women.

Book Review:  Pulp was Charles Bukowski's final novel, published the year he died, and unlike his other novels, it contains a semblance of a plot, isn't virtually autobiographical, and the main character isn't named Henry Chinaski (there were also a surprising number of typos in the book). The detective's name is Nicky Belane. Fortunately, that doesn't sound too much like Mickey Spillane or I'd think Pulp was just a big joke. There are some funny lines in here, a little hard-boiled detective spiel occasionally, but not enough. This is not Charles Bukowski at his best. He retreads a few of his old tropes: Belane drinks too much, goes to the track, meets beautiful women. Having read all Bukowski's novels, this one just doesn't have what the other books have, and that's too bad. It's written even more simply than usual, the plot is illogical (deus ex machina is a steady plot point), and it barely even has any of his usual philosophizing. Bukowski just doesn't seem to have his heart in this one, for whatever reason, and it shows; it's even dedicated to "bad writing." Although it has echoes of Bukowski, it wouldn't take a Bukowski to write this. Pulp didn't take long to read and I did want to finish all his novels, but unless you're Bukowski completist like me, this one's not necessary. The one thing I did appreciate was one of the few bits of philosophy Bukowski shares: "There were a lot of good people sleeping in the streets. They weren't fools, they just didn't fit into the needed machinery of the moment. And those needs kept altering." I can't say why he wrote this, there could be a dozen reasons, but in Pulp Bukowski was no longer Bukowski. [2.5 Stars]  

Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell (1933)

A "novel" of living amidst the desperate poor near starvation in Paris and London during the Depression.

Book Review:  The title page of Down and Out in Paris and London identifies it as "A Novel by George Orwell." I've never read a novel that sounds more like a memoir. Perhaps Orwell took some liberties with the events and was honest about it, unlike some so-called memoirs. That said, every word read true about the lives of desperate poverty. If you've ever had to count out your coins to make sure you'd have enough money to get through the month, you'll relate to Orwell's character (I'll call him Orwell, as he's never named) constantly calculating his paltry finances to see if he'll be able to eat -- oftentimes he isn't. The book takes place during the Depression, when finding a job in Paris, even as a dishwasher, was virtually impossible. After days without food, Orwell lucks into a job where he works 15 hour days, with barely time to eat, six and seven days a week, in horrendous and disgusting working conditions that should've killed him. George Orwell's descriptions make the reader feel the muck he wades through on the kitchen floors, and every other sickening fact of the hotel kitchen. If you've dreamed of the wonders of Paris, Down and Out in Paris and London will show you another side.

In hopes of a job, Orwell heads to London, the job falls through, and he becomes a "tramp," literally tramping hours a day to the next state sleeping shelter (residents can stay only one night). A friend provides small loans to keep him from starvation (his pride keeps him from asking for more), but for shelter he marches along with the tramps, scavenging cigarette ends for tobacco, trying to find ways to scrape together a few pence for tea and two slices of bread and margarine, sitting through sermons for a bit of free food. The true strength of this book is that Orwell makes the invisible poor real and human. He explains that poverty is random, and these men are little different than the employed. Each of the characters in Paris and London comes off as a real person, three dimensional, warts and all, imperfect, but trying to do better, or at least survive. Not all do. He shows the poor as no better, but certainly no worse, than the rich. The Paris dishwashers' 15 hour work-days turned them into virtual slaves, with no energy left after working, no way to save money or get married, no time to look for another job, or even think clearly. Only report to work day after day to keep themselves alive. Orwell shows how tens of thousands of Britons wasted their days walking from shelter to shelter, instead of working, and there was no provision made for these (mostly) men to get work. The lack of jobs for farmers and coal workers led to their poverty, but begging is illegal. Orwell asks "Why are beggars despised?" Because they fail to make a decent living. A beggar who made good money would be considered a virtuous success. George Orwell deeply examines the people he encountered and poverty itself. Down and Out in Paris and London is eye-opening, thought provoking, well written, and penetrates into society, identifying ills that exist to this day. [4 Stars]

We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson (1962)

The rest of the Blackwood family died suddenly; now the Blackwood sisters, Constance and Merricat, live on the family estate with their uncle. Only Merricat dares venture into town and face the hostile villagers. Despite the hateful townspeople, all is well until a stranger arrives at the house.

Book Review:  We Have Always Lived in the Castle is one of my favorite books and Shirley Jackson's best novel. This is not a horror story: it's not scary or gory, no ghosts.  Not a mystery either; the reader will know the secret long before it's revealed. It's a novel of the psyche, of love and evil and family and fear. Of persecution and two damaged young women. Merricat is one of the most original characters ever written, and perhaps the most misunderstood; she's no victim. Complex, mercurial, tragic, and constant in her love of her sister Constance, she depends on sympathetic magic to survive. Shirley Jackson has made real their small, fragile world, reflecting her own feelings for the town in which she lived. You can ignore the symbols and metaphors, but they're there. We Have Always Lived in the Castle can be read on a psychological level, on a sociological level, as an allegory for Shirley Jackson's life, or purely for the disturbing pleasure of it. The two main characters are the two halves of the author, but are also her two daughters. If you read We Have Always Lived in the Castle, and listen very carefully, it will break your heart. Not quite like any other book, but one you just might love. Or hate. Or love. Silly Merricat. [5 Stars]

A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan (2010)

The world of the music business and nearby planets explored through looking deep into the lives and multiple times of the people who inhabit them.

Book Review:  A Visit from the Goon Squad  by Jennifer Egan is creatively written, but not so radical that it's not an enjoyable read. With its bouncing timeline, the Pulitzer winner explores the past, present, and future (literally) with humor and a wide cast of characters, and addresses how we live in all at the same time. Some characters are better realized than others and there are occasional (perhaps inevitable) meanders, but in the end A Visit from the Goon Squad hangs together sufficiently that it works as a deliciously satisfying reading experience. Jennifer Egan has melded a series of short stories and more or less related characters into a single mosaic whole. I enjoyed the roller coaster ride and the mental challenges she threw at us -- a welcome change to have an author who doesn't assume her readers need to be spoon fed. And to address the elephant in the pages: while I don't embrace novelistic experimentation simply for the sake of experimentation, I did enjoy the PowerPoint section -- because it worked! A Visit from the Goon Squad is a worthwhile, entertaining, and rewarding book. {Pulitzer Prize Winner 2011}[4 Stars]

The Naomi Poems: Corpse and Beans by Saint Geraud [1940-1966] (1968)

The first book by American poet Bill Knott (1940-2014).

Poetry Review:  The Fall 1966 edition of Epoch, Cornell University's literary magazine, announced, with black borders, "the death by suicide on March 2, 1966," of "St. Giraud [sic] (the pen-name of William Knott)."  The announcement mentioned that the suicide note stated that he had killed himself because "I am a virgin ... No girl has ever returned my love ... I am already dead of starvation."  The announcement also noted that St. Giraud's literary executor had "edited a posthumous volume of the ... poet's work for publication." Under the heading, "Some Posthumous Poems of St. Geraud," Epoch published a generous 25 poems. Some of those poems appear in The Naomi Poems, Book One: Corpse and Beans, published in 1968 as by "Saint Geraud (1940-1966)." St. Geraud was indeed the pseudonym of Bill Knott, and his next three books, Aurealism (1970), Auto-Necrophilia (1971), and Nights of Naomi (1972), were published as by "Bill Knott (1940-1966)." At least by 1976 he had stopped appending the dates "(1940-1966)" to his name. For, in fact, it was all a surreal hoax and there was no suicide and neither St. Geraud nor Bill Knott had died in 1966. As noted above, Bill Knott died a couple of years ago in 2014. This was his first book, published in 1968. The Naomi Poems is very much a product of its time, the author rages repeatedly against the early specter of the Vietnam War, but it is also timeless in its love poems and moments of wisdom, tenderness, and genuine sentiment:

   Your eyelashes are a narcotic.

Many of the poems are quite short, and I believe these are the most successful pieces:

   "Goodbye"
   If you are still alive when you read this,
   close your eyes. I am
   under their lids, growing black.

There are also longer poems, which tend to embrace a more surreal, angry, political, and contemporary feel. There are poems of "sleep, death, desire," but also vulgar and iconoclastic poems. He will condemn other poets as defending the war, and will write the least "poetic" poems possible:

   To read the future, gaze into your crystal asshole.

No rules or manners prevent him from saying his piece in The Naomi Poems. Even the poems that may not work well, still work because of their reach, because they tried and if they failed on some level they failed gloriously. And even the poems that seem opaque (my personal adversary), I trust in Knott that they are not simply words thrown together, but do contain a deeper meaning capable of discovery. He works that hard at his poems. There are three themes that arise and explode throughout: there is the political, the world created by the war in Vietnam; there is death, whether from Knott's childhood as an orphan or the war, or both, death is a constant refrain; and there is Naomi, his muse, his love, both real and fantasy at the same time. This is a passionate and striking book, incredible that it could've been written in 1966, and also inevitable that it was written in 1966. In later years, Bill Knott made all his work available for free on the internet, where it may all still be found. Note, the subtitle is an homage to the book of poetry Corps et Biens (1930) ["body and property" or "body and goods"] by French surrealist poet Robert Desnos (1900-45) who died in the Terezín concentration camp, after having been previously interned at Auschwitz and Buchenwald.  [5★]

Aiding and Abetting by Muriel Spark (2001)

Two patients of a psychiatrist each claim to be an aristocrat who 25 years earlier killed his children's nanny and attempted to kill his wife; the psychiatrist too has a secret from a previous life, which the patients threaten to expose. The game is afoot! 

Book Review:  Aiding and Abetting was written when Muriel Spark was 82, and here she still retains much of the spark that made her great, writing a comedic mystery adventure that addresses the moral ambiguity of the characters' actions. The book, partially based on an actual murder allegedly committed by the seventh Earl of Lucan in 1974, weaves in ineffectual searches for the Earl, a stigmatic con-woman, a double, love, and the wealthy and upper class aiders and abettors who financed the Earl's escape and exile. The Earl, if he is the Earl, has been on the run for decades, assisted by those of his class who seem to have no compunction that an innocent girl died in a massively bloody mess. The stigmatic con-woman actually cured some believers through the validating blood of her miracles. Blood is the bond between the man who killed and the woman who healed. Then the psychiatrist too goes on the run and into hiding. Conflict emerges between the two Earls. Muriel Spark orchestrates an intricately intellectual cat-and-mouse game, with the identities of cat and mouse interchangeable. Swirling around the periphery of Aiding and Abetting are those chasing the Earl, those still alive who knew the Earl then, and the psychiatrist's baffled patients. Although a quick and enjoyable read, I'm not sure I'd place Aiding and Abetting in the top tier of Muriel Spark's books. But it contains enough of her talents and virtues to recommend to any reader who succumbs to the wit and brilliance of this great author. [3.5 Stars]

National Poetry Month #2 - Classic Early Poets in English

As I mentioned in my last NPM post, there's an almost infinite number of poems and poets out there. Looking through a couple of anthologies, and seeing if any of the poems jump out at you is one good way to start finding authors you like. Another way to begin reading poetry is to take a look at some of the established, classic authors, and see which ones might be up your street. There's a good reason the work of these writers has lasted so long, and here's some who wrote in English. For American poets, the two big names are Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman.  Dickinson's poems look deeply inward, and find whole universes there.  It's easy to picture her sitting in her hermit's room, writing her bottomless feelings and thoughts. There are many, many collections of her poems -- the R.W. Franklin volume is supposed to be closest to her original drafts, but any will suffice. Whitman goes the other way, and shouts out at America and the universe, he declaims, he preaches, nothing is too large for him, he shares all with everyone. He only wrote Leaves of Grass, adding to it for his whole life. Others find the rhymes and rhythms of Edgar Allan Poe irresistible: "The Raven," "Annabel Lee," "The Bells." A later poet is Robert Frost, who writes more deeply and darkly than his country bumpkin reputation would suggest ("Acquainted with the Night"). From the British Isles we have an embarrassment of riches. William Blake is an early mystic and visionary -- Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience are his best known. William Wordsworth is considered the greatest of the English Romantic poets, tho I know little of him myself, except he has one of the best writers' names ever. I do, however, have an affection for the rural poems of the self-taught peasant, John Clare, who died insane in an asylum, but wrote of wondrous nature and the effect of the approaching industrial revolution on the English countryside. Another recluse, Christina Rossetti, wrote beautiful and sensual poems -- her long "children's" poem "Goblin Market" is her best known. For those who enjoy rhyme and rhythm, Lord Byron is your man, with "She Walks in Beauty," "So We'll Go No More a Roving," and the "The Destruction of Sennacherib" (read it aloud), being his greatest hits. For many John Keats, who died at 26, is their favorite poet of this period. Among his many famous poems (such as "On a Grecian Urn"), my favorite is "La Belle Dame San Merci" (don't worry, it's in English). Finally, I'll mention a later poet, William Butler Yeats, who wrote long and well, including among many others, "Easter 1916" and "The Second Coming." This is just a quick and too brief list of some of the classic poets of the English language. I hope you find some of them to your liking.

The Trial by Franz Kafka (1925)

Events in the life of an average man inexplicably arrested, who must defend himself without any information about his crime; a paranoid, or not so paranoid, parable of bureaucracy become totalitarian.

Book Review:  Kafka's short stories are the edgy and brilliant work of a troubled genius; he remains one my favorite short story writers ever.  The Trial was my first foray into his novels, and I chose to start with his most famous work. Apparently The Trial was written in 1914, not published till after Kafka's death, and may not actually have been completed. This is one of those books for which the title, and even the author's name, have become metaphors for entire concepts. Although there was some of his usual brilliance, there were a lot of rough edges in the story, and the book was not as powerful or affecting as I expected. Perhaps because the book was unfinished, or the long form wasn't Kafka's strength, it wasn't a smooth read. But while reading, I also wondered about the translation (beyond small quibbles, e.g., retaining German honorifics, which is not uncommon but has always puzzled me). There are many valid theories of translation, but for the mind to be wandering while reading and wondering about the translation is never good. Unable to read German (my loss), I'm at the mercy of the translator (Breon Mitchell, here), and now I wonder if it's worthwhile to read the Muirs' version. Mitchell cites that often the Muirs smoothed away difficulties (at some cost), which makes me wonder if I would prefer a "smoother" version, since I'm unable to determine which translation is more accurate. I think The Trial is one of those books for which the plot, much like The Picture of Dorian Gray, is well known even to people who've never read it.  The story itself, one man against an unreasoning and inflexible bureaucracy, so much a Franz Kafka theme, remains as relevant now as it was then, although the particulars did seem somewhat dated, distant, or parochial. Still, that didn't stop my appreciation of The Trial as a whole.  It was very good book in its Kafkaesque way. I'm glad I read The Trial, and may read it again, but next time I'll try a different translation. [4 Stars]

Re-Reading

Surprising how we grow and change, and what we come to realize about ourselves as readers. Not too long ago I realized that I don't like memoirs.  Aren't they just a sneaky way to write an autobiography?  No?  Anyway, I'll do a "Book Thoughts" on that one of these days.  Today, as the eagle-eyed have guessed, I want to talk about re-reading.  Until recently, I almost never re-read a book.  There are so, so many books I want to read, and I only have a lifetime to do it.  With so many books to read, why would I want to go back to re-read a book?  I've got shelves of books to read. Some of the books are quite long.  My TBR is infinite.  So little time!  But then, in part for this blog, I've been re-reading some books so I can make better reviews.  Surprise!  I've enjoyed the re-reads, absorbed more the second time, seen things I didn't see before.  There were ideas or plot points I'd forgotten, and even elements that had changed in my mind.  In one book that I re-read, Shosha, I remembered the character of Shosha as being the main character.  She actually appeared only infrequently.  But she was such a strong and sympathetic character that my memory had magnified her role.  Odd what our memory can do based on what we were going through at the time.  The re-reads are also usually quicker, I zip though the books more easily, having been through them once before.  Even tho my initial motivation was to write reviews, now I'm thinking of re-reading for pleasure.  What a concept!  It may be gradual, but I plan to pick out some of my favorites, re-read, and see what I think the second time.  When people used to talk about re-reading I'd ignore them as silly hippie dreamers.  But I've changed.  Now I'll be listening.

Women by Charles Bukowski (1978)

Charles Bukowski provides his views on women (and other subjects) in an account of Henry Chinaski's sexual adventures.  

Book Review:  Women is one of Charles Bukowski's better books, I'd pick this as his third best, maybe fourth.  As with all Bukowski, I think he's best read by young men between the ages of 17 and 27, and the young women who can get through it (it's no secret that many women are repulsed by this guy -- see "pig" comment below).  Women takes place after Henry Chinaski has become famous and women are flocking to him.  Unlike before.  Almost all the women are somewhat crazy and usually beautiful.

How does Bukowski do it?  Seems that someone unafraid to show his disgusting side and who spends so much time on the misogynistic side of the fence, should be extinct by now.  Face it, the man can be a pig.  Two answers appeared while reading this book.  First, he has life and energy in his writing. His writing is so alive that it sweeps the reader along, even while describing something we generally wouldn't want to hear about.  He seems also to work hard at telling the truth, at least as he sees it, or perhaps he works hard at making us think he's telling the truth.  There's an effort at truth telling in there somewhere.  He puts effort in making his writing easy to follow.  No one ever had to go back and reread a Bukowski paragraph to see what he was getting at.  I appreciate that.  I'd love to see Woolf or James translated into Bukowski.

Second, in Women, more than his other books, I was aware of Bukowski sharing his philosophy in the interludes between plot telling.  It's easy to skip over those points because plot seems to be what he's really giving us.  But between the plot points (usually bedding women), Bukowski shares his ideas on women, but also love, writing, authors, work, and much more.  And these interludes were actually more interesting than the plot, for me.  Who knew?  Maybe all that plot is just a way to trick us into listening to him while he sits at the bar pontificating.  Except he doesn't like bars.

He thinks lawyers and doctors are the most overpaid spoiled members of society, followed by garage mechanics.  John Fante is his favorite writer.  Canada feels calmer and less false than the U.S.  This is Bukowski, so everything has to be taken with a grain of salt, but some of his lines are worth pondering and some are incredibly funny: "Love was for guitar players, Catholics and chess freaks." What does that even mean?  Everyone knows guitarists get more than their share of love and chess players almost none.  And he shares his philosophy of writing:

"I write fiction."
"What's fiction?"
"Fiction is an improvement on life."
"You mean you lie?"
"A little.  Not too much."

So when you're reading Bukowski and wondering how much is true, there you have it.  If you like Bukowski, you'll like this.  If you hate Bukowski, you'll really hate this.  Otherwise, take a chance on Women. [4 Stars]

Hangsaman by Shirley Jackson (1951)

Loosely based on a coed's 1946 disappearance, Natalie hopes to escape her parents at college, but everything isn't as happy and shiny as she'd hoped, and she falters.

Book Review:  Hangsaman is one of Shirley Jackson's best, and even better on a second read. This is not horror or actually scary, but is, as Jackson does so well, the psychological study of Natalie, a young woman beginning life, a lonely, disturbed adolescence.  Readers of Jackson's other books will hear echoes of The Haunting of Hill House and We Have Always Lived in the Castle (both equally good).  The book begins as Natalie is to leave for college, living with a domineering father and despairing mother, where she feels under investigation, always having to explain every action.  After a disturbing incident (only implied), she arrives at college where she falls into difficulties and entanglements with the other girls at school, a professor and his alcoholic wife, and a mysterious friend.  Throughout she writes letters home to her father, and we begin to see versions and variations of reality, unsure which are reliable. This is a book that can't be read too quickly or for plot alone.  Hangsaman needs to be read for hints and clues to Natalie's crumbling psychology and personality: "She brought herself away from the disagreeably clinging thought by her usual method -- imagining the sweet sharp sensation of being burned alive."  Jackson slowly and masterfully builds Natalie.  Each page drops shards of insight for the reader to put together to create the whole sculpture.  At the end of Hangsaman, lost in trees that mirror the incident prior to college, Natalie finally reaches a moment, that was for me a surprise ending.  There are two kinds of people: those who will be deeply drawn into this book and those who won't.  And if you're a Shirley Jackson fan, well, you're just going to have to read it anyway. [5 Stars]

M Train by Patti Smith (2015)

A memoir after the loss of her husband by punk rock poet Patti Smith.

Book Review:  Epiphany.  Reading M Train by multi-talented rock star Patti Smith, I realized that I don't care much for memoir.  Yes, I know it's the hipster cool genre of the moment (thank you, Oprah!) and now no one will ever again talk to me at parties (well, they didn't before either).  I liked Just Kids, her previous memoir, quite a bit, but this fell flat, perhaps reflecting her own dragging outlook at the time.  M Train (memory train? mind train? did I miss it?) is really an elegy to the great love of her life, Fred "Sonic" Smith, former guitarist for the Detroit rock group the MC5 (MC = Motor City). How wonderful, what a treasure, that she had such a person in her life.  But Smith doesn't really talk much about her feelings, about the pain, not like Joan Didion would've.  Bits and pieces of their life together, glimpses but nothing substantive of their children, not much about her and her vision of her life at the time.  For which I don't blame her, I wouldn't cut myself open either, but then I wouldn't have written the book.  Patti Smith writes well-crafted sentences, is quirky as hell, but doesn't give a whole lot.  She's no longer the daring punk rock poet of the 70's who stuck her pen in her heart and spilled it all over the stage.  We know what she eats: always hip food.  She likes detective shows on TV (she doesn't use the word "TV," always "television") and coffee (I can relate).

Because Smith is the artist that she is she gets to travel all around the world to symposiums, conferences, and literary events.  While there she seeks out the graves of and sites important to famous people (mostly writers), and celebrates symbolic rites in their honor.  But she rarely tells us much of what she likes about these famous people, what effect they had on her, how they inspired her.  Is it just because they're famous?  I doubt it, but what?  Tell me.  There's a lot about what she eats, there are her rituals, talismans, lists of objects and the power of objects, coffee, and even more coffee, even more detective shows.  In the midst of her travels she can stop in England to watch detective shows on BBC for awhile.  Smith believes in sympathetic magic like Merricat in Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle.  She collects objects obsessively, but doesn't always explain the provenance or meaning of her collections.  For someone who believes in the power and interplay of objects, she seems to work awfully hard at losing things.  You'll want Patti Smith's life: she's always beatnik cool and everyone makes the perfect meaningful comment at the perfect time. She even has recurring dreams in which a cowboy comes and talks to her about what's been happening in her life lately.

There are three moments in the book that were especially telling: (1) While living in Michigan, Smith drinks her morning coffee in a lot behind the local fish-and-tackle store, which to her looks like Tangier, her own private Morocco -- it's a magical moment to find Tangier in a vacant lot in Michigan; (2) She celebrates her life with Fred, as a time of "the clock with no hands," in which the everyday events of life, sump pumps, ironing shirts, "seem a miracle" as they were spent together; (3) First she discovers and then immerses herself in Haruki Murakami, one artist finding another.  M Train is very much a bookend to Just Kids.  That book dealt with the beginning of Smith's artistic life, her first adult ventures into creation, with her great doomed love, Robert Mapplethorpe. This book is written toward the end of her artistic life, when words don't come so easy (as when she put out four arguably groundbreaking records in five years), her children are grown, after the devastating loss of her one true love.  I'm glad I read it, but here I don't feel Patti met me halfway.  Not like in Just Kids. [3 Stars]

The Quartet - Orchestrating the Second American Revolution by Joseph J. Ellis (2015)

A history of the development of American government from 1783-89.

Book Review:  The Quartet: Orchestrating the Second American Revolution by Joseph J. Ellis, may not be the kind of book expected on this blog, but it was gift, and a book, so I read it, and reviewed it; having said A, one must say B, and C. The Quartet digs deep into this pivotal period in American history when the federal system was first established.  The book includes a great deal of key information, which will be new even to most Americans. There is a largely mysterious and meaningful period described in The Quartet, between the end of the war and freedom from England, and the election of George Washington as the nation's first (true) president. Ellis shows that this is when the future American government and nation were set on course, as herculean efforts occurred behind the scenes. These machinations set in motion the entire future of the country, even to the present day, including effects on slavery, states' rights, manifest destiny, and gun rights. In fact, I was surprised how very much events of that long ago time (for America) described in The Quartet still resonate in the political world of today. An important book in understanding America. [4 Stars]

The Defense by Vladimir Nabokov (1930)

A Russian chess master in Berlin begins to lose touch with reality during an important game.

Book Review:  One of Nabokov's earliest novels, translated from the Russian. Reflecting the author's interest in chess, it's the story of a Russian chess master (Luzhin, rhymes with illusion, hmm?) with a troubled childhood who is touched by madness.  Familiarity with chess is not required.  Brilliantly described, beautifully written.  The book has a bit of Freudian analysis (tho Nabokov claimed not to be a Freudian): Luzhin learns chess from his attractive aunt, who's also his father's mistress.  Despite his success, he's a perpetual disappointment to his father.  The obsessive master (now living in Berlin) while playing the most important game of his career, becomes torn, wavering between life and chess, with time the only constant between the two, desperately seeking a balance.  I thought the book meandered occasionally, tho in fairness (after all, he's Nabokov and I'm not) perhaps that was to illustrate the madness.  Here you can see the seeds of Nabokov the writer and the masterpieces to come.  The final paragraph blew me away. [4 Stars]

Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon (1995)

The story of a blocked writer, falling apart.

Book Review:  Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon is a good-time ride on the self-destruction train.  Humor and absurdity poured over a series of miserable episodes, as everything gradually (and not so gradually) falls apart. Well done, well written, a fun (in a way) read, but for me Wonder Boys was nothing terribly new and there was nothing enlightening or redeeming about the book. I must have missed something. It was both easy to keep reading and easy to not get involved, because watching people make intensely stupid and unkind or cruel decisions isn't my favorite entertainment, unless Chabon was going to explain to me why stupid and unkind decisions were natural, necessary, or inevitable. There are just too many books where the characters are inexplicably given free rein to hurt people without repercussion; if people did this IRL we'd shoot them, but we laugh if it's in a book. Wow, I'm cranky today. This was my first (and only) Chabon book. Maybe it wasn't the right time for me to read this, maybe I need to give it a re-read. But whither moral fiction? And the ending of Wonder Boys, well, just no. Seemed waaaaay too easy. The movie is also entertaining. [3 Stars]

National Poetry Month #1 - How I Read Poetry

Who reads poetry? Practically no one. I'll split the blame for that equally between poets and readers, but it doesn't have to be that way. April is National Poetry Month, probably because T.S. Eliot began his long poem "The Waste Land," with the line: "April is the cruellest month ... ." I always try to keep a book of poetry at hand, that I dip into periodically while I'm reading whatever other book I'm reading. Rarely can I read a book of poetry straight through like a work of fiction. Instead, I read just one or a few poems at a time, sometimes working my way through the book, sometimes randomly picking out poems here and there. Each poem needs to have a little time to steep, to ponder, to reread it, to let it sink in, to fully absorb and enjoy the poem for its own little life. For me, there's no search for deep meaning, symbolism, or something to write an academic dissertation about. I want an emotional connection, for the poem to speak about or to something in my life, my understanding. All that deep stuff can come later, if it does. For me, a poem that has spark of passion that I connect with, that recognizes something in me, will be one I can come back to forever. That single spark can be as meaningful as an entire novel. Here I'm going to share a few lines with you, realizing that this is a futile effort (fool that I am):

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
 - Edna St. Vincent Millay

To see you naked is to remember the earth,
the smooth earth, clean of horses.
 - Federico Garcia Lorca

The only response
to a child's grave is
to lie down before it and play dead
 - Bill Knott

The pears fatten like little Buddhas.
 - Sylvia Plath

Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
 - James Wright

Argh! This is a terrible sampling, there's just no way to do this except to just be ridiculous and do it. You'll just have to find some that speak to you. Sometimes a poem, or equally often a poet, just doesn't work for me and so I set it aside, and fortunately there are as many poems and poets out there as stars in the sky (or very close at least). Used-book stores and charity shops usually have a good selection of poetry books, and I might suggest checking out anthologies of poems, so you can read through to see which poems or poets strike you. Happy Poetry Month!

The Road by Cormac McCarthy (2006)

A father and son travel through post-apocalyptic America, trying to survive in a dark world with little more than the last embers of life.

Book Review:  Hide the razor blades and don't read this after a break-up or losing a job. Cold, dark, relentless. Cormac McCarthy has written a tour de force. The Road is a post-apocalyptic, after the bomb or some-environmental-disaster kind of tale. I'm unsure if this would be what is popularly called dystopian; there are two kinds of dystopias: too much government or not enough. This falls into the latter kind. The Road is complete misery redeemed only by love and the timely intervention of fate. A horrible sameness crossed with the monstrously unexpected. Long periods of boredom, punctuated by moments of sheer terror. The characters have so little, so numbed by loss there's not even many words, only the physical presence of each other and tattered memories. Usually when I finish reading a book, I'm itching to talk about it (which is where this blog comes in). But the experience of reading The Road is almost something that can't be discussed, because to put my thoughts into words, is to diminish the story itself. By talking about it, I only take away from what's there on the page. It was an experience, not an intellectual challenge. I'm sorry if that doesn't make sense, maybe The Road just has to be read. You'll know in about five pages if this is something you want to read, or can read. I couldn't stop reading, even tho it was somewhere I never want to be. {Pulitzer Prize Winner 2007}[4 Stars]

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt (2013)

A 13-year-old boy survives the explosion that kills his mother, and grows into adulthood through opulent Park Avenue and seedy Las Vegas, enlightenment and drug use, art and death, to a final realization about the meaning of life.

Book Review:  Mixed emotions. The paperback edition of the The Goldfinch makes room for 32 (!) blurbs (someone insecure?), and it won the Pulitzer, so you know it must be good. It read quickly: the fastest 771 pages I think I've ever read. There were patches of good writing, wonderfully crafted sentences. Overall it's well-written, as Tartt certainly knows how to write. The characters were interesting (the most interesting character dies on page 31). So what's not to like? Well, if it comes down to one big word, the lack of verisimilitude. So many moments and characters in The Goldfinch were just not believable. From such minor points as characters' bursts of improbable vocabulary and knowledge, to characters acting irrationally without any indication or explanation of why they acted irrationally. For instance, when something significant happens, the main character sits and ponders, passive as a mushroom; when something minor happens he becomes hysterical and snappish as a Yorkie. He's supposed to have a deep relationship with his lifelong best friend, but it's more like he's frenemies with the guy than a friend -- he's distrusting, envious, suspicious, and petty.  He has no interest in what boys are interested in, for awhile it seemed as tho he was supposed to be gay, and he spends most of his time fretting. Periodically he sounds more British than American, where does that come from? There were also passages that were bizarrely extended, especially in the second half, as tho Tartt was being paid by the word and simply repeating herself so that the scene might just as well have been printed three times so the reader could skip two of the repetitions. There was a lack of continuity -- Tartt piles on mountains of detail and description, but then the detail that was described on one page is different 30 pages later. Which leads to another complaint, this book seems more researched than lived. Lots and lots of research, I'll admit, but life isn't research. So many pages have the flavor of coming from a book, a different book, than being someone's life. Yes, there's massive detail, but it doesn't seem like a life that anyone has lived, but how certain people are supposed to live. The main character has a significant trait while drinking that miraculously comes out of nowhere without his ever having noticed. Then to the last 50 pages where I almost lost interest, and the deus ex machina ending, which although possible, still seemed much too neat and tidy. When it was good The Goldfinch was great, when it wasn't good it was mediocre at best. Because I loved The Secret History, this book sat on my shelf for a couple years as I was saving it for a time when I could really devote myself to enjoying it in great blocks of reading. Perhaps I built up my hopes too much. Even as I was eagerly turning the pages (Donna Tartt can write a page-turner) the flaws were obvious and I was thinking about these distractions as much as the story.  I'm not even going to get into the also flawed and inconsistent, but oh so deep, theme of "art," tho Tartt does write very nicely about it. Several of the blurbs mention that the book is Dickensian -- I was hoping for something more Tarttian. As I was reading, I wondered if The Goldfinch won the Pulitzer because the committee knew that The Secret History should have won, and then The Little Friend was a disappointment, and this nice, really long "important" book was finally their chance to give Tartt the prize she should have received earlier. A well written page turner with many nice moments, but so unbelievable and with so many moments that rang false that I just couldn't fully enjoy it. Better than The Little Friend, not as good as The Secret History. I'm still glad I read it, if only because of The Secret History I would read anything by Tartt. Maybe with The Goldfinch my expectations were too high, maybe it wasn't the right time for me to read it, maybe I need to re-read. {Pulitzer Prize Winner 2014}[3.5 Stars]

Thank You J.K. Rowling

Many think of England as the land of Shakespeare, Dickens, and J.K. Rowling. And those who don't, should.  Will and Chuck can take care of themselves, but all readers and book lovers owe an enormous debt to J.K. Rowling, who I believe saved both books and reading in our time.  At the moment Harry Potter magically appeared, it was entirely possible that all reading was about to disappear, sucked into a Dementor's kiss of smart phones, Netflix, tablets, Instagram, and all the amazing awesomeness that is social and entertainment media.  Instead, Harry Potter became a genuine cultural phenomenon, there was hardly enough paper to print the volumes in the series, and reading became cool, popular, and a guaranteed conversation starter.  And beyond that, the Harry Potter series spawned an endless supply of fantasy and YA books that are near as popular (tho not always quite as good): Twilight, Hunger Games, Divergent, Cinder, and ever so many more to be found in your local bookshop. Young people are reading books in what seems like massive numbers.  People are reading, who with a few tweaks in the space-time continuum, might never have opened a book.  And I suspect that YA readers will become hooked on reading, and as they grow more experienced, possibly branch out into other genres of fiction.  I propose an international holiday spent reading J.K. Rowling's books, and thanking her for keeping books and reading from becoming a banished cult of the the odd and dispossessed. Thank you J.K. Rowling!  For everything.

Tangled Hair by Akiko Yosano (1901)

Akiko Yosano (1878-1942) was a celebrated and revolutionary Japanese poet, feminist, and pacifist, who wrote more than 75 books.

Poetry Review:  For those who want something deeper than a rom com, who want to touch some moments from a certain time in your life, this is the book for you. First some background on Tangled Hair, this most excellent and intriguing book: the poems are in a Japanese form called tanka, which consists of five-lines written in a 5-7-5-7-7 syllabic form. The first three lines are essentially a haiku, with two lines added. As with haiku, the Japanese syllabic form is not generally applicable in English, due to differences between the languages. The translators (Sanford Goldstein and Seishi Shinoda) claim that tanka is the most popular form of Japanese poetry (I might've thought haiku). The original book (Midaregami in Japanese) published in 1901 had 399 tanka, of which 165 were selected for this edition.

The poems in Tangled Hair address love above all, but love in many guises, including elements of religion, geisha, social class, sensuality, and most importantly, a woman's place in life and society.

   Do you know
   who bit her sleeve
   at the Osaka Inn
   reading your poem
   that cold autumn day?

This is very strongly a woman's view of love and the world, and Yosano's vision in Tangled Hair was revolutionary and incisive.  The bite of her words are sharp and precise, containing a keen awareness of those moments when emotions are too much to bear.

   My wish:
   to smear
   poisoned honey
   on the lips of youth
   seeking love!

At the same time, many of the poems are simply those of a person in love, if that's simple at all. Akiko Yosano's poems try to capture a single moment, but enable the reader to feel the multi-faceted emotions possible in that one moment. There is great depth in these short poems.

   Incense smoke
   curling up round
   the hair of my departed friend
   hair that I envied
   when she was alive.

Anyone interested in love, emotion, feeling, yearning, sensuality, dreaming, all indelibly expressed, with depths within depths, will find a home in Tangled Hair.

This book is scholarly as well, with a lengthy introduction that contains a history of Akiko Yosano, including her husband, also a poet, and their deep relationship with another woman (see third poem above). The poems are also provided in both Japanese characters and romaji, and add an in-depth end note explaining each poem. Two final points: (1) the end notes are useful, especially in providing insight into the symbolism of which few non-Japanese will be aware, but much of the time I found them too constricting and often preferred my interpretation of the poems without the gloss, and I encourage readers to be comfortable reading the poems in their own way; (2) I can't read Japanese but I feel the translations are only serviceable and do not really express the "poetry" within the tanka, that was there underneath.  All in all, a highly recommended insight into another time and culture, showing that we are all more alike than different. [4.5 Stars]